#124 - Hail the Conquering Hero!

The gardener comes tomorrow.

I believe it happened when the neighbor's cat went missing. Normally this sort of thing does not invoke any real emotional response from me, except for the occasional snort as I attempt to hold back the booming guffaws just begging to come out. "Your cat, you say? Missing? [snort] [choke] [cough] Oh, I'm really sorry to hear that." But when the neighbor points out that, even were the cat alive, it would be impossible to see through the six foot jungle growing in my yard, I tend to pay attention.

The Woodyettes put the final stamp on the deal. They love to follow Daddy outside from time to time. They pretend to be Dora the Explorer carving a path through the trackless wilderness immediately behind our house. They followed me out a couple of days ago and had to send up signal flares so I could find them and guide them back to the house. Fortunately for me, I had been up on a ladder at the time, poking my satellite dishes back into alignment after they got sprinkled on a few days before. Made it easier to spot the flares.

That's when I called the gardener.

I've been meaning to do this for quite a while now. I simply have no time or energy to take care of a yard any more. (There are a number of reasons for this, none of which are important to this story.) Suffice it to say that I have not put mower to lawn once so far this year. And it's been a rainy winter/spring. To add to my stress, our community has rather tough standards about appearance and have been known to send me nastygrams in the past whenever I've let the mowing go for more than a month. There was only one thing standing between me and a professional service that would cut everything down and haul it away:

The phone.

Now, you have to understand that I consider myself to be a complete techno-geek. I adore anything and everything electronic. I have three home computers and my laptop from work, all on my wireless network (although the one desktop stays wired just in case). My wife and I have cell phones. The girls have walkie talkies with up to a three mile range whenever we go on adventures. In my TV cabinet I sport a reasonable 27" screen, satellite receiver, VCR, DVR, and wireless TV adapter so I can beam whatever is playing at the moment to our personal DVD player in our bedroom whenever Mrs. Woody gets sore and needs to lay down. I don't really need a new stereo because whatever CD I choose to play can be played on any of our computers, the DVR, the personal DVD, and/or the kids' mini-boombox. I have four remotes that are worked in various combinations depending on whether we're watching a DVD, satellite, or making DVDs out of our personal video tapes. The Woodyettes have two remotes. (No, Bob, you're not alone!)

But I despise the phone. I really have no idea why this is, and I'm sure there's counselling available for this problem, but I don't care. My phone is like Charlie Brown's kite, or Calvin's bicycle. It sneers at me every time it rings and knows that the call is for me. The phone is my enemy, and no amount of diplomacy will make me accept it as a functioning part of our family. Which explains why it's taken me nearly three months to call a service to come and make my yard look less like an abandoned homestead in Winslow, Arizona.

We had our taxes filed before the ink was dry on our W-2s this year, and the refunds were not terribly long in coming. Mrs. Woody immediately began a list. (I have mentioned Mrs. Woody's propensity for list-making before. They're worth their weight in gasoline, which is saying something.) The list included all the things we really, really need to do with this tax money this year. Mrs. Woody needed a new laptop to handle all the school stuff she's got planned. We desperately need a new bed because the current one keeps attacking Mrs. Woody. She keeps waking up with fresh injuries and I'm just afraid that one of these days some well-meaning member of the church is going to see one and report me to the Bishop.

We also need our dryer repaired. It went on the fritz about six weeks ago, and I have to keep sneaking over to use the dryers in our club house after dark. This is expensive because it costs $1.00 a load (quarters only!) and about $27.00 in gas to drive the 1/8th of a mile and back. It's also uncomfortable because the ladies who always seem to be using the Excercise Room at about that hour might get the idea that I'm stalking them or something.

And, of course, if we had any money left after all of that, I wanted to hire a gardening service. It's gotten much worse since we returned from vacation. I used our vacation as a mental balm to soothe my conscience. I reasoned that what with being sick on and off all winter long, and with the stresses of preparing to leave on vacation, that my lack of yard work was somehow justifiable. I felt that, if cornered by our community 'coon dogs, I could use those excuses to fend them off until I could gather my courage, dial a few numbers, and invite some quotes on getting our yard cleaned up. So, when we returned from vacation and found that, to my surprise and chagrin, the yard had not simply shrivelled up but had instead multiplied and replenished most of the earth and a few neighboring planets, I knew I had to act.

So, last Saturday I actually picked up a phone and grabbed the latest copy of the Pennysaver. I circled three likely looking numbers and then waited for the phone to dial them. When that didn't work, I actually dialed the numbers myself, and was surprised (not a little!) that I had the fortitude to actually call all three of them. I had to leave messages at every number, but that didn't really matter. I had done it! I had actually used a phone to call someone I've never before met and ask them to stiff me for every penny they can get! I was a hero!

I strode manfully into the living room and collapsed on the couch from the sheer exhaustion of it all. "Well, Honey, I did it." Mrs. Woody gave me that politely puzzled look she gives me whenever I say something for which she has absolutely no frame of reference. Did what, exactly? "I called a few gardeners to come give me a quote." That got the desired response. Her man had actually come through in a clutch situation. It was 4th down and long, and her man had just thrown a Hail Mary pass right into the arms of a waiting receiver in the end zone! And I don't even like sports metaphors!

"That's wonderful, Woody. Now we can get the house cleaned up enough to call the dryer repair guy."

Sure. But maybe tomorrow. Today I'm still exhausted from slaying the dragon.

#123 - More Vacation Thoughts

March was a looong month.

March was the run-up to this week's vacation. As every good programmer knows, that means having deadlines on every single project in your goody bag. Plus extra meetings, just to make sure you have no chance of completing any one of those deadlines.

Boss: So, how are things going?

Me: The alligators have made it to nose level.

Boss: Good! Let me know if I can help with anything!

Me: [stunned silence]

Boss: And don't forget, we have that briefing with our Big Boss tomorrow. Let's meet all afternoon to plan our agenda.

Me: [heart attack in progress]

Boss: Can I get you a drink of something?

Me: Arsenic. Rocks. Dirty glass.

It got to the point where I spent the entire last week before we boarded the train staying up all hours of the morning to get actual work done, so I could be adequately prepared for all the meetings everyone wanted to have the next day. Consequently, my memory of the train ride from Los Angeles to San Antonio went something like this:

Depart Union Station in Los Angeles.

Close eyes.

Open eyes. "Where are we?" "Palm Springs."

Close eyes.

Open eyes. "Now where are we?" "El Paso."

And so on. I snoozed a lot on this train. Which is good, because, as I mentioned, the Sunset Limited has just about the worst on-time record of any train in Amtrak's fleet. We were told to expect anywhere from 5 to 12 hours' delay getting in to San Antonio. This is because the mainline on which the Sunset runs is owned by the ever-efficient Union Pacific Railroad, which bases its freight schedules on the sun dial which stands in front of Griffith Observatory and only operates on sunny days. I just slept through most of the delays.

We were actually pleasantly surprised to arrive at San Antonio only 90 minutes behind schedule. At one point, somewhere between El Paso and Del Rio we think the train was actually levitating just above the tracks so the engineer could make up the time. And I don't think it had anything to do with magnetics, either. I suspect the rails just got too hot for the train to keep running on them. So the train was doing the same sort of not-really-making-any-contact shuffle that I used to use when running across the hot sand at the beach every summer.

On arriving at the hotel in San Antonio we were greeted by a very friendly security guard (the thought of even needing a security guard in a hotel bothers me somewhat) who couldn't wait to inform us that the entire hotel had been overrun by cheerleaders. All shapes and sizes, and all of them in town for some state-wide cheerleading competition. He then cheerfully informed us that some of them had been reported for practicing in the halls, and that he hadn't apprehended them yet, although he knew who they were. How comforting. Despite the chilling aspect of a hotel full of cheerleaders, we managed to get a pretty decent night's sleep.

We visited the Alamo, of course. One cannot visit San Antonio and NOT visit the Alamo. There's no law against it that I know of, but you would probably feel somehow unpatriotic if you didn't pay your respects there. So we did. And it was well worth the effort to find a decent parking space. The tour of the grounds and the "shrine" are a humbling adventure. The Alamo is one of those pieces of American history with which I have never connected to my satisfaction. It's always been one of those stories that you grow up with, but have a hard time identifying with. No longer. To see the barracks and the main hall where those men defended their young republic is truly awe-inspiring. Texans identify with this event in ways Americans rarely do any more. But I get it now.

And now we're visiting with family in McKinney. It's a beautiful town and the surrounding countryside is expansive. The humidity I could do without. I'm not a big fan of any humidity above single digits. I live in California where any hint of humidity is instantly replaced by smog. That's what's missing here in McKinney; they don't have enough smog. No wonder my lungs are going crazy. Have no idea what to do with all this filthy oxygen.

Anyway, we board the train once again day after tomorrow. Back to civilization and smog and deadlines at work. We'll miss our loved ones here in Texas, but they're really only a few states away. We will see them again, and probably sooner rather than later.

We are motivated, after all.

#122 - Training for Vacation

It's finally quiet here. We have had a meeting of the cousins here at Grandma's house, and the energy levels were reminiscent of Manhattan Project forces in the desert. Apparently, when you get boy cousins in the same room with girl cousins, the mix can be explosive. And these cousins aren't even old enough to be of the hormonal variety. They're just ENERGETIC.

The boy cousins have gone home for the evening. It is, after all, a school night, and the boy cousins aren't on a nice, relaxed homeschool schedule. Our Woodyettes are, sorta, but this week it's v-e-r-y  r-e-l-a-x-e-d. This is homeschool on quaaludes. Technically speaking, Daddy is on vacation this week. We left last Friday on the Sunset Limited. The Sunset Limited used to run from Orlando, Florida to Los Angeles, California. Thanks to Katrina and about a hundred other natural disasters last year, the Limited now only runs from Los Angeles to New Orleans. We only needed it as far as San Antonio, Texas. Mrs. Woody has tried a few times to get the Woodyettes interested in a little school work, but so far their output has been, well, Limited. I mean, limited. Too many distractions, I'm afraid, to have them get serious about doing even a few pages in their current unit studies so far.

