Browsing around this evening brought me to this reading of the Proclamation on the Family. On its surface it brings some thoughtful questions to light. Deeper down, I wonder where the mystery is.
The phrase in question is, "Children are entitled to birth within the bonds of matrimony, and to be reared by a father and a mother who honor marital vows with complete fidelity."
First, my caveats. I am no lawyer. I have no patience for legal documents in any form. I break out in hives when I sign for guest parking passes here in my mobile home park. That probably makes me pathetic, and I can live with that. Also, I am no theologian. Oh, I served a mission, and I've taught just about every kind of class a guy can be called to, but I'm no Nibley. Hence the need to take the following opinion with the obligatory grain (or year's supply) of salt.
Then to it. Given the state of society today, that phrase as framed by the First Presidency makes perfect sense. In order to understand that, we need to elevate it to a level not attained by earthly, human laws. Any law we create in mortal society is by definition flawed. At best, it can only mirror eternal law and, at its worst, often mocks that law. As man continues to evolve away from those laws ordained by God, society falls farther away from its highest form. If we use Zion as the standard for a perfect society, then we currently live in Sodom, suburb of Gomorrah.
Scripture is replete with utterances by prophets which speak of an obedient people who live in a God-centered society. In other words, they often describe to us the vision of a Zion people. Zion carries with it a level of perfection that we realize we may never attain in this life. But we can try.
In fact, the Lord continually admonishes us to do better; to be that light that dispels the darker elements of life; to strive for Zion wherever we may live. That said, we also know that today, as never before in the history of the modern Church, families are under heavy assault. In the last twenty years, every Bishop I have served under has decried the increase in abuse found in families in any given ward. One Bishop went so far as to say that when he has Primary aged children sit in his office and tell how afraid they are of their fathers, his heart breaks, almost literally.
The Proclamation, then, teaches us the Lord's standard for families in Zion. Children, by virtue of their innocence, are born with certain rights. Chief among them are the rights of life, safety, and love within the family. Many children are denied even these basic rights, and it makes the heavens weep. Those who seek to nullify those rights will suffer, I am convinced, severe consequences in the hereafter.
As for "entitlement," there is nothing in the spiritual language of the Proclamation that implies "forcing" people to live in a family dynamic. The Church cannot now, nor has it ever denied rights to anyone merely for getting a divorce, for example. If one or the other spouse was guilty of some transgression which led to the divorce, then rights may certainly be curtailed for a time. If a young girl becomes pregnant out of wedlock, we may counsel her to consider marrying the father, but more and more often this may be an undesirable solution. Times have changed, and such decisions must be made even more carefully today than, say, thirty years ago. Were the Church to begin "forcing" people to live in family dynamics, they would be guilty of the very thing that necessitated the War in Heaven.
Do children have a claim on the Church? Certainly. If the Church is collectively doing its job, children will always be cared for. In homes where only one parent belongs to the Church, that parent receives assistance from many sources. Needs of a family, even a broken family, must always be addressed by the Lord's church, or that church has no claim to blessings from the Lord. Should the "ideal" family continue to be defined as a man and woman living in fidelity and creating a loving environment? Of course. The Lord expects nothing less. But the Lord also understands better than do we that today's families are under the heaviest attacks they have suffered since the days of Noah. Today's children are bombarded with propaganda that teaches them to question and mock authority, to pander to their own pleasures, and to win at all costs.
If you were among the General Authorities of the Church, wouldn't you issue a proclamation to set people straight?
Monday, February 28, 2005
Saturday, February 26, 2005
#22 - Faith Precedes, Accompanies, and Grows After the Miracle
Faith defines the person. Where the world eschews faith as being far too ephemeral to be reliable, people of faith constantly look for ways to improve their condition based on their understanding of their future state. This is where people who lack faith fall short: they cannot see beyond this life and its challenges, and so they mark their success based on how well they position themselves in life. People of faith understand life as being merely a test. This is where we prove that we can follow our Creator without regard to our relative position in mortality.
Part of that journey of faith involves believing in miracles. For most of us, that means understanding what constitutes a "miracle" as opposed to an explainable event that has no connection with God or his gospel.
Take Geoff Johnston's recent incident with his small son. They found him face down in a pool. After rushing him to the hospital, his condition was critical and his grip on life tenuous. A day later, the boy's prognosis is optimistic and he should be coming home sometime over the weekend. Without any other commentary or knowledge of what happened in that hospital, this is a wonderful story. It gives hope that this youngster will continue to have a normal, happy and healthy life. But there's more - so much more - behind the story.
Geoff himself explains best what happened:
It's interesting to note how this faith grew step by step throughout this experience. Whenever I have had to take children to emergency rooms, my own faith is sorely tested at the outset. This, I think, is only natural. We feel that we have no control over this child's immediate destiny, and we find ourselves fearing the worst. People of faith, however, turn to the one source they've always believed to be constant. Prayers are uttered in silence to a being that they've probably never seen, whose voice they've probably never heard, but who they believe to be watching everything that's going on in their lives. Geoff marked that as the beginning of his faith.
Latter-day Saints, by virtue of our priesthood, take a more interactive approach to faith. That power enables even the weakest of us to bless the lives of others through authority granted by the Savior himself. Geoff blesses his child and feels his faith grow. Please note that it was not a case where faith didn't exist in the first place. This was an instance where faith had been squeezed for a moment and needed rejuvenation. His understanding of prayer and the knowledge that those close to him were praying for his son continued that rejuvenation. He requests the prayers of others, bloggers and blogreaders alike, to join in those prayers. His call is answered. Faith grows stronger still. His stake president offers his spiritual prophecy - well within his calling - that this child will make a full recovery. Faith has been restored and, like well-polished silver, glows brighter than it did before this incident occurred. Hence the lack of surprise (although sighs of profound relief, I'm certain) when the doctor pronounces his positive outlook.
Can the boy's recovery be explained naturally? Of course. Hundreds of children (and others) will suffer similar incidents where life will hang in the balance and a rapid response by medical professionals will make the difference. But let's consider:
Would medical services have been as rapidly available as they were in Quinn's case fifty years ago?
Would the medical knowledge available fifty years ago been adequate to ensure Quinn's full recovery?
Maybe, and maybe not. Kids have been falling into pools for decades, and medical science has advanced tremendously just in the last fifty years. I suspect his chances for a full recovery would have been much slimmer had he been born when I was. (Note: I'm not fifty yet. But I'm close.) Where does all this advance come from in the first place? People of faith know the answer to that question.
No, the miracle here is that not only will Quinn live, but that he and his family will be able to look back on this incident as a faith-promoting experience, rather than as a near-tragedy. Oh, they'll use that near-tragedy as a teaching tool, you can be sure. They'll be even more pool-safety conscious than they've ever been, and they'll teach Quinn in no uncertain terms how to be safe around them. But they'll also be able to teach Quinn in those same uncertain terms about the power of prayer, the power of the priesthood, and the need for faith. They will continue to bear powerful testimony of those things, which will help rejuvenate the faith of others.
In today's world, this lesson will become its own miracle.
Part of that journey of faith involves believing in miracles. For most of us, that means understanding what constitutes a "miracle" as opposed to an explainable event that has no connection with God or his gospel.
Take Geoff Johnston's recent incident with his small son. They found him face down in a pool. After rushing him to the hospital, his condition was critical and his grip on life tenuous. A day later, the boy's prognosis is optimistic and he should be coming home sometime over the weekend. Without any other commentary or knowledge of what happened in that hospital, this is a wonderful story. It gives hope that this youngster will continue to have a normal, happy and healthy life. But there's more - so much more - behind the story.
Geoff himself explains best what happened:
Briefly: While my wife and I followed the helicopter to the hospital we prayed and began to feel the beginnings of faith that we cold save the boy. When I gave what probably sounded like a brash blessing to my boy in the emergency room my faith grew. When I learned all of our family and ward were praying for a recovery I felt slightly better. When I followed my impression to ask for help here I felt a little more confidence. But it was only after my brother Russ told me that my plea at my blog was not ignored, but rather many righteous Boggernacle saints (who wouldn't know me from Adam) were praying for my Quinn... It was then when I finally knew... Sorry if it sounds dramatic but it was then that my tears of gratitude finally flowed. Quinn was going to be fine.
When my stake president later came to the hospital and prophesied that Quinn would fully recover most remaining fear and doubt disappeared. When the doctors told us there was no signs of neurological damage and our Q-dog (the nickname his missionary uncle gave him) would have a full recovery it was fitting, but not surprising.
It's interesting to note how this faith grew step by step throughout this experience. Whenever I have had to take children to emergency rooms, my own faith is sorely tested at the outset. This, I think, is only natural. We feel that we have no control over this child's immediate destiny, and we find ourselves fearing the worst. People of faith, however, turn to the one source they've always believed to be constant. Prayers are uttered in silence to a being that they've probably never seen, whose voice they've probably never heard, but who they believe to be watching everything that's going on in their lives. Geoff marked that as the beginning of his faith.
Latter-day Saints, by virtue of our priesthood, take a more interactive approach to faith. That power enables even the weakest of us to bless the lives of others through authority granted by the Savior himself. Geoff blesses his child and feels his faith grow. Please note that it was not a case where faith didn't exist in the first place. This was an instance where faith had been squeezed for a moment and needed rejuvenation. His understanding of prayer and the knowledge that those close to him were praying for his son continued that rejuvenation. He requests the prayers of others, bloggers and blogreaders alike, to join in those prayers. His call is answered. Faith grows stronger still. His stake president offers his spiritual prophecy - well within his calling - that this child will make a full recovery. Faith has been restored and, like well-polished silver, glows brighter than it did before this incident occurred. Hence the lack of surprise (although sighs of profound relief, I'm certain) when the doctor pronounces his positive outlook.
Can the boy's recovery be explained naturally? Of course. Hundreds of children (and others) will suffer similar incidents where life will hang in the balance and a rapid response by medical professionals will make the difference. But let's consider:
Would medical services have been as rapidly available as they were in Quinn's case fifty years ago?
Would the medical knowledge available fifty years ago been adequate to ensure Quinn's full recovery?
Maybe, and maybe not. Kids have been falling into pools for decades, and medical science has advanced tremendously just in the last fifty years. I suspect his chances for a full recovery would have been much slimmer had he been born when I was. (Note: I'm not fifty yet. But I'm close.) Where does all this advance come from in the first place? People of faith know the answer to that question.
