Today was Mom's wedding. It was, altogether, a very nice ceremony, and the reception afterwards was nice and chummy. We have suddenly added three new step-siblings to our nuclear family, which means three new sets of spouses and/or children's names to learn (AAAAIIIIIIYEEEEEEEE!). Learning names is not my long suit, and the first time I meet one of them after today, I'm going to look like a somewhat less than intelligent person. Mom will be living in Texas now, and I'm sure a tin-horn like me is going to make a HUGE impression on those Tejanos the first time we go out there for a visit.
Among the more significant events today (for us, anyway) was the Jelly Woodyette's first real experience with heartbreak. She suddenly realized - although we'd mentioned it several times before - that Grandma was not going to be living in her big old house anymore. When you think about it, it's Daddy and Daddy's brother and sisters who should really have mixed feelings about that house. Two of us lived in it from day one back in '63. The other three were born into it. It's like an institution; we sort of feel like maybe it should become a historical landmark. Or, truthfully, maybe it would be kinder to simply condemn it. Poor thing has survived five kids and numerous grandkids and great-grandkids, after all.
Still, this was Jelly's first major heart-rending event. She cried pretty much all the way home (90 miles, I-5, LA to OC traffic - whee). It wasn't until Mama was able to sit and snuggle with her for awhile that she finally came to grips with things, and is now
*** WOODYETTE COMES OF AGE ALERT! ***
making Texas jokes.
Yes. After all that boo-hooing, Jelly has decided it would be pretty funny if Grandma Woody - born in Wisconsin, raised in Iowa, and living in Southern Cal for her entire adult life - were to suddenly sound like she was from Texas, complete with steer-roping drawl. In fact, she also wonders if Grandma will ever refer to having a "Bob-eque" (Bob being the man she just married). Woody is in biiiiiiig trouble.
But, as I say, the wedding was lovely, and we couldn't be more thrilled that Mom is so happy. She deserves happiness, after raising the five of us. Maybe now she'll rescind the curse. You know...
...the one that begins "I hope you have kids JUST like you...!"
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
#54 - Harry Potter and the Blood Shot Eyes
Well, we've been largely comatose here at La Casa Woody for the past three days. It's taken us this long to read "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" aloud as our family activity since it arrived on Saturday. This particular activity involves Daddy sitting in a comfortable chair, with two Woodyettes draped over him like mink stoles (albeit heavy minks!), while Mrs. Woody lounges in her favorite easy chair gasping for breath. She's been fighting for a decent breath for nearly a month now, but today it finally got to the point where we had to interrupt our reading and take her to the doctor.
We don't take our HP Read-a-thons lightly in this house.
No spoilers here, by the way. Well, I guess I will note that Harry and his friends have finally become the raging hormone storms that most kids really become around age 12 nowadays. One could argue that Harry's hormones finally kicked in at age 15 in "Order of the Phoenix," but now he seems to have remarkable control of the ol' testosterone until relatively late in the book this time.
Anyway, the Woodyettes have taken a much more active interest in this book. For one thing, they've both been studying via Hogwarts extension courses this past school year. They each have their own Hogwarts robe and hat, a wand, a cauldron (NOT for use on a real fire!), and even share a house elf, whose name is Canby. They've never seen Canby, but I have. I can tell you that he looks remarkably like a grumpy old man with a salt-and-pepper goatee and a perpetually exasperated look on his face, but the kids think he (she?) must be cute. For that matter, so is their owl. The owl is stuffed and residing on our mantle shelf by day, but by night transmogrifies into (surprise!) a grumpy, exasperated, salt-and-pepper-bearded old man.
So, in accordance with the Freedom of Imagination Act under which this house operates, every time Daddy sits down and begins his dramatic readings of any HP book, Jelly immediately dons her Hogwarts attire, grabs her wand, and begins acting out whatever she hears during those moments when she's actually able to force herself to sit still long enough to hear a word or two of the story. Whatever she hears triggers some new playacting, or, alternatively, Q&A time.
Indeed, this particular story brought what I considered to be incredibly insightful questions from my elder 'Ette. The questions she hit me with gave me to understand that she really has been paying careful attention to her own reading, the movies she's seen, and even Mom and Dad's discussions of various plot devices and scenarios.
For her part, the Doodle Woodyette, having mastered the art of reading this past school year, has insisted on either following along with her own copy of the book (Yes. We have two. Deal with it.), or having Daddy track the words with his finger, even though she is perfectly capable of following along without my doing that.
They also love having Daddy do character voices. One of their favorites is Snape, because Daddy really goes out of his way to give him that oily sound that seems to be called for by the character. Alan Rickman is canola oil to my Crisco heavy lard on the ol' oiliness scale. I've been playing weasels since high school. Rickman wasted his time on Shakespeare, I'd like to bet. My Dumbledore is, I confess, mostly patterned after Richard Harris's muffled wheeze. Dumbledore and Hagrid are the toughest on my throat, and unfortunately, Dumbledore figures heavily in this latest installment. My throat currently feels something like sandpaper on glass.
Finally, and fortunately, we have finished the story. I say "fortunately" because the house has been largely neglected during our recreational reading. In fact (and don't I love this during the summer in Orange County!), several swarms of ants have invaded and now have control of critical sectors of my kitchen, including strategic transportation targets consisting of the kitchen floor. Tomorrow I will likely go through my entire can of "Victor's Ant Spray" so our house can have that pleasant minty odor permeate everything from our spice rack to our frozen split pea soup that will take, probably, 15 months to thaw given how cold our freezer is at the moment. Then I get to wash down and scrub every exposed surface of the kitchen so as to convince all 27 million ants that all those pheromones they laid down really are gone, and that there is nothing interesting left in this kitchen; especially that big, beautiful pork roast that we are definitely NOT cooking in our crock pot anytime soon. So there.
In other words, back to business as usual at La Casa Woody.
We don't take our HP Read-a-thons lightly in this house.
No spoilers here, by the way. Well, I guess I will note that Harry and his friends have finally become the raging hormone storms that most kids really become around age 12 nowadays. One could argue that Harry's hormones finally kicked in at age 15 in "Order of the Phoenix," but now he seems to have remarkable control of the ol' testosterone until relatively late in the book this time.
Anyway, the Woodyettes have taken a much more active interest in this book. For one thing, they've both been studying via Hogwarts extension courses this past school year. They each have their own Hogwarts robe and hat, a wand, a cauldron (NOT for use on a real fire!), and even share a house elf, whose name is Canby. They've never seen Canby, but I have. I can tell you that he looks remarkably like a grumpy old man with a salt-and-pepper goatee and a perpetually exasperated look on his face, but the kids think he (she?) must be cute. For that matter, so is their owl. The owl is stuffed and residing on our mantle shelf by day, but by night transmogrifies into (surprise!) a grumpy, exasperated, salt-and-pepper-bearded old man.
So, in accordance with the Freedom of Imagination Act under which this house operates, every time Daddy sits down and begins his dramatic readings of any HP book, Jelly immediately dons her Hogwarts attire, grabs her wand, and begins acting out whatever she hears during those moments when she's actually able to force herself to sit still long enough to hear a word or two of the story. Whatever she hears triggers some new playacting, or, alternatively, Q&A time.
Indeed, this particular story brought what I considered to be incredibly insightful questions from my elder 'Ette. The questions she hit me with gave me to understand that she really has been paying careful attention to her own reading, the movies she's seen, and even Mom and Dad's discussions of various plot devices and scenarios.
For her part, the Doodle Woodyette, having mastered the art of reading this past school year, has insisted on either following along with her own copy of the book (Yes. We have two. Deal with it.), or having Daddy track the words with his finger, even though she is perfectly capable of following along without my doing that.
They also love having Daddy do character voices. One of their favorites is Snape, because Daddy really goes out of his way to give him that oily sound that seems to be called for by the character. Alan Rickman is canola oil to my Crisco heavy lard on the ol' oiliness scale. I've been playing weasels since high school. Rickman wasted his time on Shakespeare, I'd like to bet. My Dumbledore is, I confess, mostly patterned after Richard Harris's muffled wheeze. Dumbledore and Hagrid are the toughest on my throat, and unfortunately, Dumbledore figures heavily in this latest installment. My throat currently feels something like sandpaper on glass.
Finally, and fortunately, we have finished the story. I say "fortunately" because the house has been largely neglected during our recreational reading. In fact (and don't I love this during the summer in Orange County!), several swarms of ants have invaded and now have control of critical sectors of my kitchen, including strategic transportation targets consisting of the kitchen floor. Tomorrow I will likely go through my entire can of "Victor's Ant Spray" so our house can have that pleasant minty odor permeate everything from our spice rack to our frozen split pea soup that will take, probably, 15 months to thaw given how cold our freezer is at the moment. Then I get to wash down and scrub every exposed surface of the kitchen so as to convince all 27 million ants that all those pheromones they laid down really are gone, and that there is nothing interesting left in this kitchen; especially that big, beautiful pork roast that we are definitely NOT cooking in our crock pot anytime soon. So there.
In other words, back to business as usual at La Casa Woody.
#53 - Emasculated Curmudgeonry
"Get a haircut, kid."
His head was recently shaved.
"Get a job, kid."
He starts Wednesday at a place called "CD Warehouse."
For all his incomprehensible lifestyle, he speaks to me in terms that are at once clear and well-structured. I can actually understand him.
I asked him about his girlfriend. He said he no longer had one, and what with trying to find a full-time job, get his driver's license, and just generally live, he really has no time at the moment for the ladies.
[scratches head]
Now what'll I have to complain about?
Or, maybe I don't really wanna know...
His head was recently shaved.
"Get a job, kid."
He starts Wednesday at a place called "CD Warehouse."
For all his incomprehensible lifestyle, he speaks to me in terms that are at once clear and well-structured. I can actually understand him.
I asked him about his girlfriend. He said he no longer had one, and what with trying to find a full-time job, get his driver's license, and just generally live, he really has no time at the moment for the ladies.
[scratches head]
Now what'll I have to complain about?
Or, maybe I don't really wanna know...
Friday, July 15, 2005
#52 - Wedding Bells Are Ringing
Little Sis recently stated that news of "The Wedding" was conspicuous by its absence in our family blogs. Guilty as charged, but with an explanation. I've had a dickens of time deciding how best to write about this. In the end, my need to blog has overcome my fear of waxing schmaltzy about the whole thing, so here goes:
"The Wedding" refers to that of our dear, sainted Mom. Mom will be a blushing bride a week from tomorrow in the backyard of her best friend. Then she'll move to Texas.
Hm. Must think of appropriate Texas joke later.
To be serious, we, her offspring, think this is a tremendous blessing for Mom. When Dad died suddenly five years ago, we kids worried (a lot!) about Mom. We became "Mom's Army," and formed ranks around her to get her through the most strenuous times immediately following Dad's passing. In the space of not very many years, Mom has lost husband and both parents. She also has found a new soul-mate with whom she feels she can spend the rest of her days. His name is Bob. We'd accuse her of being giddy lately, but that's not altogether true; she's only giddy when he's around.
It's funny to think about now. I mean the idea that I now know what my own parents went through when I announced I was getting married more than twenty years ago. There was apprehension on several fronts: my first wife was a very different personality type from what the family was accustomed, and I myself was still a tad immature to be considered truly "ready" for marriage. Not that anyone is ever truly ready, but some are more ready than others by the time they reach the altar.
Mom is ready.
I once teased her about needing a chaperone when Bob is visiting. She assured me that while both of their "engines are running," as they put it, he has continually been every inch the gentleman with her. Good thing, too, or we'd have to sic Deputy Bro-In-Law on him to give him a gun-cleaning demonstration while interrogating him about his intentions.
Aw, who'm I kidding? We all know Bob (although my own memories of him are iffy, he's had a wonderful reputation in our Stake for decades!), and there's no chance that his intentions are anything but honorable.
More than anything, this represents a chance for us to see Mom finally live the kind of life Dad had always envisioned for her. She will be with a man who loves the Gospel and will take her to the temple frequently. He loves listening to good music just as much as Mom enjoys creating it. He will care for her and be her helpmeet in all things. What more could we, her children, ask?
Well, we could ask for Southern California instead of Texas, but let's not start things off with sour grapes. Besides, we've been looking for new vacation destinations. Texas just might fit the bill.
Ah, young love!
On a related note: I just today received an email from a former Sunday School student of mine. This young man is quite a story. I was teaching 16-18 year olds at the time, and this one sort of stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. He came to the ward at precisely the time when his young testimony was suffering its own growing pains, and some kids in the ward weren't terribly helpful. I stuck with him, though, because I saw a lot of me in him when I was his age. As his home teacher I helped counsel him through some turbulence prior to his going on a mission, and he credited me with helping him become a successful missionary.
One day in Sunday School I had made the statement that as a teacher, the best measure of success I could ask for would be to receive temple marriage announcements from them. Today I received an email from this young man's mother stating that they needed our address so he could send us one.
It's the sort of blessing we sometimes think will have to wait until the next life before we hear about it. I'm so glad I don't have to wait that long!
"The Wedding" refers to that of our dear, sainted Mom. Mom will be a blushing bride a week from tomorrow in the backyard of her best friend. Then she'll move to Texas.
Hm. Must think of appropriate Texas joke later.
To be serious, we, her offspring, think this is a tremendous blessing for Mom. When Dad died suddenly five years ago, we kids worried (a lot!) about Mom. We became "Mom's Army," and formed ranks around her to get her through the most strenuous times immediately following Dad's passing. In the space of not very many years, Mom has lost husband and both parents. She also has found a new soul-mate with whom she feels she can spend the rest of her days. His name is Bob. We'd accuse her of being giddy lately, but that's not altogether true; she's only giddy when he's around.
It's funny to think about now. I mean the idea that I now know what my own parents went through when I announced I was getting married more than twenty years ago. There was apprehension on several fronts: my first wife was a very different personality type from what the family was accustomed, and I myself was still a tad immature to be considered truly "ready" for marriage. Not that anyone is ever truly ready, but some are more ready than others by the time they reach the altar.
Mom is ready.
I once teased her about needing a chaperone when Bob is visiting. She assured me that while both of their "engines are running," as they put it, he has continually been every inch the gentleman with her. Good thing, too, or we'd have to sic Deputy Bro-In-Law on him to give him a gun-cleaning demonstration while interrogating him about his intentions.
Aw, who'm I kidding? We all know Bob (although my own memories of him are iffy, he's had a wonderful reputation in our Stake for decades!), and there's no chance that his intentions are anything but honorable.
More than anything, this represents a chance for us to see Mom finally live the kind of life Dad had always envisioned for her. She will be with a man who loves the Gospel and will take her to the temple frequently. He loves listening to good music just as much as Mom enjoys creating it. He will care for her and be her helpmeet in all things. What more could we, her children, ask?
Well, we could ask for Southern California instead of Texas, but let's not start things off with sour grapes. Besides, we've been looking for new vacation destinations. Texas just might fit the bill.
Ah, young love!
On a related note: I just today received an email from a former Sunday School student of mine. This young man is quite a story. I was teaching 16-18 year olds at the time, and this one sort of stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. He came to the ward at precisely the time when his young testimony was suffering its own growing pains, and some kids in the ward weren't terribly helpful. I stuck with him, though, because I saw a lot of me in him when I was his age. As his home teacher I helped counsel him through some turbulence prior to his going on a mission, and he credited me with helping him become a successful missionary.
One day in Sunday School I had made the statement that as a teacher, the best measure of success I could ask for would be to receive temple marriage announcements from them. Today I received an email from this young man's mother stating that they needed our address so he could send us one.
It's the sort of blessing we sometimes think will have to wait until the next life before we hear about it. I'm so glad I don't have to wait that long!
Sunday, July 10, 2005
#51 - As All Vacations Must...
...this one has come to an end.
It's always paradoxical that the end of a vacation is seen as something of a relief. Not that I'm eager to return to work; on the contrary, I know exactly what awaits me, and the thought is daunting. No, it's the idea that we are safe and sound at home (which is also safe and sound) where we will be sleeping in our own beds and grazi... er, eating our own food, and sitting in our own fit-to-form furniture. Aaaaaah.
I'm still glad we took the train. The Woodyettes have now had their experience with a train ride up and down the western coast of the country. They slept in coach going up, and first class coming back down. Jelly got to ride in a bunk bed with seat belts, for crying out loud. How cool is that?? We, of course, learned quite a lot about traveling by train. We don't sleep so well on those "mattresses" that were hand-woven by crazed monks who had been sampling too much of their own cooking. Plus, when they're being used as seats during the day, they're not all that comfortable, either. We found ourselves being a little envious of the folks ahead of us in the car that had those two-seater sleepers. Those reclined during the day.
[scribbles in a notebook entitled "Future Woody Family Train Trips"]
Also, the words "pack light" will be lasered on our foreheads for future reference. We had - as carry-ons, mind you - packed roughly the equivalent of twelve cruise trunks full of stuff in only four backpacks and one heavily bungee'd stack of stuff without which we could not live on this trip. The Doodle Woodyette literally had to lean well over forty-five degrees into the wind in order to carry her backpack. Fortunately, she only had to do this to get on and off the train. Daddy carried it the rest of the time.
Of course, the train was never on time. Amtrak has a hard-earned reputation for being anywhere from 1 to 17 hours late on the Coast Starlight, and those days when it happens to arrive somewhere on time are counted as accounting errors. Going up we were three hours late. Coming home it was five-plus. This became a huge deal when that lateness put us in Oxnard (NOT a fun town to be out in public after midnight!) at around 1:00 in the morning. This meant getting family out of bed (or, probably more accurately, keeping them up) to come pick us up. We didn't dare leave our car there. It's no darn'd fun driving a car home that no longer technically exists except for a thank-you note from the gangsters that stole it.
