The Family Man

मय Addiction

2007-09-20T22:19:00.000-06:00

I have a confession to make.

I have an addiction.

You can read about it here.

2007-08-14T23:21:00.000-06:00

Boy's Weekend out!

We did it. Chris, Tommy and I successfuly went away for the weekend without Mom, who enjoyed some well-deserved downtime in the house without pesky boys and husband around.

We three men went camping, and one of us caught his first fish ever! Read all about it here.

And as always, I encourage you to visit The Camping Machine for the further adventures of The Family Man.

2007-07-31T22:17:00.000-06:00

It's time for the Family Man to blow off some steam and do some Male Bonding.

Male Bonding, Family Man style.

Read about it here on The Camping Machine website.

It's Great to be The Family Man.

2007-07-28T23:27:00.000-06:00

If you have kids, check out this story from the New York Times:

This makes me want to puke.

ई क्नोव अ Secret

2007-07-24T16:54:00.001-06:00

Psst.

Guess what?

I know a 'secret.'

What to know what it is?

Go to The Camping Machine and click on the Blog page.

2007-07-16T00:00:00.001-06:00

Moose on the Loose

MBW, Chris, Tommy and I went out for a late afternoon-early eveing picnic dinner in the mountains near our home. Much to our suprise and delight, we saw this fellow also having a picnic dinner.

To read more, and see more photos, please visit The Camping Machine and click on the Travels page.

It's Great to be The Family Man with The Camping Machine.

2007-07-09T00:06:00.000-06:00

What was I thinking?

I've done some questionable things in the past, but not too many of them top this:

To read more about this, with additional photos, visit The Camping Machine.

It's Great to be (alive!) The Family Man.

Goblin Valley

2007-07-01T23:37:00.000-06:00

If you haven't been to The Camping Machine site in awhile, check out the story of our trip to Goblin Valley.

Business Trip

2007-06-07T19:12:00.001-06:00

I’ve just returned from a business trip. It seems like I’ve been traveling a lot for work lately. Four flights in the past five weeks. It’s getting a bit old.

When I travel for business I always pack a pair of jeans. I don’t get to wear them during the trip, as the meetings I attend always call for business attire. But when I get to the airport for the flight home, I duck into the men’s room and change from my dress slacks into my jeans. It makes the flight home more comfortable, signals to me that that business is over, and I can finally relax.

But this little routine of mine took an unexpected twist this time.

I walked into the men’s room at the Minneapolis airport to change my pants. I went into one of the stalls, shut the door and set my bag down. As I turned, the toilet flushed. I turned and noticed this stall had one of those motion-detected flushing systems. Those are nice – you don’t have to touch a handle and you don’t have to worry that the guy who used the stall before you left you a nasty surprise.

The stall was rather narrow. I slipped out of my dress pants and hung them on the hook on the inside of the door. That movement caused the toilet to flush again. I reached down and pulled my jeans out of my carry-on bag – and the toilet flushed again. I stepped into my jeans, began to pull them up – and the toilet flushed again.

I’m not really paying attention to this, just trying to change my pants and catch my flight. As I button my jeans, the toilet flushed again. And then I hear a man’s voice outside the stall say, “Man, that guy must be having a real problem.”

It takes me a second before I realize he’s talking about me. All of the flushing – the guy must think I’m sick, have diarrhea, or having a particularly bad time on the john. As I reach down to put my dress slacks into my carry-on, the toilet flushed again.

“Jeez,” says another voice. There must be two guys out there.

So I turn back to the toilet and wave my hand in front of the sensor. Flush.

“This must be a bad one,” I hear the first guy say.

I wave my hand again. Flush.

I moan a little bit. Wave my hand again. Flush.

“Hey, buddy, are you okay?” the first guy says.

“I’m…” wave the hand again. Flush “…uh, uh okay…”

“Let’s go,” says the second guy. “I don’t need to hear this before getting on a plane.”

I hear them leave.

When I got home I told the story to MBW. We both had a chuckle over it.

I wonder what stories the other guys told?

It’s Great to be The Family Man.

If you enjoyed this post, visit The Camping Machine)to read more like it.

I've got a ways to go

2007-06-03T00:33:00.000-06:00

I spent a fair amount of time this weekend updating and tweaking The Camping Machine website. It is not where I want it to be in terms of look and content, but it is slowly getting there. I would love to be able to link this blog directly into the blog page of that site, but so far no luck. Right now it is impossible for people to comment on the blog posts - I've asked people to use the guestbook to comment, but that is not as easy as clicking the comment button on a Blogger blog. I'd love to rebuild the site in Dreamweaver and repost it, but that will take me years. If you haven't taken a look, please visit www.thecampingmachine.com and let me know what you think.

As I mentioned before, I'm trying to expand this blog a bit. I want to incorporate more material and expand the editorial options. The focus will always be what it has been here - stories about our family. But in the summertime, especially in between the spring and fall youth soccer season, we focus our summer around the camping trips we're planning to take. As we enter our third year as enthusiastic and proud members of the RV Nation, I'm thinking that when it is all said and done, and I'm on my deathbed, one of the things my kids will say is, "Dad, we sure had fun going on all those camping trips, didn't we? It was great to get out and see all the different parts of the country. Those were some great times." At least that's what I hope they'll say - about 50 years from now!

Speaking of deathbeds, I had a very interesting dream the other night, which I will detail here in a week or so. Also we had an interesting incident on our last camping trip that is an entertaining story, which I'll have to tell soon, while it is still fresh. For those of you who have read this blog for awhile, you're guessing that it involves Tommy - and you'd be right.

On The Camping Machine (www.thecampingmachine.com) website I am re-running some of my favorite posts from this blog. I am finding there are different readers going to The Camping Machine site, readers who have never been here. The Camping Machine website has been linked to from a couple of RV links pages and some traffic has come from there. Those readers don't know The Family Man, so I'm sharing some posts so they will see that the site is more than just camping.

If you are kind enough to link to this blog, I would ask you to change your link to The Camping Machine (www.tehcampingmachine.com) , as at some point I will cease posting here and put all of my writing on that site. If you know of anyone who'd be willing to link to The Camping Machine (www.thecampingmachine.com) please send them there. I will return the favor as I have a pretty robust links page, which seems to get a fair amount of hits.

Thank you again for reading this blog.

It's Great to be the Family man

The Camping Machine rolls into Moab

2007-05-30T17:55:00.001-06:00

For those of you who have never been to Moab, Utah – and I suspect that is most of you – this post will give you a sense of a very unique place.

As a TV News Cameraman I first went to Moab in the late 1980s. Moab is located is the southeastern part of Utah, close to the Colorado River, in a pretty valley bordered by stunning red sandstone cliffs. For many years Moab was a sleepy, rural small town in the middle of nowhere until a uranium boom put it on the map in the 1950’s. The boom was followed by the inevitable bust, and the town languished. Those who stayed enjoyed beautiful views, a slower pace of life, and a mild influx of tourist dollars from people who wanted to see two of the most beautiful and under-appreciated places in America – Arches National Park and Canyonlands National Park.

When I first went there I thought it was just another wide spot on a rural road to nowhere, a place to gas up and continue your journey to your final destination. I’ve seen dozens of those and they all looked the same to me. After visiting Arches NP and taking a couple of off-road jeep tours I came to appreciate the special qualities of this part of the state. I soon found myself coming to Moab, a four-hour trip, for weekends of bike riding, four-wheeling and photography. I came to love the stark beauty of the red cliffs and unique landscape in this part of the country. The Colorado plateau is stark, stunning and severe – it is also spiritual and special to those who can appreciate it.

Today Moab is approaching places like Park City and Sedona as hip and chic places to hang out, shop, enjoy arts and the outdoors. Moab draws a different crowd – younger, less affluent, more inclined to go for a bike ride, off-road adventure or river run than play golf or rub elbows with celebrities – but the atmosphere is similar. The main street in Moab has an eclectic mix of bookstores, café’s, curio shops, galleries and restaurants (as well as the ubiquitous franchise outlets), so there is plenty do see and do for those who don’t want to or can’t enjoy the opportunities to hike, bike, and explore.

This is the place we took our family for Memorial Day Weekend in The Camping Machine. The boys were very excited to get out for our first camping adventure of the season. We left early Friday morning to beat the inevitable exodus from our city that was to follow later in the day. Where we live it is common to see the freeways out of town fill up with RVs and other recreational vehicles beginning shortly after noon every Friday. It begins even sooner when a Holiday weekend approaches. When I was single I would see these vehicles leave town and wonder where the campers and RVs were going. In my mind they were all going to fun and exciting places, getting away from the city for a breath of fresh air at the lake, in the mountains or on the desert. I hoped that someday I’d be one of them, heading on the highway, looking for adventure or whatever came my way.

Today we were one of them, proud members of the RV Nation. Destination: Moab.

We had beautiful weather as we pulled The Camping Machine into Moab and our campsite at the Moab Valley RV Park. We set up the campsite, hooked up the utilities and organized the living space before packing the boys off to the pool for a swim. It seems strange to come all the way to Moab to swim in a small campground pool, but when you travel with kids ages 7 and 5 swimming is what they like to do. The water was extremely cold – I don’t know how the boys could stay in so long, but they had a great time as MBW and I froze. We were icicles by the time the boys were ready to get out.

We grilled brats and hot dogs for dinner, made s’mores for dessert, played life-size checkers and mini-golf at the campground playground and went to bed.

The next day we went into Arches National Park. Arches has the largest concentration of natural stone arches anywhere in the world. Delicate Arch is the unofficial symbol of the state of Utah and is featured on one version of the state’s license plates. The park draws tourists from all over the world, and we happened to enter the park just ahead of a busload of tourists from Germany. When we got out at one of the first major scenic areas we were nearly trampled by German-speaking men and women racing to get photos of each other in front of one of the larger arches in the park. MBW said, “What’s their hurry? It’s not like it’s going anywhere.”

She has a point.

The highlight for the boys was Sand Dune Arch. This particular feature is an arch hidden between two massive sandstone walls, or ‘fins.’ Because it is virtually enclosed between two towering walls, the sand created by the wind and rain eroding the sandstone rock features has gathered at the base of this arch, creating a giant sandbox. It is a perfect place to bring two boys and their sand toys to sit and play amid the splendor of nature. Much as I’d like to say we were the only ones to think of this idea, we weren’t. So many families decided to do the same thing it prompted one visitor to say, “This looks like the National Park Service day care center.”

After a picnic lunch in the park we went back to the campsite, changed clothes and went into Moab. It turns out Memorial Day weekend is when Moab holds the annual Moab Arts Festival. While this arts festival is nothing like the Park City Arts Festival, the Sun Valley Arts Festival or the Jackson Hole Arts Festival, it did feature live music, some interesting characters and some interesting art. MBW bought a silver bracelet. I took pictures.

Sunday we went south to the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park. We made a stop at Newspaper Rock State Historical Site, a large rock panel covered with Native American petroglyphs. This is one of the largest and best-preserved rock art panels in the United States. The artwork is thought to be a combination of Anasazi, Fremont and Navajo images. No one knows for sure what the images mean or what stories are told here, but it is thought that it was a way to communicate with others passing through the area.

After leaving Newspaper Rock we entered Canyonlands National Park. This is one of the more remote and least-visited National Parks in the United States. It features beautiful, stark vistas of sandstone rock formations and more Native American rock art and structures. We explored a cave that had been a temporary dwelling place for Native Americans and, later, cowboys who passed through the area. The boys thought it was very cool to stand in a cave where ‘Indians’ and Cowboys once stood. Despite the hot, dry desert conditions the area features beautiful and abundant plant life uniquely suited to the harsh desert climate.

By the end of the day we were all hot and tired. It was early to bed for the Camping Machine family, and come Monday morning it was time to go home. Breaking camp is one of my least favorite activities, as it means it’s time to go home. But we had a wonderful trip and it makes my day when, as we’re pulling out of the campsite, my son says, “That was so much fun! Let’s come back here again!”

We will. You can count on it.

For more on this trip, including more photos, please visit The Camping Machine website sometime over the weekend. It will take me a bit longer to upload the photos I took and the blog entry will be expanded on that site.

It’s Great to be The Family Man with The Camping Machine.

Made it to Moab!

2007-05-25T21:49:00.000-06:00

We arrived safely in Moab and are settled in the campground. Boys having a great time. Internet access is very slow. May not be able to post photos until we get home. Will post some here and more on The Camping Machine website.

Time to go camping!

2007-05-23T22:04:00.000-06:00

With two days to departure we are preparing for our first camping trip of the year. As this website is pretty new and this blog has been dormant for months, I thought I would share with you the post I wrote two years ago that describes how we came to own The Camping Machine. Here is the post:

It started in February 2004. It was a cold, snowy weekend and we were looking for something to do with the kids. My wife had been talking to one of her friends earlier in the day, and this friend happened to mention they were going to the RV show. My wife said, “Maybe that would be something to do this afternoon.”

So we loaded up the truck and went to see RVs. 5th wheels, Motor Homes.

Chris and Tommy loved it. When we walked through the door into the convention center Chris stopped dead in his tracks and said, “Look at all these Camping Machines!”

Thus the name was born. We spend a couple of hours there that day, and over the course of that time I thought maybe this would be a fun way for our family to spend time together – get one of these ‘camping machines’ and explore our part of the country. After all, we live in a place with fantastic access to mountains, lakes and National Parks within a day’s drive. What better way to spend quality time as a family, away from the city, TV, video games and the normal routine?

I spend the next year doing research on RVs, tow vehicles, and the whole camping lifestyle. The more my wife and I talked about it the more we thought it would be fun to give it a try. I spend hundreds of hours online (rv.net is a great resource) looking at trailer specs, reading message boards and asking questions. It took some time but I started to understand what would be a good fit four our family, our travel plans and our budget.

This past February we went back to the RV show. Three times in two days. We narrowed our selections to four models. The week after the show I went to the dealers and looked at each one more carefully. Two weeks later we ordered the one we liked best from the factory.

Today we picked it up and drove it home.

Our two boys couldn’t be more excited. We ate lunch in the Camping Machine – in the driveway. We ate dinner in the Camping Machine. In the driveway. And right now they are both sleeping in the Camping Machine. In the driveway.

And I’m writing this in the Camping Machine. IN the driveway. Before I, too, will go to sleep in the Camping Machine. In the driveway.

My wife is in bed already. In the house.

Maybe next weekend we’ll go camping.

Well, we did go camping that weekend. The first year we only got out three more times, but last year we got out seven times. Not bad considering we also had youth soccer, T-ball and other family obligations. Plus, here in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, our season is short – basically Memorial Day to Labor Day.

It’s interesting how we came to be a Camping Family. As a boy I did not go camping with my family. We just didn’t do that. My wife did not go camping with her family when she was a child. We don’t have many friends who are serious campers. So the whole thing was very new to us.

But because we live in such a beautiful area with virtually endless possibilities for outdoor recreation, and because my wife and I are committed to spending more quality time with our kids doing things outdoors and less time in front of the TV, we looked into the whole RV/Camping thing as a way to honor our commitment.

Even more than that, I want to make sure we make the most of our time together while our children are young and live with us. It is hard for me to believe my boys will turn 7 and 5 this summer! Where did those seven years go? I am afraid the time will fly by and before we know it, the boys will be off to college. So our investment in our travel trailer, or rather our Camping Machine, is to make sure we get out and do things together. Get out on the road and see places outside of our back yard. Make those memories as a family so that when our kids look back on their childhood they say to themselves, “We sure did a lot of fun things when we were kids.”

So there it is, the context for this website and this blog. It’s not about the Camping Machine. It’s about our family and what we do together. The Camping Machine is one way, a fun way, for us to grow together as a family, see new places, have fun and spend time in the great outdoors. Plus, in my humble opinion, it makes an interesting hook to the website – I am a marketing guy, after all.

I hope you’ll check in when you can for updates and dispatches from the road. Please feel free to leave your comments. Thanks again for reading! And, if I can plug it one more time, please visit The Camping Machine website.

It's great to be The Family Man (especially when we're going camping!)

Shop 'til you drop

2007-05-21T21:56:00.000-06:00

Last weekend was a Major Shopping Event for me. Now many of you might find a Major Shopping Weekend a very exciting thing, and I might too, if I were shopping for home electronics, books, or camping equipment. But alas, this weekend was one of those ‘have to do it, can’t put it off any longer, let’s get this over as quickly as possible’ Shopping Events

I had to buy new eyeglasses and new dress shoes.

To set (or re-set, since I’ve been one so long) the scene, I do wear eyeglasses. I am nearsighted, have been since second grade. I have worn contacts in the past but for the past several years I’ve stuck with the glasses. I would have kept the glasses I’ve had for the past three years, except they broke in half last week and my backup pair is so old the prescription had gone out of date. They gave me a headache when I wore them.

My dress shoes are even older than my glasses were. There were holes in the soles. When the parking lot was wet my socks would get damp. That really didn’t bother me – it doesn’t rain that much here, and I like wasting money on new shoes about as much as I like flushing $100 bills down the toilet. I was willing to keep the shoes for a few more months, at lest until winter set in. But when I told my wife I was going to go choose new frames and get a decent, current pair of glasses, she insisted on coming along. “And you’re getting new shoes,” she said. “That’s that.”

So off we went to the mall.

Of course it was a beautiful day, the type of day it should be criminal to be inside a shopping mall. I mean, really, the Activity Police should be at every entrance of the mall issuing citations for Unconscionable Waste of Sunshine to everyone going in. But no such luck today. With MBW leading the charge I mope my way inside.

To the franchise Eyeglasses outlet we go. The manager, young enough to be my son, was very helpful. He showed us several frames that were, in turn, “Edgy, Hip, and very Mod." After hearing these descriptions I said to him, “You are very nice and helpful. But I’m 46 years old. I’m getting gray hair. There’s nothing edgy, hip or very mod about me. I just want to see clearly and not look like a dork. Do you have a section for guys like me?”

He looked at me and said “You don’t look a day over 40!”

I said, “Do you work on commission?”

After some further searching we landed on a pair of frames that, with the correct lenses,will allow me to see clearly. I can’t tell you if they look good, and frankly I don’t really care. At this point in my life I’ll settle for not looking bad. They said the glasses would be ready in about an hour. We said we’d come back then to pick them up.

As we left the store MBW said, “Now let’s go get your new shoes!”

I turned back to the manager and said, “See you next weekend!”

That earned me a sharp elbow to the ribs.

This is where MBW is in her element. Shoes. Preferably women’s shoes, of course, but really any shoes will do. She pored over the displays. She knew all the brands. After what seemed like months of consideration, she selected half-a-dozen styles for me to try on.

The poor sales associate needed a dolly to wheel all the shoes out of the back room.

After I tried on the first pair and took a few steps I said to the clerk, “These will do just fine. Box them up and charge my card.” MBW simply glowered at me and favored me with another sharp elbow to the ribs.

45 minutes later I had dutifully tried on each of the selected pairs of shoes, some twice. We settled on a pair of black dress shoes that she liked, and fortunately for me did not hurt my feet too badly. By the time we went back to pick up my glasses and leave the mall I expected it to be next week, or certainly well after dark. But what seemed like a weekend stay in the county jail was really only about two hours of agony.

So today I go into work with my new glasses and shoes. The first thing MBW says to me when I walk in the door at the end of the day is, “Did anyone notice your shoes?”

“No,” I say.

“Did anyone comment on your new glasses?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Do you feel bad?”

I wanted to laugh.

Instead, I said, “I’ll get over it.” She gave me a hug, and then I said, “The best part is these new glasses allow me to see how truly beautiful you are. I am the luckiest guy in the world to have such a beautiful wife.”

What happened next made the pain and suffering at the mall all worthwhile.

It’s Great to be The Family Man.

Now I've done it...

2007-05-19T21:53:00.000-06:00

I've been messing around with my template (can you tell?) and I have lost all of my links.

Please be patient while I hunt them all down again...

Thanks,
TCM by TFM

Web.com stinks

2007-05-18T23:24:00.000-06:00

Some of you may have had this experience, but if you have not, be aware of this.

As I mentioned earler this week I have built a website and wanted to incorporate this blog into it. I am an internet neophyte and used Web.com to build my site. Overall the experience was pretty good. If you have visited my site you can see it is clearly the work of an amateur, but it is coming along and I learn something new each time I play around with it.

The latest attempt was to have my blog display in one of the pages on the new site. According to Blogger you can do this. . Beth was kind enough to send me an email with the specific Blogger instructions on how to do this.

So this evening I tried to do it, following Beth's instructions exactly, and it did not work.

I tried several times, to no avail.

I called the Web.com customer support line, and have just gotten off the phone with them after almost 45 minutes. The net of it is, I cannot display my Blogger blog on a page in my website.

So now I have to either figure out how to build teh site in Dreamweaver, which I own but don't have the first clue how to use, or transfer my site to some other host, change templates and start all over.

It's a bit of a bummer.

Any thoughts?

Wow!

2007-05-18T19:06:00.000-06:00

Guess I need to reduce the size of the photo onthe new header....

What's up with The Camping Machine?

2007-05-17T23:32:00.000-06:00

If you read my last post you know that I have launched a new website called The Camping Machine. Long-time readers of this blog (most of whom have stopped reading as I have all but stopped posting) may remember this post and this one where I mentioned our travel trailer and the camping trips we have taken. Our family has had fun the past two years visiting national and state parks and doing the whole trailer camping thing. We enjoy spending time outdoors and seeing new places. The boys in particular really get excited as we prepare for each trip, and MBW and I believe this is a great way for us to spend time together as a family.

As a blogger I am drawn to the idea of communicating my thoughts and ideas with others. I like the idea of putting my posts out there, knowing that people are reading my words or looking at my photos and occasionally providing feedback (or pushback) on my views. I do check the stats on the blog to see how many people are reading and I get satisfaction when the numbers are trending up.

I consider myself a creative person – by nature, by schooling and by vocation. The Family Man blog has been a great creative outlet. I’ve enjoyed it and have learned a great deal about myself, my family and the people who have read my posts. But as you may have discerned, my passion for it has waned as I’ve felt limited by the format and, to an extent, the theme. This may be because I don’t know html at all and really couldn’t figure out how to customize the blog page to add any character. And while I realize the attraction for the readers is the content, not the packaging, I still felt constrained.

While making our annual summer trips towing The Camping Machine we have spent time on rural two-lane roads. At any significant hill our speed drops well below the posted limit, and the line of cars stacked up behind us grows quickly. Being the conscientious person that I am, I try to use pullouts, passing lanes or other opportunities to let those unencumbered with trailers to pass us. Often, however, someone will spend a long time behind our trailer, staring at the back end.

As a marketer by trade (I work in an advertising agency) I thought it would be interesting to build a website and see what kind of traffic I could generate by having the website url on the back bumper of the trailer. The fact that I don’t have a website to promote really didn’t enter my mind as I pondered the idea. I thought about putting the url for this blog on the back, but that didn’t really excite me. So I thought about it off and on over the winter as The Camping Machine sat on the RV pad next to our house, snug under its cover.

One day on a lark I went to one of those website domain search sites and typed in thecampingmachine.com, and lo and behold the url was available. I went ahead and bought it, not really knowing what, if anything, I would ever do with it. Over the next few weeks I tried to figure out how to put up a site. A year ago I had purchased Dreamweaver and put it on my compute, but I never made the time to learn how to use it. After the first couple of weeks I let it go and moved on to something else – like writing the science fiction novel.

As camping season drew closer I thought again about building a website and promoting it on the back of our rig. I went to Web.com and bought one of those ‘web-site-in-a-box’ solutions that promised an easy, step-by-step solution to building a website. Choosing from far too many templates I started work on it, and if you go here you’ll see the progress (or lack thereof) I’ve made. The solution is almost as simple as advertised, and although it does seem to have limitations there is quite a bit a novice like me can do with it.

Getting back to the original question, my thought for the site was to provide a larger frame for the blog. I still intend to write about the usual topics, but I’ll focus a bit more on the camping aspect during the summer and perhaps do more entries around where we go and what we see. I’ll be able to show more photography, another creative outlet of mine, and perhaps some of you will find that interesting. And I want to test my original hypothesis, which is that a captive audience can be motivated to action if they are exposed to a message long enough. I will be interested to see how many visitors the site gets once we get out on the road and start blocking traffic.

For those of you who aren’t campers, I will tell you the people you meet at campgrounds are by and large very nice folks. Many of them love to stroll over to the campers in the next site and visit about their rigs, where they’ve been and what they like to do on the road. I expect that some of them will see the url on the rig while it is parked in the campground and check out our site from the comfort of their oversized, overpriced luxury motor homes using the wireless internet connection provided by the KOA. I would not be surprised if some of their stories make in into the blog – in fact, I see this as a rich source of content that could provide for some very amusing tales.

One thing I was surprised to find was the lack of blogs from people who do the camping thing regularly. As I was assembling links for the Links page of the website I wanted to link to some blogs that would resonate with the camping audience, and I did not find many. Maybe the blog on The Camping Machine site will find readers among those who’ve looked for a camping blog.

Ultimately The Camping Machine website will replace this blog. The blog portion of the webite will be written by The Family Man, will sound like The Family Man and contain stories that would have appeared on The Family Man blog. In fact, if anyone knows how to link a Blogger blog to a regular web site please let me know and I’ll just change the name and bring this blog to The Camping Machine site.

If you go to the site now you’ll see I’m re-running some of my earlier Family Man posts. I’m trying to keep the content on that site fresh, and I actually am enjoying seeing some of my earlier posts again. People who visit the site as a result of puttering along behind the trailer for 45 minutes won’t know these posts are re-runs. Soon I will mix in new posts with the re-runs and it won’t belong before it is all new content.

So please check out the new website. If you are linking to this blog please change your link to The Camping Machine. If I don’t already link to your site, send me your link and I’ll put it on the site. And if you visit my site please give me your feedback and let me know what you think.

I’ll have to decide if I want to keep my sign-off. It is great to be the Family Man, but it’s a bit out of context on the new site.

"Okay, Okay, Okay!"

2007-05-13T22:06:00.000-06:00

It’s funny, sometimes, how you can associate a person with a phrase they often say.

In our family each one of us has a phrase that we’re know for. MBWs phrase is “God, give me strength…” usually uttered after Tommy does something he shouldn’t, such as this. My phrase is “God bless it!” which, as you might have guessed, is the PG version of a much stronger statement – again, often delivered in a moment of frustration. An exasperated “Oh, man!” is what Chris says when he is told he can’t do something he wants to do right when he wants to do it. Tommy’s phrase is “Okay, okay okay!!!” when he is told, for the fifth time, to come to the dinner table and eat. We occasionally share a laugh when we hear each other saying these particular words. In fact, as I write this, I can hear the tone of voice and visualize the facial expression of MBW, Chris and Tommy as they say their trademark lines.

But for this particular post I will borrow Tommy’s phrase and say, “Okay, okay, okay!” And I’ll add to it by saying, “I’m sorry I haven’t posted. I’m sorry I haven’t written more. I’m sorry I have not kept up with my blog and have not visited yours.”

I think, if I can remember back that far, that in my last few posts I alluded to not feeling like I had the time to do the kind of writing I wanted to do. I believe I said I did not want to do short, update posts because this was never intended to be that kind of blog. Many people have blogs that are updated frequently and describe the daily activities of the writer and his/her friends and family. To be brutally honest the daily, mundane activities of my life are not worth the pixels required to communicate them to others, so in this blog I had (for the most part) elected to only expend pixels when I had something to say that I thought was worthy of your time, as well as mine. You may disagree, but I thought this post, this post, and and this one were interesting, amusing or touching, to one degree or another. That is the kind of writing I want to do.

But those moments don’t regularly come up twice a week and I had been running out of things to say. And when they did come up, I would think to myself, “I should post this on the blog”, but I wouldn’t get around to it. There was always something else that had to be done. When there was time, the moments I considered writing about had passed and I couldn’t recall the details that would have made the post interesting. When I sat down to write, I could only think of the trite, everyday moments that don’t make for interesting reading. As vain as this may sound, I did not want to waste your time, or mine, with a mindless, empty, vapid post.

Hence, the lack of words for the last 7 months or so.

It’s not like I haven’t been doing anything else. I’ve not been sitting around watching TV when I could have been writing for this blog – if you read this you know that. I have changed jobs yet again, begun working on a new website, skied with the family about 15 times and I’m coaching soccer once again. I’ve promised Chris and Tommy I would teach them how to catch fish – and actually this weekend we are going to the local lake to try fishing for the very first time. But there’s one thing, more than any other, that has taken time away from writing for this blog.

I’m trying to write a novel.

For the past 20 years I have had a story idea in my head. I would think about the story, and in particular the central character, off and on for weeks and months at a time. I would visualize scenes, dialog and settings as I commuted to work each day. The one thing I didn’t do was actually site down and write.

I’ve read more than one blog where the author talked about wanting to write a book. Some actually have contracts in place, others suspended their blog to write the book, and others blog about wanting to write a book. So it might be fair to say that blogging is a substitute, for some bloggers, for writing a novel. For me, blogging was a novelty, something new to try just to see how it would go. I honestly never expected anyone to read it, and I don’t know if you can imagine my genuine surprise when I started to receive comments from people who enjoyed what I had to say.

It was never about warming up to write a novel.

But when I hit my birthday last fall, realizing I was one year older and one year further removed from accomplishing anything, I made a commitment to take a shot at writing the story I have had in my head for so long. Time to put up or shut up. Make a legitimate effort to write the thing, or admit I wasn’t ever going to do it and stop thinking about it all the time.

Now if you are still reading this post, and if you’ve been a reader of this blog for any length of time, you might be thinking the book I have in mind is a family book. Maybe the story of my family, derived from some of the posts in this blog. Maybe you’re thinking it’s a story about a fictional family that goes though some of same things I’ve written about here.

Nope.

The story I want to write is science fiction.

The thing is I’m not really a huge science fiction guy. I’ve read my share of SF but I’m not a geek about it. I don’t do Star Trek. I like the original Dune stories but even that series wore on me after the second one; and the new series co-written by Frank Herbert’s son is a bit to bland and programmatic for me. So I’m not even really sure why I want to write this particular story.

But I do want to write it. I think it would make a good read. And I don’t think you’d have to be a SF geek to enjoy it. So I made the commitment and started to write the story in November. Yes, I sat down almost every night and put words on the screen. My goal was to write a chapter every month, and if I could stick to that I’d have a loose first draft in about 2 years.

So here I am, mid-May, and I have one chapter complete and the first page of chapter 2 done.

Not doing so well, am I?

But I’m sticking with it. I sit down and open the Word document almost every night, or at a minimum 5 nights a week. Some nights I make good progress, but most nights I struggle to get a paragraph complete. Writing that story does not flow nearly as easily as writing this post. For something I have thought about for so long, it just doesn’t seem to flow onto the page. What bothers me is when I go back and read what I’ve written, I don’t think it is very good.

So I’ll keep plugging along and see how it goes. My two-year time frame isn’t realistic, but maybe a four-year time frame is. Maybe the further along I go the more easily it will flow. Or maybe it will go nowhere. But at least I will have given it a fair shot.

I have received some email messages from people asking me why I stopped posting and if I planned to resume posting on this site. I think I've ansered the why I stopped, and, to quote my son – “Okay, Okay, Okay!” I promise to try to do better about posting here. There have been a couple of incidents that I think would make for good posts. And if you are reading this, please take a look at my new website. It’s more than just a travel site – it’s also a place for me to share photographs and talk about things outside of my Family Man role. In fact, if you remember this Family Man post, I will answer the question on my new site. It won’t be obvious, you’ll have to look for it, but I will put it there.

Thank you for reading.

It’s Great to be The Family Man

Hello Once again

2007-05-09T22:52:00.000-06:00

Hi there.

I've been away a long time.

I've recently created a new web site. If you'd like to take a look, go here.

Thanks,
The Family Man

Lunch Meat

2006-10-16T19:18:00.000-06:00

This is a true story.

It’s about 12:15 in the afternoon on a Tuesday in May 1988. A TV News Reporter and Cameraman are sitting in the station-issued Chevy Blazer news vehicle in the drive-through lane of a fast food restaurant. One of the major chains- I can’t remember which one – aren’t they really all the same anyway? They’re ordering lunch – the typical meat-on-a-bun fare. A staple in the diet of a mid-market news crew that’s always on deadline. It has to be quick as they are on their way to yet another boring interview on another boring story.

A call comes in over the two-way radio (this was in the day before cellphones were standard issue). “Unit six, please respond.”

The cameraman picks up the radio. “Unit six, go.”

The guy on the news desk on the other end of the radio says, “Fam, we need you to head up to Belmont, we have a report of a vehicle hit by a train.”

“Roger that,” the cameraman says. “Do you have the coordinates?”

“Not yet, we’re working on it,” the desk responds. “Start rolling that way and we’ll get back to you.”

“10-4,” the cameraman replies. “You’ll have to reschedule our interview.”

“Got it,” says the desk.

The cameraman sets the radio handset in the cradle as they pull up to the window and pick up their lunch.

The reporter says, “I’d rather do this anyway than interview that city councilman.” A pause. “It’s a good thing we got something to eat first.”

The cameraman replies, “Belmont is about 45 minutes from here. If we spend 30 minutes at the scene and take 50 minutes to get back to the station, we’ll be fine for the early news.”

They head out toward Belmont. It’s mostly on the freeway, out of the city and into the rural area north of town. Mid-day there isn’t much traffic. It’s a nice spring day, a bit on the cool side but with the promise of summer just around the corner. Bright blue skies. A nice day for a drive – albeit toward what is probably a tragic incident.

Along the way the news desk calls back with two pieces of information. First are the coordinates – the crew now knows exactly where to go. The reporter pulls out the map (again, this is the pre-GPS era) and becomes the navigator for the cameraman.

The second piece of information is the outcome. “This one’s a fatal, guys,” the news desk says. “One victim.”

“Roger that,’ says the cameraman. The mood turns somber, but the sense of urgency increases. Now this will probably be the lead story on what had been, to this point, a light news day.

The crew drives on, exiting the freeway and turning toward Belmont, ending up on a two-lane blacktop through gently rolling, wooded hills. After 10 minutes or so, they crest a small rise and see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles ahead. As they get closer they can see the train crossing. The arms are down, lights still flashing. Two police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck are off on the shoulders of the road.

The cameraman parks the vehicle, goes around to the back and pulls out his gear. The reporter joins him, notepad in hand, and together they walk up to the crossing. Glancing about, the cameraman notices they are the news first crew to arrive.