No, the miracle here is that not only will Quinn live, but that he and his family will be able to look back on this incident as a faith-promoting experience, rather than as a near-tragedy. Oh, they'll use that near-tragedy as a teaching tool, you can be sure. They'll be even more pool-safety conscious than they've ever been, and they'll teach Quinn in no uncertain terms how to be safe around them. But they'll also be able to teach Quinn in those same uncertain terms about the power of prayer, the power of the priesthood, and the need for faith. They will continue to bear powerful testimony of those things, which will help rejuvenate the faith of others.
In today's world, this lesson will become its own miracle.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
#21 - Sound Effects. Ew.
Here in Woody's House of Pestilence we have a zero-tolerance policy against silent suffering. As I noted before, when Daddy is miserable, whining abounds. Now, Mrs. Woody and the smaller Woodyette are both under the weather. The older Woodyette was threatening, but she pulled out of her dive rather quickly. Still, a remnant remains.
Years ago, Bill Cosby did a wonderful routine revolving around his five linoleum lizards. One child, the one he tagged "the Glazed Donut Monster" was the one with the perpetually runny nose and a sound effect like the Blob on steroids. That one always tickles me, because all of my children (the ones that were actually babies in my house at one time or another) went through that stage. Sound effects and all.
Now that my last babies are a bit older, the sound effects have gotten more sophisticated. And louder. Since they both can be drama queens when the Muse is upon them, everything is done for effect. Subconsciously, of course, but effect nonetheless.
Even now, as I focus on this post, I am aware of an interesting rhythm going on around me. The girls are both watching videos at the moment. The older one chose "The Parent Trap" (the classic, not the knock-offs) while the younger one is enjoying "Zeus and Roxanne." Of the videos I am blissfully ignorant. The sound effects are hilarious. This is what it sounds like when small children refuse to use tissues:
[SHNUUUUFFLE]
[cough]
[HACK]
[SNORT]
"Eww."
[swallow]
[wheeze]
[repeat]
I think there really is a pattern here. They are not by any means aware of it, they're just doing it. Daddy, in the meantime, is silently shaking with mirth. I'm not sure why I find this funny, but I do. Maybe it hearkens back to my days as a missionary in the Guatemalan highlands having extremely immature contests with fellow missionaries. I leave it to your imagination what those contests may have entailed.
Mrs. Woody is already in bed, having wisely put her germs down for a nap. Woodyette the Younger unfortunately had a four hour nap right about the time I got home from work today, which means she will be wide-eyed until about, oh, five o'clock in the morning. The other one is tired enough to fall asleep standing up, but she will refuse to go until her movie is over. Lessee... it's the campground scene where the girls have boobytrapped the golddigger's tent. Nuts. Another 20 minutes to go.
Ah, well. If it weren't for sleep deprivation, I'd have no hobbies at all. The good news is that I don't have any meetings tomorrow. None that I have to stay awake for, at any rate. I should be able to catch a few winks at my desk. In the meantime, enjoy the dulcet tones of our new family band:
The Honking Noses of the Woodyettes.
[snort]
"Ew."
Years ago, Bill Cosby did a wonderful routine revolving around his five linoleum lizards. One child, the one he tagged "the Glazed Donut Monster" was the one with the perpetually runny nose and a sound effect like the Blob on steroids. That one always tickles me, because all of my children (the ones that were actually babies in my house at one time or another) went through that stage. Sound effects and all.
Now that my last babies are a bit older, the sound effects have gotten more sophisticated. And louder. Since they both can be drama queens when the Muse is upon them, everything is done for effect. Subconsciously, of course, but effect nonetheless.
Even now, as I focus on this post, I am aware of an interesting rhythm going on around me. The girls are both watching videos at the moment. The older one chose "The Parent Trap" (the classic, not the knock-offs) while the younger one is enjoying "Zeus and Roxanne." Of the videos I am blissfully ignorant. The sound effects are hilarious. This is what it sounds like when small children refuse to use tissues:
[SHNUUUUFFLE]
[cough]
[HACK]
[SNORT]
"Eww."
[swallow]
[wheeze]
[repeat]
I think there really is a pattern here. They are not by any means aware of it, they're just doing it. Daddy, in the meantime, is silently shaking with mirth. I'm not sure why I find this funny, but I do. Maybe it hearkens back to my days as a missionary in the Guatemalan highlands having extremely immature contests with fellow missionaries. I leave it to your imagination what those contests may have entailed.
Mrs. Woody is already in bed, having wisely put her germs down for a nap. Woodyette the Younger unfortunately had a four hour nap right about the time I got home from work today, which means she will be wide-eyed until about, oh, five o'clock in the morning. The other one is tired enough to fall asleep standing up, but she will refuse to go until her movie is over. Lessee... it's the campground scene where the girls have boobytrapped the golddigger's tent. Nuts. Another 20 minutes to go.
Ah, well. If it weren't for sleep deprivation, I'd have no hobbies at all. The good news is that I don't have any meetings tomorrow. None that I have to stay awake for, at any rate. I should be able to catch a few winks at my desk. In the meantime, enjoy the dulcet tones of our new family band:
The Honking Noses of the Woodyettes.
[snort]
"Ew."
#20 - LDS Lileks?? Oy.
Peggy Cahill has a terrific blog called Speak Up For Truth. She mostly posts about things that drive me to speak out as a Dad in a world gone mad. She provides the deeper backgrounds, if you will, to my generally light-hearted writing. Although, truth to tell, I don't have anyone waiting for me in North Carolina. At least, I don't think I do.
I'm flattered by her comparison of me with Mr. James Lileks, Esq. Actually, the term "LDS Lileks" causes me to chuckle appreciatively. I read his stuff daily, and he's probably waaay smarter than I am. But we do share a love of Daddyhood, and are both hopelessly wrapped around our girls.
Anyway, I consider her stuff to be family friendly, and you can find links to Speak Up For Truth on both of my blogs (this one, and my evil-twin Woody's Woundup). Fix yourself a steaming mug of Postum, pull up the easy chair, and sit back for some deep reading.
I'm flattered by her comparison of me with Mr. James Lileks, Esq. Actually, the term "LDS Lileks" causes me to chuckle appreciatively. I read his stuff daily, and he's probably waaay smarter than I am. But we do share a love of Daddyhood, and are both hopelessly wrapped around our girls.
Anyway, I consider her stuff to be family friendly, and you can find links to Speak Up For Truth on both of my blogs (this one, and my evil-twin Woody's Woundup). Fix yourself a steaming mug of Postum, pull up the easy chair, and sit back for some deep reading.
Monday, February 21, 2005
#19 - Paralyzed, But In a Good Way
It's Sunday evening, and the family is crowded around the TV. We've been stuck in front of this thing since returning home from Church. This is not a bad thing.
The other day, one of the Woodyettes (I think the younger one) had requested one of our "family" tapes. This is a series of tapes onto which I have transferred our camcorder stuff until such time that I can afford a good DVD burner. Anyway, the girls both love to watch "their" tapes. The older one had the camcorder to herself right up until her sister was born. That's one tape. The next tape has her sister's birth through first year or so. She requests this one a lot.
Unfortunately, the girls have also reached that stage where they're not shy about pushing buttons on their VCR. You might have guessed that they quite recently pushed "Record" on a tape that I had failed to relieve of it's lock tab.
This meant that Daddy had to set up the camcorder, load up the original tapes, and re-record everything onto VHS. It was a wonderful treat.
This is one of the essences of family history. Just like going through old scrapbooks, watching old family films was a major treat for me when I was growing up. Grandma and Grandpa had a super-8 camera and lots of time on their hands. Every visit to grandchildren, relatives, or the boat was fodder for Grandma De Laurentiis. We all mugged for the camera, knowing that we would be able to have Grandma have us do our wacky stunts in slow motion or backwards, time after time after time on request.
Can't quite do that anymore with our basic VCRs, but it's still fun to watch just how much the girls have grown in the last seven or so years. We always remark about the hair. "Look at that hair!" we say. "She was bald, for pete's sake!" "Yes," points out Mrs. Woody. "She had her Daddy's hair." (For the record, I must point out that I am not bald, but I have a hairline that has receded to the high tide line, if you catch my drift.)
We remember things like Woodyette Number One's "Zen Hum." All kids do something like this, but they usually don't vocalize it to the point my daughter did. Most kids may mutter under their breath, or just stick their tongue between their teeth. The Zen Hum started shortly after she became mobile, if I remember correctly. It was her way of concentrating on a given task. Once she was into something, she would begin a very intense single-note hum. Sort of like the "One Note Samba," but without any rhythm. My own Dad loved it. He was intrigued enough to realize that she hummed on exactly the same pitch every single time. One day he sat at the piano and pegged her at F-sharp (we think she'll be an alto). Toward the end of her humming days it moved up a half step, and by age 5 or 6 it had disappeared for good. Except on tape. Even now, having written this paragraph I realize that words do the Zen Hum absolutely no justice. You have to hear it to understand it.
We've actually been doing this since Saturday afternoon. We have re-transferred something like 9 hours of tape since we had to replace not one but two VHS cassettes. Life around us has pretty much come to a complete standstill. It has taken me two days to clean the girls' room instead of one because I keep coming out to watch "just a bit" of the tapes. We have missed every one of our evening TV programs (we actually stopped in time to catch the replay of "Iron Chef America," which I enjoy), but we have not regretted it one bit.
We've been having far too much fun remembering.
UPDATE: Great. Now I can't get "One Note Samba" out of my head! Help!
The other day, one of the Woodyettes (I think the younger one) had requested one of our "family" tapes. This is a series of tapes onto which I have transferred our camcorder stuff until such time that I can afford a good DVD burner. Anyway, the girls both love to watch "their" tapes. The older one had the camcorder to herself right up until her sister was born. That's one tape. The next tape has her sister's birth through first year or so. She requests this one a lot.
Unfortunately, the girls have also reached that stage where they're not shy about pushing buttons on their VCR. You might have guessed that they quite recently pushed "Record" on a tape that I had failed to relieve of it's lock tab.
This meant that Daddy had to set up the camcorder, load up the original tapes, and re-record everything onto VHS. It was a wonderful treat.