No, we're glad to be home. I'm even (contrary to what I said earlier) looking forward to going back to work tomorrow. Yes, I know that gloom and doom will assail me the minute I step in the office. Still, if past history counts for anything, I'll have roughly six hundred emails to wade through before I can even get to my phone messages. They won't see me for at least another three days, if I work this properly.
I already can't wait for our next vacation. I hear the Sunset Limited is always on time, except for hurricane season...
It's always paradoxical that the end of a vacation is seen as something of a relief. Not that I'm eager to return to work; on the contrary, I know exactly what awaits me, and the thought is daunting. No, it's the idea that we are safe and sound at home (which is also safe and sound) where we will be sleeping in our own beds and grazi... er, eating our own food, and sitting in our own fit-to-form furniture. Aaaaaah.
I'm still glad we took the train. The Woodyettes have now had their experience with a train ride up and down the western coast of the country. They slept in coach going up, and first class coming back down. Jelly got to ride in a bunk bed with seat belts, for crying out loud. How cool is that?? We, of course, learned quite a lot about traveling by train. We don't sleep so well on those "mattresses" that were hand-woven by crazed monks who had been sampling too much of their own cooking. Plus, when they're being used as seats during the day, they're not all that comfortable, either. We found ourselves being a little envious of the folks ahead of us in the car that had those two-seater sleepers. Those reclined during the day.
[scribbles in a notebook entitled "Future Woody Family Train Trips"]
Also, the words "pack light" will be lasered on our foreheads for future reference. We had - as carry-ons, mind you - packed roughly the equivalent of twelve cruise trunks full of stuff in only four backpacks and one heavily bungee'd stack of stuff without which we could not live on this trip. The Doodle Woodyette literally had to lean well over forty-five degrees into the wind in order to carry her backpack. Fortunately, she only had to do this to get on and off the train. Daddy carried it the rest of the time.
Of course, the train was never on time. Amtrak has a hard-earned reputation for being anywhere from 1 to 17 hours late on the Coast Starlight, and those days when it happens to arrive somewhere on time are counted as accounting errors. Going up we were three hours late. Coming home it was five-plus. This became a huge deal when that lateness put us in Oxnard (NOT a fun town to be out in public after midnight!) at around 1:00 in the morning. This meant getting family out of bed (or, probably more accurately, keeping them up) to come pick us up. We didn't dare leave our car there. It's no darn'd fun driving a car home that no longer technically exists except for a thank-you note from the gangsters that stole it.
No, we're glad to be home. I'm even (contrary to what I said earlier) looking forward to going back to work tomorrow. Yes, I know that gloom and doom will assail me the minute I step in the office. Still, if past history counts for anything, I'll have roughly six hundred emails to wade through before I can even get to my phone messages. They won't see me for at least another three days, if I work this properly.
I already can't wait for our next vacation. I hear the Sunset Limited is always on time, except for hurricane season...
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
#50 - Dad Blogs
Blogging Dads are not a new phenomenon by any means. I daresay that Dads who blog are plentiful, even numerous. The trick is to find those who hold Dadhood as their primary topic of interest. Most of them tend to be socio-political bloggers who also happen to be Dads. I think of myself more as a Dad who happens to blog.
To that end, I have re-thunk my "Dad Blogs" category on the blog roll, and created the "Dad-o-sphere" instead. How clever of me.
On the face of it, this isn't terribly exciting news. Still, I feel a need to network the creative power of Dads who think of Dadhood as their primary life-motivation. In light of current societal pressures to further weaken and even destroy the traditional family in this country, I think this "network" has the potential to do great good for the world at large.
I did a little trolling today, and found two bloggers who seem to epitomize this view. "Dad Talk" and "Modern Day Dad" both focus on issues related to Dads, and even parenthood in general. Both have babies in the house (or toddlers, at any rate), so their perspective kicks in a bit sooner than my own post-Kindergartener writings. But I find them both to have constructive things to say, and I happily link to them.
Please give them a visit if you're a Dad looking for a network. Don't thank me. I'm just looking for cash.
To that end, I have re-thunk my "Dad Blogs" category on the blog roll, and created the "Dad-o-sphere" instead. How clever of me.
On the face of it, this isn't terribly exciting news. Still, I feel a need to network the creative power of Dads who think of Dadhood as their primary life-motivation. In light of current societal pressures to further weaken and even destroy the traditional family in this country, I think this "network" has the potential to do great good for the world at large.
I did a little trolling today, and found two bloggers who seem to epitomize this view. "Dad Talk" and "Modern Day Dad" both focus on issues related to Dads, and even parenthood in general. Both have babies in the house (or toddlers, at any rate), so their perspective kicks in a bit sooner than my own post-Kindergartener writings. But I find them both to have constructive things to say, and I happily link to them.
Please give them a visit if you're a Dad looking for a network. Don't thank me. I'm just looking for cash.
#49 - Vancouver Ablaze
Here in the city of Vancouver, Washington, they still celebrate the 4th of July the old-fashioned way: They blow things up.
As I mentioned before, this is one of the big draws for us at this time of year. Mrs. Woody and I love sitting in our friends' cul-de-sac to witness a marvelous collection of shells, fountains, sparklers, and other assorted incendiaries light up the night sky. Had comet Tempel 1 flown immediately over the house, there would have been no possible chance of a sighting for all the fireworks going off in the immediate neighborhood. In my mind, the municipal display must have been somewhat redundant to the displays taking place 360 degrees around us.
The Woodyettes loved it all - at least, they loved the parts they didn't sleep through. Doodle fell asleep for good at least an hour before the show was over. Jelly, being now 8 years old, only dozed for a few minutes toward the end, but bounced back in time to witness the grand finale. Early on, though, the girls both did their sparklers (large and small), and helped Daddy light off a roman candle or two. Even Mrs. Woody lit off a roman candle this year; her first ever.
Sitting there, watching the star-spangled displays all around us, it was fun to try to imagine how America must have celebrated our independence more than 200 years ago. According to some histories, the first annual celebration took place in Philadelphia, one year after the Declaration was adopted by the Second Continental Congress. With the war still raging and its outcome still far from certain, early Americans were really sending a clear message to the world that we were taking our independence from the crown seriously. It was not only a celebration, but tonic for a young nation in search of its own identity.
Skip ahead two hundred years (two hundred and twenty eight from that first celebration, actually), and one wonders just how many revelers remember what, exactly, we're celebrating. It was altogether too easy to become cynical and believe that more than a few of these people were merely setting off the fireworks for sake of watching something explode. There is, after all, quite a rush associated with the experience.
Finally, however, I decided that any reason for celebrating, no matter how seemingly shallow, or far-removed from the true holiday meaning, had to be a good one. Celebration can be a personal tonic as well. Folks who work hard nearly every day, along with kids who have just finished their studies for the year need a chance to let loose and enjoy the balmy summer ahead.
For many folks today it's back to business as usual. Hopefully the memory of their celebrations will sustain them for this somewhat shortened work week. I would also hope that those memories serve to remind them that our liberty, having been secured, is far from guaranteed. There is still much work to do.
As I mentioned before, this is one of the big draws for us at this time of year. Mrs. Woody and I love sitting in our friends' cul-de-sac to witness a marvelous collection of shells, fountains, sparklers, and other assorted incendiaries light up the night sky. Had comet Tempel 1 flown immediately over the house, there would have been no possible chance of a sighting for all the fireworks going off in the immediate neighborhood. In my mind, the municipal display must have been somewhat redundant to the displays taking place 360 degrees around us.
The Woodyettes loved it all - at least, they loved the parts they didn't sleep through. Doodle fell asleep for good at least an hour before the show was over. Jelly, being now 8 years old, only dozed for a few minutes toward the end, but bounced back in time to witness the grand finale. Early on, though, the girls both did their sparklers (large and small), and helped Daddy light off a roman candle or two. Even Mrs. Woody lit off a roman candle this year; her first ever.
Sitting there, watching the star-spangled displays all around us, it was fun to try to imagine how America must have celebrated our independence more than 200 years ago. According to some histories, the first annual celebration took place in Philadelphia, one year after the Declaration was adopted by the Second Continental Congress. With the war still raging and its outcome still far from certain, early Americans were really sending a clear message to the world that we were taking our independence from the crown seriously. It was not only a celebration, but tonic for a young nation in search of its own identity.
Skip ahead two hundred years (two hundred and twenty eight from that first celebration, actually), and one wonders just how many revelers remember what, exactly, we're celebrating. It was altogether too easy to become cynical and believe that more than a few of these people were merely setting off the fireworks for sake of watching something explode. There is, after all, quite a rush associated with the experience.
Finally, however, I decided that any reason for celebrating, no matter how seemingly shallow, or far-removed from the true holiday meaning, had to be a good one. Celebration can be a personal tonic as well. Folks who work hard nearly every day, along with kids who have just finished their studies for the year need a chance to let loose and enjoy the balmy summer ahead.
For many folks today it's back to business as usual. Hopefully the memory of their celebrations will sustain them for this somewhat shortened work week. I would also hope that those memories serve to remind them that our liberty, having been secured, is far from guaranteed. There is still much work to do.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
#48 - Always Awe-Inspiring
Yesterday we travelled a short way up the Columbia River Gorge to take a ride on a stern-wheeler. The boat, appropriately named "Columbia Gorge," is an authentic recreation of the river boats that once chugged up and down the mighty Columbia, and the two-hour ride offers some impressive scenery.
Amusingly, I tend to be just as entertained by the mechanical workings of a boat as I am by the truly beautiful surroundings along the river banks. Grandpa had a boat while I was growing up, and I spent many a day on the Seagull III. Grandpa had a fly bridge, which we were not allowed to call it. He preferred to pilot from the bridge rather than the main deck because it afforded him such a wonderful perspective. For my part, I was just as happy on either deck, so long as I could watch Grandpa at work. By far the most intriguing aspect of the boat, though, was the engine. I loved the fact that he actually had to lift floor panels in order to service it, and I never tired of the spectacle.
Thus, I can be just as happy watching a paddle wheel do its thing as I would be admiring the tall cliffs and lush forest surrounding the Columbia River. Equally fascinating to me are the dam and power plant close by the landing, and the old locks that once serviced the river but are now obsolete.
Another favorite activity of mine is sailing underneath a bridge. The Gorge has several, of course, at various points along the river. But the tour only sails underneath one, and it's very evocative of a bridge Grandpa used to sail under at San Pedro Harbor. The bridge is constructed of trussed steel, and the road is meshed, so that you can see the undersides of vehicles as they pass overhead. As we passed beneath this bridge on the tour, I was instantly transported back to my childhood and the Seagull III. For a moment, I could see Grandpa, tall and dapper beneath his captain's hat, piloting carefully beneath a similar bridge, and expounding harbor etiquette to a very riveted nine year old boy.
This, to me, is one of the essential purposes of a good vacation. Yes, we must rest and relax as far as that may be possible. Certainly it's good to cast off the stresses of job and daily living. But to be able to relive, with only a single sight or smell, the joys of childhood is a real treat.
It makes me hope that I can give the girls equally stimulating childhood experiences so that they, too, can recall them at special times.
Unlike the experience I just had of sending Jelly to the corner for deliberately poking her sister. Again. That, I'm hoping, she'll forget.
Amusingly, I tend to be just as entertained by the mechanical workings of a boat as I am by the truly beautiful surroundings along the river banks. Grandpa had a boat while I was growing up, and I spent many a day on the Seagull III. Grandpa had a fly bridge, which we were not allowed to call it. He preferred to pilot from the bridge rather than the main deck because it afforded him such a wonderful perspective. For my part, I was just as happy on either deck, so long as I could watch Grandpa at work. By far the most intriguing aspect of the boat, though, was the engine. I loved the fact that he actually had to lift floor panels in order to service it, and I never tired of the spectacle.
Thus, I can be just as happy watching a paddle wheel do its thing as I would be admiring the tall cliffs and lush forest surrounding the Columbia River. Equally fascinating to me are the dam and power plant close by the landing, and the old locks that once serviced the river but are now obsolete.
Another favorite activity of mine is sailing underneath a bridge. The Gorge has several, of course, at various points along the river. But the tour only sails underneath one, and it's very evocative of a bridge Grandpa used to sail under at San Pedro Harbor. The bridge is constructed of trussed steel, and the road is meshed, so that you can see the undersides of vehicles as they pass overhead. As we passed beneath this bridge on the tour, I was instantly transported back to my childhood and the Seagull III. For a moment, I could see Grandpa, tall and dapper beneath his captain's hat, piloting carefully beneath a similar bridge, and expounding harbor etiquette to a very riveted nine year old boy.
This, to me, is one of the essential purposes of a good vacation. Yes, we must rest and relax as far as that may be possible. Certainly it's good to cast off the stresses of job and daily living. But to be able to relive, with only a single sight or smell, the joys of childhood is a real treat.
It makes me hope that I can give the girls equally stimulating childhood experiences so that they, too, can recall them at special times.
Unlike the experience I just had of sending Jelly to the corner for deliberately poking her sister. Again. That, I'm hoping, she'll forget.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
#47 - Great. Another Survey
I'm no fan of surveys, typically. At work, for instance, we seem to be inundated with surveys. Everyone thinks of surveys as the "only way" to measure how well they're doing. The unfortunate part is, no matter how well one expresses one's opinion on a survey, statistically speaking your issues are unlikely to be the ones on which management chooses to focus.
Occasionally, however, I come across a survey that I feel has merit. This one, for instance:
MIT is doing one of those demographic surveys to get a feel for how blogs are utilized and why. I'm all for it. If you're a blogger, make yerself known.
Occasionally, however, I come across a survey that I feel has merit. This one, for instance:
MIT is doing one of those demographic surveys to get a feel for how blogs are utilized and why. I'm all for it. If you're a blogger, make yerself known.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
#46 - Trainologue
I wonder if Amtrak ridership is up this year. I base this thought on our own experiences with the train coming up here to Vancouver, Washington this summer. We actually left from Oxnard, as it was the nearest station to family where they had luggage service. The train was already a half hour late just getting to Oxnard, and they were already full. This caused us no small consternation since this was the Woodyettes' first real (non-excursion) train experience, and we wanted it to be special. No sooner were we aboard than the attendants were herding us up to the Observation Car while they tried to find us four seats together. It took them until Santa Barbara to find us some seats, but they messed up and found only three, and they weren't really together. We expressed our displeasure with this arrangement, and they promised to fix it. They finally did once we reached San Luis Obispo. The rest of our ride north was as smooth as could be expected in coach class.
One side note here, and maybe I read too much into what I saw. As I was sitting in the Observation Car with the girls, I noticed one empty seat a couple of seats away. An older woman was just about to take that seat, when a younger man jumped in front of her and said something like, "I'm sorry, I was sitting there." He had left no marker that I could see, and the seat certainly looked empty, but it was "his" all the same. The lady gave a startled "Oh, I'm sorry!" and quickly darted away.
That episode left a bad taste in my mouth. I had one weepy girl on my own lap or I would have stood right up and offered the seat to her myself. But it was the man who really bothered me. I could make some stereotypical comment about his liberal demeanor; he had the pierced ear, permed hair, and self-absorbed look that I often associate with young college liberals in Orange County. But what bothered me most was his complete lack of concern about the lady he had just brushed away. She was old enough to have been his mother. Even at a tender age, I knew that ladies were always to be offered every consideration, even in a day when some of them resent the offer. Still he sat there with a self-satisfied look on his face as if capturing that seat was a fete accompli. There was no hint that he had just inconvenienced another soul, especially a lady worthy of every respect. Just the vapid, vacant expression characteristic of someone who cares only of himself and no one else. Complete freedom from social responsibility. A sad statement indeed.
To return to the travelogue: The Woodyettes were, as expected, enthralled with the idea of the train. The younger one was fussy when we weren't able to sit with Mommy, but soon settled in once our seats were together. Mrs. Woody was well prepared for this trip: She had wrapped several surprises for the girls to open at strategic moments to help keep them from getting bored. They also followed Daddy to various points of interest on the train, although these points were primarily the toilets, the snack bar, and the kiddy room. We received at least one compliment from one older passenger who said the girls were wonderful travelers, with which we heartily agreed. They really were champs, and the only difficulty we had was when we decided to let the girls sit together on one side of the aisle, while Mrs. Woody and I shared a snuggle. This lasted for all of two hours. Having one girl sit with either parent, and having them switch parents every so often was really the best way to go.
Coach class means, of course, that you sleep in your seat. While train seats are far roomier and more comfortable than airliner seats, sleeping is still no small feat. For one thing, people are constantly moving up and down the aisles, running to and from the snack bar. For another, at every stop, the train de-trains and boards passengers, and the commotion kept Mrs. Woody awake at every stop. I was able to snooze, if fitfully, but "sleep" is not what I would call it. The Woodyettes did just fine, thank you very much.
The only other dark spot of the trip, aside from our trying to get seats together, was on the very last leg of the trip. At Portland we picked up a new crew, including one conductor who had absolutely no people skills whatsoever. As soon as we left Portland for Vancouver (a half hour ride), he made no bones about getting the Vancouver people down to the doors so we didn't "hold them up in Vancouver." As if the train itself hadn't delayed us for over three hours by that time. I'm sorry, but by that time a few more minutes' wait one way or another wasn't going to make an appreciable difference. I never caught the gentleman's name, but even the other attendants understood our frustration. Their own profuse apologies on his behalf helped mollify us, and I'm still looking forward to our return trip.
