Don’t Make Me Grow Up

“When I grow up, I want to be a baker.”

“When I grow up, I want to be a D.J.”

“When I grow up, I want to be…”

Words are recently turned 10 daughter has uttered at different times over the last decade. At different times, she had planned out what her house will look like, where she will live, what parts of the world she will see, what her husband would be like; the fact that she won’t ever marry…the list goes on and on. For 10 years, or at least for as long as she been able to talk about dreams, we have heard about where she is going. Recently, that has changed a bit.

I am not sure what happened. Perhaps it was the event of making it to the double-digit years. More than once I heard an adult mention how she was no longer a little kid – she was now the big 1-0. It could be the fact that she is 1-1/2 years from middle school (her own friend who is in middle school has cautioned her about growing up too fast). It could be the events of this past fall. Having to evacuate from your house once and then months later knowing that we were under orders again can have an effect on a kid. It could be seeing family members get older or knowing so many of our friends who are battling different illnesses. In other words, the world is happening and she realizes that she is part of it just like everyone else. Whatever the cause, she seems to be trying to slow things down.

I think it was in the days leading up to Christmas that I started noticing things. While she has always believed in Santa, I really thought that this would be the year for the serious questions to start flying fast and furious. Not a single one came. Instead, it was almost as if her belief had been kicked up a few notches. She did everything possible to stay up and catch the old bearded man in the act this year. I think she talked more about Saint Nick this year than all of the other years combined. It seemed to be a necessity that she believe in the bringer of joy and happiness.

She also brought around an elf to the house this year. She has a little German Elf that had been given to her three or four years ago. It never moved, never sent a letter, never spied on her, and she was okay with that. This year she really wanted to experience Germayne moving about every night and having to find her in the morning. She followed all of the rules that her friends told her about. Her eyes would light up each morning when she had to search high and low to see where her friend had spent the night.

I think the thing that really caught my attention is that she has never been one to play with dolls or little toys all that much. She has always been one to play, but Barbies, Pound Puppies, and the such have never been big around here. Lately though, she has entered into the Chubbie Puppy world and has spent hours playing with them.

It is interesting because she hasn’t regressed. She does well in school, and loves her dance and guitar. She enjoys some of the freedoms that being 10 has brought. She gets up, mixes the pancakes, and cooks them all on her own (under supervision). She has more independence when choosing clothes and hairstyles. We even talk more with her about vacations and such. I think she enjoys being a 10 year-old.

Yet, at the same time, I think there is an internal conflict happening for her. Part of her wants to grow up and become (gasp) a teen. Part of her is struggling to stay our little girl. One side of her wants to have that extra freedom and responsibility. The other side wants nothing to do with it – she doesn’t want to have to deal with choices and consequences.
I see her looking in the mirror when she is fixing her hair or picking earrings and I see that young person shouting, “Watch out world, here I come.”

I see her sitting on the floor playing with her toys trying to pull the blanket of our family around her, whispering, “Not yet. I am not ready to be a big kid yet.”

I know that there is no way that we can stop the future from happening. We cannot keep her as our little baby forever. One day, way too soon for me, we will have to let her go or even give a little push to the big world. But today…today, tonight, this week… it is okay. It is okay for you to hold on to your childhood for a while longer. It is okay to not rush into pre-teen years (or teen years for that matter). It is okay to have your day dreams, talk to your stuffed animals, dance with your kitties, and just sing and dance through the day. It is okay to not be the big kid. In the end, we will get through this together, and all will be well.

Just like every Daddy, I wish I could keep the dark side of the world away. I wish that no one would ever suffer. I wish I could keep the pains of growing older far away from our door. I know that I cannot. The world is constantly knocking on the door wanting to be let in. I can promise that I will stand next to you for as long as I can. I will carry you when you need it, let you run when you want. While I will not be able to stop every hurt, I will be there to wipe the tears, give the hugs, and suffer with you.

Stay young our little girl for as long as you can. Enjoy the flying through the air on the swing. Believe that your unicorn is magical and will take you away to mystical places. Hold all of this in your heart and keep it colorful for as long as you can.

It is ok.

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The Magical Moment When the Clock Strikes

Dong, dong, dong.

Very soon that sound will ring out 12 times. We have a cuckoo clock in our house and it chimes on the hour every hour, twelve hours a day. Yet when the striking of the clock happens tonight, it becomes a magical time. The striking of midnight moving us from one year into the next offers more to the human spirit than, quite possibly, any other day. People look at this millisecond as a time of new beginnings, new hopes, fresh starts, and the end of the old. Yet, in reading my feeds today, even this has brought disagreement.

Along with all of the well wishes for the New Year have come a number of posts questioning why people follow this ritual in this day and age. For the past decade or so, I have been following much along the lines of the ones who have turned from New Year’s resolutions. Yet, I stand by ready to support any friend or family member who steps up in the morning and states their newly found intentions.

