Children shine light on life’s lessons
Children shine light on life’s basic lessons
As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
December is stressful for families. The cold and flu season, hectic pace of school, work pressures, and protracted holiday season collide just when our mammalian energy contracts. On these colder, darker days even a mild irritation can trigger a melt down for kids, and parents.
On a recent family outing, I dropped off my wife, Lori, on Main Street to enjoy some solo holiday shopping. I headed to the public library with the kids, where they had a blast and I perused the movie section. It was a cold, wet day; I was preoccupied with work, not feeling well, a bit sleep deprived, and according to of my kids, acting like Mr. Grouchy Pants. So when it was time to meet Lori, instead of leaving the car at the library and strolling into town, I decided to gamble on finding a parking spot in the public garage.
Up we went, weaving our way round and round five floors, the kids hollering with excitement all the way to the top, where, along with five other disgruntled drivers, I learned that the garage was full. The kids were equally thrilled, I was not, as we drove down and around five floors, and out into the uncovered public lot.
As I searched for an open space, the kids started overheating in their puffy coats and boots, their tummies grumbled and I became increasingly irritated; staying in the library lot would have been easier. Finally scoring a spot, I parked, turned off the car, left the door open, sprinted half-way across the lot, plunked two quarters in the parking station and victoriously returned to the car, parking slip in hand.
Soon the whole family sat contentedly, stuffing our gobs with burritos, chips and guacamole. This lasted about 13 minutes. After lunch, as we strolled through the indoor market, I realized I had better make a hasty return to the car to avoid a parking ticket.
Reaching the car with 10-minutes to spare, I found a $15 ticket tucked under the wiper. I hustled to catch up with the parking attendant who was about to escape from the lot. Upon hearing my concern, she gracefully said: “Oh, maybe I misread your parking slip?” Taking the time to reexamine the slip, she calmly pointed to the expiration time, showing that, indeed, I had over-parked. Comparing the time on my phone against the time stamped on the slip, I was confused and increasingly irritated.
Within the course of our conversation I learned that while parking in the garage costs 50 cents per hour (the first hour free), the uncovered lot is 75 cents per hour and the lot across the street is 25 cents per hour. To help clarify all of this, the expiration time is conveniently printed on each parking slip, which, since I assumed all parking is 50 cents per hour, I did not take the time to read.
The attendant patiently listened to me explain how confusing a system this is and how it stands to reason that if 50 cents is good enough for an hour of garage parking it ought to be equally worthy of uncovered parking. I was just barely reasonable with her. In the end, I acknowledged that I had failed to read the parking slip, she was doing her job, and we parted ways.
Moments later, Lori and the kids arrived in festive moods, just in time for my temper to flare as I carried on about the idiotic parking system and the ticket that would cost us more than lunch, effectively putting a damper on everyone’s mood.
Before we could pull away, the attendant returned and cut me a break, which I clearly did not deserve, and in my sullen state, I failed to even thank her before she disappeared.
Later that same day, as we prepared to sit for dinner, I ask daughter Zoe to clean up the art supplies that were strewn across the kitchen. She offered a familiar reply, “I didn’t do that,” to which I calmly said, “Zoe, let’s remember to take responsibility for our actions.”
When I am stressed I often forget some of life’s basic lessons. Fortunately, my children have a way of illuminating these moments, which is a gift any time of year.
This election season, kitchen table politics
This election season, kitchen table politics
As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
Anticipation of Election Day results loomed. Over dinner my wife, Lori, and I discussed the logistics of getting to the polls in the morning.
Inquisitive daughter Zoe interjected, “Who are you going to vote for? We both laughed. Lori said, Obama, and 3-year-old brother, Adam, retorted, “I’m gonna vote for Mama.”
“What happens if it’s a tie?” chimed Zoe.
“What are they teaching in kindergarten these days?” I wondered aloud.