We get a sleeper on the way back.
Aaaaaaaah.
One side note here, and maybe I read too much into what I saw. As I was sitting in the Observation Car with the girls, I noticed one empty seat a couple of seats away. An older woman was just about to take that seat, when a younger man jumped in front of her and said something like, "I'm sorry, I was sitting there." He had left no marker that I could see, and the seat certainly looked empty, but it was "his" all the same. The lady gave a startled "Oh, I'm sorry!" and quickly darted away.
That episode left a bad taste in my mouth. I had one weepy girl on my own lap or I would have stood right up and offered the seat to her myself. But it was the man who really bothered me. I could make some stereotypical comment about his liberal demeanor; he had the pierced ear, permed hair, and self-absorbed look that I often associate with young college liberals in Orange County. But what bothered me most was his complete lack of concern about the lady he had just brushed away. She was old enough to have been his mother. Even at a tender age, I knew that ladies were always to be offered every consideration, even in a day when some of them resent the offer. Still he sat there with a self-satisfied look on his face as if capturing that seat was a fete accompli. There was no hint that he had just inconvenienced another soul, especially a lady worthy of every respect. Just the vapid, vacant expression characteristic of someone who cares only of himself and no one else. Complete freedom from social responsibility. A sad statement indeed.
To return to the travelogue: The Woodyettes were, as expected, enthralled with the idea of the train. The younger one was fussy when we weren't able to sit with Mommy, but soon settled in once our seats were together. Mrs. Woody was well prepared for this trip: She had wrapped several surprises for the girls to open at strategic moments to help keep them from getting bored. They also followed Daddy to various points of interest on the train, although these points were primarily the toilets, the snack bar, and the kiddy room. We received at least one compliment from one older passenger who said the girls were wonderful travelers, with which we heartily agreed. They really were champs, and the only difficulty we had was when we decided to let the girls sit together on one side of the aisle, while Mrs. Woody and I shared a snuggle. This lasted for all of two hours. Having one girl sit with either parent, and having them switch parents every so often was really the best way to go.
Coach class means, of course, that you sleep in your seat. While train seats are far roomier and more comfortable than airliner seats, sleeping is still no small feat. For one thing, people are constantly moving up and down the aisles, running to and from the snack bar. For another, at every stop, the train de-trains and boards passengers, and the commotion kept Mrs. Woody awake at every stop. I was able to snooze, if fitfully, but "sleep" is not what I would call it. The Woodyettes did just fine, thank you very much.
The only other dark spot of the trip, aside from our trying to get seats together, was on the very last leg of the trip. At Portland we picked up a new crew, including one conductor who had absolutely no people skills whatsoever. As soon as we left Portland for Vancouver (a half hour ride), he made no bones about getting the Vancouver people down to the doors so we didn't "hold them up in Vancouver." As if the train itself hadn't delayed us for over three hours by that time. I'm sorry, but by that time a few more minutes' wait one way or another wasn't going to make an appreciable difference. I never caught the gentleman's name, but even the other attendants understood our frustration. Their own profuse apologies on his behalf helped mollify us, and I'm still looking forward to our return trip.
We get a sleeper on the way back.
Aaaaaaaah.
#45 - On the (Rail) Road Again!
Vacation time for the Woodys (Woodies??). It happens to coincide with my first Blogiversary (June 27th!), so I have been doing this for one whole year. On the Woundup, that is. The Inner Dad won't turn one year until next January.
I'm in the Pacific Northwest right now, at the home of some friends of ours in Vancouver, Washington. It's cloudy (what else?) here, and was drizzly for a couple of days after we arrived. Elsewhere, I mentioned that we decided to train our way here this year, and I'm convinced it was the right move. We took the storied Coast Starlight in a sort-of repeat of our honeymoon trip nine years ago. The difference is, we took coach on the way up, and will take a sleeper on the way back. We want Dad niiiiiice and relaxed when he returns to the grind.
The Starlight is one of those trains that Amtrak resurrected after the major railroads lost all of their passenger traffic. It's main route runs from Los Angeles to Seattle, although it services a few points north as a sort of afterthought. You can also take buses to points not directly connected to the line. On our honeymoon, for example, we took a bus from Salinas to Monterey, California, to see Cannery Row and the Aquarium. Well worth the side trip, that was.
Anyway, no such side trips for us this year. No real budget for it, for one thing. For another, the logistics of herding our Woodyettes on and off buses and dealing with luggage (LOTS of luggage) in the interim just made them (the sidetrips) impractical. The Woodyettes are not impractical. Not generally.
Our friends have been most gracious in putting us up for the couple of weeks we plan to be here. There are three primary draws for our family. First, Mrs. Woody and her friend have been friends since high school. They went to college together for awhile and both ended up becoming teachers professionally. They've shared some pretty significant life events together, and their friendship runs deep. Her hubby and I have become good friends since we married the girls, so it's a comfortable relationship.
Draw number two is our daughters. They have one daughter who was born exactly one year ahead of our Jelly Woodyette. All three girls get along famously, and love playing together.
Draw number three is Independence Day. They can still celebrate July 4 the old fashioned way up here in Vancouver, as evidenced by the fireworks sales tents that are as numerous as Christmas tree lots in the winter. We've done this for several years now, and it's one of the reasons we time our visits this way. It's an absolute hoot to see the youngsters with their sparklers, while the adults try to look non-chalant whilst scurrying the heck away from the huge bomb they've just lit. Every year I get braver and do the same "look casual" dance with bigger and bigger crackers. Roman candles. You name it.
Our friends have a pretty sizeable family up here in the area, and we all congregate on our friends' cul-de-sac with the neighbors to put on a pretty terrific show. The females, who feel no compulsion to perform the dance with the males, sit in chairs on the sidewalk and driveways and watch the lights. Mrs. Woody's friend blasts patriotic music from her stereo for all to hear.
Of course, the odds favor rain of some sort on the 4th this year, but we won't care. So long as it's just a few sprinkles, the show will go on. Patriotism (and the need to blow things up) knows no weather.
I'm in the Pacific Northwest right now, at the home of some friends of ours in Vancouver, Washington. It's cloudy (what else?) here, and was drizzly for a couple of days after we arrived. Elsewhere, I mentioned that we decided to train our way here this year, and I'm convinced it was the right move. We took the storied Coast Starlight in a sort-of repeat of our honeymoon trip nine years ago. The difference is, we took coach on the way up, and will take a sleeper on the way back. We want Dad niiiiiice and relaxed when he returns to the grind.
The Starlight is one of those trains that Amtrak resurrected after the major railroads lost all of their passenger traffic. It's main route runs from Los Angeles to Seattle, although it services a few points north as a sort of afterthought. You can also take buses to points not directly connected to the line. On our honeymoon, for example, we took a bus from Salinas to Monterey, California, to see Cannery Row and the Aquarium. Well worth the side trip, that was.
Anyway, no such side trips for us this year. No real budget for it, for one thing. For another, the logistics of herding our Woodyettes on and off buses and dealing with luggage (LOTS of luggage) in the interim just made them (the sidetrips) impractical. The Woodyettes are not impractical. Not generally.
Our friends have been most gracious in putting us up for the couple of weeks we plan to be here. There are three primary draws for our family. First, Mrs. Woody and her friend have been friends since high school. They went to college together for awhile and both ended up becoming teachers professionally. They've shared some pretty significant life events together, and their friendship runs deep. Her hubby and I have become good friends since we married the girls, so it's a comfortable relationship.
Draw number two is our daughters. They have one daughter who was born exactly one year ahead of our Jelly Woodyette. All three girls get along famously, and love playing together.
Draw number three is Independence Day. They can still celebrate July 4 the old fashioned way up here in Vancouver, as evidenced by the fireworks sales tents that are as numerous as Christmas tree lots in the winter. We've done this for several years now, and it's one of the reasons we time our visits this way. It's an absolute hoot to see the youngsters with their sparklers, while the adults try to look non-chalant whilst scurrying the heck away from the huge bomb they've just lit. Every year I get braver and do the same "look casual" dance with bigger and bigger crackers. Roman candles. You name it.
Our friends have a pretty sizeable family up here in the area, and we all congregate on our friends' cul-de-sac with the neighbors to put on a pretty terrific show. The females, who feel no compulsion to perform the dance with the males, sit in chairs on the sidewalk and driveways and watch the lights. Mrs. Woody's friend blasts patriotic music from her stereo for all to hear.
Of course, the odds favor rain of some sort on the 4th this year, but we won't care. So long as it's just a few sprinkles, the show will go on. Patriotism (and the need to blow things up) knows no weather.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
#44 - Happy B-Days for the Woodyette!
I really must observe the traditions and celebration of Fathers Day today. This blog, after all, is dedicated to Dads everywhere, and it only makes sense. There's plenty to report, certainly. June is one of those extremely busy months for the Woody Clan, and this weekend has been no exception.
We actually start with Flag Day in this household. I'm not sure very many families even know we have a Flag Day every year, based on the number of actual flags I (don't) see flying. That may just be because Flag Day doesn't trigger a halt to federal workers and their hangers-on everywhere. Especially when it's in the middle of the week. I know I didn't get to hang our flag that day because it was still 0-dark-hundred in the morning when I went to work. Nevertheless, Flag Day is significant to this family because it also happens to be Jelly Woodyette's birthday.
Three days later is my son's birthday. This is fortunate for him because any longer than three days and I would be certain to forget. He long ago passed that stage where we could send thoughtful gifts to wherever-the-heck he's living now (Brainfreeze, Minnesota, last I heard), so for the last several years we've just sent money. This year he turned 18. 18 is a milestone year for a young person. This is not so much because he or she has reached that legal status of "adult," as it is that he or she was actually allowed to reach 18 before Mom and Dad had him or her committed to military school/boarding school. Take your pick. So my son survived all of my muttered threats and is now legally capable of voting. Heaven help us in 2008.
In my note to my son I informed him that this latest cash contribution to his whims and fancies won't be anywhere near that significant in years to come. Next year I'll send him a tie. I seem to remember my post-18 birthdays being that way, but that may be a false memory. Certainly my 20th and 21st birthdays were marked with larger infusions of cash, but that's mostly because I was a starving missionary in a third world country and Mom and Dad felt kind of sorry for me. That, and I'd bounced checks in that third world country and they wanted to make sure I didn't end up in a third world prison. So my son gets ties beginning with his 19th birthday. It'll be good training for that corporate job I'm sure he's looking for.
The very next day was a special day for the Woody family. Our Jelly Woodyette was baptized, with family and friends in attendance. It was a wonderful day, and Jelly worked hard to overcome her natural stage fright. On one level, it was a day of conquering fears for her. It started with the filling of the font. The water was "loud," in her words, and that scared her just a bit. So getting her in the water nearly required Daddy coming up out of the font to run her down. She only faltered a bit, though, and finally waded in. I think the water was a bit cooler than she was hoping for, but she went down like a champ and only had to go under once.
It always amazes me (even though it shouldn't) that I can pre-think a blessing I'm about to give all I want. But the minute I lay hands on that individual, I a) have no idea what just came out of my mouth, but b) I'm absolutely certain that it wasn't what I'd planned to say. Yesterday was no different. I have long been impressed that this little girl has a huge mission ahead of her. I was impressed with that the day I gave her a name and blessing, and it was repeated to me yesterday. I believe I made mention of that in her blessing. The blessing itself was relatively short for me. I'm generally a lot more long-winded than that, but there simply was no need to elaborate further. It's wonderful how that works.
So this week has been busy for the family. Now we get to prepare for vacation. We badly need this vacation. It's been a long year. We're short-handed at work, so I've been putting in tons of extra hours at work. Mrs. Woody has had to bear the brunt of keeping the Woodyettes occupied and excited. We're ready for this one. Mentally, that is. Physically we still have about a month's worth of preparation that needs to be accomplished in a week. So what else is new?
Maybe I'll blog a little on vacation, or perhaps I'll just allow myself to lapse into what Dave Barry calls "the Lethargy Zone."
So this is a good Father's Day. I have wonderful kids and the best wife. And no, I'm not interested in debating that point.
And, for the record, I did not get a tie. Thank goodness.
We actually start with Flag Day in this household. I'm not sure very many families even know we have a Flag Day every year, based on the number of actual flags I (don't) see flying. That may just be because Flag Day doesn't trigger a halt to federal workers and their hangers-on everywhere. Especially when it's in the middle of the week. I know I didn't get to hang our flag that day because it was still 0-dark-hundred in the morning when I went to work. Nevertheless, Flag Day is significant to this family because it also happens to be Jelly Woodyette's birthday.
Three days later is my son's birthday. This is fortunate for him because any longer than three days and I would be certain to forget. He long ago passed that stage where we could send thoughtful gifts to wherever-the-heck he's living now (Brainfreeze, Minnesota, last I heard), so for the last several years we've just sent money. This year he turned 18. 18 is a milestone year for a young person. This is not so much because he or she has reached that legal status of "adult," as it is that he or she was actually allowed to reach 18 before Mom and Dad had him or her committed to military school/boarding school. Take your pick. So my son survived all of my muttered threats and is now legally capable of voting. Heaven help us in 2008.
In my note to my son I informed him that this latest cash contribution to his whims and fancies won't be anywhere near that significant in years to come. Next year I'll send him a tie. I seem to remember my post-18 birthdays being that way, but that may be a false memory. Certainly my 20th and 21st birthdays were marked with larger infusions of cash, but that's mostly because I was a starving missionary in a third world country and Mom and Dad felt kind of sorry for me. That, and I'd bounced checks in that third world country and they wanted to make sure I didn't end up in a third world prison. So my son gets ties beginning with his 19th birthday. It'll be good training for that corporate job I'm sure he's looking for.
The very next day was a special day for the Woody family. Our Jelly Woodyette was baptized, with family and friends in attendance. It was a wonderful day, and Jelly worked hard to overcome her natural stage fright. On one level, it was a day of conquering fears for her. It started with the filling of the font. The water was "loud," in her words, and that scared her just a bit. So getting her in the water nearly required Daddy coming up out of the font to run her down. She only faltered a bit, though, and finally waded in. I think the water was a bit cooler than she was hoping for, but she went down like a champ and only had to go under once.
It always amazes me (even though it shouldn't) that I can pre-think a blessing I'm about to give all I want. But the minute I lay hands on that individual, I a) have no idea what just came out of my mouth, but b) I'm absolutely certain that it wasn't what I'd planned to say. Yesterday was no different. I have long been impressed that this little girl has a huge mission ahead of her. I was impressed with that the day I gave her a name and blessing, and it was repeated to me yesterday. I believe I made mention of that in her blessing. The blessing itself was relatively short for me. I'm generally a lot more long-winded than that, but there simply was no need to elaborate further. It's wonderful how that works.
So this week has been busy for the family. Now we get to prepare for vacation. We badly need this vacation. It's been a long year. We're short-handed at work, so I've been putting in tons of extra hours at work. Mrs. Woody has had to bear the brunt of keeping the Woodyettes occupied and excited. We're ready for this one. Mentally, that is. Physically we still have about a month's worth of preparation that needs to be accomplished in a week. So what else is new?
Maybe I'll blog a little on vacation, or perhaps I'll just allow myself to lapse into what Dave Barry calls "the Lethargy Zone."
So this is a good Father's Day. I have wonderful kids and the best wife. And no, I'm not interested in debating that point.
And, for the record, I did not get a tie. Thank goodness.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
#43 - The Ugliest Car in the World?
The Honda is Mrs. Woody's car, technically speaking. She was its first owner. She bought it nearly twenty two years ago as a young teacher in Utah. It sweltered with her in the blazing Arizona sun for several years, and it was the car in which we did most of our courting.
When I tell people what to look for when I'm planning to drive somewhere, I tell them to watch for the ugliest car they've ever seen. Really. And it's not as bad now as it was just a few short years ago. When we needed to move to Orange County from Ventura County, we decided to get the poor thing a face lift by way of a paint job. Before the paint, the car was badly faded on the roof and had the usual scratches and dings associated with old age. After the paint job, it was less faded and instead merely looked old.
I love this car.
This is Old Reliable. This is the "go to" car when our newer, sleeker, wimpier Saturn needs to visit the doctor. When the Honda needs to visit the doctor it starts growling at me as if to say, "Don't call the doctor! It's just a sprain, darnit!" When the Saturn needs to go, it begins crying for Mommy. The Saturn takes wimpy ol' 87 octane go-juice with umbrellas in the pump. The Honda scarfs down 89-proof stuff and starts hitting on the cute PT Cruiser at the next pump. Also, the Honda is not above a little vehicular flatulation from time to time, which it blames on elephants under the manifold. "Pull my hazard lights," is something the Honda would say.
As it aged, its interior began to acquire a certain atmosphere. Here I'm thinking of the atmosphere you might find on Venus. As the car baked in blazing sun (or, alternately, froze in Utah winters), the upholstery made the car look like a poster child for Intensive Care lotion ads. The cabin liner (that would be the "ceiling" for you who need a frame of reference) hangs in cracked ribbons that occasionally flake off in a breeze. The Honda gets plenty of breeze in warmer months (meaning about 9 months out of 12 here in California) because its air conditioner was once upon a time subjected to Manny, Mo and Jack, and has not functioned properly since. Its own war injury. This is ok, because it gives me bragging rights. "See that driver's tan? Try getting that on your silly beach!" I'll be able to drive my daughters crazy with it in a few years. "Hey, back in the day I used to have to drive all the way to Huntington Beach and back without air conditioning, kid. Suck it up!"