This is one of the essences of family history. Just like going through old scrapbooks, watching old family films was a major treat for me when I was growing up. Grandma and Grandpa had a super-8 camera and lots of time on their hands. Every visit to grandchildren, relatives, or the boat was fodder for Grandma De Laurentiis. We all mugged for the camera, knowing that we would be able to have Grandma have us do our wacky stunts in slow motion or backwards, time after time after time on request.
Can't quite do that anymore with our basic VCRs, but it's still fun to watch just how much the girls have grown in the last seven or so years. We always remark about the hair. "Look at that hair!" we say. "She was bald, for pete's sake!" "Yes," points out Mrs. Woody. "She had her Daddy's hair." (For the record, I must point out that I am not bald, but I have a hairline that has receded to the high tide line, if you catch my drift.)
We remember things like Woodyette Number One's "Zen Hum." All kids do something like this, but they usually don't vocalize it to the point my daughter did. Most kids may mutter under their breath, or just stick their tongue between their teeth. The Zen Hum started shortly after she became mobile, if I remember correctly. It was her way of concentrating on a given task. Once she was into something, she would begin a very intense single-note hum. Sort of like the "One Note Samba," but without any rhythm. My own Dad loved it. He was intrigued enough to realize that she hummed on exactly the same pitch every single time. One day he sat at the piano and pegged her at F-sharp (we think she'll be an alto). Toward the end of her humming days it moved up a half step, and by age 5 or 6 it had disappeared for good. Except on tape. Even now, having written this paragraph I realize that words do the Zen Hum absolutely no justice. You have to hear it to understand it.
We've actually been doing this since Saturday afternoon. We have re-transferred something like 9 hours of tape since we had to replace not one but two VHS cassettes. Life around us has pretty much come to a complete standstill. It has taken me two days to clean the girls' room instead of one because I keep coming out to watch "just a bit" of the tapes. We have missed every one of our evening TV programs (we actually stopped in time to catch the replay of "Iron Chef America," which I enjoy), but we have not regretted it one bit.
We've been having far too much fun remembering.
UPDATE: Great. Now I can't get "One Note Samba" out of my head! Help!
Thursday, February 17, 2005
#18 - Copping a 'Toon 'Tude
I try not to watch too much TV news. Really, I do. Lately, however, I've been enjoying some CSI-type crime shows during the 10:00 hour (when I really should be going to bed), and local news appears immediately following. Last night I'd seen a teaser for something I had very mixed feelings about: a makeover for Warner Bros.' venerable Bugs Bunny.
I say mixed feelings because my perceptions of the Warner Bros. stable have changed over time. Needless to say, like most boomers I grew up watching Bugs and the rest hoodwink their collective way through a Toon life. I was constantly on the floor laughing my fool head off, but that was mostly because I tended to overact on my better days. Anyway, I loved the schtick and still do. However, having reached fogeyhood (as defined by Dave Barry), I'm not such a big fan anymore of allowing today's kids to grow up with the same influences.
Society has done much too efficient a job of turning yesterday's social gaffes into today's social staples. Attitude plays a huge part, and today it mostly stinks. Authority has become a hiss and a byword, if you will, to be mocked at all costs. All popular media, from movies to magazines to cartoons, propagate the theme that the winner-take-all approach to life is the only one worth having. Cartoons that play to these themes become enablers of that attitude and literally teach the kids how to "cop the 'tude." Just what we need.
I recently watched an anthology of Warner Bros. classic 'toons from the studio's heyday. I was astonished at how I felt. While growing up I remembered those cartoons as being hilarious. Watching them a few months ago I found myself thinking, over and over, "Please don't let my kids see this stuff until they're eighteen!"
Over-reacting? Perhaps. But now consider the new and improved Bugs Bunny (and friends!) under development by the studio today.
The new character is named Buzz Bunny, and he's been given the look of a futuristic (circa 2772 AD) super hero. These characters are supposed to be descendents of the originals. One gal quoted in the Daily News says they look "more robotic." More telling was one youngster they interviewed on our local news last night: "He looks evil."
Indeed.
I say mixed feelings because my perceptions of the Warner Bros. stable have changed over time. Needless to say, like most boomers I grew up watching Bugs and the rest hoodwink their collective way through a Toon life. I was constantly on the floor laughing my fool head off, but that was mostly because I tended to overact on my better days. Anyway, I loved the schtick and still do. However, having reached fogeyhood (as defined by Dave Barry), I'm not such a big fan anymore of allowing today's kids to grow up with the same influences.
Society has done much too efficient a job of turning yesterday's social gaffes into today's social staples. Attitude plays a huge part, and today it mostly stinks. Authority has become a hiss and a byword, if you will, to be mocked at all costs. All popular media, from movies to magazines to cartoons, propagate the theme that the winner-take-all approach to life is the only one worth having. Cartoons that play to these themes become enablers of that attitude and literally teach the kids how to "cop the 'tude." Just what we need.
I recently watched an anthology of Warner Bros. classic 'toons from the studio's heyday. I was astonished at how I felt. While growing up I remembered those cartoons as being hilarious. Watching them a few months ago I found myself thinking, over and over, "Please don't let my kids see this stuff until they're eighteen!"
Over-reacting? Perhaps. But now consider the new and improved Bugs Bunny (and friends!) under development by the studio today.
The new character is named Buzz Bunny, and he's been given the look of a futuristic (circa 2772 AD) super hero. These characters are supposed to be descendents of the originals. One gal quoted in the Daily News says they look "more robotic." More telling was one youngster they interviewed on our local news last night: "He looks evil."
Indeed.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
#17 - Angels Watching Over Me
This is my second majorly nasty head cold of the season. It came on overnight last night. I have no idea how long it'll last, but I'm sure at least part of this is due to the weather we've been having. It has rained on and off for weeks now, and I'm sure the drought - in Anaheim, anyway - is over. Let the pollen wars continue.
Speaking of Anaheim (and pollen), it was announced on the radio news earlier this week that Anaheim ranks Number One as the Allergy Capital of the Country as reported by the Asthma and Allergy Foundation of America, closely followed by Atlanta, Georgia. I think I'm seeing a pattern here.
Anyway, back to my main point. I'm sick. Being the male of the species in this household, that grants me the privilege of being a huge baby about it. I'm certain I've been whining all day long about it, except for the nap I got earlier this afternoon. Mrs. Woody does not get naps, healthy or sick. It's not allowed. Daddy gets all the naps he needs. To be fair, I have encouraged Mrs. Woody to stay in bed whenever she gets migraines and has to deal with that light-sensitivity thing. Unfortunately (or, really, fortunately) she only gets a couple of those in a given year. Otherwise, asking her to lie down for a while is tantamount to asking her to stop being a Mommy.
To tie all this in with this post's title, I need to spin a little narrative. Last weekend Mrs. Woody had me take a turkey out of the freezer. This is the penultimate turkey for this winter. There's still one left. We kinda went overboard this season with those super deals they always have on turkeys during the holidays. Anyway, the plan was to cook the bird last Monday. Turkey, as you well know, will last for days if you're willing to put a little effort in it. Soup, of course, being a mainstay. Monday, however, came and went and we found ourselves just too busy to deal with cooking a turkey. Tuesday passed the same way, then Wednesday. That put Mrs. Woody in a bit of a pickle because we were planning to travel up to visit family over the weekend, meaning that Thursday was do-or-die day. So, on Thursday, Mrs. Woody put the turkey in the oven, and we feasted well Thursday night.
Thursday night was also, as Southern Californians will recall, the latest round of the Storms vs. Humanity title fights we've had all winter long. It promised to pour buckets down here right through Friday. After much consideration and not a little angst, we decided to call off our trip. One of our nieces was a little under the weather (so to speak), and between that and the weather, we just didn't feel like we were supposed to go. We were sorely disappointed, but it happens.
Friday indeed poured, pretty much all day long. (Side note: Satellite TV is wonderful, unless heavy storm clouds sit between your receiver and the satellite that, of course, hosts the very programs you were hoping to watch on Date Night. Just FYI.) We were just beginning to feel smug about cancelling our plans when it happened. I went to bed Friday night feeling that familiar post-nasal discomfort, and by morning was fully engulfed. Yuck.
No fear, though. Mrs. Woody, through propitious circumstance, had only recently cooked the turkey, and spent this morning picking and boiling the carcass. By lunch time we had a huge pot of her wonderful - and healthful! - turkey noodle soup. Twice today I have feasted, and twice I have felt that wonderful down-home comfort knowing that your soup not only tastes wonderful, but was made with far more love than you probably deserve. At least, that's how I view it.
Before dinner, I asked the younger Woodyette to bless not only the food, but Daddy as well. She responded with one of those sweet, pure prayers that only a five year old can utter. Short, but to the point. I know Heavenly Father listens to sincere prayers, and there's no reason to suspect that hers was anything but.
Daddy still feels miserable, but Daddy's Angels - all three of 'em - will keep Daddy as comfy-cozy as possible.
Speaking of Anaheim (and pollen), it was announced on the radio news earlier this week that Anaheim ranks Number One as the Allergy Capital of the Country as reported by the Asthma and Allergy Foundation of America, closely followed by Atlanta, Georgia. I think I'm seeing a pattern here.
Anyway, back to my main point. I'm sick. Being the male of the species in this household, that grants me the privilege of being a huge baby about it. I'm certain I've been whining all day long about it, except for the nap I got earlier this afternoon. Mrs. Woody does not get naps, healthy or sick. It's not allowed. Daddy gets all the naps he needs. To be fair, I have encouraged Mrs. Woody to stay in bed whenever she gets migraines and has to deal with that light-sensitivity thing. Unfortunately (or, really, fortunately) she only gets a couple of those in a given year. Otherwise, asking her to lie down for a while is tantamount to asking her to stop being a Mommy.
To tie all this in with this post's title, I need to spin a little narrative. Last weekend Mrs. Woody had me take a turkey out of the freezer. This is the penultimate turkey for this winter. There's still one left. We kinda went overboard this season with those super deals they always have on turkeys during the holidays. Anyway, the plan was to cook the bird last Monday. Turkey, as you well know, will last for days if you're willing to put a little effort in it. Soup, of course, being a mainstay. Monday, however, came and went and we found ourselves just too busy to deal with cooking a turkey. Tuesday passed the same way, then Wednesday. That put Mrs. Woody in a bit of a pickle because we were planning to travel up to visit family over the weekend, meaning that Thursday was do-or-die day. So, on Thursday, Mrs. Woody put the turkey in the oven, and we feasted well Thursday night.