I contemplated Bush v. Gore, the passé popular vote, the imperious Electoral College, a Republican House selecting Romney, a Democratic Senate choosing Biden, and then Adam dropped his spoon on the floor and nearly fell off his chair as he wiggled to reach it. I spared everyone the civics lecture and we turned attention to kitchen cleanup, baths and bedtime stories.
Disappointed by the lack of a viable eco-friendly candidate, we consoled ourselves by traveling to the polls without burning any fossil fuels. Lori walked and I pedaled with the kids in the trailer, first dropping Adam at pre-school, then to the community center.
Weaving our way through a gauntlet of folding tables and chairs, staffed by wide-eyed seniors, Zoe and I successfully procured a ballot and headed to an open booth.
While we affixed “I Voted” stickers to Zoe for three previous elections, starting when she was 6 weeks old, I spontaneously decided to end her role as passive observer.
Madly enthusiastic about pencils, pens, letters and words, I knew she would jump at the invitation.
With voters waiting in line behind us, I tucked Zoe’s mittens under my left arm, balanced the ballot in mid-air with my left hand, held the official pen, which was tightly tethered to the booth, in my right hand, and pointed with my chin to the correct line on the ballot as I coached Zoe in the fine art of vote casting.
She drew a beautiful line, perfectly completing the broken arrow. I lifted the ballot with fatherly pride, and was horrified to see we had voted for the wrong candidate.
I instantly rationalized our vote would not alter the outcome in a state where the result would be decisive, nor did I want to disempower my daughter in her first act of suffrage, nearly a century after the passage of the 19th Amendment. Yet, in the event our president failed to be re-elected, my stomach turned at the thought of giving our one and only vote to his political opponent.
I reassured Zoe that her penmanship was wonderful and was relieved when the election judge agreed to provide us with a fresh ballot. This time we both held the pen, first casting our vote for president, then for the first woman U.S. senator in our state’s history.
The following Sunday, with the smells of homemade oatmeal-raisin muffins baking in the oven and cinnamon-apple sauce bubbling on the stove top, we gathered round the kitchen table and watched the President’s acceptance speech on YouTube.
As the first family took the stage, we noted that Sasha and Malia are only a bit younger than some of the cousins, thinking our gesture would help the kids appreciate the event. Minutes later, Zoe asked: “When are the muffins going to be done.” And, echoing her disinterest, Adam glared at the computer screen:
“When is he going to stop talking?”
One of the memorable lines of the speech, for me, was Obama’s reminder that “Democracy in a country of 300 million people is noisy, messy and complicated.” Just like family life, I thought to myself. Then I smiled, recalling the adage: Politics starts at the kitchen table.
Far from home, a new view of family
Far from home, a new view on family
as published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
Connecting with family is a challenge. Distance, time and cost are the typical excuses — separation and hardship the result. So, determined to see my niece, Kristen, perform in her final season of high school marching band, I scheduled my first solo visit with family since becoming a father six years ago.
The night before my departure, I was anxious about wrapping up work details, my wife Lori juggling the kids alone for four days, missing Zoe and Adam, and unpredictable dynamics with my family, mostly the latter.
Restless and irritable I was ready to cancel the trip. Lori told me I would regret that, I had talked about doing this for a long time, and it would be good for me to go. She is always right about such matters.
Come morning, I was delighted to relearn the simple pleasure of traveling alone.
With my one carry-on-bag, I shuttled to the airport, passed through security and boarded the plane in record time. Onboard, no one was climbing on my lap, there were no diaper changes in a cramped lavatory at 30,000 feet, I completed two hours of paperwork and the flight arrived 10 minutes early.
Pacing myself, I had lunch with a long-time friend, picked up my rental car, and meandered through old haunts, noticing that, on the outside, things appeared unchanged.
By late afternoon, I picked up my mother. We enjoyed the most uninterrupted conversation we’ve had in years, grabbed a bite to eat and headed off to the game.
Under a flood of stadium lights, we shuffled through the over-flow crowd and scored front row seats where my sister joined us.