We bought the Saturn about two weeks after we found out we (well, she, really) were pregnant. We needed a four-door to accomodate our anticipated brood, and I had heard good things about Saturns. We investigated, found one in Mrs. Woody's color, and drove it home. Mrs. Woody has since that time driven the Honda only under duress. Don't get me wrong; that was the plan all along. Mrs. Woody would drive the Saturn on the assumption that she would be the one to ferry the kidlings around. Woody, meanwhile, would drive the Honda into the ground so we wouldn't have more than one car payment at a time to deal with. It's worked so far: the Saturn was paid off a few years ago, and the Honda is at 211K and counting.
Our five-year plan currently calls for the Honda to die a slow, horrible death, then be replaced by a sleek, relatively new minivan. The problem with five-year plans, of course, is that the participants rarely cooperate and die when called upon to do so. The Honda may very well last another 100K miles, which by my calculations means that we could be bequeathing this car to one of the Woodyettes. This may be a terrific bargaining chip in a few years. "I'd better see some better grades, Honey, or you get... the Honda." "Nooooo! Not the Honda! I'll study day and night! I'll buy more candles for my desk! Anything!"
More than anything, the car has personality. It has a radio that occasionally will only work when it rains. I'm not kidding. Right now it's in "work all the time" mode. But the next time I change out the battery, or have the battery disconnected for any reason, the radio will become moody and will only work when it rains. I have no idea why, but that's the way it is. If it rains long enough, like it did this past winter, the radio stays on once it drys out.
Also - you know how it is with older cars - it has a tendency to go wherever the heck it darn well pleases. On those rare occasions I drive it to the church, for example, it tries to take me to work. I can try to convince it that it's Sunday and all, but it doesn't care. What can I say? It enjoys getting sand in its carbeurator.
As for maintenance, well, I don't even bother getting the red service indicators reset anymore. What's the use? I figure anytime I can get it in to the garage, they'll find something that needs fixing or replacing. Brakes. Tranny. Engine. Little things like that.
I guess, in many ways, the Honda is just like me. Old. Crotchety. Conservative.
I like that in a car.
When I tell people what to look for when I'm planning to drive somewhere, I tell them to watch for the ugliest car they've ever seen. Really. And it's not as bad now as it was just a few short years ago. When we needed to move to Orange County from Ventura County, we decided to get the poor thing a face lift by way of a paint job. Before the paint, the car was badly faded on the roof and had the usual scratches and dings associated with old age. After the paint job, it was less faded and instead merely looked old.
I love this car.
This is Old Reliable. This is the "go to" car when our newer, sleeker, wimpier Saturn needs to visit the doctor. When the Honda needs to visit the doctor it starts growling at me as if to say, "Don't call the doctor! It's just a sprain, darnit!" When the Saturn needs to go, it begins crying for Mommy. The Saturn takes wimpy ol' 87 octane go-juice with umbrellas in the pump. The Honda scarfs down 89-proof stuff and starts hitting on the cute PT Cruiser at the next pump. Also, the Honda is not above a little vehicular flatulation from time to time, which it blames on elephants under the manifold. "Pull my hazard lights," is something the Honda would say.
As it aged, its interior began to acquire a certain atmosphere. Here I'm thinking of the atmosphere you might find on Venus. As the car baked in blazing sun (or, alternately, froze in Utah winters), the upholstery made the car look like a poster child for Intensive Care lotion ads. The cabin liner (that would be the "ceiling" for you who need a frame of reference) hangs in cracked ribbons that occasionally flake off in a breeze. The Honda gets plenty of breeze in warmer months (meaning about 9 months out of 12 here in California) because its air conditioner was once upon a time subjected to Manny, Mo and Jack, and has not functioned properly since. Its own war injury. This is ok, because it gives me bragging rights. "See that driver's tan? Try getting that on your silly beach!" I'll be able to drive my daughters crazy with it in a few years. "Hey, back in the day I used to have to drive all the way to Huntington Beach and back without air conditioning, kid. Suck it up!"
We bought the Saturn about two weeks after we found out we (well, she, really) were pregnant. We needed a four-door to accomodate our anticipated brood, and I had heard good things about Saturns. We investigated, found one in Mrs. Woody's color, and drove it home. Mrs. Woody has since that time driven the Honda only under duress. Don't get me wrong; that was the plan all along. Mrs. Woody would drive the Saturn on the assumption that she would be the one to ferry the kidlings around. Woody, meanwhile, would drive the Honda into the ground so we wouldn't have more than one car payment at a time to deal with. It's worked so far: the Saturn was paid off a few years ago, and the Honda is at 211K and counting.
Our five-year plan currently calls for the Honda to die a slow, horrible death, then be replaced by a sleek, relatively new minivan. The problem with five-year plans, of course, is that the participants rarely cooperate and die when called upon to do so. The Honda may very well last another 100K miles, which by my calculations means that we could be bequeathing this car to one of the Woodyettes. This may be a terrific bargaining chip in a few years. "I'd better see some better grades, Honey, or you get... the Honda." "Nooooo! Not the Honda! I'll study day and night! I'll buy more candles for my desk! Anything!"
More than anything, the car has personality. It has a radio that occasionally will only work when it rains. I'm not kidding. Right now it's in "work all the time" mode. But the next time I change out the battery, or have the battery disconnected for any reason, the radio will become moody and will only work when it rains. I have no idea why, but that's the way it is. If it rains long enough, like it did this past winter, the radio stays on once it drys out.
Also - you know how it is with older cars - it has a tendency to go wherever the heck it darn well pleases. On those rare occasions I drive it to the church, for example, it tries to take me to work. I can try to convince it that it's Sunday and all, but it doesn't care. What can I say? It enjoys getting sand in its carbeurator.
As for maintenance, well, I don't even bother getting the red service indicators reset anymore. What's the use? I figure anytime I can get it in to the garage, they'll find something that needs fixing or replacing. Brakes. Tranny. Engine. Little things like that.
I guess, in many ways, the Honda is just like me. Old. Crotchety. Conservative.
I like that in a car.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
#42 - Pleasant Surprises
Always nice to find one is blogrolled on someone else's blog. A big THANK YOU to MOTHEROF8. I'm nothing if not reciprocal. Consider the favor returned!
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
#41 - Eight? HOW?!
Every once in awhile I look at my children and notice that they've suddenly sprung up another inch or two. I'm certain this is an overnight thing. My seven year old is turning eight in another week, and I swear that she has grown something like a foot and a half since last month. One night I was able to carry her to bed, and the next morning she nearly broke my back when I helped her down from a step-stool.
Mrs. Woody and I both remarked how grown up she looks lately. The younger Woodyette can still get away with being our little girl in every sense of the word. She reads like a champion, but when she reads aloud she still has that little girl voice that is so adorable and allows her to get away with nearly everything she attempts. The fact that she reads with more inflection in her voice than most young actresses these days gives Daddy silly ideas about getting her an agent, until reality selects a large enough two-by-four and reminds me that her current level of shyness precludes any overt public display of talent. But Woodyette the Elder...
This is the baby that Mommy saw in a dream so many years ago. This is the little girl that Daddy accused of talking to the ceiling until her baby sister showed up. This is the child that Daddy recognized to have a far quicker mind than Daddy does. She somehow seems to stay one step (or more) ahead of Daddy, but never gets too far ahead of Mommy. She still creates entire universes in play faster than I would have the ability to write down. I literally can't keep track of her characterizations most days.
This child is turning eight.
In a young Mormon life, eight is a significant milestone. At eight years of age, Daddy gets to baptize this wonder-child. Then he gets to watch her grow into a young lady, then a woman, then a Mommy in her own right. And it will all happen so darn'd quickly.
Mrs. Woody and I are getting understandably emotional these days. There is much for which to prepare, and each preparation carries with it punctuation in the form of very large exclamation points. Eight! Already! Baptized! Boys! (Down, Dad... put the gun away!) Ok, boys are still a few years away, but she can already tell a cute one when she sees him. Nuts! Panic! Stop with the exclamations, already!
The changes from little girl to older girl are theoretically subtle. To Mom and Dad, however, they hit like an earthquake. We become visibly shaken and shoot each other a glance that says, "When did she learn to do that?" She carries herself with a confidence (even while being so painfully shy) that we often hoped would manifest itself by now. Her logic is growing by leaps and bounds. She can logic her way through complex spiritual issues, and understands that God, while not visible, is real.
She can pout faster than anyone I've ever seen if she's not getting her way, but she is so consistent in sharing things lovingly with everyone in the family. This includes her little sister who is, alternately, her biggest annoyance and her dearest friend. This is as it should be.
Daddy must now give more substantive answers to her questions. I can't get away with "that's just the way it is" anymore. Now I have to explain why it is that way. Daddy needs to catch up on his homework, because those questions will come up more and more frequently.
Once she is baptized, Mommy and Daddy will have to remind her to repent on occasion. We will have to help her understand that baptism brings with it tremendous responsibility to live a Christ-like life. We will have to prepare her for entering the Temple and finding a worthy young man to take her there someday. She has a mission to fulfill. We're not sure if that means a full time mission, or some objective for which she was set apart, but she was told in her Blessing that she has one. Her sister does, too, and it seems likely they will work in tandem. Those were my impressions, anyway.
I may be a curmudgeon wannabe, but my daughters will always have the ability to melt Daddy's heart. God bless them for that.
Mrs. Woody and I both remarked how grown up she looks lately. The younger Woodyette can still get away with being our little girl in every sense of the word. She reads like a champion, but when she reads aloud she still has that little girl voice that is so adorable and allows her to get away with nearly everything she attempts. The fact that she reads with more inflection in her voice than most young actresses these days gives Daddy silly ideas about getting her an agent, until reality selects a large enough two-by-four and reminds me that her current level of shyness precludes any overt public display of talent. But Woodyette the Elder...
This is the baby that Mommy saw in a dream so many years ago. This is the little girl that Daddy accused of talking to the ceiling until her baby sister showed up. This is the child that Daddy recognized to have a far quicker mind than Daddy does. She somehow seems to stay one step (or more) ahead of Daddy, but never gets too far ahead of Mommy. She still creates entire universes in play faster than I would have the ability to write down. I literally can't keep track of her characterizations most days.
This child is turning eight.
In a young Mormon life, eight is a significant milestone. At eight years of age, Daddy gets to baptize this wonder-child. Then he gets to watch her grow into a young lady, then a woman, then a Mommy in her own right. And it will all happen so darn'd quickly.
Mrs. Woody and I are getting understandably emotional these days. There is much for which to prepare, and each preparation carries with it punctuation in the form of very large exclamation points. Eight! Already! Baptized! Boys! (Down, Dad... put the gun away!) Ok, boys are still a few years away, but she can already tell a cute one when she sees him. Nuts! Panic! Stop with the exclamations, already!
The changes from little girl to older girl are theoretically subtle. To Mom and Dad, however, they hit like an earthquake. We become visibly shaken and shoot each other a glance that says, "When did she learn to do that?" She carries herself with a confidence (even while being so painfully shy) that we often hoped would manifest itself by now. Her logic is growing by leaps and bounds. She can logic her way through complex spiritual issues, and understands that God, while not visible, is real.
She can pout faster than anyone I've ever seen if she's not getting her way, but she is so consistent in sharing things lovingly with everyone in the family. This includes her little sister who is, alternately, her biggest annoyance and her dearest friend. This is as it should be.
Daddy must now give more substantive answers to her questions. I can't get away with "that's just the way it is" anymore. Now I have to explain why it is that way. Daddy needs to catch up on his homework, because those questions will come up more and more frequently.
Once she is baptized, Mommy and Daddy will have to remind her to repent on occasion. We will have to help her understand that baptism brings with it tremendous responsibility to live a Christ-like life. We will have to prepare her for entering the Temple and finding a worthy young man to take her there someday. She has a mission to fulfill. We're not sure if that means a full time mission, or some objective for which she was set apart, but she was told in her Blessing that she has one. Her sister does, too, and it seems likely they will work in tandem. Those were my impressions, anyway.
I may be a curmudgeon wannabe, but my daughters will always have the ability to melt Daddy's heart. God bless them for that.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
#40 - Family Hysteria, er, History
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Saturday, May 28, 2005
#39 - Another Skeleton in the Ol' Family Closet
We have a disease in my family.
It's genetic, and there's no hope for a cure. My parents both had it. All of my siblings have it. Our kids all have it. Even my wife has it. Boy, did she marry into the right family!
We've all thrown money after the problem, but, as I say, there is no cure. Unfortunately, there is also no serious research being done. No university with any shred of self-image left would dream of touching it, let alone ask for a grant.
To get some background, I point you to this article. My brother has, perhaps, the most advanced form of the disease of any in our family. Imagine two vending machines. One machine has every kind of snack food available. Everything costs one dollar or less. The other machine carries pamphlets by obscure LDS apologists, each costing one dollar. Now imagine that my brother is stranded on a desert island with these two machines. There is no food or water anywhere to be found, except for the snack machine. He has one dollar in his pocket. The problem would not be which machine gets his money, but rather which pamphlet he should buy. After all, what if he disagrees with the author? Such would be my brother's dilemma.
There is, of course, a companion disease. Not only do we buy far more books than we could ever possibly read and yet remain employed, but we also horde everything we buy and cannot bring ourselves to throw anything away. Ever. Not books, anyway. Jewelry, yes; we could easily toss out old diamonds if they just didn't have that sparkle anymore. But toss a book? Sacrilege.
So the idea that my brother has given 27 boxes to our sister and her hubby is nothing short of heroic. Or whatever adjective you may prefer in this case. My sister, on the other hand, being still relatively inexperienced with the disease, seems genuinely glad to have them.
My wife and I, at least, try to deal with the symptoms. About once every three years we get a sudden urge to trim down. Purge ourselves of all the stuff we know we'll never use/wear/read or otherwise consume any time before the Woodyettes begin having children of their own. It's a comical event, really. Mrs. Woody assumes her place in our bedroom where most of our books are stored. (We also have some in our family room, but we're more likely to read those. At least, that's what our ten year plan says.) We know in our hearts that we must eliminate as many books as possible, especially now that we must rearrange the entire house. Something's got to go, and it's not going to be my priceless collection of Earth, Wind & Fire LPs from their post-Disco, pre-CD era. Don't laugh... it's the last time I was ever considered somewhat hip.
I unload each and every shelf (we have five bookcases in that room!) and place them on the bed in front of Mrs. Woody. She examines each one and asks herself the following tough question: "Is this book ever really going to serve a purpose besides being some obscure reference for home school?" The answer, of course, is no. Every book we have in the house will ultimately be used for home school, according to Mrs. Woody. We need all those books in Spanish she picked up while serving her mission so we can teach the girls Spanish. "Donde està el escritorio?" ("Where is the desk?") "Tu eres un lapiz." ("You are a pencil.") My Sherlock Holmes collections will help the girls learn critical thinking skills: "Elementary, my dear Sister. The ashes were of a type found only when you burn the hair from the blond Polly LostInYourPocket doll. Of course you did it!"
Ultimately, we manage to agree on one paltry box of books that must be donated away. The last such box of books we gathered up, though, somehow managed to avoid the executioner and are still to be found in our bedroom, still in that same box, and shoved unceremoniously underneath our table. They will remain there until sometime after the Millenium begins.
No, brother of mine, you only think you've gotten rid of the books. You are not so easily cured.
It's genetic, and there's no hope for a cure. My parents both had it. All of my siblings have it. Our kids all have it. Even my wife has it. Boy, did she marry into the right family!
We've all thrown money after the problem, but, as I say, there is no cure. Unfortunately, there is also no serious research being done. No university with any shred of self-image left would dream of touching it, let alone ask for a grant.
To get some background, I point you to this article. My brother has, perhaps, the most advanced form of the disease of any in our family. Imagine two vending machines. One machine has every kind of snack food available. Everything costs one dollar or less. The other machine carries pamphlets by obscure LDS apologists, each costing one dollar. Now imagine that my brother is stranded on a desert island with these two machines. There is no food or water anywhere to be found, except for the snack machine. He has one dollar in his pocket. The problem would not be which machine gets his money, but rather which pamphlet he should buy. After all, what if he disagrees with the author? Such would be my brother's dilemma.
There is, of course, a companion disease. Not only do we buy far more books than we could ever possibly read and yet remain employed, but we also horde everything we buy and cannot bring ourselves to throw anything away. Ever. Not books, anyway. Jewelry, yes; we could easily toss out old diamonds if they just didn't have that sparkle anymore. But toss a book? Sacrilege.
So the idea that my brother has given 27 boxes to our sister and her hubby is nothing short of heroic. Or whatever adjective you may prefer in this case. My sister, on the other hand, being still relatively inexperienced with the disease, seems genuinely glad to have them.
My wife and I, at least, try to deal with the symptoms. About once every three years we get a sudden urge to trim down. Purge ourselves of all the stuff we know we'll never use/wear/read or otherwise consume any time before the Woodyettes begin having children of their own. It's a comical event, really. Mrs. Woody assumes her place in our bedroom where most of our books are stored. (We also have some in our family room, but we're more likely to read those. At least, that's what our ten year plan says.) We know in our hearts that we must eliminate as many books as possible, especially now that we must rearrange the entire house. Something's got to go, and it's not going to be my priceless collection of Earth, Wind & Fire LPs from their post-Disco, pre-CD era. Don't laugh... it's the last time I was ever considered somewhat hip.