They approach a police officer standing at the crossing. There are two tracks that cross the road here. There is not much traffic on this road, but occasionally a car will approach from one side or the other. The officer is here to wave the cars through, after looking down the tracks, as the crossing arms are locked down while the scene is investigated.

There’s no elegant way to ask. The reporter says to the officer, “What happened?

This is background only. The crew wants to get a sense of what’s going on before taping any interviews. The cameraman has set up his camera on the tripod and is getting some establishing shots of the scene as the reporter talks to the cop.

The officer says, “A vehicle was hit by a northbound train going between 55-60 miles an hour. There was one occupant in the vehicle, who is deceased.”

Hearing this, the reporter glances up the tracks to the north. The cameraman swings his camera up that way, resets his focus and zooms down the line. There’s not much to see, though, as the tracks begin to curve to the east and out of sight.

The officer continues, “The train had no warning. The vehicle pulled onto the tracks while the arms were down. Impact occurred before the engineer could hit the brakes.”

The cameraman is beginning to see, through the camera lens, debris along the side of the tracks. It’s difficult to tell exactly what he is seeing. Nothing he’s seen so far appears to be parts of the vehicle, but there is definitely ‘stuff’ along the tracks, beginning about 50 yards from the crossing and continuing until the track bends out of sight into the trees.

The reporter asks the cop, “How could the driver not see the train coming? The crossing arms were down at the time, weren’t they?”

The officer responded, “According to the train engineer, the arms were down. The vehicle was going around the arms when it was struck by the train.” He paused, the continued, “Apparently another train was on one of the tracks as the vehicle approached the crossing. The first train passed, but the crossing arms did not go up. The driver of the vehicle tried to go around the arms and was struck by a second train, coming from the other direction, on the second set of tracks.”

The cameraman picked up his camera and tripod and walked back to the spot where the vehicle would have parked as it waited for the train to go by. He panned his camera slowly, from what would have been the driver of the vehicle’s point of view. It became clear to the cameraman what the vehicle driver must have seen. The first train, heading south, passed on the near set of tracks. As it went by, it screened the driver’s view of a northbound train as it approached. He wouldn’t have heard it, assuming what he was hearing was the sound of the train that just passed.

The cameraman picked up his gear, walked around the crossing arm, and stood in the road between the two sets of tracks. Looking south, where the train would have been approaching, he tried to imagine the surprise, shock and horror the driver of the vehicle must have felt as he saw the train. He realized he was standing in precisely the spot where the train would have struck the vehicle.

The death zone.

This was the first time, he realized, the cameraman had stood in the exact spot where less than two hours ago another person had lost their life.

He was no stranger to death, of course. He had come to learn the old adage, ‘if it bleeds, it leads,’ is true in local TV News. He had seen his share of dead bodies, crime scenes where murders and grisly accidents had taken place. But this was the first time he stood on the exact piece of ground where someone took their last breath, saw their last sight, thought their last thought – in this case, most likely, “oh, sh--!!”

This cameraman was an introspective, contemplative sort. It was a sobering experience to stand here and record the images that would tell of the last moments of this person. At the same time, he had been around the block long enough to have developed a method of coping, of doing his job and not letting his emotions get in the way.

He finished getting his shots, picked up his gear, and made his way back to the reporter who was still talking to the cop. The two had been joined by the Lieutenant, who was supervising the scene. He agreed to speak on camera, giving the crew the requisite ‘sound bites’ that would be used to tell the story. He repeated the basic facts – a vehicle went around the railroad track crossing arms, which were functioning and in the down position during the accident. One train had passed the crossing, the crossing warning sign arms did not go up, the vehicle attempted to go around the crossing arms and was struck by a second train coming from the opposite direction. One vehicle occupant, killed on impact.

The reporter asked, “What type of vehicle was it?”

The police Lieutenant said, “I can’t release that information until the victims’ next of kin has been notified.”

After a couple of additional questions the interview was completed. The cameraman turned the camera off and asked the cop, “Can we hike down the track and get some footage of the scene?”

The officer replied, “You can go as far as you like, but the train is almost a mile away. This train was heavy and traveling at a high rate of speed. It takes a train like that a long time to stop, even when the brakes are locked up. It’s quite a hike to get to the engine.”

The cameraman and reporter conferred. “We don’t have time to get that footage and still make the early news,” the reporter said. “Let’s just go a little ways doen the line, get some debris footage and head back to the station.”

The officer said, “Be my guest, but watch where you step.”

The reporter said, “What do you mean?”

The officer said, “Off the record?”

“Sure,” said the reporter.

“The vehicle that was hit was a catering truck,” said the officer, “one of those ‘mobile lunch wagons’ that visit factories and manufacturing sites. It basically exploded on impact. There’s all kinds of lunch meat and food scattered down the line.”

He paused, took a breath and continued, “We aren’t sure we’ve found all of the body parts of the victim. We don’t have enough to make a positive ID. We assume there was only one victim because the company dispatcher told us who the driver was. We’re looking right now for something we can make a positive ID with – some dental work, a hand we can get a finger print from, something like that.”

“So, if you want to go down there and shoot some video, go ahead. But please don’t touch anything. And as I said, watch where you step.” He paused, and said, “and I wouldn’t do any snacking if you find something you think came from the truck.”

The cameraman and reporter look at each other.

“Let’s just get some shots from here and get going,” said the reporter to the cameraman. “Do you have enough footage?”

“I need a bit more. Give me a minute or two,” the cameraman replied.

The reporter went back to the news vehicle and got inside. The cameraman took his camera and shot for another two minutes or so, packed up and went back to the news vehicle. After stowing his gear, he got into the driver’s seat, started up, turned the car around and began to head back to the station.

They drove in silence for awhile – the reporter thinking about how to tell the story, the cameraman thinking about what he had seen and felt.

After a few minutes, the reporter reached into the lunch bag he got at the drive through earlier that day. He reached into the bag and pulled out his half eaten sandwich. He looked at it for a moment – the cameraman wondering if he would actually take a bite of the cold, soggy meal. Instead, the reporter looked up and said, “There’s a moral to this story, you know.”

“What’s that?” said the cameraman.

Taking a bite, through a mouthful of food, the reporter said, “It’s better to EAT the meat than BE the meat.”

It’s Great to be The Family Man.

If you enjoyed this post, visit The Camping Machine)to read more like it.

Cool Summer

2006-10-10T17:20:00.000-06:00

It’s been quite a summer for The Family Man as well as for the Mann family. How to recap an entire summer in a blog post? Let’s try.

In my last post I described our first trip of the summer in The Camping Machine. Over the rest of the summer we took six additional trips. When all was said and done we visited three National Parks and four state parks, a beautiful mountain lake and a very nice local campground. Chris and Tommy really enjoy camping and have become very good travelers in the car, as many of these trips required several hours over the road. For those of you who have not pulled a large trailer over mountain passes, it adds quite a bit of time to the journey. The good news is you can make a ‘pit stop’ almost anywhere – and believe me, we have.

We took quite a few pictures, but I’ve become a bit leery about posting photos of the boys on this site. Without going into much detail, a couple of emails I’ve received have made me reconsider posting those photos. Which is sad, because I’ve taken some very nice pictures that would add interest and context to this post, but you’ll just have to use your imagination.

Some of you may remember I signed up to coach Chris’s soccer team. We had a great spring soccer season. Chris had a lot of fun, he scored a dozen or so goals and his team went (unofficially) 6-2. I say unofficially because this is a recreational league, and no scores are standings are kept. Still, it’s hard not to keep a running mental tally as the games go on of the score and which team had more goals.

But there’s more to the soccer story. Tommy turned four years old this summer, making him old enough to play in the city rec soccer league just like his older brother. Chris also has a summer birthday, and he turned six. So just as Tommy finally became old enough to play, Chris turning six moved him up into the next age group in the same program. That means both boys were going to play soccer in the fall session, running from mid-August through mid-October, but they could not be on the same team. Chris asked me if I was going to coach his team again, and of course I said yes. Then Tommy says, “You’re going to coach my team too, aren’t you, Dad?”

Well, how could I say no?

So the past seven weeks I’ve coached two soccer teams. Two different weekly practices, two games on Saturday. It’s been very busy. It’s also been a lot of fun, even if it has been hectic at times. This Saturday will be the last game of the season for both boys, both teams. Form a win/loss perspective this ‘season’ has been a disaster. Chris’s team won their first game 2-0, and has lost every game since. Tommy’s team has done even worse- they have not won a single game, and they have failed to score a goal in 6 of the seven games. They have been steamrolled every time. Now I see why we don’t keep an official score and standings for these leagues – the teams that are just aging into a new age group get crushed during that first season.

I took a new job over the summer. It’s a much better position for me, a much better fit for my skills and temperament than my last position. The unfortunate thing is that this new job requires a 30-mile commute each way. So I am enjoying my work more but I am missing out on family time. Not the happiest situation, but life is a series of trade-offs.

We had to spend a small fortune to have new windows installed and the stucco finish on our home removed and replaced. We were having some leaks around some of the windows. Once the windows were installed and the stucco removed we discovered the builders had used substandard material when building the house, so we had to replace nearly all of the wood outside the frame of the home. The project took six weeks and completely emptied our savings account. The good news is we prevented serious mold problems from developing in the home – which would have exacerbated Tommy’s asthma problem significantly.

MBW had one of those ‘zero’ birthdays last month – you know, a birthday when you turn a year that ends in a zero. I won’t way which one, but you can probably guess. Actually, if you were to see her you would guess 10 years to low, so she continues to look fabulous. I will be the first to admit that I am the last person you should ask for advice regarding the big issues of life, but guys, listen to me on this one – choose your life partner carefully. If you marry well, anything else that happens to you will be easier to deal with if you have selected the right partner. Conversely, if you choose your life partner poorly, no other run of good fortune will compensate for a bad marriage.

I continue to struggle with the same themes/issues I have talked about in this blog for the past year or so. A middle-aged man on the downhill side of life expectancy, working in Corporate white-collar America, blessed with good health, a wonderful family and a decent income; but feeling trapped in the industrial bureaucracy, beginning to think he has forfeited a chance to do something he is passionate about. Wondering, in fact, what he is passionate about. Between the job, family responsibilities and a failing struggle to stay in shape, finding there is not any time to ponder what he really wants to do. Worried the sand is slipping ever more quickly through the hourglass, trying (sometimes unsuccessfully) not to dwell on the many missed opportunities in his life and hoping not to miss the next opportunity that may or may not present itself. Comforted by the fact he is doing the right thing (most of the time) for his family, wondering if that is all there is left for him.

So you can see it has, in fact, been a busy summer.

One of the other themes I’ve touched on in this blog is the desire for our family to be a family that does things, not one that watches things. That’s why we bought The Camping Machine and made a strong effort to get out and go places this summer. I feel good about what our family did this summer. I really hope that once our kids are off to college (hopefully on some kind of scholarship!) they’ll look back on these years and remember the trips we took and the fun we had. They may not remember this summer specifically - watching Old Faithful erupt, running their hands over dinosaur bone fossils, standing on a ledge overlooking the Colorado River 1,000 feet below. They’ll have the photos, if not the memories. I hope they will look back at what we did, and want to continue to be active and engaged in life, not passively watching life go by.

That’s one reason why I’ve not been a more active blogger. I’m trying to do things, and that leaves less time to write about things. And I don’t seem to be able to sit down and write a quick update post and think anyone will care enough to read it. I’ve tried to make each of my posts substantial, to tell a story, convey an idea or thought. That sort of writing takes time for a blockhead like me. When I first started this blog it was new and exciting, and I was passionate about it. But it has become more and more difficult to keep up, and the passion has waned. While I’m not prepared to give this up altogether, and do hope to post more frequently than I have recently, I really don’t know how often or substantially I’ll be able to post.

So for those of you have continued to check back once in a while, thank you. I’ll keep the blog up on Blogger and try to post when I can. I’ve long since stopped checking the site stats every day like I used to. Way back when, in the days when Waiter Rant linked to this blog, I have about 250 readers a day. It fell off and held steady at about 50 or so a day for a long time. Last week it was down to 8. If I posted more often, it wouldn’t have dropped off so much.

But honestly, I’ve been too busy to worry about that. Still, for those of you who continue to check in every so often, thank you. If I don’t think I’ll be able to post again, I’ll take this down so you don’t have to wonder. As long as it’s still up, it is my intention to try to post something when I can.

So – until the next update,

It’s still Great to be The Family Man.

Dear Mom

2006-06-23T23:09:00.000-06:00

Dear Mom,

Yes, it’s me. I know, I haven’t written in a long time. Months. Okay, over a year. I feel bad about it.

But the reason is, well…you’re dead. And it feels sort of weird to be writing to a dead person.

Yes, it’s been just over a year since you died. Memorial Day 2005. Sometimes if feels like it was just yesterday – other times it feels like it was a lifetime ago.

This Memorial Day we visited your gravesite. Yes, you were cremated, and your ashes were scattered into the ocean at sunrise, just as you had asked. I made sure we honored your request. But I kept a small amount of your ashes and had them buried here, so we'd all have a place to go to remember you.

Memorial Day will never be the same for me now, and this year was the first year to actually understand how much it has changed. This year we took the boys camping in The Camping Machine – just like last year. Remember last year? Well, no, I guess you wouldn’t, but I’ll never forget it. We had just returned from camping, our very first trip with the Camping Machine. We were unloading our gear when my phone rang – my sister telling me the doctors told her you had hours to live.

Do you know what it’s like to get a call like that? Not very much fun. Even though I’d sort of been expecting something like that, given how your health had been going downhill, nothing can prepare you for the call when it actually comes. And of course, it only gets worse from there. Wondering if I was going to make it to your bedside, 2000 miles away, before you passed away. Cross-country red-eye flights are lousy anyway – even worse when you’re racing the Grim Reaper. Finally getting there with, as it turns out, 90 minutes to spare.

90 minutes. Do you remember anything I said to you? Did any of it makes sense? By then, or course, you couldn’t talk. The doctor told me you could hear, and comprehend, but I wonder. I wonder if you heard me, I wonder if you understood.

90 minutes should be long enough to say goodbye – well, it is, but it isn’t. Because I can barely remember anything I said to you, my last words to you. I think for a time there I was babbling about inconsequential stuff, just talking, making no sense. How do you prepare to say your final goodbye? How do you sum up a lifetime of shared experience, a lifetime of thanks, in 90 minutes? What can you possibly say?

Well, I don’t know – all I know is that I didn’t do it.

In the past year I’ve thought of all the things I wish I had said. So many things I wish I could have told you. How grateful I am for all that you did for me over the course of my life. All the times I should have said “Thank you.” All the times I should have said something…but was too busy, too selfish, too preoccupied with my own business.

Yet, somehow, I think that wherever you are right now, you understand. Because you always did understand me. That’s the only thing that gives me some measure of comfort; that because you know me so well, you know that I did the best I could.

So a year has gone by. I still catch myself once in a while thinking, “I’ll have to tell Mom about this,” only to realize I can’t call you or send you photos. It happens less often these days, but it still happens.

Mostly I want to tell you how the boys are doing. I want to tell you about how well Chris did in Kindergarten. It’s hard to believe he’ll be going to First Grade this fall. As a former teacher I know you would appreciate hearing about his time in school. He really is very bright and was near the top of his kindergarten class. He’s a social kid and has made lots of friends. I want to tell you about how well he did in soccer this spring…and how much fun I had being his coach. The Mighty Green Dragons finished 6-2 in the spring season, and we’re looking ahead to the fall season.

I want to tell you about Tommy, our wild child, the boy with the mind of his own. I can almost hear you chuckling now. I know you would admire his spunk. You’d probably say, “That’s the Irish in him,” and I’m sure you’re right. As difficult and trying as he can be, the truth is I admire his fierce independence myself – I’m not going to try to break him. And I want to tell you how excited he is that this fall he will finally get to play soccer too, just like Chris, complete with a real uniform, his own team and real league games. Even though he won’t be in the same age bracket as Chris, he’ll finally get to play instead of watch. And yes, I’ll be his coach too.

I want to tell you about our camping trips. I know you would love to hear the stories from Chris and Tommy, telling you all the neat things they have seen and done on our tips. They really love hooking up ‘The Camping Machine’ and going someplace to see and do new things. They loved our recent trip to Dinosaur National Monument, and in fact they are still roaring like T-Rexes. Now they are anxiously awaiting our trip to Yellowstone National Park over the 4th of July – they want to see the water that shoots up into the air right from the ground. I promised them we would be a family that would do things together, and I think you’d be pleased that we’re doing just that.

I want you to know that I married very well. MBW is a wonder mother to the boys and a great partner for me. I wish you could have had the happy and fulfilling marriage that I am fortunate enough to have. We’re building avery nice life together.

Even my Old Friend is still hanging in there. Can you believe my cat is 19 years old? Sure, he can’t jump up on the bed anymore, and he sleeps a lot, but the vet says he’s healthy and he’ll still take a swat at Tommy if he pulls his tail too hard. You always had a soft spot in your heart for animals – your own and anyone else’s. I’m sure you’d be glad to know my cat gets lots of love.

Yes, I wish I could tell you all these things. But I wonder if you already know. What is it like, where you are? Are you able to look in on what we’re doing? Does it work like that? Does your spirit drop by from time to time, taking a look around, keeping up with how your son and grandkids are doing? Or is it really just over?

I kind of always thought you’d find a way to make your presence known, to somehow let me know you were out there, There was only one time that I had that feeling, and even then I wasn’t sure. I think Tommy got a stronger sense of you. Maybe he has more of that spiritual awareness about him. Or maybe he's more like you - that indomitable spirit. I don't know.

Anyway, Mom, I just thought I’d drop you this note to let you know I’m thinking about you. I just want to let you know we’re all doing well. My knee is healing, slowly but surely. It still hurts but I’m walking around without a brace and hopefully I’ll be mostly healed by this fall. The job is kind of a drag, but it pays reasonably well and, after all, I’m working to live, not living to work. I’m reasonably healthy, the family is healthy, we’ve got food on the table, a few dollars in the bank and health insurance. Life is good.

I’m blessed.

But I still miss you. I hope you can see what we’re doing. I hope you can see that I am trying very hard to be a good dad, to raise my boys right, to be actively engaged in their daily lives. To be a dad that makes a difference. I am an Ordinary Man, mom – nothing special. But I have an extraordinary family, an extraordinary change to make a difference in the lives of two very special kids. And I’m going to do the very best I can.

Someday, hopefully not anytime soon, it will be my time to go. Perhaps then we’ll get together and I’ll be able to tell you all these things. I hope, if it works out that way, you’ll be able to say, “I’m proud of you, son. You were a great dad.”

That would mean more than you could know.

Thanks for everything, Mom.

Thanks for listening.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Dragons devour Tigers

2006-03-26T22:19:00.000-07:00

Yes, the sun did rise Saturday morning. The beast did awaken. And the Mighty Green Dragons did roar.

They also fed.

They fed on charbroiled tiger.

Okay, you know I'm kidding here. Just having some fun. But the truth is the Mighty Green Dragons did play Saturday against the Tigers. And even though in this league there is no official scorekeeping, no standings are kept, and coaches are specifically told the point of the game is fun, not winning and losing, it was impossible not to notice that the Tigers did not score a single goal in 40 minutes of play, while the Mighty Green Dragons had half a dozen by halftime.

In my pep talk before the opening kick I told the Dragons we wanted to do two things - do our best and have fun. Not to beat down the other team, not to go out there and win the game - do our best and have fun.

Less than two minutes after the opening kick, taken by the Tigers, Chris scored the first of his two goals, the first goal of the season for the Dragons (yes, as the coaches son he got to be one of the four starters in the opening game). And from there, well, one of my two pre-game objectives had been met - the kids were definitely having fun.

As a parent, much less the coach, it's almost impossible not to be aware of how many goals your kid scores. Chris had two in the first half, I know that. But I'm not sure how many the Dragons had at the end of the half - it was at least six and probably more.

At halftime I told the kids I was proud of them for playing hard and doing their best. I asked if they were having fun and they all said yes.

The second half was more of the same. Chris didn't score, but one boy on our team had four goals himself. As a team we must have had another four on top of that. I'd love to say it was the skill and preparation of the coach. I'd love to say it was the strategic game plan put in by the coach. But the truth is, the kids ran hard, played with enthusiasm - and maybe the ball just seemed to bounce their way. When the game mercifully ended the score, if it had been officially kept, would have been something-teen to zero.

When it was over I gathered the Dragons on the field to lead them in the post game cheer. You know it - "1, 2, 3 - Good Game Tigers!" The kids all shook hands with the Tigers, and parents from both teams made a 'tunnel' for all the kids to run through.

I was wishing I hadn't torn up my knee. While it was so much fun to be out there, coaching the team, coaching my son, I couldn't keep up with the action on the field as much as I wanted to. At this level, the coach is on the field, following the action and calling out encouragement to the kids on the field. The coach has to tell which player to throw the ball in from out of bounds, who gets to do the goal kick, and tell each child where to stand every time there is a stoppage of play. Crutching my way up and down the field made that more challenging.

But I wouldn't have missed this for anything.

And though I write this as though the 'Dining on Roast Tiger' is the thrill of victory, it really is about participating with my son in something he loves. He is excited to have me as the coach of his team. I'm excited to participate with him, to show him that I want to share these experiences with him.

As we gathered for our post-game treat, one of the Dragons asked me, "Coach, did we win?"

"You know, Steve, we didn't keep score," I said, "But I think we did win.'

"Oh," he said, "that's good.'

"Did you have fun?" I asked.

"Yeah!"

"That's great, Steve," I said. "See you at practice Thursday!"

He ran off. I'm glad he had fun.

But I guarantee you he didn't have as much fun as I did.

It's fun to be the coach.

And it's great to be The Family Man.

Game on

2006-03-24T22:22:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow morning the sun will rise.

Just another Saturday morning.

The sun will rise over the mountains, keeping our home and others along the eastern bench of our valley in shade in the early morning. The sky will be bright blue as a beautiful early spring day dawns in our fair city. The half-million or so residents of the valley will rise and go about their business - some to work, others to play. All in all, it will appear to virtually everyone another normal Saturday morning, welcome not only for the start of the weekend but also for the return of fair weather after a cold, dark winter.

Yet this particular Saturday will be different.

For tomorrow a mighty beast will awaken. A creature will be unleashed; a creature whose power and might this valley has never seen.

It will appear in a city park, a normal city park where families will gather with their children to enjoy a wonderful spring morning. Among the many youth soccer fields set up in the park on this fine day, the beast will emerge, prepared to devour all who stand in its way.

Yes, the Mighty Green Dragons will take the field in the city 4-6 year old youth soccer league.

Youth soccer will never be the same in our town as the Mighty Green Dragons have their way over all who would stand before them on this and seven subsequent Saturdays.

Mommies, spare your children from the carnage.

We are the Mighty Green Dragons. Hear us ROAR!

It's great to be The Family Man (aka coach of the Mighty Green Dragons)!

Extraordinarily ordinary

2006-03-14T23:45:00.001-07:00

I recently received the following anonymous comment to a post I wrote a few months ago:

“Ordinary and extraordinary are relative words. For you a house, a happy family and a steady job is an ordinary life. Ask the boat people desperate to come into the USA what an extraordinary life is, and chances are they will ask for maybe a fraction of what you take for granted in your everyday life. Or closer home, ask the dirty hack with the trolley in the shady lane - for her, yours is the kind of life she can only live in her dreams.”

When I first read it, I felt bad.

The more I thought about it, the less bad I felt.

But I would like to take this opportunity to explore this idea a bit more.

First, I stand by my post. I am an ordinary man. There is nothing about me that is particularly unique, special, or remarkable. I say that not in a self-deprecating way. I think I have pretty good self esteem. I like myself, I’m proud of who I am. When I look in the mirror I think, other than being old and a bit heavier that I’d like, I’m a pretty decent guy.

My wife and kids love me. I’m reasonably intelligent and hard-working. At every job I’ve ever had, when I’ve moved on people have told me they’ll miss me. So I must be making a positive contribution with my labor in those places I have worked, and gotten along with my peers in the process. In other words, I don’t stick the knife in someone’s back to get ahead.

I go to church on a (somewhat) regular basis. I give a bit to charity. When the neighborhood kid comes to the door selling something for a fundraiser, I buy it.

I live in a modest home in a middle class neighborhood, indistinguishable from any home within 5 miles. Yes, I do have a hot tub and a camping machine – things not found at every house in my neighborhood, but not as uncommon as you might think.

My point in all of this? For where I live, in the time I am living, this constitutes ordinary.

As the anonymous commenter noted, ordinary is relative. I agree with her or her on that point. The ‘boat people’ or the ‘dirty hack with the trolley in the shady lane’ would, no doubt, gladly trade places with me and count themselves extraordinarily fortunate.

I’ll take that one step further. It’s my unscientific opinion that if it were somehow possible to quantify the lifestyle of every single person on earth, I would probably be in the top 20% in terms of material possessions and overall quality of life. I don’t mean this in a bragging way. I’m just assuming that my USA middle (perhaps upper middle) class life, in purely economic terms, provides more security, comfort, material resources and opportunity than 80% or so of everyone else on this earth.

Surely, you’d say, that is more than ordinary.

And measured in those terms, I guess I’d agree.

What I was trying to accomplish in the original post was less about material possessions and more about achievement. I began by describing the time I met Peter Jennings, a man I admired and respected. I believe he was an extraordinary man.

Extraordinary is Abraham Lincoln. Mahatma Ghandi. Madame Curie.

Albert Einstein, born many years ago today, March 14.

Pick your hero – we all have them. People who are extraordinary stand above the rest of us – not by the things they have, but by the things they do. They influence more than the lives of family and friends – they change the world, or contribute something meaningful to society at large.

Last time I checked, I hadn’t done anything like that.

In my post I said, “My little life, pedestrian as it is, suits me just fine. There are those moments, and I’ve shared a few in this blog, when the very ordinariness of my family life is extraordinary to an exponential degree. A hug from Chris. A giggle from Tommy. A knowing glance from my wife. Each one, exceptionally ordinary. Each one, exceptionally extraordinary. And absolutely priceless.”

Where I take issue with the comment is the ‘take for granted’ part. I think I conveyed that by calling out the things that mean the most to me as priceless. Not what I own, but what my family gives me.

Sure, it helps that we are economically comfortable. But I don’t take that for granted either. I’m sitting here tonight, one day removed from surgery to repair my ACL and MCL. My knee, quite frankly, hurts like hell. I won’t walk without crutches for about 4-6 weeks, and I won’t jog for four months. Yet I am grateful that I have health insurance. I’m grateful I live in a place with quality healthcare. As I limp around the house, I’m grateful I can walk to the bathroom – unlike my mother, who spent the last 25 years of her life in a wheelchair, unable to use her legs due to an accident in her own home.

I will be the first to admit I am fortunate. I’ve done nothing to deserve what I have. And I could lose it all tomorrow. As I mentioned in this post, I’ve seen a few examples of how quickly fortune can change.

No, I’m not a boat person. I’m not a ‘dirty hack with the trolley in the shady lane’ – in fact, I don’t even know what that means.

What I am is ordinary. And very grateful to be exactly that.

You know, by now, what I say.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Snow Men Again

2006-03-05T23:16:00.000-07:00

We’re continuing the skiing instruction with Chris and Tommy, and we’ve been making great progress.

It’s interesting to me how the boys’ personalities are and are not reflecting in their approach to skiing and their progress. Tommy, the defiant one, the boy who will swing his little fist at you for the slightest perceived transgression or slight, is a cautious, deliberate skier. He goes back and forth across the hill slowly, carefully, really carving his snowplow turns. He listens carefully to our instructions and asks for feedback – “am I doing it right, Dad? Like this?”

Chris, the sensitive, considerate, thoughtful boy, flies straight down the hill, barely turning, on the very edge of control. He cares little for instruction, barely acknowledges it, and is all but dismissive of any attempt to help him.

Since my last skiing post we’ve skied every Saturday and Sunday. We’ve progressed from the rope tow to the chairlift, and we’ve stopped using the ‘racer-chaser,’ the vest/leash device that allows a parent to ski behind a child and keep them somewhat in control. Both boys have mastered the art of the snowplow and can proceed down the easiest green run at our favorite ski mountain. MBW will closely follow one boy; I’ll follow the other, calling out instruction and/or encouragement, as the boys navigate their way down the hill.

Today was going to be our best day yet. In the morning we swung by the local ski shop and bought helmets for everyone – the boys, MBW and me. The boys had noticed helmets on other skiers and thought they were ‘cool’ – something I didn’t expect, but decided to capitalize on. I’ve been concerned that on the green runs served by the chairlift the boys might get hit by someone who’s lost control or is going too fast. Though I’ve never worn a helmet skiing, I think it’s a good idea, and we decided to lead by example and wear them ourselves.

The weather was great as we hit the slopes.

We posed for a photo near the top of the run before heading off. Chris and Tommy picked up right where they left off, skiing with confidence, having fun. The first run was a great success.

The second run started off a carbon copy of the first. Chris led, with me close behind. He smoothly skied the first section of the run, which includes a short but reasonably steep section (for green runs) and headed out to the flatter section. Spying a rise on the side of the run, he headed in that direction, off the groomed portion toward some trees. As he went up the side of the rise he began to lose momentum, so I moved to come up behind him, straddle him, and set him back on the right course. Just as I reached him, my skies wide apart, he turned sharply to the right trying to get off the rise. I turned as well, scooped him up in my arms, but my left ski did not follow my right and we crashed.

As we went down I shielded Chris as best I could, holding him close to my chest. My left knee wrenched hard as my binding did not release. Chris took a face full of snow, but otherwise was unhurt. He dusted himself off and said, “Let’s go, Dad!”

My left knee would not support my weight.

MBW and Tommy were beyond us now, having somehow passed us on the slope without seeing our crash, well on their way to the bottom of the run.

I tested my leg again, hoping somehow I could get down the hill with Chris. The pain was too intense, and I was concerned I’d fall again, perhaps do more damage.

“Dad, what’s wrong?” asked Chris.

“I’ve hurt my leg,” I said. “I’m not going to be able to ski down. Do you think you can follow the trail down to the lift and find Mom?”

“Sure, Dad,” he said with confidence. And off he went.

I wound up riding down the hill in a sled pulled by the Ski Patrol snowmobile. The Medical clinic at the ski resort gave me the happy news – torn ACL and MCL. My ski season is over, and I have orthopedic surgery and several months of rehab ahead of me.

The irony, as I sit here in the La-Z-Boy recliner, ice on my knee in a full length splint, is the safety precautions we took just today. Helmets! We’re the leading edge of safe skiing! Responsible parents modeling correct behavior for our kids! And here I am, a very experienced skier with many double black diamond conquests to my credit, tearing my ACL and MCL on a green run. Excuse me – turn away if you’re offended by profanity, but I have to say it – A FUCKING GREEN RUN.

I’m so disappointed for Chris and Tommy. They had been doing so well, having so much fun, really enjoying the activity and proud of themselves for their improvements. Now the ski season is over for all of us – the best part of the season for beginners/young kids. The weather is nicer this time of year, the snow still good. But MBW cannot take both boys by herself – what if something similar should happen to her while she had both boys? No, we can’t take that chance.

At least we’ve made progress for building on next year. And in a few weeks, soccer will start. Chris has signed up, and as I mentioned in this post, I’ll be his coach.

Which, incidentally, the meeting for rookie coaches is next Saturday.

I’ll look great hobbling in on my crutches.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

The Naked Flyer

2006-02-16T08:47:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in my previous post, if you spend enough time online and reading blogs you’ll learn some interesting things. For example, February 15th is Blog about your Cat day. News to me, but I obligingly linked to a post I’d written about my cat awhile back, and felt satisfaction in being Part of a Movement.

I’ve recently learned of a blogging thing called Half Nekkid Thursdays. I’d actually come across the term a couple of times before but paid it no mind.

That it, until last Thursday, when I happened upon this post.

Marie used to link to and visit this blog. Not anymore. If you visit her site, you’ll learn that she is everything I’m not – she’s young and single - I’m old and married. She is attractive, articulate and has lots of interesting friends – I’m old and married. She blogs about her social activities, going out with friends, having the occasional cocktail, living a fun and exciting life – I’m old and married. Read a few of her posts, and then re-read this one of mine – you’ll see why she no longer visits or links to this blog. She clearly has a better idea of a good time and, as a result, has far more interesting things to blog about than I do.

But after seeing this post it occurred to me that despite being old and married, ordinary, and with a warped sense of living large on Saturday night, I do have a Half Nekkid Thursday story.

Now before you get up and run from your computer toward the bathroom, prepared to lose your lunch at the thought of seeing a half-nekkid photo of The Family Man, I promise there are no pictures of me in this post. The closest you’ll get of seeing me in any stage of dress (or undress), was here. So calm down.

On the other hand, you also won’t be seeing any half-nekkid photos of MBW either. Much to your dismay, if you’re male. Trust me, photos of MBW would rival these, but I’m not sharing.

In fact, there are no photos whatsoever in this post.

So how can it be a Half Nekkid Thursday post?

Well, technically I guess it can’t. I’ve learned there are rules of a sort for this.
You can read them here.

But I thought, in my own boring, family-oriented way, that this post was worth trying to sneak in under the Half Nekkid Thursday banner.

It was bath night and Tommy was throwing one of his periodic fits. He didn’t want to get out of the tub; he didn’t want to get dried off and into his pajamas. In his maddeningly defiant way, he was being obstinate and ornery. MBW turned to me and said, “You deal with him.”

I went into the bathroom and there he was, sitting in the tub, arms crossed. “I’m not getting out,” he said.

For some reason I have a connection with Tommy that MBW doesn’t. I’m often able to work him out of situations like this with less angst and anguish than she is. But this one was looking pretty grim.

He didn’t respond to my smile. “I’m not getting out,” he repeated.

I smiled more. “Okay, Tommy. Whatever you say.” And before he could respond, I reached in and scooped him out of the tub, wrapping him up in a towel so big he was, in effect, immobilized.

He screamed a muffled protest as I toweled him off. His head popped out from under the thick blue towel and he glowered at me. He took in a deep breath, prepared to let out a string of three-year-old curse words – but before he could get them out, I pulled the towel off him and said loudly, “It’s time for The Naked Flyer!”

With that, I lifted him up over my head, one hand under his chest and the other holding his legs, holding him horizontally up near the ceiling. I left the bathroom and ran around the house, from room to room, holding Tommy over my head shouting, “It’s The Naked Flyer! Here he comes!”