A new rubberized track encircled the field; I recalled races I ran here decades ago.
Cliques of teens roamed: boisterous, pierced, underdressed, incessantly texting. Parents of Kristen’s classmates surrounded us; most appeared my age. A thousand miles away, my kindergartner and preschooler were tucked in their beds.
The moon climbed into view, while announcements were blurted from the press box. The stadium buzzed with excitement and finally, the band marched onto the field. The director’s arms waved, a rhythmic mix of drums and horns echoed throughout the stands, and flags twirled, as nearly 150 students paced through tightly choreographed maneuvers.
As my sister guided me to key viewing points, filling me in on previous marches and the band’s winter trip to Disney World, we were talking with, and not at, each other. Separated by four years, five grades and a lifetime of misunderstanding, our relationship has been defined more by differences than similarities. But this night, witnessing the glow of her motherly pride, relating more as parents than siblings, I saw her anew.
When we joined Kristen and her band mates following the half-time show, I, too, was proud. When her father left she was 4. When her great-grandmother, a pillar in our lives, died, she was 10. When her older sister and only sibling moved three states away, she was 14.
Yet, charting her own path, she makes healthy choices, finds success in the classroom, maintains a job, sometimes two, and confidently performs before a Homecoming crowd, where even the chinstrap of her majorette hat cannot hide her smile. No less amazing, she and her mother, amidst turbulent mother-and-teenage-daughter years, have found a way to co-exist.
As a single parent, my sister has faced challenges I hope never to endure. As a father, I now appreciate that, like our parents, she placed time with her children ahead of professional advancement, prioritized the stability of a simple home, and ensured that her daughters experienced quality time with family elders. Recognizing that my wife, Lori, and I have made similar choices reminds me that beneath family differences lay common roots.
Kindergarten, a rite of passage for parents
Kindergarten: a rite of passage for parents, too
As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
Last year, with hopeful eyes, daughter Zoe watched the neighborhood kids scurry to catch the morning bus, then dribble home at days-end.
This year, she had her new purple backpack loaded and hanging next to the door, by mid-August. Each day she showed us the pockets of her pack, checked her supplies, and practiced using the zippers. She planned her outfits and lunches, ventured guesses about her teachers, and wondered what kids would be in her class.
On the first day, hardly touching her breakfast, she stood by the door, fully dressed, hair combed, teeth brushed, and wearing her pack, an hour before it was time to leave.
By the time the big yellow bus arrived, a swarm of kids and parents buzzed about, and 29 pairs of little feet began to board. As a kindergartener, Zoe was one of the first. Reflexively, Lori and I held Zoe by the hands, walked her to the base of the steps, and smiled at the driver.
Without looking back, Zoe let go of us and scaled the stairs. We proudly watched, our hearts still clinging to her. Moments later, the bus pulled out of sight.
Tears streamed down Lori’s cheeks, my stomach felt hollow, and our younger, Adam, was unusually quiet as we traced our steps home.
Granted, Zoe is one of nearly 200 children in our town, and by my own rough estimate, 2.2 million nationally, who started kindergarten this year.
But Zoe is our first. Her arrival abruptly altered my life, for the better. Lori and I gladly placed her at the center of our universe. Nearly six years later, recollections of daily life, before Zoe, are elusive.
Now our wild-eyed nature girl is logging 30-hour work-weeks, not including commute-time, practicing reading, writing and arithmetic. She rides a bus we have never ridden, spends most of her days in rooms we have barely seen, and is under the supervision of adults who we hardly know. And she loves it.
As Zoe begins her educational journey, I continue mine, returning to the classroom as a teacher after a six-year sabbatical. In my first class, I posed the question: What can you, your peers, and the instructor do, to make this class an amazing learning experience? A wild-eyed, self-professed nature girl, in her first semester of college, silenced the class by saying: “Be nice.”
