The Road Less Traveled

When I was a kid, I used to sit on my tiny front porch step and wait to see if my father would keep his promise and come to take me to his house for the weekend.  At his every invitation, I would pack my clothes, bolt for the front door, and wait for his car to come puttering down the street, past the rows of identical suburban duplexes and come to a halt in front of ours.

Sometimes I would wait and wait and wait until the phone rang and it would be my father, apologizing but cancelling our weekend plans.  The excuses were always different but similar: plans to go hunting, plans to go hunting with a friend, plans to go out of town to hunt with a friend.

But when the next phone call came, I would pack my clothes again and wait on the step for his car.  There were times that he would not let me down and I would kiss my mom, run and toss my bag into the back seat of his car, and ride with enthusiasm to his home for the weekend.

I loved my father, regardless of his let-downs, because I knew there would be days when he would be there, grinning with anticipation of the weekend.  Even though he often put his own plans and desires before mine, I knew he was glad to see me when he could.  Over the years, when we were together, he shared the best and worst parts of himself with me: his temper and his tenderness; his selfishness and his sympathy; his anger and his amusement; his contempt and his contentment.

And now, I’m clinging again to a promise.  My father has said that he plans to return to West Virginia, promises to visit often, to spend time with me and his grandchildren.  I am that young boy again, sitting on my front step, waiting.  And you know what?  I’m just as excited now as I was each time I waited on that step, patiently and enthusiastically.

Until later– “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”

A few months ago, when Paul, a missionary friend of mine, was visiting my students to talk about Haiti, I wrote this:

 ”I keep making promises to myself that I’m not sure I can cash in on.  I want to travel out of the country not to vacation, but to make a difference.  I think I’ve been cursed with my father’s wandering spirit but my grandfather’s generous heart.  I promised Jennifer that our first trip out of the country would be together, but I don’t know how she would feel about travelling to a country that is dangerous or poor in order to help those in need.  I would want to bring the girls along, to teach them about other cultures and the importance of giving.”

I found this picture that just intensified these feelings.  It was taken in 1994 by Kevin Carter.  The caption says it all:

The more I think about it, the more I wonder if I would even have the strength to handle seeing such a situation.  But it’s good to know that I would want to help, if I could.

I know, I’m being crazy-emotional again.

Until later– “There’s no turning back now that you’ve opened up to your mind.”

My favorite game when I was growing up was spotlight.  There is just something unexplainable about the summer nights I spent chasing my cousins around our yard in pitch darkness, trying my best to search for flip-flops poking out from behind bushes or the glint of jewelry in the rays of my flashlight.

Our favorite place to play was at my aunt’s in Poca, WV.  Miles away from big city lights, the yard behind her house became our fantasy nightmare world of shadows, reaching tree limbs, and mysterious noises.  In the beginning, when I was it, my cousins would choose strategic hiding places and torture me with spooky groans and wails.  Little did they know that even as a youngster, I had sensitive hearing and a good sense for where the sounds were coming from.  After a few times of getting caught, they quickly stopped their taunting and sat in desperate silence.

When I finally had the chance to hide, I was probably the biggest cheater.  I would scramble up a nearby tree and sit in silence on the highest branch that would hold my weight.  After a while, though, my cousins got wise and started searching high for my scrawny silhouette perching on the branch of an elm somewhere.

I remember one year, during the fourth of July, our summer night spotlight was made even more magical by distant sparks of the fireworks my uncle was setting off in the front yard.  After a few minutes of searching with the flashlight, I turned it off and watched the dark back yard until a bright flash from the air lit up and I could just see my cousin Jamie’s sandaled feet behind one of the bushes.  Without turning on my flashlight, I ran in the direction of her hiding place.  Another flash lit up the yard and I could see her preparing to run.  The yard went dark again and I ran as fast as I could, reaching my arms out until another flash of light exploded in the sky and I felt my hand barely touch her back.

“You’re it!”

I know I made this all sound so melodramatic, but I don’t think I write enough about some of the positive memories I have of my family, especially my cousins.  And, as I have said before, childhood has some sort of magic to it that we don’t really notice until we outgrow it and look back on it with longing. 

Most of the time, when I bring these memories up to any of my cousins, they smile and say, “Um, I guess…  I don’t really remember.”  They do remember that I was a spoiled child who whined a lot when things didn’t go my way.

But, like me, they remember that there were good times, games we played together, where for a brief amount of time we were all getting along.  In my memory, spotlight was one of those games that kept us busy for a while, that brought us together long enough to get along and remember that we were family.