Tommy, having gotten over his initial shock, is by now no longer angry; in fact, he’s laughing and having a great time. “I’m The Naked Flyer! I’m The Naked Flyer! Look at me!” he shouted.

All around the house I ran, flying him from room to room. Finally I set him down in his bedroom. “Time to get your jammies on,” I said. Just then, Chris comes running in, taking his jammies off. “I want to be The Naked Flyer, Dad!” he said. “Do it to me!”

So of course I had to do The Naked Flyer with Chris. He enjoyed it as much as Tommy did. So much so, in fact, that The Naked Flyer has become a once-or-twice weekly pre-bedtime ritual in our house for both boys.

A footnote to this story.

We’re at the grocery store the other evening, Chris, Tommy and me. The boys are both in the shopping cart with the half-dozen things we’re waiting to buy. Standing in the crowded checkout line, Chris asks me, “Dad, is it bath night tonight?”

“It is,” I answer.

He says, loudly, “Can we do The Naked Flyer tonight? Can we?”

Tommy pipes up, “Yeah, Dad, I want to do The Naked Flyer! Let’s go home and do The Naked Flyer!”

Two women looked over at me with strange expressions.

“I love The Naked Flyer!” Tommy says.

The women are horrified.

I’m expecting a visit from Child Protective Services any day now.

So there it is, my Half-Nekkid Thursday story. I know if doesn’t hold a candle to this, but hey, I am The Family Man.

Speaking of this, for the record, If I’d been blogging 15 years ago, this blog would be called The Single Man and it would include the type of stories found here. I did have my fun, back in the day.

But now I’m just an old married guy, those days fading quickly in the rearview mirror. Half-Nekkid Thursday for me is nothing like it is for Marie and other young, single exciting people. No doubt Half-Nekkid Thursday leads into Having Fun Friday and Swinging Saturday.

It sounds fun.

For me, Half-Nekkid Thursday just means that is only about 48 hours and change until Saturday Night, Family Man Style.

I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Yeah, baby.

It’s GREAT to be The Family Man.

Blogging about your cat

2006-02-15T13:48:00.000-07:00

According to Lefty Grrrl, today is Blog about your Cat day.

Who knew? It's amazing what you learn online.

Anyway, I did that some time ago.

If you're interested, you can re-read it here.

Tomorrow I'll talk about something called Half-nekkid Thursday, another interesting thing I learned about online.

Snow Men

2006-02-04T22:03:00.000-07:00

On a cold winter morning in central New York State, early February 1969, a father and son are in their car just before 7:00 am. As they do most Sundays during the winter, they are on their way to a morning of skiing. It’s a long ride from their home in the Onondaga Hill area just outside Syracuse to their destination – Labrador Mountain.

The father has a steaming cup of coffee; his son, hot chocolate. They drive along the familiar route, out of their neighborhood, skirting downtown Syracuse, picking up Interstate 81 south. Gazing out the window, the son notices the landmarks they pass as they drive along; familiar, comforting, part of the routine. The conversation between the two is varied, usually beginning with talk of the hockey game the day before – the father is the coach, the son a player. This time alone in the car with his father is cherished by the son, partly for the opportunity to talk, partly for the anticipation of the activity yet to come.

They arrive at the ski hill just before 8:00 am. It’s very cold, but the sun is shining. Crowds are already forming at the lifts – side-by-side T-bars that will, in minutes begin dragging skiers up the hill. The car is parked, coats zipped tightly, and the father and son carry skies and poles across the parking lot of frozen mud toward the mountain.

It was called Dawn Patrol.

I still remember the color of the lift tickets – bright red. Dawn Patrol was the name of the half day ticket my dad would buy for us nearly very Sunday. Although I’m sure we skied in all kinds of weather, the memories I have are of sunny mornings – cold, but clear and sunny. We’d ski together, take some runs, hit the lodge for a cup of hot chocolate and warm up by one of the two large fireplaces, then go back out and ski again. We always seemed to time it just right to get our last ride up the T-Bar just before noon. We’d ski down; take our gear back to the car and drive home, arriving just in time to catch the start of the football game at 1:00 pm.

My memories of skiing with my dad are of his encouragement as he taught me to ski. In my memories, I’m already past the snowplow stage, able to ski blue runs with confidence, working on my technique.

I have no memories of just learning to ski. In recent conversations with my dad I’ve learned he did, in fact, teach me himself. There were few professional lessons.

I bring all this up because I am now trying, with MBWs help, to teach Chris and Tommy to ski. And in the course of this, I’ve learned something.

My dad was a saint.

Teaching your own kids to ski is a challenge to say the least. Just getting them dressed is an event – then schlepping them from the parking lot to the lodge, getting them to the lift, getting them to actually stand up on the skis and agreeing to a quick run or two up the rope tow would try the patience of any parent. It’s certainly trying ours.

Chris is usually game to go. He’s good about trying to do what we tell him, and he gives it a good effort. He’ll only last for a few runs before he wants to go home. But on the way home he always talks about how much fun he has and that he can’t wait to go again. He’ll get there, but it’s going to take some time.

Tommy, on the other hand, poses a greater challenge. If you’ve read this blog for awhile, you know his temperament. Need a refresher? Try this.

He refuses to wear the ‘Racer Chaser,’ the vest with a leash on the back that allows us to guide Chris down the hill, yet letting him get the feel of really skiing on his own. He’ll want to go up the lift with me one time, MBW another time, and he has to go up ahead of Chris or he won’t go at all. When he wants to go to the lodge, everyone on the mountain knows it. He refuses to listen to suggestions on how to get better.

In all of this, remember, skiing is relatively expensive, especially with kids. We have to rent gear for them every time, and even though the ski lift is free for them, the costs still add up. On top of the effort to get everyone up the mountain, ski for half an hour, fight with Tommy almost the whole time, you wonder if it’s all worth it.

Then I remember the mornings so long ago with my dad.

That’s why we’re doing this.

I want my boys to have memories like I have. Those memories are priceless. I now understand what it takes to create them. I understand what my dad went through to create them for me. I’m so grateful that he did, and I’m determined to do them for my kids as well.

My dad always wanted to give my sister and me the opportunity to participate in what he called ‘lifetime’ sports – those activities you can do you’re whole life. If Chris and/or Tommy choose to play football, basketball or other organized sports and they go through school, we’ll certainly support them as far as they want to go.

But I want them to have to opportunity to learn, at an early age, those activities they can enjoy their whole life outside of structured, competitive arenas. While I want them to have the memories I have of myself at age 9, I also want them to have the opportunity to ski as adults, with friends, as I do now – with skill, confidence and grace.

So we schlep ourselves up the mountain yet again.

That afternoon, we participated in a different winter sport.

Guess which one they enjoyed more?

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Staying Tuned

2006-01-30T23:44:00.000-07:00

To all of you who have continued to check in even as I said I would be posting less frequently, thank you. I had intended to post more often than this, but things at work have been somewhat unsettled. My boss suddenly 'resigned' and our team is a bit in flux as we try to figure out how things are going to operate under the new regime. I don't mean that as an excuse, but it is reality. It's been a bit stressful, and I've put in some late nights to make sure I have all my ducks in a row, so to speak.
With that said, I should have a new Chris and Tommy post in the next couple of days, certainly by the end of the week - with pictures.
Thanks again for continuing to check in.

It's great to be The Family Man.

Desperately not Lost

2006-01-16T22:56:00.000-07:00

Normally I don't take the time to post links that I'm sure you can find yourself. But this supports one of my recent posts.

Spend less time in front of the tube, and get a hot tub.

Why?

Read the post below.

A walk on the wild side

2006-01-15T18:18:00.000-07:00

You know me by now – aging, boring father of two. Slowly but surely graying, fighting the good fight against waistline creep. Overall a generally ordinary, responsible husband and father. Corporate worker bee, closeted in the industrial gray cubicle world much of the week. Watches little TV, therefore socially disadvantaged. Reads too much.

It would be understandable for you to be thinking, “ah yes, the Family Man. Probably a good guy, but let’s face it; he’s boring. If I’m throwing a party, I’m not sure I want to invite him. I already have a very nice houseplant.”

And I would not blame for having that impression.

But…you’d be wrong.

Little do you know that once a week I break out, cut loose, let my hair down and go absolutely wild. Bust out of the boring shell that is me and, temporarily, become a true Party Animal.

Mayhem in the streets!

During the week, if not exactly a model citizen, I am an image of predictable respectability. Get up each morning, shower, put on my starched white collar corporate-dress uniform, eat oatmeal for breakfast. Drive to work with every other cloned drone on the freeway, listening to news radio. Arrive at The Suburban Office Park, shuffle inside and toe the Corporate Line, striving to achieve maximum output. Lunch at my desk, always a turkey sandwich on whole grain bread. A cup of yogurt. Meetings, conference calls, reports and spreadsheets. Drive home with the crowd, late for dinner. Play with Chris and Tommy, help with baths, reading books, the tuck-in ritual. A few minutes to exchange pleasantries with MBW. Change into gym clothes, head to the gym. Sweat profusely with little gain. Return home, wash up, go through the mail, pay bills, get organized for tomorrow. Maybe read a few pages of a magazine. Go upstairs, check on Chris and Tommy, kiss each softly on the forehead, crawl into bed. Asleep within two minutes.

Do it all over again.

Saturday is errands – banking, post office, hardware store. Household responsibilities. Perhaps a visit to Krispy Kreme with the boys. Playing with Chris and Tommy, the best part of the day – skiing, sledding, snowball fights in winter. Bikes, parks, soccer, hiking in other seasons. Other things as they come up, mostly family related.

Sunday is church, then much of the same as Saturday, again depending upon the season and whatever else needs to be done. Sunday night –get ready for Monday.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

“So, Family Man, ‘Mr. Excitement,’ when exactly do you ‘bust out?’”

Saturday night, my friend. Saturday night.

It goes like this.

You know how the day goes. The bedtime ritual for Chris and Tommy is sacred. Inviolate. But once they are properly tucked in, it’s that much closer.

MBW is soon to bed after that. For one so lovely, she still insists on getting plenty of what she calls Beauty Sleep.

The house is now quiet. The day’s responsibilities complete. The rest of the evening is mine. All mine.

Party Time!

I head to the kitchen to mix a drink. We have a reasonably well-stocked beverage cabinet. After carefully considering all the choices, I go straight for the hard stuff. Diet Coke on the rocks. Shaken, not stirred. Feeling especially frisky, I make it a double. Next, I hit the pantry for a bag of microwave popcorn. While it’s popping, I gather the rest of my party materials – The Wall Street Journal, the latest issue of Business Week, and whatever novel I happen to be reading at the time.

The popcorn complete, the party is about to begin. I load everything up, step out the backdoor, place my supplies on the deck and lift the cover off my hot tub. Ease into the bubbling pool of paradise, take a sip of my dangerously strong Diet Coke, and give myself over to the wild side.

It’s winter here, so it’s dark and cold outside. I’ve turned on the light so I can read while I soak. I’ve mentioned before that despite living in subdivision suburbia, our back yard is reasonably private. The hot tub is even more so, thanks to strategically planted trees that are now somewhat mature. Private enough that, even with the light on, I can soak au natural.

I told you – Saturday nights I am a crazy man!

The bubbles and jets of the hot tub begin to work their magic. That warm, relaxing feeling begins to emerge. Unable to restrain myself I turn immediately to the Wall Street Journal. Have you ever spent quality time with the Wall Street Journal? It’s compelling stuff! Stocks, Bonds, Economic Reports – now that’s what I call a good time.

Next I turn to Business Week. This party is really jumping now! The cover story is about the new autos coming out this year, along with stories about high finance and strategic marketing. It’s enough to send shivers down my spine!

Finally I turn to the novel I’m reading. This week it is historical fiction, The Scourge of God, some account of Attila the Hun. What could be better than barbarians battling Romans? Extremely entertaining!

Suddenly the light goes out.

I begin to consider whether or not I want to get out of the tub and change the light bulb so I can continue to read, or simply sit in the darkness and look at the stars. Before I reach a decision, the back door opens. MBW is sanding there, wearing, well, not much.

Just by looking at her I can tell it is, in fact, a cold winter evening.

Silently she steps forward toward the tub. It appears that she, too, has made a visit to the beverage cabinet and has chosen a drink a bit stronger than my Diet Coke. Thoughtful woman that she is, she has two glasses.

She sets down the beverages, casts a furtive glance toward the dark homes partially visible from our deck, and slips out of her cover-up. She gracefully enters the tub, her long, slender leg barely making a ripple in the water. She moves like a dancer. The water parts as if the tub is honored to receive her, barely rippling – unlike when I enter, splashing and sloshing like a walrus falling off a rock.

I reach back for the drinks she brought as she slides into the tub next to me.

No words need to be said as we sit there silently in the warm, soothing waters of the hot tub. The night is dark and still, the stars brilliant on this chilly winter night. Gently we clink glasses, a silent toast to this evening, this life we have made together.

For the record, I have done what many of you did this past Saturday night. I’ve done my share of pub crawls. I’ve come home as the sun was coming up and my dad was coming out the door on his way to work. I was thrown out of a nightclub during my college days, my hand a bloody mess from some ridiculous altercation. I woke up more than once on a Sunday morning not knowing where I was or who I was with, how I got there or what I did. I’ve slept on the beach rather than try to go home.

I’m glad I’ve had those experiences. Because they make what I’m doing right now even more special, more meaningful. Say what you will – while this technically may not be a party, it is a celebration. A celebration of what we have together. And right now, there is nowhere else I’d rather be, no one else I’d rather be with. And there is absolutely no better way to spend a Saturday night than to sit in our hot tub, under a beautiful starry sky on a cool winter evening, sharing a beverage and each other’s company.

By and by we’ll finish our drinks, wrap up in warm, thirsty towels, dry off and go to bed.

About an hour after that, we’ll go to sleep.

And come Sunday morning I’ll begin counting the days until Saturday night once again.

It’s great to be The Family Man!

Return

2006-01-09T15:01:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy night (I’ve always wanted to use that line, haven’t you?). He stood outside the building, looking from across the street. It was a large building, emanating light, warmth and sound into the cold, dark night. Collar pulled up tight around his neck, his breath visible in the frigid air, he wondered how he would be received when he knocked on the door.

He had been inside the building before, of course. A part of the club. At one time he had many friends inside the building. He would come and go, as did all the others, and was welcomed back every time. He enjoyed his time inside, mingling and exchanging stories and comments with others. Generally he was well received by most of the people inside. Rarely did he offend.

But one day he visited the building, made the rounds, told his story and left. And never came back.

He wasn’t missed initially, at first. The nature of the building was such that short absences were hardly noticed, even expected. But over time his absence was noted, by some, particularly since he had been somewhat of a regular in the building.

These memories went through his mind as he stepped off the curb, crossed the street and made his way, slowly, up to the front door.

He approached the large door and paused, seeing once again the sign that he remembered so well from his first visit.

‘Welcome to the Blogosphere,’ it read.

He smiled as he remembered his first entry through this portal.

The building was crowded then, as he entered that first time, along with several thousand others. Hard to imagine how he could feel so lonely, surrounded by millions of people. Yet alone he was, or felt, as he made his first tentative forays into sharing his thoughts and ideas with others.

As with most of the new entrants, it took time for him to find others who were interested in what he had to say. Still, believing in himself, enamored with the forum and, as always, excited by new things, he continued to enter the building, often several times a week. And over time he found people; or more correctly, people found him – people who were interested in his thoughts and ideas.

Then, abruptly, he left. And didn’t return.

What would those same people say now, as he stood at the threshold once again?

He cleared these thought from his mind. He stepped up to the door and rang the bell.

She came to the door almost immediately and flung it open. It was her - The Reader. Just as he knew it would be. She was one of many Readers, to be sure, but representational in his mind of them all.

The nature of the community is such that one rarely knows those his or her thoughts and ideas are shared with. The nature of his thoughts and ideas, being based upon family, he felt tended to be read more often by women. For him, as he prepared his thoughts, he visualized his readers and formed an image of one to represent the many. In his case, it was a woman. An intelligent, strikingly beautiful woman.

Who now, standing before him, was prepared to give him hell.

“Mann,” she said. “Family Mann. Somehow I new you’d walk back through my door someday.”

He smiled, started to say something, when she swung her fist and cold-cocked him across the jaw, nearly dropping him.

“That’s for leaving us high and dry,” she said.

He wryly appreciated the Indiana Jones moment.

“I can explain,” he started to say, but she cut him off.

“Where the hell have you been?” she asked. “Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t care.”

She glowered at him.

“What I want to know is why? Why stop visiting us and sharing your thoughts? Why, after being such a regular visitor, did you just go away and not even leave a note saying what was going on?”

He started to answer, but she cut him off again.

“You don’t owe us anything. That’s how it is in here, we all know that. People come, people go, some stay longer than others. We all accept that.”

“But there are some people here who enjoyed what you had to say. Even if you are pompous, pretentious and full of yourself, some of us enjoyed hearing about your kids. Some of us liked hearing about Chris and Tommy. We liked to hear about the birthday party, about the hardware store, the sledding.”

She went on, "I can't speak for others, but I missed your wierd dreams, your back to the future moments, your back to the past moments."

“Even when you made me cry,” she said, “I still liked your contributions.”

He understood her. He could imagine how she felt. He did, in his own way, feel bad for not returning. And as she pointed out, it is the nature of the building – people come, people go, and there are no long-term commitments required.

Still, he had his reasons. Though he knew didn’t have to justify his actions to anyone, he wanted to clear up some things, to bring closure to it, if you will.

Plus, he’s not the type to let someone browbeat him over anything.

Not to mention the fact that his jaw hurt from her punch.

“Not that I owe you an explanation,’ he said, “but because I like you, I’ll tell you. I stayed away for a number of reasons.”

“First, it was the holidays. I got very busy. I have kids, remember? When you’re five years old, Christmas is a pretty big deal. Chris and Tommy were so excited, and I wanted to spend the time with them and make sure they had a great Christmas.”

“Could I have written about that? I guess. But I didn’t. I was having too much fun to sit down at the computer and try to recreate everything we did. There aren’t going to be too many Christmases left where someone in my house still believes in Santa Claus. This was important, and I didn’t want to miss a moment of it.”

“We also got sick, all of us, in my house. Tommy still is sick. You may not know this, but if you are three years old and have asthma, a cold is a pretty miserable thing. I have a cough and runny nose for a few days, it’s an inconvenience. For Tommy, it’s a Medical Situation. He went to the doctor three times over a two-week period, once at 9:30 an night when he woke up coughing so hard he threw up phlegm. So I had other things to think about than stopping by to say hello.”

She said, “Don’t you think we all have personal issues? Is that an excuse?”

He was getting worked up now.

“I don’t need an excuse, remember? None of us do. I’m flattered that you even seem to care whether I visit or not– that’s why I’m here now. But here’s another ‘excuse’. You may remember that in addition to my visits here, I keep a journal for each of my boys – a detailed journal about the things that happen in their lives. I started when we first found out that MBW was pregnant with Chris. I’ve kept a journal from Chris now for over six years, and over four for Tommy. I’ve included photos. Chris’s journal is up to nearly 300 pages now, and Tommy’s is approaching 200. But I’ve been neglecting these journals since I started coming by this place, and I realized over Christmas that I needed to devote more time to those journals, even at the expense of coming here. When I look back on things in 20 years, those journals will mean a lot more to my boys, and to me, than the time I spent here.”

“Not to mention that I’d like to spend a bit more quality time with MBW in 2006. Perhaps you’ve heard me talk about how hot she is? She’s all that! More time with her, and less with you, might be a better use of my time as well.”

She glowered sullenly. She didn’t care for the MBW reference.

“And there’s this,” he added. “My Mom died last year. I talked about how much she loved Christmas, how she loved to spoil the boys and hear about what they did over Christmas. It was hard to go through the holidays and not be able to share that with her. Despite the fun and joy we had over the holidays, at night, when everyone else was in bed asleep, I sat alone by the fire and cried.”

“But here’s the kicker. Guess what? I couldn’t think of anything to say. The one thing about his place is that you get punished if you have nothing to say. Show up here with nothing and you get ignored. If you don’t have something to say here you might as well stay home. It just so happens that I’m not a fan of putting something out there and having it fall flat. I’ve done that before and don’t want to do it again. So when I don’t have something to say, I’m going to stay away until I do.”

He stopped, having said his piece.

They glowered at each other – she, The Reader, and Mann.

She broke the silence. “So what is it going to be? Are you back?”

He paused for a moment.

“I’m not sure,” he said honestly. “I just don’t know. I want to come back, but it’s going to have to be on my terms. I don’t think I’ll be back as often as I once was. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do what I did before. I may want to try some new things. We’ll just have to see.’

“That’s fair,” she said. “I can’t speak for everyone. I’m sure some people who once looked forward to your visits won’t welcome you when you return.”

She hesitated.

“But I will,” she said softly. “I like your words.”

He was touched. At the end of the day that’s why he visited this place. The opportunity to communicate, on a very basic, human level, with people from across the world, people he would never meet or share ideas with if it were not for this place.

“What do you think you’ll say, if you come back?” she asked.

He pondered this for a moment. “We’ll of course I’ll talk about Chris and Tommy. I have a few ideas. I may go out on a limb once in a while. But when I don’t, I’ll stay away. And in doing so, if you or others choose not to welcome me or visit with me when I do come back, well, that’s how it goes. I can live with that.”

She looked at him, wondering whether to believe him. Could she trust him? Would he come back? She didn’t want to continue to make time for him if she wasn’t sure she could trust him to do what he said.

But as she thought about it, she had to admit he’d been honest with her. And that was all she could ask of anyone.

He turned to leave. “Thank you for your time,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. One thing you may not know about me is that I hate to disappoint people. I have some history in my life in that area, and I’ve always been sensitive to it. But as I get older I realize that sometimes it’s unavoidable. It wasn’t intentional, but that doesn’t lessen your disappointment. Hopefully now I’ve clarified, apologized, and set realistic expectations for all of us.”

She smiled wanly.

“Thanks for coming back,” she said. “I hope to see you soon.”

“You will,” he said, as he walked out into the dark, cold night.

And as he did, he thought once again about how great it is to be The Family Man.

Oh Christmas Tree

2005-12-11T22:16:00.000-07:00

MBW and I have owned our house for seven years. In fact, we just recently passed the official seven year mark from the date we officially closed on our house in 1999.

In the front yard of our home we have a Colorado blue spruce evergreen tree. It’s a wonderful tree, and this time of year it is a picture-perfect Christmas tree. We strung lights on it the first year we celebrated Christmas in our new home, and it looked great. It wasn’t that hard to get the lights on it because it was only about eight feet tall. With a small ladder I was able to get lights around the tree all the way to the top.

But that tree has grown substantially over the past seven years, and each year it’s gotten more difficult to put Christmas lights on the tree and make it look decent.

This year I talked about not putting Christmas lights on that tree. It’s gotten too big, I told MBW. Let’s do something else this year.

Chris and Tommy would have none of it.

“Dad, you have to put the lights on the tree!” said Chris.

“Please, dad, please do the tree lights!” said Tommy.

“It’s your call,” said MBW, smiling.

Remember, this is not the indoor tree we’re talking about. This is the outdoor tree in our front yard, the Colorado blue spruce that is now about fifteen feet tall. It has gotten so big that this past summer I had to trim back the sides of the tree to keep it from extending into the driveway and over the sidewalk.

But apparently Chris and Tommy have grown attached to having lights on that tree at Christmas. It’s a part of their Christmas that, for whatever reason, is important to them. So what kind of dad would I be if I let them down at this very special time of year?

So the Saturday after Thanksgiving I assemble my gear. I get out the big ladder, the box of Christmas lights, the extension cords and the electric timer. Get my leather work gloves on and go to work.

I’ve never had a problem putting up Christmas lights. Every year I read stories of people who have all sorts of problems getting their light up. I laugh in haughty delight at all you lesser beings who struggle with so simple a task. Please. It’s simple. Get your act together and stop whining. How hard can it be?

So there.

Master of this task that I am, I open the box of lights and spread the tangled mess onto the front lawn. It takes about 20 minutes to untangle the six strings of multicolored lights. Every year I swear I’m going to a better job putting the Christmas lights away so I won’t have this problem the following year, and every year I don’t do it. When I take them down this time…anyway, with the lights untangled, plugged in and laid out carefully across the lawn, I replace all the burned out and broken bulbs. On the lawn, with all six strings (25 lights per string) plugged in end-to-end, all the bulbs are lit up. It all works. I think I’m ready to go.

Chris and Tommy are watching this intently. They’re very excited. This process, decorating for Christmas, makes it real to them. Santa will be coming! Lots of toys!

“Get going, dad!” says Chris.

I unplug the lights from the extension cord and begin to wind them around the tree. The bottom six feet of the tree is easy. I walk around and around the tree laying the string of lights in place. It’s going smoothly. The string of lights plays out quickly – will I have enough to reach the top of the tree?

The next few feet are harder. I have to reach over my head and place the lights without really being able to see what I’m doing. The string of lights gets all tangled up, so I have to stop, unplug what’s left from what I’ve already strung, and sort it out. A bulb breaks in the process, and I have to replace it.

Tommy asks, “What’s taking so long, daddy?”

Grrr.

Finally the remaining lights are untangled, the broken bulb replaced. I go back to the tree, plug the rest of the lights into those already on the tree, and continue. I’m reaching as high as I can, standing on my tip-toes, running the string around the tree. Soon I can’t reach any higher, so I set the lights down and get the ladder.

Now it gets tedious. I place the ladder, climb up, lean into the tree and place a few lights, climb down the ladder, move the ladder a few feet, and climb up again. Over and over, round and round, up and down. The higher I get, the more unstable the ladder, which is leaning into the tree, becomes.

Before I get even close to the top, I run out of lights.

I climb down the ladder and Tommy asks, “Are you done, daddy?”

“No, Tommy,” I say, “I’ve run out of lights. We need to buy more.”

Last year six strands of lights were enough. Not this year.

So off to the store I go, buy two sets of lights and more replacement bulbs, and return home. Chris, Tommy and MBW are having lunch, so I join them.

After lunch I go back outside. Chris and Tommy follow and take their seats on the front steps. They watch as I get the ladder and a hockey stick. I take one of the two new strings of lights, find the end of the last string already on the tree, and reach way, way up over my head to try to plug the new string into the line. The ladder is feeling pretty shaky…but I get the connection made.

I climb down, move the ladder a few feet, grab the hockey stick and climb back up. Now I’m using the hockey stick to lift the string of lights way up to the top of the tree. Round and round, up and down, over and over. Reaching way up high with this ridiculous hockey stick, trying to gently place these lights on the small boughs near the top of this tree. The lights keep slipping off the end of the hockey stick. It takes multiple attempts on the shaky ladder, but finally I get the last few bulbs strung. It reaches almost to the top.

Wearily I climb down the ladder, put away the hockey stick. Chris says, “So, dad, are you done? Can we turn them on?”

“Sure,” I say, “let’s plug them in and see how they look.”

It’s still mid-afternoon but we have to see the fruits of our labor. I plug the extension cord into the wall, bring it out to the base of the tree, plug in the seven strings of beautiful colored lights I have strung up the tree, and…

Nothing.

The lights are not on. Not a single one.

You’ve got to be kidding.

I fiddle with it for awhile, checking each connection to make sure it’s tight, check to make sure to extension cord is plugged securely into the outlet, check to make sure the breaker inside the house hasn’t tripped. Everything checks out okay, but the lights won’t come on.

I begin the process of pulling all of the lights back down off the tree. Once they are down, a tangled mess, I separate each stand of lights and plug them individually into the extension cord. Five of the seven are working, two are not. I assume the fuses for the individual strands have blown, so I replace those. That must have been the issue as they are both now working.

I ponder the problem for a moment, then head back to the store to buy two additional extension cords and two multi-outlet breaker-protected power strips. I swear the clerk is laughing at me. As if she’s never had this problem! May Santa leave her a lump of coal this year.

I get back home. The sun is starting to go down. What a lovely day we’ve had. Wearily I run the extra power cords from different outlets around the house out to the tree, hook up the multi-outlet breaker-protected power strips and test everything one more time. It works. Imagine that! Now all I have to do is run the lights around and up the tree once again, making sure to connect no more than two strands together and make sure no more than four strands are running off any one outlet.

It’s almost completely dark by the time I’m finished. The lights are up yet again. The cords are plugged into their respective multi-outlet breaker-protected power strips. With bated breath and fingers crossed I plug the multi-outlet breaker-protected power strips into the individual extension cords and…

The tree lights up.

Thank God.

Chris gives me a mock round of applause. MBW and Tommy come out to take a look, nod their approval. At last the task is complete.

As I’m putting away the ladder and hockey stick, MBW says, “Now it’s time to do the tree INSIDE the house.”

Chris and Tommy say, “Yeah, Dad! Let’s do the inside tree! Can we help you?”

Smiling back at the boys, I say, “You bet! Let’s get started!”

But I’m crying on the inside.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

The Sultans of Sled

2005-12-08T20:25:00.000-07:00

Dire Straits. Some of you have to know this tune. Hum it as you read.

I get a shiver, it’s still dark
It's been snowing in the park, and meantime
The boys are up and they want to do just one thing
The wind is blowing it’s been snowing for a long time
We feel all right when we feel that snowy sting

Well now we step outside but we don't see too many faces
Bundled up against the wind in our coats of down
No competition in other places
Not too many boys can ride so sound
Way on uptown,
Way on uptown,
Mountain town

You check out Master Chris,
He surely ain’t no priss
He can make that sled do just about anything
And a Costco sled is all that we can afford
When he gets up on the hill to ride that thing

And Tommy doesn't mind, he knows he can
Make the scene
He's riding the sled and he’s doin’ alright
He can slide the snow as well as anything
But I know that he’ll be tired tonight
We are the Sultans
We are the Sultans of Sled

And some other young kids
Well they’re watching my boys from the bottom
I know they’re wishing they could do
what my boys can do
They don't give a damn about what their mothers want them to do
They want to ride snow ‘till they’re black and blue
And the Sultans
Yeah, the Sultans ride true

Then Chris and Tommy step right up to the top once more
And say “let’s go down, my nose is cold and red.”
And after that, well it’s time to go home
And as they left the hill these are the words they said:
“We are the Sultans
We are the Sultans of Sled.”

With apologies to Dire Straits.

It’s great to be The Family Man

New Links and AdSense

2005-12-08T14:01:00.000-07:00

In lieu of a real post, which will go up tomorrow, I have this lame offering.

I've updated my links. Added some new blogs, removed others. It's interesting how readership of this blog has changed over time. Blogs that used to link here no longer do. Has the content changed to the point that those blog owners no longer felt this site was worth the association? Have I offended people? Gotten boring? Or is it that because I don't get out to read as many blogs as often as I'd like, they feel unloved by The Family Man?

Whatever. It is what it is.

Anyway, take a look at the new links. Try something new and check out some of these blogs, they are actually quite good. I welcome them to my blogroll.

I've also added AdSense to this blog. I am a Marketing Guy, working in the marketing department of a tech company. I want to see how the program works, what ad content shows up on the blog and how it changes depending upon the content of my posts. Chris and Tommy would appreciate your patronage of the fine advertisers of this site. They have their sights set on Harvard - I have a community college budget.

A real post will go up tomorrow - I need to upload the photo from my digital camera.

I thougth about using the photo from the last post for my signature again, but decided against it.

It's great to be The Family Man.

Words

2005-12-04T19:06:00.000-07:00

Have you been inside a kindergarten classroom lately?

(For more posts like this, visit The Camping Machine).

Unless you have a child in kindergarten, have had children in kindergarten recently, are dating or are married to a kindergarten teacher, or happen to be a teacher in an elementary school, your answer is probably no.

Since Chris has started kindergarten this year I’ve been in his classroom a few times. Parent-teacher conferences, the Thanksgiving performance his class put on, the book fair. I’m also a volunteer art teacher – once every two months I go in and teach an art lesson. So I’ve been in there a few times this year.

Of course, since MBW is a kindergarten teacher, I’ve spent quite a bit of time in the various classrooms she’s had over the years, even before we had kids. I’ve helped her move out of and into rooms in different schools quite a few times now. So I know what a kindergarten room is supposed to look like.

For those of you who haven’t had the opportunity to be in a kindergarten classroom recently, I’ll tell you one of the key features.

The room is full of words.

I’m talking about words, printed on paper, stuck to everything in the room. As you walk in the door you’ll see the word ‘door’ on the door. Flip on the lights and you see the word ‘light’ on the light switch. Check the clock on the wall for the time and you’ll see the word ‘clock’ on the clock.

See what I mean?

The desks all say ‘desk.’ The chairs all say ‘chair.’ The fish tank says ‘fish tank.’ The lamp says ‘lamp.’

The reason for this is to help the kids recognize words and what they mean. Kindergarten is where the foundation for reading really begins. Kids learn their letters – what each letter looks like, the sounds they make, and how combinations of letters make words. To help in that process, kindergarten teachers will often label everyday items as described above to visually associate combinations of letters with things. MBW tells me this is very important in a child’s literacy development. She takes this very seriously. She’s more than a dedicated teacher – she has a mission, as I described in an earlier post.

(As an aside, if you’re a relatively new reader, this post described MBW in more detail).

So if she says having these words and labels all over the classroom is important in a child’s literacy development, I’ll take her word for it.

She believes it works. She's committed to it. So committed, in fact, that to help Chris (and Tommy) develop their literacy skills she has taken this approach beyond the classroom and into our home.

The drawers in our home all have a little sign on them that says ‘drawer.’

The clock says ‘clock.’

Walls say ‘wall.’

Our family doesn't watch much TV, but when we do, it helps to have a label on it so we can find it.

Our toilet says ‘toilet.’ Good thing, too. I’d hate to mistake the kitchen sink for the toilet!

Maybe you think I'm kidding, that I stuck these labels on things in our house just to have something to blog about. But this is for real.

Can't find the stairs in our house? Just look for the sign.

Hard to think you could miss our kitchen cabinets, but just to be sure, they're labeled.

I was in the dark about this whole process until the proverbial light bulb went on for me. It happened, naturally, when I turned on the light – found thanks to the little sign on the light switch that said ‘light.’

I knew it was the lamp that came on because, in addition to seeing the light, I also saw the sign that read ‘lamp.’

And to keep the light of mental illumination from going off,the night light stays on all night long. I know this because it says ‘night light’ on it.