We send our kids to school, kindergarten and college, to learn under the guidance of teachers. Now, teaching as a parent and parenting as a teacher, I view school through new eyes. In this way, kindergarten is a rite of passage, for kids and parents.
Paddling together, lessons from family canoeing
Paddling Together: Lessons from Family Canoeing
as published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
We finally bought a canoe. Three years ago, when leaving our adventurous mountain lifestyle in Colorado, my wife, Lori, and I fantasized about family canoeing near our new home in water-abundant New England. So, it wasn’t exactly an impulse-buy.
It’s a 15-foot, forest green fiberglass model, ringed from bow to stern by aluminum gunwales, and sporting two padded seats, skillfully crafted by the Bateaux St-Maurice boat manufacturer in Quebec, Canada, 25 years ago. It’s a beauty.
Still, shortly after our purchase I experienced buyer’s remorse.
Our purchase included four fitted, foam blocks that sit between the aluminum rails of the upside down canoe and the roof of our car. Unfortunately, our car’s roof rack is about 2 inches narrower than the beam of the canoe. So, with the foam blocks riding a bit off balance, they produce road noise whose pitch and volume is akin to nails on a chalkboard through a megaphone. By simply lashing a couple of cedar 2-by-2s across the roof rack, and using some old carpet scraps for padding, I devised an inexpensive solution to this auditory torture.
Along with the foam blocks came a set of specialized straps, which appear strong enough to hold down a load of bricks on a flatbed truck. They have steel S-shaped hooks that connect the bow and stern to the undersides of the car. The straps were apparently developed when automobiles were still made primarily from metal. While the back of our car has one metal tow loop, ideal for the strap’s hook, the front of our car, top and bottom, is made of molded plastic, safety tested no doubt.
Perplexed, I did a Google search and learned that I could place the two bow hooks through metal framing under the engine’s hood. This worked perfectly, the first three trips. The next time, when I attempted to remove the straps the hood would not budge. One of the hooks had shifted during transport and was jammed in the hood lock. For $90 our mechanic put the car up on a lift, disassembled part of the front end, unjammed the lock and, for no additional charge, kindly suggested I find a different place for the canoe strap.
As we imagined, the canoe, once it’s in the water, has offered a new and exciting way to engage our family in outdoor adventure. The kids are ecstatic from the moment we all don our life-jackets. From their cushion-seats on the floor their fingertips skim the surface as we glide passed lily pads and rushes. Peering into the depths they marvel as we pass over submerged rocks and logs. Up on their knees they spot jumping fish, waterfowl, and even five baby river otters loping along the shoreline.
Unexpectedly, canoeing has also been good for our relationship. Lori and I learned quickly that paddling a canoe together requires as much coordination as muscle. Being clear and consistent with our communication allows us to power, steer and make mid-course adjustments with a degree of rhythm and grace, most of the time.
Recently, while Lori was attending a weekend professional conference, I paddled with the kids on the calm morning water of the Long Island Sound. From the beach, we rounded the lighthouse and entered the harbor where the kids celebrated a water-level view of yachts and sailboats galore. The highlight was passing under a steel bridge, where we looked up through the metal grates to see and hear cars pass over us.
Steering proved surprisingly easy. I quickly made adjustments without the need to coordinate with another paddler and managed to hold a fairly steady course. But on the return, with a sea breeze in our face and the wake of boat traffic building, I was working hard to propel our craft through the harbor channel and along the shoreline.
While Lori and I know that practicing skillful communication with each other requires ongoing attention, when paddling a canoe and raising a family, two of us pulling in the same direction is much easier than paddling alone. This reminder is worth far more than the price of the canoe, including the mechanic’s bill.