The boy cousins belong to my sister, AnoelleB of BurrHouse. They are three high energy bundles all under the age of seven. Since moving to Texas last year they don't get to play with girl cousins too often. There just aren't any living within hailing distance in any direction, so this is a real treat for the kids. My sister brought them over to Grandma's house today so they could play while she made dinner, including a beautiful Almond Roca birthday cake for Grandma. Happy Birthday, Grandma! Happy twenty-ninth! Again! Grandma and Grandpa Bob were on their way home from a visit to the Pacific Northwest and had no idea of the devastations being perpetrated on their humble abode. They will be picking cake crumbs out of the carpet for a week.

In the meantime, Woody was trying to remember what he was supposed to do on vacations. Relaxing just feels so... so... unnatural anymore. I read a short book, feeling guilty all the while that I wasn't doing dishes or vacuuming a room somewhere. I got over it, however. Besides, the kids were building up to a pitch that nearly required inserting sharp metal objects in my ear canals or risk having my drums burst on their own. They were being awfully cute for the most part, but there was the occasional flare up.

SCENE: The living room of Grandma NanZ. Woody is sitting on the couch, reading. Suddenly, a blood-curdling screech, followed by the sort of wail that requires long, rasping intakes of breath between howls.

Boy Cousin 1: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! [inhale] aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Boy's Mother: Oh, now what?

Boy Cousin 2: Mommy! Joseph fall down! Hurt head!

Boy's Mother: Oookay. What really happened?

Doodle Woodyette: I wasn't there!

She said that because of a similar incident earlier in the day, wherein the smallest boy cousin (he of iron lung) fell off the guest bed. She had been playing a game with him, and figured it was her fault he got hurt. That's probably true, but it's also probably true that he would have gotten hurt some other way whether she helped him or not.

Aaah. Vacation.

So we have another few days in town here before we get to jump back on the Limited and head back for Los Angeles. Grandma and Grandpa will have their home to themselves once again, and their floors will be clean. They will visit my sister and her family frequently, on my sister's turf to minimize stress on the carpeting. But everyone will miss our girls, and we, in turn, will miss everyone here. We frequently use vacations to remember just how precious our families are, and how much we enjoy their company. Of course, each family has its own dynamics, and it's always a relief when we can be on our own, where the rules of engagement are familiar and we can enforce (or relax) them as needed. Then we'll go back to missing our family.

That's when we plan the next vacation.

#121 - Seeing Through Graduated Lenses

Back when I was yet a lad, my mother was informed of her high school's 30th reunion. My memories are fuzzy about whether she actually attended. I want to say she went to one, perhaps her 25th, but Mom would have to verify that for me.

Whether or not she went to an actual reunion, I thought it not at all unreasonable for Mom to be having such a thing as a 30th reunion. After all, I had grown and was out of the house by then. Furthermore, Mom was old enough to be having 30th reunions. It all just sort of fit.

The other day, whilst worrying about losing a lung due to bronchitis, I received a phone call. "This is the Royal High Reunion Committee letting you know that we'll be having our 30th Reunion this summer!" He said this in the tone of voice reserved for the very same telemarketers we have forever banished from our phone. You know... the ones who want to give you a Free Prize! No obligation! All we ask is that you listen to a brief (as measured by a calendar) presentation after which we will HOLD YOU HOSTAGE UNTIL YOU UNDERSTAND THE BENEFITS OF TIME-SHARE VACATION CONDOS!

He continued. "We just wanted to make sure that you're the same Woody who used to live in Simi Valley and graduated from Royal in 1976." Hmph. Well, you found me. "Great! Can I update your address so we can send you an invitation?" Oh, why not. Beats having you buy it from a telemarketer.

So I gave him my address. Today the invitation arrived. It sits, unopened, on my dining room table. I feel safe having it sit on that table right now, because the table has become a black hole. This is because the Woodyettes have piled enough toys and paper-doll materials on top of it to increase its mass to roughly the weight of a small planet, and it now has its own gravity. I feel thus assured that the invitation will either disappear into the void, or, at the very least, be prevented from being opened due to the flap of the envelope weighing now about 900 pounds.

But of course you know what will happen. One day I will innocently pass the table which Mrs. Woody will have cleared off so she can hold school there. The invitation will see me heading for the little Programmer's room where I will be intending to catch up on some crucial study materials. Instead, the invitation will leap into my hands, and I will read it while sitting on my "thinking chair," and suddenly the house will quake at the sound of my desperate wailing, "NOOOOOoooooo!!!"

Because let's face it; the last thing I want to do is find out how all those stoners from my youth have fared in life to this point. This was The Seventies. The Seventies were the devil-spawn children of The Sixties. You were either stoned, gonna be stoned, or getting a buzz from all the stoners sitting next to you in class. This explains disco and platform shoes. The Seventies were bad enough to spawn their own hideous retro TV series. That's how bad it was. So the thought that I might actually come face-to-face with that particular part of my past is, shall we say, somewhat less than palatable.

I spent most of the Eighties recovering from the Seventies. I was both a jerk and a geek in high school. Despite that, I somehow managed to create a reasonably normal life for myself after I graduated. Two years in the Mayan high country had something to do with it. I have no idea how the kids who burned 30% of their brain cells before they graduated would have done that. Lots of beer and Dr. Phil, is my guess.

And there's one more haunting question about this so-called "reunion." When did I ever become old enough to be having a 30th reunion, huh? Tell me, huh? I AM NOT THAT OLD. Not by a long shot. At most, I should be having, oh, a 15th reunion, or even (I'll be generous here) a 20th. But not a 30th.

'Course, I do have 22 years with my company right now, and if you count my starter marriage I would have been married, lessee... it'll have been 22 years this year, not counting my year in de-tox before marrying Mrs. Woody. I also have a son who's nearly 19 now... and a daughter who is, well, older than that...

Hm.

So, okay, I guess 30 is not such a far-fetched number at that. Come to think of it, when Mom's school had its 30th reunion, Mom was still pretty much a spring chicken. Not really all that old. Still had kids at home (this isn't saying much... she had to get re-married and move to Texas last year before she didn't have kids at home), and the first grandchild was still a year away...

Alright. 30th reunions are no big deal. So I'm nearly 48 this year. So what? Lots of people are turning 48 this year. In fact, at this age I command a certain amount of respect in the world. I have experience, doggone it. I've been around, Bucko... I could teach you a thing or two! Yeah! Let's hear it for the Not Quite Senior set! Who cares if I got a 30th reunion invitation? Not me, I'll tell ya that!

'Course, I still won't go. After all, I still have my pride.

#120 - The Mail of the Species

It's a ritual that I have performed nearly every day of my marriage to Mrs. Woody. First, when we lived in a townhouse in Ventura County, and now in our home in Anaheim. Six days out of the week I visit our mailbox and see what the disgruntled postal worker has delivered.

The ritual is now enhanced because our neighborhood has trash cans strategically placed around the mailboxes so that people can preview their mail and deal with it accordingly. Those cans are nearly full just about every time I visit the mailbox.

Tonight I stopped by on my way home from the store. It's Saturday, so of course we're sick. Mrs. Woody started it, and I picked up on it the very next day. Some sort of head cold with all the attendant chest congestion and accompanying fevers. Loads of fun. This time, though, we found ourselves a bit short on medicine, so I went to the store [switches to Guy Mode] dragged my coughing, hacking corpse out of bed, fevers raging with every step, [returns to Regular Mode] and picked up a few necessaries. I generally stop by the mail on my way home.

One glance at the Third Class Mail cans told me that the sacrificial lamb for today was Adelphia Cable. Bless their little hearts. They are, of course, the only game in town if you want cable rather than satellite, and ever since the big scandal with their founders they've been trying harder than ever to win back the business. Their pricing structure is now such that, frankly, I'm astonished that they remain in business at all. I suspect that if the FCC and local governments weren't so concerned about the appearance of monopolies (as opposed to the enforced cable servitude that we currently experience), Adelphia would have disappeared long ago. Yet here they are, advertising yet another ludicrous discounted rate in a vain attempt to win business from us.

Judging from the Third Class Mail repositories, they have a loooong battle ahead.

From our perspective, we will join Adelphia just about the time that the Democrats put together a coherent platform. Or the Republicans. Take your pick. For one thing, Adelphia doesn't offer BYU-TV. We must have BYU-TV. Adelphia doesn't carry it, so that's that. Also, I love the convenience of having certain programming go haywire every time it rains, which is what happens with our Dish service. If the clouds are thick enough, we don't watch TV. This is probably a good thing, and encourages the correct behavior. Tonight, for example, I finally realized there is a God when this latest storm interrupted "George of the Jungle 2." The Woodyettes were distraught. I may slip a little extra in my Dish bill this month.

But back to the mailbox. This ritual of pre-recycling our mail is quite the time saver. For example, not one of those little postcard-sized mailers that have missing children on one side and carpet cleaners on the other has ever darkened Hacienda Woody. I take a quick look at the missing kids, realize that I never get out enough to ever see one, and refuse to even glance at the flip side. Carpet cleaning, maid services... whatever. I have never, in my adult life, looked at one of these mailers, slapped my forehead and exclaimed, "My gosh! I need to have my carpet cleaned! Of course!" Have you ever decided to get your carpets cleaned just because you got one of these mailers? Neither have I.

Most unfortunately, third class mailers are getting more clever about getting thrown unceremoniously away. They spend vast amounts of money to mail these things out, and they want a return on their investment. They need to get these things from the mailbox into my home, and the way they do that is to put my name on it. In ancient times, federal law mandated that they use the words "OCCUPANT" or "RESIDENT" to clearly indicate that this was throw-away mail. But now, because of identity theft, the third class world is cottoning on to the idea that if they put my name on it, I will take it into my house. Where we will promptly shred it. But at least it's IN MY HOUSE. It's a partial victory, but a hard-earned one.

By the way, we have one of those cross-cut shredders that turns everything into confetti. I like this shredder.

The ironic part, of course, is that these mailers get my information from those companies who constantly tell me that my privacy is their highest concern. I haven't yet figured out how they square the ethics of this practice, but I'm sure it's in their corporate training program somehow.

So the ritual continues. One day, soon, I'll pass it along to my Woodyettes, who will, in turn, pass it along to their children.

The Great Circle of Mail continues.

#119 - Overheard in La Casa Woody

Doodle Woodyette, after watching "George of the Jungle" thirteen consecutive times:

Aaaaah-AH-ah-AH-aaaaaaaaaaah-AH-ah-AH-aaaaaaah!