Shaving every morning is now easier because I know exactly where to find the mirror. I just wander around the house until I see something with a sign that says ‘mirror’ on it.

In case I forget what my Old Friend looks like, the photograph of him now has his name on it. Now you know his name as well. Yes, I have a Siamese cat named for the New York Rangers hockey team.

I’m now used to seeing these signs all over the house now. I support MBW in this effort to help Chris (and Tommy) with their literacy development. I’m used to seeing these labels on everything. And though I occasionally make a wisecrack now and then, I’m proud of MBW and her commitment to helping our kids develop their reading skills.

However, I think she has now taken it one step too far.

It’s great to be

If you enjoyed this post, visit The Camping Machine)to read more like it.

The Boys of Sugar

2005-12-01T08:32:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things to do is to get up on Saturday morning, have breakfast with the family, and take Chris and Tommy out for the morning. It gives MBW a chance to have the house to herself for a couple of hours, and it gives me a chance to have some male bonding times with the boys.

I don’t usually have a Boys Night Out with my buddies too often anymore. These days I much prefer Boys Morning Out.

We pile into the Burbus Maximus and head out. The radio comes on. My preference is to listen to the local sports radio station, but usually the boys call for the Dancing Music. When they call for it, I deliver. And we rock.

Some mornings we have errands to run – usually the bank, and lately always the post office. We seem to find ourselves at Home Depot more often that we should on these trips. Barnes & Noble is a popular destination, as is the local library – we all love books. Sometimes we’ll go to the car wash. Often, if the weather is decent, we’ll go to one of the many parks in our town to play. Now that winter is here, I’m sure we’ll be doing some serious sledding in the coming weeks.

But rarely a Saturday goes by without a visit to the local Krispy Kreme donut store.

Ah, yes, Krispy Kreme.

We never tire of the smell when we walk in the door of the Krispy Kreme. No matter how often we go, we still love to watch the donuts roll across the conveyor and through the waterfall of glaze. It’s the greatest assembly line in the world – or at least the tastiest.

Chris almost always gets a Chocolate Iced Glazed with Sprinkles donut. Tommy is more of a sampler – he’ll occasionally go for a Chocolate Iced Glazed with Sprinkles, but he also likes a Cake Sugar donut or a Chocolate Iced with Custard filling. Me, I’m a Chocolate Iced with Crème filling guy.

Sometimes the boys will get one of the free Krispy Kreme hats, put them on their heads, and pretend they are The Donut Makers. Occasionally they get a free balloon. But those items are a bonus – it’s all about the donut.

Sometimes we’ll leave the store and eat them in the car as we go about our errands, but often we’ll stay in the store and enjoy the ambiance. Watching the other donut lovers come and go as we savor our sugar. We’ll sit at the table, compare our donuts and talk about what else we’re going to do that morning. We’ll laugh, tell stories, and have fun. And indulge in a delectable, delicious dietary diversion designed to delight.

When the donuts are gone, faces and hands washed, we’ll drag ourselves out the door and continue on our way. Usually we’ll pick up a donut to go to take home to MBW, but the truth is she’s not as much of a Krispy Kreme fan as we are.

We’ll finish up our errands, or go on to our play destination, and get home in time to have lunch. Whatever happens from there, we’ve started the weekend off on a positive note.

Three Krispy Kreme donuts on a Saturday morning – about $2.25.

Male bonding time with Chris and Tommy – Priceless.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Fire

2005-11-28T13:12:00.000-07:00

I’m sitting alone in our family room on Saturday night. I’m actually writing this now, but you won’t read it until Monday. The stereo is set to the Smooth Jazz station, playing softly. Chris, Tommy and MBW are all upstairs, sound asleep. My Old Friend is dozing comfortably on the sofa next to me. Outside, the first snowfall of the season is underway.

With that, the first fire of the season has been lit in the fireplace.

Growing up in upstate New York, where winters are long, cold and snowy, I grew to appreciate the feel of a wood-burning fire. The heat, the crackle of the wood, the ambiance it creates, is something special to me. Watching my dad build and tend the fire, letting me help him carry in the wood, letting me hold the long match to light the paper under the wood. Great memories.

The fireplace we have in our house today resembles, in some fashion, the fireplace we had those many years ago. Slate-gray stone, floor-to ceiling, a dominant feature of the room. I love to sit in this room, near this fireplace, on winter evenings and relax, read a book or catch up on some correspondence. The atmosphere is conducive to relaxation and contemplation.

It was with this specific evening in mind that my brother-in-law and I spent a Saturday two months ago driving to the wilds of Wyoming to cut a load of firewood. Three hours each way, over roads growing progressively less passable, his well-worn pick-up truck and my Burbus Maximus, towing my trusty utility trailer, bounced and bumped our way well into the national forest. Finally arriving in a thick stand of lodgepole pine, we spent five hours felling trees and cutting them up into logs. Chainsaws buzzing, we felled four tall lodgepole pine trees and cut them into logs for splitting. If you’ve never felled a 40-foot tree in the forest, it’s a tremendous experience. The crack of the wood as the trunk gives way, the crashing sounds as it falls through the canopy, the thud as it hits the forest floor – much more powerful in real life than on television (most things are, actually).

We each ended up with well over a cord of wood apiece, in thick, 18-inch-long logs, which we loaded into his truck and my trailer and hauled back home. It was a great way to spend a fall Saturday.

Anyway, earlier today we took the boys to see the move ‘Santa vs. the Snowman’ in 3-D at the local IMAX theatre. Chris and Tommy loved it. Tommy in particular was enthralled with the 3-D. He kept reaching out to touch the things from the film that appeared to float right in front of his face.

On the ride home from the movie the snow began to fall.

As we pulled up in the driveway I said to the boys, “Should we make a fire tonight?”

“Yes!” was the resounding, enthusiastic reply.

Chris and Tommy helped carry in the wood. They helped crumple up the paper. They each got a turn holding the long match that lights the fire.

We spent the evening in the family room, fire burning in the fireplace, playing silly games and laughing. Not board games or card games, but silly, nonsensical games with no rules, no winners and no losers. I can’t even describe them, these games we played, but we all had fun.

After putting the boys to bed, I turned on the Smooth Jazz. MBW and I shared a bottle of wine. Sitting close together on the sofa, we silently enjoyed the moment – the fun day with our kids, the relaxing Thanksgiving weekend we’ve had, the feeling of snuggling close on a cold night, snow falling, in front of a fire. It was wonderful.

She asked me if I thought the fire burned better because I had cut the wood myself. Of course, I told her. I selected the very best trees, cut them with care, split the logs into perfectly sized pieces. This, I told her, is the best fire in the United States.

With the wine nearly gone, the fire began to burn low about the same time the other fire began to burn hot. I succumbed to the moment and let MBW have her way with me.

Something about that a man who fells his own trees and brings home his own firewood, I guess.

Now she has joined our sons in slumber. Soon I shall join them as well.

But not before I enjoy this moment of reflection.

My father, unknowingly, passed on something to me during those long upstate New York winters. The building of a fire, the feeling it creates, the memories embedded in the mind of a young boy.

I hope that I will create these same feelings in Chris and Tommy, that one day they may build a fire for their family and share what we shared tonight. That one day in the future they may sit quietly, and the end of a wonderful day, and realize how fortunate they are.

There’s nothing like a warm fire on a cold, snowy winter evening.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Thanksgiving

2005-11-24T19:40:00.000-07:00

Here in the United States of America it’s Thanksgiving. A national holiday, falling each year on the fourth Thursday in November. As a bonus, some employers, including mine, give employees the following Friday off with pay as well.

I, for one, have much to be thankful for.

I’ve mentioned in previous posts how fortunate I feel to have the life that I do. I don’t know how else to say it, really, and I don’t want this to be taken the wrong way. I absolutely don’t want to be perceived as gloating. But the truth is, I have a great life. It’s hard for me to imagine anyone having a better life than me.

Oh, sure, there are plenty of people with more money, people who are famous, people who have some tremendous gift in the arts, sciences or athletics. We all know people who appear to ‘have it all,’ people who always seem to get the break the rest of us don’t get. People who seem to draw a royal flush every time the cards are dealt in the Game of Life.

I’m not comparing myself to them.

What I’m talking about are real world people who face the same challenges most of us face every day. People who struggle with things like work/family balance, paying the bills, setting a little something aside for a rainy day. People who battle health problems, deal with difficult interpersonal relationships, difficult bosses or co-workers. People who have unforeseen setbacks and try to find ways to recover.

In this world, I feel extremely blessed and fortunate. My family is stable, my relationship with MBW is strong and mutually supportive. My kids are good kids, and aside from Tommy’s asthma we are all healthy. We have health insurance. That, in and of itself, is a huge thing. I like my job, my coworkers and bosses, and I am fairly compensated. We own our home. We have a small emergency fund tucked away someplace safe. We have reasonably nice vehicles that don’t break down all the time.

We even have a Camping Machine!

I don’t want any of you reading this to somehow interpret what I am saying to be that my life is better than yours or that ‘I have more than you do.’ Please don’t read this that way. What I am trying to convey is a mindset that says, “I’m lucky. I’m fortunate, I am blessed. My life is good and I’m grateful for what I have. Everyone should be so fortunate as me.”

And now, having said that, here’s my dirty little secret.

I don’t do as good a job as I should of appreciating those little things that make up this very fortunate life that I have.

“Family Man,” I can hear you say, “how can that be? How can someone with your perfect life be unappreciative? You disappoint me.”

I know. I disappoint myself sometimes.

But if you click here and read this blog, maybe you’ll get a sense of what I’m talking about.

There are dozens of moments throughout each day that should bring a brief moment of joy, a wry grin to my face, a happy thought in my head. They should, but often they don’t. They don’t because I am too caught up in trying to keep up, to do more, to add to what I have. I don’t spend enough time stopping, for a moment, to be aware of the moment, to appreciate the moment.

To live in the moment.

Life is made up of those moments.

If I were to be brutally honest with myself (something I’d rather not do, actually) I’d be forced to admit that I spend much of my time looking forward. “What’s next,” I say. “What’s coming up next month, next year, that I should be looking at and thinking about right now? I’ve got to plot, to scheme, to figure out how to get to this point by this time so I can enjoy that at some distant point in the future.”

And I don’t spend enough time stopping to think, “What a pretty sunset. What a nice thing Chris just said to Tommy. It sure was thoughtful that MBW stuck a love note in my lunch bag today.”

I had a birthday last month. I’m a Scorpio, so that tells you that I was born in the latter part of October. Usually each year I set goals for myself based on my birth year, not on New Years Day. The way I look at it, New Years Day for me is my birthday. I want to make progress each year that I’m here based on when I was born, not when the calendar says it’s a new year.

Well, we’re almost a full month into my personal New Year, and not only have I made no progress, I haven’t even finished my list of goals.

In fact, I’ve barely started. For all my looking ahead, I’m already behind.

But one thing I am going to do is work hard to try to appreciate some simple things each day. I may not make it every day, but I’m going to try.

I’ve heard it said (and I think I’ve said it here in this blog previously) that the things you regret most are not things you’ve done, but things you haven’t done.

I believe that fully. I have a list of things that I wish I had done, that I can’t go back now and do. But I don’t want to look back and kick myself for not recognizing, acknowledging, experiencing and appreciating those simple things that are so easy to ignore or take for granted. Things that you think will always be there or happen again, but which in fact disappear, are outgrown or simply never come back.

Because, after all, I have a wonderful life. If only I would occasionally stop long enough to relax and enjoy it.

Whether or not you find yourself, as you read this, feeling thankful for where you are and the things that are going on in your life, I hope you’ll be able to find something good, something positive, to be thankful for. And yes, I’ll be the first to admit that it’s easy for me to say that, given all the good things (and noticeable lack of bad things) in my life right at the moment. Even so, I’m working now to appreciate the little things.

How long have I been saying it?

It’s great to be The Family Man.

News Guy

2005-11-19T23:51:00.000-07:00

I’ve written a couple of times about my past experience as a TV news cameraman. I spent over ten years in that profession, working at three different TV stations in three different states. It’s been almost ten years since I shot my last news story, but I still have friends who are in the business or were in the business at some point and have moved on to other things.

Recently I had the occasion to hire a videographer to tape a two-day company event. We wanted to capture some key presentations on video to share with people who were not able to attend the event in person. I turned to a friend who was in the TV news business, on the same news staff that I was, who now has his own successful independent video production company. He taped our presentations and did a fantastic job, just as I knew he would.

As the second day of the event wrapped up, I helped my friend, whom I’ll call Jack, pack up his video gear. We got to reminiscing about our days in the TV news business and many of our mutual friends, most of whom Jack has done far better in keeping in touch with. After getting brought up to speed on the status and whereabouts of many friends, he said to me, “Did you hear what happened to ‘News Guy?’”

“No,” I said, with a sense of foreboding, “What happened?”

For the sake of this story I will use the term News Guy to describe a particular on-air reporter whose story Jack told.

News Guy was a very likeable, consistent, reliable TV news reporter. He had been in the market for many years and was reasonably well known. He was handsome, not in the sense of a Stone Phillips, but a good looking guy. He wasn’t News Anchorman material, but he’d fill in occasionally on the weekends. He was in his early forties and known as a good, solid TV News reporter. Not flashy, not too full of himself, just a dependable reporter who could deliver the goods on camera.

As an aside, after ten years in the business it’s my belief that (at least in local TV news) there are basically two types of reporters. One type is the reporter who believes he or she is God’s Gift to Journalism, believes that it’s not a story unless they cover it, and expect to get the lead story every evening and the face time that goes with it. They believe that their personal ‘star power’ is what drives the ratings. In effect, they believe they are more important that the story.

The other type of reporter cares less about how much exposure they get and cares far more about telling the story in a fair, accurate way. They are journalists who happen to work in TV instead of prima donnas who happen to do news. It’s been my good fortune, over the course of my career, to work with more of this type of reporter than the former. News Guy was this kind of reporter. A good guy who liked to cover and report a good story, not make a name of himself.

News guy married young, so by the time this story takes place he had four kids ranging in age from late teens to just under ten years old. By all accounts he had a good marriage. When he went on the road to cover a story he was never the type to mess around or take the opportunity to go out to a strip club in a place he wouldn’t be ‘recognized.’

Now it happened one day that the TV station News Guy worked for was sponsoring some type of modeling/talent show or pageant. Jack wasn’t sure of the details, but News Guy was asked by his station to host the event. During the course of the event News Guy struck up a conversation with one of the contestants, a very beautiful young woman. She was, as Jack described her, awed by News Guy – his presence, his demeanor, and the fact that he was not the Prima Donna type of reporter. News Guy was just trying to be nice to this young woman who had dreams of becoming an actress or model. It didn’t seem as though he had ulterior motives.

You can guess where this is going, can’t you?

The young woman did not win the contest or pageant, whatever it was, but at some point after that she called News Guy at the TV station, apparently to see if he could help her in some way to advance her dreams of acting or modeling. Jack was not sure what happened, but News Guy must have agreed to try to help her, because at some point they got together, probably to discuss her options.

From there the relationship between News Guy and the young woman developed into a full blown affair.

This was made more complicated by the fact that the young woman was all of seventeen years old, and still living at home with her parents.

The affair continued for some period of time, perhaps a few months. At some point the young woman’s parents find out about this, and they call News Guy to confront him. Being the stand-up guy that he is, he goes over to their house and sits down to talk with them. He admits to the affair, acknowledges his mistake, apologizes to the parents, says and does all the right things. Apparently satisfied, the parents express no intention of making this public and jeopardizing News Guy’s career.

Now completely ashamed and wracked with guilt, he needs to tell someone. Apparently he was not yet willing or able to tell his wife, so instead he tells one of his friends.

The friend listens to News Guy’s story, gives him some support, perhaps some advice. But at some level the friend must have been morally offended or outraged by News Guy’s behavior, because he does a little digging into the penal code of the state and discovers that, while the age of consent for sexual relations in their state is sixteen, it is a felony for an adult to have sex, even consensual sex, with a minor under the age of eighteen if the adult is more than ten years older than the minor.

Unknowingly, News Guy has committed a felony.

What do you think happened?

News Guy’s buddy calls the police and turns him in.

The next thing News Guy knows, the police show up at his door, cuff him in front of his family and haul him down to the station. His wife, who had absolutely no clue about his affair, is in complete shock. Of course it becomes a huge news story and is all over the TV, radio and newspapers, made all the more delicious to the media because News Guy is a local celebrity – one of their own.

After all is said and done News Guy winds up doing 60 days in jail. Of course he loses his job. His wife files for divorce. Now a convicted felon, when he gets out of jail he’s basically untouchable. Clearly his broadcast career is over – the only career he’s ever had.

What’s my point in telling this story?

Some time ago I wrote a post where I talked about being an adult and having to make considered, responsible decisions. I may not have expressed myself as clearly as I would have liked, based on some of the comments from that post. I didn’t want to give the impression that being an adult means you cannot continue to have childlike curiosity, you cannot laugh or have fun, that you have to be Mr. or Ms. Serious all the time.

But being an adult does mean you have to occasionally think through the possible consequences of your decisions.

The stakes for poor decisions are higher as an adult.

I’m not here today telling this story to make a value judgment on News Guy. I’m not personally condemning or condoning what he did from a moral or ethical perspective – you can reach your own conclusion on that. For all I know there may have been something going on in News Guys life that Jack, News Guy’s buddy or anyone else for that matter did not know about, something so troubling to News Guy that it led him to seek some form of solace in the arms of this young woman. We’ll never know, so I’m certainly not prepared to pass judgment on him.

But I do think he made a poor decision. Actually, more than one. Collectively, a series of poor decisions that ultimately cost him his family and his career.

I’m sure he didn’t know he was committing a felony by engaging in this relationship. Who would have known? That is an extremely obscure statute in the legal code. I didn’t know about it, and I’ll bet 90% of the people in this state don’t know about it.

Despite that, you have to think about entering a relationship of that nature a bit more carefully than you would, say, deciding whether or not to buy a new pair of shoes.

I asked Jack what ultimately happened to News Guy. Where did he go? Did he get a job in the business in another market? What happened to his family?

Jack didn’t know. He said that nobody he knows has seen or heard from News Guy in a long time.

We each only get one life to live. We each want to cram into that life as many fun, exciting, interesting experiences as we can into whatever time we have available. Sometimes those opportunities come at the wrong time, and we have to make a choice. Do I do this now? Or do I pass, wishing ruefully the same opportunity had come along some time earlier in my life?

Considered decisions. Sometimes very difficult to make.

The price, and privilege, of adulthood.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Traveling Mann

2005-11-16T00:55:00.000-07:00

I very rarely have to travel for business these days, but this week finds me in Seattle for a major trade show.

In my previous two jobs I would often travel for business. The advertising agency I worked at for the past eight years had many out-of-state clients, and we would often visit them to make presentations and do the wining, dining and schmoozing routine. Prior to that, in my role as a TV news cameraman, I traveled often to cover stories of interest to our local viewers that happened regionally or nationally.

For the most part I enjoyed the travel. I wasn’t on the road so much that it became a grind, but traveled often enough that I was comfortable with the routine and could confidently navigate the various airport, rental car and other challenges that invariably occur.

If not for business travel it is unlikely I would have found myself in Budapest, in Tokyo, on Michigan Avenue in Chicago during the holidays or at Ground Zero in New York less than a year after 9/11.

Now that I’m older and have settled comfortably into my new job, and with two young boys in the house, I’m more than content to stay in town. In my small city in the Rocky Mountains I have a commute that takes only 15 minutes, opposite the main flow of traffic. And what our city lacks in cultural sophistication, it makes up in other ways – great access to outdoor recreation opportunities, manageable traffic, acceptable shopping and, surprisingly, an airport that provides many flight options to get away when necessary.

My point in all of this is that as I stroll down the sidewalks of downtown Seattle I am reminded, and invigorated, by the energy of a real city.

Those of you who travel for business understand that there is usually little time for sightseeing or recreation. You’ll typically go from the airport to a hotel, via the freeway; walk or take a cab to your client’s office or a convention center, work during the day, do the dining/entertaining with the customer in the evening, then get back to your hotel to check voice mail, email, and prepare for the next day. It’s certainly not a leisurely visit to a new place with time to explore.

Still, if you enjoy your job, as I do, it can be interesting to go to a new city and feel the pulse, the energy, of a place you are not familiar with, even if you only get to walk two or three blocks to get from one place to another.

Though I’ve been to Seattle half-a-dozen times in the past, this is my first time downtown. Previously I’ve stayed in the Queen Anne area, a very eclectic part of town. I’ve done the Space Needle before, so I won’t have to try to find time to do that on this trip – something I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to do.

So I’m enjoying the three block walk from my hotel to the convention center. I’m enjoying the view from my 17th floor hotel room window. I’m enjoying the trade show itself, the interaction with many people from around the world; exceptionally bright people (this is a supercomputing trade show, after all!), and the sights, smells and sensory input of a new and vibrant place.

I’ve also enjoyed a very special surprise.

Chris somehow surreptitiously slipped five envelopes into my suitcase before I left for this trip. I discovered them as I unpacked Monday evening. In his very labored, kindergarten-level handwriting, he wrote on each envelope the day of the week – one for Monday, one for Tuesday, etc. In each one that I’ve opened so far I’ve found a drawing he made especially for me.

They are wonderful.

When I called home Monday night he happened to answer the phone, and immediately he had to know two things.

“Dad, did you get my letters yet?” he asked. I told him I did and I was very excited to have something to read from him every day while I was gone.

“Dad, what are your going to bring me when you come home?” was his second question.

I don’t have the answer to that yet.

But it’s going to have to be pretty special to equal the letters he gave me.

It’s enjoyable to be back out on business travel, at least for this trip.

But it will be better to get back home to MBW and the boys.

And of course, it’s great to be The Family Man.

Why Blog?

2005-11-12T13:11:00.000-07:00

For those of us who write and post blogs, why do we do it?

For readers of this blog, who may or may not write blogs or your own, why do you read blogs?

I’ve been thinking about this as I’ve noticed the recent demise of three blogs I used to read.

For those who read Gas Guy, you know that his blog is no longer up on Blogger. After he came out and told readers he really was not a ‘gas guy,’ didn’t live in Memphis and was a grad student studying literature, I suppose he felt the need to remove his blog.

A blog that I linked to, Scorpio M, is also no longer available on Blogger. Scorpio M was one of the first blogs to link to this one. I actually sent her an email asking her if she would take a look at my blog, and if she liked it, would she link to me in exchange for a link to hers. She agreed. I always found her blog well written and very entertaining, especially when she talked about sex.

She, too, decided to quit blogging and pulled her blog from Blogger. Within a week, a new blog was up under the same name. It was a sex blog.

I removed the link. Okay, I read a few posts, but then I removed the link. This is a Family blog, after all!

A guy named Ryan also pulled his blog off Blogger about a month ago after writing something that apparently offended quite a few people. He apologized profusely, and then put up a final post saying he could no longer continue to post and shut down his blog.

Gas Guy and Scorpio M were popular blogs, based on the number of comments I observed when I read them. Ryan’s blog seemed to be getting off the ground.

So why did they go away?

I read somewhere recently that about 50,000 blogs are started each day. Everyone has a different reason for starting a blog. Many are online diaries. Many are written to advance a specific cause, point of view or political purpose. Many are written simply to entertain.

Some blogs are a way for people to keep up with family and friends. Rather than send many emails back and forth, a blog is created to share stories of family activities with other family members and relatives. It’s a convenient way to let everyone keep up with what a person or family is doing, share pictures and get comments and feedback from others.

Some bloggers write because they hope to be ‘discovered’ and get a chance to blog professionally for a company or get noticed by a magazine editor and get a freelance opportunity. Others are looking for a book contract or are actively writing a book.

Still others write from a sense of purpose or mission. What they have to say is so important, they are doing the world a favor just by making their wisdom available to the great, unenlightened masses.

I suspect that the novelty of blogging wears off after a while for some people. After that first heady rush of putting something online, and actually having someone read it, it may get old quickly for some people, especially if they don’t get many readers or they get some negative feedback.

So why do I blog?

It started as a lark. I wanted to see if I could do it. I wondered if I could write anything that someone else would find interesting. It started slowly. Reading my first dozen posts now is painful and embarrassing. But over time I seemed to find a voice that felt comfortable, felt right. It was fun to put up stories and see that people would actually read them. I enjoy the comments and email from readers.

More amazing to me is that people actually care enough about the antics of Chris and Tommy, plus an occasional irreverent pondering from me, to come back on a regular basis. I receive regular visits from people all over the USA as well as several other countries. Many of you stop by every other day or so to see if there are new posts. Some of you leave your thoughts, most of you don’t. But I know you’ve been by.

How do I know? For those of you who blog, you may use a stat tracker like Site Meter, or some other service, to track your visitors. If you do, you know what it tells you. For those readers who are not bloggers, you may notice an icon on this blog for Site Meter. It’s right there underneath the links and archives. If you click on that icon nothing happens (I think). When I click on it, it takes me to a site that displays information about how many visitors come to my site, where they come from, how long they stay.

Using this tool I can see how many people visited this blog each hour, each day, each week and month. I can see which city, state and country the last 100 visitors came from. I can see, for some visitors, the host URL the visit originated from. I can see how many pages were viewed.

Sometimes I struggle to think of something interesting to say. While my life is wonderful, it is not always exciting. For those of you who are married, with small children, working at a job outside the home and trying to keep everything in balance, you can relate to the concept of simply trying to get through the day without things falling through the cracks. Not that it is as struggle, but it often is a challenge.

And by the very nature of this life many parts of the day are routine, sometimes mundane. Often lacking in compelling storylines. Yet, in the very mundane-ness, routine-ness and same-ness of the days, there are often those little things that happen, especially with the kids, that will a little thought can be made into a story that might be a bit more interesting.

For example, I could write a post that talked about Chris and Tommy playing with the toy farms sets we have. In straight narrative, they would sound rather boring, yet they would be an accurate depiction of the days’ event. With a bit of thought, going out on a limb, I tried to make it more interesting in posts like this one and its sequel.

As a man who married and fathered children later in life than many other men, one of my occasional recurring themes is feeling old. I could just tell you I feel old and give you a couple of examples. But who wants to read an old man griping about how old he is? I don’t. So I tried to find an interesting way to say the same thing, with a wry smile on my face, acknowledging that while I may be chronologically old, I try to stay young at heart. I may or many not have succeeded in this flight of fancy or this tale of triumph snatched from the jaws despair.

Have you traveled with small kids? Then you know what that’s like. But if I were to write a post about that it would sound negative and whiny. I tried to put a different spin on the concept with this entry.

Do I think any of these posts were great? No. But I enjoyed writing them. I enjoy knowing that people from around the world make a point, once in a while, to read what I have to say. Maybe it’s an ego thing. But I prefer to think of it as sharing ideas with people I have not met, and would never have been able to communicate with were it not for the blog.

For me, that’s the reward. That’s the reason I blog. The comments and emails are a bonus. I’m not writing a book or looking to be discovered. To know that there are people I’ve never met who find some form of entertainment in reading about my family and our life is rewarding to me. It’s kind of like putting a message in a bottle and throwing it out to sea, hoping someone will find it and read it. Only in this case, I know people are reading it. People I’ve never met in placed I’ve never been.

To me, that’s cool.

So I’d like to thank everyone who reads this blog. I don’t know most of your names, unless you’ve emailed me or left a comment with your Blogger name. For the majority of you, I know nothing about you individually, except what city you may live in (Site meter sometimes shows the location of your Internet Provider) or where you may work or go to school.

By far the majority of readers come from the USA. So I’d like to offer greetings to and thanks for reading to readers from:
Anchorage and Fairbanks, AK;
Birmingham, AL;
Newhope, AR;
Phoenix, AZ;
San Diego, Berkeley, Belvedere Tiburon, Hayward, Chico, Alameda, Mountain View, Murrieta and San Francisco, CA;
Boulder, Kittredge and Colorado Springs, CO;
West Haven, Staffordville and Stamford, CT;
Washington, DC;
Tampa and Ft. Lauderdale, FL;
Atlanta, Shannon and Norcross, GA;
Honolulu, HI;
Independence and West Des Moines, IA;
Chicago, Saint Jacob, Clarendon Hills, Clochester and Beardstown, IL;
Wichita, KS;
Boston, Berlin, Hyde Park, Holliston, Wellesley Hills and Peabody, MA;
Baltimore, MD;
Portland, ME
East Lansing, Moline, Portage and Farmington, MI;
Minneapolis and Saint Paul, MN;
Springfield, Moscow Mills and Fort Leonard Wood, MO;
Cary, Fort Bragg and Paw Creek, NC;
Omaha, NE
Londonderry, NH;
Piscataway, NJ;
NYC and Buffalo, NY;
Brady Lake and Kent, OH;
Beaverton, OR;
York, Pittsburgh and Sellersville, PA;
Lexington, North Charleston and Spartanburg, SC;
Hendersonville, Westpoint and Nashville, TN;
Austin, Dallas, Houston, Leander, Plano, Pflugerville and Grand Prairie, TX;
Falls Church and Vienna, VA;
Seattle, Medina and Bainbridge Island, WA;
Whitman and Morgantown, WV;

Here’s a shout out to the students, faculty, administrators and employees at TCU, NYU, Rutgers, Berkeley, Kent State, West Virginia University, Santa Clara University, The University of Alabama, and The University of Waikato in Hamilton, New Zealand. Did I miss your school? Let me know! And thanks for taking the time to read this, but, um, shouldn’t you really be studying or teaching or something?

So you’re reading this blog at work, are you? Well, if you’re working at Wells Fargo, WEDU TV in Tampa-St. Pete, Wind River Commercial Grade Linux, the law firm of Colson Hicks Eidson, or Amerisure Insurance, a great big thanks. Are you hiring? Because if you’re reading at work, I’d like to be writing at work. Let your boss know I’m great at looking really busy!

So you like to read about Chris and Tommy, eh? A big thanks to all the Canadian readers of The Family Man. Hello to London, Ottawa and Lobo Township, Ontario; Mtn-Royal and Longueuil, Quebec; Aroostook, Bon Accord, Mouth of Keswick and Fredericton, New Brunswick. When I was a little kid playing hockey in Syracuse, NY, I went to a hockey camp in Guelph, Ontario two summers in a row. Love Canada!

Hey, mates, thanks for checking in from Australia! Thanks for reading The Family Man in Sydney and West Prymble, New South Wales; Melbourne and Doncaster, Victoria; and also to readers from Northcote and Hamilton, New Zealand.

And last but not least, hello and thanks for reading The Family Man in Africa, Europe and Asia! How is life in Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania; Windsor Park Estate, Dakar, Teck Hock, Dakar in Singapore; Delhi, India (is that you, Hari?); Bacoor, Cavite, Phillippines; Oslo, Norway; Chesires, Vaud, Switzerland; Botshol, Utrecht, Netherlands; and Bolton, UK.

Hello to South America. It’s been awhile, but I’ve previously had a reader from Brazil and one from Chile.

No readers from Antarctica – yet.

Stay tuned for more antics from Chris and Tommy. And the occasional flight of fancy from me. Now, occasionally with pictures. And yes, Tony, that was me coaching the Orange Tanks in the last post. One of those boys may or may not be Chris. There were eight on the team and we play four at a time. You get to decide for yourself.

That’s why I blog.

You have lots of choices when it comes to reading blogs. Thank you for choosing this one.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Put me in, coach!

2005-11-08T22:15:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid growing up in Syracuse, New York, I remember summer days playing pick-up baseball games in someone’s back yard. I remember hooking my glove over the handlebar of my bike and riding with a group of friends to play ball. It might be four-on-four, or if we didn’t have enough to play teams we’d play a game called ‘500’, with one batter and several fielders.

We also played organized little league baseball. After the first year, my dad was the coach of my baseball team.

In the winter, which is very cold and snowy in upstate New York, I played youth league hockey. Again, after my first year, my dad was the coach.

When we talk about those days now, my dad and I, he says he remembers them as some of the best time of his life. He talks about some of the baseball and hockey moments we shared, some of which I don’t remember, some that I do. The memories I have are special – more special, I think, because I shared them with him.

My dad played a bit of baseball in his youth. He never played hockey. But he is, and pretty much always has been, a leader, a take-charge kind of guy. Once he saw what the coaches were doing for my baseball and hockey teams, he decided he could do that too. Probably better. And from what I remember, he did a good job and enjoyed it as well.

I’m far away from central New York now, out here in the Rocky Mountains.

I bring up this whole youth sports thing because where we live now, I rarely see a group of kids playing baseball, on their own, in a park or backyard. And while there is a little league or city rec league for baseball, I don’t know anyone who plays it.

The summer youth sport where we live now is soccer. And from the time Chris could first articulate his wants, he said he wanted to be on a soccer team.

This past summer was the first time he was old enough to play in the county rec youth soccer league. We signed him up for the Spring season pre-K league, for kids age 5 and 6. He was so excited to finally get to play soccer. His team wore blue shirts, and they named the team the Blue Bullets. He was on a team with two of his buddies from our neighborhood, and though they lost every game, he had a blast.

At that level most of the kids really don’t get the winning and losing thing. In the first few games they cheered every time a goal was scored, even goals scored against them. The point of the game at this level is to introduce kids to the idea of organized sport, basic rules, team play and sportsmanship.

As it happened, Chris was one of the better players on his team. He scored the first goal of the season, and if anyone had kept records he would have been one of the top two or three scorers on the team of eight kids. Unlike Tommy, Chris is tall for his age, taller than many of his peers. He’s got very good motor skills and coordination, so he was able to do well at this level. He was a bit tentative in mixing it up, but at this level it’s not that big a deal. They had fun. That’s what counts.

So when the fall league signups rolled around, Chris asked if he could play again. We signed him up. When his registration form came back, the sheet said his team did not have a coach.

I mentioned the story about my dad coaching my hockey team after watching for a year because I don’t think he really knew the game when I started to play. He never played it as a kid. We sort of learned it together. But after watching the other coaches and learning the game, he knew it well enough to coach a group of six year old kids. And he coached my team every year for the next six, until we moved away, to a city in the south that did not have a youth hockey program

Though I never played soccer, after watching Chris’s first season, I figured I knew enough to coach five and six year old kids in that sport. So when I saw the registration form come back and his team had no coach, I figured I’d give it a try. I called up the county and offered to coach the team. They said they would get back to me. Unfortunately, when they did I was told a coach had already been found.

