Oh Christmas Tree

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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.