Funny thing is, she sounds just like that little monkey scaring off the big, ferocious lion in the movie.

Cute.

#118 - Corrupting Young Minds

I know it may worry some liberals out there that my girls are growing up in a conservative home. You can bet I lose precious sleep every night worrying about all those kids who are growing up in liberal homes, so I'm just assuming that this is a reciprocal problem. Mrs. Woody and I are, needless to say, indoctrinating our Woodyettes with all sorts of conservative propaganda, and are making good and sure that they grow up to be good little (gasp!) right-wingers. As defined by those who care about such things, that is. Personally, I never got into this "liberal vs. conservative" nonsense until I was in my thirties, and then only reluctantly. Yes, I adhere to very traditional conservative values, because those values are taught by the Church as part of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Why else would I live the way I do? Why else would I want my girls to do the same? It's really just that simple, although there are those "out there" who try to make it a much more complex issue than it really is.

But it's time for another confession. You know... confession being good for the soul and all that: I am corrupting my girls.

Those who are acquainted with my extended family of Woodys will instantly recognize perhaps the root of all that is insidious in our gene pool. We have some of the quirkiest senses of humor that God ever put on this earth, and I point the finger of blame squarely at my father. This is, of course, no surprise. I always blame Dad for my sense of humor because a) it happens to be true, and b) he ain't around to defend himself anymore. Yeah, sure, I'll have to deal with all of this on the other side of the veil at some point, but I'd like to see him wiggle his way out of it.

Now, according to my mother (who is still around to defend herself), I started life as a very sweet, innocent little boy. Quite angelic, in fact. I even had strawberry blonde hair that would melt the heart of any martinet who might happen to cross my path. (She usually reminisces about the "sweet and angelic" part immediately preceding her memories of what a brat I was every time we visited the doctor and wore out every nurse who tried to stick a needle in my back during allergy tests. Go figure.)

At some point, however, I turned from a sweet and innocent boy into a crazed, megalomaniacal dictator of a big brother who ruled by open intimidation (Mom always forgets this part... my siblings do not) and even sported, of all things, a cackle that was vaguely reminiscent of Snidely Whiplash.

You see, Dad had chosen to take us to see a movie one night, and that movie was [CUE: theme from "Psycho!"] "The Great Race."

From that moment on I began channeling "Professor Fate."

Those of you who remember the movie will hopefully understand its attraction to me. It was a campy melodrama in the "Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines" vein, and the over-acting was quite deliberate. Tony Curtis couldn't have been a more perfect "Great Leslie," and in my mind, Jack Lemmon should have won every acting award Hollywood had to offer just for his performance as "Professor Fate." It was inspired casting all around.

It was, however, Lemmon's delivery that tickled the funny bone of a nascent young actor. When the movie came out (1965) I was still a good four years away from my first experience as an actor, but I had all the makings of one even at that tender age. Lemmon inspired me. We saw the movie only once or twice, and it wouldn't appear on television again for a few years after that. But I found myself making Fate's insane cackle my signature laugh. I got to where I could do a fairly passable imitation of the Professor on demand. I even

[NOTE TO ASPIRING YOUNG ACTORS WISHING TO KNOW THE SECRET OF WOODY'S SUCCESS ON STAGE: What follows is it. This is what made me the actor I became. Follow this advice at your own peril.]

practiced Fate's facial expressions, including the eyebrows, in the mirror religiously for hours every day of my young life. In point of fact, if I had spent anywhere near as much time on my homework as I spent in front of the mirror, I would be President of the United States today. Lessons to the would-be wise.

Last Saturday, while waiting for Olympic coverage to once again take over our alpha brain waves, I looked for something to watch that wouldn't require much attention on my part. I decided to put our "Great Race" DVD in the player because I haven't watched it for a couple of years now, and thought it would be fun. I wasn't disappointed, and soon found myself guffawing at all the classic Professor Fate antics and wishing that Hollywood would make movies "like that" once again. Then, all of a sudden it seemed, my Woodyettes were sitting on the couch with me, watching just as intently as I was.

I was a little puzzled, because this isn't exactly their kind of entertainment. Their entertainment usually consists of young children, preferably at least one blonde and one brunette, involved in some sort of life-or-death exercise involving, at a minimum, one pegasus. There are no children in "The Great Race" except for the urchins who are scribbling graffiti ("Fate loves Fate") on Fate's gate to his property, or the kid who punches Max in the gut because Fate popped his balloon before the start of the race.

Then it dawned on me. It's not the movie that has them riveted. It's Daddy.

Years ago, when my Dad took his brood to the theater to see "The Great Race," I remember listening to Dad chuckle his way through the movie. Almost invariably he was chuckling at Professor Fate, and this made a great impression on me. Even years later, watching the film on television (which became a Woody tradition in the days before VCRs), Dad would chuckle heartily at Professor Fate and Max. I thoroughly enjoyed listening to Dad chuckle. It had a nearly narcotic effect on me, and I found myself wanting to be an actor just like Lemmon so I could make Dad chuckle. It worked, sometimes. When I wasn't being an idiot teenager, anyway.

So I suspect that, more than anything else, my Woodyettes like to hear their Daddy laugh. It must be a comfort thing, when you stop to think about it. If Daddy is laughing, things must be right with the world. It's a signal that all is well, and Daddy isn't stressing about anything at that moment, which means Daddy won't be yelling at them for any reason in the immediate future. I think I understand this now.

Thus Daddy has resolved to do more to make his girls feel more comfortable with life. Oh, I can't realistically expect that I will never show the stresses that I sometimes feel. One can't really be an adult without feeling (and occasionally showing) stress. But if I make that an exception in my life, rather than a rule, my family will benefit accordingly.

I need to make my girls laugh. Guess I'd better spend more time in front of the mirror.

#117 - Air! We Have Air!

Back in November I groused about our air conditioner being on the fritz. Only in California would we complain about not having air conditioning in November, but there you are. Appended to my "Autumn in California" post were several helpful suggestions along the lines of going out, looking at the fuse box, and making sure there were no dead bugs preventing contact.

I actually allowed myself that snarky feeling that, ha!, I had already done that and verified that the contact was clean. The fact that I checked that same fuse several times had less to do with paranoia and more to do with a growing desperation that I was going to have to call out the repair guy before I was good and ready. "Good and ready" in this case is defined as "having received my tax refunds for the year."

So once my refunds showed up, I felt that we could tackle some of the more annoying things that we've been artfully avoiding all winter long.

To understand what happened next, you need to get better acquainted with my home owner skills. Like Dave Barry, I was born without the Mr. Goodwrench gene that magically allows guys to undertake nearly any home improvement project - up to and including adding additional rooms to the house and making them look like they belong to the house - without fear of having their beloved spouse gently pull them to one side and whisper softly in their ear, "Honey, time to call a carpenter."

Well, calling a carpenter would probably be a much faster solution, but it can be an economically challenging one. The average house call for a carpenter (the one where he comes out, looks at your project, and actually chuckles in anticipation of his next Caribbean cruise) costs about as much as your next three car purchases combined. So it is that you find yourself wandering the aisles of Home Depot, hoping that something will jump out at you that says "we gotcher floor-under-the-toilet repair kit right here!" And, of course, it never works right. You try so hard to follow the instructions that were written by bitter college students that just found out you have to pass tests and everything just to graduate, and still it looks like something that London would pay good money to put in front of their government offices as art. This is not a compliment.

The bottom line is that my home improvement skills are measured not in terms of acumen, but rather in terms of criminal malfeasance.

With that in mind I am happy to report that I have fixed our air conditioner problem. I know you're curious as to how, exactly, I managed it. You might be interested to know that it was, in fact, my washing machine that led me to the solution. I was all set to do a load of darks yesterday. I don't normally do laundry on the Sabbath, but this was an emergency. I had no dark socks that were clean and had passed their smog certs. Can't go to work like that, so I dropped a load into the wash and pulled the timer out. This is usually the signal the water is waiting for so it can begin filling the tub, which is my signal to close the lid and get out of its way.

Except that, this time, it didn't happen. I must have diddled with that darn'd timer for five full minutes before I finally figured out that, somehow, the washer wasn't getting any electricity. (In my defense, I was fooled by the false positive given off by the light in the laundry room, which was working.) Having broken the code, I immediately went outside to check the circuit box because that's what we highly trained home improvement savants do when the electricity isn't working on one of our major appliances. Sure enough, I noticed that the circuit marked "Washer" had been tripped, and I reset it. Just before closing the circuit box, however, I also noticed that, directly across from the "Washer" circuit, there was another circuit labelled "Air Cond" that - funnily enough - also appeared to be tripped.

Huh. Whattayaknow.

At this moment in time I was feeling more than a little sheepish. After all, a couple of weeks earlier Mrs. Woody and I were sitting down and budgeting our tax returns. Under "heating and air" we had budgeted something like $1500 in case we had to replace something major. With that firmly in mind, I tiptoed across the kitchen to the thermostat, set the temperature down a few degrees, and threw the "Cool" switch. I tiptoed back across the kitchen to the floor vent that we use as a flash freezer whenever we're feeling really warm and need to have icicles instantly appear on our foreheads, which is what happens whenever the air conditioner is working. Yep. Sure enough. Ice crystals began forming on my upper lip.

"Um, Honey? I think I solved our air conditioner problem."

I have rarely been more embarrassed in my life.

Fortunately, Mrs. Woody looked on this as a direct answer to prayer, and I am content not to disabuse her of that notion. Although, I sure wish the Spirit had acted on me sooner so we could have avoided all these warm days we've had in February. As it turns out, the miracle - such as it was - had a limited shelf life. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It's wonderful knowing that we have our air conditioner back, and we look forward to using it again just as soon as this freezing rain stops in a few days. On the other hand, our dryer won't work now.

Yes, I already checked the circuit breaker. You think I wouldn't check that first??

#116 - The Ball is Back

I've mentioned The Ball before. This is the primary conveyance for my elder daughter when she wants to get from one end of the house to the other in the least possible efficient way. She literally bounces up on the ball, scoots it forward with one hand, using the other hand in a sort of ride-em-cowboy posture while destroying everything in her path.

The Ball, you see, has grown.

