For My Dad. . .

My Dad's Birthday is this week. My mother wanted me to write a note to him on the card to be sure make it personal. I had written the following in my little notebook one day after work. I printed that out for him instead. Happy Birthday Dad.

Growing up, I don't remember my father having to even sit me down to recite a litany of all that I had done that he was proud of. I don't remember for a moment every having any doubts that he was. And he never had to say a word. I always comfortably realized that my father loved me and thought the world of me. His approval had always been completely in my mind for as long as I can remember. It seemed that putting too many words to it would be like adding lyrics to a symphony, causing what was grand to become awkward and perhaps even a little silly. Yet, sometimes he did look at me with a conscientiousness that felt it shouldn't entirely be left unspoken, and he would say, "I'm proud of you, son". But we both seemed to understand that it was never really a revelation. We seemed to know that he was only saying out loud what we both already knew.

As I have grown older and experienced the struggles of trying to make it in this world, where I am constantly faced with someones new measurement of what I need to do to be considered valuable in any given situation, and the experience of falling just short of those expectations almost constantly, my thoughts often turn to my Dad. At some of these times, I have come to rest solely on the subconscious bedrock of the unconditional love my parents gave me growing up to hold me from sliding into complete despair in the face of some of the more aggressive assaults that have come my way. That foundation that I was lucky enough to have planted deeply within me as a child, has been the engine to keep me moving forward when I could not see a solution. It fostered hope that there would be a new morning, if I could just weather the night.

And it's during these times that I have begun to wonder if my father has ever faced these same assaults. I begin to wonder if my father had ever been subjected to the sliding scale of industry metrics, and work that was commended one day suddenly became sub-standard the next. If he had ever had the misfortune to be a component of a middle manager's game of professional advancement, consequently making my father merely a cog that could be assessed for replacement or removal when it lost it's most advantageous utility. I begin to think of my Dad and wonder if life ever treated him that way. If anything had every made him feel less than a completely essential person. The possibility that there has been makes me fume.

And then I wonder, at those moments, was he able to rest in the fact that I was always so very proud of him?

As I endeavor to do my best to raise my own kids, I've spent the last several years re-discovering my dad. Since we've come to have fatherhood in common, I've been able to look at him with new eyes. To see past the DAD icon and begin to see the man; the person. I can look at him sometimes and rewind to see him as a son himself. I can watch him even now, as a husband, and see him in all his efforts, sometimes so similar to my own, trying to be the man his wife needs. I want him to know that I see him being the storybook Grandpa I had hoped and daydreamed he would be, even when I was still a kid.

I want his mind to be shielded from any doubts that may come to ask "what might have been". I want to stifle any whispers that might come in the dark times to accusingly ask "what have you contributed" and block out the truth, attempting to make him seem empty handed.

I want him to see how his time bringing the past to life for several generations of young and old alike may be the only history lessons that they ever remember. I want him to know that the works of art he has created through his wood carving are things of beauty that will be cherished for generations---as much for what they are, as what they represent--the creativity and caring of his heart and hands and mind.

I want him to know that as a boy I came into contact with many other men who were fathers, that I played with their sons, and that I would often look at these boys with a feint sadness or pity recognizing that though their fathers tried very hard (and I would have commended those men for their efforts and encouraged them on if they would have ever asked) in the end were only dim reflections, and that in all the world only my brother and I got my dad as a father.

I was glad we did Boy Scouts together, my dad and I. Glad for the activities we shared as a result, but also glad that it provided an opportunity for my father to be shared with other boys that he would guide as an adult leader. It made me feel a little less miserly knowing that he was planting irreversible seeds of good in boys who needed a kind mentor in their world. I hope that in some small way life may provide me the opportunity amidst all its demand to be a good steward of that model. And I want him to know that at the end of each meeting, as we packed up and headed for home, all going our separate ways, that I was glad I got him back. After being around all those other adult leaders, all those other men, all those other fathers, each week I was glad, and sometimes even relieved, that the man I was going home with was my dad.

I just want to be sure that he knows that.

Mr. Cellophane

So it's done. I cut my hair. People ask me why, and now I'm not sure. It just wasn't behaving. It's getting too thin on top, but then it's still think and poofy on the sides. My wife said it looked like a bad perm. Not like it was in college, a thick all over mane I could comfortably hide behind while making my self unique at the same time. The internal struggle of being an introverted extrovert, or an extroverted introvert. Something like that. At any rate, it's gone now. My mother is thrilled. I feel, well, kind of nondescript.

