Well, if I, the father, was not slain last week in The Great Sledding Episode, then this afternoon I was laid in the grave. I attended a baby shower. I don't do baby showers. And wedding ones are even more huh-uh. Ask Purple Bunny. She loves to recount how I didn't even attend the shower people at work hosted for Killer's birth. I may be edjumacated, but I still retain a few selected redneck qualities and an objection to men and women showering together is one them.
I was not planning on going to this thing. The shower was for my nephew and the female carrying an embryo to which he has contributed DNA. He's the second of my nephews to forego such inconveniences as wedding vows or any other public committments to care for his family, but that's irrelevant here. It was in Tulsa and the girls were going to be gone all day. Even though I desperately need some time alone to recharge, I felt guilty for not spending the day with them, so I decided I would go with them and drop them off then go kill a couple of hours. I should have applied the sage advice of SAT coaches and stuck with my first answer. C. F. Kats opted out of family life anyway because the dirge of daily life has become just too much. So we other three journeyed down the turnpike with only the promise of Quik Trip's gleaming cornucopia of mixed drinks to pull me onward.
Upon arrival, my nephew came rushing out to great us. I couldn't even begin to relate to you how much I love this nephew and what a wonderful guy he is (despite that other stuff). Suffice to say, he is as good a nephew as you could get -- he was born on my birthday. And his daughter may pull off the trifecta since she is due to arrive very near our birthday. He is as near a human clone of me as the current administration would allow, so it would be really cool to see how close a girl would end up being like us. Anyway, he and his dad were both there and gave every indication of staying. I was in a tough spot. If I called them sissies for attending a baby shower, they would have beaten me to a pulp. Finally I asked him if he was staying. "Yeah," he said. "I want to be here." Damn. What has this world come to.
So not only did I stay, I played a shower game. I won the shower game. It was a game where you try and match kinds of candy to the peculiarities surrounding the birth process. My prize was a bag full of about 20 kinds of candy. Somehow Raisinets and Milky Ways are less appetizing now. Before long I was talking about how much better Avent bottles are. I extolled the virtues of the ever-versatile receiving blanket; listing its many uses as every thing from burping rag to vomit cleanup. Cradle cap. Booger removal via squeezy rubber thing. I ruminated on how the cuter the little outfits are, the less time they will be able to wear them. Not having been to one of these before I kept a wary eye on my escape route because I was pretty certain that women tell war stories involving epidurals, blood, guts and all that rite of passage stuff. Luckily that didn't come up. And I thanked every deity I could imagine that I wasn't at one of those showers in England they have after the baby arrives and snack on the placenta.
But who knows, instead of slaying the father, maybe it's a new paradigm. Maybe Killer will reject a suitor who refuses to go to a friend's shower, thinking if it was good enough for her dad, why isn't good enough for him. Nahhh...not likely.
Think I'll go have a Skor candy bar now...
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
That's No Moon
Sunday I officially became old. I still remember the day I witnessed my own dad's fall from immortality and I think he was the same age I am now. I'm not sure if girls share this phenomenon about their mothers, but with boys it often happens that there is a defining moment in their lives when they slay the father. I say boys, but it may not happen until midlife or ever in some cases.
For most boys, your dad is always bigger, faster, stronger, smarter than you and by the time you reach puberty it appears he always will be. It's not just physical prowess either; non-physical dads can be just as alpha through being revered, successful or powerful. In most cases you aren't even aware you're competing with him. But then one day you have a moment of crystal clarity and you realize the old gazelle has lost a step to the lions.
For me this happened when I was 14. Gym class at the cult school was frequently led by visiting parents and other virile male cult members and on this particular day my dad ran the recreational activities. Flag Football. I was in the slot and my dad was covering me on a simple out route and I picked up a step on him when I made the turn. I made the catch and ten yards before going out. That was it. A first down. But I beat him. Not two days before he had me in an unrecoverable headlock. For years I was wrestled into panic-stricken positions on the living room floor ("Get off!! I can't breathe!" "If you can't breathe, how are you shouting?"), regular footrace challenges left me gasping for air, he could make me kneel down by doing something to my pinkie. I was bested in dinner discussions, he could fix anything, he always knew when I was lying. But on this day, I beat him. I hadn't even known I'd been competing with him for ten years. But I realized it then and it was sweet.