Fatherhood Journey featured in article on Parenting Workshops
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Valley Kids Magazine, Greenfield Recorder 08/02/2012, Page V43 |
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The follow excerpt is from:
Not your typical parenting workshops
Valley parents find (or start) groups just right for them
Special to Valley Kids
MAUREEN TURNER is a Valley-based journalist who lives with her family in Florence. She has a master’s degree in journalism from UNC-Chapel Hill. |
A tattered chimp bestows lessons on fatherhood
A tattered chimp bestows lessons on fatherhood
as published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
I first met Zippy in July 2006 during my inaugural trip to the family beach house.My wife, Lori’s, late grandfather, Pup pups, purchased the Redwood in 1959. This simple one-story home, which has a flat roof that acts like a solar collector and no central air conditioning, is where four generations of family have melded through decades of steamy New England summers.
The extended family surprised us with our first baby shower. I did my best to look both interested and appreciative as we unwrapped a mound of gifts for a child whose name, gender and face would remain a mystery until autumn. Inwardly I thought, given the cost to buy an extra suitcase for all the presents and check an additional bag on our return flight, a Target gift card would have been easier.
The last package was a plain cardboard box about the size of a toaster oven. As Lori opened it, laughter filled the room and a startled look washed over my face. I wasn’t quite sure, but it looked like a monkey. Bits of stuffing were visible through the faded and torn black cloth that formed its body, the fur and both ears were missing, the plastic hands and shoed feet were weathered and the face was interrupted by an eerie smile that sent a chill up my spine.
Two years before purchasing the Redwood, Pup pups gifted Zippy the Chimp to his first grandchild, giving birth to a tradition in which the doll is passed along to each newborn in a family that now includes eight grandchildren and 10 great-grandchildren. As the newest member of the clan, I thought it best not to tempt tradition. So when it was time to leave, I packed Zippy in our new suitcase.
I remember being changed by that trip. Seeing all the treasured landmarks I had heard Lori describe since first meeting her, knowing an entire childhood of summers, in this place and with these people, was housed in Lori’s soul, I knew she had experienced something I had not and I realized that I wanted our child to know this place, too.
Five years later and living 1,800 miles closer to the Redwood, Zippy was on life support. He was safely stored in a family heirloom cedar chest, held together by a few threads and lots of duct tape. Our kids – Adam and big sister Zoe – had offered their beloved Zips more affection than his aging body could handle.
Then we got the call; a new baby cousin had been born. Actually, it was the second new cousin in just a few months and pressure was mounting for us to honor the family tradition.
Haunted by the prospect of endless family discord that would surely result if we traumatized the new babies with Zippy, in his macabre state, Lori and I vowed to restore him, and fast.
Internet searches and phone calls yielded a few dead leads, and an appointment with a local dollmaker led to a pronouncement that Zippy was in really bad shape and needed to be taken to a well-known doll hospital in a neighboring state. We were stymied. Eventually, we located a nimble-fingered doll doctor who miraculously restored Zippy, just in time for the annual gathering.
The week at the shore was glorious, the weather ideal, the full moon pulled the tide taut leaving a magnificent sand bar for play, and family connections were joyous as the energy of young children and mix of three generations bubbled under one roof.
As usual, the pinnacle of the week was the community’s Fourth of July parade.
Leading the spectacle was the familiar, faded, red Wheel Horse lawn tractor and matching cart, boasting a dozen tiny American flags affixed with duct tape, stalling every 50 yards as the gears slipped. Dozens of young children, and even more adults, clad in red, white and blue, followed on foot and by stroller, trike, bike and wagon.
Along the route traffic ground to a halt, spectators whistled and waved from their porches, saxophones played “From the Halls of Montezuma” and “Anchors Away,” and when the tractor belched to its final stop, with the mid-morning sun beating down, the crowd sang “God Bless America.”
As the final words “My home sweet home” rang-out, Zippy sat in Adam’s old umbrella stroller, decked in stars and stripes, looking regal.
There is only one legitimate way to get Zippy back in our home, and that’s not going to happen. So while the kids gracefully passed along Zippy to their baby cousin, Jasmine, I secretly hoped that he would not fit in the suitcase, and instead return home with us.
Fatherhood Journey 