I know I’m just as tired of saying this as you are of reading it…  It’s been a long time since my last entry.  I discovered a lot over the holiday, about myself, about my grandmother, about Alzheimer’s.  I found myself spending some of my Christmas money on others (my wife and my grandfather), an act that used to be the equivalent of chopping off one of my hands.  But I think I’m finally growing up to the point that I give without much thought, especially to people closest to me.

I used to whine about not having anything (as far as possessions go) to connect me with my grandfather, no handed-down pocket knife or toolbox, nothing.  This Christmas, however, I bought him a pair of slippers that looked like moccasins and while I was at it I bought myself a pair.  I felt like a child, smiling over how cool it was to have the same pair of shoes as my grandfather.  I also bought him a thick shirt that can be worn as a jacket.  I didn’t get one of those for myself, but I bought it because I knew he would love it.

As for my grandmother, I watched her become nervous and confused on Christmas Eve as she tried to recognize the faces of her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren while they opened presents, munched on ham and meatballs, and kissed her goodbye.  She finally became so nervous that my aunt opened a package with a baby doll in it and handed the doll to her.  “In hospitals and nursing homes, they give these to alzheimer’s patients all the time to calm them down,” she said.  It amazed me to see how quickly my grandmother relaxed as she rocked the baby doll and even showed it off to us.

Christmas Day, I returned to my grandparents to take another shirt to my grandfather.  Gramma was is good spirits and as I was leaving she asked, “Do you have school today?”

“No, Gramma, we’re on break,” I answered.

“Oh.  Well do you want to spend the night?”  I hesitated because the question caught me off guard.  She had not asked me that since I was about ten years old.  Later, at home, as I sat upstairs alone, I thought about her question and could not stop my tears.  Gramma had recognized me, but in her mind I was a little boy again, the young school boy I used to be, coming over during Christmas break to spend the night and eat ice cream or play with my new toys.

A part of me is still that little boy.  I’m tempted, now, to take her up on her offer, to come over and stay for a week or so in the summer, or even just a couple nights.  I miss that wandering, curious little boy who used to find comfort in morning cartoons and a big bowl of cocoa puffs, mixed with cheerios, rice krispies, and raisin bran.  I miss eating Grandpa’s cakes that stretched just a little beyond the recipe.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just emotional, but there is a quote in Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Cat’s Cradle from one of the characters that says, “We all missed a lot.  We’d all do well to start over again, preferably with kindergarten.”

Until later– “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”

Whew… where do I begin?  As I said in my last entry, I have not been feeling well.  I took the day off yesterday to learn that my wife was apparently coming down with the same virus, so I spent most of the afternoon catering to her wishes, bringing her Advil, water, cough syrup (not all at once, of course.)

My evening was spent on the couch, shouting irately at West Virginia University as they fumbled the ball too many times against Louisville and almost lost (again) to a team that isn’t even BCS ranked.  Luckily, WVU made a comeback in the fourth quarter to win 38-31.

It was such an aggravating game.  I like a tough game when the other team is good, but not when our players aren’t keeping their heads where they should be.  Pat White and Slayton just kept letting down until the fourth quarter.  My game ball goes to Eric Wicks who stuffed a whole bunch of Louisville’s passes and finally made a fumble return and ran it for a 44 yard touchdown.

You can check out the story on ESPN’s web site:

http://sports.espn.go.com/ncf/recap?gameId=273120277

I can’t believe I didn’t post about this before (or at least I don’t think I did).  The CWVWP has generously given me a digital video camera in lieu of a $100 stipend.  It is called a Flip and has a built in USB port that allows me to upload videos to my computer almost instantly.  I have already used the camera to record video writing prompts for my students as well as record my students reading some of their writing.  I’ll figure out a way to upload a few of my video prompts and post them on here for you.

Oh, and I also realized that I haven’t followed through on a few of my promises about pics of Aryanna and Bianca on their day out with daddy.  So enjoy:

Since I have written a little about my wife and kids, I think it is time I post a few pics.  I know I posted the one at the Cleveland Zoo, but since they are the most important part of my life, I can never post enough pics (or blogs) about them.  Before I do, let me share once cute story about my oldest daughter.

We were vacationing in Ohio earlier this month.  One morning, Jennifer and Aryanna were standing outside, watching quite a few boats pass across the ohrizon of the water. 

“There sure are a lot of boats out there,” Jennifer said.

“Uh huh,” Aryanna agreed, smiling.  She paused and stared way out at a passing yacht.  Then, as if she had been thinking hard about what to say next, “What is it, a field trip to Canada or something?”