I unload each and every shelf (we have five bookcases in that room!) and place them on the bed in front of Mrs. Woody. She examines each one and asks herself the following tough question: "Is this book ever really going to serve a purpose besides being some obscure reference for home school?" The answer, of course, is no. Every book we have in the house will ultimately be used for home school, according to Mrs. Woody. We need all those books in Spanish she picked up while serving her mission so we can teach the girls Spanish. "Donde està el escritorio?" ("Where is the desk?") "Tu eres un lapiz." ("You are a pencil.") My Sherlock Holmes collections will help the girls learn critical thinking skills: "Elementary, my dear Sister. The ashes were of a type found only when you burn the hair from the blond Polly LostInYourPocket doll. Of course you did it!"
Ultimately, we manage to agree on one paltry box of books that must be donated away. The last such box of books we gathered up, though, somehow managed to avoid the executioner and are still to be found in our bedroom, still in that same box, and shoved unceremoniously underneath our table. They will remain there until sometime after the Millenium begins.
No, brother of mine, you only think you've gotten rid of the books. You are not so easily cured.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
#38 - Happy Mother's Day!
Today has been an especially nice Mother's Day for the Woody household. I didn't have to work too hard to get the Woodyettes out of bed this morning. Once I reminded them that this was Mommy's Day, they both "jumped" out of bed (their word, not mine) to help me make breakfast for her. We gave her our little gifts and cards that the girls had made. Then off to Church where Daddy sang a solo consisting of a poem that he'd written literally a week ago. The trick there was to set it to music that didn't make everyone want to stick their fingers down their throats. It worked, because Mommy loved it.
We've also heard from my son today. Woody Junior (hah!) lives with his Mom and Step-Dad in Minnesota. [Insert your own brain-in-perpetual-deep-freeze joke here] My son has always been pretty good about calling on important holidays, and Mrs. Woody certainly appreciated hearing from him. We're standing by to ring in that important time in his life when he casts aside the uncertainties of adolescence, and enters the unholy terror of adulthood. Serve him right, I must say. (For any of you who claim to be my son: "Just kidding!")
Actually, my son is quite an eclectic collection of talent and accomplishment. Primary among them is his uncanny ability to make my hair turn spontaneously gray at any given moment. Also, he has the soul (and now, apparently, the wardrobe) of an artist. At least, that's what I presume from looking at his blog. Oh, yes. My son has a blog. I will link you to it after issuing the obligatory warning that his blog is, oh, let's say PG-97 material. Meaning even I am too young to read it. So here it is: Woody Junior's Blog.
I also have another daughter who does not blog. At least, not that I know of. Frankly, I suspect she's a tad too busy to be able to spend much time surfing just for the halibut. She lives on base with her Air Force hubby and my granddaughter. The heck of this arrangement is that she now lives on the east coast, and I keep forgetting that it's, like, a hundred hours later, so when I look at the clock and think, hey, 7:00 would be an okay time to call my daughter, Mrs. Woody gently reminds me that to do so on a school night would mean having my son-in-law call in air strikes on our mobile home. *sigh*
I must tell you that the Woodyettes had a banner day today. Part of what made Mommy's day so special was the fact that both of her little Woodyettes sang in Sacrament Meeting today! This is significant because my girls are not the bravest souls on the planet. You know how chameleons can instantly change color and blend in with their backgrounds when they sense danger? My daughters can blend in with the scenery while the chameleon is still trying to figure out how to make its skin turn mauve. They'll sing in Primary just fine, thank you, especially when parents aren't around to hear them, but standing in front of "hundreds of people" (to use the Elder Woodyette's description) seems to terrify them.
This has been painful for Mommy and Daddy every time the Primary kids sing in Sacrament Meeting. Especially when you consider that Daddy has a ham-bone that obviously came from the Pleistocene Era and belonged to a pig that could easily devour your house. I'm not saying I'm stage-struck - I'm saying I'm stage stuck. So to have my girls both make like clams under attack every time they go up to sing is a direct reflection on my gene pool. Today, however, they both broke with tradition. First, Woodyette Number Two could actually be seen mouthing the words to the actual song the rest of the kids were singing! Breakthrough indeed! Then, if that excitement weren't enough, Woodyette the Elder put her head down and plowed through the entire second song! Mom and Dad were in a catatonic trance! What a day!
It just doesn't get better than that.
So, life for the Woodys is good today. We love our kids - all of them - and they love us. Mommy had exactly the kind of day we wanted her to have.
To all you Moms out there, present or future, we wish a wonderful Mother's Day and many more throughout the year!
UPDATE: Busy night tonight! Now that I have my son's blog address, I decided to add him to the ol' blogroll. Just realize that he is, after all, a teenager, and as such does not feel a need to comply with any given FCC regulation.
Also, Woodyette the Younger - codenamed Doodle Woodyette - has been feeling left out of the blog game, and requested one of her own tonight. So, you will find her new blog listed on my Offspring roll as well. Both Woodyettes wanted to share their Mother's Day experience with you. Enjoy!
We've also heard from my son today. Woody Junior (hah!) lives with his Mom and Step-Dad in Minnesota. [Insert your own brain-in-perpetual-deep-freeze joke here] My son has always been pretty good about calling on important holidays, and Mrs. Woody certainly appreciated hearing from him. We're standing by to ring in that important time in his life when he casts aside the uncertainties of adolescence, and enters the unholy terror of adulthood. Serve him right, I must say. (For any of you who claim to be my son: "Just kidding!")
Actually, my son is quite an eclectic collection of talent and accomplishment. Primary among them is his uncanny ability to make my hair turn spontaneously gray at any given moment. Also, he has the soul (and now, apparently, the wardrobe) of an artist. At least, that's what I presume from looking at his blog. Oh, yes. My son has a blog. I will link you to it after issuing the obligatory warning that his blog is, oh, let's say PG-97 material. Meaning even I am too young to read it. So here it is: Woody Junior's Blog.
I also have another daughter who does not blog. At least, not that I know of. Frankly, I suspect she's a tad too busy to be able to spend much time surfing just for the halibut. She lives on base with her Air Force hubby and my granddaughter. The heck of this arrangement is that she now lives on the east coast, and I keep forgetting that it's, like, a hundred hours later, so when I look at the clock and think, hey, 7:00 would be an okay time to call my daughter, Mrs. Woody gently reminds me that to do so on a school night would mean having my son-in-law call in air strikes on our mobile home. *sigh*
I must tell you that the Woodyettes had a banner day today. Part of what made Mommy's day so special was the fact that both of her little Woodyettes sang in Sacrament Meeting today! This is significant because my girls are not the bravest souls on the planet. You know how chameleons can instantly change color and blend in with their backgrounds when they sense danger? My daughters can blend in with the scenery while the chameleon is still trying to figure out how to make its skin turn mauve. They'll sing in Primary just fine, thank you, especially when parents aren't around to hear them, but standing in front of "hundreds of people" (to use the Elder Woodyette's description) seems to terrify them.
This has been painful for Mommy and Daddy every time the Primary kids sing in Sacrament Meeting. Especially when you consider that Daddy has a ham-bone that obviously came from the Pleistocene Era and belonged to a pig that could easily devour your house. I'm not saying I'm stage-struck - I'm saying I'm stage stuck. So to have my girls both make like clams under attack every time they go up to sing is a direct reflection on my gene pool. Today, however, they both broke with tradition. First, Woodyette Number Two could actually be seen mouthing the words to the actual song the rest of the kids were singing! Breakthrough indeed! Then, if that excitement weren't enough, Woodyette the Elder put her head down and plowed through the entire second song! Mom and Dad were in a catatonic trance! What a day!
It just doesn't get better than that.
So, life for the Woodys is good today. We love our kids - all of them - and they love us. Mommy had exactly the kind of day we wanted her to have.
To all you Moms out there, present or future, we wish a wonderful Mother's Day and many more throughout the year!
UPDATE: Busy night tonight! Now that I have my son's blog address, I decided to add him to the ol' blogroll. Just realize that he is, after all, a teenager, and as such does not feel a need to comply with any given FCC regulation.
Also, Woodyette the Younger - codenamed Doodle Woodyette - has been feeling left out of the blog game, and requested one of her own tonight. So, you will find her new blog listed on my Offspring roll as well. Both Woodyettes wanted to share their Mother's Day experience with you. Enjoy!
Saturday, May 07, 2005
#37 - A Moving Experience
I despise moving. Moving, in my mind, ranks right down there with dental care and federal elections on a list of things I'd rather be doing today. I really don't care for packing things up, tossing them on a truck, then unloading them, carrying them into the new house and unpacking them. It's an experience that makes me look back on wisdom tooth extraction with fondness. In my mind, moving would be a lot nicer if we could just leave the old house as is, with all its stuff, and move into the new house with all its stuff. Nothing would fit for awhile, until we bought new clothes and things. And, of course, the new house would have to be pre-decorated to Mrs. Woody's liking, but I still think it would be easier than the traditional moving experience.
For those of you who happen to be my family, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that we are most definitely not moving. The bad news is that we may as well be moving.
A well known American sociologist, Dave Barry, has carefully documented the female need to rearrange furniture. He has said that a man may occasionally wake up in an entirely different house if the wife gets motivated enough. Some facetiously call this the "nesting" urge. Hah. Birds, at least, have sense enough to just abandon the nest when they no longer like where the big sofa is sitting. The rest of us will rearrange the furniture until our backs begin looking to enter the Federal Back Protection Program.
Such is the case here at La Casa Woody. The time has come to give the Woodyettes separate rooms. This is because the Woodyettes have entered that stage of life known scientifically as the "Stage Where Two Girls Get On Each Other's Nerves Often Enough That Mommy and Daddy Have Had Enough" stage. While my two youngsters generally get along very nicely, they seem to require space away from each other more frequently of late. So, Mrs. Woody feels that this would be a good time to give them their own rooms. Also, we have both a family room and a living room. The original idea was that we would do all of our entertaining in the living room, and the family room would be where we rested and relaxed and watched some TV on occasion. We also have an office that sometimes doubles as Mrs. Woody's scrapbooking place. The "office" actually supports our homeschool. Small as it is, it will become the older Woodyette's new bedroom, the family room will be consolidated with the living room, and the family room will be converted to the new homeschool/scrapbook/project area. It will be large enough to give Mommy and the girls room enough to hold school there by day, and Mrs. Woody can be our Scrapbooking Maven by night.
Of course, these will not be the only rooms involved in the move. As long as we're moving furniture around, we need to involve our bedroom. At least one big piece needs to go in there, which necessitates moving our entire bedroom around. Also, our closet - the floor of which I've not seen in some two years - needs a little, um, straightening.
So far, the only rooms in the house that won't be involved in this pseudo-move are the kitchen (thank goodness!) and the laundry room. We have no way of switching them with other rooms, or consolidating them, so they stay where they are. On the other hand, the kitchen could use a little rearranging... the girls have reached that age where they need to help with setting the table and doing the dishes, but aren't either one of them tall enough to reach the dishes where they're presently stored, so I may have to do that, too. So, okay, the kitchen will "move," too. But not the laundry room. A man has to draw the line somewhere, and I'll draw it at the laundry room.
So, we get all the benefits of moving to a new house without the actual new house. It will definitely be less expensive this way.
Unless my medical insurance lapses anytime soon.
For those of you who happen to be my family, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that we are most definitely not moving. The bad news is that we may as well be moving.
A well known American sociologist, Dave Barry, has carefully documented the female need to rearrange furniture. He has said that a man may occasionally wake up in an entirely different house if the wife gets motivated enough. Some facetiously call this the "nesting" urge. Hah. Birds, at least, have sense enough to just abandon the nest when they no longer like where the big sofa is sitting. The rest of us will rearrange the furniture until our backs begin looking to enter the Federal Back Protection Program.
Such is the case here at La Casa Woody. The time has come to give the Woodyettes separate rooms. This is because the Woodyettes have entered that stage of life known scientifically as the "Stage Where Two Girls Get On Each Other's Nerves Often Enough That Mommy and Daddy Have Had Enough" stage. While my two youngsters generally get along very nicely, they seem to require space away from each other more frequently of late. So, Mrs. Woody feels that this would be a good time to give them their own rooms. Also, we have both a family room and a living room. The original idea was that we would do all of our entertaining in the living room, and the family room would be where we rested and relaxed and watched some TV on occasion. We also have an office that sometimes doubles as Mrs. Woody's scrapbooking place. The "office" actually supports our homeschool. Small as it is, it will become the older Woodyette's new bedroom, the family room will be consolidated with the living room, and the family room will be converted to the new homeschool/scrapbook/project area. It will be large enough to give Mommy and the girls room enough to hold school there by day, and Mrs. Woody can be our Scrapbooking Maven by night.
Of course, these will not be the only rooms involved in the move. As long as we're moving furniture around, we need to involve our bedroom. At least one big piece needs to go in there, which necessitates moving our entire bedroom around. Also, our closet - the floor of which I've not seen in some two years - needs a little, um, straightening.
So far, the only rooms in the house that won't be involved in this pseudo-move are the kitchen (thank goodness!) and the laundry room. We have no way of switching them with other rooms, or consolidating them, so they stay where they are. On the other hand, the kitchen could use a little rearranging... the girls have reached that age where they need to help with setting the table and doing the dishes, but aren't either one of them tall enough to reach the dishes where they're presently stored, so I may have to do that, too. So, okay, the kitchen will "move," too. But not the laundry room. A man has to draw the line somewhere, and I'll draw it at the laundry room.
So, we get all the benefits of moving to a new house without the actual new house. It will definitely be less expensive this way.
Unless my medical insurance lapses anytime soon.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
#36 - Deficit Blogging
"I haven't seen any blogs lately," quoth Mrs. Woody.
I nodded. "Well, you know, I've been pretty busy lately. I just haven't had time to catch up on the 'Sphere; or get worked up about issues much less write about them."
"Those weren't the ones I meant," she replied.
I concurred. "I know, I know... but the Muse can't get through when I'm so distracted."
It's true. Because I'm not one of the full-timers in the 'Sphere, that means I spend my time where my attention is most needed. Generally, I'm either working a real job ("More work! Fewer resources!") or working at home. Either way, I've not been terribly prolific these past several weeks.
On the other hand, could there be some deeper meaning to Mrs. Woody's comment?
My extended family (along with my ex-wife) call me "the Great Communicator." They're kidding, of course. What they mean to say is, "Eventually he'll get around to telling someone about it, if he hasn't died first." This tends to be a problem during certain uncomfortable situations. For example, a surly gentleman might be at the door, and I'll suddenly look at my wife and say, "Oh, nuts! I forgot, Honey... they're repossessing the car today. I meant to tell you..." (Note: this particular scenario has not materialized, but I wanted you to know it was entirely possible. This is precisely why Mrs. Woody now handles the finances.)
Every family has at least one "Great Communicator" and one "Bulletin Board." My sister is our Bulletin Board. She's the one who calls every single member of the family at least once a week so she can be the one to break the news to someone else. I once took to calling her "Eyewitness News" until I realized it was a misnomer: She doesn't so much witness things as find out about them vicariously. Also, like any good bulletin board, you'll only get the information she contains if you ask. Which I never do.
Anyway, I simply have a nasty habit of forgetting to mention things that happen on a daily basis. For all my wife knows, I could have been promoted to CEO of my company. That fantasy hasn't been reflected in my paychecks, though, so I think she's still aware that I haven't had a real promotion in over ten years. The joys of direct deposit.
I've also learned over the years that some wives feel like Internet Widows. This isn't usually true in the Woody household, because Mrs. Woody and I both happen to be geeks (and I say that in a most loving way!). She's also a teacher, and spends just as much time online as I do. So if she ever feels like a Widow, I guess I can retaliate by feeling like a Widower. But we never do. We spend just as much time snooping over each other's shoulders as we do surfing on our own.
That's why I was only mildly surprised when Mrs. Woody heartily accepted my blog habit. I suspect she immediately deduced that she would, in fact, get more information out of her hubby by reading his blog than she ever would in the course of everyday conversation. Especially when I branched away from the political rantings of the Woundup in favor of my familial writings on The Inner Dad.
The way I see it, via The Inner Dad, my wife now knows that I am indeed aware that we have two youngsters still living with us. I even know their names, despite the fact that I only ever refer to them as "the Woodyettes." At least I recognize the fact that they are of differing age and height. Hair color, even.
Thus, when Woody hits a dry spell - for whatever reason - Mrs. Woody worries. Her best source of hubby-generated thinking has dried up! Disaster looms!
Aw, who'm I kidding? The one person on the planet with whom I communicate regularly and frequently is Mrs. Woody. This is as it should be. If for no other reason, Mrs. Woody can read me like a book and has a knack for asking just the right question to get my mouth motor running. Also, if Mrs. Woody ain't happy, I ain't doing my job.
So, I guess what Mrs. Woody really meant when she pointed out that my blog was running a little dry was that she missed what I write. She is, after all my biggest fan.
I live for my fans.
I nodded. "Well, you know, I've been pretty busy lately. I just haven't had time to catch up on the 'Sphere; or get worked up about issues much less write about them."
"Those weren't the ones I meant," she replied.
I concurred. "I know, I know... but the Muse can't get through when I'm so distracted."
It's true. Because I'm not one of the full-timers in the 'Sphere, that means I spend my time where my attention is most needed. Generally, I'm either working a real job ("More work! Fewer resources!") or working at home. Either way, I've not been terribly prolific these past several weeks.
On the other hand, could there be some deeper meaning to Mrs. Woody's comment?