I put on a favorite jacket today because it's getting kind of chilly. It's a vintage WWII Esienhower jacket. My wife made me change. Apparently, I'm not twenty anymore and that makes dressing in an interesting jacket inappropriate. My mom, as I said, is glad the hair is gone, because she says that I don't look like someone hanging onto my youth anymore. So, if I'm understanding correctly, aging means that you need to blend in so completely as to become invisible. Fly that biege flag high.

Almost seems Darwinian theory has so saturated our thinking, that they worry I'll draw predatory attention to myself being so different from the herd, and I can't run to escape like I used to. Leave that to the stronger and more agile pubescent bucks.

I guess my resolve doesn't hold much these days against peer pressure, since I've succumb. People talk about peer pressure being so oppressive when you're in high school and the like. At almost 40, it's a crushing force. Or maybe I'm just get too tired to swim upstream anymore.

So if you hear a small squeak of a whisper late at night, don't worry. It's just me disappearing.

Daughter Kitten as Pat Benatar Wannabe

Daughter Kitten as Pat Benatar Wannabe
Originally uploaded by CyberJazzDaddy.

You think this was a special costume day at school? No way, babay. My daughter is just so ahead of the fashion curve that you can't even see it yet!

Well, we’re rocking the school year now. We have a full week under out belts and we’ve almost established a morning rhythm.

I’m back to playing taxi to the various schools in the morning as I toddle off to work. We have a kid in each level this year; elementary, middle and high school but I only transport the younger group and their friends. My daughter is walking again this year. It’s not far and the exercise is good for her.

One of the new passengers I have in my little roller sk8 (the kid’s nickname for my Rio) is a boy from church. His family is in our small group (a group of about 10 people which meet in the eve on some Sundays for the purpose of getting to know each other outside of the formal church setting) and when we found that he’s going to the same school as Robo, it was natural that we had him come along with us.

So that Monday he shows up, very punctual, and sits down patiently waiting in our living room for the cue to load up the car. He’s a very nice, unassuming young man with a poetic soul, and when I finally saw him he was sitting quietly in an armchair, hands clasped on top of the binder on his lap, watching the chaos that was swirling around the rest of the house. You could see just a flicker of controlled flight instinct glimmering at the back of his eyes. This past summer my daughter had a sleeping over with a friend from out of town that she had known in first grade. At one point my daughter asked her what she thought of our family, to which the friend replied, “I like it. It’s really cool here---like living inside a situation comedy!” I think the new little dude was feeling the full effect of that vibe right then. Of course, on this first day it was a comedy populated by a grumpy dad and cranky kids because no one was really handling the earlier wake up time with a whole lot of grace at that point.

I thought the other morning, how strange it is that I have this impulse to fill my vehicle full of school kids every year. Almost a compulsion. Every time I hear of someone near who is going to a school I go by on my way out of town, I’m right there offering to bring them along until I run out of room. I wondered where this came from. Then a little voice in the back of my head said---Duh! My mom, when I was a kid, ran a daycare out of our house growing up, and we had a big red van that she filled to the brim with kids, morning and afternoon. Compared to me, she was her own bus route. She’d hit three or four grade schools plus the Jr. High. And do all again in the afternoon. So I guess it’s genetic.

My daughter is really enjoying her year so far. She had auditions tonight for her first non-musical school play. She’s getting ready for her Speech competitions (where she won’t be giving a speech but acting in dramatic scenes like last year). She is also very psyched that in choir this semester the class has been broken in to several smaller groups and each of them will be assigned to write a short musical (both songs and script) based on a fairy tale that they will then perform next semester. She says that has been a dream of hers and she’s so excited that she gets to do it before she even gets out of high school.

Robo is liking Middle school just fine. He is looking to trying out for football and choir and possibly taking drum lessons on the full kit. For years he’s had friends his age fragmented into all kinds of different little subgroups---like his friends from school, then his friends from scouts, then his friends from the neighborhood, and his friends who were kids of friends of ours. Now they are all pretty much going to the same school, and a fair number of them share classes and lunch with him. And if that isn’t enough, he’s making new friends as well.

Lemur is a bit hard to figure out at this point. He comes out to the car the other day and sits down in what might be a bit of a huff, but mom is not sure. So she asks about his day. He just tells her that they had recess and lunch and did a bunch of other dumb stuff, “and that’s all you’re going to get out of me!” Ok, then---name, rank and serial number it is. But then later when I talk to him while I’m putting him to bed he’s all chirpy and tells me that he likes his teacher; “she’s fun!” I think we may need to talk to the teacher directly to get the full scoop of how things are going.

So here we are now, into our first weekend of the school year. Hopefully there will be some sleeping in on Sat morning----I’m gonna need it.