While I will be sending out New Year’s wishes at the end of this post, I just cannot put that much pressure on any one day. I tried for so many years to use December 31st as a day of self-reflection and list those things that I needed to end and the new traits that should be followed. I listed them on paper, on whiteboards, on sticky notes adhered to the fridge. I purchased so many items in the first couple of days of January in hopes of becoming more organized, harder working, physically fit, etc. The lists used to be long for I always felt that there was so much to change.

I started dreading the coming of the New Year for part of the inner soul searching would always bring up the lists from years past – lists with so little completed. The final attempts came on the tolling of the bells shortly after our daughter was born. My list now included being a better husband and father (mind you, I had been a father for a total of 17 days). I followed what I had been taught to do since I was a young lad. I placed pressure upon myself like no other person could do.

I totally understand the want to do this. I get that we get caught up in the revelry. The holiday comes on the heal of Christmas or Hanukah when peace is supposedly the want of all. Why should we not set aside a day to look inwards and find out how to be a better person. Why not set myself up to fail – for fail is what I did every year. The only person who could hold this failure over me was me – I can be rather mean to myself.

I believe it was the following year when I started questioning this method. I was joking with my now 1-year-old about what her resolutions should be: eat my peas, drink my milk, sleep through the night every night, … I stopped and I stared at our little child. What in the world was I doing?

It was then that I decided to stop with this tradition for myself. This does not mean that I do not self-reflect and look for ways to improve. It is just now, I do it through out the year. I find one item at a time that I would like to change – two or three at most. I then quietly – no loud announcements – try to make those changes happen. I took the pressure off New Year’s Day. I no longer look at it as a day of forced change. It is another day. The worst part of the day is having to remember to write the correct year.

New Year’s is still a time to celebrate. I celebrate the old friends whom I still call friend. I cherish the family members that are still with us as the year changes. I take a quiet moment and think of those who no longer can celebrate with us in person. New Year’s has become happy for me because I removed the worries of what will I promise today that I will break tomorrow.

So here are my thoughts for New Year’s:

As we sit here on the verge of a New Year, I think of my family and friends. I ponder where each and every one of you are this evening. I wonder where you are physically as well as mentally, and in your road of life. I wish you all a very Happy New Year and offer this prayer for all.

I pray as we enter the New Year that you are well, and if you are not that you have the strength to fight towards better days.

I pray that you have what you need in life. Not just in material goods, but also in having a caring family and/or friendships to support you when you need it.

I pray that you support those who need it.

I pray that this New Year will bring you more smiles than tears. However, when the tears do come that they are short lived.

I pray that those looking for work find that job that will provide what they need.

For those looking for love, I pray that it finds you and forever wraps you in the warmth of another.

I cannot pray that you have nothing but happiness for the New Year for life does not work like that. I can pray that the happy days outnumber the sad. I can pray that God gives you the strength, courage, and perseverance to get through the tough times. I pray that if you lose someone in the coming year that their love will always be with you.

Finally, for those who have struggled through this holiday season or longer that this be the year, I pray that you are lifted to a better place.

The ringing of the bells in a few hours will not magically make the world a better place. For some, the hour will strike and your heart will be heavy. Know that you are not alone.

I pray that the world will somehow find a road to peace. I pray that our leaders will take the right steps to improve the world for all. I pray that every individual takes the steps needed to change the world.

I pray for you and for all.

As the embers of 2017 fade away, I wish you all –

Happy New Years.

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Christmas Past

Over the last few years, I have found myself looking back to Christmases past. Now that I am past that half-century mark, I have a number of them from which to pull. I have spent Christmas in many places around the globe – multiple places in the U. S., England, Saudi Arabia, and (while not the day proper but days leading up) Germany. Each place holds special memories for me not because of the place, but due to the special people.

This year, I found myself more often than years past looking at the lights and letting the music wash over me as I used the time machine in my mind to visit Christmas past. Perhaps it was due to our little one turning 10, that I kept going back to my little town and the holidays of my youth. It is often said that memories are looked at through rose-colored glasses. Altering spectacles or not, those memories are filled with wonderful days and people. I believe that part of the charm of those days is the fact that I grew up outside a little town where the Niagara River and Lake Ontario met. A small area where everyone knew everyone and the holidays seemed to be an inspiration for Norman Rockwell.

My early years were spent in a house that was part of a neighborhood of 20 or so houses. That was a place where kids had nothing to worry about on Christmas break except playing hockey in the street or, if cold enough, sliding on the ice in the ditches. You ran around the neighborhood free as could be. The rule was that you went home when it got dark – sometimes even later. It was on a Christmas morning in that house when my dad woke my brothers and I early and brought us down into the living room. My brother received a G. I. Joe action figure and tent. My brothers all took the tent with excitement. I was still half asleep and could not understand what was so great about a plastic tent. Only after wiping sleep away three or four times did I see what was to become my companion for the next 14 years. Lady Guinevere sat in the tent whimpering.  A tent that only a couple of weeks later she would not be able to enter. We had received an Old English Sheepdog. I remember Lady for many of my following Christmas memories have her in them.