But by the time that call came I had gotten pretty excited about being the coach, and was disappointed that I wouldn't be able to do it. So I did the next best thing. I offered to help the coach during the practices. I use the term practice loosely – 5 and 6 year old kids have short attention spans, and there was little instruction or strategy imparted during the hour or so we would practice. Still, it was fun to help, and I learned a bit about how to interact with the kids and help them enjoy the game.

One day after a practice toward the end of the season the coach came to me and asked if I could coach the team in the next game. He was going to be out of town. I said I’d be happy to do it.

I spent the rest of the week plotting my game strategy, figuring out my line-up combinations, running through the various scenarios I expected to encounter. If I could have scouted the other team, I would have. Instead of my usual daydreams of winning the lottery or piles of fresh, warm chocolate chip cookies, I dreamed of the perfect goal kick, the give and go off the throw-in pass, and the thrill of being on the field when Chris scored a goal.

Okay, I was a bit into it.

I called my dad and told him I’d be coaching Chris’s next game. He’s been able to get to most of Chris’s games this year, and he said he’d be sure to come out to watch this one.

This season, the fall season, Chris’s team wore orange jerseys. The name they chose for themselves was the Orange Tanks. And on this crisp fall afternoon, in the bright sunshine amidst the falling orange leaves, I would be a Tank Commander.

The team took the field, I shook hands with the opposing coach, and the game was on. At this level the coaches are actually on the field with the players, not on the sideline. The kids have a hard enough time remembering which goal they are shooting at, and need constant direction from the coaches or the game will disintegrate into randomness. The coaches are also the referees, determining who last touched the ball out of bounds and setting up the inbounds plays.

It was exhilarating.

I ran up and down the field with my team, encouraging, instructing and cheerleading. It was a wild game, lots of goals, lots of action. It went by much too quickly. Although no official score is kept at this level of play, by my unofficial tally the Orange Tanks came out on top of the Dark Knights by something like 11-8 or 12-9. Chris had three goals.

After the game I stood on the field with my dad and son. Three Generations of male Mann’s. The testosterone level was spectacular.

My dad told Chris how well he had played. Chris was beaming – he loves it when ‘Papa’ comes to see him.

He turned to me, said, “You coached a good game, Fam.”

“Dad, there’s not a whole lot of coaching at this level,” I said.

He smiled. “There’s more than you think. You’re helping the kids learn the game, how to play a team sport, understand rules. You’re showing them you care. Your enthusiasm and effort give them self esteem, help them learn and grow. Don’t sell your efforts short.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Did you have fun?” he asked.

Now it was my turn to smile. “It was great.”

He looked me in the eye. He smiled a wistful smile. I could swear his eyes were a bit moist as he said, “I know how you feel, son." A pause. "I know how you feel.”

Chris said, “Dad, will you be the coach next week?”

“No, Chris, Coach Tim will be back for the game next week.”

He looked disappointed.

“But next year, Chris, I’ll be your coach.”

“Really?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I said.

He smiled. “That will be great!”

I looked at my dad. He smiled, too.

Like father, like son.

I wonder if I’ll look back on that day, and the seasons to follow, as the best years of my life, as my dad had said those years were for him.

I can’t wait to find out.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Catalogues revisited

2005-11-04T10:53:00.000-07:00

In a previous post I described the avalanche of catalogues I am receiving at my post office box. When my mother passed away earlier this summer, her mail was forwarded to me as the executor of her estate. I’d been expecting a few bills, an occasional piece of personal correspondence.

My mother, it turns out, received almost every catalogue ever printed. Now they all come to me.

The photo you see is one weeks worth of catalogues. There are over fifty of them in that stack. That averages to almost ten per day. Behind the catalogue stack you might notice a ruler. The pile of catalogues is over eight inches high.

I received a comment in the last catalogue post from Reacher , who writes a thoughtful, thought-provoking, occasionally funny blog. He suggested I view these catalogues as a gift from my mother.

At first I dismissed that idea outright. The catalogues are a huge pain. Instead of once a week, I have to go to the post office every day just to clear out the box. Usually I take them straight to the trash can and dump them. Except on Saturday, when I take Chris and Tommy with me – they view the catalogues as magazines, and think we’re special because we receive so many.

But after giving Reacher’s comment some additional thought, I decided to try to look at things in a different light. I spent some time going through the pile of catalogues to see what she was interested in.

I knew my mother pretty well, so many of the catalogues she received did not surprise me. She was wheelchair bound and in poor health, so she received all kinds of health and wellness product catalogues. I had no idea, however, the volume of products made for and sold to people with her conditions. Not that I didn’t appreciate being ambulatory and healthy to begin with, but when you look at all the stuff sold to paraplegics and people with arthritis and skin lesions it reinforces the feeling of ‘Thank God I don’t have to worry about that.’

I also knew she ordered much of her food from catalogues and home-delivery services. Being stuck in her wheelchair, it was very hard for her to go grocery shopping. Again, I had no idea how many companies offered high-quality food products by mail order. When she was alive we were often the beneficiaries of this particular type of catalogue shopping, as she would sometimes place a second order for us in addition to her own. Four or five times a year we’d receive a box of burgers, steaks and brats for grilling, and we’d sometimes receive frozen dessert treats. There really are a wide variety of mail order food delivery options that are quite good.

My mom had two cats, her surrogate children since my sister and I ‘left the nest’ many years ago. And she treated those cats like kids. To that point, there are many companies that will sell you all manner of pet treats, toys, outfits or exercise units. She spoiled those cats rotten. As I cat owner, I am suddenly feeling as though I have deprived my old friend of the hundreds of toys and treats he so richly deserves.

She got a lot of toy catalogues. She would always be on the lookout to find special gifts for Chris and Tommy. Birthdays, of course, and Christmas. But it was not unusual for a package to arrive at our house, out of the blue, addressed to ‘Master Chris and Master Tommy.’ Inside would be some unique gift for them, for no reason or occasion other than she just saw this particular item and thought the boys would like it.

Normally I would not have included my mother and high fashion in the same sentence. She was never the high society type, and once she became injured and ill she really did not feel much desire to ‘dress up.’ She always wore nice clothes, but didn’t worry or care too much about having the very latest couture. But she sure did get a lot of high fashion catalogues. My first thought made me a bit sad as I visualized my mom sitting in her wheelchair, sadly looking at all the fancy clothes that she could never wear.

But as I thought more about it, and the other catalogues she received, I started to get a different image; one of my mother looking through these books, smiling and thinking of the years before her accident and health decline, when she was young, vibrant and active. When she did wear fancy clothes, go out to exciting events and travel to interesting places. Maybe these catalogues were a way for her to lose herself in a moment, to go back in time and relive memories; or maybe to fondly imagine what might have been, had things been different.

I’ll never really know, of course.

But I prefer to think of her that way. If not exactly happy, then content to spend some time going through her catalogues with a sense of anticipation, wondering what interesting things she might find, what memories the photos might bring, what gifts she could find for her cats.

Or her grandchildren.

And in a way, her final gift to her grandchildren, Chris and Tommy, are these catalogues. Because they really do get a kick out of them. They love going to the post office, opening the box, pulling out the stack of ‘magazines,’ flipping through the pictures, looking at all the neat things. Looking at the clothes, the toys, the food and imaging what it would be like to have them, to live like that.

Just like their Nana once did.

Thanks, Reacher ,for opening my eyes.

Thanks, mom, for finding a way, even in death, of continuing to give to your grandkids. And to me.

For finding a way to stay in our lives.

It’s great to get your catalogues.

And it’s great to be The Family Man.

Hero-ween

2005-11-01T23:08:00.000-07:00

Okay, I admit, I’ve been negligent in posting lately. I could make all kinds of excuses, and you’d probably cut me some slack. Something like The Project From Hell reared its ugly head at work, or Chris has been sick, or the dog I don’t have ate the homework I didn’t do. You’re a pretty good group, I’m sure you’d be understanding about it.

But I respect you too much to lie to you. The truth, in fact, is far uglier.

So ugly, I’m ashamed to admit it.

But I try to set a good example for my kids, about doing the right thing, not the easy thing. About telling the truth, even when the truth hurts. About being a stand up guy. And I believe in setting a good example, even though Chris and Tommy no nothing of this blog, and wouldn’t know (or care) if I tried to put one over on you.

So here it is. The reason I haven’t posted lately has been Halloween anxiety.

Yup, you read right. Halloween anxiety.

It happens every year. About a week or so before the dreaded day (and night) I start to get nervous. Sweaty palms, chills. As the day gets closer it gets worse. Come October 30th I can barely function. I don’t want to get out of bed. The fear is too strong.

It bothered me so much I’ve been unable to even consider putting together a reasonably coherent post.

But get out of bed I do, and shake and tremble all day. Halloween day is terrible, as with every passing hour the moment I dread most of all closes in on me.

Going outside that night among the ghouls and goblins.

I can hear you right now, laughing your heads off. Family Man, scared of kids in costumes? You’ve got to be kidding me!

Would that I were, my friend. Would that I were.

Look, I’m not proud of it. But for some reason it really creeps me out to see all these people dressed up as slashers, monsters, night-of-the-living-dead creatures, aliens and other assorted freaks of nature. All hopped up on massive sugar highs. To be out among them. In the dark. Knowing they are Looking For Me.

I want my mommy.

So it was with great trepidation that I prepared myself to take Chris and Tommy trick or treating.

Of course, they have been looking forward to it for weeks. Deciding what costumes to wear, planning their trick or treat route through our neighborhood, gleefully dreaming of all the sweets and treats they would receive.

Chris would go to a Halloween party in his Kindergarten class that afternoon, and since MBW is his teacher, Tommy got to go as well. For this party Chris had chosen a dragon costume; Tommy selected a bear costume. Fierce carnivores. How appropriate.

So I assumed that is what they would be dressed as that evening.

As soon as I arrived home from work Halloween night I began negotiating with MBW to see if she would take the boys out and I could stay home to hand out the candy to the creeps who would visit our house. But she knows me well enough to know that as soon as she was out the door with the boys, I would turn out the lights in the house, lock the doors and hide under the covers, giving no candy to anyone. The answer was a resounding ‘NO.’ I was told, in no uncertain terms, to suck it up and take our sons trick or treating.

Defeated, resigned to my fate, I waited while MBW finished getting the boys costumes on. I heard them upstairs, getting ready. I fully expected to see a dragon and bear walk down the stairs, plastic pumpkin buckets in hand, ready for fun.

To my surprise and great relief, instead of Chris and Tommy, Superman and Batman came down the stairs!

They fixed me with steely glares, the type of glare that brooked no challenge. “Let’s go,’ Batman growled. “It’s time for trick or treating.”

Oh, my prayers were answered. No need to fear anything tonight, not in the company of two of the greatest superheroes ever to grace the planet. I would be safe tonight!

Superman and Batman had visited our house before, of course. Perhaps you read about our trip to the hardware store earlier this year. But it has been awhile since they had paid us a visit.

The timing could not have been better.

So out we strode into that dark and spooky night, scared no more. With a swagger I could not have imagined just 30 minutes before, we walked from house to house, ringing doorbells and rapping door knockers, taking the treats that were rightfully ours. Ghosts, slashers and other assorted evil flotsam fled before us, skulking away, as we made our way through the neighborhood. Homeowners up and down our street gratefully paid protective tribute in the form of sugar for the protection these two sentinels of safety offered.

Once, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vampickle slip around a corner, running away in fear.

That guy is such a wimp.

As it turned out, the night I had dreaded actually ended all too quickly. Before I knew it the plastic pumpkins were full of booty. The two superheroes, satisfied with their evenings' work, escorted me back to my home. Into the house we went, and they proceeded upstairs with MBW. I sank gratefully into a chair, whispering a quiet prayer of thanks.

I stood up and prepared to go thank the two superheroes myself. As I reached the top of the stairs, Chris and Tommy appeared.

“Dad, that was so much fun!” Chris said. “I can’t wait until next year!”

Normally, that phrase would have sent a chill up my spine.

Tonight, however, it was different.

“It’s going to be great, Chris,” I said.

Provided the superheroes show up again, it just might be.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Searching for surf

2005-11-01T22:09:00.000-07:00

Occasionally I get a visitor to this blog from a search engine. Usually it appears they are looking for family related topics. When someone types 'Family Man' into a search engine, this blog will usually show up in the first couple of pages of results. Sometimes people are looking for this blog in particular. When I see someone type in a search for 'The Family Man - Chris and Tommy' I'm pretty sure they're trying to find this blog.

Sometimes, however, I get a visit from someone who was probably looking for someting other than this blog.

Like tonight, for example.

Some typed this into Google:

"surfing for just whiteboys"

This blog came up as the fourth result on the first page.

What they hit was this post.

Other wierd searches that lead to this blog include one I described in this post.

It's a strange world.

And it's great to be The Family Man.

A phone call

2005-10-26T20:19:00.000-06:00

We’re sitting at the dinner table – Chris, Tommy, MBW and I. It’s lasagna night, and MBW makes awesome lasagna. The boys like it because it’s good, and also because it’s a bit messy. That makes it fun.

With every bite I’m thinking of how hard I’m going to have to work at the gym tonight. Still, it’s worth it. I have a forkful of luscious lasagna on final approach when the phone rings.

Before the first ring is complete Chris is up and out of his chair and dashing for the phone. At age five, he thinks answering the phone is one of the coolest things ever. MBW has taught him well – he picks up the phone and says, “Hello, Mann residence.”

He pauses for just a second, listening intently. He turns to me and says, “Dad, it’s for you.”

I get up from the table and take the phone. “Hello?”

A clipped, professional female voice on the other end of the line says, “Please hold for Stephen McPherson.” It’s less of a request and more of a command. Her voice is immediately replaced by some canned ‘hold’ music.

I’m both annoyed and perplexed. First of all, I have no idea who is calling, why they are calling, or who Stephen McPherson is. Second, I have put our phone numbers on the National Do Not Call list, and I’ve gotten used to not having telemarketers bug us. I’m perplexed because this doesn’t feel like a telemarketing call. But I can’t for the life of me figure out what’s going on.

Just as I’m about to hang up and get back to dinner, a male voice comes on the line.

“Mr. Mann? Mr. Fam Mann? Hey, how’re you doing tonight?”

The voice is pure LA – smooth, confident, and absolutely insincere.

“Who’s asking?” I say.

“Fam, this is Steve McPherson, and I’m VP of programming at ABC TV. I just want to talk to you for a minute about your TV viewing. Well, actually, you’re lack of TV viewing.”

This has to be a prank phone call.

“Okay, you’re funny. I’m laughing. Really. Now who are you and what do you want? Did somebody put you up to this?”

“No, Fam, I really want to talk to you tonight. You write a blog, a popular blog, and you said something about not watching TV, and you mentioned some of our shows. I want to talk to you and see if I can’t convince you to take a look our shows, see what you’re missing, maybe tell people they’re missing some quality TV.”

Could this be for real?

“Did you actually read the blog” I ask?

“No, Fam, I didn’t. I don’t do blogs. But one of my assistant’s secretary’s gofer’s driver’s wife read it. She reads you all the time. I hear you really bashed some of our shows. Ratings have actually gone down a half-point since you put that thing out on the Internet.”

You’ve got to be kidding.

“Steve, if this is for real, you need to know something. My ‘popular blog’ is read, on average, by less than a hundred people a day. I mostly talk about my kids. I did write a piece on TV, basically saying we have better things to do than watch sitcoms. There’s no way this piece could have had any influence on your ratings.”

“Fam, baby, the numbers don’t lie. Ratings are down. Advertisers are unhappy. Producers are unhappy. Local affiliates across the country are unhappy. Worse, Eva Longoria is unhappy. Jennifer Garner is unhappy. I can’t have that. Everything was fine until you wrote this blog thing, and now the sh!% has hit the fan. We gotta do something here, Fam.”

“Excuse me, did you just call me “Fam, baby?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Look, Fam, let’s be reasonable about this. All I want is for you to go back on your blog thing and write up something about you decided to watch our shows, how great they are, how you and your family enjoy spending quality time in front of your television.”

“Well, ‘Steve ‘baby’, I really try not to lie on my blog. It’s called credibility? Maybe you’ve heard of that. We don’t watch much TV. We do other things.”

“Fam, I hear you. But think about this. Do you want your kids to grow up like you, unable to make small talk in the office because they haven’t watched the latest episodes of the hottest shows? Do you want your kids to be social outcasts, to not be ‘with it?’?”

“Steve-o, that really doesn’t describe me. Or my kids”

“No? Perhaps this does. By not watching television and supporting our advertisers, you’re not doing your part to keep the economy growing. I don’t know how to say this any other way, but frankly, you’re acting very un-American.”

I really can’t believe I’m having this conversation.

He continues, “But I know, in your own misguided way, you’re trying to do what you think is right for you and your family. I have an idea, if you’re willing to listen, to get you to sample one of our shows.”

I can’t wait to hear this.

“What is it?”

His voice lowers, conspiratorially. “Send your wife and kids over to her sister’s house next Sunday night. I’ll arrange for Eva Longoria to come over to your house to watch Desperate Housewives with you. Trust me, after that hour you’ll be hooked. Know what I mean, Fam?”

I swear I could hear him winking at me over the phone.

“Um…no.”

“Okay, how about Teri Hatcher?

“No.”

“Fam, what’s with you? What is your problem?”

I wasn’t aware that I had a problem. This gives me pause.

But you know what? He’s right. Now that I think about it, I do have a problem.

“Steve, I guess you’re right. I do have a problem. My problem is that I have a beautiful wife, two great young boys, a reasonably demanding job. I’ve got a house, a mortgage, bills to pay, college funds to fill. I’ve got a waistline that wants me to go to the gym, not sit on the couch. I’ve got a stack of books, really good books, that call to me if I do sit on the couch. I’ve got friends, despite the fact that I can’t talk about TV shows.”

“My problem, Steve-o, is that I have a life. A full life, a great life. A life that, frankly, is too full to spend watching Desperately Lost Housewives with Aliases.”

I pause for a moment.

“Not only that, Steve-o, my wife makes Eva look like your assistant’s secretary’s gofer’s driver’s wife.”

I hear a sigh on the other end of the line.

“What have you got against TV, Fam?”

“Nothing,” I said, “I watch TV five days a week.”

“What ARE you watching, then?"

In the morning Chris and Tommy watch Sesame Street. I think, over the last few years, I’ve seen almost every episode, many more than once.

“Steve,” I said, “I live in Elmo’s World.”

Pause.

“Fam, you’re a real jerk,” Steve-o says, and hangs up on me.

I turn and put the phone back on the cradle. Chris looks at me and asks, “Who was that, Dad?”

I smile and say, “Guess who called, guys?”

Tommy says, “Who, Daddy?”

“It was Oscar the Grouch!”

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Comfort

2005-10-23T00:38:00.000-06:00

It’s 11:30 p.m. Saturday night. Wild, crazy guy that I am, I’m sitting on the couch reading Friday’s Wall Street Journal. It’s a particularly exciting issue. I like to look at the real estate section and wonder who the people are that are buying all the fabulous multi-million dollar condos, estates and 500 acre mountain retreats that are listed. Maybe if I read the Journal long enough, I’ll be one of them.

Sure.

MBW, Chris and Tommy are long since asleep. The house is quiet. Soon I, too, will go to bed.

Suddenly I hear Tommy moaning. Actually, he’s talking, but it’s difficult to make out what he’s saying. He’s notorious for talking in his sleep. When he first started to do this, MBW or I would rush into his room and try to comfort him. We discovered this often served only to wake him up, creating confusion over what was real and what was part of his dream, and making it very difficult to get him to go back to sleep.

Now we tend to let him talk out whatever issue he’s dreaming about. Usually he’ll stop talking after a few minutes without even waking up.

But this time he continues to talk, and he starts to say, “Mommy…Daddy…” That lets me know he is awake, and he needs something.

So I go upstairs to head him off from going into our bedroom and waking up MBW. I catch him just as he’s leaving his room. His blond hair all tousled, eyes half-open, wearing his footie pajamas, he looks up at me and says, “Dad, I hear a buzzing sound.”

I have no idea what this could be, of course. I scoop him up and say, “Would you like to rock with Daddy for awhile?”

He nods, says “Yes.”

I’ve talked about this before. Sometimes rocking with him will calm him, soothe whatever was troubling him, and send him back to sleep with a sense of security. I’m hoping it will do the same tonight.

So we curl up in the rocking chair we keep in his room. Gently we rock, back and forth, Tommy curled up on my chest, safe and secure in my arms, his blankie held close to he face. I’ve wrapped us up in a quilt from his bed, so we’re warm and snuggly. His nighttime ‘go to bed’ lullaby CD plays softly, set to repeat all night. His room is lit by two soft, glowing nightlights. The glow of his clock (there for MBW and I – he’s not telling time yet) let’s me know it’s almost midnight.

As we rock, I remember the feeling of receiving comfort from my parents. I remember being in the back seat of my parents’ car, piles of blankets and pillows, as we all went to a drive in movie. Feeling safe and secure, lying in the back seat, Mom and Dad up front watching a movie. Occasionally I would peek up over the back seat, trying to see between Mom and Dad as they leaned in close to each other, before lying back down on the back seat and falling asleep.

Now I am the one providing the comfort. I think on this, the responsibility that comes with being the provider of comfort and security. It’s daunting, at times. I have my own set of concerns, my own insecurities, my own fears. Yet for my boys I must put them aside and let them see that everything is under control. Their world is safe.

I’ve done some things in my life that have brought me much happiness, given me great satisfaction, things that I am proud of. I have some accomplishments, have had some adventures, have achieved some goals. Occasionally I replay, in my mind, the Single Man ‘Greatest Hits’ DVD when I want to pick myself up or remind myself what I am capable of.

Not all of them are X-rated.

But this, what I am doing right now, is arguably the most important thing I will do in my life. No, I’m not talking about rocking Tommy to sleep. I’m talking about being the provider of comfort, the sense of security, the Port in The Storm. The refuge.

The Rock.

I don’t mean to overstate this. But tonight I am feeling like the most important thing I will do for the foreseeable future is provide my kids with the sense that I am there for them, that I will take care of them, that I will love and nurture them. The knowledge that no matter what happens, I will be there for them. That I will be there to Make Sure Everything is Okay.

How many children grow up without having that sense of security? How many children don’t have a place to go where they know, no matter what, they will be taken care of, their fears comforted, their needs met?

Yes, Family Man, easy for you to say. Have you been tested? Have you really faced any significant adversity? Sure, you talk big now, rocking your son back to sleep. How hard is that? You, in your safe, suburban middle-class home, with your company-provided health insurance, your little emergency fund savings account, your pantry full of food. Anyone can do that.

What about single parents? What about families uprooted by Katrina or other natural disasters? What happens if a major medical issue should occur in your safe little family?

Are you talking so big then, Family Man?

Hopefully I’ll never know.

But if circumstances should change for the worse, in one fashion or another, I’ll do the best I can. My priorities will be in the right place. It’s not an easy thing in any circumstance. My current situation makes the responsibility easier to bear, no doubt. Remember, many people in my exact circumstance fail at this task. How many people who seem to have it made somehow forget their kids are counting on them to do the right thing? I personally know a few. It’s not my place to judge, and if it sounds like I am, I don’t mean it that way. I just feel bad for the kids who, through no fault of their own, find themselves without the comfort and security that Tommy is experiencing right now.

Deep stuff, perhaps. Probably not best addressed after midnight. But that’s what goes through my mind as I rock my son to sleep.

Which, it seems, has been achieved.

I ease up out of the rocker, gently set Tommy in his bed. Pull the covers up tight, arrange them just so. Position Elmo to watch over Tommy, to take the rest of the shift for me. I know he’ll do a good job.

Tommy will sleep well tonight.

On my way out I hear a soft buzzing sound. I stop, listen close, trying to figure out what it is. It takes a moment, but I finally figure it out.

I spot a small fly, buzzing around one of Tommy's nightlights. Mystery solved.

Now I will go to sleep with the feeling that, so far, I seem to be doing okay at the biggest job I’ve had so far in my life.

As I lay down, perhaps I’ll replay, once again, my ‘Greatest Hits’ DVD in my mind as I fall asleep.

But there’s a new chapter at the end.

It’s titled “Fatherhood.”

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Graveyard Shift

2005-10-19T23:41:00.000-06:00

I’m writing this as I sit in my work cubicle. According to the clock in the bottom right corner of my computer screen, it’s 11:25 p.m. Wednesday evening.

I’m back in the office tonight, as I have been the past two nights, working on The Project From Hell. We’re preparing for a major trade show that hits in exactly three weeks, and I have a ton of work to do.

So what I’ve been doing each day this week is going in to work as usual, 8:00 a.m. to 5:30 p.m., going home, eating a quick dinner, playing with Chris and Tommy until bedtime, reading books, putting them to bed, then coming back into the office for three hours or so, and going home.

Tonight, while reading bedtime stories to the boys, I fell asleep. Chris had to poke me and say, “Dad, wake up!”

And it’s going to be this way for the rest of this week, for sure. Perhaps into next week as well.

So there won’t be a post of much value until the weekend at least.

A couple of quick notes:

In a post a couple of weeks ago I talked about posts I was going to write – and haven’t yet. Specifically, I said I would write about a phone call I received, an idea I had and a sports-related story. The idea I had was including photos in this blog, so I did write about that, but have yet to put up any photos. I haven’t had a chance to write about the phone call or the sports thing. I will, but it probably won’t be in the next post or two.

Tommy’s at the age where he asks a lot of questions. Most of them start with “Why?” Some of them are confirmations of things or concepts he is pretty sure he knows or understands, but wants, well, confirmation. It’s always interesting to hear his questions. I try to answer them as best I can.

Tonight, when I was playing outside with both boys, Tommy asked me, “Dad, all adults are grown-up, right?”

To which I replied, “Well, most of them. Not all.”

I have a post about that as well. I’ll get to it one of these days.

Well, back to work.

It’s (usually) great to be The Family Man.

Biker Boys

2005-10-16T21:37:00.000-06:00

Chris has been riding his two wheel bike without training wheels for most of the summer. It was quite a big deal when we took the training wheels off earlier this year, as I described here.

Tommy has just graduated from his tricycle to a small two-wheeler with training wheels. Wanting to be just like Chris, he has moved to the two-wheeler much sooner than Chris did. He’s still a bit tentative, but he’s working at it. As I’ve mentioned before, he’s a tenacious kid – when he wants something, he does whatever he can to get it. And right now what he wants is to ride a two-wheeler like Chris.

So last night we’re out in the driveway. Chris is zooming up and down the sidewalk. We live on a corner lot and he’s flying around the corner, cutting across the yard, even jumping the curb occasionally. I’m keeping an eye on him, but he’s pretty comfortable and isn’t trying to do anything too crazy…yet.

Tommy is riding slowly up and down the driveway. Our driveway has a slight downhill slope from the garage to the street. He’s still a bit tentative going down, and he needs a bit of a push going up. But he’s working at it. I’m proud of him.

After a bit Chris says, “Dad, can we ride around the block?” I consider this for a moment. The loop he’s talking about is not quite half a mile, slightly up hill one way and downhill coming back. It’s residential, very little traffic, and Tommy would be on the sidewalk the whole way. We walk this fairly often so both boys know the way and are comfortable with the trip.

But I’m not sure Tommy can make it on the bike.

So I ask Tommy, “Do you want ride around the block?”

Without hesitation he says, “Sure.”

So we head out. Chris rides ahead, in the street, occasionally circling back to Tommy and me. I’m walking behind Tommy, who’s pedaling slowly up the sidewalk. About every ten feet or so, he hits his brakes and comes to a complete stop.

We’re going uphill.

“Tommy, why are you stopping?”

“I’m going too fast,” he says.

The truth is we are barely creeping along, moving very slowly uphill on the sidewalk. He continues to do this, going about ten feet or so and slamming on his brakes. It’s gets maddening. Start, stop. Start, stop. Start, stop.

I’m trying to be patient. He’s just learning, after all. And really, why am I in such a hurry? It’s a beautiful fall evening. We’re outside, having fun. Chris is having a great time, riding back and forth, enjoying the freedom of his two wheel bike unencumbered with training wheels and without Dad hovering over him. Tommy is diligently working, testing his brakes, learning how to ride. And I should appreciate the fact that he is being so careful, making sure he is in control.

I take a deep breath, relax.

“Tommy, you’re doing a great job. Are you having fun?”

He turns his head, looks up at me, smiling. “This is great, Dad!” he says with a big smile.

See? I should just chill out.

So we continue up the hill, eventually getting to the top, and round the corner. It’s flat up here, the top of the loop. Tommy continues to creep along, slowly, stopping every ten feet or so.

We make the turn again and are now heading back toward home, on the far side of the block. From here there is a downhill section that is a bit steeper that what we came up on the other side. The slope on the way up was longer and more gradual; this side going down is steeper and shorter, with a flat run-out at the bottom.

Chris loves this part. He flies down the hill, in control, but going pretty fast.

I’m thinking Tommy will go even more slowly, stop more often than he did on the way up. Chris might ride up and down again two or three more times before Tommy gets down.

“Tommy,” I say, “be sure to use your brakes here. I’ll be right behind you all the way if you need help.”

He turns and looks up at me. “Okay, Daddy,” he says.

You know what’s coming, don’t you?

Tommy starts out slowly, but moving steadily. I’m walking just behind, waiting for him to hit the brakes.

He never does.

Instead, he picks up speed and starts to laugh. I’m walking faster now, trying to keep up. He continues to pick up speed and now I’m jogging, then sprinting down this hill as Tommy continues to roll. He’s keeping a line straight down the center of the sidewalk, clearly in control, and laughing his head off. He’s just roaring with laughter.

I’m barely keeping up, running flat out, wondering if he will suddenly hit the brakes and screech to a halt, or swerve and smack into a parked car or a mailbox. Of course, he does neither, cruising effortlessly all the way down the hill, slowing only as the sidewalk flattens out.

He eventually coasts to a halt. I catch up to him, huffing and puffing (remember, I’m old!). He has a grin a mile wide on his face. His eyes are bright, shining, and full of exhilaration.

“That was great, Dad!” he says.

“Tommy,” I say, “why didn’t you use your brakes on the way down?”

“I didn’t need to,” he says simply.

He used his brakes all the way up the hill, and not once on the way down. Go figure.

“Dad,” he says, “let’s do that again!”

It’s great to be The Family Man.

The Old Man and the Vitamin C

2005-10-12T23:23:00.000-06:00

You’ve heard me say (or perhaps, more correctly, read as I wrote) this before – I’m old. Which I attempted to illustrate in this post.

You may have also read my description of myself as an Ordinary Man.

Old and ordinary – not exactly what I had in mind for myself. Yet, nonetheless, that’s where I seem to be.

I got my haircut this past Saturday – nothing significant about that. I try to remember to do it once a month or so. I go to the local chain discount hair place. No fancy-schmanzy salon for me. My cut is so ‘ordinary’ I could probably to it myself.

The woman cutting my hair was using the electric clippers, and I happened to notice the preponderance of gray hair that was falling into my lap. The gray was mixed in with the dirty blond/light brown hair that I thought I still had. The percentage of gray seems to be increasing with each haircut. Some guys have 'salt and pepper' hair - it makes them look 'distinguished.' I guess I'm getting 'salt and sand.'

Yuck.

The ‘stylist,’ as she likes to be called, noticed me noticing the hair in my lap and suggested a hair coloring treatment. “Many of my older customers are finding this to be very effective,” she said. Noticing my scowl, she quickly added, “…not that you’re old, of course, but it will help you keep your youthful appearance!”

Nice try, lady. See what kind of a tip you get!

Of course I didn’t stiff the stylist, but I left in a rather dark mood.

The next day, Sunday, I sat at the breakfast table with Chris and Tommy, glumly staring at the pile of vitamins I consume each morning. The pile seems enormous, both in the quantity of pills and the size of some of them. Vitamin B, Vitamin C, Vitamin K, some fish oil pill, a large multi-vitamin, and various others. In particular, the orange Vitamin C tablet that is only slightly smaller than a tennis ball stands out amongst the others. They are almost a meal in themselves – something Chris happened to notice as well.

“Dad, why do you eat vitamins for breakfast?” he asked.

“So I can stay healthy,” I replied.

He pointed to his purple Flintstones vitamin. “I just have one vitamin,” he said, “and you have a whole pile of them! You have as many vitamins as I have cereal!”

Looking at his bowl of Cheerios, it did seem like the quantity of my pile of vitamins was equal to the small amount of cereal we can get them to eat each morning.

So Tommy joined in, and they both had a high time teasing me about eating vitamins for breakfast.

I go into work Monday morning, feeling old, gray, and grumpy from eating vitamins for breakfast. Washed down with V-8. Reporting to a boss who is younger than I am.

I got to wondering what happened to the 20-something year old TV news cameraman who could roll out of bed after four hours of sleep, get by on donuts and Diet Coke, go hard all day and still have something left in the tank to party into the night. The guy who would drive all night to go to a jeep rally, sleep for two hours sitting up in the drivers seat, crawl over rocks all day and drive home again, fueled by pop-tarts and Powerbars. The guy with the blond hair, blue eyes and broad shoulders who broke hearts all over the West.

Okay, that last sentence is a bit much. But the older I get, the better I remember myself being as a young man.

MBW and I married later in life than many of our peers. That’s both good and bad. It’s good in that we’re both more mature and more realistic when it comes to our expectations – of each other, of our kids, of our lives. It’s better because we’re more financially stable, more grounded in our careers and more certain of our long-tem goals. Chris and Tommy are growing up in a secure and stable environment, and I think that is helping them grow up with a sense of confidence.

It’s bad in that we don’t always have the energy to do all that we feel we should with the boys. And, occasionally, we’ve each had moments where we’re a bit short of patience.

Maybe that happens to all parents.

Personally, I’m finding that there are days when I don’t want to climb out of my car after a long day in my cubicle and play whatever game Chris and Tommy want to play the instant I walk in the door. Of course they’ve been waiting anxiously for me to get home and they want my attention. Sometimes it’s hard to deliver.

So I’m trying to stay on top of it. You’ve read my occasional posts about my workouts. I’m trying to keep in decent shape. I’m trying to eat a healthier diet, but deep down inside I’m a donuts and Diet Coke guy trying to gag down oatmeal and blueberry yogurt every day. Someday archeologists will make an astounding discovery – I did have six-pack abs! This discovery will be made after carefully excavating through the layer of chocolate chip cookies to find them.