You know that old cult classic starring Steve McQueen wherein something that looks like chocolate pudding with an attitude begins oozing out of buildings and threatens to eat an entire city? I think The Ball has been watching that movie. Last I saw, it was a relatively small yellow ball, such as you might see on a playground being tossed around by a bunch of third-graders. Then I blinked, and the thing expanded by roughly 200% of its total mass. It also turned white, which I explain as being the result of its newly acquired appetite for white meat.

Charlie Brown had his kite. Calvin had his bicycle. Woody has The Ball. You may laugh, but I know it's out to get me. It waits, silently, in darkened passages of the house. It knows that sooner or later I have to get up and visit the restroom. Then, WHAM, it will knock me down and begin kneading me like three-day old sourdough. And when one's bladder is already painfully full... well, you get the idea.

I also believe it has somehow acquired the ability to chuckle. It does this very softly, and only when I'm close by. But I can hear it. I also believe it has eyes. Why else would it turn to follow my movements whenever I walk past it?

The sound it makes when my daughters bounce on it is particularly blood-chilling. Whang-a, Whang-a, Whang-a, Whang-a! I think this is where ancient African tribes first learned about battle rhythms and war dances. This sound is enough to make me curl up in a fetal position on my bed and whimper under the covers until it goes away.

My daughters, it goes without saying, think this is highly amusing. Funny Daddy! How could he be scared of this wonderful Ball of ours? See his face? Did you know it could turn that funny color?

Just wait, though. One day they will grow up and get married. They'll have children of their own. Then, one night, they'll be navigating their way to the restroom when they'll suddenly hear a soft chuckle. And they'll know it's too late.

The Ball will have won another round.

#115 - The Inner Dad Suffers Cosmic Thoughts

The Inner Dad is all about the idea that, grump though we might, most of us actually enjoy the idea of being a dad.

Bill Cosby talks about having five children, and that the reason they had five children was that they didn't want six. And those they had they wanted to get out of the house, preferably before he and Camilla grew old and died. That's the public Cosby; the funny one. Privately, though, he's been through more than a few joys and heartaches with his brood (not least of which is losing his son in a tragic incident), and I feel certain that he does not begrudge any time he may get to share with those kids today.

My own Dad was enough of a curmudgeon that we kids spent most of our childhoods not understanding him. At all. We all knew at some level that Dad loved us. But I also harbored a sneaking suspicion that, given the chance, he would have shipped me off to military school for a nickel. Now, of course, I recognize all of that as absolute hogwash. I have since revised my estimation of the man to an understanding that it would have taken more like a fifty-cent piece.

Really, once you figured Dad out, he was a great guy. My brothers-in-law have both stated (and their wives have secretly groused) that Dad always made them feel more than welcome in his home. Mrs. Woody was also made to feel that way. In fact, Mrs. Woody is probably why Dad never got comfortable around my first wife - one of those signs I should have been reading so early in my adult life. Mrs. Woody was always one of Dad's favorites from the time we were both in high school and I had all the social acumen of roofing tar. Dad, as much as anyone, was largely responsible for the fact that Mrs. Woody and I had one (count 'em! One!) date while we were still young enough to know everything. If not for Dad we might have never gotten past my own ineptitude. Thankfully I grew out of that after my divorce. Anyway, having harbored hopes that I would eventually get a clue, any female in my life that wasn't the accept-no-substitutes Mrs. Woody just wouldn't have cut it.

You can imagine that I have expended a lot of energy trying so hard to be a different sort of dad than my own father was. It probably also would not surprise you in the least to understand that every passing year brings me that much closer to precisely that image of him. Except...

I do try harder to maintain an open line of affectionate communication with my kids. I have so few regrets with respect to Dad now, but this is one of them. When I reach waaay back in my dusty bag of memories, there's one that actually is rather endearing. It involves being a squirt, not much older than my Doodle Woodyette, and being able to nestle up against Dad's arm in church. I even remember feeling drowsy and, perhaps, dozing a bit. Sacrament will do that, sometimes, to a young boy who knows that Dad will shorten his life expectancy if he so much as blows another spit wad at the girl sitting in front of him. But, interestingly, it is Dad that resides in this memory, not Mom. Oh, I had plenty of snuggle time with Mom when I was little. I suspect Mom felt I grew out of that all too quickly. But in church, on a sleepy Sunday, I remember Dad. And then our relationship evolved.

It probably happened in conjunction with the formation of my personality. As my own opinions and tastes were formally articulated, it placed me on a higher level, I believe, of expectation. Dad expected me to assume greater responsibility as I passed through my adolescent phases, and I would interpret that expectation as being unreasonable in the extreme. That's about the time I believe I stopped understanding Dad. And this I regret.

Still, I am who I am because of Dad, at least in part. I have inherited more than a little of his dry, often ironic sense of humor. I have also inherited more of his physique than I feel comfortable with. But I am comfortable with the image of Dad that I have become. The peculiar swagger with which he walked I seem to have assimilated. The hairline, the horizontal tie... I have become like my Dad.

Somehow, I think, he's happy about that.

#114 - Another Homeschool "Discussion"

Interesting post over at Splendid Sun. Craig describes his own experiences with homeschooled children and finds them largely to be socially challenged. Aside from quoting the usual tired statistics and anecdotal evidences, it is the comment section that tells the real story.

It sometimes reaches a point where we begin to think that perhaps we should lobby to become a minority group along the lines of the gay rights bunch. We need some sort of protection so we can claim that someone is "homeschoolophobic" whenever they disagree with what we're doing.

To Craig's credit, he insists that the discussion remain civil. Most of the commenters are abiding by that rule (including, I hope, myself), but there are definite prejudices on display on both sides of the argument.

Really, folks. We freely admit that there are kooks out there who happen to homeschool and shouldn't. But please, please, please don't impugn the rest of us based on that kind of evidence. We homeschool, and our girls are thriving.

What other evidence need we present?

</flame>

#113 - Home(land) Security

(Note: I struggled over whether this was more appropriate for the Woundup or the Inner Dad. I finally decided that this was important enough to cross-post on both. Another first for Woody.)

So what do the Patriot Act and your own house rules for kids and internet access have in common? Hopefully, more than you might expect.

This morning during the commute I was tuned to our local news blatherers, hoping for some sort of update on the fire situation here. (For the record, the so-called "Sierra" fire is growing, but seems to be staying on the unpopulated side of the freeway for now. A couple of hot spots flared overnight, but firefighters beat them down quickly and the evacuated areas are still relatively unaffected.) One of the things the talking heads have been salivating over for the past few days is the sting operation recently undertaken to catch sexual predators as they tried to rendevous with kids they thought they were meeting over the internet.

Aside from a minor discussion regarding whether or not this constituted "entrapment," (it didn't, according to the folks who sponsored the operation) I was once again struck by the need for people to state the obvious: kids cannot be allowed to freely wander the internet in today's society. And it has nothing to do with any federal, state, or local statutes that may be on the books. It has everything to do with parents protecting their children by enforcing stricter controls over their access privileges.

I've had this discussion before; most recently in a couple of lessons at church. One of the most obvious ways to enforce appropriate access to internet resources is for that access to be strictly supervised by the parents. Liberal (sorry... the word works here) use of parental control software would be considered a bare minimum. The suggestion I liked best was having all computers out in open traffic areas, where there is no expectation of privacy. I understand that some folks get a little queasy about invading their teenagers' rights to privately communicate with friends, but the internet is precisely where that privacy often gets those kids into trouble. Trouble they are ill equipped to handle. Far better to encourage open communication at this stage of life, rather than risk having them stalked by predators who may end their childhoods (if not their lives) prematurely.

In fact, this is where this sort of policing is not unlike the Patriot Act. It has its fans, to be sure, but I can't think of anyone who enjoys the need for the Act. I'm sure we'd all like to be back in our relatively safe and secure pre-9/11 world. I can't think of anyone (excepting perhaps the FBI and other law enforcement types) who really wishes we could have regular wire tapping all the time. But the reality is that we are (as the White House is suddenly fond of reminding us) a nation at war, and war is a mitigating circumstance. We would love nothing better than to trust everyone living within our borders, but we simply can't. We need vigilance, and the Patriot Act allows a higher degree of vigilance than we might normally have.

Likewise, we are also a society at war. The enemy, for purposes of this discussion, is everyone "out there" who feels that their sexual appetites make our children legitimate targets. And one of the larger battlegrounds is no farther away than your computer. There is no "safe" age at which a child may have unrestricted, unsupervised access to that battleground. Even with all the legitimate uses for which the internet was created, the margins of safety are too slim to allow kids to use it with impunity.

Does this sound overly restrictive? Perhaps. In fact, yes, I admit it, I plan on being just that restrictive where my girls are concerned. They are far too precious to me to not take every precaution I reasonably can. Mrs. Woody and I have a deeply vested interest in both their upbringing and their safety. They will simply grow up to understand that there are, in fact, secure ways to communicate with friends. They will understand that, unless some major changes occur between now and "then," the internet is not one of them. I sure wish this were 40 years ago when such things were virtually unknown, but it's not. I wish I could trust even my closest neighbors with my precious daughters, but, with few exceptions, I can't. Not yet, anyway.

Do I have a solution? Well, for as long as the technology exists, a phone call and the price of a stamp still work for me. For pretty much everything else, Dad plans to butt in. There is, after all, no expiration date for my Patriot Act - Home Edition.

#112 - Potter Watch: Order of the Phoenix

Being, as I am, in touch with my Inner Dad, I am not ashamed to admit that I am a hard-core Potter-phile. Since Mrs. Woody and I first became acquainted with the series we have followed it like religious acolytes waiting for the next saintly image to appear in someone's breakfast food. We breathlessly join the multitudes who beg J. K. Rowling to for pity's sake hurry up and write Book Seven. But not too quickly, since we know this is the last of the Potter story and will then have only the seven books to hold our interest. So drag it out, but hurry, ok?

Yes, I know, this makes me a pathetic old man. Deal with it.

Anyway, for good or evil I also happen to be a big fan of the movies. Say what you will about each director's style and technique, I find that I can easily transition from film to film without skipping a beat. The stories still hold my interest even after multiple viewings, just as the books can still entertain me after about the twentieth read-through. I even thoroughly enjoyed Goblet of Fire, even though many fault the film for trying to cram too much into too little time. I may not let the Woodyettes see it for about ten more years, but I'm sure they'll enjoy it when I ultimately give in and remind myself that they really are growing up faster than I care to admit.