I have no idea if she were intentionally making a joke or asking a serious question, but I thought it was funny.  She was so embarrassed that she cried.  I had to explain to her why the comment was funny.  Now, she tells the story proudly to her friends and family.

Okay, here are some pics.  Hopefully, they won’t get too distorted.

Don’t you just love ‘em?

My subject title is a good question, isn’t it? And it’s one that enters my mind often, especially when I experience something like I did today.I was shopping in Wal Mart with my my and kids. Bianca announced that she had to go to the bathroom. This, of course, was contagious and suddenly her older sister had to go, too. Since Jennifer was busy with the shopping, I agreed to take them to the bathroom.

Both of them are too little to go to the Women’s restroom on their own, so they had to follow me to the men’s room. I know this is an uncomfortable arrangement, but the girls are also too young to think anything of it.

Well, apparently it was too much for a burly, heavyset gentleman. He entered the bathroom gabbing on a cell phone. Bianca was in a stall and Aryanna and I were standing by, waiting for her to finish. The man told whoever was on the other end of his phone line to hold on.

“What’s goin’ on here?” the man asked me. His breathing was louder than his

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“What… well… little girls in the men’s room? What’s the deal with that?”

“Well, I’m their father and they had to go to the bathroom. What do you want me to do?” He huffed angrily.

“Well, but expectin’ guys to go to the bathroom in front of them. That’s low.” He turned around and started for the bathroom door, apparently choosing to neglect his bladder until later. Because I have a mouth that can’t stay silent when my kids are involved, I could not resist my next comment.

“Not as bad as talking to someone on the phone while you go to the bathroom.” He paused and stared at me as if he wanted to reply, but stormed out.

Okay. I realize seeing two little girls in a men’s bathroom might make you a little uncomfortable. And I’m sure it’s a little weird for my girls, too. But that man had no place to say a word to me about it. He doesn’t know me. What if I were a single father? What am I supposed to do, send my six-year-old and three-year-old into a public bathroom by themselves? I remember when my parents divorced (I was five) my mom had to choice but to take me to the women’s. It made me feel weird, and I’m sure a few of them were uncomfortable, but never, ever, do I remember any of them making comments about it. I’ve got to be honest… I had to practice good self-control to keep from following him out the door and bombarding him with those questions: Do you have daughters? What if your wife left you alone with them, or died, and you’re shopping at Wal Mart when one of them has to go.

Grrr… This kind of stuff just gets to me. Okay, I feel better now.

The smiles around our house are going to be gone for a while.  Our cat just attacked Bianca, my youngest, and left a big scratch across her neck.  This has been going on for a while.  As a 3 year old, Bianca is not ready for a pet.  She always wants to hold the cat, to carry him.  And if you know cats, you know they only go where they want.

So, inevitably, he has to go.  I love this cat, but Bianca will not leave him alone and he is not a passive cat who will just lie there and let her carry him around.  And her safety is more important.  If it were possible to lock him up until she is ready to understand, I would.  But that’s not fair to him, or healthy.

So, in honor to Sir Lancelot (that’s the cat’s name) here is a pic of him when we first got him:

As proof that parenting is unpredictable, my oldest daughter woke up this morning with hives all over her legs, arms, back, and stomach.  Allergies are great because without paying an allergist to find out what is causing the rash, you may never know what could have caused it.  It could have been something she ate, or the detergent we used.  She spent a lot of time playing in the grass yesterday, so it could have been the grass or something in the grass.  The other thing about allergies is they can flare up one second and then totally go away the next.

My junior year of high school, my face broke out and swelled up and we have no idea what caused it.  It didn’t happen again until about two years ago, but I think that was poison ivy because I was roasting marshmallows by a fire that I’m pretty sure someone put poison ivy in by mistake.  I stood in the wrong spot and got a face full of smoke.  The next morning, my face was covered with hives and my left eye was swollen.

Okay, to ease your curiosity, I have a picture of my wife and kids from our trip to the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo.  My best friend’s wife works there, so we make it a yearly trip.  The girls really love the polar bears (which I also have some great pictures of).  The handkerchief was part of a “traveling scarf” thing that we were doing for an online forum that my wife has joined.  The cute little elephant statue is outside the “Pachyderms” exhibit:

Aren’t they gorgeous.  I’ll post some more pics from the zoo later.  I’m pretty proud of some of them.  Especially this really somber looking one of a snow leopard.

Until later.

~”There’s not turning back now that you’ve opened up to your mind.”