My extended family (along with my ex-wife) call me "the Great Communicator." They're kidding, of course. What they mean to say is, "Eventually he'll get around to telling someone about it, if he hasn't died first." This tends to be a problem during certain uncomfortable situations. For example, a surly gentleman might be at the door, and I'll suddenly look at my wife and say, "Oh, nuts! I forgot, Honey... they're repossessing the car today. I meant to tell you..." (Note: this particular scenario has not materialized, but I wanted you to know it was entirely possible. This is precisely why Mrs. Woody now handles the finances.)
Every family has at least one "Great Communicator" and one "Bulletin Board." My sister is our Bulletin Board. She's the one who calls every single member of the family at least once a week so she can be the one to break the news to someone else. I once took to calling her "Eyewitness News" until I realized it was a misnomer: She doesn't so much witness things as find out about them vicariously. Also, like any good bulletin board, you'll only get the information she contains if you ask. Which I never do.
Anyway, I simply have a nasty habit of forgetting to mention things that happen on a daily basis. For all my wife knows, I could have been promoted to CEO of my company. That fantasy hasn't been reflected in my paychecks, though, so I think she's still aware that I haven't had a real promotion in over ten years. The joys of direct deposit.
I've also learned over the years that some wives feel like Internet Widows. This isn't usually true in the Woody household, because Mrs. Woody and I both happen to be geeks (and I say that in a most loving way!). She's also a teacher, and spends just as much time online as I do. So if she ever feels like a Widow, I guess I can retaliate by feeling like a Widower. But we never do. We spend just as much time snooping over each other's shoulders as we do surfing on our own.
That's why I was only mildly surprised when Mrs. Woody heartily accepted my blog habit. I suspect she immediately deduced that she would, in fact, get more information out of her hubby by reading his blog than she ever would in the course of everyday conversation. Especially when I branched away from the political rantings of the Woundup in favor of my familial writings on The Inner Dad.
The way I see it, via The Inner Dad, my wife now knows that I am indeed aware that we have two youngsters still living with us. I even know their names, despite the fact that I only ever refer to them as "the Woodyettes." At least I recognize the fact that they are of differing age and height. Hair color, even.
Thus, when Woody hits a dry spell - for whatever reason - Mrs. Woody worries. Her best source of hubby-generated thinking has dried up! Disaster looms!
Aw, who'm I kidding? The one person on the planet with whom I communicate regularly and frequently is Mrs. Woody. This is as it should be. If for no other reason, Mrs. Woody can read me like a book and has a knack for asking just the right question to get my mouth motor running. Also, if Mrs. Woody ain't happy, I ain't doing my job.
So, I guess what Mrs. Woody really meant when she pointed out that my blog was running a little dry was that she missed what I write. She is, after all my biggest fan.
I live for my fans.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
#35 - Saturday TV
It's Saturday morning in the Woody household. Although the morning is waning, only one Woodyette - the older one - is awake yet. The smaller one must be having another growth spurt.
Now, when I was a kid, Saturday morning invariably meant vegetating in front of the venerable Boob Tube. You name it, I watched it. I'm not ashamed to admit that in my Saturday-induced sloth, I watched everything from Magilla Gorilla to Josie and the Pussycats (I grew up with co-ed siblings and some sacrifice on my part was expected). The primary reason I have mush for brains today is because I memorized the entire stable of Warner Bros. cartoons.
Woodyette Number One wandered out to the TV room and asked to watch...
Rachael Ray.
I kid you not. Rather than watch some made-to-dumb-down-kids TV fare, she would rather watch one of the Food Network divas in action.
She's been somewhat obsessed with Ms. Ray of late, probably because her "$40 a Day" show takes her to so many neat locales in the country. My youngster loves travel shows, and equally enjoys cooking shows. Her Rachael Ray fixation, then, is no big surprise. Personally, Ray's kilowatt grin is a bit much for me after a half hour or so, but I do enjoy her "30 Minute Meals" show... good stuff!
(On a related note: Mrs. Woody and I are back on our modified Dr. Phil's "Rapid Start" program for awhile... Suddenly even Emeril's cooking is starting to look good!)
Anyway, and most unfortunately for my daughter, Rachael does not appear on the Saturday morning radar. She had to settle for "Blue's Clues" and "Rolie Polie Olie" instead.
I must say she's taking the disappointment well.
UPDATE: Baby Sis points out my failings as a speller of childrens' shows. I blame "Magilla Gorilla."
UPDATE II: Also "Gigantor."
UPDATE III: Rachael is on in the afternoon! Saturday is saved!
Now, when I was a kid, Saturday morning invariably meant vegetating in front of the venerable Boob Tube. You name it, I watched it. I'm not ashamed to admit that in my Saturday-induced sloth, I watched everything from Magilla Gorilla to Josie and the Pussycats (I grew up with co-ed siblings and some sacrifice on my part was expected). The primary reason I have mush for brains today is because I memorized the entire stable of Warner Bros. cartoons.
Woodyette Number One wandered out to the TV room and asked to watch...
Rachael Ray.
I kid you not. Rather than watch some made-to-dumb-down-kids TV fare, she would rather watch one of the Food Network divas in action.
She's been somewhat obsessed with Ms. Ray of late, probably because her "$40 a Day" show takes her to so many neat locales in the country. My youngster loves travel shows, and equally enjoys cooking shows. Her Rachael Ray fixation, then, is no big surprise. Personally, Ray's kilowatt grin is a bit much for me after a half hour or so, but I do enjoy her "30 Minute Meals" show... good stuff!
(On a related note: Mrs. Woody and I are back on our modified Dr. Phil's "Rapid Start" program for awhile... Suddenly even Emeril's cooking is starting to look good!)
Anyway, and most unfortunately for my daughter, Rachael does not appear on the Saturday morning radar. She had to settle for "Blue's Clues" and "Rolie Polie Olie" instead.
I must say she's taking the disappointment well.
UPDATE: Baby Sis points out my failings as a speller of childrens' shows. I blame "Magilla Gorilla."
UPDATE II: Also "Gigantor."
UPDATE III: Rachael is on in the afternoon! Saturday is saved!
Thursday, April 21, 2005
#34 - Found Another One!
Thank goodness for Dave Barry's blog. Apparently there's a whole slough of International Days of which I've never been aware. Dave points us to another one.
International Respect for Chickens Day
It appears to be sponsored by an organization calling itself "United Poultry Concerns." This bothers me somewhat. In my experience, your average fowl has but one concern, which is how to stay one step ahead of the axe. Here's the money quote, though:
Huh. I must admit, my own experience with chickens has been anything but deserving of respect. In fact - and here I must apologize to family members who thought they'd safely put this experience behind them - we used to raise chickens.
My Dad was the world's greatest armchair hobbiest. He would find something to obsess over, read everything he could find on the subject, ask as many people at work as would talk to him about it, then rally the troops to implement the scheme. We tried livestock twice. Once with rabbits, and again with chickens. In each case, the objective was a noble one: we would raise the livestock as a means of supplementing our food stores. Rabbit, when cooked correctly, is actually rather delectable (tastes like watered-down chicken, of course). The chickens would be layers, then eaten when they could no longer provide our daily cholesterol pellets.
The problem, of course, was in (literally) the execution. When the time came to actually need to off the animals, Dad always developed cold feet. He had been raised on a farm as a boy, and I guess he figured it would be a simple matter to just go out, club the bunnies, skin 'em and fry 'em. He would spend days preparing us mentally for this traumatic experience. Then, when he thought the time was right, we would have this conversation around the dinner table:
Ultimately, of course, we sold the rabbits.
When Dad announced that we were going to get fresh eggs every morning, we all - simultaneously - gave him the same reaction:
"You're kidding."
He assured us he was not, and set us to work preparing to become chicken ranchers. To this day, I have no idea whether we were really even zoned for keeping poultry in our backyard, but others had done so, and I'm pretty sure that was the extent of Dad's research. We built a coop under one portion of the house where an upper bedroom overhung the garage by a few feet. We fenced it in with chicken wire, built some nesting platforms, and waited for Dad to procure the pullets.
Naturally, no sooner did we have the chickens safely ensconced in their new home than we realized this was going to be another disaster in animal husbandry. We had five hens. At least, we assumed they were hens because one or two of them actually did lay an egg or two apiece. And that was it.
I don't remember exactly how long we had those blasted birds. I do, however, remember spending copious amounts of time fighting with my siblings over whose turn it was to muck out the coop. As far as I could tell, that was the entire breadth of their output. We put food in, they pushed muck out. No eggs, just chicken scat. We also spent more than our fair share of time chasing the stupid birds all over the neighborhood. They seemed to be masters of escape, and if they made it over the back fence, we had an uptight neighbor to deal with.
Finally, Dad realized the experiment was doomed to fail, and made plans to rid us of the chickens. Former Idaho farm boy that he was, his first instinct was to eat them. "No problem," he announced. "You just wring their necks, pluck their feathers, and broil 'em." So, naturally, when the time came, we had another conversation. I was readier this time:
We briefly considered having one of the neighbor boys do it. They were an interesting set of teenage brothers that lived across the street and Dad figured should have landed in jail before now. Surely they would be interested in a little creative neck-wringing? But when even they turned us down, Dad knew he was licked. In what seemed to me to be the opening of a really bad made-for-TV movie, we found ourselves one day driving our old Volkswagen bus out to a nearby chicken ranch - a real one - and releasing them just outside the fence.
That was, fortunately for us, the end of Dad's attempts at animal husbandry. Oh, we kept birds for awhile in the old chicken coop. Parakeets, mostly, as I recall, but they all died or flew away, and the coop slowly disintegrated over time. But our careers as animal ranchers of any kind died when the chickens were deported. My experiences with the chickens enhanced my later experience with domesticated turkeys in Guatemala, but that's a story for another day.
The web site for International Respect for Chickens Day encourages us to "show the world that chickens are people, too!"
Right. I'll go pop one in the crock pot right now.
It appears to be sponsored by an organization calling itself "United Poultry Concerns." This bothers me somewhat. In my experience, your average fowl has but one concern, which is how to stay one step ahead of the axe. Here's the money quote, though:
Chickens are cheerful, intelligent birds. The mother hen tenderly cares for her chicks, and roosters protect their families and flocks.
Huh. I must admit, my own experience with chickens has been anything but deserving of respect. In fact - and here I must apologize to family members who thought they'd safely put this experience behind them - we used to raise chickens.
My Dad was the world's greatest armchair hobbiest. He would find something to obsess over, read everything he could find on the subject, ask as many people at work as would talk to him about it, then rally the troops to implement the scheme. We tried livestock twice. Once with rabbits, and again with chickens. In each case, the objective was a noble one: we would raise the livestock as a means of supplementing our food stores. Rabbit, when cooked correctly, is actually rather delectable (tastes like watered-down chicken, of course). The chickens would be layers, then eaten when they could no longer provide our daily cholesterol pellets.
The problem, of course, was in (literally) the execution. When the time came to actually need to off the animals, Dad always developed cold feet. He had been raised on a farm as a boy, and I guess he figured it would be a simple matter to just go out, club the bunnies, skin 'em and fry 'em. He would spend days preparing us mentally for this traumatic experience. Then, when he thought the time was right, we would have this conversation around the dinner table:
Dad: So, I was thinking that we need to get those rabbits killed so we can try some rabbit stew for dinner. Greg (shooting a bemused glance in my direction), think you can handle that?
Me: Beg pardon?
Dad: All you need is a good baseball bat. You have one, don't you?
Me: Baseball bat?
Dad: (wondering how this genius could ever have sprung from his loins) Yes, son. A bat. You do have one, right?
Me: Um, yeah...
Dad: So, just take the rabbits out one by one, club them with the bat, then chop off their heads with my hatchet. Might want to wear old clothes since there's likely to be some spatter.
Me: Ummmm...
Ultimately, of course, we sold the rabbits.
When Dad announced that we were going to get fresh eggs every morning, we all - simultaneously - gave him the same reaction:
"You're kidding."
He assured us he was not, and set us to work preparing to become chicken ranchers. To this day, I have no idea whether we were really even zoned for keeping poultry in our backyard, but others had done so, and I'm pretty sure that was the extent of Dad's research. We built a coop under one portion of the house where an upper bedroom overhung the garage by a few feet. We fenced it in with chicken wire, built some nesting platforms, and waited for Dad to procure the pullets.
Naturally, no sooner did we have the chickens safely ensconced in their new home than we realized this was going to be another disaster in animal husbandry. We had five hens. At least, we assumed they were hens because one or two of them actually did lay an egg or two apiece. And that was it.
I don't remember exactly how long we had those blasted birds. I do, however, remember spending copious amounts of time fighting with my siblings over whose turn it was to muck out the coop. As far as I could tell, that was the entire breadth of their output. We put food in, they pushed muck out. No eggs, just chicken scat. We also spent more than our fair share of time chasing the stupid birds all over the neighborhood. They seemed to be masters of escape, and if they made it over the back fence, we had an uptight neighbor to deal with.
Finally, Dad realized the experiment was doomed to fail, and made plans to rid us of the chickens. Former Idaho farm boy that he was, his first instinct was to eat them. "No problem," he announced. "You just wring their necks, pluck their feathers, and broil 'em." So, naturally, when the time came, we had another conversation. I was readier this time:
Dad: Well, son, we need to...
Me: Forget it, Dad.
Dad: (feigning surprise) What do you mean, "forget it?"
Me: Exactly that. If you think I'm going to pick up one of those feathered menaces, wring it's neck, chop off it's head, and pluck it, you're out of your mind.
We briefly considered having one of the neighbor boys do it. They were an interesting set of teenage brothers that lived across the street and Dad figured should have landed in jail before now. Surely they would be interested in a little creative neck-wringing? But when even they turned us down, Dad knew he was licked. In what seemed to me to be the opening of a really bad made-for-TV movie, we found ourselves one day driving our old Volkswagen bus out to a nearby chicken ranch - a real one - and releasing them just outside the fence.
That was, fortunately for us, the end of Dad's attempts at animal husbandry. Oh, we kept birds for awhile in the old chicken coop. Parakeets, mostly, as I recall, but they all died or flew away, and the coop slowly disintegrated over time. But our careers as animal ranchers of any kind died when the chickens were deported. My experiences with the chickens enhanced my later experience with domesticated turkeys in Guatemala, but that's a story for another day.
The web site for International Respect for Chickens Day encourages us to "show the world that chickens are people, too!"
Right. I'll go pop one in the crock pot right now.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
#33 - Peace Disturbed
So today was International Noise Awareness Day. I had no idea such a day existed, but then I also learned just the other day that some sap put together a day to celebrate trees for cryin' out loud. Like, Euell Gibbons came back from the dead to worship his favorite meal, or something.
As I pondered the implications of a day dedicated to being aware of noise, I admit to being just a bit flummoxed... How does one adequately address noise in a world where... um... what is it, Sweetheart? Daddy is blogging... Your sister did what? Go see Mommy, please. Daddy can't answer that right now.
Where was I? Oh, noise awareness. Right. Anyway, I was wondering how in the world one could possibly not be aware of noise. Especially here in sunny Southern California - traffic capitol of this world and every new planet they're discovering around stars that could have ours for lunch. While I admit I can pretty much ignore most traffic noise, those doggoned traffic reporters that fly overhead at all hours of the day and night can always get my attention. In fact, one of those turkeys flew (har!) overhead just a few hours... what now, Sweetie? Daddy is really busy right now... No, I can't make your sister stop doing whatever it is she's doing. Didn't you talk to Mommy? And what did she say? Alright, then. Why don't you try that? Thank you, Sweetheart...
Sorry. Let's see... I was talking about traffic helicopters. At least, I think I was. Oh, well. No matter. The issue here is Noise Awareness. I tend to feel that this is tantamount to kids asking why we have a Mothers Day and a Fathers Day but not a Kids Day. Every parent has this conversation. I even remember asking my Mom about it, and she gave me the standard Parental Answer: "Honey, every day is Kids Day." We never liked this answer, but I understand it now. Especially when my kids are... Sweetheart! Please stop yelling at your sister! That's not helping anything! No, I'm not yelling at you! Well... yes, I am! But I'm the Daddy! Your room, please, and close the door!
I really apologize about that. I truly did intend to have a meaningful discussion of what apparently has become important enough to merit having an International Day dedicated to it. I wonder if they've managed to get this message out to those twits who somehow believe I like their over-bassed thumpa-thumpa music while they're driving neck-and-neck with me on the freeway. Unfortunately, these guys always catch up to me when I'm driving my Honda, which has no air conditioning and forces me to drive with my windows down. You can just imagine how much I appreci... Sweetie! What?! What do you want now?! You two are screaming like banshees in that room and the entire neighborhood can hear you! Settle down and quit making so much noise!
Um, lessee... I keep losing my train of thought... Oh, yes. The boom-box crowd. Really, I don't understand how these guys can function at anything above the level of your average paramecium, given the amount of nerve damage they must... WHO'S SCREAMING? Did someone get hurt? How? On the bunk bed ladder?? WELL, GET OFF OF IT AND LET YOUR SISTER CLIMB DOWN!!
Sheesh.
Anyway, go read up on International Noise Awareness Day. I'm certain it's incredibly important, but I'm having a hard time getting behind it. I mean, it's not like I'm a party animal, or anything, and I certainly don't go around polluting the neighborhood with a lot of racket.
All things considered, it's pretty quiet around here.
As I pondered the implications of a day dedicated to being aware of noise, I admit to being just a bit flummoxed... How does one adequately address noise in a world where... um... what is it, Sweetheart? Daddy is blogging... Your sister did what? Go see Mommy, please. Daddy can't answer that right now.