Thus it is with great interest that I read today of the casting of key roles in Order of the Phoenix. Actors who will portray Nymphadora Tonks, Bellatrix LeStrange, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and even the batty Arabella Figg have been announced. I've seen photos of most of them now and they look like they'll fit their characters just fine, thank you. The one that makes me most nervous, however, is the actress who will portray perhaps the pivotal character of the fifth book, the hideous Dolores Umbridge.

Here's my dilemma. As a fan of both the books and the movies, I quite naturally visualize the characters using the actors who portray them as I go back and re-read the books. I even try to use some of their vocal characteristics whenever I read the books outloud, as Mrs. Woody and I are wont to do when we want some together time. (Once an actor, always an actor.) For example, I use Robbie Coltrane's gravelly delivery whenever I voice Hagrid. My voice gets sore quicker when I do that, but Coltrane is my visualization of Hagrid and always will be. Likewise, I can use some of the characteristics of Dame Maggie Smith's Minerva McGonagall, as she will always be whom I envision as that character.

This is not to say that my mental/vocal images from the books always synch up with the casting of the films. I use the voice Richard Harris gave to Dumbledore (in the first film, moreso than the second) when I read aloud, even though I appreciate the visualization of Michael Gambon more in the films. Gambon's voice even matches more closely the description Rowling herself gave the character, but I still use the somewhat breathy delivery that Harris used.

In other words, for the pivotal characters of the books, the actors cast to play them on film become extremely important to my later enjoyment of the books. I need to visualize Alan Rickman as Snape (even if I use my own "oily" voice) in order to properly assign my anger to his actions. It helps, anyway.

So hopefully you will understand my nervousness over the casting of Dolores Umbridge. Firstly, it has nothing to do with the actress herself. I am certain she has the chops for the role, and I'm equally certain (after seeing a publicity shot from Nanny McPhee) that she can look the part. But that will depend largely on the people who will create that look for the film, such as the makeup artists and the director himself, and I won't know how they did until the film comes out. That means a whole year and half to sweat while the film goes through its production phases.

The role of Umbridge is, moreso than other characters, a true caricature. Her description in the book is such that any deviation from it in the film will instantly destroy that characterization for me. She needs to look short and squat. She needs to have the simpering, faux little girl voice, right down to the pronounced "hem, hem!" that so annoys all who hear it. She needs to have those silly black bows in her hair. She also needs to be cold-blooded and ruthless; the epitome of the calculating career politician. If she is not all of these things, I will be sorely disappointed.

Past experience tells me I'm probably worrying over nothing. I was just as nervous over the casting of Aunt Marge for the second film, and she turned out to be the perfect embodiment. Other shortcuts or mis-castings from the films have not affected the major characters, so they have no real bearing on my ability to visualize when reading.

Speaking of which, if everything goes right we'll have both the next film and the last book coming out in roughly the same timeframe next year.

I can't wait.

#111 - The Mighty Fridge

There's a scene in "Sleepless in Seattle" that always cracks me up. It has nothing to do, really, with any of the primary characters, or even the plot of the movie. It's all about the refrigerator.

You know the scene... Sam Baldwin (Tom Hanks) arrives at his latest project. The owner of the house (who also happens to be enthralled with Sam) is genuinely concerned about the space available for her new refrigerator. Must be able to hold those catering trays, after all. To accomodate, Sam the Architect informs her that they'll have to knock out a load-bearing wall and set the project back by another six months.

I laugh because I realize that I will never, ever have a refrigerator quite that large. And it has nothing to do with capacity. I have, what, 17 or so cubic feet in my current fridge, and that seems to be adequate for our food storage needs. It fits neatly in the space allotted for it by the manufacturers of my manufactured home. So what's funny?

Surface area! I need surface area. I have two elementary school-aged daughters, and they have a combined annual artistic output equivalent to a small rain forest in Central America. I have a revolving account with my local paper distributor. It's ironic, really, given my work in creating paperless environments for my customers at work. But the need for children to draw, paint, color, and otherwise create pictures is deeply rooted in their psyches. Along with that need is the need to have their work displayed so that all who see it can acknowledge the genius of their work. And the refrigerator is the logical place to display their masterpieces.

It's so simple. They draw a picture in which they take considerable pride. We have plenty of magnets. All that's required is to decide which previous magnum opus to take down to make room for the new one. The fridge also has an array of magentized toys with which the girls play on occasion. These take away from the potential display space on the fridge, but it's a relatively minor inconvenience.

So what I have, in my kitchen, is a large, magnetic art museum. It may have food on the inside, but it has priceless works of art on the outside. I feel no need to upgrade this display case. For one thing, my kitchen space dictates how large a display ca... sorry, refrigerator I can have. For another, why should I pay $2,800 for a display case?? You didn't know you could blow $2,800 on a fridge? Go visit the Sears.com refrigerator shop. And that's the sale price.

To be honest, I'm not entirely certain just what color our refrigerator is. I haven't seen it for a couple of years now. I think it's white. I know it's white on the inside because I just had to clean every surface of it the other day. But I don't dare disturb the layers of art on the outside. Indeed, it's not altogether uncommon for the fridge to regurgitate an occasional picture when it gets too full. I can always tell... I'll either open one of the doors, or brush up against it when walking by, and a picture will float gently to the floor. I will look in vain for a clear space that might indicate its original position. Ultimately I give up, and file the picture away in a drawer where we stash all such things that we just can't bring ourselves to toss.

Probably we'll end up getting a new fridge before we get rid of the art. Then we'll heave the sigh of parents who realize that their daughters aren't their little girls anymore.

I hope that day takes its time getting here.

#110 - The Trauma and the Ecstasy

Triumph Over the Tooth

Doodle is the baby of the family. She turned six before Christmas last year, and has stubbornly held on to her baby teeth until just this month.

Of course it was a big deal when older sister Jelly went through it. That first loose tooth is a major milestone. It signals the end of an infancy. (Yeah, yeah... I know. I've read the "experts." Trust me... this is where baby is no longer a baby.) Learning how to crawl; taking that first step; the wagering over what baby's first word would be ("Hah! I toldja she'd say 'Da' first! Pay up!" "But Sweetie, she always says that when she's filling her pants."); all of these are important, but nothing says "big girl" (or boy) like having their baby teeth fall out.

When it happens to the baby of the family it takes on an even greater significance. The baby is the one Mom and Dad keep an eye on for several reasons. Firstly, Mom gets wistful because there are no more little ones coming. Thus, every milestone achieved is another one we won't be going through personally. If we want to watch kids' teeth falling out after this, we have to wait until our girls have kids of their own. Not that we're in any kind of hurry. In a very real sense, the empty nest syndrome begins the moment baby is born. Assuming, of course, you happen to know this baby will be your last one. And we do.

Dad, of course, watches the baby for slightly different reasons. Baby's timeline is Daddy's retirement timeline. Can't really retire until baby has either left the house or (worst case) finished college. Then the fun begins!

With that for background, you will understand that last night was interesting to watch. Doodle has been fighting allergies the past few days, and she's one who loves to milk things for effect. No idea where she got that, but it must be Mrs. Woody's fault. Anyway, her tooth had finally gotten to the point where it was literally hanging upside down, attached by a few microns of gum tissue.

She was miserable.

We had a snack after Family Home Evening and she only wanted to drink the milk. Her gum was sore enough that she was terrified of doing anything that might cause more pain, and in her mind having that tooth pulled away would qualify as "Torquemada." Tooth brushing was an ordeal and Mommy had to carefully navigate around the flopping tooth so Doodle wouldn't flinch. By the time she got to bed, Doodle was one hurtin' cowpoke. She slept like a brick.

My alarm goes off at about 5:30 most mornings. I managed to actually be up and around by 5:45 this morning, and was in the girls' bathroom (story for another day) when I heard the girls' door open. There's only one creature that ever wanders the house at that hour besides Daddy, so when I saw Doodle snuggled in bed with Mommy I was not surprised. When I got there she had just noticed that her tooth was missing and was terrified that the Tooth Fairy hadn't left her any money because the tooth wasn't under her pillow. So, Daddy had to go on full alert and do a search-and-rescue for the missing tooth. Fortunately the flashlight illuminated the tooth where it had, appropriately enough, fallen underneath her pillow.

I recognize this will be bittersweet for Mommy. Her baby really is growing up now, and from here it will be a whirl of events from baptism to graduation to wedding. Doodle, on the other hand, is back to having the time of her life. I won't swear to it, but I suspect she hasn't stopped smiling since I left the house.

It's the cutest gap I've ever seen.

#109 - Why Baroque is Baroquen

David B. over at The Whole Note admirably discusses the virtues of Baroque music and some of the key composers (or, if you will, decomposers) of that period.

I have only one problem with most music of the Baroque: It was impossible for Baroque composers to write anything (and I mean anything) without creating some sort of melismatic nightmare for tenors ultimately resulting in the tenors suffering nosebleeds due to extreme heights. Seems tenors in those days were almost universally surgically altered, and I refuse to go that way.

I once performed for a director I shall refer to only as "He Who Must Not Be Named, But With Whom My Family Is All Too Well Acquainted" (HWMNBNBWWMFIATWA, for short). This was in the day when I was relatively fresh out of high school and still had chops capable of stratospheric notes (tenoric stratosphere = anything higher than a G) without passing out. Most unfortunately, this conductor had chosen to perform the Schutz "Magnificat" which requires, of all things, a counter-tenor. He apparently felt I was the next best thing. So we performed this masterpiece - twice - with me screeching along in falsetto and taking hits from an oxygen tank in between arias. I spent the next two months trying to coax my voice out of hiding. It had taken refuge in some cave or other, and refused point-blank to come out.

I have never forgiven the man.

That aside, I will concede to David's interpretation of the magic of the Baroque repertoire. To a point. And that point, for me, would be the Romantic period.

It may be a function of age, but I have found in the last decade or so that I identify much more readily with the Romantic composers than I do the Baroque variety. Perhaps it's because, at my age and relative physique, I'm readier to enjoy having my emotions handed to me musically, rather than being forced to run an obstacle course to find them.

Granted, this comes from one who enjoys singing "The Messiah" every Christmas and still gets a thrill listening to Bach's "Christ Lag in Todesbanden" as often as occasion permits. But once I found that I had a voice capable of interpreting a Schubert art song without offending too many sensibilities, I never looked back. I am a convert, and delighted to be such.

