Plastic Pools and Dating

Ahhhh.. the dating pool. Not really a pool here. More like one of those kiddie pools you see on sale at the store when it's 110º out, and your kids' eyes well up with hopes and dreams of splashing about, and they are small enough to actually enjoy it. So you fork over the $13 bucks at Walmart and take it home, pick a spot on the lawn (soon dead), fill that sucker up and let the fun times begin.

Two hours pass — from purchase to playtime — the hose doing its best to keep on task. To fill, slowly, gallon by gallon. The kids wait and wait and wait in the in their bathing suits, and they're out in the baking sun. You passed on sunscreen, what with the new pool and all. Why put sunscreen on your kids when it's coming right off with the first big splash. Lord, it's hot out today.

"We're hot! When can we get in, daddy?"

"Be patient! It's almost ready. Don't you know that waiting for things is the best part?"

"Why isn't it going faster, daddy?"

"Because! It's just not! It's going as fast as it can!"

The waterline rises, millimeter by millimeter. Painful to look at, really. You wonder how much bigger your water bill will be because of this stupid pool. This pathetic, plastic, fake pool.

The waiting ends. The thrill returns.

"Okay, kids, get in. I'm grabbing the camera. This is gonna be so much fun!!" You leave them and they are indeed giddy. That mental picture levitates you into the house. You're a good parent; your kids are happy. Fun awaits.

You bound back outside again, they stand there shivering like cartoon skeletons, their little bones rattling, and their lips quivering in a state of pre-shock.

"Get in there, you little brats!"

"It's too cold, daddy!"

"The hell it is!! Get your sorry butts in that pool!" And then tears. Despair. Crying.

"I hate you, daddy!"

Fatherhood is punctuated by long heavy sighs.

If you read this far, there is a parallel in this story. Something about expectations and reality.

Random stuff I learn from my dog, Fletch. Part I: Kids

This is Fletch, my yellow lab.

Like all divorces, mine was hard on the family, especially my kids. We spent Christmas Eve together, then they were gone. Gone like Christmas. Nobody was ready for it, certainly not me. 

Fletch picked a spot at the top of the stairs, overlooking the front door and entryway. He waited for days, head lowered, ears peeled. It was everything a picture of vigilance. Cars passed by the house, sending his head up off the floor. He'd strain to hear the slam of car doors, small voices, and footsteps hitting the porch. But the cars just went by.

They went by, went on, to other homes, where other dogs reunited their human families. Deflated, his head drooped to the floor, again and again, beleaguered, and punctuated with sighs. Up and down. Up and down. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

A car stopped one day and he stood, ramrod straight like a Marine. Car doors slammed, small feet approached, sending the tip of Fletch's tail whipping with controlled anticipation. The front door flew open and his family had returned.

They came home, eventually, and they were fine. Fletch's heart was never in question; who could say where his mind was? I missed them too, worried of course. My kids were away from home, settling into a new one. Adjusting. But he doesn't wait by the door anymore, the times they leave. He knows. We both know. The kids will be fine. 

The sting of divorce still strums angry chords in this new song, the one I write with my kids. But we are singing, growing. 

Average

I shot for average growing up and that’s what I got.  School was no cake walk, but it wasn’t hard or anything.  Learning bored me.  Homework?  What’s that?  I got a lot of D’s on my progress reports, which sent my parents into the stratosphere over and over again.  They threatened me within an inch of my life over and over, and I would rally across the finish line, and hold my hands up in victory for average, for a fucking C.  Below average grades were never acceptable; average grades kept me out of trouble.

Fast forward and rewind through life: I’m an average guy (not above average, but I’ll be damned if I’m below average).  I live in an average house, on an average street, with average neighbors, in an average town.  Our lawns each share an average green hue in the summer, as though we planned it that way.  We have average cars with average car payments.  My family is average with 2.5 kids (actually three whole kids... but statistically still average).  I had an average marriage that morphed into an average divorce.  My income is average and I’m grateful for it.  Middle class suits my magnetic attraction to mediocre.