Thursday night was also, as Southern Californians will recall, the latest round of the Storms vs. Humanity title fights we've had all winter long. It promised to pour buckets down here right through Friday. After much consideration and not a little angst, we decided to call off our trip. One of our nieces was a little under the weather (so to speak), and between that and the weather, we just didn't feel like we were supposed to go. We were sorely disappointed, but it happens.
Friday indeed poured, pretty much all day long. (Side note: Satellite TV is wonderful, unless heavy storm clouds sit between your receiver and the satellite that, of course, hosts the very programs you were hoping to watch on Date Night. Just FYI.) We were just beginning to feel smug about cancelling our plans when it happened. I went to bed Friday night feeling that familiar post-nasal discomfort, and by morning was fully engulfed. Yuck.
No fear, though. Mrs. Woody, through propitious circumstance, had only recently cooked the turkey, and spent this morning picking and boiling the carcass. By lunch time we had a huge pot of her wonderful - and healthful! - turkey noodle soup. Twice today I have feasted, and twice I have felt that wonderful down-home comfort knowing that your soup not only tastes wonderful, but was made with far more love than you probably deserve. At least, that's how I view it.
Before dinner, I asked the younger Woodyette to bless not only the food, but Daddy as well. She responded with one of those sweet, pure prayers that only a five year old can utter. Short, but to the point. I know Heavenly Father listens to sincere prayers, and there's no reason to suspect that hers was anything but.
Daddy still feels miserable, but Daddy's Angels - all three of 'em - will keep Daddy as comfy-cozy as possible.
Friday, February 11, 2005
#16 - Seriously Dad
Dadhood is nature's way of keeping men from becoming the insufferable pigs that feminists have accused us of being for decades now. Show me a dad who hasn't gone to church at least once in his life with unidentifiable stains on his tie, and I'll show you a dad who takes himself way too seriously.
True story: Back in the days when ties were required at work (this was during my so-called "starter marriage") I was sitting at my desk hacking away at my computer. One of my coworkers wandered by and commented, "Strained peas?" I was so intent on my uncooperative program that I must have stared at her like she had just come from the mother ship. "Beg pardon?" was my confused enjoinder. "Strained peas," she insisted. "You must have fed the baby strained peas recently, because you have a spot on your tie." She was chuckling, but she was right. I just hadn't noticed. I smiled and assured her that they were delicious, as my son would never have willingly eaten them without a fight.
That's dadhood.
Not taking myself too seriously allows me to enjoy my family at different levels. One of the best things a non-serious dad can do is take his kids very seriously. Acting as if their little problems or conundrums are worthy of Daddy's full attention makes them feel important. I almost drew the line at being Barbie's fashion advisor once, but in the end I relented and offered my opinion. "But, Daaaaad!" she accused. "That doesn't match her shoes!" I wasn't ready to capitulate. "So change the shoes!" I shot back. "But, Daaaaaaaaaad!" came the last straw. "She has to wear the boots so she can cook the dinner!"
I must state, for the record, that she had never once in her short life witnessed either her mother or, for that matter, her father ever cook while wearing boots. I have no clue where that idea came from, and I'm certain I don't want to know. Secretly, I believe that these kids are more sophisticated than we give them credit for, and they come up with this nonsense just to watch Daddy get exasperated. I think it gives them an adrenalin rush.
Thus I spend my days alternately wearing that long-suffering look that my own Dad perfected, or the immensely smug and proud look of a Dad whose kids are already way smarter than he is. It's an interesting combination, and the "conflict" (if one may indeed call it that) fuels my sardonic sense of humor.
Of course there are things that I take very seriously. I also let my children know that parts of life are and need to be very serious. I also let them know, on the other hand, that it's okay to have fun with life. Especially when they're kids.
I hope I never forget that lesson.
True story: Back in the days when ties were required at work (this was during my so-called "starter marriage") I was sitting at my desk hacking away at my computer. One of my coworkers wandered by and commented, "Strained peas?" I was so intent on my uncooperative program that I must have stared at her like she had just come from the mother ship. "Beg pardon?" was my confused enjoinder. "Strained peas," she insisted. "You must have fed the baby strained peas recently, because you have a spot on your tie." She was chuckling, but she was right. I just hadn't noticed. I smiled and assured her that they were delicious, as my son would never have willingly eaten them without a fight.
That's dadhood.
Not taking myself too seriously allows me to enjoy my family at different levels. One of the best things a non-serious dad can do is take his kids very seriously. Acting as if their little problems or conundrums are worthy of Daddy's full attention makes them feel important. I almost drew the line at being Barbie's fashion advisor once, but in the end I relented and offered my opinion. "But, Daaaaad!" she accused. "That doesn't match her shoes!" I wasn't ready to capitulate. "So change the shoes!" I shot back. "But, Daaaaaaaaaad!" came the last straw. "She has to wear the boots so she can cook the dinner!"
I must state, for the record, that she had never once in her short life witnessed either her mother or, for that matter, her father ever cook while wearing boots. I have no clue where that idea came from, and I'm certain I don't want to know. Secretly, I believe that these kids are more sophisticated than we give them credit for, and they come up with this nonsense just to watch Daddy get exasperated. I think it gives them an adrenalin rush.
Thus I spend my days alternately wearing that long-suffering look that my own Dad perfected, or the immensely smug and proud look of a Dad whose kids are already way smarter than he is. It's an interesting combination, and the "conflict" (if one may indeed call it that) fuels my sardonic sense of humor.
Of course there are things that I take very seriously. I also let my children know that parts of life are and need to be very serious. I also let them know, on the other hand, that it's okay to have fun with life. Especially when they're kids.
I hope I never forget that lesson.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
#15 - I Am... The CraftMaster™!
I do not consider myself to be an artsy-craftsy kind of guy. I watch my wife while she scraps of an evening and think wistfully to myself, "Must be nice." But I'll never try it. My total contributions to any given scrapbook in our house consist of occasional journaling that she gets me to do. Trust me, it's safer that way.
In times past - during the Messofzodiacs Era - I was a model railroader. When Mrs. Woody and I were first married, I was still revelling in the reflected glow of carefree evenings where we could do any number of things with no interruptions. Jigsaw puzzles, videos, quiet reading time, or hobbies. One of mine was model railroading. I still have my layout hiding safely behind our family room couch with track laid, but in sore need of maintenance. After all, I haven't really touched it since Woodyette Number One was born. Coming dangerously close to "arts and crafts" is the act of putting together a model of, say, a five and dime storefront, circa 1910. We guys mask this behavior by comparing it to building model airplanes or cars when we were younger. Same thing, we argue. It's not "artsy" or even "craftsy," it's just modelling. Or, if you use parts from different kits, you can call it by its somewhat more testosterone-ish appellation, "kit bashing."
Mrs. Woody has served as a poster maker of no small renown in the church. I will admit that, on occasion, I have aided and abetted by giving, erm, technical assistance to make her job easier. I'm not an artist, but I can help.
So why is it that late on a Tuesday evening I find myself making Valentine Boxes for my daughters?
Mrs. Woody was feeling just a tad overwhelmed about tomorrow. Tomorrow is Great Brain Day in our homeschool group. It's a chance for the kids in the group to show off what they've been learning so far this year. They can demonstrate something, perform a musical number, or do a table display. My ultra-shy girls will, of course, do a table display. They will show things they've been learning about the Nez Perce tribe. Even as we speak they are a thundering herd of buffalo. Amazing how well they thunder.
Anyway, on top of the Great Brain Day activities, the girls also were to be prepared with Valentines to hand out, and a Valentine Box each to receive Valentines from others. With so much to have prepared in so short a span of time our Headmistress was feeling a tremendous weight. She laid out what needed to be accomplished, and I arrived at a decision. I volunteered to make the Valentine Boxes.
Mrs. Woody was extremely grateful, but Woody was proportionately nervous. It took me a solid half hour of wandering around the house looking for some sort of inspiration before I decided on a basic design. I found a half sheet of poster board and from it made two simple open boxes. A cut out heart shape with a craft foam heart in its place that the girls decorated. Simple. To the point. Ar..rrr..rrrt... don't make me say it.
Ok... artsy.
I can't imagine that anyone will be seriously impressed with my project tomorrow. However, the girls will have their boxes and will be able to receive their Valentines and have something in which to bring them home.
I, however, am exhausted. May have to call in sick tomorrow. I wonder if this Martha Stewart hormone I've suddenly developed will land me in Club Fed?
Oy.
In times past - during the Messofzodiacs Era - I was a model railroader. When Mrs. Woody and I were first married, I was still revelling in the reflected glow of carefree evenings where we could do any number of things with no interruptions. Jigsaw puzzles, videos, quiet reading time, or hobbies. One of mine was model railroading. I still have my layout hiding safely behind our family room couch with track laid, but in sore need of maintenance. After all, I haven't really touched it since Woodyette Number One was born. Coming dangerously close to "arts and crafts" is the act of putting together a model of, say, a five and dime storefront, circa 1910. We guys mask this behavior by comparing it to building model airplanes or cars when we were younger. Same thing, we argue. It's not "artsy" or even "craftsy," it's just modelling. Or, if you use parts from different kits, you can call it by its somewhat more testosterone-ish appellation, "kit bashing."
Mrs. Woody has served as a poster maker of no small renown in the church. I will admit that, on occasion, I have aided and abetted by giving, erm, technical assistance to make her job easier. I'm not an artist, but I can help.
So why is it that late on a Tuesday evening I find myself making Valentine Boxes for my daughters?
Mrs. Woody was feeling just a tad overwhelmed about tomorrow. Tomorrow is Great Brain Day in our homeschool group. It's a chance for the kids in the group to show off what they've been learning so far this year. They can demonstrate something, perform a musical number, or do a table display. My ultra-shy girls will, of course, do a table display. They will show things they've been learning about the Nez Perce tribe. Even as we speak they are a thundering herd of buffalo. Amazing how well they thunder.
