Life With Father

The recent storms here in the midwest did a number on the trees in our neighborhood. Everywhere you turned there were large fallen branches, and there were even a few sizable trees that came down all together. One of these -- a big elm in a neighbor's backyard -- took out a power line that served all the houses on our side of the street. When the city trucks rolled through alley to clear the tree and restore the power, they cut down anything and everything in their way and dumped it in our backyards.

And so it was that I fired up my chainsaw yesterday to cut up the large branches in our yard as well as that of our neighbor, Robin.

It made me feel like a real man.

Of course, it did take me two days to get the damn thing started after it had been sitting dormant for at least 8 months in our shed. I followed the directions exactly, but to no avail. I was ready to take it to a repair shop (I'd even called to verify that they were open and could, indeed, fix my brand of chainsaw). But then I just decided, "To hell with the directions. I'm just going to keep pulling that cord until it starts or my arm falls off, whichever comes first." And wouldn't you know it, 10 pulls later and I was off and running. I have no idea about the cause of the initial recalcitrance or why it finally started.

What I haven't told you yet is that before calling the repair shop, I had seriously considered calling my father, freshly returned from a two-week trip to Scandinavia with Mom. But we had just talked the day before, and I imagined they were tired still. Plus, I reasoned that the possible solutions to the problem were not within my powers as a mechanic. So I decided to spare him the call.

The point is that I am 41 years-old and I still think to call my father first when something goes wrong or if I have a "what's causing this phenomenon" sort of question. And it doesn't really matter what the category -- automotive, electrical, mechanical, nuclear, land-based, or on the water -- the dude knows his stuff. Want to know how to change the oil in your car, bleed the brakes, repair a distributor? Call Dad. Want to know how to solder, why your pipes are leaking, how to re-wire your house? Call Dad. Want to know how turbines work, what kinds of gears are best suited for different types of jobs, the physics and mechanics of a pulley system? Call Dad. Want to know how to remodel the basement, pour a concrete foundation, build a brick patio, repair a hold in the wall, hang a door properly? Call Dad. How it works, why it works, what it's for? Call Dad. Do you need to know about torque? Trouble with sine and cosine? Got a question about why a cup plunged upside down in water does not fill up with water? You know where to go.

And it's not just handyman stuff. There's a depth to his knowledge that goes beyond mere physical ability or experiential knowledge. We're talking theory and history here. For example, do you know what a "Hemi" is? After seeing enough Dodge commercials to convince me that this was an important thing to have, Dad told me that this was simply a term for a Hemispherical Combustion Chamber and that it's neither new nor necessarily desirable, and why. He knows more about a range of subjects that interest him than I do about the thing I do for a living. And I have a Ph.D.

He's a master sailor, plays piano, knows how to smoke a pipe, and can paint, too. He grills a mean steak. And he can win a Pinewood Derby.

I have managed to get something, though. While cutting through branch after branch of fallen timber, and feeling so Totally Useful, one phrase kept going through my head: "It's good to be a little afraid of power tools." Wisdom to live by. Thanks, Dad, for the continued existence of all my digits. And while we're at it: thanks for the entrance to the staircase that can now handle a box spring; thanks for the new plumbing all through the house; thanks for the new wiring; thanks for the garbage disposal; thanks for the new bathroom floor upstairs; thanks for liking Nancy and the kids; thanks for coaching my baseball teams; thanks for hanging a basketball hoop in our driveway in Chula Vista; thanks for worrying about when and how I was getting home; thanks for having such a fondness for little things, like a good bottle of cola, or the "goop" that you put on your hamburgers; thanks for sticking up for Peanut when I threaten to take her tags off and leave the gate open; thanks for being interested in all sorts of things.

Thanks most of all for just being a damn fine example of a father.

On The Town

We had our first real adventure in babysitting last night. We've been meaning to try it out for a while now, but until our hand was forced we always found an excuse to stay home. Last night, however, was an exception. Nancy was awarded the Arts Educator of the Year award at the Bravo Awards, sponsored by Arts Illiana, the major community arts organization in the Wabash Valley. So we went.