Most of my holidays spirits come from after we moved in with my Nana. The street held fewer houses; 5 to be exact. On one side of the street sat two homes of cousins. One our side sat three, the two outer homes belonged to our cousins with us in the middle. It may not have had as many kids, but the rules were the same as was the freedom. Even before it became our home, it was the house where so many memories were created.

What was cool about our little town is how many of the residents either were related or acted like they were. Off the living room sat a sun porch. During my early years, it wasn’t heated or if it was – it didn’t hold much of the heat in. This actually worked well for Nana because it became her storage area for cookies, pies, and other baked goods. Between the time of Thanksgiving and Christmas, our Nana would work during the day and come home in the evening to bake. She filled the room so that any person who came to visit would walk away with a little tin or box filled with delights to be shared with the family.

It wasn’t just our house that received the visitors. I can remember as I grew up having to take trips to the different cousins around town. Later, I would end up being called on to babysit the younger generation. This called for even more visits.

The best years were when we had a white Christmas. Just because we lived in the north did not mean we were guaranteed to have the picture-perfect holiday. But on the years when it did snow, it just added to the feelings of the holiday. I can remember driving around with Dad as we looked at the lights. Snow on the lawns and covering up the lights just made the sparkles a little brighter. As I entered my teens, I found that my favorite part of snow was when it would come down in the evenings. I would go out with a shovel to clear the drive. I was lucky on nights when no one else had started shoveling for it allowed the quiet of the night to settle in around me. I would just stand there surrounded by the falling flakes with the lights from the few houses on our street blinking away. Those days may have been the closest I have ever come to pure peace.

I think, for me, the nicest part of being from such a small-town area was the pacing. Things just didn’t seem as rushed. It was okay to slow down and take it in. It was due to the slowness that one of my favorite nights comes to mind. I may have been 12 or 13. I sat alone in the living room – almost alone. My faithful companion, still thinking she was a lap dog, sat with her front legs across mine as I sat in the floor taking in the sights and sounds of the fire. She laid her head down as I scratched her ears. The mantel was decorated with boughs and lights. Behind me, the mirror had lights going around it. The blinking casts shadows down upon us. The tree stood in the corner all decorated with lights, ornaments, tinsel, and possibly popcorn. I still remember the bubble lights going around the tree.

I can remember the stereo playing Christmas carols. Since we were so close to Canada, we used to pick up their radio stations. One of them played the carols from the 30s and 40s. I am not sure why, but I have always preferred those over the current ones. The curtains on the front window were still open – soon they would be closed to keep out the cold. For now, they were pulled far apart. Though it was pitch black outside, you could see the snow built up on the lower part of the window. The pile was growing. Outside of that, I cannot remember any other sounds or people moving. It was just me, my dog, lights, a fire, and music. There was a feeling of contentment.

I think I go back to this memory often for it was only a couple of Christmases later when we sat around the tree minus one. This was one of the last Christmases in which we had my Dad. Perhaps, that contentment was from it being one of the last for our family as a whole.

Today – today so many years have passed. We live in a different time when things don’t seem to slow down. One must really try to slow the pace even a small bit. Everyone seems so busy and pulled in different directions. Lady is long gone, but she still lives in my memories. Our parents have passed but their spirit is with us each year as we hang our lights.

We live on the West Coast and the chance of snow in Los Angeles is …. well not very high. We try to slow things down for our daughter hoping that she is making memories that years from now she will be able to sit and look back upon. A time when she can complain about how fast life is and how much slower it was when she was a child.

So, as we bring the holidays to an end, as we bring 2017 to an end, I have one more Christmas wish. I wish that each and every reader has their own memories be it from a small town, or a bustling city, or somewhere in-between. I wish that each of you have time with your family and if you can’t that the warmth of their love will suffice until you can feel the warmth of their hugs. I wish you peace and contentment.

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Can We Let Them Fail?

hands of child and father on wheat field

In reading articles about parenting, I read something over and over. In each, parents made comments about their children being happy.

“Happiness, isn’t that what we want for our children?”

“He is happy. That is the most important thing.”

As a parent, I am not sure if I have said the above word for word, but I do know I watch my child’s level of happiness.

“How is she doing in school?”, I am asked.

“She seems happy so I think things are going well.” I have said this once or twice.

Perhaps it is because of what is happening in our country that these statements popped out at me. “That is the most important thing”??????

Please do not get me wrong, I do want my child to be happy, but is it really the most important thing? Could this be one of the issues we are having in our world. We care more about making our children happy than making them adults that can take on the world and survive. We don’t want them to experience failure. We don’t want them to suffer. We don’t want them to have to admit defeat in anything.