Anyway, on top of the Great Brain Day activities, the girls also were to be prepared with Valentines to hand out, and a Valentine Box each to receive Valentines from others. With so much to have prepared in so short a span of time our Headmistress was feeling a tremendous weight. She laid out what needed to be accomplished, and I arrived at a decision. I volunteered to make the Valentine Boxes.
Mrs. Woody was extremely grateful, but Woody was proportionately nervous. It took me a solid half hour of wandering around the house looking for some sort of inspiration before I decided on a basic design. I found a half sheet of poster board and from it made two simple open boxes. A cut out heart shape with a craft foam heart in its place that the girls decorated. Simple. To the point. Ar..rrr..rrrt... don't make me say it.
Ok... artsy.
I can't imagine that anyone will be seriously impressed with my project tomorrow. However, the girls will have their boxes and will be able to receive their Valentines and have something in which to bring them home.
I, however, am exhausted. May have to call in sick tomorrow. I wonder if this Martha Stewart hormone I've suddenly developed will land me in Club Fed?
Oy.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
#14 - Woodyettes Redefine "Interactive"
Shortly after breakfast this morning, Woodyette the Elder asked whether she could play on the computer. Not being Lileks, you see, I have to share the family machine with everyone. Mrs. Woody agreed, since she was in the office doing our finances for the week. She knows she can trump the girls' computer play whenever she's ready to pay a bill online. Daddy has no such preemptive power.
I generally don't have to pay much attention when the girls play, even online. We're both in tune enough to know if they're on a site they shouldn't be. Also, the girls are both still innocent enough that if they saw anything questionable, they would question it. Loudly. So, they spend time (an hour a day limit!) on Barbie.com, NickJr, Playhouse Disney, and so on.
Just now I glanced over at the machine. Both Woodyettes were sitting in front of the monitor, watching a static image. myscene.com has a beauty shop, and the girls were looking at a young lady getting her hair done. They had Little People figures in front of them which they were manipulating in front of the monitor.
They were being interactive.
The older Woodyette pioneered this practice in our family. She has a tremendous imagination. She has always been able to project herself mentally into any image, whether on TV or in a book. The other night I caught her walking a magazine around on the floor. It was a homeschooling magazine and had a photo of ballerina feet in the en pointe position. She was pretending to be a ballerina, using the feet in the photo.
The Little People, in this case, were customers of the beauty salon. Apparently this was more interesting than what the site was designed to do. Both girls were playing together without clicking the mouse more than once or twice in the ten minutes I witnessed. As play progressed, it became a drive-through salon, as indicated by the old-fashioned Little People (the old wooden ones, remember them?) in his vehicle. Later they were joined by a fuzzy caterpillar, although I'm not sure what his function was. Occasionally he becomes the herky-jerky car that sits outside of grocery stores and costs 50 cents to breakdown the moment your child sits in it.
I like to see this kind of interaction because it means the Woodyettes are still not content to let the computer do all their thinking and imagining for them. When the girls ask Daddy to play one of the Harry Potter games (their own hand-eye coordination being still under development), they immediately trot off to their room, don their Harry Potter robes, grab their Hermione wands, and dance around behind Daddy yelling "flippendo!" or "alohomora!" whenever the video Harry does the same. They get way more exercise than I do.
Of course, whenever Daddy decides to play "Indiana Jones" or my latest "Railroad Tycoon" (thanks, Sis!), the older Woodyette still loves to sit right by me and give helpful suggestions. "Try jumping off the cliff, Daddy! What happens if you jump off the cliff, Daddy?" "You die a horrible death." "Can I see it, Daddy?" She has even suggested that I try to build my railroads directly through mountains in timeframes where tunnelling technology was still a decade or two off. Just to see how the software will mock Daddy when he asks for something unreasonable. She lives for that.
So do I.
I generally don't have to pay much attention when the girls play, even online. We're both in tune enough to know if they're on a site they shouldn't be. Also, the girls are both still innocent enough that if they saw anything questionable, they would question it. Loudly. So, they spend time (an hour a day limit!) on Barbie.com, NickJr, Playhouse Disney, and so on.
Just now I glanced over at the machine. Both Woodyettes were sitting in front of the monitor, watching a static image. myscene.com has a beauty shop, and the girls were looking at a young lady getting her hair done. They had Little People figures in front of them which they were manipulating in front of the monitor.
They were being interactive.
The older Woodyette pioneered this practice in our family. She has a tremendous imagination. She has always been able to project herself mentally into any image, whether on TV or in a book. The other night I caught her walking a magazine around on the floor. It was a homeschooling magazine and had a photo of ballerina feet in the en pointe position. She was pretending to be a ballerina, using the feet in the photo.
The Little People, in this case, were customers of the beauty salon. Apparently this was more interesting than what the site was designed to do. Both girls were playing together without clicking the mouse more than once or twice in the ten minutes I witnessed. As play progressed, it became a drive-through salon, as indicated by the old-fashioned Little People (the old wooden ones, remember them?) in his vehicle. Later they were joined by a fuzzy caterpillar, although I'm not sure what his function was. Occasionally he becomes the herky-jerky car that sits outside of grocery stores and costs 50 cents to breakdown the moment your child sits in it.
I like to see this kind of interaction because it means the Woodyettes are still not content to let the computer do all their thinking and imagining for them. When the girls ask Daddy to play one of the Harry Potter games (their own hand-eye coordination being still under development), they immediately trot off to their room, don their Harry Potter robes, grab their Hermione wands, and dance around behind Daddy yelling "flippendo!" or "alohomora!" whenever the video Harry does the same. They get way more exercise than I do.
Of course, whenever Daddy decides to play "Indiana Jones" or my latest "Railroad Tycoon" (thanks, Sis!), the older Woodyette still loves to sit right by me and give helpful suggestions. "Try jumping off the cliff, Daddy! What happens if you jump off the cliff, Daddy?" "You die a horrible death." "Can I see it, Daddy?" She has even suggested that I try to build my railroads directly through mountains in timeframes where tunnelling technology was still a decade or two off. Just to see how the software will mock Daddy when he asks for something unreasonable. She lives for that.
So do I.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
#13 - Cam's Right... 'Tis Poetry
Brian B of Memento Moron is both a fresh Dad and an (at least) occasional poet. Better add him to the ol' blog roll while I think of it. Anyway, he had written something a while back and posted it here. He calls it a doggerell, my esteemed hermano says it's poetry. I side with my bro here, and link to it as an outstanding statement of the importance of our family ties, both present and past. Being the family history nut that I am, as well as a Dad, that kind of statement is irresistable.
Thanks, Brian, and belated congrats for The Lad!
Thanks, Brian, and belated congrats for The Lad!
Friday, January 28, 2005
#12 - Woody Does Family History
Mrs. Woody is scrapping again. It is, for her, a tremendous outlet for her considerable talents, and gives her an equally tremendous spiritual and emotional boost. I strongly encourage it.
Tonight, she's working on a family vacation we took nearly two years ago. We had gone up to visit our friends in Vancouver, Washington, and planned a few day-trips from there. One such trip (actually an overnighter) would take us up to Sequim (pronounced "skwim" by the locals) to visit an uncle of mine, and thence across the Puget Sound to Seattle. I love the area just as a matter of course, but this time I had a purpose in mind.
You know by now of my own interest in family history and, particularly, genealogy. I've had the bug since a month or two after Dad passed away. My personal belief is that he's worried about my becoming lazy (too late!) and is having old dead relatives visit me in my sleep. Gee, thanks, Dad. So, I spend copious amounts of time digging (sometimes literally!) up information about my ancestors. I never knew, for example, any of my great-grandparents. In fact, I grew up with only three grandparents. My Dad's dad, Harry, had been a dentist in Idaho Falls in the 20's and 30's. Unfortunately, he developed a drinking problem (Dad used to say he drank too much of his own anesthetic), and Grandma divorced him when Dad was young. Grandpa remarried, but apparently was never happy and finally took an overdose of sleeping powder on a train to Colorado some fourteen years before I was born.
Since developing Family History Syndrome I have developed a desire to get to know my ancestors better. I never knew much about Grandpa Harry. The stories Dad told of him were sketchy, at best. After all, Dad was taken to Los Angeles at about age 9, so he could only recall just so much. Plus, Dad was not one to discuss his own past very much. This puts me at a distinct disadvantage where research is concerned because I'm shooting blind most of the time.
This particular year I was determined to follow up on a valuable piece of information about my great-grandfather Elam. Elam had died about four years before his son. I had tried once to get information on where Harry might be buried, but was completely unsuccessful on that score. (I did, however, find out that my Dad had truly been adopted at birth... something we had chalked up to the rantings of our Alzheimer's suffering grandmother!)
I have in my possession a copy of a certificate showing Elam's last known address and the name of the cemetery where he had been interred. Some quick Googling verified that both the house and the cemetery were still standing. It was our intention to visit the house, photograph it, then visit the cemetery and find Elam's grave.
Mrs. Woody just had me "journal" the experience in the scrapbook she's making. I still recall the visit very clearly. The house was a quaint brick affair, a few miles from the Puget Sound. I felt no desire to bother the current inhabitants. I was just thrilled to see the house and snap a couple of photos of it. We left before neighbors could sic the gendarmes after us, and drove a few miles up the road to the cemetery. A quick visit to the cemetery office, and I was on my way to the mausoleum where Elam was interred.
Mrs. Woody was feeling achy, and opted to stay in the car. I took the Woodyettes with me, along with our camera, and wended our way through the maze of corridors in the huge mausoleum. Along the way, I tried to explain to the girls what I was doing and why. They asked a lot of questions, but they were probably more excited just to have an adventure with Daddy.
It was one of those moments you sort of feel should be in a movie. There's the swelling music as the protagonist reaches his goal. A sweeping camera angle from behind to reveal the crypt. There it is! Elam's resting place! His second wife, Cora, is interred with him, and... I don't believe it! Camera closes in on Woody's face, which registers surprise and shock. Camera returns to the crypt plate to reveal a third person interred with Elam and Cora. Grandpa Harry! There he is, that sonofagun! No wonder Idaho has no record of his burial! He was cremated and interred with his own father. If that doesn't beat all...
I love family history. I love being a part of it. I love discovering it...
...I love making it.