When I’m out of town I eat at average restaurants.  Chili’s, Red Robin, Outback, Red Lobster, Applebee’s, or Olive Garden.  It’s extraordinary fare for the average man.  It’s like a convention of average people dining together in groups, engaged in all the good habits of the herd, where safety is found in numbers.

I buy coffee at Starbucks with other coffee house wannabes.  I’m not into the fancy coffee based beverages, mainly because it’s a language I can’t understand and never cared to learn.  Give it to me black, safe, sometimes with a little half and half.  Nothing says average like a little half and half.  

Gatekeepers

Remember when you were a kid at recess and the captains picked out teams based on a simple and fair process of selecting the best players, one at a time, until everyone was assigned a team and then the fun could start?  I always got picked first, if not by the first captain then by the next one.  Hell, sometimes I was the captain, and got to do the picking.  Having the power to choose was pretty cool; but, getting picked first had its own merit too.  You were “in” in either case.  Your ability to play, or better, to choose other players, was trusted, even respected.  

Do you remember that feeling?  I walked taller, bolder.  What a rush!  

However, the days of getting picked first are long gone.  I don’t get picked first for anything anymore.  Getting picked last wouldn’t suck too much at this point.  My war in life seems to be against the gatekeepers, those captains of the playground.

Getting published is my number one goal, as a writer, and well, as a human being who needs to aim for something big.  Writing is hard work, and while my voice may lack the obvious polish and place, I’m no less passionate about connecting with words.  In fact, that’s why I write period: to connect.  And, I want to be picked!

Gatekeepers are usually the pawns of establishment, parading about on a giant chessboard, where if you win, you gain access to something, whatever it is.  If you lose, then you sulk back to your cave and plot a little more.  Gatekeepers throw their arms up and make a lot of noise and guard admission like deadly sentries.  The gatekeepers stand in your way.

Remember the playground losers?  Remember all the stragglers, the awkward and clumsy kids that got picked last, or not at all?  They were found lacking on all accounts.  Everything.  They lacked skill, for starters (a pun.. I love those).  Add to that they lacked respect.  And if not for a playground duty teacher to speak up on their behalf -- to make sure they weren't denied -- the un-chosen would be ridiculed into leaving with only their uncoordinated bodies and tears to comfort them in some far-away corner well away from the action.    

I’m not saying the gatekeepers might require more talent; that’s probably fair.  Nor would I argue that whosoever wants a shot gets a shot.  And I’m certainly not arguing for a recess duty equal opportunity type to punch my card and force the gatekeepers’ hands.  But I would ask that one of the captains take a serious look once in a while.  I want to play the game, dammit!

Snakes and shovels

Our house is in the Echo Hills area of Lewiston. It’s snake country. I notched another kill on the shovel tonight after I dispatched the slithering serpent there to the left.

It's been a while between kills, though. We'd gotten used to not seeing them around, so it's still a shock when one starts buzzing at you. The kids play outside all the time, and our dog Fletcher is outside a lot too.

A few summers back I notched no fewer than 13 kills on my shovel, and buried 13 rattlesnake heads in the back yard with the very same shovel. My neighbors killed some snakes too. Debbie killed two (her stories of snake warfare were like epic tales of battle told around a campfire). Nigel killed six or seven (he liked to go door to door and display the pissed off snakes still wiggling, secured in clamps; he kept the tails). And Jason bagged a couple (he preferred a pellet gun with an attached high powered scope to dispatch his fanged quarry from a distance). Notches were my trophies, displayed right there on my trusty shovel, like a World War II fighter ace displays kills on a plane’s fuselage. We agreed that a den had obviously been disrupted that spring when a new home was built above us on the hillside, accounting for higher than average snake numbers.

My kids received a quick education in snake recognition: 1) buzzing, coiled, head like a balled up fist, pissed off: rattlesnake; 2) slender, yellowish, skinny head, normal tail: bull snake. Either way, get dad. Bull snakes control rodent populations and occasionally hunt rattlesnakes; we spared them and offered complimentary relocation.