Where was I? Oh, noise awareness. Right. Anyway, I was wondering how in the world one could possibly not be aware of noise. Especially here in sunny Southern California - traffic capitol of this world and every new planet they're discovering around stars that could have ours for lunch. While I admit I can pretty much ignore most traffic noise, those doggoned traffic reporters that fly overhead at all hours of the day and night can always get my attention. In fact, one of those turkeys flew (har!) overhead just a few hours... what now, Sweetie? Daddy is really busy right now... No, I can't make your sister stop doing whatever it is she's doing. Didn't you talk to Mommy? And what did she say? Alright, then. Why don't you try that? Thank you, Sweetheart...
Sorry. Let's see... I was talking about traffic helicopters. At least, I think I was. Oh, well. No matter. The issue here is Noise Awareness. I tend to feel that this is tantamount to kids asking why we have a Mothers Day and a Fathers Day but not a Kids Day. Every parent has this conversation. I even remember asking my Mom about it, and she gave me the standard Parental Answer: "Honey, every day is Kids Day." We never liked this answer, but I understand it now. Especially when my kids are... Sweetheart! Please stop yelling at your sister! That's not helping anything! No, I'm not yelling at you! Well... yes, I am! But I'm the Daddy! Your room, please, and close the door!
I really apologize about that. I truly did intend to have a meaningful discussion of what apparently has become important enough to merit having an International Day dedicated to it. I wonder if they've managed to get this message out to those twits who somehow believe I like their over-bassed thumpa-thumpa music while they're driving neck-and-neck with me on the freeway. Unfortunately, these guys always catch up to me when I'm driving my Honda, which has no air conditioning and forces me to drive with my windows down. You can just imagine how much I appreci... Sweetie! What?! What do you want now?! You two are screaming like banshees in that room and the entire neighborhood can hear you! Settle down and quit making so much noise!
Um, lessee... I keep losing my train of thought... Oh, yes. The boom-box crowd. Really, I don't understand how these guys can function at anything above the level of your average paramecium, given the amount of nerve damage they must... WHO'S SCREAMING? Did someone get hurt? How? On the bunk bed ladder?? WELL, GET OFF OF IT AND LET YOUR SISTER CLIMB DOWN!!
Sheesh.
Anyway, go read up on International Noise Awareness Day. I'm certain it's incredibly important, but I'm having a hard time getting behind it. I mean, it's not like I'm a party animal, or anything, and I certainly don't go around polluting the neighborhood with a lot of racket.
All things considered, it's pretty quiet around here.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
#32 - My Poor Sister...
This sort of thing would never happen with the Woodyettes.
No, in the Woody household, that same scene would involve Harry Potter. With two (count them: two) Hermiones. And it wouldn't be "Candy Man." It would be "I Am a Child of God."
Context is everything.
No, in the Woody household, that same scene would involve Harry Potter. With two (count them: two) Hermiones. And it wouldn't be "Candy Man." It would be "I Am a Child of God."
Context is everything.
Monday, April 04, 2005
#31 - Tax Relief
I haven't filed my returns so late in years. Really, since I got into using SpeedyTax, or TurboAudits, or whatever the heck software I'm using these days, I've been filing my returns as early in February as possible so I can get those crucial refunds into my atrophied checking account. ("Atrophied," I guess, is the wrong word. It gets plenty of exercise. "Emaciated" is, perhaps, a better fit.)
The problem is that, somehow, mysteriously, I wasn't able to find last year's file. You see, one of the real benefits of using the same software every year is that they can read last year's file directly into your current return. So, when they ask you all those Big Brother questions about what deduction you took in support of pygmy water buffalo research the previous year, you don't even have to look. The computer already knows all that.
The trouble, of course, is that last year's refunds bought last year's new computer. Now, I'm darned certain that I went through all the hoops of transferring all my files from the old machine to the new one. I am, after all, a techie in my professional life, and I know how to do such things. Still, when I installed the new tax software this year, you can imagine my panic when I was completely unable to find anything even remotely resembling last year's return. The panic grew when I was also unable to find my printed returns!
Anyone who knows me recognizes my genius for organization. My files are immaculate. This means that when I put a file away somewhere, it doesn't matter where because it will always be there. The trick is that I generally have absolutely no idea where "there" is from one year to the next. So, okay, I'm not a genius. In fact, I'm not organized enough to be the village idiot, so forget the "genius" line. You never heard that from me.
Needless to say, I searched high and low (and everywhere in between) for those files. Nothing. Mrs. Woody and I traditionally have that money spent (virtually, anyway) two or three months ahead of filing, so we really needed to get our taxes done. Soon.
In a true act of desperation, I turned to the IRS's web site for help. I was relieved to find that I could order a copy of my return for last year because I filed it electronically. Technology finally comes to the IRS! Glory be! I dialed the number listed on the web site, picked my way through their menus, and then began the real nail-biting stretch: They said the copy would be mailed anywhere from 10 to 14 business days later, and that would put me this close to April 15!
Fortunately, they lied. I got the copy sometime over the weekend and filed our returns last night.
I am, as you can imagine, relieved. I am also, as you might expect, chiselling my return directly onto my computer case, rather than rely on some ancient 6 month old magnetic media. I will also staple my paper copy directly to my stomach in a waterproof bag so I can keep it with me until next year. Or maybe I'll just burn a copy onto a CD and keep it in my lock box...
Nah. Where's the fun in that?
The problem is that, somehow, mysteriously, I wasn't able to find last year's file. You see, one of the real benefits of using the same software every year is that they can read last year's file directly into your current return. So, when they ask you all those Big Brother questions about what deduction you took in support of pygmy water buffalo research the previous year, you don't even have to look. The computer already knows all that.
The trouble, of course, is that last year's refunds bought last year's new computer. Now, I'm darned certain that I went through all the hoops of transferring all my files from the old machine to the new one. I am, after all, a techie in my professional life, and I know how to do such things. Still, when I installed the new tax software this year, you can imagine my panic when I was completely unable to find anything even remotely resembling last year's return. The panic grew when I was also unable to find my printed returns!
Anyone who knows me recognizes my genius for organization. My files are immaculate. This means that when I put a file away somewhere, it doesn't matter where because it will always be there. The trick is that I generally have absolutely no idea where "there" is from one year to the next. So, okay, I'm not a genius. In fact, I'm not organized enough to be the village idiot, so forget the "genius" line. You never heard that from me.
Needless to say, I searched high and low (and everywhere in between) for those files. Nothing. Mrs. Woody and I traditionally have that money spent (virtually, anyway) two or three months ahead of filing, so we really needed to get our taxes done. Soon.
In a true act of desperation, I turned to the IRS's web site for help. I was relieved to find that I could order a copy of my return for last year because I filed it electronically. Technology finally comes to the IRS! Glory be! I dialed the number listed on the web site, picked my way through their menus, and then began the real nail-biting stretch: They said the copy would be mailed anywhere from 10 to 14 business days later, and that would put me this close to April 15!
Fortunately, they lied. I got the copy sometime over the weekend and filed our returns last night.
I am, as you can imagine, relieved. I am also, as you might expect, chiselling my return directly onto my computer case, rather than rely on some ancient 6 month old magnetic media. I will also staple my paper copy directly to my stomach in a waterproof bag so I can keep it with me until next year. Or maybe I'll just burn a copy onto a CD and keep it in my lock box...
Nah. Where's the fun in that?
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
#30 - Debt Is as Debt Does
Being a normal family, Mrs. Woody and I deal with debt. It's not that we're big spenders, by any means (and I do mean any means). We've just had circumstances over the years that have kept us in the gunsights of a couple of credit cards. Fortunately, both cars are paid off (210K miles on the Honda and counting!) and things are looking up. I measure this in the decided lack of nag calls from creditors. The smarmy ones where the friendly computer calls you and expects you to "hold" for a "very important message" from one of their representatives. I've written elsewhere about computerized phoning, which I consider to be a terrorist activity subject to provisions of the Patriot Act.
Anyway, we have debt, but it's not a real issue at the moment.
So, explain to me why having a fine on our library cards can cause such a panic?
I have successfully put off any number of creditors over the years. I've been harangued by the experts. I have stared down (figuratively, of course... they never show their faces) such luminaries as Bank of America, Ameriquest, and MBNA. I have pooh-pooohed Discover and American Express. I can even hold off my utilities for a week or two until my next paycheck arrives and I can keep them from disconnecting us.
But levy a fine on my library card, and the world comes to an immediate and complete halt.
It's no secret that Mrs. Woody and I are dedicated homeschoolers. That is to say, Mrs. Woody is a dedicated homeschooler, and Woody provides vital services such as being a taste-tester of questionable culinary creations. Mrs. Woody is, however, the Headmistress of our academy, and the Woodyettes are her devoted students. Part of Mrs. Woody's game plan has always included a weekly trip to our local library. Our particular branch has a terrific children's librarian named "Miss Regina," and she does a weekly story night that the kids love. We also have a steady supply of library books in our house. The Woodyettes (7 and 5) are both avid readers. They're very much into series like "A to Z Mysteries" or "Magic Tree House." "American Girl" is a perrenial favorite. They've been reading "Little House...," "Nate the Great," and all things Potter.
Last night I took the girls to Story Night. While they listened to Miss Regina read stories about dinosaurs, I was at the checkout desk pleading for my life. "I have come to redeem myself from Purgatory," I said. The librarian chuckled and said, "Here to pay a fine, hm?"
I was in no position to quibble. Our library cards are the only things standing between us and an Amazon.com-induced bankruptcy.
I gladly - even gratefully - paid the fine. It was unusually hefty since we got caught in a web of circumstance that prevented us from getting our books returned for something like two whole weeks past their date. Still, seeing how excited the girls were at being able to check out some books that they really, really, reeealllly, pleeeeeeeze Daddy can I get this one, pleeeeze, pleeeeze, pleeeeeeeze! wanted was worth every penny. All 1,920 of them.
You can't put a price on a reading child.
Anyway, we have debt, but it's not a real issue at the moment.
So, explain to me why having a fine on our library cards can cause such a panic?
I have successfully put off any number of creditors over the years. I've been harangued by the experts. I have stared down (figuratively, of course... they never show their faces) such luminaries as Bank of America, Ameriquest, and MBNA. I have pooh-pooohed Discover and American Express. I can even hold off my utilities for a week or two until my next paycheck arrives and I can keep them from disconnecting us.
But levy a fine on my library card, and the world comes to an immediate and complete halt.
It's no secret that Mrs. Woody and I are dedicated homeschoolers. That is to say, Mrs. Woody is a dedicated homeschooler, and Woody provides vital services such as being a taste-tester of questionable culinary creations. Mrs. Woody is, however, the Headmistress of our academy, and the Woodyettes are her devoted students. Part of Mrs. Woody's game plan has always included a weekly trip to our local library. Our particular branch has a terrific children's librarian named "Miss Regina," and she does a weekly story night that the kids love. We also have a steady supply of library books in our house. The Woodyettes (7 and 5) are both avid readers. They're very much into series like "A to Z Mysteries" or "Magic Tree House." "American Girl" is a perrenial favorite. They've been reading "Little House...," "Nate the Great," and all things Potter.
Last night I took the girls to Story Night. While they listened to Miss Regina read stories about dinosaurs, I was at the checkout desk pleading for my life. "I have come to redeem myself from Purgatory," I said. The librarian chuckled and said, "Here to pay a fine, hm?"
I was in no position to quibble. Our library cards are the only things standing between us and an Amazon.com-induced bankruptcy.
I gladly - even gratefully - paid the fine. It was unusually hefty since we got caught in a web of circumstance that prevented us from getting our books returned for something like two whole weeks past their date. Still, seeing how excited the girls were at being able to check out some books that they really, really, reeealllly, pleeeeeeeze Daddy can I get this one, pleeeeze, pleeeeze, pleeeeeeeze! wanted was worth every penny. All 1,920 of them.
You can't put a price on a reading child.
Friday, March 25, 2005
#29 - Grandpa Blogging!
The Inner Dad also has a secret life as The Inner Grandpa.
I've always enjoyed my family dynamics. Seems I never do anything the easy (or, at least, traditional) way, and putting my family together has been no exception.
I served for awhile as a Sunday School teacher, working with the 16 through 18 year olds. I actually enjoyed that calling, because they were old enough to get most of my humor. Kids need to get my humor if they're going to learn anything from me, and I don't always remember to make it age appropriate. Just a week ago I substituted in Woodyette Number One's Primary class and had the kids rolling on the floor, but that may have been because their little heads were about to implode.
In that Sunday School class, I one day introduced the concept of family. I started off by saying something like, "I have three children (Woodyette Number Two was still in the oven at this point). My first child is younger than my oldest child and my youngest child was my first experience with pregnancy."
[Wait a beat or two...]
"Before I married Mrs. Woody I was an adoptive parent."
[Lights go on.]
"Ooooh! You were married before and adopted your kids!"
But you should have seen their faces before I explained myself.
Anyway, the truth is that I have two other children from my first (or "starter," as Mrs. Woody puts it) marriage. My son is 17-going-on-making-his-father-89 years old. He lives with his Mom and has a step-Dad, who, as far as I'm concerned, came from Smallville. As parents I salute them for being able to deal with this hormone-explosion who carries my name and causes most of my gray hairs. He's a good kid, but this is a tough age.
My oldest child came to us as a teenage foster child. We knew instantly that she was a perfect fit with our family, but had to wait until she turned 18 to do an adult adoption. She married a terrific young man in the Air Force, and they are currently stationed in Washington, D.C. They have a daughter who is every bit as adorable as her mother was (um, is!) and who also happens to be a year older than my older Woodyette. Confusing, I know, but at least it gives me something to talk about at church socials.
My granddaughter just turned 9. Her Mommy called me the other day to tell me that she is doing her very first science project. Grandpa couldn't be more tickled. There's a kind of poetic justice in watching your child go through the same hoops she put you through whenever a project or report was needed at school. It just feels... good.
The topic, in this case, is the solar system, and my granddaughter is doing a poster on Saturn. Good choice. I've been happy with mine ever since we drove it off the lot. [Rim shot.] She struggles a little with memory, and this has been a great way to motivate her to remember details. "How many moons?" Mommy asks. "About 30!" she enthuses. Grandpas love to hear that sort of stuff.
So, my daughter knows that Grandpa wants photos of the poster and a complete debriefing after the fair. She has a digital camera now, so no excuses! Grandma Woody (heh!) will likely put them in a scrapbook sometime soon.
I don't get to see them too often nowadays, but I can still participate.
I've always enjoyed my family dynamics. Seems I never do anything the easy (or, at least, traditional) way, and putting my family together has been no exception.
I served for awhile as a Sunday School teacher, working with the 16 through 18 year olds. I actually enjoyed that calling, because they were old enough to get most of my humor. Kids need to get my humor if they're going to learn anything from me, and I don't always remember to make it age appropriate. Just a week ago I substituted in Woodyette Number One's Primary class and had the kids rolling on the floor, but that may have been because their little heads were about to implode.
In that Sunday School class, I one day introduced the concept of family. I started off by saying something like, "I have three children (Woodyette Number Two was still in the oven at this point). My first child is younger than my oldest child and my youngest child was my first experience with pregnancy."
[Wait a beat or two...]
"Before I married Mrs. Woody I was an adoptive parent."
[Lights go on.]
"Ooooh! You were married before and adopted your kids!"
But you should have seen their faces before I explained myself.
Anyway, the truth is that I have two other children from my first (or "starter," as Mrs. Woody puts it) marriage. My son is 17-going-on-making-his-father-89 years old. He lives with his Mom and has a step-Dad, who, as far as I'm concerned, came from Smallville. As parents I salute them for being able to deal with this hormone-explosion who carries my name and causes most of my gray hairs. He's a good kid, but this is a tough age.
My oldest child came to us as a teenage foster child. We knew instantly that she was a perfect fit with our family, but had to wait until she turned 18 to do an adult adoption. She married a terrific young man in the Air Force, and they are currently stationed in Washington, D.C. They have a daughter who is every bit as adorable as her mother was (um, is!) and who also happens to be a year older than my older Woodyette. Confusing, I know, but at least it gives me something to talk about at church socials.
My granddaughter just turned 9. Her Mommy called me the other day to tell me that she is doing her very first science project. Grandpa couldn't be more tickled. There's a kind of poetic justice in watching your child go through the same hoops she put you through whenever a project or report was needed at school. It just feels... good.
The topic, in this case, is the solar system, and my granddaughter is doing a poster on Saturn. Good choice. I've been happy with mine ever since we drove it off the lot. [Rim shot.] She struggles a little with memory, and this has been a great way to motivate her to remember details. "How many moons?" Mommy asks. "About 30!" she enthuses. Grandpas love to hear that sort of stuff.
So, my daughter knows that Grandpa wants photos of the poster and a complete debriefing after the fair. She has a digital camera now, so no excuses! Grandma Woody (heh!) will likely put them in a scrapbook sometime soon.
I don't get to see them too often nowadays, but I can still participate.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
#28 - Help! I've Been Annied!
Among the countless things a person might enjoy on a Saturday, you might not think going to an elementary school production of "Annie" would be one of them. I certainly didn't think so.
For one thing, I burned out on "Annie" years ago. It came out at the height of my Cynical Period as I was between high school and going on a mission for the church. Suddenly, the entire country was inundated with "Annie" wannabes. At least half of them lived in my home town of Simi Valley. At least half of them appeared to be LDS.