Tonight, she's working on a family vacation we took nearly two years ago. We had gone up to visit our friends in Vancouver, Washington, and planned a few day-trips from there. One such trip (actually an overnighter) would take us up to Sequim (pronounced "skwim" by the locals) to visit an uncle of mine, and thence across the Puget Sound to Seattle. I love the area just as a matter of course, but this time I had a purpose in mind.
You know by now of my own interest in family history and, particularly, genealogy. I've had the bug since a month or two after Dad passed away. My personal belief is that he's worried about my becoming lazy (too late!) and is having old dead relatives visit me in my sleep. Gee, thanks, Dad. So, I spend copious amounts of time digging (sometimes literally!) up information about my ancestors. I never knew, for example, any of my great-grandparents. In fact, I grew up with only three grandparents. My Dad's dad, Harry, had been a dentist in Idaho Falls in the 20's and 30's. Unfortunately, he developed a drinking problem (Dad used to say he drank too much of his own anesthetic), and Grandma divorced him when Dad was young. Grandpa remarried, but apparently was never happy and finally took an overdose of sleeping powder on a train to Colorado some fourteen years before I was born.
Since developing Family History Syndrome I have developed a desire to get to know my ancestors better. I never knew much about Grandpa Harry. The stories Dad told of him were sketchy, at best. After all, Dad was taken to Los Angeles at about age 9, so he could only recall just so much. Plus, Dad was not one to discuss his own past very much. This puts me at a distinct disadvantage where research is concerned because I'm shooting blind most of the time.
This particular year I was determined to follow up on a valuable piece of information about my great-grandfather Elam. Elam had died about four years before his son. I had tried once to get information on where Harry might be buried, but was completely unsuccessful on that score. (I did, however, find out that my Dad had truly been adopted at birth... something we had chalked up to the rantings of our Alzheimer's suffering grandmother!)
I have in my possession a copy of a certificate showing Elam's last known address and the name of the cemetery where he had been interred. Some quick Googling verified that both the house and the cemetery were still standing. It was our intention to visit the house, photograph it, then visit the cemetery and find Elam's grave.
Mrs. Woody just had me "journal" the experience in the scrapbook she's making. I still recall the visit very clearly. The house was a quaint brick affair, a few miles from the Puget Sound. I felt no desire to bother the current inhabitants. I was just thrilled to see the house and snap a couple of photos of it. We left before neighbors could sic the gendarmes after us, and drove a few miles up the road to the cemetery. A quick visit to the cemetery office, and I was on my way to the mausoleum where Elam was interred.
Mrs. Woody was feeling achy, and opted to stay in the car. I took the Woodyettes with me, along with our camera, and wended our way through the maze of corridors in the huge mausoleum. Along the way, I tried to explain to the girls what I was doing and why. They asked a lot of questions, but they were probably more excited just to have an adventure with Daddy.
It was one of those moments you sort of feel should be in a movie. There's the swelling music as the protagonist reaches his goal. A sweeping camera angle from behind to reveal the crypt. There it is! Elam's resting place! His second wife, Cora, is interred with him, and... I don't believe it! Camera closes in on Woody's face, which registers surprise and shock. Camera returns to the crypt plate to reveal a third person interred with Elam and Cora. Grandpa Harry! There he is, that sonofagun! No wonder Idaho has no record of his burial! He was cremated and interred with his own father. If that doesn't beat all...
I love family history. I love being a part of it. I love discovering it...
...I love making it.
Friday, January 21, 2005
#11 - Adventures in Family Medicine
Family life is one big adventure. I mean that in the best sense, of course. Being a dad in today's world combines all the best parts of private investigation, psychoanalysis, archaeology, and medicine. For instance, nothing requires the use of a private investigator like trying to hunt down someone's shoes on Sunday morning. Similar to the 48 hour rule in homicide, if you let the trail get cold, it's that much harder to close the case. Archaeology comes into play because you never know how many layers you may have to excavate before finding your quarry. Dads like to think they use psychoanalysis on their kids, but everyone knows it's really the other way around.
Medicine, though, can get pretty tricky. Certainly, by law we are not allowed to dispense medicine or medical advice beyond the obvious home remedies with which the government currently trusts us. Or, perhaps, they don't. It's hard to tell with the government because they change their minds more frequently than my daughters change clothes in the course of a single afternoon.
In my youthful days, Dad was akin to Dracula. If he was about to draw blood, you just knew it would be painful. Consequently, whenever he would yell, "Get me the tweezers, Willy!" a crowd would form around the unfortunate child to witness their demise. "Willy" was Dad's nickname for Mom, and it usually meant that Dad was up to something. If Dad called for a needle and a match, screams would shortly follow. It was a little like having one of those film noir hacks attempt plastic surgery on you in a dimly-lit back-alley chop shop.
Being a modern, somewhat more sensitive dad, I am happy to say that I have only had to resort to the needle and match surgery a couple of times in my career. Screams followed.
There are some maladies, however, that can make even hardened veterans like myself cringe. The other day was a fine example.
The older Woodyette had complained of a sore ear and a tummy ache the evening before we were supposed to go on a field trip to a museum in the L.A. area. Mommy had me do a warm rice sock (wonderful thing, modern medicine!) to alleviate the soreness, and she was finally able to drift off to sleep. Next morning we had another episode, but she seemed to recover quickly, and we determined to go on our trip.
We had a wonderful time at the museum. There was a brief school group tour, followed by lunch. Then we had a chance to roam on our own. After a couple of exhibits, the Woodyette began to complain of serious pain in both the tummy and the ear. After two or three quick trips to the restroom, we knew our field trip was over. We bundled everyone in the WoodyMobile and made all haste for home.
"Haste," of course, is relative on L.A. freeways, particularly downtown. We crawled at a snail's pace down Interstate 5 while our daughter kept up a running hysteria in the back seat. She was clearly in pain. I knew, immediately, that this could only mean one very nasty ear infection, possibly in both ears. I'd been there before myself. Mrs. Woody really wanted to be back there with her to hold her and comfort her, but this, of course, is both illegal and unsafe. So, we both gritted our teeth all the way down to Orange County and our local Urgent Care office.
It's bad enough having a child suffer for any amount of time when the pain is urgent. Having that child endure over an hour of it is nearly as unbearable for the parents as it is for the sufferer.
Finally, though, we made it to the doctor. A brief examination to verify my own hack diagnosis, a couple of prescriptions later and we were safely home.
The next morning, the Woodyette bounced around the house as if nothing had happened the previous day. "Daddy? When can we go back to the museum?" she's already asking me.
The baby is fine. Mommy and Daddy feel much better now.
Medicine, though, can get pretty tricky. Certainly, by law we are not allowed to dispense medicine or medical advice beyond the obvious home remedies with which the government currently trusts us. Or, perhaps, they don't. It's hard to tell with the government because they change their minds more frequently than my daughters change clothes in the course of a single afternoon.
In my youthful days, Dad was akin to Dracula. If he was about to draw blood, you just knew it would be painful. Consequently, whenever he would yell, "Get me the tweezers, Willy!" a crowd would form around the unfortunate child to witness their demise. "Willy" was Dad's nickname for Mom, and it usually meant that Dad was up to something. If Dad called for a needle and a match, screams would shortly follow. It was a little like having one of those film noir hacks attempt plastic surgery on you in a dimly-lit back-alley chop shop.
Being a modern, somewhat more sensitive dad, I am happy to say that I have only had to resort to the needle and match surgery a couple of times in my career. Screams followed.
There are some maladies, however, that can make even hardened veterans like myself cringe. The other day was a fine example.
The older Woodyette had complained of a sore ear and a tummy ache the evening before we were supposed to go on a field trip to a museum in the L.A. area. Mommy had me do a warm rice sock (wonderful thing, modern medicine!) to alleviate the soreness, and she was finally able to drift off to sleep. Next morning we had another episode, but she seemed to recover quickly, and we determined to go on our trip.
We had a wonderful time at the museum. There was a brief school group tour, followed by lunch. Then we had a chance to roam on our own. After a couple of exhibits, the Woodyette began to complain of serious pain in both the tummy and the ear. After two or three quick trips to the restroom, we knew our field trip was over. We bundled everyone in the WoodyMobile and made all haste for home.
"Haste," of course, is relative on L.A. freeways, particularly downtown. We crawled at a snail's pace down Interstate 5 while our daughter kept up a running hysteria in the back seat. She was clearly in pain. I knew, immediately, that this could only mean one very nasty ear infection, possibly in both ears. I'd been there before myself. Mrs. Woody really wanted to be back there with her to hold her and comfort her, but this, of course, is both illegal and unsafe. So, we both gritted our teeth all the way down to Orange County and our local Urgent Care office.
It's bad enough having a child suffer for any amount of time when the pain is urgent. Having that child endure over an hour of it is nearly as unbearable for the parents as it is for the sufferer.
Finally, though, we made it to the doctor. A brief examination to verify my own hack diagnosis, a couple of prescriptions later and we were safely home.
The next morning, the Woodyette bounced around the house as if nothing had happened the previous day. "Daddy? When can we go back to the museum?" she's already asking me.
The baby is fine. Mommy and Daddy feel much better now.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
#10 - I Demand a Recount!
I suspect my bathroom scale was built in King County, Washington, and has suddenly added dead pounds to the list of registered pounds. It's a full-blown scandal, and I intend to hound the so-called mainstream media until they admit that poundage fraud still exists in this country, even if Dubya did win a second term handily.
Last year, Mrs. Woody and I began an odyssey to reign in our eating habits and begin some serious weight droppage. We implemented a modified Dr. Phil plan, which means we're low carbs, but not carb-intolerant. For the most part, it's worked well. Holidays, of course, are tough, but we were proud of ourselves to learn that neither of us experienced any real gain during the Christmas/New Year rush.
Then I got sick and gained over three pounds.
Huh??
Now, normally when I get the flu, I can count on at least some weight loss because my body refuses to deal with all the time and expense of properly processing whatever cretin foods I'm eating. Basically, the body just pulls the giant "Flush Everything" lever and - voila! - instant weight loss!
This time, however, I appear to have some sort of virus brought to us by the same people who registered voters in King County. The dead ones. (Voters, I mean.) Consequently, no matter how many times I visited the Porcelain Reading Room, I added pounds that appeared to be defying the laws of physics.
Sundays are our weigh-in day for our official record, and I had felt that being sick would actually give me an edge in the loss column. Imagine my chagrin to find that not only did I not lose, but I'd actually regenerated three and a half pounds previously declared dead by several elected officials to whose campaigns I've been contributing for years now.