I can't believe it's already Thursday. It's so strange but I just can't get my head around it. I still feel like it's Wednesday. . .in early July. And already school is getting ready to start. I feel like that clip I saw of the Adam Sandler movie that came out this summer---Remote. I haven't seen the whole movie (it looked like a DVD rental if I ever saw one), but in this clip I caught, his remote for the Universe gets stuck in fast forward and he sees his whole life passing by. He learns this wonderful moral lesson from this I suppose. I haven't pressed any buttons I'm not supposed to or abused any power that I'm aware of, but I can't seem to find the pause anyway.

July went well. The Reunion, my wife's dramatic historical presentation, the Branson trip (which was only slightly tainted by a brief bout of food poisoning). My wife got an encore invitation of the piece she directed and they will be preforming for our little city's sesquicentinnial this month. I'm glad she got the invite. Until she got the call she was still all full of self doubt about the performance and it's merits, even after it was through and all the compliments were paid. That call has even seemed to help her with her assessment of her abilities over all. As you study a field, trying to learn how to become as adept in it as possible, a good education will tend to make you judgmental and a bit cynical about everything, including your own stuff. Sometimes especially your own stuff. It's one of the occupational hazards, and that's why so much of the bounty of the arts tends to go to the foolish, reckless or stupid. They don't know that they can't do it, so they just do. But somewhere around the bend, if your lucky, you can shed that legacy of your degree and find your muse again. And trust it. I hope that my wife is reaching that point. I hope I can follow soon after.

My life at the moment is going through whatever the opposite of the Midas touch is. I think someone should write that story. Give us a more useful metaphor. Not that I'm unhappy or in despair or anything. Just that old Murph is riding shotgun.

Take last Thurs for example. I got off with the phone to the garbage pick-up early that morning because last week we had been missed for missing our bill. After that I started off driving to work when I was pulled over by a fine member of law enforcement to get a written reminder that my tags on the car had expired. And of course, my current proof insurance was in my desk at home, I found. As I was pulling away from that delightful encounter, my "check engine" light went on--the one the book says to seek mechanical attention for as soon as possible when you see it. In the end I was able to arrive at work in time to get an email from my wife saying our telephone had been disconnected because I hadn't paid the bill. That following Saturday, after successfully paying the bill and getting our phone service restored, I showed that ol' phone company by driving a post hole digger right through the buried line. And yes, later it did start to rain (Young Frankenstien reference there).

But like I say, school is beginning this coming Monday and every year as I look at my kids during this week, they seem to pop up a year older in an instant. And this summer has seen some changes.

Robo had a really bad experience with Scouts early this summer (he was bullied by several roving bands of hooligans and boys in his troop at summer camp---his first camping trip without Dad or Grandpa). He came home and tried to be in good spirits telling me a story that he laughed at in a way that seemed forced and like the story was far funnier than it really was. After he finished he took a brief pause, looked right at me and said, trying to hold it together, "Dad, can I quit scouts?" And after a further falling out with a close scout friend, he has. I'm not one of those stiff upper lip, stick it out and be an man kind of fathers. My impression is that this world is too big and life is too short, and if something is giving you extra-curricular hardship. . .make changes.

And so he has. Even in his appearance. He cut his hair and is styling it and being very conscious of his appearance, right on schedule for middle school. He's going to drive the young girls crazy, so I've been over our No Dating Until After High School policy with him several times. It's working good for my daughter so far, I think he'll benefit as well.

My daughter, speaking of, ended her college Japanese class with very respectable marks, and a completely changed view of a possible trip. In fact, she's abandoned the thought of foreign exchange all together. She became very intimidated with the thought of learning such a hard language to the point where she could keep up in the very hard Japanese school system. So in a way, I've gained time with that decision---I get her at home for an extra year. And it seems like a whole lot of stress has melted away for her too. She gets to savor High School a little more, taking some fun classes among the required ones, and participating in more plays and musical events and things. She's very happy with the decision.

The best thing about that class was that she made friends with some college kids. And not just in that token be-nice-to-the-little-kid kind of way. In fact, she was so excited that they kept forgetting that she was 15. They'd invite her to come to do things with them and have to be reminded that she couldn't even drive yet. It'll be interesting to see how it feels to be back in class with people her own age. But then, she's never really been like people her own age.

In fact, she wrote a song the other day. Composed it out of the blue on the piano, music and lyrics. And it was wonderful. At first, like her mom, I thought it was going to be a teen-age rehash of over done emotions learned from the radio. But it wasn't--at all. The lyrics were clever and it had a catchy that I was still humming while I was brushing my teeth later that eve. She's keeping it under wraps as she polishes it so she can spring it on everyone at the school talent show at the end of the school year.