One evening the sun was setting. Long shadows extended like blankets across the road as my kids and I spent some time together in the front yard. We liked to play catch, soccer, tag, or whatever. I noticed three robins in the road and went back to playing.

A couple minutes passed and the robins were still in the road chirping, but more like barking dogs than musically like they often do. That’s when I saw the snake. The birds had formed a triangle around it like a zone defense, keeping their distance but nonetheless shadowing it all the way across the street, driving the deaf reptile like cowboys drive a stray steer. I hadn’t noticed the deadly snake before. The asphalt and diminished light served to conceal it from sight. The robins were arranged on the road in such a way as to draw my eye into the middle of their formation, to the venomous snake slithering across the road.

So I grabbed my shovel and applied the business end to the serpent’s head, clobbering it a few times and then methodically slicing its head off with the dull edge of the spade. Not a quick and clean cut like King Louis the XVI’s and Marie Antoinette’s guillotine, however sufficient enough for the purposes at hand. The buzzing tip at the other end lost most of its prior intensity, but managed to give a few more half conscious and dazed reports, refusing to die, and then it was over. It’s important to separate the head from a poisonous snake and bury it; dogs rifle through trash cans and still risk getting punctured by the venomous fangs, and possibly die.

Maybe it’s standard robin procedure when dealing with snakes––a tactic––but it felt like they were doing me a favor. The birds didn’t stick around to watch. Like classic heroes of yesteryear, they were long gone before they could be thanked personally. Of the 13 kills that summer, the birds and their odd behavior make that encounter stand out a little more than others. It was bad too. The snakes were in the driveway, on the road, in the plants, along the fence line, and in the grass. Thankfully, however, one snake at a time.

The venomous buzzworms are out there, you remind yourself—and especially your kids—but our senses dull when we don't see them that often. Today we got a reminder, and I'm thankful for the coiled up package it came in.

Put me in coach

My son's new tee ball coach is me. I'm not really sure how it happened. An old teammate called last week and asked if I'd be interested in helping out. My son was with a group of unplaced players in the downtown area. Without much thought I said yes.

We play a lot of catch at my house, and hit the ball across the road, and generally have fun. It's not too long before other kids from around the neighborhood are gathered around participating too. So, it can't be too much different from that, right?

That was Friday. After mulling it over a few days and nights I'm not so sure anymore. This is Tee Ball. The kids are 5-6 years old. The skill levels are all over the map, from zero to barely more than zero. Attention spans not withstanding, this will be their very first exposure to organized baseball -- America's favorite pastime.

It's not really a matter of knowing the game and building fundamentals. I know baseball like the back of my hand, having spent my entire youth playing every spring and summer.

This is coaching. This is important. Like the baseball gods of Cooperstown saw fit to entrust me with the very essence of the game: not the doing, not the greatness, not the achievement, nor the legacy. No. I'm talking about the soul of the game. That which ignites in young kids, turns to love or hatred in an instant, and burns for a lifetime.

And then... parents. Their trust is bigger than baseball or any other sport. They trust that a simple decision to sign their kids up for a fun activity like tee ball won't result in permanent scarring -- not only of precious, delicate young minds but the kind of scarring that occurs after a little bleeding. That the coach won't be a total jackass. Or that he won't hurt their kid's feelings. Or that he won't yell at them and make them cry.

I need a frame of reference, to draw from my own experiences.

My coaches were all great, from the time I started to the time I stopped playing: Mr. Clauser, Mr. Lyons, Mr. Murphy, Mr. Bradford, Mr. Blacketter, my dad, the Bloom brothers, Mr. Carpenter, Coach Vasser and Coach Church.

They all left impressions, about baseball, teaching me the game, and about the kind of men they were. Respectable human beings. Men I looked up to. A lot. They were instructors (better than my school teachers). They were motivators (better than my parents). They were cheerleaders who corrected mistakes and encouraged play-making: hitting well, fielding well and throwing well. They drove home the practice of being a good teammate and always being a good sport.