We berate teachers into better grades. We demand that they get to play every time. We give them trophies because they played.

Maybe, just maybe, and I am ready to get slammed for this, we need to take a lesson from our parents and let the children of today understand that the world of tomorrow will not just be handed to them. They need to earn their way in life. They need to learn how to work. They need to learn how to win with humility and lose with dignity. Yes, they must learn to lose and fail.

As parents, instead of making sure that they are always smiling, we need to let them frown, cry, cheer, laugh, scream. They need to experience happiness, but they also need to understand sorrow, anger, and calmness for without these how can they know what it is to be happy. We need to be there to help them up after they fall, but let them fall. We need to stop them from bodily harm, but let them figure out most things for themselves. We need to let them live and prepare themselves for their future. The future where mommy and daddy cannot call their boss and yell at them for hurting their childs feelings.

So I will protect my child, but I will let her fight her battles based on her age. I will fight them today, but tomorrow she will need to take on, little by little, her own fights.

Don’t get me wrong – I will be a bear when needed, but my cub will learn to survive.

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Lessons From a Pile of Wood

I found this bit of writing from two years ago. It still holds true today.

I love when I have a task that requires little to no brainpower. I look forward to these jobs since I never know, without having a mental need, where my thoughts will wander. Today I had one of those tasks – moving a woodpile. I let my thoughts wander, and I ended up with a life lesson. This was one of those lessons that made me wish that I was back in the classroom so I could share it with my students.

This morning we had a half-cord of wood dropped in our driveway. One never really understands how much this involves until the truck lifts its open box bed and the gate opens and out tumbles the wood. So there sat this pile that now had to be moved to the backyard into the woodshed. I looked forward to the exercise and lack of brainpower required.

I started the move. Back and forth, fill the arms, drop the wood, turn around and head back to start. After 1000 trips, okay I may exaggerate. After 999 trips (hey! It’s my story), I started looking at the pile and wondering why it was not getting any smaller. 50 more trips and there it stood. (NO! Before my “friends” make comments, I was not carrying one piece at a time.) I let out a sigh and started back to what was starting to take on the role of my nemesis.

It was at this moment that a thought popped into my head comparing this task with so many tasks, goals, jobs or other items that require work. All of the mentioned items can quickly become something dreaded and become things to quit instead of seeing through to completion – all because of this wood pile.

Each time I walked out of the shed and turned toward the woodpile, I saw the same amount of wood waiting for me as when I started. It did not shrink. At least that was the appearance. I knew that if I turned around in looked into the woodshed that I would see the fruits of my labor. The pile of wood was proof that I was getting somewhere. However, I was staring at a pile that maintained the same level as when I grabbed the first log. I started to wonder if someone was pranking me by adding wood to the pile. Then it hit me…..

The pile had gone down since the first trip. The issue wasn’t that someone was adding to the pile, it was my point of view – my perspective. I was looking at the pile from the side. A very wide pile to start with that was about the same height all the way across. From where I stood, I could see only the height and the width. I could not see it from the side in which I had been pulling the wood. Without a full view, it looked the same. If I have been able to see the pile from above, I would have seen the difference in the size of the task.

I started to think of other areas of my life in which I had allowed my lack of ability to see from other views that caused me to quit. My first attempt at college, my second book, weight loss, all items I gave up because they seemed impossible.

So what would I teach my students? Stop looking at problems, jobs, assignments from one side. I would tell them to make sure that they walk around and look down as well. The other thing I would tell them, something I forgot to do today, would be to look at what you have completed. I quickly dropped the wood turned and headed back. I should have stopped to appreciate how much wood I had already moved. The same needs to be done with everything you do – when you have something that takes time and effort, make sure that you stop and appreciate what is done. This can be done with anything, even weight loss. All too often I check the scale to see a drop of a pound here, two there, but as soon as I turn around and see the mirror, all I see is the task left to be done.

So there is the life lesson I received by moving wood.

PS – A second lesson I learned is be willing to ask for help. Had someone been walking down the street, I would have offered cash to get assistance with the task.

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Envelopes

Over the last couple of weeks, we have been doing cleaning around the house. It is always interesting the things that you find when you do this. Sometimes you find wonderful treasures that bring back wonderful memories. Sometimes you find things that bring back memories you would rather not recall – those are the things you get rid of. Then there are times you find things that you thought were a great idea, but now as you look at the item you found, you are left with wonder and doubt.

As anyone who has been with me from the start of my writings know, it has been a little over a year since we lost my mom. Her passing was quick and unexpected. One day we were talking about things she was going to be doing in the future and the next she was in a hospital. A week later and I was rushing home – making it just in time to say good-bye.