Which brings me back to the vitamins. I do take a handful each morning. I don’t know, honestly, if they help. Maybe it’s all a placebo. But at least I feel like I’m doing something. I consider the stakes to be high. When it’s all said and done I want my kids to remember their dad as an active participant, not some guy who sat on the couch. I want the stories to be about what we did together, not what they did and told me about.

Last I crawled into bed after my post-workout shower. I took my vitamins that morning, gagged down my oatmeal and V-8, had my lean turkey sandwich on some kind of oat bread for lunch (no trans-fat!), and limited my snack to less than a hundred chocolate chip cookies. Played some combination football-frisbee-swingset game with the boys after work (the rules of which I still don’t understand), helped give them a bath, read them their nightly books, tucked them into bed and went to the gym. Not the toughest guy there, but did my full routine. Finally, the day over, pulled up the covers and sighed a great big sigh.

Just then I feel MBW snuggle up to me.

“How was your workout?” she asks.

“It was okay,” I reply.

She nuzzles my neck. “You smell nice,” she says.

“That’s what a shower will do for you,” I answer.

Her hand finds my bicep. “You’ve got hard muscles…for an old guy,” she says.

“Well, I do what I can,” I say.

Her hand moves. “This muscle is hard, too.”

Hmm?

“Are you up for another workout?” she whispers

It appears that I am, in fact, up for another workout.

Yes, I may take all kinds of vitamins. A, B, C, K, you name it. I take it.

But so far, luckily, I have no need to take Vitamin V!

It’s great to be The Family Man!

Photograph

2005-10-10T22:59:00.000-06:00

As I have mentioned in a few previous posts, I spent ten years as a television photojournalist. It was a very interesting job, allowing me to experience a variety of things first hand. Things most people only see on TV.

Over the course of my years in the profession I came to believe there were two main types of photojournalists – journalists who happen to take pictures and photographers who happen to be in the news business.

I fell squarely into the second category.

In addition to the station-owned video equipment, I personally owned a Hasselblad medium format camera, four Nikon 35mm camera bodies, three medium format lenses, six 35mm lenses, three flash units and a portable three-head studio strobe kit. I had a freelance photo business going on the side, and a couple of years I made more money doing freelance photography that I did at my ‘day’ job.

After ten years as a TV news photographer I began to feel that while it was a great job, it was a lousy career. But I still really enjoyed photography, and I briefly considered opening a commercial photography studio. I went back and forth for awhile before deciding to sell my photo gear, and used the proceeds to pay my way through graduate school.

About that time digital photography began to take off. I bought a digital camera, upgraded once or twice, and am about ready to upgrade again.

It was also about the time I was getting married, and shortly after we were married, MBW and I had kids.

No, not THAT shortly. It was a full fourteen months between the wedding date and Chris’s birth. So get that dirty thought out of your head right now. Jeez! I’m not that kind of guy. Well, okay…but even if I were, MBW most certainly is not that kind of woman.

Anyway, the point of this diatribe is I like to take pictures, and as any parent knows, there is no subject more captivating than whatever cute thing their kid happens to be doing at any given moment.

And the beauty of digital photography is you can record every single moment without worrying about running out of film, the cost of film or any other film related issue.

Which leads, of course, to a condition I like to call Photographus Excessivus. Symptoms including recording multiple framings and angles of the most mundane things your children do. Did Chris get out of bed one morning with a mild case of Bed Head? Better have 15 shots of that! Did Tommy spill his juice? Grab the camera! Petting the cat? Front page news!

I have my share of ridiculous photos, the kind you look at once they’ve been downloaded to the computer and say, “Why did I think that was worth shooting?” At the time I took them, they seemed interesting. Ten minutes later, they’re recyclyed back to the billions of 1s and 0s from whence they came.

Yet I also have many wonderful, candid photos I never would have taken with a film camera. I have a shot of Chris, about age 3, throwing fall leaves up into the air. The expression of pure joy and happiness on his face is worth more than a thousand words. A photo of Tommy, sitting on our bed ‘reading’ a book, with a huge smile on his face. It captures the essence of his personality. A photo of both boys, leaning out of the back of MBWs Honda CRV, as they play happily together.

Now, I won’t go so far as to say my photos are as good as the ones you see at Pumpkin Diary. Though personally, and this is just my humble opinion, I think Chris and Tommy are just as cute as Bram. (BTW, visit Pumpkin Diary and notice the most recent sequence of photos - you'll see Bram is an absolutely adorable kid). Now I know most people don’t find ordinary pictures of other people’s kids much fun to look at. But I have a few that have earned a grudging compliment from friends who have come over to visit.

Speaking of blogs, I’ve found a few that use photos as an integral part of the content, and I’ve come to enjoy them more and more. In addition to Pumpkin Diary, Blogs like ultrabright and Geek Girl use photos often and they seem to really add to the story.

So it occurred to me that maybe I’d put some photos on this blog from time to time. But so far I’ve been reluctant to do that, for a couple of reasons.

First, I’m leery of putting pictures of my kids on the Internet. I think we all know the Internet can be a dangerous place for kids. Though I’ve tried to keep this blog somewhat anonymous in terms of last names, where we live, and other pertinent details, it wouldn’t be that difficult for someone to figure out who we are and where we are. It’s not worth the risk on the off-chance some nutcase sees my kids and develops some sick fixation. Being in the news business for 10 years, I saw and heard some truly scary things.

Second, anyone who has read this blog for some time has probably created their own mental image of what we all look like. I’ve provided some basic descriptions, such as hair and eye color, but each of you probably already knows what Chris and Tommy look like – to you. And that’s probably the way it should stay. I’d hate to put up a photo of one of the boys and have readers think, “That’s not Chris!”

That, and I’d rather you continue to think of me as tall, blond and handsome, with 210 pounds of sculpted muscle draped elegantly over my 6’ 3” frame.

(In one of my next posts I will absolutely disabuse of you that notion).

MBW, of course, truly does look like a supermodel, one who chose education over fame and fortune. Tall and slender, with lovely long legs, fashionable short hair and beautiful brown eyes, she’s the one who’s photo would cause the traffic to this site to explode.

And if I truly looked as I described myself above, I could see why she married me. But since that description may not be exactly accurate, and since she clearly didn’t marry me for the money (or lack thereof), posting my picture might lead you to wonder why exactly she DID marry me. But that’s a story for another post.

However, a friend of mine who also writes a blog (I link to it) came up with an idea for using photos that seems to make sense for me.

Now if I can just figure out how exactly to put photos on the blog, you may see some here from time to time. They might even relate to the story! Or they might just be random filler.

Better yet, I might even give Chris and Tommy the camera from time to time and post their work.

Let me know your thoughts on photo blogs.

It’s great to be (say cheese!) The Family Man.

Death by Catalogue

2005-10-05T17:55:00.000-06:00

Chris and Tommy are at the age where going out to the mailbox to get the mail is a treat. It’s really something to look forward to. They know the name of our regular letter carrier (it’s Keith) and they say hello to him if they’re playing in the front yard when he delivers our mail.

When they bring in the mail, every piece is a treasure, an important communication, one to be examined carefully, to be savored. Before MBW can have a look, they’ve already gone through the stack.

“Look, mom, we got five letters!” Chris will say.

“Mommy, mommy, we got three magazines! And I’m three!” Tommy will shout.

They’re really bills and catalogues. But why spoil their excitement?

One night at the dinner table Chris turned to me and said, “Dad, isn’t it great that every day Keith drives by our house and gives us letters and stuff?”

“It sure is, Chris,” I say.

Ah, the innocent joy of getting the mail.

In addition to the mailbox in front of our home, I have a PO Box at the local post office. I have a small side business and I direct mail for that business to the PO Box. I’d say, on average, I’d get about one or two pieces of mail a week there. So almost every Saturday I’d take the boys over to the post office and get the mail from the box. I’d let Chris and Tommy each have a turn putting the key in the lock, pulling the box open, and taking out whatever mail might be in there. That was an extra special treat.

Notice I said that I USED to get one or two pieces of mail a week there.

My mom passed away last spring. I’m the executor of her estate. One of the first things I did was to have her mail forwarded to my attention. After some thought I decided to have it sent to the PO Box, to help keep it separate from our regular mail.

I was expecting to get her bills, a magazine or two, and an occasional personal letter. And I did, in fact, get all of those.

I also got about 8 million catalogues.

My mom was wheelchair-bound for the last 22 years of her life. I always knew she did a fair amount of shopping by catalogue. It was so much easier for her to browse the pages of a colorful catalogue, buy what she liked and have things delivered to her door versus going out to the mall and trying to carry her purchases on her lap as she wheeled herself around. Of course it made sense she would receive some catalogues.

Often she used to send me pages she’d torn out of a catalogue and ask me to pick things the boys might like for Easter, their birthdays or for Christmas.

I guess I simply had no conception of the number of catalogues she received.

It started slowly at first. About three weeks after her mail started arriving in my PO Box the catalogues came. Two arrived one day, five a few days later, seven or eight the following week.

Two months after it was a deluge of catalogues. 10, 12, 15 a day. Almost every day.

And it never stopped.

Last night it was cold, gray and raining like crazy where we live. For something to do, I took the boys out to McDonalds to play in the indoor play space. On the way we stopped at the post office. I let Tommy have the first turn opening the box and taking the mail out. He turned the key, opened the box and tried to put his hand in the box to get the mail.

He couldn’t get his hand in the box.

“Dad,” he said, “the box is too full. I can’t get anything out!”

I looked inside. The boxed was crammed completely full of catalogues.

I wrestled a few of the catalogues out, let Tommy and Chris pull out the rest, and then we continued to McDonalds. While they were running and climbing around the play space I counted the catalogues that arrived just that day.

There were 22 of them.

I spent the next 20 minutes with my cell phone calling each of the catalogues and asking to be removed from the mailing list. Most of them were gracious and willing to take my mom’s name off the list. But each one of the operators said the same thing:

“Sir, we’ll be happy to take you off our list. However, our catalogues are printed and addressed up to six months ahead of time. You’ll get two or three more catalogues before the change will really take effect.”

That’s great.

And of course it’s the holiday season. Yes, right now. Don’t believe me? Go to your local Costco – the Christmas items are already out for sale.

What that means for me is that even though I’ve been frantically canceling all these catalogues, they will continue to arrive in ever increasing amounts until at least 2006. Christmas is the biggest season for catalogue sales, and I’m sure those ‘pre-printed lists’ run all the way through the holidays. They wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to get their stuff in front of a deceased shopper over Christmas, would they?

It makes me a bit sad to see these catalogues roll in. I know my mom, if she were alive, would be happily flipping through them, pulling out pages, getting her ideas ready for Christmas purchases. I can almost see her, sitting in her wheelchair by her gas fireplace, shawl draped over her shoulders, her favorite classical music playing as she looked for gifts that would delight her grandchildren. She would often tell me how much she enjoyed trying to find that special gift that would surprise and delight the kids.

She was almost always successful.

Go ahead. Call me a wimp, a baby, a momma’s boy. I miss her. And it will be hard this Christmas when those special gifts for the boys don’t arrive. The boys won’t know, I don’t think. But I will. And I won’t be able to call her Christmas night and tell her how excited they were as they opened her packages. I won’t be able to describe the expressions on their faces. And I won’t be able to send the photographs to her and show her just how happy she made them.

So the catalogues will keep coming. And every day I’ll go to the box and let the boys take them out. Maybe by next March things will be back to normal – at least in terms of the volume of mail we’ll get there.

In the meantime, Chris and Tommy get the pleasure of running the house with wide eyes and huge smiles.

“Mommy, guess what? We got eleventy-two magazines at the post office box today!”

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Tommy's tale

2005-10-01T22:20:00.000-06:00

As Emily pointed out, I promised last week that “in my next post” I would tell you about an interesting thing Tommy did over the weekend. Well, I had every intention of doing just that. But then I had to get that TV thing off my chest, and of course I wanted to help Torie and the TCU students.

So now it's time to deliver Tommy's tale. I’ve been kicking around ways to tell the story. The more I think about it, the more I’m not sure I can capture the true essence of it. It’s almost one of those ‘you had to be there' things.

Still, a promise is a promise, so here goes.

Some of you who have kids have, probably, been there. Those who have children in their future, well, you may very well get to experience this as well.

Without further ado…

It was last Saturday afternoon. Fall is in the air and it’s time to get the yard prepped for winter. We have some nice landscaping, but it requires a fair amount of maintenance. I’m out there trimming shrubs, pruning trees, working up a sweat. I’ve got my gloves and sunglasses on. The results of my labor are scattered all over the yard. There is a lot of cleanup to do – I'm guessing a dozen plastic yard bags will be filled before we're done.

Fortunately for me, I have help. Chris and Tommy are on the job. They, too, have their work gloves on – about five sizes too big, but they have them. Sunglasses as well. It’s kind of cute to have them working with me, even if it takes half again as long to get the work done. They are so earnest and try so hard, and take huge pride in scooping up some tree trimmings and dumping them in the bag. They love to ‘help Daddy’ and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

By and by Chris and Tommy tire of this chore and drift away. Chris goes off to ride his bike. Tommy hangs in a bit longer, then disappears into the house. I don’t think much of it – MBW is in there somewhere – and continue to clean up the yard.

After a few minutes I notice Tommy looking out at me from one of the upstairs window. It’s the bathroom window. He must have had to go potty.

I continue to clean up. Every so often I glance up at the window, and Tommy is still there. Watching. Smiling. I smile, wave a gloved hand. He smiles and waves back.

And continues to stand there.

Well, I can see him, and he can’t do much to get in trouble there, so I continue to work, glancing up every so often. All appears well.

After a few more minutes I hear MBW shriek. I look up at the window. Tommy’s not there. So I go in the house, up the stairs and head to the bathroom, where I find

Everything

Covered

In

Poop.

Seems Tommy went in to use the potty and “had a little problem,” as he put it. Whatever the problem was, it led him to experiment with poop as a sort of paint. Delicate strokes of poop trailed expressively across the sink and vanity, over the tub and shower surround, across the recently tiled floor, and of course rubbed vigorously into the rug.

For good measure, he covered a fair amount of himself in it.

The sight was disgusting. The odor was very complimentary to the sight.

I’ve seen my share of nasty diaper blowouts over the past five years. This looked like a diaper bomb went off in the bathroom. I’m surprised the walls were still standing.

MBW was frantically scrubbing Tommy and was, justifiably, pretty upset. I tried to help, taking Tommy into the downstairs bathroom shower, getting him cleaned up and back to normal. I went back to try to help MBW clean the upstairs bathroom, but by then she was just about finished. She was pretty well steamed.

But the bathroom really sparkled!

If you’ve read this blog for awhile you know a bit about Tommy. He is a very spirited three-year-old. He absolutely has a mind of his own and is not easily deterred. While this behavior is extreme, even for him, if I had been traveling and MBW were to ask me over the phone, “Guess who covered himself and half the bathroom in poop?” I’d never say Chris.

Of course Tommy spent a fair amount of time in his room in ‘Time Out’ after that little episode.

When it was all over I had to suppress a chuckle. Leave it to Tommy.

Who knows what he’ll do next?

A special welcome to everyone who has visited this blog from the Southern Living message boards. Special thanks to luvmyhunny for posting the link there. I don’t know you, but thank you for the plug. Welcome to The Family Man blog. If you’d like to learn a bit more about this blog while you’re here, I’ve put links to some of what I consider to be the better posts on the sidebar under the heading Family Album. Please leave a note and let me know if you enjoyed your visit here.

To the other readers who’ve been stopping by for awhile, I’m interested to know what previous posts you’ve enjoyed. Let me know so I can add them to the family album.

Coming in the next few posts I’ll tell you about an interesting phone call I recently received, an idea I have, and a sports-related story.

Plus whatever hijinks Chris and Tommy manage to create!

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Help the students

2005-09-28T18:59:00.000-06:00

Lately my blog has been visited by some students at TCU. They are either taking a class on blogging, or blogging is part of an English class. Some of them have launched their own blogs, one of which you can visit here.

The author of this blog asked me some questions in the comment section of my last post. She is writing a paper that is, at least in part, about blogging. I have answered her questions in the comment section of one of her posts, but told her I would put her questions out to The Family Man readers.

Here are her questions:
Who blogs?
Who is their audience?
What makes a good blog?

If you want to help a student, please visit her blog and give her your thoughts.

We were all students once, after all,

It's great to be The Family Man

TV or not TV

2005-09-27T22:24:00.000-06:00

Our house sits on a corner lot. The terrain slopes gradually downhill away from our home, east to west. Because of this, the style of our home and the retaining wall the original owners put in, our home sits slightly higher than the home on our back yard lot line, the home to our left, and the home kitty-corner to us on the back yard corner. Thanks to a few strategically planted trees, our back yard is relatively private.

The neighbors directly behind us have two young children, both girls. The oldest is just about four; the youngest is probably eighteen months. We know then in passing, waving hello when we happen to pass each other driving in or out of the neighborhood or if we see each other outside on the weekends.

You would think our kids would play together. Sadly, they don’t. It’s not because of cultural issues, neighborly unfriendliness, religious concerns or anything else.

No, it’s simply because their kids never seem to come outdoors.

We live in an area with a wonderful summer climate. In one of the driest states in the USA, we have summers with abundant sunshine and little rain. Our elevation and lack of humidity make for mostly warm, sunny days that are not oppressively hot and rarely humid. In other words, with sunscreen, we have a summer full of days that beg to be enjoyed outdoors.

We take full advantage of it. We’re in our back yard, front yard, one of the local parks, riding our bikes, or hiking in the mountains that are five minutes away by car.

The family behind us, on the other hand, never seems to be outside.

Yet their TV always seems to be on.

I know this because from Chris’s bedroom window we can look right into their living room window. Especially in the evening, the blue glow from their giant screen TV is not just visible, it is dominant.

Think drive-in movie dominant.

My point in spending the first 79 words of this post describing the landscape of our home and our neighbors has a point. I’m not a peeping tom. I don’t get off watching my neighbors with a telescope. But simply due to terrain, an upstairs window of our home lines up, between two trees, directly with what seems to be a family room window in their home, and it’s impossible not to notice the glow of a huge TV after dark.

While Chris gets ready for bed I’ve glimpsed NASCAR races, Monday Night Football and various movies. Sitcoms. Game shows

Often I see cartoons.

And that leads me to think that the TV is on far more often that just in the evening.

We regulate the TV Chris and Tommy watch. They watch Sesame Street, Arthur, or one of their favorite DVDs in the morning, no more than an hour. Sometimes in the afternoon, with the day care provider, they’ll watch a bit more. But once MBW and I are home, the TV is not on weeknights, and rarely on the weekend.

I’m sure I sound like a snob – as if we perceive TV to be some low-class opiate and we’re above all that. Like we are some highbrow intellectuals who only listen to classical music, play Baby Einstein CDs for the kids and only eat organic vegetables and home-grown grain, wearing clothes made from undyed fabric sown in certified sweatshop-free countries.

Trust me, we’re none of that.

But we do think it is important not to use the TV as a babysitter or a substitute for parental involvement. Sure, there are plenty of nights when it is tempting to park the kids in front of the TV, put Shrek in the DVD player and chill. But I’d rather make the time to play, read, or just mess around with Chris and Tommy than watch TV.

Part of this comes from the overall value MBW and I place on TV in the first place. Neither one of us are significant consumers of TV. I like to watch sports, but I’m lucky to catch part of a football game on any given weekend. I like to watch news, but it seems I get most of my news from the Internet these days. I do watch Nightline two or three times a week. Actually, I see more TV at the gym doing cardio than anywhere else. MBW has a couple of shows she likes to watch, but other than one program she isn’t fanatic about remembering to watch it. TV just doesn’t play a significant role in our lives.

This from a guy who made a living in the TV News business for ten years.

By now you’re asking, “Does this post have a point? And if so, would you please get to it?”

Okay.

My point is this. Being an infrequent consumer of TV makes social interaction difficult.

Today, at the office, one of my colleagues was making a point about the product naming exercise we’re currently going through. He said, “Remember that episode of The Simpsons, where Homer helps his long-lost brother come up with a name for a new car?” Everyone in the meeting had seen the episode.

Everyone except me.

I’ve never seen an episode of The Simpsons in its entirety.

I’ve never seen an episode of Seinfeld, Friends, Cheers, or any other recent sitcom start to finish. Lost? That describes me when it comes to discussing TV shows with friends and co-workers. Desperate Housewives? Despite the eye candy, I guess I’m not that desperate. West Wing? I’m not part of that administration.

Alias. I’ve never even seen a complete episode of Alias. And I’m a heterosexual male!

I can’t even name any more TV shows to try to create wordplay from.

Not only that, but if you want to discuss a recent movie, don’t ask me. The last movie I saw in a theater was the most recent Star Wars film, and only because our entire office had the afternoon off to go to a private screening last May. Prior to that, the last movie I saw in a theatre was Polar Express, because we wanted to take Chris and Tommy.

It gets worse.

In my PDA I keep a list of movies that I see advertised, know that I won’t see in the theatre but plan to rent. The idea is that when I go to Blockbuster I’ll have handy a list of films, and won’t have to stumble around the store trying to remember what might have been good.

The problem is I never seem to get there.

Right now the list is at 44 films. Some of the films at the bottom of the list are so old I can’t remember what they are about or why I wanted to watch them. Transporter? Knockaround Guys? Bad Company? Blue Streak? What are those about?

In fact, I can’t remember the last film I crossed off the list.

It’s almost as bad with books – the difference being I love to read, and the choices are too great. Right now, stacked up n my nightstand, are The Historian, Touching the Void, and a biography of Alexander the Great. I’ve recently finished The Dominion of War by Fred Anderson and Andrew Cayton, The Long Emergency by James Howard Kunstler, Collapse! - Why Societies Fail, and Germs, Guns and Steel – the Fates of Human Societies.

If you read this post you already know I’m a nerd.

Now you know that if you want to discuss recent or past episodes of virtually any TV show, you should probably find someone else to talk to.

TV or not TV? If that is the question, I believe I’ve given my answer.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Search me

2005-09-27T07:56:00.000-06:00

I don't normally post at this time of day, but I happened to check my stats early this morning. Once or twice a week I get a referral from a search engine. Usually it is someome searching for 'The Family Man' or 'The Family Man Blog.'

This one was different.

Someone typed this into MSN Search:

he likes to wear woman panties

This blog was the third record served for that search.

For the record, I do not wear women's panties.

But I think what triggered the hit was this post.

It's great to be The Family Man (in boxer briefs).

Tagged again

2005-09-25T21:52:00.000-06:00

Yes, I've been tagged again, courtesty of Jessica.

Still not sure why anyone wants my answers to questions. But I'm a good sport and willing to play along. Following are the questions and my answers.

6 Things I Want To Do:
1. Be a great dad
2. Be a great husband
3. Own my own business
4, 5 and 6 – see this post.

6 Things I Can Do:
1. Make my kids smile and laugh
2. Make MBW laugh
3. Take a good photograph
4. 35 pushups, 3 chinups (and improving)
5. Snow Ski Black Diamond runs
6. Scheme and Dream

6 Things I Can’t Do:
1. Dunk a basketball
2. Bench press my weight (just 10 pounds shy)
3. Retire today without financial worry
4. Hold my liquor
5. Suffer fools lightly
6. Stand hypocrisy

6 Things That Make Me Attractive To The Opposite Sex: (I don’t assume that I am. Perhaps, many years ago, I was. If there was/is anything, it might be the following)
1. Sense of humor
2. Commitment
3. Intelligence
4. Shoulders
5. Eyes
6. Bankroll (ok, see #1)

6 Things I Say All The Time:
1. Tommy!!!!
2. Chris!!!
3. Be careful
4. Please eat your (insert meal)
5. C’mon, fellas….
6. I love you

6 Celebrity Crushes :
None – I honestly don’t follow or care about the whole celebrity thing.

6 Strangers That I've Tagged:
As usual, I won’t tag others, but offer up the opportunity to reply in comments.

Tommy did a really interesting thing this weekend. In my next post I’ll tell you about it.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

S'more of that

2005-09-21T23:16:00.000-06:00

A couple of weeks ago we packed up the Camping Machine and headed off for a long weekend of family bonding around the campfire.

It was with some fanfare that we purchased the Camping Machine earlier this year. After over a year of research, doubt and angst I pulled the trigger on the purchase of a new 27-foot travel trailer. Visions of several summer excursions danced in my head as I imagined the adventure our family would have, modern day pioneers exploring the West in our 20th century Conestoga.

In fact, the reality of the summer was that between soccer, swimming, birthday parties, barbeques, visits from and to out-of-town family and other assorted social obligations, the camping machine left the RV pad all of three times – one of which was to the repair shop.

So as I pulled the rig out of the driveway two weeks ago I had two thoughts – one, I hope we have as much fun as everyone thinks we will, and two, where the hell did the summer go?

Our destination was a large lake, ringed by mountains, named for a large carnivorous mammal. It’s a beautiful lake, large and clear, and surprisingly under-developed in terms of commercial enterprise. It’s a wonderful retreat from our increasingly congested urban valley, about 3 hours in our rearview mirror as we arrived.

Let me preface everything that is to follow by stating clearly, for the record, I consider what we did as Camping. I respect the opinion of those who beg to differ, but the facts are these. We cooked (most of) our meals over an open flame. We slept in sleeping bags. We had a campfire, ate at a wooden picnic table, and had s’mores. Our campsite had real trees

The fact that we slept in a trailer with a furnace, hot water, refrigerator, microwave, and electricity has no bearing on the definition of camping.

Look, we did without TV and internet access, for Pete’s sake! How much more ‘roughing it’ do you expect?

I’ve done my share of the tent thing. I spent three nights in a tent in Yellowstone National Park, in July, freezing my butt off. I spent a night at 11,500 feet at the base of our state’s tallest mountain before reaching the summit the following afternoon. I’ve gone three days on pop-tarts, trail mix, protein bars and Gatorade powder.

But these days I’m an old man, with young kids. I want to have fun, positive family experiences in the outdoors. My days of proving, or perhaps disproving, my manhood as it relates to Grizzly Adams are long past.

What I do want is to spend quality time with my family outdoors. I want to spend time with my boys doing things, not watching other people do things. We live in such a beautiful state with exceptional recreational opportunities that it would be a shame not to take advantage of them. And that their ages right now, the Camping Machine is a great way to do it.

So we set up ‘camp’ at the local KOA (stop laughing!). The boys thought it was a great adventure watching dad try to park the trailer, unhook it from the Burbus Maximus, make it level and get it connected to the water and power. Sort of like unhitching the Wagon, setting up the cookfire, tying off the horses and preparing the campsite 150 years ago along the Oregon Trial.

Well, maybe not JUST like that. But something like it.

With camp set and the watch posted, we went down to the lake. Unlike many mountain lakes, this one has a beach of sorts. The water was clear, shallow and surprisingly warm. Chris and Tommy had a great time splashing around in the water, playing with their trucks in the sand, and chasing the seagulls. Yes, there are seagulls here at this lake. We watched the jet skis and the water skiers glide across the smooth, glassy waters. A paraglider sailed serenely overhead. It was a wonderful afternoon.

Soon it was time to head back to the campsite. After a quick visit to the convenience store (stop laughing!!!) we fired up the cookfire and made dinner. Beans and hardtack. Okay, maybe not exactly, but with a bit of imagination the hamburgers, hot dogs and brats could sort of be like that.

Then it was time for the s’mores.

Chris and Tommy have never had s’mores before. As you might expect, they adored the s’mores. They wanted more and more s’mores. I don’t abhor the thought of more s’mores, but I don’t want you to be bored with more s’more stories (stop snoring).

So I’ll just say the s’mores were more of a hit that I’d thought before. Nobody was bored with the s’mores. They wanted more. At least four more. Four score more.

Sadly, soon the sun set on the s’moregasborg of s’mores and it was time for bed. I’d selected a couple of moderately scary books to read as bedtime stories for this trip. As we all lay cuddled up in the sleeping bags in the warmth and comfort of the camping machine (stop laughing) I read the stories, tucked the boys in, and turned out the lights.

Just at that moment, a character long thought dead and vanquished made a surprise appearance.

Vampickle crept into the trailer and slaked his terrible thirst on the tickles and laugher of Chris and Tommy! Oh, the horror! I don’t know which was worse – the squealing, helpless laugher of my two sons, or the thought of one of the worst characters in blog history having the audacity to show his hideous face in my camping machine.

Yet Vampickle was quickly vanquished, and the boys fell asleep, exhausted with all the work of roughing it in the deep woods by the shore of the mountain lake named for the large carnivorous mammal.

MBW and I stepped back outside into the chill of the mountain evening and pulled up chairs next to the glowing campfire. Sitting side by side, holding hands, saying little. Gazing up at the stars. So many more stars are visible here than back in our yard, our ¼ acre patch of suburban bliss in the bowels of the congested urban valley.

Don’t get me wrong – our home and our neighborhood are very nice. We are fortunate to have what we have and live where we live. Still, the air is cleaner here at the campsite. The stars are brighter and we can see more of them. It’s a reminder that there is more to life than the daily routine we live every day in The City and its Suburbs.

We need to get up here more often.

And we will.

By and by the fire burned low, and MBW and I went back into the trailer. Checked on the boys – sound asleep. Adjusted the thermostat up a bit to take off that slight chill. Snuggled into our sleeping bag.

After a while, actually slept.

The long weekend was over much too quickly. After more swimming, a bit of hiking, some sightseeing and some more s’mores (would you like a bit more detail on that? No? Why not?) it was time to break camp. Which we did, much to the amusement of the boys watching Dad wrestle with the task of hooking the Camping Machine up to the Burbus Maximus.

The ride home was not nearly as fun as the ride up. Still, at least there was no bad news waiting for me when I got home.

With MBW and the boys in the house, I worked on unhooking the Camping Machine from the Burbus Maximus and stowing our gear. We had a great trip. I wish we had found the time to do a few more trips like that this summer.

I was thinking that summer ended much too quickly. Even more that that, with Chris starting kindergarten, it occurred to me that we only have 12 summers left before he’ll be off to college. As I mentioned before, him starting kindergarten does not make me sad. It’s the idea that these times, like the weekend we just experienced, are limited. They’ll go by so very, very quickly. I have to make sure to get the most out of the time we have, to make every summer count. I don’t want to look back and wish we had done more.

Yes. I want s’more of that, please.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Special K

2005-09-18T22:03:00.000-06:00

A couple of weeks ago Chris started kindergarten. This is a pretty big deal. Our first son, off to kindergarten. Growing up. Away from home, in formal education, five days a week.

So why am I not wistful, sad, feeling depressed?

From what I have read, been told and seen firsthand, I should be feeling all of these things.

MBW is feeling a bit of this, although not much. Part of the reason, I think, is that she is his kindergarten teacher. So her emotions are a bit different from many moms who have sent their children off to kindergarten.

I’m actually very happy for Chris. He is a very friendly, outgoing boy. The social experience will be great for him. He will thrive in kindergarten. When I get home from work he is very excited to tell me about his day. He’s making friends, having fun, and, as an added bonus, learning some things.

I do feel some sadness about Chris going to kindergarten, though it has nothing to do with Chris.

I feel badly for Tommy.

Since MBW and I both work outside the home, we needed daycare when Chris was born. Rather than go to a drop off daycare facility, we hired a woman to come to our house to take care of him. This continued when Tommy was born. So both Chris and Tommy have grown up playing together in our home. Chris had two years by himself, but Tommy has never known a day without Chris in the house.

Now Chris is gone five days a week for about three hours. And Tommy is sad.

So we have Tommy going to a preschool for a couple of hours two days a week, and MBW has some play dates set up for him each week. Still, it is frustrating to Tommy – once again, Chris gets to do something he cannot do.

I mentioned in an earlier post that Tommy called MBW ‘stupid’ when he was having an issue over something. Some readers pointed out that this is more than ‘spirited’ behavior, and is in fact disrespectful. I agree, and perhaps the tone of that post was a bit more frivolous than I intended it to be. What I have come to realize, in the past couple of weeks, is that Tommy is using the word ‘stupid’ to express his frustration at things that he feels are beyond his ability to control. He’s now saying, for example, that it is ‘stupid’ to be little. He says this because ‘big boys’ go to kindergarten, ‘big boys’ get to ride in ‘big boy’ car seats, and ‘big boys’ get to ride bikes without training wheels. Most of all, ‘big boys’ get to go to ‘real school’ and Tommy only gets to go to ‘preschool.’

All of this is, of course, ‘stupid.’

So I have spent quite a bit of time with Tommy lately, trying to tell him that these things are not stupid, that he is a big boy, just a big younger, and he will get to do all of these things very soon. Of course, very soon in ‘Tommy Time’ is five minutes from now. And I understand that what I am saying to him is not really helping very much. I’m just trying to let him know I’m listening to him, that I am empathetic to his feelings, and that I will make sure he gets to have a chance to do things as well.

Is it working? Who knows? But I’m trying.

Meanwhile, Chris is thriving.

So I went to Back to School night last week, where all the parents go to see their child’s classroom, meet the teacher, and learn about what to expect in the coming year. This is especially important for first time kindergarten parents. Chris’s classroom is full of colorful charts with letters, words, numbers and pictures. It is a very happy, friendly place. There are books everywhere, art easels, and an aquarium with fish. His teacher is very nice – fifteen years experience, graduate degree, committed to making the world a better place for children. It’s going to be a great year for him

Not to mention the fact that she is exceptionally fine looking. So I’m looking forward to parent-teacher conferences this year!

At the end of Back to School night the teacher handed out a packet of information to each of the parents. In the packet were a few sheets of work the children had already done in the first few days of school. The first page was a self portrait, and Chris did a reasonably good job. The second was a page where he had written his name - needs some work, but I could read it. The third page was a list of ‘favorites’ – favorite color (he colored a green circle), favorite food (he drew something resembling a slice of pizza) and his favorite thing to do.

In that area he drew something I could not quite interpret.

Below the drawing, the teacher had written in what he told her he had drawn.

It said, “Playing with my dad.”

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Busy Signals

2005-09-12T22:28:00.000-06:00

The lack of posting is not really due to the football season. I've been exceptionally busy with work the past few days and I'm going to be out of touch for the next few days as well. I hope to have a new post before the weekend.

Thanks for your understanding.

It's (usually) great to be The Family Man.

Bloggus Interruptus

2005-09-09T21:40:00.000-06:00

We interrupt this blog for the start of Football Season.

The quantity and quality of any future posts will depend heavily on the success, or lack thereof, the New York Giants and Syracuse Orange football teams enjoy this season.

It looks like its going to be a long year.