We struggled over who should babysit. Fran would be at the ceremony, so she was out. Julio and Sandra were game, but Sandra's back was out and we didn't want to inflict our wild things on her in that condition. Students are, well, students. So we asked the great "Miss Lisa" from daycare and, to our eternal gratefulness, she agreed. Dave and Trin heart Miss Lisa in a big toddler, jump up and down, hug your leg, do a little dance kind of way. Plus, she's a childcare professional. How much better could we get? The kids were so excited to see her when she arrived at 6:00 that they had to show her everything in the house. They were eager to show her everything in their world outside of daycare: Peanut, Eddie, the porch, the playroom. And so we left them in the more than able hands of Miss Lisa and headed off to the awards ceremony. I wore a suit.

Nancy had attended several of these ceremonies in the past and they were all pretty much the same: dinner followed by the quick presentation of awards -- a brief encomium by the executive director, announce recipient, receive award, shake hands, sit down. This year, however, there was no dinner -- just hors d'oeuvres and a cash bar in the lobby of the art gallery. The award ceremony itself took place in the recital hall across from the gallery and all the award recipients had to sit on the stage. Worse still, they were expected to give a brief speech after being introduced and then getting the award. Poor Nancy; she hates public attention in general and public speaking even more. And they hadn't told her about this new devlopment, so she didn't have anything prepared. The good news is that she handled it all with the grace and charm that we've all come to expect from Nancy. Check it out for yourself (thank you Mike Kelsay and his Flip video camera!):



(That's me at the end making the Chad Lowe reference. Unlike Chad, though, I did not cry).

We promised Lisa we would be back by 9:00, and so we were. The kids were still up (we told Lisa not to worry about bedtime) and Very Excited to See Us. Apparently, they were well behaved, save for a bit of impromptu nudity in the backyard. Also, we apparently forgot to tell Lisa that we had a cat, so Eddie's sudden and swift entrance into the kitchen from the porch took her by surprise. We overpaid her and the kids kissed her goodnight. Trin was so tired by now that she simply sobbed all the way through her (very short) bath and the lotion-diaper-pajama process. She was asleep within seconds of putting her in bed. Even David went to bed relatively quickly.

But now it's one day later. It's 9:50 and Nancy is still trying to coax Trin to sleep. David went off early, but awoke at about 8:45, saw that it was light-ish out, and decided it was morning (a prospect about which he was none too happy). Nancy finally convinced him that he could go back to sleep. And now Trinity has decided that she must have Mommy tonight. Maybe it's the increased humidity that's keeping her up, or the bubble bath that may have made her oh-so-sensitive skin itchy.

Or maybe it's because she's been caught unwittingly in the glow of Nancy's greatness and radiant charm. I know it keeps me up at night. I'm just glad other people are starting to see it, too.

All About My Mother

Another Mother's Day is here and it's another year that I have failed to get a card. I always call, of course, and Mom says it's OK -- it's better to hear in person, etc. -- but, still. It's not that I haven't been thinking about getting a card for the last couple of weeks ("This is the year," I say) but then, like getting a haircut, it just doesn't happen quite in time. And then Sunday arrives...

So, thanks, Mom, for understanding that I'm forgetful and a bit of a procrastinator, for always treating me like what I had to say was important, for telling me I have a nice singing voice, for being a good storyteller, for always having treats of one kind or another on the counter, for not being overly concerned about things like watching television, for telling me to look words up in the dictionary, for having an excellent sense of humor, for being concerned instead of mad when I did something really wrong, for loving Nancy and Trinity and David even though I have a habit of not introducing you to future family members until the deal is done, for riding with me on the go-karts when I was too small to go alone, for letting me listen to all that loud music when I was a kid, for recognizing that the trumpet was not my instrument, for recognizing that the drums were, for singing "Happy Birthday" on the phone every year, for sandwiches in brown paper bags, for Easter baskets in semi-hidden places, for a trip across the country in a station wagon, for putting up with absolute goofiness, for being devout (and being understanding about the fact that I am not), for being consistent, for being a little goofy yourself, for liking a good stiff drink every now and then, for modeling moderation, for being complex, for being good, for being kind, and for being unconditionally devoted to your family.