We have already lived through the year of first withouts. The first Thanksgiving without being able to call and talk to her about the family dinner. The first Christmas of Nancy, our daughter, and I flying home to be with the family and yet there was an empty space at the table. The first for each of the birthdays passing and no card arriving. The oh so many times in which I picked up a phone and told Siri to call her only to be informed that there was no phone number for mom. Sometimes it takes that voice from your phone, “I’m sorry. I can’t find a contact for Mom.” to remind you of what you already know.

So, what does the passing of my mom have to do with finding things while cleaning the house – a lot. First though, I need to share this “brilliant” idea I had 9 years ago this very week. 9 years ago, our little girl was just that – a little girl. She was preparing to turn 1. I sat and thought about what present I could give a little girl about to turn 1. The age where an empty box meant more than whatever came inside. The age where everything was still new. The age where no one yelled at you for sticking your hands in the birthday cake; everyone laughed. What could a sentimental dad give his little girl.

I came to the understanding that I was no spring chicken of a dad. By that day 9 years ago, I had already been mistaken as the grandfather a number of times. I had come to terms with the fact that I was going to be the dad who had a full head of gray hair long before she graduated. I accepted that it was going to take a lot of work on my part to stay up with her during her teens years. More importantly, I knew that if had these thoughts about myself, that I worried just how long her grandparents and other relatives would be around to celebrate birthdays for her. With all of this running through my brain, I came up with a gift.

I reached out to family and friends at that time and asked them to prepare birthday cards for our little one for her tenth, sixteenth, and eighteenth birthdays. Not knowing what fate would do to our lives, I wanted for them to have a chance to be with her as long as possible. Catching on to what I found?

In my desk drawer are two envelopes. It seems like every 6 or 7 months I stumble across these envelopes. Both are addressed to my daughter on her 10th birthday. One envelope is from her Grandfather and Grandmother (Nancy’s parents). Her Grandfather is still with us and, we are happy to say, will be spending Christmas with us. Her Grandmother is now gone over two years. We do not know which person wrote the letter. It sits there patiently waiting.

The other envelope is from my Mom. I saw it often when she was still with us. It brought a smile to my face every time I moved items around in the drawer and it would peek out from under a pile of papers. In the last year, I find that when I am in the drawer and I see the corner of the envelope, I take it out, I hold it, I look at it, I wonder. It is funny. I never wondered about the words it contained until she passed. Perhaps I knew I could always ask what was in the letter. I never did for I wanted to honor and respect the privacy of the author and recipient. Now – I can no longer ask; I just hold it.

The big day is not far away – 3 weeks. I am not sure how our daughter will handle receiving letters from those who have passed (there are plenty of cards from people still with us). I have thought about the proper time to give her the letters – it is a school day.

I guess that we will wait until after dinner to give her the letters. We will not make a big deal out of it, but we will let her know who sent them. We will then give her the choice to go off and read them by herself for these are private letters. I know I worry over nothing. I know these letters are filled with love and hope for our little one’s future. I know that they will be words that she will be able to hold and treasure for the rest of her life.

I am not sure why I am worried about these letters. Perhaps it is reading the words of loved ones who are no longer with us. Perhaps it is seeing how these words will affect a happy celebration. Perhaps, just perhaps, it saddens me to realize that the reason I decided to ask for these letters in the first place actually came true. I think it is a little bit of all of those.

So tonight, I can just open my drawer and see the envelopes sitting there waiting – just waiting. I am counting the days that 9 years ago seemed so far away only to realize that they number less than 30. I will continue to wait, and – if our daughter decides not to share them and keep them close to her heart – I may never know what the spirits of her loving Grandmothers had to say.

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Labor Day in a City on Fire

About a year ago, I wrote a post describing what it was like to celebrate Labor Day in a small town on the Eastern side of the country. I lamented the loss of the days of my childhood, and the fun of growing up in a small town. I mentioned in that writing on how I now live in the Los Angeles area, and just how different the two areas were – I stated that two places could not be farther apart on the spectrum. This weekend taught me just how wrong I was, and that community – no matter it be a small town or part of a big city – is what matters. This weekend, we saw our community in action. I learned that it is no different from my little town of so many years ago.

Unless you were totally separated from all news sources, most of the country heard about the fire that broke out in the mountains just over the ridge from our area. What started out as a small brush fire on Friday expanded quickly and spread throughout the mountain area. We canceled our plans for the weekend to keep an eye on what was happening – my wife’s idea, and thankfully she made me see the light about not going away.

All Friday night into Saturday morning, the sounds of helicopters flying between the fire and their water area could be heard. Our one cat sat vigilantly all night watching the activity. I awoke to the sounds and stepped out in time to see two super-scoopers take a run at the fire that was somewhere down range from us. While we could not see the flames, we could see the tower of smoke so we knew it was close, but we were not in any danger. What we could start to see at that point was the community coming to life. Neighbor started checking on neighbor. Social media saw posting after posting with updates, offers to help with evacuations, calls for donations, and responses from donation centers. You could feel the sense of care for one another.