When I consider the several masterworks that I have been privileged to perform over the years, few have touched me as deeply as, say, the "German Requiem" by Brahms. Such music is still musically challenging, and much of it can certainly be just as athletic as its Baroque antecedents (can you say "Polovtsian Dances?"), but I find the Romantic style to be a comfortable fit for me. Very much like a favorite pair of shoes, or a well-worn easy chair. It just fits.

Here, too, the nationality of the composer only enhances the experience. For example, except for certain stylistic differences, there's very little that sets music by Vivaldi apart from music by Handel or Bach. In fact, take the masters out of the mix, and I quite frankly can't tell them apart. The Romantics, on the other hand, wrote music that defined not only their moods but their native lands as well. Russian Romantics are easily distinguished from the Germans and the Italians. The French (such as they were) are also easily identified. But each style has its own pull on my subconscious and draws me into its story.

My current watch list includes Peer Gynt. I'm looking for a definitive recording that I can get my hands on. Grieg's music was the stuff that first got me interested in conducting way back when Dad got me a "Music Minus One" recording. It even came with a baton, which I worked into oblivion every chance I got. Heady stuff for a fifteen-year old.

Just random thoughts for a Monday morning, but it's David's fault. Blame him.

#108 - Who Was That Other Man?

I don't remember exactly when it started, but I have always been fascinated with heredity. As a youngster, of course, there are always the inevitable comparisons with relatives. In my particular case, there were questions as to how two black-haired individuals could have produced a strawberry-blonde kid... no one could quite figure out where that particular gene came from. Or perhaps we blamed it on my paternal grandmother. But then we had a hard time trying to figure out how Dad came by his black hair. Either way, heredity in my family has been both fascinating and mysterious.

I particularly wondered who it was that I most resembled among my extended family. I spent long hours over the years looking at my own reflection in the mirror. I just couldn't find the obvious connections with any living member of the family and, for a little while anyway, found myself wondering whether I had been adopted. Mom assured me, however, that she felt every single contraction and was reasonably secure in the knowledge that the hospital had not given her the wrong child.

Thus it was with no small pleasure on my part to discover, after all these years, that among all my relatives I do happen to bear a striking resemblance to my grandfather. At least as seen by a camera lens over this past holiday.

I have mentioned before that my maternal grandfather was one of my boyhood heroes. Looking back it was probably quite amusing to see just how hard I tried to mimic his mannerisms. If Grandpa did it, it must be cool. No fifth grade kid was ever happier to need glasses because I could then have that in common with him. I even studied violin (a doomed proposition from the start) because Grandpa played the instrument.

So the photo - a typically spontaneous shot taken by my sister, presumably for purposes of future extortions - shows me and other siblings watching a profoundly insipid Barbie® video that my daughter had received for Christmas. I look like a cross between my grandfather and one of my uncles. And I wasn't the only one to notice. "Hey," one sibling said, "is it me, or does Woody look like Grandpa?"

So my ties to my mother's side of the family seem to be at least visually confirmed. On Dad's side, there's little doubt as to who my father really was. Dad is guilty on all counts. I look more like Dad today than I ever really wanted to, down to the "horizontal tie" configuration. (My brother knows whereof I speak. He's a member of the same club.) The rub here is, we have no idea who Dad resembled.

Dad was adopted. We kinda, sorta knew this several years before Dad died, but it wasn't confirmed until a few years after he passed away. By that time, all of the principals were either dead or unreachable. I did have contact with his birth relatives for a short time, but that has since fizzled and we're back to wondering just who Dad looked like. We may never know whether the man his birth mother eventually married was in fact his birth father. The only photos we've seen were of his birth mother's side of the family. There are some similarities, but nothing that jumps right out and indicates that this was Dad's family.

I will probably always be a little sorry for that. As a family historian, I love the links that bind us to our ancestors. It makes the game of wondering where our personalities come from that much more fun. Has music always been a part of both sides of our family, or was Dad the first on his side? Whence cometh my own over-developed ham bone? Is Dad's resemblance to his birth father as strong as my resemblance to Dad? And who, for heaven's sake, was that other man?

There's a connection that is now missing, and something that may never be explained in this life. I will always love and appreciate the family whose name I now bear, and that heritage will continue in one form or another for generations to come. I am also comfortable with knowing that all of my questions will be answered when I catch up with Dad on the other side. In the meantime...

...I hate waiting.

#107 - Pleas for Help

Being people of faith we tend to spend a lot of time chatting with Heavenly Father on behalf of our children. I'd say we spend that time on our knees, but Mrs. Woody and I both have difficulty doing that, so we assume the attitude if not the actual position.

I have children from my previous marriage. They both have (and have had) challenges in their lives, and they meet them in unique ways. My son recently went through one of those life lessons that give parents grey(er) hair, and we're still waiting to see if he actually learned that lesson this time. Time will tell. He's just recently turned 18 and is eager the give the world the ol' Adolescent What-For. I wish him better luck than I had at that age.

My daughter, on the other hand, tends to meet her challenges head-on. She tries - instinctively - to stay on top of her game. She and her hubby have done a tremendous job raising their little girl (yes, Woody is a Grandpa... proud of it, too!), and generally trying to maintain their collective sanity in Maryland. Her hubby is career Air Force, and they're just riding out their posting until they can muster out (if need be) and return to California. They really want to come back. We'd love to have them back.

You might think, based on my generally glowing descriptions, that the Woodyettes don't cause us much air-time with heaven. Far from it. We homeschool these sharp-as-a-tack youngsters, and the need for guidance to be effective both as teachers and as parents is keenly felt. I'm sure that Mrs. Woody pleads on their behalf more than I do, but we both recognize just how important it is that these young ladies get the right start in life.

As parents we continually face all the usual challenges of training young minds to recognize the differences between right and wrong, and to understand the need for accepting responsibility for what we do. It's a huge job, and based on all four of my children I can report that I have had varying degrees of success thus far. I would classify my eldest daughter as a definite success. My son has hit that magical age where the world owes him, so I'm holding my breath for the time being. He's a good kid, but he's 18. 'Nuff said.

The Woodyettes are, obviously, works in progress. At 8 and 6 they still have lots to learn, and this issue of personal accountability is one of the trickiest. They may be adorable in nearly every way, but Daddy can't afford to get distracted. Mrs. Woody is better at it than I am, but even she can occasionally overlook certain transgressions that probably should have been addressed as soon as they were discovered.

Even with all the challenges, the payoffs can be huge. Every success - small or large - is cause for celebration. Some celebrations can be as large as was the success. Others are quiet; an opportunity for a hug and a snuggle, and Daddy saying, "I sure am proud of you!" Then enjoy the smile on that little face.

Then remember to thank Heavenly Father for my kids, before moving on to the next request for help.

#106 - As the Century Turns

A phrase I no longer hear is "turn of the century," as in, "My grandpa was born just after the turn of the century." It's a phrase that always (to me, anyway) meant that we were discussing something that was really, really old. Older than my parents, for crying out loud. Older than dirt.

Since anything that happened before I was born was considered archaic (by me, anyway), my parents and grandparents were living anachronisms. Many of the advances in technology that they experienced left me scratching my head. I remember one grandmother showing me an old reel-to-reel tape recorder that dated back to the 40's. (Note: I would kill to have this machine in my possession today!) I remember thinking how ancient that thing looked, and was frankly amazed that it ever was able to record anything. It even had a microphone of the type that talk show hosts think are so stylish today. You know... the ones that look like braunschweigers made of chrome with holes drilled all over. I was fascinated by it. For a long time I had a hard time remembering that this machine was something from "my" century. I would have sworn that it hailed from the days of Abraham Lincoln. That's what a lack of historical perspective will do for you. In my mind, everything that happened before 1958 was all lumped together in one historical mush.

Mom was never one to dwell on the past, but Dad loved playing the "when I was your age" card. It is, perhaps, paradoxical that Dad never really revealed a heck of a lot about his childhood, but he loved to throw out little snippets here and there, as if being a child of the Depression earned him the right to point out that we pampered papooses had no idea what suffering was all about. He was probably right.

We'd be driving along a dirt road on one of our always underappreciated vacations through some forsaken piece of California history, and Dad would say things like, "You think this is bad? This was a superhighway in Idaho when I was your age!" Yeah, yeah... save it for your memoirs, Dad. (This, unfortunately, never happened. The closest thing Dad ever wrote to a memoir was making editorial comments in a history that his mother had written. Ah, well... we take what we can get.)

Now, as a parent, I'm pretty sure I'll be just as bad about "when I was your age" with my own children. The difference being that I'm pretty sure my kids will learn more about my life than they ever care to. I just talk too much, really, and I happen to be my favorite subject. (This may be, by the way, my only fault, but only if I don't ask Mrs. Woody about it.) And the funny thing is, my children will be able to identify with their own "turn of the century" in a way that we never could. We were born in the middle of a century, and the turn of a new century is merely that - another step in the ol' chronometer of life.

The Woodyettes, on the other hand, will be able to look back on their times of birth and have a nice, round figure from which to base their experiences. One was born in '97, the other right at the end of '99, and for both of them their personal memories will begin sometime immediately following the beginning of both a new century and a new millenium.

I find myself wondering what marvels these girls of mine will witness over the next few decades. Certainly there are promises in the air: New cures for debilitating illnesses; advances in technology; the potential advent of extra-solar travel; deeper understandings of the intricacies of life. And all the while, Mom and Dad will become more and more anachronistic, just as my parents did when I was a kid. How could these old fossils be hip enough to understand all these wonderful things we have today? Didn't Daddy used to listen to wax recordings on a Victrola? Wasn't Mommy born before they discovered electricity? Were flutes even around when Grandma was a little girl? (No, Grandma had to carve hers out of bamboo. I don't think flutes were invented until I was about 5 or 6. At least, that's the way I remember it.)

Thus it is that Woody's job will be to take the "when I was your age" experiences and meld them with the Woodyettes' "turn of the century" mentality to create the proper historical perspective for them. They'll probably laugh at me a lot, but in the end they'll have a wealth of experience that they will then be able to pass on to their own children.

They'll thank me for it later.

#105 - The Torture of Christmas

I have found what appears to be a common thread among parents who just suffered through this past Christmas. I realize that "suffered" may be a somewhat strong term, but in one sense I was right there suffering along with them.