To Do list

2005-09-06T17:59:00.000-06:00

Once summer morning about 12 years ago, when I was a TV news cameraman, I was diverted on my way into the TV station to cover a single-vehicle rollover accident on a rural highway outside of town.

I arrived on the scene and was stopped by the Highway Patrol. Beyond the patrol car I could see a pickup truck lying upside down on the side of the roadway. From the marks on the road and the condition of the truck it was clear the truck had rolled multiple times, literally cartwheeling down the pavement, ejecting contents of the vehicle with each bounce. One of those items, about halfway between where I stood and where the truck came to rest, was a single body, covered by a sheet.

Over the course of my 10+ year career at a TV news photographer I’ve seen my share of injured and dead people. This one, seen from a distance and covered by a sheet, was not abnormally upsetting. Not to be callous about it, but wasn’t something that haunted me. I felt sorry for the individual, his family and loved ones, to be sure, but in terms of visually disturbing images, this one was not particularly horrific.

No, what struck me about this accident was one of the first items to be ejected from the truck as it rolled, and therefore closest to my vantage point. It was a daily planner, one of those leather, loose leaf binders with a set of daily or weekly pages. It happened to be lying open on the road. Using my camera I zoomed in on the planner, and while I couldn’t make out any of the words, it looked to me like a to-do list.

A list of items that now would never be completed.

A list, no doubt similar to my own, the one in the planner on the dashboard of my news vehicle.

I’ve never forgotten the feeling I had that morning, wondering what that person had planned to do, and now no longer would. Wondering what items would forever be unchecked.

Fast forward a few years, to 1999 or 2000. No longer a TV News guy, I’m now a white-collar mid-level Advertising Executive. The Wall Street Journal hits my desk every morning. Flipping through it one day, I come across an article about a man name Ted Leonsis, an executive with AOL. The article praises his ability to prioritize his multiple responsibilities and get an incredible amount of work done, while still maintaining a balanced, fulfilling personal life. He attributes this ability to a single, defining moment in his life. I clipped the paragraph out of the paper and kept it in my planner – I still have it to this day. It reads as follows:

‘One of his defining moments, he says, came in 1986,
when he was flying to Atlanta and the plane made an
emergency landing in safety foam. “I said, ‘God, if I live,
I will play offense with the rest of my life,’” Mr. Leonisis
recounts. So he set out to create a list of 101 things he
wanted to do before he dies, including hitting a
hole-in-one, catching a foul ball and entering
outer space. To date, he has done 61 of them.’

I was impressed with one line in particular – “I will play offense with the rest of my life.” What a great philosophy. Live as though you are trying to score, trying to make things happen, trying to accomplish something. I resolved to do exactly that.

Sadly, several years later, I have to confess that I have not lived up to my goal.

In fact, one could make the case that I should be nominated for Defensive Player of the Year.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I have plenty of to-do lists, and I cross things off them every day. Work lists – projects, meetings, reports – all listed, all accounted for, all regularly checked as Completed. Personal lists – birthdays, anniversaries, soccer games – duly noted, not forgotten, appropriate actions taken – Check. Honey-Do lists, household projects, all listed…not always checked off as often as others might like, but progress made nonetheless. Check.

No, what’s missing is The List. The 101 things, or whatever the number is, to do before I die. The Offensive Game Plan, if you will.

For try as I might, I have not been able to come up with items important enough, meaningful enough, to place on that list, and to strive to then cross off that list.

And having recently stood on my own gravesite (granted, I’m not in it yet), I’m feeling a bit of urgency to get a list made and make some plans to accomplish something.

Compounding the issue, I’m also at the age where a mid-life crisis is, while not imminent, certainly a possibility in the not-to-distant future.

The problem I have is trying to determine what is worthy of being placed on such a list. I think it would be relatively easy to make a list of things that might be fun to do, interesting to say that you did, but not necessarily worth devoting an inordinate amount of time to achieving. Using Ted’s list, for example, he mentions hitting a hole-in-one and catching a fly ball as things he wants to do before he dies. I think, while I would happily do either one, I’m not going to make a priority of doing those things. Sure, I’d like to hit a hole-in-one, but I’m not going to get out and play golf four or five times a week until it happens. I’m not going to go to dozens or hundreds of baseball games, strategically sitting in zones where foul balls are often hit, just for the opportunity to catch one. For me, those things would be nice if they happened serendipitously, but they are not things I personally consider worth pursuing.

For me, the list should include things that are worth pursuing – making a conscious, concerted effort to achieve.

One thing on my list is to one day own my own business. That is something I want to do. I’ve taken steps along the way to make that possible, and I continue to do so. I do believe someday I will do that.

Another thing I want to do is attend a game in the championship series of each of the four major professional sports – The World Series, The Super Bowl, The NBA Finals and The Stanley Cup Finals. To date I have done two of those – I’ve been to an NBA Finals game, and I’ve been to a Stanley Cup Finals game (in Madison Square Garden, no less!). Two down, two to go. I’d like to do the last two with Chris and Tommy, one day – perhaps go back and do all four with them. Is that an accomplishment, or an indulgence? Probably mostly the latter. But it’s on my list

Still, it seems like there should be more.

Also, I’m not talking about the things that, to me, are obvious, no-brainer, things to be expected. Being a responsible, involved parent. Being a faithful husband. Being a good role model for my kids. Being a good friend, being a contributing member of my society. Yes, I expect to look back on my life and acknowledge that I have done those things. But is that really an accomplishment? It seems to me that anything less is failure, not something to be recognized as outstanding. That is the bar – not exceeding the bar.

I want to look back on my life and point to certain things that I can justifiably feel good about accomplishing. I want to look back on a life lived, not a life existed. It’s not about leaving a legacy; it’s about leaving with few regrets. I don’t want to look back and have my list be full of “I wish I had…”

As I read this it seems like the post is getting very morbid. That’s not the intent. We’re all going to die one day. But for me, sometimes it takes contemplating death to force me to try to make the most of life.

It’s all too easy to get caught up in getting through each day, fulfilling all of the obligations that come with a modern life. Professional responsibilities, family responsibilities. Employee, husband, father. Often, at the end of each day, it’s considered a success if nothing has fallen through the cracks, if nothing major was forgotten or left undone.

More and more, it seems, I’m simply keeping up with the treadmill, not sliding off the back. And considering that successful.

Less and less, it’s about personal fulfillment, accomplishment, achievement.

The equation has to change.

I think the way to make the change is to make the list. It gets back to the to-do list. If it’s on the list, you have the obligation to get it off the list. You commit to doing it. It sits there, reminding you, badgering you, challenging you to knock it off.

Maybe many of you don’t share my feelings on this. That’s fine. I’ve been told by people close to me, including MBW, that I am extremely introspective, often hard on myself, and have unrealistic expectations about what I need to accomplish.

Perhaps that is true.

Still, that’s how I feel. The older I get, the faster time seems to go. Days become weeks, weeks become months. Especially when you have young children. Here is my observation about the nature of time when you have small children – any given day can last for what seems to be forever. Yet the weeks, months and years go by at light speed. One day when your kid is sick, or the weather is too nasty to go outdoors, it can take forever for bedtime to roll around. Yet the next thing you know, your kid is off to kindergarten. High school. College.

And all the while, time is running out to do those things you want to do, or think you want to do, or even want to make time to decide if you really want to do.

At some point, it becomes too late. It becomes, “I wish I had…”

I already have a closet full of things I wish I had done. What it that saying? You most regret the things you didn’t do, not the things you did.

Hey…I resemble that remark!

It’s time to revisit the playbook – the Offensive playbook. It’s time to look for the Flea Flicker, the Statue of Liberty, the End Around. To find those things that are meaningful enough to commit to doing. Those things that I’ll look back on one day and say, “I’m glad I did…” instead of “I wish I had…”

Find them, put them on the list, and knock the suckers off.

Before my metaphorical pickup truck cartwheels down that old rural highway.

When someone picks up my planner off that cold pavement and looks at my to-do list, I want them to see checkmarks in boxes. To ask, “Did he really do these things?”

To which, from the great beyond, I’ll say, “Damn right I did.’

I’ll put together my list, over time, and post updates here in this space.

If you care.

And now, to bring this back full circle to my last post.

What’s on YOUR list?

Tag.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Tag

2005-08-31T23:22:00.000-06:00

While I’ve seen this tag thing play out on other blogs, I never really quite got it. But now that I have been ‘tagged,’ courtesy of Helen, author of Life In Texas, I guess I should participate, even if my answers might not be very entertaining. I'm honored to have been selected.

Before we get to the ‘tag’ questions, and my answers, let me say that this exercise sort of leads into something I’ve been working on for awhile. In my next post I will put a different spin on the whole ‘ask strangers some questions and see what the answers are’ concept. Because lately I’ve been struggling with some questions of my own, I’m not sure I have the answers, and maybe writing the post will help me achieve some clarity.

But that’s for next time. This post is my ‘tag’ response. Remember, I’m just answering the questions I’ve been asked.

1. What is the ratio of sexy panties to granny panties currently in your possession?

I don’t wear panties. However, I have not seen anything resembling ‘granny’ panties in our house in a long time.

2. Pretend you won one of those "Make your dream come true" deals that Oprah is always giving away. What would you ask for?

Maxed out college funds for Chris and Tommy.

3. Describe your high school days in one word.

Forgettable.

4. If you could shag any celebrity in the world who would be your top three picks?

This is the honest truth, and I’m not just saying this because MBW reads this blog. I am so out of touch with the celebrity scene I cannot come up with three names. I guess I am attracted to young, slender and sexy…which describes my wife.

5. If you had all the money in the world, more money than you could spend in four lifetimes, would you eat some?

No, but I’d see to it that more people had enough to eat.

6. Tag three people.

Rather than choose three specific people, I’ll throw this out to everyone reading this. If you care to participate, leave your responses in the comment section for all to see.

So there it is, my first game of tag. I assume my responses are so lame that I will not be tagged again. Not that I mind, but surely there are more interesting responses to be found.

With that said, my next post will explore the ‘question and answer’ exercise a bit more.

It’s probably not great to play Tag with The Family Man (unless you are Chris or Tommy, in which case you can’t get enough!).

The Trouble with Tommy

2005-08-30T23:50:00.000-06:00

If you’ve been reading this blog for awhile you’ve read the stories where Chris and Tommy are transformed into adults in various eras – Ancient Rome, The Wild West. In each case I’ve tried to project their current personality into the adult characters they’ve become for that particular story. So you may have a sense, if you’ve read those stories, about how each boy differs from the other.

Let me preface what I’m going to say next with a disclaimer – both boys are young. I’m not trying to typecast them or label them in any way. The personality traits they exhibit a year from now may be very different from how they act today. They may, in fact, both grow up to be model citizens; fine, upstanding young men.

Having said that, it’s also quite possible one of them might give me a heart attack before he becomes a teenager.

Can you guess which one?

Chris is a lot like me. Too much, perhaps. Physically he is, and pretty much has been since the day he was born, a dead ringer for me. His personality is similar to mine as well. He is thoughtful, considerate, a bit introspective (as much as one can be at age five). He wants to please, he hates to disappoint. He’s a very social boy, likes to make friends, and he generally gets along with and plays well with others. He will usually do as he’s told, follow the rules, and work within the system.

He does have an impish streak. He will occasionally tease his brother or play a trick on him, but it is usually in fun and not mean-spirited. He’s a bit possessive over his toys, but what kid isn’t at this age? Even when he’s acting a bit naughty, more often than not we can reason with him and help him solve problems by talking through the different ways they might be handled. Usually he’ll see the light and choose the right solution.

Tommy, on the other hand, is none of the above.

Tommy Two-Gun. Tomas’ the Fierce.

Tommy is a maverick. A spitfire. If he doesn’t get his way, he’s as likely to take a swing at you as he is to cry and stomp his feet. If he doesn’t care for his dinner, he might sit there and chew one bite for ten full minutes. He might sit there and not eat it at all. He might just get up and walk away from the table. Or he might, as he did the other night, take his peas, one by one, and launch them across the kitchen. Laughing all the while.

He has his own time zone. Tommy Standard Time. Which means that he’ll go somewhere when he’s good and ready. Not when everyone else is ready – when he’s ready. Example - we’re trying to leave the grocery store the other evening, and he’s looking at the gumball vending machine.

“Tommy, come on, time to go home.”

“Okay, dad.” Not moving.

“Tommy, come on!”

“Okay, dad.” Not moving.

“TOMMY!”

He turns, looks at me, exasperation written all over his little face.

“Just a minute, okay? Geez!”

As I turn to walk back and physically lift him off his feet, he begins to walk toward me. Slowly.

For every Tommy story I have, MBW has ten. She’s home with both boys during the summer when school is out. Virtually every evening when I come home from work I hear the latest chapter in The Saga of Tommy.

Chapter 12 – Tommy hit and pinched Chris for no reason.

Chapter 19 – Tommy dumped the Ant Farm on the floor “just to see what would happen.”

Chapter 31 – Tommy knocked over Chris’ tower of blocks, then threw one of the blocks and hit Chris in the head. For fun.

Chapter 44 – He hit MBW and, when she packed him off to sit on his bed, called her “stupid.”

Chapter 60 – Tommy pulled all the leaves off one of the houseplants and threw them all over the living room like confetti.

There are more. You get the idea.

This past weekend we had dinner on our back deck. It’s a lovely place to sit in the evening with a cool breeze blowing. Perhaps because it feels more relaxed and casual, Tommy decides he can lean backing his chair, put his feet on the table, and eat his dinner with his fingers.

“Tommy, get your feet off the able and sit up straight, please,” I said.

He looks at me, smiles, does nothing.

“Tommy, do the right thing.”

A bigger smile.

“Tommy, take your feet off the table or you’re going to your room!”

A grin like you wouldn’t believe.

It isn’t until I start to push back from the table that he quickly lowers his legs and sits up straight, all the while with a twinkle in his eyes.

He’s won again.

The other night MBW and I were talking about him. “He’s driving me crazy,” she says. “I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do!”

I nod my head seriously, agree with her, maintain a very earnest and frank expression on my face. Acknowledge that is it very frustrating. Promise to consider different ways to reign in this wild behavior. Assure her that I’m with her, that we are a united front against the Disruptive Force that is Tommy.

With MBW safely in bed, my own smile creeps across my face.

Because, honestly, I admire the kid.

I love his spunk, his attitude, his willingness to be his own person. While any given individual expression of this personality may be inappropriate, and while we do need to provide rules and structure for his behavior, I refuse to try to crush the independent, maverick spirit he seems to have.

Chris is in the 95% for height among kids his age. He’s got wonderful motor skills. He can run, throw, hit a ball like nobody’s business. Tommy, on the other hand, is in the 23% for height among kids his age. He’s underweight, plus he has asthma. He’s had far more medical issues in his young life than Chris ever had.

But what he lacks right now in physical stature or stamina, he more than makes up in attitude. He is fierce. He won’t back down. He may lose, but he’s never beaten. He’ll go toe-to-toe with Chris, and often get the best of him. And while I don’t condone fighting between the two of them by any means, it does happen, and it’s interesting to me to see how when I get there to break things up it is, more often than not, Tommy who’s gotten the best of it.

I said at the beginning of this post that Chris is more like me. The truth is I wish I had some of Tommy in me. So I’m not going to try to take it out of him.

The world needs people like me. Ordinary men, doing the right thing. Chris, it appears, is on that path. Get an education, get a job, pay your taxes, raise your family, be a productive, contributing member of society.

The world needs mavericks, too. Risk takers. Individuals unafraid to be who they are, go their own way, march to the drummer only they can hear. Maybe Tommy will be one of those men.

He’s certainly one of those boys right now.

Will I work to provide boundaries, set expectations, enforce consequences for him? Absolutely.

Will I crush his spirit, make him conform, break his will? No way in hell.

Maybe we should all spend a day, now and then, in the Tommy Standard Time zone.

It sounds like fun to me!

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Shopping Spree

2005-08-28T21:45:00.000-06:00

I’m not a guy who enjoys shopping. I only go when I desperately need something, and even then, I’m in and out as quickly as possible.

The exceptions are books – I love to browse a good bookstore; and gadgets. I could spend a few minutes at Best Buy.

But for most things, I don’t subscribe to the Shopping as Sport theory.

But yesterday I went shopping for something I never imagined I would do. Fortunately, I’ll never have to do it again.

Yesterday I bought my own gravesite.

I should back up a bit to put this in context.

If you’ve read this blog for awhile you know my mother passed away this past spring. She had wanted to be cremated, and we scattered her ashes in the ocean at Nags Head, North Carolina.

But I kept a small amount of her ashes, with the idea that I would buy a burial plot for her back here where we live. Although our family is not originally from this part of the country, we’ve lived here for awhile. This place is home now for me, especially since my children were born here. My mom lived here, too, for many years, and in the last year of her life she told me a couple of time she wished she had never left. So there is a case to be made that this could be her final resting place.

Selfishly, I want to have a burial site for her here so I can bring Chris and Tommy to her grave on Memorial Days. Though they never really knew her while she was alive, I’d like them to understand a part of their heritage, their family history.

I told MBW about this plan, and she was on board with the idea. But then she took it one step further.

“Why don’t you buy three plots?” she said.

“Um, why should I do that?”

“Buy two for us,” she said, “so she won’t be there all alone.”

That was one of the most touching things she has ever said.

Both my wife and I are transplants to this city and state. We have no ancestors buried anywhere near here. There isn’t a ‘family plot,’ for either one of our families of origin, within 750 miles. So it is true that if we buried my mothers’ ashes here, she would be ‘alone,’ as far as being near relatives.

Honestly, I don’t think my mom would care. But I was so moved by what MBW said that I decided to do it.

So I went out shopping for gravesites.

I walked into the cemetery office and the woman at the desk said, “May I help you?”

“Yes,” I said, “I’d like to buy some burial plots.”

She picked up a walkie-talkie and said, “Doug, a customer is here; come in and show the property please.”

Show the property?

Yes, they sell this like real estate. Which, I guess, technically it is. But I wasn’t prepared to be taken around in a golf cart and given the sales pitch.

Doug drove me around the office and up a hill. He pulled over, we got out, and as we walked he gave me his pitch. “It’s one of the best values in the area,” he said. “It goes up in value every year. You’re making a wise decision to buy now, to lock in the savings. It will cost far more in the future, when you actually need it. Also, it makes sense not to burden your heirs with having to do this for you.”

He stopped, pointed to an area with no markers, and said, “This is a lovely section, with several nice sites left. From here you have both mountain and valley views.”

Mountain and valley views?

He’s selling me a view lot!

Um…how well can you enjoy this view from SIX FEET UNDER?

But I didn’t say that. I know he’s talking about the view for the people who will come to visit. Us, for now, when we pay respects to my mom. Perhaps some day in the future, Chris and Tommy will come to pay respects to MBW and I. Chris will turn to Tommy and say, “That’s vintage Dad. Even dead, he has to have a nice view.”

Or maybe they’ll have moved far away, and it won’t matter.

I went ahead and bought the property. The view lots. Paid cash. Gave the manager my mothers’ ashes. By the time this is posted, she’ll be laid to rest. There will be no ceremony – we’ve already done that, exactly as she wished. No, this is for me, for my boys, for some small sense of family, of heritage, of history.

Sometime between now and Memorial Day I will buy a marker for her, have it placed on her grave. There’s no rush.

And next spring, on Memorial Day, we’ll go up there and place flowers on her grave. Say a few words. Start a family tradition.

It’s weird, in a way, to stand on the place where you know, one day, you are going to be laid to rest. I don’t know if we will move someday, buy a new house, a vacation property, whatever. I may live in many places, or I may never move again. But I have now bought my final home.

And I learned something else in this whole process that I found interesting.

It turns out you can buy one burial plot, but have two people buried in it. Doug explained it like this:

“You can, if you choose, bury two family members in the same plot. They will each have their own casket. When one person dies, they will be buried in the plot. When the second person dies, the grave will be dug up to just above the first casket, and the second casket laid just over the top of the first one.”

“It’s more economical,” he said. “Many couples choose this option. Some have said they want to be as close in eternity as they were in life.”

Personally, I think once you’re dead, none of that matters. But you never know.

So I bought two plots. One for my mom. And one for MBW and I. It was the economical choice. Those view lots are pretty pricey.

It’s statistically likely that I will die before MBW. Hopefully, not soon. But when that day comes, she knows where to put me. And I’ll wait there until her time comes as well. I hope she takes a long time to join me.

But when it finally happens, I told her how it’s going to play out. When her time finally comes, they’re going to dig all the way down and get my box out of the ground. She’s going in first. Then they’re going to open my casket, flip me over, close me back up and put me down on top.

She smiled when I told her.

That night we ‘celebrated the joy of being alive,’ if you get my drift. We both had a chuckle, afterward, thinking about that position for eternity.

I read a quote once, somewhere –‘You’re a long time dead.’

So you might as well make sure your ‘final position’ is comfortable.

From a view lot, no less!

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Dad I Am

2005-08-25T23:04:00.000-06:00

MBW and Chris are visiting her sister and family. I am charged with giving Tommy, a notoriously finicky eater, his dinner.

All by myself.

What you are about to read is true.

“Dad I Am! I’m Dad I Am!
Here with your dinner, delicious lamb!
Along with butter, bread and jam,
And some fine green beans and yams!

“Daddy, Daddy, Dad-I-Am,
Yes I’ll eat this scrumptious lamb
I’d even eat a can of Spam,
But I won’t eat green beans and yams.

“Tommy, eat them, yes you should
I know you’d love them, yes you would!
Try them once, I know you could,
If you did, you’d know they’re good!

“Daddy, Daddy, you should know,
Into my mouth they will not go.
I tell you this; it’s not for show,
I will not eat them, never…NO!

“Tommy, try them, just for me,
If you did, you’d surely see
Just how good these foods can be
And that would make me so happy!

“Dad-I-Am, please here me now
I will not eat them, no way, no how.
This food’s not fit for a mangy cow,
It belongs on a garbage scow.

“Now, now, Tommy; that’s not nice,
I’ve said it once; I’ll say it twice,
Eat it warm or cold as ice,
If you don’t eat it, you’ll pay the price

“Dad-I-Am, you should just quit
For I will simply throw a fit,
Then chew some up and simply spit,
And then I would be done with it

“Tommy, son, what must I do
To somehow get this through to you,
You must eat this, yes, it’s true,
Or else you will be feeling blue

“To eat this, dad, I will not stoop
For all I know, it tastes like poop!
Get it together, try to regroup,
‘Cause I’m not going to eat this goop!

“Eat it, eat it, yes you will
Leave this table you won’t, until
You will surely get your fill
Even if it tastes like swill!

“Daddy, watch me, watch me run,
Away from the table, it’s so much fun!
Outside into the evening sun
Now I’m gone, dinner’s done!

“Tommy, boy, you’d best get back
Before I really blow my stack!
How is it you have such a knack
For giving me a heart attack!

“Hee, hee, hee; it’s such a joy
To be your favorite naughty boy!
To play you like my favorite toy
Is something I so much enjoy!

“I’m prepared to try most anything!
Would you eat them on a swing?
Would you eat them while I sing?
While I blow bubbles from a ring?

“I will not eat them on a swing,
I do not want to hear you sing.
You can’t blow bubbles from a ring,
I won’t eat these for anything!

“Will you eat them in the car
Traveling from near to far?
Gazing at an evening star?
Or how ‘bout sitting at a bar?

“I will not eat them in a car
Not near or far, not under a star
Mommy won’t let me in the bar,
You should just put them in a jar.

“Speaking of Mommy, she’ll be mad
Not to mention really sad
That not one bit of this you’ve had
She’ll think I am an awful Dad

“That’s too bad for you, old man,
Although I truly understand,
I hate to put you in a jam
But I won’t eat them, Dad-I-am!

“Son, my love for you is strong
But what you’re doing now is wrong
You cannot keep this up for long
In your mouth this food belongs

“I hate to be so blunt, old Pop
But now it’s time for you to stop
I will not eat that awful slop
Not one bite, no single drop

“You are driving me insane
My head hurts now with awful pain
It’s really quite a bad migraine
I cannot go through this again

“Like thread unwinding from a spool,
Dad-I-Am, you’ve lost your cool.
You’re acting like a crazy fool,
Go cool off in the swimming pool.

“Tommy, yes, my face is red,
Veins are throbbing in my head
My patience worn down to a thread
I cannot wait to go to bed.

“Face it, Dad, this game is done
It was over before it begun
You have lost and I have won
And I have really had some fun!

“You may think you’ve won today
But hear now what I have to say
You may think its fun and play
But regret this, you will, one day!

“Dad-I-Am, don’t be so curt
Just ‘cause your feelings I hurt
And sweaty stains now soak your shirt,
Just tell me this – What’s For Dessert?

It’s great to be The Family Man!

Bust

2005-08-23T23:58:00.000-06:00

Well, apparently VamPickle was a bust.

Judging from the response to my last post, the story of VamPickle, the not-quite a vampire, the Vampire who tickles, did not enthrall the vast majority of the audience. So we’ll cut right to the chase, and then move on.

I am Vampickle.

It’s a game I occasionally play with Chris and Tommy, who love to get into their Superman and Batman outfits and play Superheroes. All Superheroes need a super villain. In previous play they have vanquished Doctor Stinker. I thought they would enjoy a having a new evildoer to test themselves against, so I created VamPickle.

Chris and Tommy love to do battle with VamPickle.

But apparently I did not tell the story well enough to make it really engaging. Hey, you win some, you lose some.

I guess my point is simply this. I try hard to engage my kids in fun, interesting play. I want to stimulate their minds, be involved with them, and create a bond with them. Sure, right now they are only five and three years old. I don’t think I can remember a single thing from when I was that age. But I do remember my mom and dad interacting with me throughout my childhood. I remember always feeling like my mom and dad were there for me, would make time for me, would put down what they were doing and listen to me if I needed to talk to them.

I want my boys to feel the same way about me.

And to some extent I feel the same when it comes to blogging. It would not be very interesting if my post said, “Today I tickled Chris and Tommy. They laughed. We had fun. Then everyone went to bed. The End.”

Not only is there no passion, energy and excitement in a post like that, it doesn’t convey what actually transpired.

If you’re going to make the time to read this blog, I want to make it worth your while. And I think at some level I’ve been successful. I know several readers come back a few times each week and are kind enough to leave encouraging comments. I know others stop by regularly and choose to remain silent, and that’s fine as well. I look at the site statistics, and though readership has dropped by about half since I am no longer linked to a very popular blog, there are still quite a few people who visit this site.

So I try to convey some of the sense of fun and engagement I have with my boys into this blog. I tell stories. I try to make it interesting. I try to put into words the pure love I have for my kids, my wife, and my life.

I love my life. I am truly blessed.

Yet as I mentioned recently, I am an Ordinary Man. The stories are simple. They will appeal to some people and not to others. It’s just another slice of life, posted on the Internet, for the viewing pleasure of those who choose to read it.

There’s only so much a person can say about their life.

So I hope you’ll put up with the occasional post that falls a bit flat. Because, truth be told, Life occasionally has its flat moments. As wonderful as my life is, there are stretches, believe it or not, where nothing very interesting happens. So I sit here in front of the keyboard and think to myself, “What the hell can I say tonight? Why should anyone care? I need to post something…”

And that’s when VamPickle raised his ugly head.

My final thought tonight is this. Thank you, each of you, who make time out of your day to check in on the Family Man, his two wonderful boys, his absolutely spectacular wife, and his rambling, verbose posts. It amazes me to see that people are reading this from all over the world – not just theUSA, but from Australia, Scandinavia, Singapore, India, and other places far from here. There’s even someone from the east coast of Africa who stops by – I’m ashamed to admit how Ameri-centric I am that I cannot tell the Country by looking at the dot on the world map.

I’ll try to raise the bar in future posts. Keep the standard high. And I hope you’ll let me know when I fall flat, as well as when I strike a chord that resonates with you.

I don’t want to beg for comments, but if you have a moment I’d love to know why you find my blog worth your time. Some of you are regulars, but for the rest of you, perhaps sometime you could drop a line or two about why you read these posts. If you don’t want to comment in the public forum, click the e-mail link.

I promise I’ll do better next time.

It’s okay to be VamPickle. Once in a while.

But it’s always great to be The Family Man.

Creature of the Night

2005-08-21T23:58:00.000-06:00

Good evening, stranger. I’m surprised to see you. Please, make yourself comfortable.

I don’t get many visitors.

Perhaps that’s because of the hours I keep. Yes, it’s very late in the evening; the sun has long since set. This is my time.

Can I get you some refreshment? No? Very well, then. I can only guess why you are here.

You seem nervous, a bit uncomfortable. You’re sitting so far away. Are you frightened? Now that you’re here, you can see I do not resemble HIM. Yet, still, you have fear; fear you have bravely overcome to hear a story.

So I shall tell it.

You know, of course, of HIM. Master of the night. Immortal, Undead, the Drinker of Blood. We shall not utter his name, for wherever He is, He shall hear it, and He will come.

You do not want that.

Yet I have no fear of him, for we are related. He will not, can not, would not harm me. Sadly, I possess none of his attributes. I am not immortal. I do not have superhuman strength and speed. Ladies do not find me sensual, irresistible. Even so, we are related. And for that reason alone I have nothing to fear from Him.

One more thing - I do not drink blood.

I see you have relaxed a bit. That is good. See, you have nothing to fear from me. Actually the taste, even the sight, of blood makes me nauseous. I much prefer Diet Coke.

But I am what you would term a Vampire. I am a creature of the night. But just as He craves blood, needs blood to maintain his life force, I too have a need, an unquenchable thirst, a thirst that must be slaked nightly for me to maintain my own life force.

I crave the sound of children’s laughter.

I see that you find this amusing. What a contrast, you must be thinking. The dashing, dangerous, sensual Count, slaking his thirst with the blood of comely young maidens. Me, the not-so-dashing Ordinary Man, slaking my own desperate thirst by finding ways to make young children laugh.

Yet, I must have it. I must. It is a terrible addition. If I go more than a night or two without hearing the sound of children laughing, I begin to get weak, woozy. My life force begins to ebb. I find it difficult to function, my strength (such as it is) drops, my skin turns pale.

So I do what I must to stay alive. I search them out, those young, innocent children for whom laughter is as normal as breathing. Once I find them, I do what I must to incite that laughter. Often it is as easy as making a silly face. Occasionally I must do a pratfall, trip over something, fall in a spectacular fashion.

Once I had to make Diet Coke come out of my nose.

See, it has worked on you. Just the mental image you created of me with fizzling Diet Coke gushing from my nostrils has set you to laughing. Sadly, your laughter does not quench my thirst. It must be the laughter of children.

You cannot stop laughing now. You are stuck by the ridiculousness of my plight. A vampire who must make children laugh to stay alive. The contrast between He and I could not be more stark. Everything about Him is dashing, mysterious, sensual and scary. Even his name, inspires fear, dread, and also wonder, a hint of sexual danger.

Mine name, alas, does not.

He is The Count. Count Dracula.

I am called VamPickle.

The Vampire who Tickles.

I shall pause until you can stop laughing and pick yourself back up off the floor.

I must say, you are exhibiting rather poor manners. You are, after all, my guest.

Do you not think I hate my plight? Do you think I enjoy this name?

And yet, my name serves me in my quest. Merely saying my name to my intended victim is sometimes enough to create the laughter I crave.

You can see that, considering how well it has worked on you.

But now, I have uttered His name. He has heard this, and he will come.

For your sake, you must be off. For if he were to find you here, he would not be satisfied merely to hear you laugh.

Yet if you return upon the morrow, I shall finish my sad tale. The Tale of VamPickle, the Vampire who tickles, and the two young children whose laughter I most desire above all others.

For just as he is a connoisseur of blood, seeking out only those who have the finest, freshest vintage; I too have a discriminating palette. And I have found two young children whose laughter has become a narcotic for me. I must have it. Continuously.

So if you return, I shall tell you how I have become trapped by this addiction, and how it has become ever more difficult to obtain.

Safe travels, stranger. Stay out of the dark alleys.

It’s great to be VamPickle.

The Toughest Guy in The Gym

2005-08-18T00:13:00.000-06:00

As I’ve mentioned in a previous post or two, I work out four or five nights a week at a local fitness center. It’s one of the national chain outfits. The place is close to my home, it’s open late, the price is reasonable and it’s large enough that I never have to wait long to use a particular piece of equipment.

I go late at night, after Chris and Tommy are tucked in to bed. By the time I get there, between 9:00 and 9:30 pm, most of the crowd is gone. I see the same group of regulars; those people, like me, who for whatever reason find that this time of night is best for their schedule to work out.

The title of this post is not a reference to me. Not in my wildest dreams would I ever be considered to be The Toughest Guy in The Gym. No, I fall into the category of Old Guy Trying Desperately to Retain Some Semblance of Muscle Tone. On a good day I might sneak into the category of With Lots of Luck and Less Dessert He Might Once Again Fit Into His Pants. And once in a very great while, I spend an evening in the category of If He Were Ten Years Younger He Might Actually Lift That Barbell.

The days when I might even be in the running for Toughest Guy in The Gym are so far back in my rearview mirror I’ve forgotten what they look like.

But still, I’m a guy, and once in a while some testosterone makes an appearance in my system, and I start to look around and wonder, well, if not me, then who is the toughest guy in this gym?

There are some obvious candidates. The guy with the broad shoulders and narrow waist, who has such an extreme shoulder to waist ratio that he makes a 42 point Times New Roman capital letter V (Boldcase) appear to be an 8 point Tahoma lowercase letter u by comparison.

Or how about the guy with all the tattoos? He’s not huge, but very well defined, and in case you hadn’t noticed his body, he’ll use his colorful tats to draw attention to specific parts. There is the requisite barb wire band around both biceps, the flaming, screaming skull and crossbones across his back. The psychotic clown face on one of his calves. Yep, he must be tough. Tough enough to endure the needles required to produce all those tattoos. Tough enough to knock down anyone who dares to comment on how ridiculous he looks.

There’s the guy I call Philly Cat. A Southeast Asian guy, young and wiry. I don’t know him but he always wears the same shirt, a black t-shirt that says Philly Cats on the front. I think it’s a minor league baseball team. He not big, but he’s tough and cut. He is so focused, so intense, and he always takes every set to failure. He’s a tough dude.

A guy I call The Aussie might be the one. He’s a big, friendly guy. Barrel-chested, but not loaded with huge, rippling muscles. Still, he lifts more weight than almost anyone in there. I don’t know how he does it, but he puts up huge lifts, rep after rep, sets it down and walks of with a smile on his face. You can almost hear him say, "Hey, no big deal, mate!”