The fire grew throughout the day. We sat with our elderly neighbor on his front porch (he refused to go inside). More and more helicopters flew. Fire sirens could be heard on the main roads as trucks moved from one position to another. Police cars were driving through the neighborhoods just keeping watch. More of the community stepped up to offer food and water to those fighting the fire. Shelters were taking in people and animals as evacuation orders started taking effect. We heard that the fire had gone in a second direction and was moving down the mountains into the neighboring cities. Their community was stepping up as well.

Then it came. Around 4:10, our neighbor sounded the alarm for us to come out. We walked to the street to see two sets of fire going, not very large at that point. Within 10 minutes, the two joined and the whole range next to use was ablaze. We stood in amazement, watching just how quickly things had turned in our area. While we knew our homes were safe, the ones a block up for us were in eminent danger. Truck after truck came up the street – soon they stopped in front of our home due to lack of room at the top. They were there in force and were ready for battle. 30 minutes from the knock, we had police cars rolling through calling out that this was now a mandatory evacuation zone. Once again, people were checking to ensure that others were safe and able to leave. Some grabbed hoses and started hitting the roof of a person’s home who was out of town. Just a little extra precaution.

Our portion of the weekend’s events was short lived. The brush up there was so dry that it burned quickly and just as suddenly as it started, the main part was done. It did take a while to get smaller bursts put out, but within an hour, I stood on my neighbor’s porch and we were under blue skies. That did change for a short time as the winds did a 180 on us, but even then the sense of danger was minimal.

It is Monday as I write, three full days since the fire broke out. We still hear the helicopters every so often as they go after spots that are still burning. The Fire Chief stated that there is “no active fire.” The evacuation centers are closed. Trucks are being sent back to their home cities. A large group of men and women are up in the hills with chainsaws cutting through the burnt trees. Four homes were lost and six people were injured. The fact that those numbers are so low speaks volumes about the men and women who fought the fire and the community. So many did what they were supposed to do when it comes to brush clearances.

So how does this compare to last year’s post and talking about the small community that I called home so long ago?

In my original posting, I talked about how people took care of one another. I spoke about how we watched out for one another and would help each other. I wrote how one felt safe in that community. This weekend, I learned that those feelings could be felt inside of a big city like Los Angeles. Sunland-Tujunga is a community within the city. I often joke about how our little street feels like a little Mayberry and not like a city of millions.

I was part of a community that stepped up this weekend. A call went out for help from the citizens to donate water, food, and such to the departments and centers. I noticed so many postings from those organizations asking people to stop. They had too many donations. Videos popped up showing the amount of goods that had been dropped off. This morning I drove to the trucks still parked in our area asking what they needed from coffee to food. They politely declined stating that they had more than they could use. They then thanked us. No, the thank yous all go to them.

It does not matter the make-up of the community. Skin color, religious beliefs, political views – differing viewpoints make up the community. I am sure within a few days; we will see political postings come back. I get it. That too makes up a community. I can deal with that knowing that I live in a community that knows when to put all that aside and work together for the good of the community.

Small town – big city – it does not matter as long as we are a community.

 

 

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The Day I Dreamed So Many Years Ago

Today, I finally had a day for which I have been waiting more than three decades to experience. Today, I came one-step closer to understanding my parents and all they did for my brothers and me. Today was a good day.
A little over a week ago, our daughter asked if she could have a Back-to-School party. She did not want anything too big just a handful of friends. She told us that she would plan it all. She just wanted a day to celebrate that last of summer and the going back to school. Since she has never really asked for big get togethers, we agreed. She did as promised. She put together the list, the activities, the food list, and needed items. We sent out the evites, shopped, and got the house together. My wife and I prepared for the eight-girl invasion. We even added to the shopping with a slip-and-slide. We prepared and waited.
The girls came. We had a lot of water play. Water balloons flew. The slip-and-slide was never empty. The music blared. The squeals and laughter filled the air. They only sat still long enough to work on a puzzle in hopes of winning some Ikes and Mikes or to eat from the table of snacks and pizza. The joked, the played, the swung, and they enjoyed one another’s company. The time flew by.
So to many a reader this may sound like a typical get together of children. What could possibly make it so special?
I can remember being in high school and my English teachers would have us write about what our future would be like. They wanted us to imagine where life would take us, how we would live, what we wanted to get out life. I was boring, but I always had the same vision.
While I envisioned a career or two, for me these assignments always revolved around the home life. My thoughts went to what it would be like around my house when I was old. While, at that time, I thought my house would be filled with kids, today I only. I imagined coming home to a white –picket fenced home with children happy with life. I thought of having a loving wife who was a partner in all I did. I, in my mind, saw a Hollywood style life.
This afternoon I sat there on our back porch watching the kids play. My wife and I sat there talking about life. We sat there watching all the fun that was happening in the backyard. I stopped talking with my wife long enough to fill a hundred water balloons (thank goodness for that new invention). I sprayed the slide down to make a waterslide. I even set up all of the nail polish for an impromptu salon. Mostly, I watched and realized that those visions from all those years ago finally happened. My English papers had become reality.
After three short hours, a lot of pizza, cake, candy, the Descendants 2 soundtrack many times over, it came to an end. Parents came to pick up their children. Good-byes were said and said again. Then quiet.
The clean up was short. Then my wife, our daughter, and I sat down to watch ET. She met the little alien for the first time and loved him.
We will finish off the night outside looking for the meteor shower. I am sitting here watching my family, not so much the movie. I am smiling.
Today, I learned why my parents put up with so many kids always coming to our house. I learned why my dad started a youth group. Today I realized how much my parents loved my brothers and me.
Today I stopped work. I have so much left to do, but I stopped the world. It ended at the start of the drive. I put the phone down. I didn’t turn on the computer. Today, my only reason for being was for the title Dad. I learned that days like today would start happening more often. Our daughter is now of the age where our house can become a hang out. Today, I remembered that it is not always about providing as much as it is being.
I thank our daughter for making the world stop. I thank my wife for stopping with me.
I hope that each and every one of you finds your own day like today.