The statement I've seen (and which, by the way, I was channeling in my own conversations with Mrs. Woody) is, "there must be a special place in <insert netherworld of choice> for whatever idiot invented the current methods of securing toys in their packaging." The scenario is always the same. Mom and/or Dad wrap the gifts while still in their original packaging for the simple reason that they're easier to wrap that way. Then on Christmas day the kids are in that "iwannaplaywithitNOW" mode, and Mom and/or Dad find themselves trying to defeat about a thousand twistie ties, elastics, tape, and other obstacles, all the while attempting to not break the toy before Junior does.

Ostensibly these contraptions were invented as a direct response to thievery. Those of us who grew up with the phrase, "Attention, K-Mart Shoppers...!" will have vivid memories of perusing the toy aisles and noting just how many toys had been rifled. Kids (and even parents) who discovered missing items or had managed to break something right out of the box figured it was a cheap way to keep their play set intact. It actually got to the point that, come Christmas shopping season, you congratulated yourself for finding anything actually intact before you bought it. Since then, we find dolls held down by more twist ties than you would find in a box of 100 garbage bags, while the accessories are encased in lethal plastic for your convenience.

I believe we're actually looking at something that has practical application for national defense. Just think what might happen if AK-47s were shipped in the same molded plastic packaging that your kid's Barbie comes in. The Jihadists would probably reach Paradise a bit quicker than usual after shredding themselves on the sharp plastic edges. By the time they detach the gun from 92 twistie ties that were conveniently glued to the cardboard, and get through the assembly instructions helpfully translated into English by Japanese exchange students ("Please to attaching the assembling trigger to the lower side of a barrel as shows in the figure 8 of a next page."), the poor kid would have expired from loss of blood.

In fairness I must admit that I only had two toys this year that caused that much grief. Santa had given the Woodyettes exactly what they'd requested. One wanted the latest in interactive dolls, while the other requested a trainable puppy (this would have to be a toy!), each requiring more batteries than your average nuclear submarine. Each one was encased in a box surrounded by more security than Ft. Knox. My wounds have healed now, and the Woodyettes have had hours of fun arguing over whose turn it is to play with the doll. The puppy was essentially a non-entity until Daddy replaced the wimpy Energizer® batteries with good ol' Duracells® last night.

Since convincing Homeland Security to use this technology seems unlikely, I guess I have to come up with a more creative approach. My current plan involves having the inventors of toy packaging being forced to endure the same savant traffic planners who time our traffic lights here in Orange County. If the packagers wish to file a complaint, they can submit their whines using a special form provided for that purpose. I'll even provide the pen. Of course, they'll have to break it out of its plastic package...

#104 - Book of the Lamentations of Woody

Book 7
Chapter 4

1 And the children of Woody, who did dine on much sweetness on New Year's Eve, did awaken on New Year's Day feeling not quite their old selves.
2 Yea, they did bring forth much, um, nose stuff and much, um, other ejecta;
3 Which did convince Woody unto declaring a Down Day in the house of Woody.
4 That the house of Woody might again rise in its strength;
5 In time to watch the Rose Parade on Monday.
6 Amen.

#103 - Book of the Lamentations of Woody

Book 7
Chapter 3

1 And the Woodyettes did gripe and complain against Woody in the wilderness saying, Verily thou dost starve us because of the hardness of thy heart;
2 And thou has led us into the wilderness to die, and dost not offer unto us our cookies, for truly do our tummies grumble for much want of nourishment.
3 And Woody verily did respond to his daughters in a loud voice saying, Thus it ever shall be for those who do not finish their grilled ciabatta, turkey and provolone sandwiches.
4 But the Woodyettes did raise their voices higher saying, But the hardness of the bread is beyond our ability to chew, and the crustiness thereof is the crustiness of thy soul, wherefore we perish.
5 But Woody did harden his heart against his daughters, and did not yield unto them their cookies, for they verily had not yet eaten their grilled turkey, provolone and ciabatta sandwiches, and the hour was yet late.
6 And they did weary him much with their pleadings for cookies, and when Woody did reveal the bowl of candies from the eastern lands of Nestle and Hershey, they did weary him more.
7 Then did Woody say unto his daughters, Yea, thou has wearied me with thy many pleadings. Yet hast thou not done that which I required of thee at the outset, and hast ignored the succulent slices of turkey and provolone cheese, grilled upon ciabatta rolls which did set Woody back a pretty penny, yea, even at Costco did they cost more than would be seemly given the current market.
8 Wherefore I did say unto thee that all thou needest do is eat of the grilled ciabatta sandwiches which I, Woody, had prepared for thy lunch, and thou shalt have thy cookies and candies from exotic eastern lands. Yea, it shall be unto thee as thy dinner, and thou mayest partake of thy desserts, if only thou shalt eat thy, well, thou knowest.
9 But the Woodyettes, because of the easiness of the way, did not partake of the sandwiches. And Woody, who is, after all, human, did cave in and offer unto the Woodyettes sandwiches of peanut butter and either honey or strawberry jam, depending on their peculiarities, and they did partake and rejoice.
10 Thus did the Woodyettes obtain their cookies.
11 And Woody did obtain his peace.

Happy New Year!

#102 - Woody... Kids... Difference?

There are two formulas (formulae?) that I have learned as a result of my adult experiences. I developed one which I call Woody's Postulate. Woody's Postulate states that, in any traditional family, the Mom shall have votes equal to every male in the house, plus one. This postulate is sometimes subtitled the "Men are Always Outnumbered" formula. It has proven true throughout my adult life, but I must confess in all fairness that my votes have been much more even with Mrs. Woody than at other times.

The second formula is not my own. It's just one of those pieces of conventional wisdom that everyone seems to know instinctively. In any given family, the Mom will always have the number of legal minors plus one to raise as "kids." This is always interpreted to mean that Dad is just another kid, and most moms I know happily carp about this fact to their friends, loved ones, and complete strangers. "I swear it's like having another kid in the house!" they will say, which generally leads to another round of "Anything Your Man Does, Mine Can Do Worse." (Note: I must, of course, exclude Mrs. Woody from this truism. She knows she has another big kid to raise, and it generally doesn't bother her, for reasons that will become clear later.)

A few years ago I mentioned to Mrs. Woody that I still enjoy playing with toys. I said this partly tongue-in-cheek. A wise man once told me that it was time to set aside childish things, and I've tried. Really I have. Comic books - gone. Model trains - shelved. Theatrical productions - minimized. However, in their place you now find a fascination with all things computerized, long-standing addictions to electronic games, and (gasp!) blogging. My conversation with Mrs. Woody was the old "what do you get someone who seems to have everything he/she needs?" that married people have from time to time. I mentioned at that time that I occasionally find myself envying kids who get neat toys for Christmas, and reminisced fondly about playing with Erector sets and electronics kits when I was a kid. She already knew that I have a fond hope of resurrecting my model railroad when the kids are older and we have a place to set it up, but the conversation planted a seed in her mind that has since grown into a nearly unmanageable shrub.

Three or four Christmases ago, sometime after the first Harry Potter movie came out, Mrs. Woody wanted to give me a special surprise. She had managed to go to the store with just herself and the Woodyettes, and found what she felt would be the perfect Christmas present for her child-like hubby: The Hogwarts Express set of Legos®, based on the movie.

Legos! I couldn't believe it! I was instantly enraptured because 1) I had never had a Legos set when I was a kid, and 2) it was the Hogwarts Express! She had heard me rhapsodize about the train when we went to see the movie, and it is still my feeling that the Express is one of the coolest parts of the HP movie series. But... Legos! Wow.

There was no way I could wait to put it together. So, one evening shortly after Christmas, we did. ("We," he says.) I actually enlisted Mrs. Woody's assistance on occasion, and the Woodyettes loved playing with the figures of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. But Mrs. Woody thoroughly enjoyed watching her eldest kid play with his toys, and that's when the inspiration struck: Legos are a family experience, she reasoned. The whole family gets to play. Why not encourage this particular behavior and get the whole Harry Potter series of Lego kits?

So we did. There were ten or eleven kits based on the first movie, and another dozen or more based on the second movie. We bought 'em all. Not all at once, mind you... Legos are expensive and even the smaller kits cost quite a bit more than they might seem to warrant. However, we were hooked. As each kit was produced, we placed them on the dining room table and set them up en tableau to document our progress. When the kits based on the third movie came out, we snatched them up before ever having seen the actual movie. But, oh, the fun we've been having as a family! As the Woodyettes get older they get to help do more actual building. In fact, they both have received Lego kits of their own (there are VERY FEW girl-themed Legos out there!), and each of them has at least two buckets of assorted bricks with which to build whatever they can dream up. Mrs. Woody also enjoys building, and we now have a process. We each build alternating steps of the kit, which doubles the fun.

When Mrs. Woody and I went to watch "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" at the theater the other day (the Woodyettes will not be watching this one any time soon!), we went with the knowledge that we already had obtained the GoF Lego sets (only four of them this time!) for Christmas. We anticipate the Legos nearly as much as we do the books and the movies, which is saying something.

So, yes, I freely admit that Woody is just a big kid. And, after all, these aren't toys; these are collectibles. There's a difference. The primary one being that, while most philatelists won't take their collections out to play with them, I will. Frequently. And Mrs. Woody will both aid and abet.

I think it's one of the reasons she loves me.

#101 - Iwannadoit, Daddy!

It's interesting to see how each of my kids implements "iwannadoit" in their lives. My two older children are both on their own now, having entered the "ihaftadoit" phase of life. You want the money? You hafta go to work. Want your little girl to do well in school? You hafta get involved. The Woodyettes, on the other hand, are still in the early stages. "Daddy... I wanna wrap the present all by myself!"

They never speak this below a mild shout. With kids everything is important and everything is accentuated with exclamation points. "I wanna help you load the dishwasher!" "I wanna read a book!" "I hafta go potty!" "No one will play with me!"

It really is the only way they know how to communicate.

Yesterday, when Mrs. Woody was out of the house for a few hours and I had my golden chance to do my Christmas wrapping, Doodle Woodyette instantly appeared at my feet asking to assist. "I wanna help you wrap, Daddy!"