There are others. The guy with a single-digit body fat percentage, on whom I swear you can see capillaries. Jersey Guy, who looks like he was a roadie for Bruce Springsteen, can do 22 pull-ups. I watched him and counted. The Football Guy, who looks like he is one year removed from a college football team, 6’ 6” and about 280. He’s huge, scowls well and lifts a ton of weight.

Depending upon your definition of tough, I would have thought any one of these guys might have the right to claim the title of Toughest Guy in The Gym.

Until tonight.

Tonight I saw the person who owns that title outright, at least in my book.

The Toughest Guy in The Gym is…a woman.

You hardly notice her among the crowd I’ve just described. Like me, she sort of blends into the background, goes about her business. No posing, no posturing, just in there to work out, get the job done, go home. In fact, tonight is the first night I noticed her. But from what I saw of her, she must be a regular. She knows what she’s doing.

What makes her so tough, you ask?

She only has one leg.

It’s summer here, and quite hot. Most people in the gym are wearing shorts, or long, tight spandex pants. She’s wearing full length track suit pants, loose and baggy. But one leg hangs very loose, and there’s no shoe at the bottom.

Other than that, and the crutch at her feet, you’d never know what her deal is.

But she’s there and she’s doing the full routine. Free weights, sit ups, lat pulldowns. She even does pull-ups, dropping down hard off the bar at the end of her set, landing on one leg, getting her balance, bending down to pick up her crutch before moving on to the next station.

She’s focused, moving with purpose, knowing exactly what she wants to accomplish while she’s here. Unlike so many of the others, she’s not sneaking a glance in the mirror to see how she looks. She just wants to be strong.

I’d be willing to bet hardly any of the ‘tough’ guys I described above would be in here working out like this on one leg. Their vanity would prevent it. Oh, one or two might come in, do some token sets, then shrug, as if to say, “Hey, what can I do? See this? It’s not my fault.”

But I don’t’ see that from this woman. It is what it is. She’s asking no quarter, making no excuses. One leg, two legs, doesn’t matter. Bring it. I’m here, she says. Let’s get to work.

Toughness is made up of many things. Among them I would count courage, resiliency, and fortitude. If that is part of your measure of toughness, this woman has more than her share.

I’ll say it right now. She’s tougher than me. I don’t know if I’d have what it takes to do what she’s doing. I’d like to think so. But in all honesty, I’m not sure I do.

This is the first time I’ve seen her. Maybe she normally comes at a different time, and for some reason had to come at this time tonight. I’ll probably never know.

But I’m glad I saw her tonight. For two reasons.

One, the next time I’m feeling like I want to cut my workout short, or skip it all together, I’m going to remember her. If she can come in here and do what she does, as well as she does, then, dammit, so can I.

And two, now the question has been answered.

Who’s the Toughest Guy in The Gym?

She is.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

A thank you note

2005-08-15T23:53:00.000-06:00

Dear Mom,

I just wanted to drop you this note to thank you for the wonderful gift you gave Chris and Tommy. They sure love it! They’ve been playing on it all day. I can’t tell you how happy you have made them. I guess I should try, though.

But first, you might be wondering why I’m sending you this thank you note.

After all, you’re dead.

For almost 3 months now.

You know, better than anyone, how terrible I am at thank you notes. I remember, even if you don’t, how you would have to sit with me and make me write them after every birthday, every Christmas, for far more years than you should have. Even as an adult, knowing better, I always seem to get them out late, or not at all. At which point I have to make a phone call and deliver a verbal ‘thank you’ along with an apology for being socially inept.

But this note is not one I put off for so long that you up and died before I was able to send it, thank goodness. I wouldn’t want the last thing you remembered about me was, “That’s my son – can’t find the time to write a simple thank you note!”

No, this note is for the gift you gave the boys after you died.

Anyway, Mom, Chris and Tommy absolutely love the swing set you bought them. You remember - the one you had talked about buying for them for almost a year. I told you many times how much the boys love going to the park to play on the swings and playground equipment, and you would always say to me, “Why don’t you buy them a swing set of their own?”

To which I would reply, “We can’t afford to do that right now.”

“Well, one of these days I’m going to do it for them. Just help me pick one out, one that they would like. I want them to have that,” you’d say.

Well, Mom, I never did get around to picking one out, even though you kept asking me about it. I always thought there would be plenty of time. Plenty of time for you to come out here to visit us. Plenty of time to spend with the boys and give them this gift yourself. Plenty of time for you to sit on our back deck, watching the boys play on a brand new swing set. To watch them run, climb, swing and play. To see them interact with each other. To see what fine young boys they have become. I thought there would be time to do a lot of things.

I was wrong.

But I did have a plan, procrastinator that I am. I thought maybe we’d sit down and figure out the swing set thing when we all got together at the beach this past June. We’d look at some catalogues; you could make your choice, and tell Chris and Tommy about it in person. Then maybe later this summer you’d come out and see it for yourself.

But you died two weeks before our trip.

I never told the boys what you wanted to do for them. I wanted you to be able to do that, to show them the picture, to see the joy and excitement on their faces when you told them they would have their very own swing set in their own back yard.

And when it didn’t work out, I figured we’d just let it go. We have several parks in our area. They’re really quite nice. The boys wouldn’t know any differently. They would still have fun.

But as I thought more about it, I realized that you would want them to have this even if you couldn’t be there to see it. So much of you, your life, was about doing for others. It was never about getting the credit. You were the very embodiment of the adage ‘it’s better to give than to receive.’

Over the course of your life you have given so much to so many. To me, perhaps, more than anyone. And I could spend the rest of my life trying to thank you and never come close to expressing just how much you have meant to me.

And if I did, you’d roll your eyes and say, “Enough, already!”

So I won’t go there.

But I know you’d have been angry if I left one of your last wished unfulfilled. Especially one I know would have given you so much pleasure.

So MBW and I went through the catalogues. We went to the showrooms. And we found a very nice swing set. One we knew the boys would love. One we never would have bought on our own. But one I know you would have.

We knew we couldn’t afford it. But guess what? It just so happened that the manufacturer was offering no interest, no payments for one full year. That weekend only.

Was that a coincidence?

So we bought it. Knowing that a year from now your estate will be settled, and there might just be enough to cover the cost. And if it falls a little short, well, we’ll figure out a way to make up the rest.

Anyway, this weekend the crew came to set it up.

It’s wonderful.

It’s one of those redwood monstrosities with a fort, a slide, tire swing, sandbox, rope ladder, trapeze bar, and three regular swings.

As you might expect, Chris and Tommy are out of their minds with excitement. They can’t figure out what to do first. They run from one end to the other, trying every single thing, wrestling with each other over who gets to do what first. They race up the ladder, down the slide, over to the tire swing, and back again. They play ‘pirates’ in the fort. They build cities in the sandbox. They swing for the sky, trying to touch the clouds.

But you already know all that, don’t you?

I’m pretty sure you were there.

Chris knows how to swing. He has the whole ‘pumping’ thing down. He can go from a standstill to full height very quickly, without a push.

Tommy cannot do that yet. He can climb up into the swing, but he hadn’t figured out how to pump yet. So whenever we would go to the park, I’d have to stand behind him and push. Of course, I didn’t mind. I knew he’d get it one of these days.

But today, when he climbed onto one of the swings for the very first time, he started to pump. All by himself. Without any help from anyone.

The look on his face told the whole story. He was surprised, then happy, as he exclaimed, “I’m pumping, Mom! I’m pumping, Dad. Look at me!”

“Look at me GOOOO!”

And sure enough, he was. Pumping. With no help from MBW, Chris, or me. Slowly, at first, but as his confidence grew he went higher and higher, his smile bigger and bigger. Zooming through the air, back and forth, his hair flying in the breeze he was able to make for himself, for the first time ever.

It was wonderful to witness. He was so thrilled – the new swing set, his new achievement.

I think you were there, giving him a little push.

I’m not talking about some sort of creepy ‘Sixth Sense’ kind of thing. I don’t think you’re hanging around the house, wanting to tell me something. I don’t see you; I don’t get chills for no reason.

But I do think, somehow, somewhere, you’re watching the boys. Not always, but once in a while. Sitting out there, a smile on your face. “They’re doing okay, my grandsons. They’re doing okay.”

Or maybe I just want to believe that.

The biggest sadness in losing you when we did, for me, was knowing you wouldn’t get to see your grandsons during some of the most enjoyable years of their lives. I so much wanted to share this part of their lives, and mine, with you. It would have meant so much to the boys, to me, and, I think, to you.

But your health was failing, and I think you were ready. You had so much pain for so long, it was time for the suffering to end.

Perhaps now you’re at peace.

But I think, in some way, you’re out there, somewhere, taking in some of what’s going on in their lives.

Because I never did tell the boys the swing set was a gift from you. They know you are dead, even though they really never knew you that well. You got to see Chris exactly two times in his five years. Tommy, only once in his three. That just wasn’t enough. They really never knew you.

So maybe you can tell me why, that night after playing on the swing set all day, Tommy told me this as we tucked him in for bed.

“Dad, Nana’s dead.”

“That’s right, Tommy, she is.”

“I still love her, though.”

Go ahead, mom. Tell me you had nothing to do with his learning to swing. On the swing set you bought for them. The very first time he tried it.

I don’t believe it.

Thank you, mom. Thank you for everything.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Ordinary Man

2005-08-11T21:51:00.000-06:00

The recent passing of Peter Jennings brought back, for me, the memory of the time I met him.

I’ve been out of the broadcast news business for over ten years now. During the course of my eleven year career in that business I worked for three different television stations. All three were ABC affiliates. So for my entire career, Peter Jennings was the face, the voice, the de facto leader for the network news our broadcasts would follow. His was the standard we aimed for.

Early in my career, when I was young and gung-ho, I taped the music sounder that lead into the ABC network evening news and used that as the background music for the outgoing message on my telephone answering machine.

It was during the launch of the space shuttle Discovery that I met Peter Jennings. You may recall the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger on January 26, 1986 which killed, among six other astronauts, Christa McAuliffe, a Concord, New Hampshire high school social studies teacher. On September 28, 1988, Discovery was the first shuttle launched after the Challenger explosion. You can imagine the press coverage that launch attracted. Until Challenger exploded, shuttle launches had become almost routine, drawing little more than the normal NASA beat reporters. But the Discovery launch drew news coverage from around the world, including the top people from ABC, CBS, NBC, as well as many local stations, including mine.

I was selected by my station to cover the event, along with a reporter. During one of our forays to the ABC News editing facility we happened to literally bump into Peter Jennings as we walked in the door. He was every bit the dashing, charismatic person you might expect. He was also very gracious, taking the time to shake hands, exchange pleasantries, and wish us good luck with our broadcast before moving on his way. We were suitably impressed, and very inspired during the time we covered that story.

Peter Jennings was an extraordinary man.

I, on the other hand, am an ordinary man.

I lead an ordinary, unremarkable life. I’m a man of average height and weight, average looks. These days, I work in a cubicle. I drive a white vehicle. I live in a suburb an ordinary city, surrounded by hundreds of tract homes just like mine. I follow the same, basic routine virtually every working day, and follow a slightly different, yet predictable, routine on the weekends.

Unlike some people who lead exciting, dramatic lives in big, exciting cities, surrounded by other similar of similar stature, I am one of the faceless masses in ‘flyover country.’ Working at my little job, raising my family, living out my entirely unremarkable life.

And now, sharing it with you here in the blogosphere, where I am one of hundreds of thousands of people sharing, in my case, unremarkable stories, no doubt forgotten the moment they are read by 10 or 12 people.

It all means very little to anyone.

Anyone, that is, except for three very remarkable and important people.

There is dignity, relevance, and yes, even importance in the role I play in the lives of Chris and Tommy. In my very unremarkableness, my pedestrian ordinariness, I am in fact remarkable to them. By virtue of doing the same, dull, predictable things every day, I am giving them exactly what they need to have their own opportunity to become remarkable, extraordinary people themselves. By going to work, building a career (no matter how dull, boring and ordinary it is), providing food, shelter, healthcare and education, I’m giving them the foundation, the stability they need to grow up into secure, successful young men.

As far as MBW is concerned, I am important for the role I play as described above. In her case, she probably settled for the ordinary when, in fact, she no doubt had many opportunities for something far above ordinary. But now, having made her choice, for better or worse she seems to have grown used to this life. If she feels somehow shortchanged by the decision she has made, she’s gracious enough not to discuss it with her friends when I’m within earshot.

Even so, she will grudgingly tell you that within my narrow, ordinary existence I bring something more to the table when it comes to our boys. I recognize who and what I am, the role I have to play, and take pleasure and pride in the responsibility and job I have to do. I’m a good dad. Involved, engaged, committed. I will never be the most exciting dad when it comes to career day at school. I’ll never pull up to the soccer game in the flashiest car, have the funniest stories to tell, or be able to give my kids the coolest, most expensive graduation gifts.

But I will be there. And I’ll bring everything I have. If I’ve done my job right, that will be enough.

And if it isn’t, it won’t be for lack of effort. When it comes to being ordinary, I’m not mailing it in. I will be the best ordinary I can be.

In deciding to begin a blog I considered many different themes and names. In the end, I decided to go with what I knew I could write about. I don’t have a job that lends itself to great stories, slices of life that can captivate thousands of readers. I don’t have the sense of humor that will produce daily hysterically funny entries that will get passed all over the internet. I don’t wade into the gladitorial mosh pit on weekends and describe it for everyone. I don't write well enough to enthrall anyone with my prosaic prose.

There’s a reason I call myself The Family Man. I’m a man. I have a family. And that’s what I write about. An ordinary man writing about ordinary things. Could there be anything less, well, ordinary?

But I believe there is something to be said for doing all of the ordinary things. Doing them well. Bringing passion and commitment to the everyday, regular tasks. Staying the course. Being the rock, the plain, ordinary rock, that anchors those things that are most important.

It takes a whole bunch of ordinary for something to be recognized as extraordinary. If you are one of those extraordinary people, then you have me to thank for making you so, if only by comparison.

You’re welcome.

But I’ll take what I have, thank you. My little life, pedestrian as it is, suits me just fine. There are those moments, and I’ve shared a few in this blog, when the very ordinariness of my family life is extraordinary to an exponential degree. A hug from Chris. A giggle from Tommy. A knowing glance from my wife.

Each one, exceptionally ordinary.

Each one, exceptionally extraordinary. And absolutely priceless.

It is extraordinary to be The Family Man.

Rock On

2005-08-09T23:42:00.000-06:00

I like to think I’m not one of these whiny, sniveling, complaining wimps that always wants to tell you how hard life is, how unfair things are, or just how, in general, the world really sucks.

I know all too many people just like that. I’m sure you do, too. If you’re like me, you try to avoid them at all costs, and suffer them with a stiff upper lip when avoidance is just not possible.

When you’re me, it’s very difficult to complain about much. I have a great life. I’m not trying to brag, or be all snooty about it. I’m just a very, very lucky guy, and I try to remember how lucky I am, and not piss and moan when every little thing doesn’t go my way. By and large, I get more than my fair share of The Golden Light.

That’s why I’m very reluctant to mention that things have been a bit stressful for me the past few weeks. I can’t put a finger on what, exactly, it is. Work is somewhat stressful right now, I’m not sleeping very well, and my workouts have been lousy for some time now. I don’t have the strength or the endurance I did earlier this year.

I’m not depressed, exactly, just sort of listless. And I’m not sure why, and that bugs me even more.

So I was a bit grumpy last night at about 2:00 a.m., just as I had finally fallen asleep, when Tommy woke up and started calling for Mom or Dad. He’s a very restless sleeper, often waking up in the middle of the night. Sometimes he sleepwalks – we’ll hear him come into our room and crash into something, and one of us will carry him back to bed.

This time he was standing in the hallway. I couldn’t tell if he was asleep or awake. I scooped him up and carried him over toward his bed, when he lifted his face up and said, “Rock me, daddy.”

We have a glider rocker in his room. It’s the same one we used for Chris when he was a baby. It’s wonderful for rocking a child, whether you’re nursing (or giving a bottle – yes, I did my share of that), or just comforting a restless child. When Tommy was born we moved it into his room.

We’ve had to use it quite a bit.

The last thing I wanted to do was rock him. I had to get up in four hours and go to work, and it would’ve been nice to spend most of that time sleeping. What I really wanted to do was plop him back in his bed, make sure his ‘blankie’ and Elmo were correctly positioned, and try to get back to sleep myself. But the way he looked at me when he asked, well, I just couldn’t refuse.

So we sat down in the rocker and began to glide back and forth. He snuggled up against me, wiggled once or twice to find the position that felt comfortable to him, and promptly fell back asleep.

There’s something about a sleeping child that is peaceful, tranquil, angelic. Feeling his little chest gently rise and fall against mine, looking at his face, his content little grin, slowly began to draw all of the frustration and stress out of my system. I felt myself becoming more relaxed, more centered, more balanced.

We continued to glide. I remembered a time long, long ago when I went to a drive-in movie with my parents. I must have been four years old. My mom and dad piled the back seat of their car full of pillows and blankets, and put me back there while they sat up front and watched the movie. Of course I can’t remember anything about the movie – I doubt I saw five minutes of it. In fact, I’m not sure I remember the evening, or if I just sort of remember the memory of it. But sitting in the glider rocker with Tommy, I remembered the feeling I had that night of Absolute Security. I was with my mom and dad; safe, warm, comfortable. Nothing could go wrong. I was Secure.

Loved.

And I knew that’s what Tommy was feeling as he slept in my arms in the glider. Safe and secure in the strong arms of Daddy. Warm, content, protected. Loved.

And there is a feeling that comes with being the provider of that feeling. I don’t have the words for it. But holding him, knowing how he was feeling, having felt it myself in my life, gave me a stronger sense of purpose, of meaning. It is an awesome responsibility.

It is also an honor. A privilege.

I don’t know how long we rocked. It was a long time. I wanted to savor the moment, bask in it, soak every last ounce of energy and pleasure from it. At some point I must have joined him in sleep.

When I finally woke up I saw the first hint of dawn in the eastern sky outside his bedroom window. I got up, carefully laid him in his little bed, adjusted his ‘blankie’ and Elmo just so, and crept back into bed myself.

When the alarm went off I got up, got ready, and went off to work just like any other weekday. The same feelings of stress, listlessness, and angst came back.

But they were offset by something larger, something more important.

The emotional connection I made with my son put everything else in perspective. I have a lot of responsibility in my life, personally, professionally, morally. But none of that even comes close to what I shared with Tommy. Those other things will come and go. I’ve got much more important things to concern myself with. I’m Tommy’s dad, and Chris’s too. They need to be able to have that feeling when they need it. Without reservation, unconditionally. I have to be there for them.

You might be thinking Tommy’s lucky to have a dad like me. That’s not for me to say.

But I’ll tell you, without a doubt, Tommy did more for me last night than I did for him.

The truth is clear. I’m the lucky guy in this house.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Frontier Justice

2005-08-07T23:05:00.000-06:00

Welcome back, stranger.

Sorry I’ve been gone for awhile. Some things came up that I weren’t expectin’ and I had to deal with ‘em. That’s how it goes in the sherifin’ business sometimes.

Anyway, I’m sure you ain’t here for idle chitchat. So let me tell you how things played out in the feud between ol’ Gentleman Chris and Two Gun Tommy.

If you remember, there was some tension between Chris and Two-Gun. They were stealin’ horses and cattle from each other. Then Chris went and kidnapped Two-Gun favorite cowpoke, an orange-haired kid named Elmo. Two-Gun retaliated by swipin’ Gentleman’s favorite horse. That’s when things got plum out of hand. Their cowpokes were buyin’ up all the ammunition in town, and folks were gettin’ nervous. Word was the two brothers were gatherin’ up toward the fence dividin’ their spreads. I knew I couldn’t let this go on no longer.

So I saddled up my big white stallion, strapped on my gunbelt, stowed the Winchester in the saddle holster, and headed out to settle this thing my own way.I was ridin’ out before dawn. The sun hadn’t yet cleared the horizon, but them clouds were already red. I remember my daddy tellin’ me a story once about a red sunrise. He said:

“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Red sky at mornin,’ sailors take warnin’.”

Well, I ain't no sailor, and there ain’t no kind of water for sailin’ in these here parts nohow. But I didn’t need no nursery rhyme to tell me that this was lookin' like a bloody mornin’ indeed.

I came up over a small rise, and sure enough, I see Gentleman’s ‘boys all mounted up and armed to the teeth. And ridin’ up slow from Fireplace Butte were Two-Gun’s crew, their hardware glintin’ in the mornin’ sunlight.

It looked like they was aimin’ to settle this thing once and for all. Right here, right now.

Well, so was I.

I rode up over towards Gentleman’s crew, pulled up about forty yards short. I let my duster fall open so’s them boys could see my weapons, let ‘em know I meant business. I sat there for a minute, starin’ em down, waitin for someone to draw.

Nobody did.

With that settled, I called out, “Gentleman, you aughta come out here and take a little ride with me.”

There was some movement among the men, and Chris came to the front of the group.

“Now, Sheriff,” he said, a big, warm smile on his face, “This here’s just a little disagreement between me and Mr. Two Gun. You surely don’t need to be involved in this.”

That’s Gentleman for you. Always smooth, a real diplomat.

But I’d seen enough of that over the years. I adjusted my duster, placed a hand on the stock of my Winchester, and said, “Gentleman, I suggest you take a ride on over here, let’s just visit about this for a moment.”

Then, a bit firmer – “Right now.”

Well, he didn’t like that one bit. He turned, talked with his ‘boys, turned back and stared at me.

I just waited. There weren’t nothin’ else to say.

Finally, he tapped his spur to his horse and slowly rode over.

As he was comin’ I glanced over to see where Two-Gun’s men were. They had paused when they’d seen me and stopped about 200 yards away. Now they were just sittin’ by, waitin’ to see how things played out.

Gentleman rode up. He said, “Ain’t no need for you to call me out in front of my men, Sheriff Mann.”

It was time to set the tone for this meetin,’ and for the rest of the mornin’ as well.

I said, “Chris, I’m the law in this town. I ain’t callin’ you out. I’m just tellin’ you what you’re gonna do here. You give orders to your men. That ain’t callin’ them out, that’s just the way it is. And right now, you’re takin’ orders from me.”

I leaned over my horse, hand still on the stock of the Winchester, and glared at him.

“You got that?”

His horse backed up half a step. Gentleman didn’t say a word, but after a moment, gave just the slightest nod of his head.

“Now, let’s you and me take a ride over and have a chat with Two-Gun.”

We cantered over toward where Two-Gun’s boys were waitin’. We paused a ways out from them, stopped still. I turned to Gentleman and said, “I ain’t gonna make you throw down your guns. But I want you to put both hands on your saddlehorn where everyone can see ‘em.”

He didn’t like that one bit. His eyes got all fiery hot and his mouth started movin’ like he was gonna say something, but he thought the better of it. Slowly he raised his hands and put ‘em on the saddlehorn, turned his horse so Two-Gun and his boys could see him.

It was time to talk to Two-Gun.

This was the tricky part, and that’s why I had to get Gentleman first. Ol’ Two-Gun’s a young hothead. There ain’t no way he’d a done what Gentleman just did. And I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t ride on out here and start blastin’ at both of us. But this way the only way I had a chance to make this work.

And even Two-Gun couldn’t outdraw me.

So I called out, “Hey, Two-Gun, take a ride out here, would ya?”

He called back right away. “Now why do I want to do that, Sheriff?”

I waited for a second before I said, “Because if I have to ride in there and get you, it ain’t gonna be pretty for either of us. But you’ll come one way or another. I’m just givin’ you a chance to ride out like a man.”

Two-Gun don’t like to be insulted. He said, “If you were a man you’d come get me.”

Before the last word was out of his mouth I had my Winchester up and out of the saddle holster, and fired off a single shot that took the hat right off the head of one of his cowpokes.

There was a long moment of silence. I wondered if they were all going to start blasting away. Gentleman looked at me like I was crazy.

I said loudly, “Two-Gun, if I come in there and get you, I’ll be takin’ you straight to the undertaker.”

Nobody moved.

Then, slowly, Two-Gun rode out from his pack, and ambled over to where we was waitin.’

As he got closer I said, “Both hands on the reigns. I see you go for a gun, you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”

Turning to Gentleman, I said, “Don’t you even think about drawin.”

At last Two-Gun rode up.

“Boys,’ I said, “Let’s make this quick. I don’t know who started this, and I don’t care. But it ends right now, and it’s goin’ down like this. Gentleman, your boys are gonna bring Two-Guns cows back, and that boy Elmo too. Right now. Two-Gun, your boys are gonna bring Gentleman’s horses back, every last one, includin’ that big Brown he calls Chocolate. We’re gonna make this exchange right here, and when we’re all settled up, your ‘boys are gonna ride back off, and the three of us are gonna talk about your punishment.”

Well I could see neither one of ‘em like the idea. Two-Gun started to reach for his belt, but thought better of it when he saw my big Winchester pointed right at his chest.

“Do we have an understandin’?”

They nodded.

“You ride off to your ‘boys,” I said, “tell ‘em what to do, and ride back here. Right now. Any funny business, you’ll be eatin’ lead for breakfast.”

They did what I said, rode back. We sat there in silence for about 20 minutes. The cowhands from both sides came back, and the exchange was made to everyone’s grudging satisfaction. When Gentleman’s boys brought out that cowhand Elmo, with his dang orange hair, he rode up to Two-Gun and gave him the a big hug.

Frankly, it made me a bit uncomfortable. But Two-Gun clearly had a soft spot in his heart for Elmo. To each his own.

Elmo turned, pointed out toward Two-Gun’s spread by Fireplace Butte, and said “That’s Elmo’s World!”

O-kay.

The cowhands rode off. Now it was just me, Gentleman and Two-Gun.

I said, “Boys, you disappoint me. This is a big valley. It should be big enough for both of you. But you just can’t seem to play nicely together without fighting and stealing.”

“So you’re each going to have to go to your room until I tell you to come out.”

Gentleman started to argue, saying it wasn’t his fault, that Two-Gun started it, but I’d heard this all before and wasn’t having any of it. I simply pointed up the stairs and said, “Go.”

Two-Gun just started to cry.

“Go,” I said to him as well.

He left without a word.

And that was it.

Frontier Justice. Takin’ the boys off the frontier until cooler heads prevail.

It ain’t always easy bein’ the Sheriff.

As I watched them boys walk off, I took in the whole Berber valley. Them boys had worked hard and created two very nice ranches. I was proud of them, despite their behavior. They’re going to be fine men one day.

You see, stranger, them boys are MY boys.

I told you at the beginnin’ of this tale them two were brothers.

They are also my sons.

And that’s just about the end. You see, that night a terrible storm swept through the Berber valley. It raged for hours. When it was over, the townfolk called that storm the most ferocious storm these parts have ever seen. It scoured every last trace of the ranches, buildings, cattle and fencing right off the land. When it was over, the valley looked brand new.

After awhile people referred to that storm as simply the Mighty Big Windstorm.

MBW.

Someday those boys’ll come out of their rooms. Maybe they’ll rebuild them ranches. Maybe they’ll build a trainyard instead, or some settler’s cabins with those pre-cut logs folks have takin’ to callin’ Lincoln Logs. I even heard some talk about buildin’ something called an airport.

Airport – ain’t that the dangest thing you ever heard?

Well, stranger, that’s it. That’s the story of the Range War. Or more exactly, the range war that wasn’t.

Hope the story was worth your while.

Feel free to drop in anytime you’re in town. Pull up a stool, have a drink, and I’ll tell you some tales. I’ve got a few.

See ya around, stranger.

Yep, it’s great to be Sheriff Mann.

Range War

2005-08-03T23:57:00.000-06:00

Howdy, stranger.

Yep, I can tell you’re not from around these parts. You don’t even have to say a word, though I bet your accent would be a dead giveaway.

Nope, we don’t see many of you eastern city slickers out this way. We get the odd tourist now and again. Half the time they’re lost, and I hafta point 'em back to the train depot. But you got that look, stranger. I know why you’re here.

Pull up a stool, stranger, and I’ll tell you the story you’ve come to hear.

You want to hear the story of the Range War.

Y’see, this town’s always been a quiet place. Not much happens around here. Oh, sure, we get the occasional rowdy drunk, and I’ll have to throw him in the tank overnight. Hardly ever any more trouble than that.

It’s my job to keep it that way. I’ve been the sheriff now for ‘bout long as anyone can remember. I’m Sheriff Mann.

But around these parts, they call me Big Daddy.

As I said, this here’s a quiet town. We got this here restaurant and bar, a bank, a stable, general store, and some rooms for rent. There’s a mine just outside a town, but it’s pretty much played out. Most of the business in these parts is done by the two big ranch operations here in the valley.

The C Bar M range sits out on the Berber flats. It’s a gorgeous spread, ‘bout the biggest in the whole county. My, that’s pretty country. Fields so flat and lush, why it looks just like that fancy carpet you got in your high-falutin’ hotels back where you come from. The hay that comes outta C Bar M is ‘bout the best hay ever. Likewise C Bar M cattle fetch the highest prices in these parts. It’s a first class operation, run by a first class rancher. They call him Gentleman Chris.

Gentleman Chris is about the nicest, straightest cowhand you’d ever hope to meet. Tall, fair and handsome, ol’ Gentleman’s a real ladies man. Smart as a whip, a real sharp businessman. He’ll treat you fair, though, and if you needed it, he’d give you the shirt off his back.

The thing is, you don’t want to cross him, ‘cause he don’t forget. Oh, he’ll smile and laugh, slap you on the back, treat you like a good ol’ boy. But once you let your guard down, he’ll snap you in two like a brittle twig.

On the other end of the valley, you got the TG spread. It backs right up to Fireplace Butte. They call it that ‘cause, well, that butte, it just looks like a fireplace.

Butte, not butt.

Dang, you city folks are dumber than mules!

The TG’s a smaller, scrappier outfit. The land ain’t quite so good, the hay not quite so sweet. The cattle are just a bit scrawnier, the cowhands a little bit rougher. And the TG spread’s run by the toughest cowhand in these parts. His name is Tommy.

But most folks call him Tommy Two-Gun.

Ol’ Two-Gun’s about the quickest draw in these parts, and he’s got the quick temper to match. He’s a little guy, but you sure don’t want to say that to his face. He’s cat quick, and he don’t take kindly to insults. They still tell the tale of the new cowhand who made some crack about "that little cowboy, don’t he ride a pony?”

Well, Two-Gun overheard that remark.

Next morning,’ here comes that poor cowboy into town…trussed up like a heifer, dragged behind a pony.

Nope, you don’t want to mess with Two-Gun.

Now we got a couple of smaller ranches in these parts, but they don’t amount to much. It’s really just Gentleman and Two-Gun that run things around here. It’s a big county, and between the two of ‘em, they pretty much own all of it.

Of course, they don’t get along. Not one dang bit.

The craziest part? They’re brothers.

Now there was always a sort of an uneasy truce between the two of them. Oh, they’d have a feud now and then, but nothin’ major. Every once in a while a couple of Gentleman’s cows would go missin’ and they’d turn up on Two-Gun’s spread. Next week or so, one of Two-Gun’s horses would be found with Gentleman’s herd. A couple cowhands from each spread would meet out in the valley and swap ‘em back. Hardly ever had to resort to gunplay.

But at the last county fair, when everyone comes into town, the two of them happen to bump into each other, and the next thing you know, the fists are flyin'. The cowhands from both sides got into it and we had a major brawl goin.’ I had to step in and set things right, and I gave each of those boys a warnin’ not to be brawlin’ in my town. Well, they stared at me, they stared at each other, and finally they pulled their boys’ together and headed back out of town.

I thought that’d be the end of things.

I was wrong.

Next thing I know, ol Gentleman comes into my office to file a complaint. Seems a whole bunch of his cows went missin.’ But that weren’t the worst of it. Ol’ Gentleman had himself a prize horse – a big, brown, barrel-chested stallion. That was one beautiful horse. Went by the name of Chocolate. Well, Chocolate was missin’ along with them cows, and he was sure that Two-Gun was behind it.

Well, I told him I’d head out to Two-Gun’s place and have a chat with the boy, and that was good enough for Gentleman. He thanked me politely and headed back to his spread.

Not 15 minutes later Two-Gun shows up. He’s got a different story to tell. According to him, most of his cows are gone, along with his best cowhand, an orange-haired lad, went by the name of Elmo.

Well, I asked Two-Gun if he thought Elmo might’a run off with those cows. A dark shadow crossed his face and he reared up with a cocked fist, and I thought he was gonna swing on me…but he caught himself. Glowering at me, he said, “Elmo doesn’t steal Tommy’s cows.”

Well, so much for that.

Then he said, “Big Daddy, I’m goin’ to get Elmo back, and my cows too. If you don’t do something about this, I will.”

That’s vintage Two-Gun. Bold, defiant, takin’ matters into his own hands.

And he left.

The next few days were eerily quiet in town. It was almost like folks were bracin’ for a storm. I come to hear from folks that both Gentleman’s and Two-Gun’s cowhands were stockin’ up on guns an’ ammunition. The shelves at the general store were gettin’ bare. Even the stagecoach drivers were nervous comin’ in to town.

Folks started whispering about a Range War.

Now I really couldn’t believe that these two brothers’ would actually draw down on each other, but it was starting to look like that’s what was gonna happen.

Unless I did something about it.

Well, I wasn’t gonna let this escalate into an all-out range war. Folks in these parts, particularly the womenfolk, count on me to keep the peace. And when I heard from a preacher passin’ thru town that it looked like the two brothers were putting their cowhands up toward the fence dividin’ their spreads, I knew it was time to take charge of this situation.

So I saddled up my big stallion, a large, white beast I call Suburban. ‘Bout the biggest, strongest ride in town. Better’n nearly 250 regular horsepower, by my reckoning.’ Pulls my big trailer with no trouble. I strapped on my gunbelt, stowed the Winchester in the saddle holster, and headed out to the Berber flats.

Well, stranger, if you want to hear the rest of the story, you’re gonna have to come back another night. I’ve got my rounds to make tonight before I turn off the lights in this town. But if you come back in a couple days or so, I’ll tell ya the rest of the story.

Out here in the west, there’s only one way to head off a full-on Range War.

And that’s what we call Frontier Justice.

So come back, stranger.

Yep, it’s great to be Sheriff Mann.