By the way, if you're male and you haven't slain your father yet, I suggest you savor the moment when it happens. It doesn't last long. You immediately become emboldened by your new found chest-beating and begin to challenge him at every turn. Victory gets easier and easier. And before you know it you realize they are hollow victories. He's not fighting you anymore. It's like Obi-Wan turning off his lightsaber once he sees Luke safely aboard the Falcon. His job is done; he's shown you the basics, and yeah, his voice might pop into your head when you need him in a crisis, but it's you v. world now.
So Sunday, I was out in the yard showing SGK how to use a snow shovel for a sled (like the one George Bailey rides into the icy pond). It didn't work very well, so I got a cardboard box and flattened it out. We have just enough slope on the driveway to make it fun for little ones, but she still wasn't clear on the concept. So I did what we poor kids did in the winter, lay a box on the ground, get as much steam up as you can on the slippery surface, and dive head first on the box. It worked great when I was six. Sunday, I hit the ground and I was suddenly aware that I couldn't hear anything. I looked up at SGK and I saw her little cherubic visage begin to be encircled by a ring of bluish white squirmy things like flagellants under a microscope. I was really confused and then, still unable to make out any sounds around me, I heard a very small, clear voice calmly say, "Don't forget to breathe." I rolled over and sucked in as much air as I could get. The little blue things were still wiggling, but quickly fading. Whew, I thought, I'm not dying -- just got my bell wrung. Pretty sure I bruised my sternum and those little knobby things on the breastplate up where your neck starts. I know if I had a son who'd witnessed my buffoonery, that would've been his moments. For now, I assuming little girls don't want to slay their fathers.
Once I got my hearing back the first thing I heard was YHWH bleating, "I don't think that box is big enough! And that hill isn't steep enough, either!" At least she didn't laugh at me. I'll take henpecking over humiliation any day. I quickly picked myself up and carried myself into the house under false bravado. YHWH plaintively apologized as I walked through the garage begging me not to go inside and, closing the door, I heard SGK saying, "You made daddy mad, mom!" I paused to consider refuting the charge that I was going inside to pout but thought, what the hell, better to be thought of as a pouter than a mere mortal.
For most boys, your dad is always bigger, faster, stronger, smarter than you and by the time you reach puberty it appears he always will be. It's not just physical prowess either; non-physical dads can be just as alpha through being revered, successful or powerful. In most cases you aren't even aware you're competing with him. But then one day you have a moment of crystal clarity and you realize the old gazelle has lost a step to the lions.
For me this happened when I was 14. Gym class at the cult school was frequently led by visiting parents and other virile male cult members and on this particular day my dad ran the recreational activities. Flag Football. I was in the slot and my dad was covering me on a simple out route and I picked up a step on him when I made the turn. I made the catch and ten yards before going out. That was it. A first down. But I beat him. Not two days before he had me in an unrecoverable headlock. For years I was wrestled into panic-stricken positions on the living room floor ("Get off!! I can't breathe!" "If you can't breathe, how are you shouting?"), regular footrace challenges left me gasping for air, he could make me kneel down by doing something to my pinkie. I was bested in dinner discussions, he could fix anything, he always knew when I was lying. But on this day, I beat him. I hadn't even known I'd been competing with him for ten years. But I realized it then and it was sweet.
By the way, if you're male and you haven't slain your father yet, I suggest you savor the moment when it happens. It doesn't last long. You immediately become emboldened by your new found chest-beating and begin to challenge him at every turn. Victory gets easier and easier. And before you know it you realize they are hollow victories. He's not fighting you anymore. It's like Obi-Wan turning off his lightsaber once he sees Luke safely aboard the Falcon. His job is done; he's shown you the basics, and yeah, his voice might pop into your head when you need him in a crisis, but it's you v. world now.