Even Leemur is looking forward to going back to school. That's a first. It'll be interesting to see how it goes for him.

So, here we go. Just remember, keep you arms and hands inside the ride at all times.

New Release Tues - My Idea of Heaven - Leigh Nash

You remember Sixpence None the Richer--their hit "Kiss Me". After that success blew up in their face and the power mongers ruined thier wonderful good fortune, they decided to call it quits. But the voice of Sixpence lives on as Leigh Nash embarks on a solo career. I'm so glad she didn't give up her music. Here's a video from a song on her new album releasing today. So cool.

The Bro's got game

I was doing my daily blog reading, which do mostly on my blackberry now since I'm never really in front of the computer anymore with just massive amounts of surf time, and I clicked on a link I had bookmarked and started to read. Since I didn't have the benefit of all the telltail signs of page layout and pictures, I was just reading along enjoying the post trying to figure out which one of my blogging friends this was, when it struck me---this is my brother's blog!

He's done lots of little posts with funny bits and good little stories of the family. But this time he sat back and got all reflective and stuff. I knew he had it in him if he just gave himself the chance. I think he finally caught the blogger grove.

So I just had to repost it here so no one would miss it. He's always commenting on what great respect he has for the writing I do over on my blog, whenever we get together. Well, right back at you bro.

Here it is:

The Zen of Mowing

Tonight I engaged in an activity that I'm sure was shared by many of the millions of homeowners in this country. I mowed my lawn. Now I truly love to mow my lawn. I know that may sound strange to some of you and I can here the wisecracks about how this fulfills my primal urge to dominate my domain or how the use of power tools is an pathetic attempt by men to compensate for something they are lacking. I guarantee you that mowing does neither. Those things I save for my 12cc gas powered weed whacker. No, mowing has a much more refined purpose that I finally discovered tonight.

Mowing has taken on a somewhat different characteristic this summer. You see, I received an iPod for my birthday this year and have discovered the wonderful world of podcasting. I have about a dozen programs that I download on a regular basis, mostly news and politics, and I have thoroughly enjoyed listening to these as I mow. There is something quite satisfying about learning about things such as governmental corruption and Iranian President "I'm-a-damn-nut-job" and his nuclear yearnings while at the same time chopping the heads off of innocent blades of grass. It just seems fitting.

However tonight, for some reason, I didn't grab my iPod when I went to mow. It was in the midst of my stroll through my lawn, hearing the drone of the mower, smelling fresh cut grass, that it hit me. Mowing is meditation. It is the modern American version of the Zen rock garden. You know, the rectangle spaces that they fill with small rocks and pebbles and then put a boulder in the middle. Then they take a rake and make various geometrical patterns in the rocks, working their way to the boulder in the middle, where they sit and meditate. The process and the product are said to be quite meditative.

I realized how very similar mowing is to this concept. I am making geometrical patterns making my way to the swing set in the middle of my lawn and once I finish I will sit on my deck and meditate with a 12 ounce beverage (probably Pepsi). When all was said and done I realized the allure that mowing holds for me. It is one of the few activities in my life that is mindless and repetitive enough to afford me an opportunity just to think. Think about things that are happening, things I want to happen, things that are bothering me and things that are good. I can have creative thoughts, spiritual thoughts, or just plain weird thoughts. And when I am done I have something that looks nice.

This has been missing this summer because I have been filling my mind with information instead of trying to process all the things of my life. Everywhere around me is activity and music and various other stimuli that inhibits this meditative state. There is one other place in my life where I pause long enough to relieve the urge to think, but that place is usually reserved for reading. I don't know if all this means I will stop using my iPod whenever I mow. I don't think so. But it did awaken me to the need I have to be unplugged and alone with myself inside my head.

New Release Tues: Lillix

New Release Tues: Lillix

This is a band that I would have passed up for being too pretty if they hadn't been on the new "Freaky Friday" DVD doing a cover of "What I like about you", that old Romantics. When I say they were too pretty, I mean I hate it when the industry passes off a face and tries to convince me that there is really musicianship there. I've seen too many empty shells come and go. And these gals made me think of what a band of Bratz dolls might look like.

But they seem like the real deal. They all play their own instruments, even the lead singer. It's probably because they're Canadian. They wouldn't have made it this far going south of the boarder if they didn't have the goods.

And I just don't get tired of thier first CD---and tomorrow, they should bring on the sophmore.

Check out more tunes on their mypsace page.