Thank you for meandering with me.

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Happy New Year!

Happy New Year!!! Yep. You read that correctly. Happy New Year.

No. I have not gone off the deep end. I have not lost my mind and forgotten that date. I know that it is the beginning of August (though Christmas is only 20 weeks from today). Yet this is our New Year, the New Year if you are part of the education world. Today, for our school district at least, our teachers returned for the first day of the New Year.

I must admit that I was not ready for today. I woke two hours after my alarm was supposed to go off. I missed any chance to work out. I lost the quiet time that I try to have in the office for a couple of hours before the phones start ringing. I found my collar was tighter than the last day I wore my tie. I left the house mumbling to myself about how I should just turn around and go back to bed. Then to top it off, this introvert was going to spend the morning with 500+ colleagues. I love working with these people, but oh the crowd….

This was shaping up to be a Monday that lived up to the reputation of all Mondays!!!! Lord help me.

It is funny how your prayers are answered.

I arrived at the high school early to help set-up. The team in charge had everything well prepared. I stood around a very empty, quiet quad. I reminisced about the first day I walked into this quad with a key in hand heading to my first classroom. I thought about walking through the quad full of students and noise – especially Fridays when the music blared during lunch. I remembered my first students – students who are now in their mid to late 20s possibly with children of their own. This morning though, this morning it was quiet. No noise. No chaos. No bumping shoulders. No…nothing. Just a big empty space.

Sensing that I had a few moments before the day got started, I snuck into the office of a very nice assistant principal who offered me a nice cup of coffee. I walked the hall greeting people as they started coming down the hall. Colleagues coming home.

I am not sure what happened in the short time it took to get coffee, but when I walked back out to the quad, it was packed. There were people all over the place and it was LOUD. The difference between this morning and my memories were the people who filled the space. These were not students (though they were louder than most students), these were the teachers of the district all coming back to do what they do.

The quad was filled with laughter, greetings, cheers, music from one of the high school bands – it was filled with happiness and joy.

I started the day off in a sour mood, but there was no way, as I stood watching this scene unfold that I could stay in my mood. My soul became filled with excitement. I was feeding off the vibe that was buzzing through this crowd. I saw teachers with 30+ years look as excited as those who were starting their first day in a new career. I heard talk of plans and expectations for the coming year. I listened as these professionals shared how they spent their summer taking classes, attending seminars, and reading up on new things to do with their students.

I did not see tired – I saw teachers chomping at the bit waiting to meet their new students in just a week’s time. I saw the reason why I do my job.

While the morning finished with a welcome from the superintendent, it was the two students who spoke prior to him that sealed the change in my mood. Two seniors, two who serve as the representatives for our students on the Board of Education, spoke about their time as students in our district. It made me want to go back in time and be part of this district as a young person.

So yes. My prayers were answered. I needed a reminder of what I do and why I do it. These teachers and those students did just that.

Today, I watched as our teachers rang in the New Year for education just like many other teachers across the country have been doing in the last week or over the next few weeks. Welcome back and thank you.

Thank you to each and every one of you who will spend more time over the next 40 weeks with other people’s children than with your own. Thank you for every lesson that you will plan, every paper you will grade, every email you will write, every phone call you will take, every story you will listen to, every nose you will wipe, every tear you will dry, every connection to a student you will make. Thank you for choosing a profession that is criticized possibly more than any other. Thank you for teaching the children math, English, history, science, art, PE, music, and life.

I send our daughter back to school knowing that she will be learning, laughing, and growing. Thanks to the teacher she will meet in a week, the ones she has had in the past, and those who will be in our future.