So Sunday, I was out in the yard showing SGK how to use a snow shovel for a sled (like the one George Bailey rides into the icy pond). It didn't work very well, so I got a cardboard box and flattened it out. We have just enough slope on the driveway to make it fun for little ones, but she still wasn't clear on the concept. So I did what we poor kids did in the winter, lay a box on the ground, get as much steam up as you can on the slippery surface, and dive head first on the box. It worked great when I was six. Sunday, I hit the ground and I was suddenly aware that I couldn't hear anything. I looked up at SGK and I saw her little cherubic visage begin to be encircled by a ring of bluish white squirmy things like flagellants under a microscope. I was really confused and then, still unable to make out any sounds around me, I heard a very small, clear voice calmly say, "Don't forget to breathe." I rolled over and sucked in as much air as I could get. The little blue things were still wiggling, but quickly fading. Whew, I thought, I'm not dying -- just got my bell wrung. Pretty sure I bruised my sternum and those little knobby things on the breastplate up where your neck starts. I know if I had a son who'd witnessed my buffoonery, that would've been his moments. For now, I assuming little girls don't want to slay their fathers.
Once I got my hearing back the first thing I heard was YHWH bleating, "I don't think that box is big enough! And that hill isn't steep enough, either!" At least she didn't laugh at me. I'll take henpecking over humiliation any day. I quickly picked myself up and carried myself into the house under false bravado. YHWH plaintively apologized as I walked through the garage begging me not to go inside and, closing the door, I heard SGK saying, "You made daddy mad, mom!" I paused to consider refuting the charge that I was going inside to pout but thought, what the hell, better to be thought of as a pouter than a mere mortal.
Ice Ice Baby
A couple of days ago I was going to blog about how the local weather guys did their usual local news fearmongering and stirred everyone up into a frenzy over something that turned out to be nothing. But half-way through blocking out the post in my mind, I realized that is a terribly provinicial way of thinking. It suddenly struck me that what I think of as the local news station is actually THE news station for two-thirds of the state. One of those things I knew but didn't think about.
It really struck home yesterday when I finally got through to my dad and learned that he has been without power since Friday night and facing 'a week or so' more in the cold and dark. They have closed off the kitchen and dining room by hanging blankets and have been running the fireplace nonstop. He said it's 'kind of fun' except for the harrowing KRAK! in the middle of the night as tree limbs and telephone poles snap. Then in the mornings he goes out to assess the damage. So far, a storage shed has a good-sized oak limb across it, his stockade fence has buckled over, and his driveway is blocked by a snapped power pole. Apparently, a glance down the street at the power poles looks like sappers from the French Resistance have been busy. His resolve? "I didn't have any electricity for the first 20 years of my life. A lot of that is coming back to me now." So add to that that a dozen or so people have died in the area and it's hard to criticize the newsfolks for overplaying the preps. He got extra wood, extra food and water, propane for his camping stove, and made sure his cell phone was charged. It paid off. And that is absolutely the last time I will say anything remotely nice about the local news people.
It really struck home yesterday when I finally got through to my dad and learned that he has been without power since Friday night and facing 'a week or so' more in the cold and dark. They have closed off the kitchen and dining room by hanging blankets and have been running the fireplace nonstop. He said it's 'kind of fun' except for the harrowing KRAK! in the middle of the night as tree limbs and telephone poles snap. Then in the mornings he goes out to assess the damage. So far, a storage shed has a good-sized oak limb across it, his stockade fence has buckled over, and his driveway is blocked by a snapped power pole. Apparently, a glance down the street at the power poles looks like sappers from the French Resistance have been busy. His resolve? "I didn't have any electricity for the first 20 years of my life. A lot of that is coming back to me now." So add to that that a dozen or so people have died in the area and it's hard to criticize the newsfolks for overplaying the preps. He got extra wood, extra food and water, propane for his camping stove, and made sure his cell phone was charged. It paid off. And that is absolutely the last time I will say anything remotely nice about the local news people.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Will Rogers
It's out there; everywhere I look. Every blasted magazine, newspaper, guidebook, handout, museum, billboard, and local newscast has the words plastered across some or another headline. I tried in vain to avoid it for a week, but that was like trying to avoid stepping on poop in the dog park, being runover by a mallwalker, or driving on a street named for a pop culture figure in Bricktown. The fact is I can run, but I can't hide. Because unfortunately it has become my job - my life.
Oklahoma Centennial
There, I said it. I am currently involved in no less than five regular gigs churning out state and local history. I was contributing a quarterly article to a magazine, but now it's monthly. I've been assigned to write 48 short vignettes on state history. Text for bookmarks, displays, statues soon followed. I'm also involved with two large grant projects.