Not long after my mission our stake put on a production of Broadway vignettes, one of which was (surprise!) "Annie." My parents and I split music director duties, and Mom drew "Annie" duty. Whew! A couple of years later, as I was entering my starter marriage, I was asked to assist Dad as an assistant musical director for a touring company version of "Annie." In a rare moment of lucidity, I bowed out before the production actually toured. They folded a year or so later after lawsuits killed the production. Seemed "Annie" was still a "hot" property even a year or so after the movie came out, and the copyright holders were none too pleased that anyone (even from Podunk, USA) would dare to compete with the "official" touring company.
By that time I had long since had my fill of precocious little girls with the lung capacity of a dirigible.
Skip ahead a couple of decades. My own precocious little girls (same lung capacity, but much more shy!) both enjoy "Annie." They have the 1982 version of the movie in their catalog. This is the version that Leonard Maltin called "claustrophobic," and I have never disagreed with him on that point. I can watch it, oh, once every two or three years without getting nauseous. You know that cutesy scene in "You've Got Mail" where the little girl sings (badly) "Tomorrow?" Hurl time.
So, given all that, you can imagine my trepidation at watching an elementary school production of this over-hyped musical, especially given that my own kids don't (and won't ever) attend public school. Not once, but twice. On the same day.
Woodyette the Elder has two little friends from church who do happen to attend this particular elementary school. They have become good friends over the past year, and the Woodyette's one regret is that she can't play with her friends during recess. They all go to a book club that meets at a local library every week. Mrs. Woody thought it would be a good show of friendship to have the Woodyettes go to the show and support their friends. It was decided that all of us would go to the afternoon show to see one friend (the show had two casts to accomodate all the kids) and then the older Woodyette would return that evening with one parent or another to see the other friend.
From the moment the lights went down and the canned music began, I found myself being strangely entranced by the entire experience.
If I were to look at the whole thing from a strictly critical point of view, it would have been a complete disaster. In the first show, key characters mumbled lines, cues were dropped, "Annie" didn't quite have the top notes required for the role, and the staging was fairly wooden. Not surprising given the fact that they had to get 50 or more kids on stage during the production numbers and give them something to do other than perform personal hygiene for parents and family (and a few hundred others) to see.
Still, once the house had been called, the actor in me - the one who has performed in more than a handful of community theater productions over the years - got into the show. Generally speaking, when I witness a bad production of anything, I feel embarrassed for the performers. My worst nightmare is to be in a production that falls flat for any reason. In this case, I found myself thoroughly enjoying the fact that the kids were up there having the time of their young lives. It didn't matter to me that most of them looked like deer in the headlights at one point or another. When it came to crunch time, they went through their moves with all the precision of the Keystone Cops without a rehearsal.
I loved it. Twice, even.
So, the next time an elementary school decides to do a production of some hackneyed, full-of-itself musical, I'll probably buy a ticket.
Maybe even two.
For one thing, I burned out on "Annie" years ago. It came out at the height of my Cynical Period as I was between high school and going on a mission for the church. Suddenly, the entire country was inundated with "Annie" wannabes. At least half of them lived in my home town of Simi Valley. At least half of them appeared to be LDS.
Not long after my mission our stake put on a production of Broadway vignettes, one of which was (surprise!) "Annie." My parents and I split music director duties, and Mom drew "Annie" duty. Whew! A couple of years later, as I was entering my starter marriage, I was asked to assist Dad as an assistant musical director for a touring company version of "Annie." In a rare moment of lucidity, I bowed out before the production actually toured. They folded a year or so later after lawsuits killed the production. Seemed "Annie" was still a "hot" property even a year or so after the movie came out, and the copyright holders were none too pleased that anyone (even from Podunk, USA) would dare to compete with the "official" touring company.
By that time I had long since had my fill of precocious little girls with the lung capacity of a dirigible.
Skip ahead a couple of decades. My own precocious little girls (same lung capacity, but much more shy!) both enjoy "Annie." They have the 1982 version of the movie in their catalog. This is the version that Leonard Maltin called "claustrophobic," and I have never disagreed with him on that point. I can watch it, oh, once every two or three years without getting nauseous. You know that cutesy scene in "You've Got Mail" where the little girl sings (badly) "Tomorrow?" Hurl time.
So, given all that, you can imagine my trepidation at watching an elementary school production of this over-hyped musical, especially given that my own kids don't (and won't ever) attend public school. Not once, but twice. On the same day.
Woodyette the Elder has two little friends from church who do happen to attend this particular elementary school. They have become good friends over the past year, and the Woodyette's one regret is that she can't play with her friends during recess. They all go to a book club that meets at a local library every week. Mrs. Woody thought it would be a good show of friendship to have the Woodyettes go to the show and support their friends. It was decided that all of us would go to the afternoon show to see one friend (the show had two casts to accomodate all the kids) and then the older Woodyette would return that evening with one parent or another to see the other friend.
From the moment the lights went down and the canned music began, I found myself being strangely entranced by the entire experience.
If I were to look at the whole thing from a strictly critical point of view, it would have been a complete disaster. In the first show, key characters mumbled lines, cues were dropped, "Annie" didn't quite have the top notes required for the role, and the staging was fairly wooden. Not surprising given the fact that they had to get 50 or more kids on stage during the production numbers and give them something to do other than perform personal hygiene for parents and family (and a few hundred others) to see.
Still, once the house had been called, the actor in me - the one who has performed in more than a handful of community theater productions over the years - got into the show. Generally speaking, when I witness a bad production of anything, I feel embarrassed for the performers. My worst nightmare is to be in a production that falls flat for any reason. In this case, I found myself thoroughly enjoying the fact that the kids were up there having the time of their young lives. It didn't matter to me that most of them looked like deer in the headlights at one point or another. When it came to crunch time, they went through their moves with all the precision of the Keystone Cops without a rehearsal.
I loved it. Twice, even.
So, the next time an elementary school decides to do a production of some hackneyed, full-of-itself musical, I'll probably buy a ticket.
Maybe even two.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
#27 - A Mind of Woodyette's Own
Woodyette the Elder has decided to blog.
She's been bugging Daddy for weeks now to have a blog of her very own. Being not-quite-eight, I haven't really given it much thought, but she's been persistent. So, Daddy finally helped her create one.
Announcing: Jelly Woodyette
There's a whole insider-only explanation about "Jelly." That's a polite way of saying you won't hear about it here.
So, she'll be coached on such wonderful stuff as privacy issues and appropriate content (such a concern at this age!) and then... PUBLICATION.
The world may never be the same.
I know I won't.
She's been bugging Daddy for weeks now to have a blog of her very own. Being not-quite-eight, I haven't really given it much thought, but she's been persistent. So, Daddy finally helped her create one.
Announcing: Jelly Woodyette
There's a whole insider-only explanation about "Jelly." That's a polite way of saying you won't hear about it here.
So, she'll be coached on such wonderful stuff as privacy issues and appropriate content (such a concern at this age!) and then... PUBLICATION.
The world may never be the same.
I know I won't.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
#26 - There I Spied Her
"Where do you think you're going?" I asked her. She appeared to be struggling, as if not sure where she was or where she needed to go. I regarded her with pensive eye.
"Slippery in here, isn't it?" I continued. She seemed to pay me no heed, as if I were the least of her troubles. As opposed to the giant danger I truly represented. I watched her move back and forth. Gliding, really. Hanging from a thread I couldn't see but understood to be there.
I flicked some water in her direction. That got her attention. Instead of tentatively moving across the sheer face of the cliff, she suddenly understood that there was a new imperative. She acquired an immediate sense of purpose. Unfortunately there was little by way of shelter. A few vague early morning shadows flicked across the cliff, but offered no protection. No sense of safety.
She also seemed to struggle with the lack of foothold. Occasionally there would be a misstep, but she would somehow attach that thread to an unseen anchor and pull herself to relative safety once again. A few steps in one direction or another, then another fall. How she maintained her composure enough to reattach that thread time after time was beyond my capacity to understand.
I watched this aerial ballet for far longer than was prudent, of course. Such a simple problem, but I chose to make it more significant. After all, we are old friends.
The other day I had destroyed her web. No sign of her, that I could see, but the web needed to come down. They all did. It was my duty that day to make a general sweep of cobwebs that seem to accumulate quickly here in Orange County. So, down they came. When I wandered into the bathroom, there was that web I always saw in my shower.
The shower is, by the way, my exclusive domain. My wife has a wonderful, huge oval-shaped bathtub and will take a shower only under duress. The Woodyettes have their own bathroom, so the shower is mine. All mine. Well, mine and the spider's.
We first met three years ago. For those who may study our eight-legged friends, no, I have no idea whether this particular spider truly is the same one I encountered three years ago or some descendent. No matter. They all look alike to me.
Our relationship has always been one of considered mutual ignorance. I pay no attention to her, she pays no attention to me. But the web must go. It's visible. It tells me that some part of the house isn't truly clean, and so it must go. Out comes my duster and away goes the web. But it will return. I haven't killed the spider, and this is a nice dark corner most of the time. She will rebuild. I suspect that was her mission this morning. She was rebuilding, took one little step too far from the web, and...
In fact, this is the first time I've gotten a good look at her (I presume it's a female - don't they generally eat the males?) in several months. Most of the time, here in Orange County, it's the ants. I pay lots of attention to ants. I have killed, by my conservative estimate, enough ants to cover the national debt if you paid me one dollar per ant. The spider gets a few of them for subsistence, I suppose, but I kill the lion's share. Beyond that, we do not appear on each other's radars.
This is why this morning's encounter surprised me so. The silly arachnid never visited my shower before. Why today? Why venture right down into the cone of the volcano, so to speak? Then it hit me.
Ants. There haven't been any lately. Oh, they usually stay underground during the colder months, but rainstorms generally drive them above ground and into my house. We've had lots of rain lately. We've seen no sign of the ants. Perhaps friend spider is getting snacky.
Ah, well. Until the ants return (and rest assured they will return) the spider is on her own. Look, if she gets to looking really miserable, I'll put her out of her misery. I have no compunction. Truly.
All I ask is that she leave me alone while I'm in the shower.
"Slippery in here, isn't it?" I continued. She seemed to pay me no heed, as if I were the least of her troubles. As opposed to the giant danger I truly represented. I watched her move back and forth. Gliding, really. Hanging from a thread I couldn't see but understood to be there.
I flicked some water in her direction. That got her attention. Instead of tentatively moving across the sheer face of the cliff, she suddenly understood that there was a new imperative. She acquired an immediate sense of purpose. Unfortunately there was little by way of shelter. A few vague early morning shadows flicked across the cliff, but offered no protection. No sense of safety.
She also seemed to struggle with the lack of foothold. Occasionally there would be a misstep, but she would somehow attach that thread to an unseen anchor and pull herself to relative safety once again. A few steps in one direction or another, then another fall. How she maintained her composure enough to reattach that thread time after time was beyond my capacity to understand.
I watched this aerial ballet for far longer than was prudent, of course. Such a simple problem, but I chose to make it more significant. After all, we are old friends.
The other day I had destroyed her web. No sign of her, that I could see, but the web needed to come down. They all did. It was my duty that day to make a general sweep of cobwebs that seem to accumulate quickly here in Orange County. So, down they came. When I wandered into the bathroom, there was that web I always saw in my shower.
The shower is, by the way, my exclusive domain. My wife has a wonderful, huge oval-shaped bathtub and will take a shower only under duress. The Woodyettes have their own bathroom, so the shower is mine. All mine. Well, mine and the spider's.
We first met three years ago. For those who may study our eight-legged friends, no, I have no idea whether this particular spider truly is the same one I encountered three years ago or some descendent. No matter. They all look alike to me.
Our relationship has always been one of considered mutual ignorance. I pay no attention to her, she pays no attention to me. But the web must go. It's visible. It tells me that some part of the house isn't truly clean, and so it must go. Out comes my duster and away goes the web. But it will return. I haven't killed the spider, and this is a nice dark corner most of the time. She will rebuild. I suspect that was her mission this morning. She was rebuilding, took one little step too far from the web, and...
In fact, this is the first time I've gotten a good look at her (I presume it's a female - don't they generally eat the males?) in several months. Most of the time, here in Orange County, it's the ants. I pay lots of attention to ants. I have killed, by my conservative estimate, enough ants to cover the national debt if you paid me one dollar per ant. The spider gets a few of them for subsistence, I suppose, but I kill the lion's share. Beyond that, we do not appear on each other's radars.
This is why this morning's encounter surprised me so. The silly arachnid never visited my shower before. Why today? Why venture right down into the cone of the volcano, so to speak? Then it hit me.
Ants. There haven't been any lately. Oh, they usually stay underground during the colder months, but rainstorms generally drive them above ground and into my house. We've had lots of rain lately. We've seen no sign of the ants. Perhaps friend spider is getting snacky.
Ah, well. Until the ants return (and rest assured they will return) the spider is on her own. Look, if she gets to looking really miserable, I'll put her out of her misery. I have no compunction. Truly.
All I ask is that she leave me alone while I'm in the shower.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
#25 - Warm Fuzzy Moment of the Evening
You know those commercials where the kids haven't gone to bed yet, but when Mom checks on them they're sitting on big brother's bed while big brother holds forth with a story that he's reading himself? You know that warm-hearted yet vaguely smug smile Mom wears in the cut away? I had one of those moments tonight.
One of the Seven Deadly Habits of Children is absolute silence. Or, at least, silence to the point where Mommy and/or Daddy cannot hear them. This always signals Bad News. This is when Mommy gets that other look on her face and sends Daddy to investigate. In the background, Daddy swears he can hear the strident violins playing the Psycho Shower Sequence as he opens the kids' door and discovers that one or the other of them (he'll never get the straight story from either of them) has taken an artistic interest in their bedroom furniture featuring crayon that Daddy can already tell has soaked into the finish. Mommy and Daddy then spontaneously combust as their blood pressures read 500 over, I don't know, say 15,000. That oughta do it.
Anyway, the kids were making that kind of silence. Mrs. Woody either hadn't caught on yet that there was a lack of kid-generated white noise behind her, or her excellent ears could hear what I couldn't. Anyway, I faked a trip to the bathroom so I could surreptitiously peek in on their dirty work.
Both Woodyettes were snuggled on Mrs. Woody's big, comfy recliner sharing a book between them. The book, by the way, was "What Your Kindergartner Needs to Know," and is one of the guides Mrs. Woody has been using to develop curriculum for the five year old. Since they both can read they were busily combing through the book, finding stories to read to each other. They were taking turns, even!!
Before I could quite catch myself, I had one of those aforementioned sappy smiles on my face.
I must confess that I have those moments quite frequently these days. Seven and five can be challenging ages, but mostly they're cute. Mrs. Woody and I only occasionally have to referee when tempers get short, and when one or the other (or, worse, both!) is tired, all bets are off. Otherwise, these small ones are complete angels.
We get compliments all the time. "What adorable girls you have!" they tell us. "So well behaved, too!" We get this at Church all the time. I usually make some curmudgeonly response, but secretly I know they're right.
Bedtime has arrived, and I need to go have Song and Prayer with the fam. We do this every night. It's our own family devotional and it has worked for us from the time Woodyette the Elder was still a linoleum lizard. Even now they are coming in to tell Daddy that it's time for "Toofies."
Catch ya all later. Gotta go brush now.
One of the Seven Deadly Habits of Children is absolute silence. Or, at least, silence to the point where Mommy and/or Daddy cannot hear them. This always signals Bad News. This is when Mommy gets that other look on her face and sends Daddy to investigate. In the background, Daddy swears he can hear the strident violins playing the Psycho Shower Sequence as he opens the kids' door and discovers that one or the other of them (he'll never get the straight story from either of them) has taken an artistic interest in their bedroom furniture featuring crayon that Daddy can already tell has soaked into the finish. Mommy and Daddy then spontaneously combust as their blood pressures read 500 over, I don't know, say 15,000. That oughta do it.
Anyway, the kids were making that kind of silence. Mrs. Woody either hadn't caught on yet that there was a lack of kid-generated white noise behind her, or her excellent ears could hear what I couldn't. Anyway, I faked a trip to the bathroom so I could surreptitiously peek in on their dirty work.
Both Woodyettes were snuggled on Mrs. Woody's big, comfy recliner sharing a book between them. The book, by the way, was "What Your Kindergartner Needs to Know," and is one of the guides Mrs. Woody has been using to develop curriculum for the five year old. Since they both can read they were busily combing through the book, finding stories to read to each other. They were taking turns, even!!
Before I could quite catch myself, I had one of those aforementioned sappy smiles on my face.
I must confess that I have those moments quite frequently these days. Seven and five can be challenging ages, but mostly they're cute. Mrs. Woody and I only occasionally have to referee when tempers get short, and when one or the other (or, worse, both!) is tired, all bets are off. Otherwise, these small ones are complete angels.
We get compliments all the time. "What adorable girls you have!" they tell us. "So well behaved, too!" We get this at Church all the time. I usually make some curmudgeonly response, but secretly I know they're right.
Bedtime has arrived, and I need to go have Song and Prayer with the fam. We do this every night. It's our own family devotional and it has worked for us from the time Woodyette the Elder was still a linoleum lizard. Even now they are coming in to tell Daddy that it's time for "Toofies."
Catch ya all later. Gotta go brush now.
#24 - Reason No. 3,672 Why We Homeschool
Teachers like this.
Money quote:
You just can't buy that kind of education.
Money quote:
The mooning [of fellow staffers] followed a pattern of unusual behavior, including many incidents that went undisciplined, records show. In October, [kitchen manager Debra] McDow wrote to district officials that Bartlett told her son and other children at Pine Grove that she was "(their) worst nightmare."
You just can't buy that kind of education.
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