I will close with what I posted to these teachers earlier today:

 Today is the official return of teachers to the district. I emphasize official for I have seen so many of these dedicated people time and time again throughout the summer. Yes – they were on break, but they were also learning how to make school better for each and every child.

I wish each and every one of you the best as you start a new year. May your excitement continue to grow each and every day. May the good experiences outweigh the bad. May you, at the end of each day as you go off to sleep, know that you made a difference in many young lives.

May the tears you shed in May be out of joy for the growth you witnessed, the excitement as you see your students progress, and out of sadness that you cannot hold them in your arms forever.

All the best to each and every teacher that decided this was their purpose in life.

 

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The Farm

Today, we had the pleasure of visiting a dear friend of my wife’s family. She is an older member of the community, and it just felt right to take time out of our trip to stop by and visit. She is a wonderful person who is the matriarch of a large family – 7 children, 15 grandchildren, and 18 great-grandchildren. She still lives on the farm that she and her husband have had for more than 60 years.

As we drove up the driveway, we could see rows of corn in multiple field waving in the breeze. There were so many stalks that you could not see the end. The old farmhouse stood to the left of the drive with the barn straight ahead and the silo, a strong, silent sentry, standing to the right of the barn. At first sight, one would think that Norman Rockwell could visit and come away with a spectacular painting.

We stepped out of the car to silence. Everything was quiet and the wind had settled for the moment. No sound could be heard. Finally, as the breeze kicked back in, a lone bark came from the back of the house. Standing in the back entryway stood an old dog. The gray of his muzzle, the slow, careful step, the one eye no longer seeing all gave away that this brave defender of the house had been on duty for a number or years. Yet there he stood, ready to give his all to protect the occupants of the home.

We went in and said our hellos and started listening to my wife and the family catch up. This was not something a 9-year-old likes to do. Normally, our daughter would endure the conversation and wait patiently for us to say good-bye and move on. However, this was not the first such conversation in our travels this week. Not only that, but this was a farm and a farm needs to be explored. She waited for a break in the conversation to ask permission to sleuth around. Once granted, she grabbed my hand and we were off.

This was not the first visit to this farm. We had been here a couple of times before. Her first visit included us watching several cows being loaded onto a truck to go to auction. I reminded her of where the truck had stood and how the cows were sent up the ramp into the trailer of the truck. She tried to remember, but nothing popped in her head. So, we walked around.

Since the passing of the patriarch, or possibly just prior, the cows had all been sold off. The pigs that my wife remembers feeding as a child no longer fill the barn. There is no livestock save for two cats of which to speak. We walked to the first buildings.

We stood in the building. It was an odd mix of new and old. The building itself had obviously seen better days. Inside, we found new (or what looked like new), large farm equipment. We looked at it and talked about what it must be like to drive the different pieces through the fields. As we pondered the work needed to run a farm, the wind picked up just a bit. We could now hear it cutting through the building and finding crevices in which to exit. A panel on the roof vibrated ever so slightly. It banged softly, but enough for us to hear it and look up. The building looked tired.

We moved out to the corral area. We looked up at the tall silo still so strong and sturdy. Our daughter commented on how the passing clouds made it look like the silo was ready to topple over. Once we turned out gaze from the skies, one could see that this structure looked as if it had another 60 years plus to go. However, one could tell that the lonely giant would no longer be used as a store house for anything but dust and cobwebs.

Our daughter’s attention moved to the barn. The barn called out to her as the wind moved one of its doors and banged it against the wall. The path leading up to the two tall doors was now completely covered in weeds and grass. Even with the lack of paint and missing pieces here and there, we could imagine this home for livestock back in the days. We could see the doors much being opened almost with as much fanfare as the doors of the Wizard’s castle in Oz. But alas, the doors no longer moved. We peeked in a small opening to see where hay used to be stacked to the ceiling. Little remnants scattered here and there. Now instead of large animals weighing thousands of pounds, two small cats sat in the middle of room staring at the strangers who were invading their peace and quiet.

We moved around the rest of the buildings seeing much of the same. All the while a feeling of morose falling over me. At one time, this farm was bustling. It was full of life. Now it sat silent almost waiting, wanting to be brought back to those days. It is still a farm that grows crops. It still provides, but it is not what it once was.

At first, I was going to equate this farm to how we treat the older generation in our society. People who want to contribute, but are just pushed aside to fall apart and become silent. However, this is just about our observations today. Our daughter and I walked the farm. We talked about what it was and what it is. We felt a sadness for the old place. We talked about how things change and what once was, isn’t anymore.

In the end, we finished back in front of the doors of the barn. We looked for the cats, but they were not willing to come out and play. The wind moved the corn, the building creaked and groaned, the silo stood silent. We turned slowly to walk back to the house and the conversation within. A bark, one that you could tell was not as scary as it might have been years ago, greeted us. We closed the door behind us as we entered the house, and left the old barn alone again. We went back to the warmth of the visit and the stories of old.

 

 

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