My son is thrilled beyond words. Every last relative and friend knows that his dad is his coach. I've never seen him more excited than when he found out.

The pressure is palpable for this first timer.

Effing Karma

Karma. I'm not even sure what it means. It's often quoted, though; I know that much. And usually only referred to when plans don't work out, or destiny comes into question.

Is this karma in action?

A for sale sign in the window and several months worth of ads in the penny saver will net no interest from possible buyers. But the day you throw up your hands and take the damn car back to the dealer (a 100 miles away), you get asked "how much?" at the gas station, the drive through, and every stop light on the way out of town. Effing karma.

After a Saturday morning soccer gear safari with the boy, finally having rounded up the required items for the next several Saturdays, lunchtime hits and before you commit to the order, good guy voice on your shoulder suggests you get enough for everyone at home too. Don't be selfish. Fine. Extra food. Drive home. Win win, everyone eats. Nope. Karma had other plans. "We already ate," is waiting at the door. Not even a thank you. Effing karma. (And you know for damn sure what would've happened if you weren't such a thoughtful son of a bitch... no one would've had lunch yet.)

The little humans in this house are messy as hell. Ketchup stains, gogurt stains, mud stains, juice stains, toothpaste stains, and any one of a number of other stains thrive like industrial disaster areas on 10's of dozens of all those cute little garments. Washing them in a timely and predictable order is apparently too much for us. Laundrey pile, a nefarious lifeform if you will, mocks us every day and every night we let another opportunity to make a dent pass us by. The clock ticks down and laundrey pile spreads his influence ever further over the washroom floor.

Right before dozing off for the night, you recall a tear-stained, weeping child who has "nothing to wear tomorrow." Heavy sigh. It's only 12:33 in the AM. So you throw a load in, and wait. It'll be about an hour to cycle and then the dryer can finish up the job. You turn on the TV, and flip channels for minutes and minutes and minutes.

You land on "Spartacus: Blood and Sand," an original series on Starz. Holy Moses! Who else is wide awake in about 16 seconds? You've seen this story before: gladiators, honor, blood, swords, lots of people in robes and forced accents wandering about pontificating the glory of Rome. Oh, and none-stop humping. Humping in the foreground, background, off the ground, on the ground, in the streets, on the seats, etc. More skin, sweating, writhing and humping then you could ever recall witnessing on TV in your life. It's like, instead of beautiful architecture and believable scenery in the backgrounds, the producers and director only requested naked "actors" willing to hump the whole time, no matter what, no matter the scene being played out on screen. I'm certain they're trying to tell a story somewhere between the barrage of humping. But it's hard to gather an actual story unfolding at all. People smarter than me -- who make more money than me -- decide these things.

Full disclosure, I watched until the spin cycle stopped and the final credits rolled. Effing karma laughs yet again at a simple man trying to do the right thing for his children, late at night, when he should've just gone to sleep an hour earlier. Oh, and that was just the set-up, because when morning came the kid was sick, and she wouldn't be needing any of those freshly washed clothes today. Not one. Just awesome! What gives? Effing karma.

Then the others, like: washing your car on a sunny day only to have it rain a few hours later. Or, choosing not to mow the lawn this evening because you have the whole weekend to worry about it (a weekend full of rainy days). Or you cut and trim a stretched-too-thin budget, because it's a smart thing to do, only to have the unexpected repair, mechanical failure or doctor bill gobble up your surplus like a yellow lab woofing down dog chow. Effing karma.

I don't know what the hell karma is. I just know whatever you're planning to do will have little to do with your destiny. Thems are the breaks, kid. Whatever belief system you go by, or religious compass you adhere to, the concept of karma is universal: that the more you convince yourself that you're in control of every last detail of your life the more evident it becomes that you're really not. That faith, good habits and common sense will surely help you navigate that which unfolds along your path, but you will never know -- never really know -- what awaits you around the bend.

Effing karma knows.