This morning I began to feel somewhat better. The fevers are still there but not as frequent. I decided a shower and fresh set of clothes would make a new man out of me. I often check the scale just prior to my shower just to see how I'm doing, even if it's not official. So, as you've already guessed, I found myself looking at a weight lower than my pre-illness weight! That's the weight Mrs. Woody should have recorded in her log, not that artificially inflated one I had to report on Sunday. I feel disenfranchised.
I could be trite about it, I suppose. I could petulantly refuse to certify our weight loss log until I've had at least five independent recounts. Or, I could just live with the fact that I'm closer today to my original goal than I was a couple of days ago.
Nah. That's too easy.
Last year, Mrs. Woody and I began an odyssey to reign in our eating habits and begin some serious weight droppage. We implemented a modified Dr. Phil plan, which means we're low carbs, but not carb-intolerant. For the most part, it's worked well. Holidays, of course, are tough, but we were proud of ourselves to learn that neither of us experienced any real gain during the Christmas/New Year rush.
Then I got sick and gained over three pounds.
Huh??
Now, normally when I get the flu, I can count on at least some weight loss because my body refuses to deal with all the time and expense of properly processing whatever cretin foods I'm eating. Basically, the body just pulls the giant "Flush Everything" lever and - voila! - instant weight loss!
This time, however, I appear to have some sort of virus brought to us by the same people who registered voters in King County. The dead ones. (Voters, I mean.) Consequently, no matter how many times I visited the Porcelain Reading Room, I added pounds that appeared to be defying the laws of physics.
Sundays are our weigh-in day for our official record, and I had felt that being sick would actually give me an edge in the loss column. Imagine my chagrin to find that not only did I not lose, but I'd actually regenerated three and a half pounds previously declared dead by several elected officials to whose campaigns I've been contributing for years now.
This morning I began to feel somewhat better. The fevers are still there but not as frequent. I decided a shower and fresh set of clothes would make a new man out of me. I often check the scale just prior to my shower just to see how I'm doing, even if it's not official. So, as you've already guessed, I found myself looking at a weight lower than my pre-illness weight! That's the weight Mrs. Woody should have recorded in her log, not that artificially inflated one I had to report on Sunday. I feel disenfranchised.
I could be trite about it, I suppose. I could petulantly refuse to certify our weight loss log until I've had at least five independent recounts. Or, I could just live with the fact that I'm closer today to my original goal than I was a couple of days ago.
Nah. That's too easy.
#9 - Mary Poppins Redux?
I don't like getting into the TV-show-recommendation game. For one thing, I long ago learned that my tastes do not tend to mirror most of America. Also, the stuff that passes for entertainment these days is the same sort of stuff that passes into my ceramic waste processing unit. *cough*
Every once in awhile, however, we stumble across a show that piques our interest. Shortly after the Woodyettes stunned us with their Recording Diva performances, we watched an episode of "Supernanny" (ABC, Monday, 10:00 PM).
We found it refreshing on several fronts. First of all, I'm not a fan of most home-invasion type shows. I find it terribly embarrassing to watch other real people suffering through mostly real problems so that some network can scrape some real ratings. It just hurts. I've never been a fan of "reality" television because I'm struggling to determine exactly how the producers define their actors as "real."
The premise of Supernanny is simple enough. Jo Frost is a professional nanny, direct from England. Families with challenging children invite her to come, observe, and help. She watches the family's daily routine (or, usually, lack thereof) and begins showing the parents practical ways of dealing with each negative behavior. She deals not only with proper reactions, but helps the parents take a proactive approach as well.
While I find it uncomfortable to watch these situations, I found the nanny's approach to be spot on, as the Brits would say. She helps parents understand how they become enablers of the kids' various tantrums, and how to keep their own tempers in check while disciplining their offspring.
I can understand why ABC would want such a program on their roster. For those reality show addicts, it still can be a somewhat sensationalistic show about someone else's problems. On the other hand, this show takes a practical approach to age-old problems and actually attempts to build family relationships, rather than tear them apart.
That kind of TV I can get behind.
Every once in awhile, however, we stumble across a show that piques our interest. Shortly after the Woodyettes stunned us with their Recording Diva performances, we watched an episode of "Supernanny" (ABC, Monday, 10:00 PM).
We found it refreshing on several fronts. First of all, I'm not a fan of most home-invasion type shows. I find it terribly embarrassing to watch other real people suffering through mostly real problems so that some network can scrape some real ratings. It just hurts. I've never been a fan of "reality" television because I'm struggling to determine exactly how the producers define their actors as "real."
The premise of Supernanny is simple enough. Jo Frost is a professional nanny, direct from England. Families with challenging children invite her to come, observe, and help. She watches the family's daily routine (or, usually, lack thereof) and begins showing the parents practical ways of dealing with each negative behavior. She deals not only with proper reactions, but helps the parents take a proactive approach as well.
While I find it uncomfortable to watch these situations, I found the nanny's approach to be spot on, as the Brits would say. She helps parents understand how they become enablers of the kids' various tantrums, and how to keep their own tempers in check while disciplining their offspring.
I can understand why ABC would want such a program on their roster. For those reality show addicts, it still can be a somewhat sensationalistic show about someone else's problems. On the other hand, this show takes a practical approach to age-old problems and actually attempts to build family relationships, rather than tear them apart.
That kind of TV I can get behind.
Monday, January 17, 2005
#8 - Something Old...
It's easy to see how jaded we've become in these days of technological advances and convenience. Dad used to tell me about making an honest-to-gosh crystal radio set using copper wire and a do-it-yourself cat's whisker arrangement. It always amazed me that such a thing would actually work. Then I had a chance to make one, and I was still amazed. As a boy, Dad would have thought using two tin cans and a string was quite a thrill.
The older I got, the more sophisticated my toys became. Toys that lit up or made weird electro-mechanical noises were much coveted, and relatively rare. Then, when I turned 14, Dad gave me a Heathkit Electronics Lab with something like 15 or 20 experiments. I was hooked. I did every experiment in the book and then branched out. I became Poindexter in his lab creating such things as an alarm system for my room. That one scared Cameron half out of his wits, which was my intention. He'd been known to invade my Sanctum Sanctorum once too often and I couldn't wait to trap him with it. Didn't take long, as I recall.
Dad bought our first computer, the venerable Trash-80, in late 1979. My inner geek quickly came to the fore, and I've never looked back. I got on the roller coaster early, and I still enjoy the ride. I've watched the growth of the information age from the original 300 Bd acoustic coupler to my already nearly obsolete wireless home network. Likewise, entertainment toys have improved from our family's very first color (sort of) television, through VCR's and finally (or, rather, so far) DVD's.
One of the things from my childhood that continually fascinated me was any type of recording equipment. At various times in our home you might have found one or more reel-to-reel tape recorders, both large and small. We graduated, of course, to cassette recorders later on, but the fascination with them never diminished. It didn't take me long to master their workings. 8-track bored me to tears because you could never record with it. They may very well have made 8-track recorders, but we could never have afforded one. Thank goodness.
Tonight, the Woodyettes continue the cycle. For years we have had an old Fischer-Price tape recorder. This is the type with the microphone that can also serve as a mini-PA system if need be. The PA part they figured out many moons ago. They especially love to use it when Mrs. Woody and I are intensely interested in some program or movie. Tonight, they decided to record stories.
They got this idea from Mrs. Woody. Several vacations ago, Mrs. Woody decided to read several of the girls' favorite story books on tape so they could listen and (sneaky homeschooler that she is!) read along while we travelled. They loved it.
At first I didn't pay much attention to what they were doing. I was aware that they wanted to record, and I helped them understand which button to push to make it work. Mrs. Woody helped them understand why, exactly, you don't want to rewind after a recording if you're planning to record something new right away. Little things like that. After that, they were off and running.
Our attention was grabbed when we heard the older one say, in a significant voice, "Turn the page, Sweetie!" This was Mrs. Woody's device to compensate for our lack of bell noises when making our own story tapes. After that we kept at least half an ear on the proceedings.
Best of all, though, was the playback. The Woodyettes, in turn, would get excited and say things like, "That's me!" or, "That's you talking!" They were absolutely fascinated. I have no idea how long this fascination will last, but it's another walk down memory lane for ol' Woody. Best of all, assuming we can rescue the tape before it becomes a casualty of war, we'll have a wonderful family history nugget that we can use to embarrass the girls with future boyfriends, etc.
The old toys are still best, it seems. Using nearly fifty year old technology, the girls have embarked on another self-discovery journey. Of course, I may very well drop the whole thing into the computer, scan in the books that they were reading, and make a Flash movie out of it, but, hey!
Dad can have fun, too.
The older I got, the more sophisticated my toys became. Toys that lit up or made weird electro-mechanical noises were much coveted, and relatively rare. Then, when I turned 14, Dad gave me a Heathkit Electronics Lab with something like 15 or 20 experiments. I was hooked. I did every experiment in the book and then branched out. I became Poindexter in his lab creating such things as an alarm system for my room. That one scared Cameron half out of his wits, which was my intention. He'd been known to invade my Sanctum Sanctorum once too often and I couldn't wait to trap him with it. Didn't take long, as I recall.
Dad bought our first computer, the venerable Trash-80, in late 1979. My inner geek quickly came to the fore, and I've never looked back. I got on the roller coaster early, and I still enjoy the ride. I've watched the growth of the information age from the original 300 Bd acoustic coupler to my already nearly obsolete wireless home network. Likewise, entertainment toys have improved from our family's very first color (sort of) television, through VCR's and finally (or, rather, so far) DVD's.
One of the things from my childhood that continually fascinated me was any type of recording equipment. At various times in our home you might have found one or more reel-to-reel tape recorders, both large and small. We graduated, of course, to cassette recorders later on, but the fascination with them never diminished. It didn't take me long to master their workings. 8-track bored me to tears because you could never record with it. They may very well have made 8-track recorders, but we could never have afforded one. Thank goodness.
Tonight, the Woodyettes continue the cycle. For years we have had an old Fischer-Price tape recorder. This is the type with the microphone that can also serve as a mini-PA system if need be. The PA part they figured out many moons ago. They especially love to use it when Mrs. Woody and I are intensely interested in some program or movie. Tonight, they decided to record stories.