Oooookay. I'm under the weather this week, and the idea of teaching a small child how to wrap (differently, no doubt, from the way Mommy taught her just the other night) is not my idea of fun. The art of allowing a child to do complex tasks all by themselves is a tricky one. They're not quite old enough yet for Daddy to simply hand over paper, tape, and scissors and expect them to do even a passable job on a relatively simple box present. No, they need "guidance." And when "guidance" becomes "hovering," the kids will let you know.

"Daddy! I wanna do that by. my. self!"

Oops! Sorry!

So Daddy treads through the murky waters of helping them understand just how much paper is really required for the job, knowing exactly where to cut, dealing with the tape dispenser (this is a huge deal for six year old fingers), and, most importantly, how to fold the ends of the package into tight, neat corners. Daddy spends much of his time surreptitiously folding creases in strategic places while Doodle tries to get her fingers to follow her uncertain commands. Eventually we get there. It's a Christmas present! I wrapped it all by myself! Mommy will have no idea that I wrapped it! (Unless, of course, Mommy actually looks at it. We don't mention this to the Woodyettes.)

Jelly Woodyette wants to wrap, too, but she isn't as emotionally invested in it as the Doodle is. She's a couple of years older now, and while she still likes hands-on work, her highly active imagination requires that she spend as little time as possible on any given task. So she helps, too, but as soon as her package is under the tree she flits off to her next adventure. Doodle, on the other hand, wishes to continue. "Can I help with the next one, Daddy? Pleeeeeeze??"

Thus it is that, this year, Daddy's wrapping jobs will look suspiciously like Doodle's work, and that will be at least half-true. Then, finally, Daddy hits the "secret" stuff. Sorry, Doodle, you can't witness this part. The blow to her "iwannadoit" was devastating. Tears welled up instantly in her little eyes and for a split second Daddy felt like a heel. I almost reneged, until I remembered that to reveal why these small packages were labelled "From: SomeoneWhoIsNotDaddy" (if you get my drift) would require revealing other secrets that they're not quite ready for. Not yet.

I must tell you that Doodle recovered quickly. She got involved in Jelly's imaginary adventures. Then, as it turned out, Mrs. Woody called from the Humongo-Mart parking lot with a dead alternator. So we all had an adventure getting the car to the shop and Mrs. Woody and her top-secret purchases home. The girls even went camping last night. All stories for another day.

Whenever I wannadoit.

#100 - There's Talent... and Then There's Talent

Baby Sis over at Burrhouse gives us the benefit of her epiphanies from her recent tour of her old alma mater (such as it was). She touches on a few points that I find both significant and profound, and I think the theme bears some enlargement.

We come from a talented family. Those talents manifest themselves in many ways, of course. But the predominant theme that runs through our gene pool appears to be music. Mom and Dad are, of course, tremendous musicians. Dad, when he was alive, was very gifted both as a horn player and as a composer/arranger. The fact that I never could get into much of the stuff he composed merely means that his stuff will be famous thirty years from now. I'm certain he was just ahead of his time, as all great composers ultimately are. He did, however, compose marches for bands, and I always enjoyed his marches. Think "Sousa: Next Generation" stuff. Mom, on the other hand, has more-or-less tiptoed into the composing game, and is now a published composer of works for flute choirs. An acclaimed composer, thank you very much, who has actually done work on commission now.

(Note to Baby Sis: You are correct that Dad was the only one to seriously pursue college. I am on the rolls at University of Phoenix, but it will be a few years more before I complete my studies. Deb has studied at so many schools now that her alumni requests for donations will keep her in the poorhouse for decades. The paradox, of course, was that Dad never actually got a degree. He had been offered teaching positions in both phys ed and music, but ultimately decided on aerospace as a better means for raising a family. I think he, like myself, opted out before completing either degree and went to work. The rest being, at a minimum, family history.)

Mom also enjoys singing, and has gone from gifted soprano to gifted alto over the years. Dad also enjoyed singing, but recognized certain limitations to his ability. That didn't stop him from leading every church choir I sang in until I was old enough to conduct them myself. Mom continues to both sing and conduct, and her presence as a choir director for the church in Simi Valley is keenly missed. Baby Sis did an admirable job of filling in, but now she, too, has moved on.

Anyway, Mom and Dad were quite generous with their genes, and we kids all have musical abilities of varying degrees. I started out with violin and piano lessons, but neither took hold. I became a vocalist instead, and have some small reputation as a choir director myself. It is something that I enjoy doing, but I, like my sister, realize that I have probably reached my personal pinnacle of ability and am content with what I've acheived. Baby Sis still has a ways to go, but even she recognizes where her limitations are and is accepting of them. Likewise our brother, he of "Way Off Bass" fame, started with horn (baritone, specifically), taught himself to play string bass, and somewhere along the line acquired a rich baritone voice. He, too, has pretty much reached the edge of his personal ambition (or so it seems, thus far - one can never tell with Il Basso), and seems content with what he's accomplished musically. Another sister plays piano very well, while the other one sings every chance she gets.

None of us deludes ourselves that we are anything approaching God's Gift to Music, by any means. On the other hand, we all appreciate our talents as God's gift to us. We are all gifted and knowledgeable enough to do what the Lord asks of us, and we serve willingly. Usually. For me, that is. Oh, I may get a little surly about it on occasion, as when I've been asked to serve as Choir Director for the umpteenth time in a given ward when I'd really like to get back into a classroom and teach for a change, but generally we serve because we know the Lord wants us to.

The interesting thing is that we all have other talents as well. I consider writing to be a talent of mine (whether you agree or not is not germaine to this discussion), and I believe I got that from Mom. Or, more to the point, Mom's side of the family. Mom writes and both of her parents were wonderful writers, but it is Grandpa to whom I believe I owe most of this ability. I also have a ham-bone the size of a small third world country. I have absolutely no idea where this one came from. I guess it's just an extreme manifestation of the sense of humor we all possess, which would place the blame squarely on Dad's shoulders. However, Dad never once hit the boards, as his personal modesty would never have permitted it. Mom has, but didn't have that inclination until well into adulthood. So I have to assume that this is one of those talents that stayed just under the surface with Mom and Dad, but erupted in me when I turned eleven. (Ironic Family History Note: At one point it was rumored that we were somehow related to John Wilkes Booth, who was both an actor and a notorious assassin. I am happy to report that research bears out that we are far enough removed from that particular Booth line as to make our relationship non-existent. None of us has any assassination genes in our makeup. That we know of.)

All of our musical (and other) experiences have, and will continue to enrich our lives. We love these talents we've been given. We may occasionally feel conflicted because of them (word, Bro!), but by and large our lives have been deeply blessed.

One unfortunate side effect to report: We sometimes tend to be, um, somewhat less than complimentary of those who feel themselves to be extremely talented and whom we feel have yet to show evidence of same. We keep it to ourselves, though, and try to be gracious with all pretenders. Those discussions we save for the kitchen at family get-togethers.

Talent may be talent, but we are only human after all.

#99 - O Christmas Tree; O Christma... Hey! Watch Out for the Train!

Don't ask why, but we finally got the tree decorated last night. Yes, I know... most folks - even the ones who buy real trees every year - have had theirs up and decorated since shortly after Thanksgiving. We've actually had ours up for a solid couple of weeks, but we just haven't been able to scrape together enough time (plus health, plus energy) to finish decorating. So, last night I got out the boxes. This ended both our dearth of festive adornments, and my limited stores of energy.

The girls, on the other hand, were transported into that enviable mixture of fantasy and imagination that seems to carry with it an independent energy source. This is the type of energy that has goaded inventors throughout the centuries to attempt to create that pinnacle of crypto-engineering: the Perpetual Motion Machine. This is also the type of energy that exhausts parents who are forced to try to keep up for fear that something will get knocked over and they (the parents) will have to clean it all up.

All this by way of telling you that the girls were wired last night. But we also reached a fun little milestone last night; one that I wasn't expecting to reach, really, for another couple of years or so. The girls decorated the tree all by themselves.

It was by no means intended that way. We had two aims last night: decorate the tree, and decorate (at a minimum) the family room and the dining room. To do both of these things properly, Daddy has to haul out every one of our storage boxes full of decorations, even if we only plan to use half of them. So, while I was busy digging out such things as our stockings, stocking hangers, and assorted mantle-shelf paraphenalia, Mrs. Woody was busy digging out the decorations we wanted placed on the tree. Rather than make Daddy wait to finish the rooms until the tree was done, she simply handed things to the Woodyettes and had them decorate the tree. It was the most natural thing in the world, and the girls did a terrific job.

Well, mostly, anyway. Once Daddy got a good look at their work, he noticed a few bald spots (Daddy knows all about bald spots) and some extreme clumping of decorations in strategic places. So there may be a small amount of "adjustment" when I get home tonight. But the point is, the girls did it, and they had a wonderful time. For Daddy it meant saving my finite lower-back energy reserves for the heavier lifting duties, most of which involved a step-ladder. Also, I only had to worry a couple of times about such things as crushing our Christmas Choo-Choo that runs around the tree, and which the girls never seem to notice as they run up to the tree to place the 27th ornament on exactly the same branch. Except for those close calls, the night was amazingly stress free.

It's really not much of an exaggeration to state that within minutes after the decorating party ended, the girls were so completely deflated that I was quite sure they would soak their sleep-shirts for all the whining that we heard before finally tucking them into bed. Mommy and Daddy were pretty exhausted, too. Mommy had been sitting in a position that put extra strain on her legs and knees. Daddy had to return all the storage boxes to the shed and put the shed back in order. Considering I didn't drag the boxes out until after 9:00 last night, finishing and getting everyone in bed by midnight was really quite remarkable.

So a new tradition arises for the Woodys. Next year (and for many years to come) the Woodyettes will decorate the tree. They may occasionally allow Mommy and Daddy to assist, but the job is now theirs. They'll get better at it as each year passes, and Mommy will have fun helping them to do themed decorations as they get older. We already have enough train or snowflake ornaments to do an entire theme of either type on our tree. Other traditions will, of course, be created as time passes beneath us. We will enjoy them all.

Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas day,
To save us all from Satan's pow'r when we were gone astray.
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.

#98 - How to Tell When Your Kids Think You're Slowing Down...

...when your kids begin s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g out their c-o-n-v-e-r-s-a-t-i-o-n-s in front of M-o-m and D-a-d.

Mommy says it's just they way they learn. Daddy figures it's more sinister than that. That could be because they were spelling words I couldn't understand. Sure sounded like code to me...