It's only January 6th and already I'm sick of it. I get home from work, head straight for the toilet and puke up Sooner trivia for an hour. Family members bang on the door, "Are you alright, Dad? It smells like Conestoga wagons in there!" My doctor tells me to try and get some rest and lay off the Dust Bowl, "Take a couple of Will Rogers before bed; you'll be fine in a few days." Now my teen daughter won't be seen in public with me because my tirades about how we aren't Okies (the Okies were the weaklings who left!) embarrases her.
It's not like I didn't see the Centennial coming. Being a historically minded guy, I knew all about the semicentennial in 1957 and even lived through the depressing, obscure, trinket-generating Diamond Jubilee in 1982. But in the end, it was as though I had been standing on the curve of a railroad track - you can see and hear the 3:15 out of Ardmore coming, but it looks like it's heading in another direction until it plows you under.
I should be happy to part of all of it in the small way that I am. After all, I love my state and its unique history. We've got to be top ten all-time for state history. We might not be able to challenge New York, Texas, California and Massachusetts, and probably Virginia, but we're top ten. In fact I am happy to be part of it. I just want it to end.
To be honest, this all has to do with bad attitude. Mine. When I was one of a dozen or so people writing regularly it was fine, but now it's everywhere and I don't like sharing topics and even worse, I hate reading bad history. Myths and non sequiturs abound these days, not to mention squeaky clean (i.e. cutesy boring) politically correct revisionism. But, if I were a true Sooner patriot, I'd be excited about the attention history is getting. I would embrace it all and invoke the more-merrier directive. But the sad fact is I'm intensely competitive (internally) and I have that stubborn Gen-X trait of wanting to be a dazzling unique individual. So, there I am, engine of my own unhappiness.
Sigh...I guess I'll just write about land runs, cattle trails, removals, football glory and (ugh) oil until this all blows over like a hot wind in the Dirty Thirities.
Oklahoma Centennial
There, I said it. I am currently involved in no less than five regular gigs churning out state and local history. I was contributing a quarterly article to a magazine, but now it's monthly. I've been assigned to write 48 short vignettes on state history. Text for bookmarks, displays, statues soon followed. I'm also involved with two large grant projects.
It's only January 6th and already I'm sick of it. I get home from work, head straight for the toilet and puke up Sooner trivia for an hour. Family members bang on the door, "Are you alright, Dad? It smells like Conestoga wagons in there!" My doctor tells me to try and get some rest and lay off the Dust Bowl, "Take a couple of Will Rogers before bed; you'll be fine in a few days." Now my teen daughter won't be seen in public with me because my tirades about how we aren't Okies (the Okies were the weaklings who left!) embarrases her.
It's not like I didn't see the Centennial coming. Being a historically minded guy, I knew all about the semicentennial in 1957 and even lived through the depressing, obscure, trinket-generating Diamond Jubilee in 1982. But in the end, it was as though I had been standing on the curve of a railroad track - you can see and hear the 3:15 out of Ardmore coming, but it looks like it's heading in another direction until it plows you under.
I should be happy to part of all of it in the small way that I am. After all, I love my state and its unique history. We've got to be top ten all-time for state history. We might not be able to challenge New York, Texas, California and Massachusetts, and probably Virginia, but we're top ten. In fact I am happy to be part of it. I just want it to end.
To be honest, this all has to do with bad attitude. Mine. When I was one of a dozen or so people writing regularly it was fine, but now it's everywhere and I don't like sharing topics and even worse, I hate reading bad history. Myths and non sequiturs abound these days, not to mention squeaky clean (i.e. cutesy boring) politically correct revisionism. But, if I were a true Sooner patriot, I'd be excited about the attention history is getting. I would embrace it all and invoke the more-merrier directive. But the sad fact is I'm intensely competitive (internally) and I have that stubborn Gen-X trait of wanting to be a dazzling unique individual. So, there I am, engine of my own unhappiness.
Sigh...I guess I'll just write about land runs, cattle trails, removals, football glory and (ugh) oil until this all blows over like a hot wind in the Dirty Thirities.
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