There's a lot more things I could say, of course, but I have to save something for that card I'm going to get you next year.

Happy Mother's Day from the gang in Terre Haute:

I feel the earth move under my feet/I feel the sky tumbling down

I served this semester as a reader on an Honors Scholar thesis for a creative writing student. One chapter of her project was titled "First Memory" and in it she detailed her memory of huddling in bed with her mother during an earthquake in southern California. I did the math: she was born in 1985 (according to the account she had written of her birth) and her first memory would likely be of something that happened when she was, say, two or three. That would make it 1987 or 1988, provided she was telling the truth. So, I asked her:

"Was that story about your first memory based in reality?"

"Yes."

"And you lived in L.A., right?

"Orange County."

"I think we have something in common," I said. "I think we experienced the same earthquake. I think that was the Whittier earthquake of 1987."

"Yeah, I think so."

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It started at about 7:30 in the morning on a bright autumn day: October 1, in fact.

I was scheduled to be at work at 10:00. I worked at 20/20 Video, the biggest video chain in L.A. prior to the rise of Blockbuster. I was asleep in the one-bedroom apartment on Napa Street between Reseda and Lindley. Noel was already off to work at Solly's Deli.

It wasn't one of those rolling kind of quakes -the ones that build slowly. This one started with a bang and was at full force. I jumped out of bed and ran to the front door. We lived on the second floor of one of those quintessential L.A. apartment buildings: two-stories around a central swimming pool. I threw open the door and heard screaming. I looked down and saw the pool below spilling over on all sides. In a half-sleep still, I remember taking off for the front entrance of the complex.

I don't remember the sprint down the outdoor hallway, or descending the stairs, or even opening the double doors out onto Napa Street. I do remember, though, the sudden realization that I was still in nothing but my boxer shorts. And I remember the workers across the street laughing. Luckily, I hadn't shut the doors and I could slink back to my apartment and get ready for work.

Somewhere in Orange County a little girl and her mother were climbing out from under the sheets on the bed where they had taken refuge.

When I got to the store, everything was off the shelves and the four ceiling-mounted tv monitors were hanging by their wires. We fixed the monitors and started to clean up. My boss, channeling his darker side, found a copy of Earthquake and put it on. He played it all day.

When I returned home after my shift, the apartment managers, Bonnie and Frank (later found to have worked in cahoots with Steve, the ex-marine on the first floor at the end of the building, to burglarize several of the apartments in the complex), spotted me and asked me if the sky was falling. Apparently, they had seen my streak to safety.

Noel was probably drinking a beer when I walked in. He had been driving at the time of the quake and said he hadn't felt a thing.

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Three days after asking Maddison about her first memory, I awoke to the sound of Peanut barking loudly downstairs. "Damn dog," I thought, unhappy about the prospect of getting up to let her out.

Trin was in the bed with me; David was in the other bed with Nancy (this kind of musical beds happens a lot these days in our house). Before I could get up, I heard the bathroom cupboard doors start the rattle. The wind? A train? And then the walls started to shake and I heard that unmistakable sound of everything moving.

"Jesus, we're having a earthquake," I said to myself. "Come on, Trin. Let's go."

I picked up Trin, still sleeping, and walked over to where Nancy and Dave were. "Nancy, we're having an earthquake," I said, still in a little bit of disbelief. "You should get up and get to a doorframe." The house kept rumbling longer than I expected and I suggested we get downstairs to a stronger doorway. "This is nothing so far, but who knows where it could go?" I thought.

We got downstairs and listened to the cupboards rattle for another 20 seconds or so, and then it was calm. I looked at the clock. It was just after 5:30. We went back upstairs. The kids were still mostly asleep.

Neither one of them will likely remember this.