They got this idea from Mrs. Woody. Several vacations ago, Mrs. Woody decided to read several of the girls' favorite story books on tape so they could listen and (sneaky homeschooler that she is!) read along while we travelled. They loved it.
At first I didn't pay much attention to what they were doing. I was aware that they wanted to record, and I helped them understand which button to push to make it work. Mrs. Woody helped them understand why, exactly, you don't want to rewind after a recording if you're planning to record something new right away. Little things like that. After that, they were off and running.
Our attention was grabbed when we heard the older one say, in a significant voice, "Turn the page, Sweetie!" This was Mrs. Woody's device to compensate for our lack of bell noises when making our own story tapes. After that we kept at least half an ear on the proceedings.
Best of all, though, was the playback. The Woodyettes, in turn, would get excited and say things like, "That's me!" or, "That's you talking!" They were absolutely fascinated. I have no idea how long this fascination will last, but it's another walk down memory lane for ol' Woody. Best of all, assuming we can rescue the tape before it becomes a casualty of war, we'll have a wonderful family history nugget that we can use to embarrass the girls with future boyfriends, etc.
The old toys are still best, it seems. Using nearly fifty year old technology, the girls have embarked on another self-discovery journey. Of course, I may very well drop the whole thing into the computer, scan in the books that they were reading, and make a Flash movie out of it, but, hey!
Dad can have fun, too.
#7 - Woodyettes - The Board Game
Woody is sick at home for at least one more day. Woody is heartily sick of being sick, and tired of being tired. Still, it's been a long winter, and I'm sure I'm just taking my place in line. Hopefully, in this family, I'm the end of the line.
One of my favorite things to do when I'm feeling miserable is watch the Woodyettes. Or, more precisely, listen to the Woodyettes, each of whom has become a literal blur of activity. They zip into my field of vision for about a microsecond, then zip away to their next adventure. On days like this, if I don't hold my head completely still, the Woodyettes will make Daddy even sicker.
As I listened to their adventures this morning, it occurred to me that their daily antics would make a terrific board game. The simple kind of game where you move so many spaces based on a roll of dice, or a spinner. Every once in awhile you might land on a "penalty square" that hands you some totally unfair consequence.
For instance, the incident that prompted this train of thought was one where the girls, who had been playing very cutely together just moments before, suddenly were snarling at each other (whining, actually) because the younger one had bumped into the older one while she was twirling in the middle of traffic. It was literally the only way the small one could reach her destination, and I'm sure she tried her best to skirt around the dervish as delicately as possible, but contact was made and her sister exploded in indignation.
Other penalties might include:
Ok, that last one might be a little extreme, but their room never stays clean for very long. On the other hand, any good game would also have "reward squares" that propel the player forward. For example:
Of course, with this board game, there really isn't a way to actually finish playing. The game continues, day after day, year after year, until the participants leave this life. I'm sure the game continues in the hereafter, but the rules are probably modified to some degree. For one thing, it's probably harder to get penalized once you've, you know, been judged and everything.
Actually, Mom once made up a board game one year while were travelling on a family vacation. We had borrowed the grandparents' Winnebago and were wending our way through Arizona and north through the Glen Canyon Dam and southern Utah. After about a week, that many people in a relatively confined space can start to get on each other's nerves. Mostly for her own sanity, Mom created a board game based on our adventures. I don't remember much about the game itself except that one memorable penalty was "Left pajamas in Kanab. Lose one turn." We had stopped in Kanab one night, and I believe the campground had showers. One of my sisters had gone to shower and change clothes. She must have left her pajamas there because we never saw them again. Another piece of family history! I think Mom even drew a picture of an outhouse to illustrate the event.
For whatever reasons, I really hope I never tire of this game. It really can be fun. Except, of course, for those times when Daddy lands on a penalty.
One of my favorite things to do when I'm feeling miserable is watch the Woodyettes. Or, more precisely, listen to the Woodyettes, each of whom has become a literal blur of activity. They zip into my field of vision for about a microsecond, then zip away to their next adventure. On days like this, if I don't hold my head completely still, the Woodyettes will make Daddy even sicker.
As I listened to their adventures this morning, it occurred to me that their daily antics would make a terrific board game. The simple kind of game where you move so many spaces based on a roll of dice, or a spinner. Every once in awhile you might land on a "penalty square" that hands you some totally unfair consequence.
For instance, the incident that prompted this train of thought was one where the girls, who had been playing very cutely together just moments before, suddenly were snarling at each other (whining, actually) because the younger one had bumped into the older one while she was twirling in the middle of traffic. It was literally the only way the small one could reach her destination, and I'm sure she tried her best to skirt around the dervish as delicately as possible, but contact was made and her sister exploded in indignation.
"Bump twirling sister in hall. Lose one turn."
Other penalties might include:
"Yell about not wanting to have a sister. Move back three spaces."
"Insist that other sister did it. Stand in corner for two turns."
"Room is a disaster. Again. After just having cleaned it two days ago. Forfeit right to play, ever."
Ok, that last one might be a little extreme, but their room never stays clean for very long. On the other hand, any good game would also have "reward squares" that propel the player forward. For example:
"Help Daddy with dishes. Move ahead three spaces."
"Give sister a hug for no reason. Move ahead 15 spaces."
"Tell Mommy she's the best. Game. Set. Match."
Of course, with this board game, there really isn't a way to actually finish playing. The game continues, day after day, year after year, until the participants leave this life. I'm sure the game continues in the hereafter, but the rules are probably modified to some degree. For one thing, it's probably harder to get penalized once you've, you know, been judged and everything.
Actually, Mom once made up a board game one year while were travelling on a family vacation. We had borrowed the grandparents' Winnebago and were wending our way through Arizona and north through the Glen Canyon Dam and southern Utah. After about a week, that many people in a relatively confined space can start to get on each other's nerves. Mostly for her own sanity, Mom created a board game based on our adventures. I don't remember much about the game itself except that one memorable penalty was "Left pajamas in Kanab. Lose one turn." We had stopped in Kanab one night, and I believe the campground had showers. One of my sisters had gone to shower and change clothes. She must have left her pajamas there because we never saw them again. Another piece of family history! I think Mom even drew a picture of an outhouse to illustrate the event.
For whatever reasons, I really hope I never tire of this game. It really can be fun. Except, of course, for those times when Daddy lands on a penalty.
"Forget anniversary. Sleep on couch for six months."
Sunday, January 16, 2005
#6 - A Family's Worst Nightmare
Michelle Malkin petitions prayers on behalf of little Evan Parker Scott. I would add that the adoptive parents in this story need those prayers as well.
I am an adoptive father. I have also been a foster father, and it is an experience that I never again wish to have.
I should qualify the following remarks by stating that both of my adoptions were relatively trouble free. We had heard all of the horror stories but felt strongly that we needed to adopt. In both cases we were successful, although we had to wait until our daughter was 18 before we could legally make her ours. She agreed, of course, but the State of California had a policy that it's cheaper to emancipate any child over 15 than it is to grant an adoption to a loving family.
The wisdom of bureaucrats.
My experiences as a foster parent were closer to the horror stories that one often associates with both foster care and adoption. To be (for me, anyway) succinct, we accepted a 2-1/2 year old boy whose mother had no mothering skills whatsoever. He had been badly neglected while his mother went on drug binges with various boyfriends. She was herself profoundly deaf and could never, therefore, hear the child's cries. Also, she was severely learning disabled. It simply never occurred to her that she should check on her baby every few minutes to make sure he was alright. Social Services intervened when the toddler was discovered wallowing in soiled diapers eating snack food he had pulled out of the cupboard. The boy had serious behavior problems, but I felt it was something my family needed to do.
The mother had visitation rights, but the visits were never pleasant. They were civil enough, because she was always on her best behavior when she visited, but the boy lapsed into his worst behaviors after every visit. After a couple of years, my family had to admit defeat and petition Social Services to place him in a different environment. Last we heard, that family wished to adopt him. I've never been clear as to whether they did.
After we had the one boy for about a year, this mother had another baby. This time, Social Services didn't even want her to take the baby home from the hospital. I had to go to the hospital with Social Services and collect the baby. I felt a little like a thief in the night, but this boy was the sweetest, most even-tempered child I'd ever met. The whole family instantly fell in love with him. So you can guess what happened.
The mother wanted her children back. I suspect her own mother was partially responsible for this desire, or, perhaps, deep down one of her instincts finally kicked in. Subsequently, the courts and the State had decided that if she would hold a job, get an apartment, and take "parenting classes" of which they approved, she would be given the chance to have her child back. It was probably too late for the older child, but the younger one was still in a foster home. My foster home.
I won't get into the details of the court sessions, the conversations with Social Services, or the trauma I put the family through by agreeing to become the boys' foster family in the first place. Suffice it to say that I have chiselled the following list in stone in a place that will forever color my view of foster parenting:
1. Foster care is only for those who are emotionally tough enough to deal with heartbreaking disappointment on a regular basis. If you become attached to the children, your heart will break. Frequently.
2. Do not expect the State or the courts to weigh the interests of the child over the "rights" of the natural parents. Ever. Unless the parents have proven themselves to be abusers or murderers, the courts will almost always come down on the side of the biological parents. Prepare for this the moment you agree to foster the child.
3. Adoption is considered by the State to be a last option, to be attempted only when all other legal options are exhausted. You will become exhausted going through all of those legal options. Your chances for success, based on my own unscientific data, are less than 1%.
To this day, I admire those who choose to be foster parents for the right reasons. I will also continue to believe firmly in adoption. In reading some of the background information in Michelle's post, let me point out a couple of things:
1. If you are a single parent and initially give up custody of the child, make that your final decision. Changing your mind later will only harm the child and destroy what very well may have been that child's best chance for a normal life.
2. It is far easier for you as an adult to deal with gut-and-heart-wrenching grief than it is for a baby or toddler.
I've seen far too much of the inner workings of this state's social care programs to ever trust them again. I have to speak in blanket generalizations here because they need to be judged as a whole. I recognize that there are good people trying to work the system, but the system itself is fundamentally flawed. The children become bargaining chips, while loving parents are forced to sit and watch the machine ruin the lives of everyone involved.
I can offer no fixes because I'm not that smart. I can only say that I sympathize completely with the Scott family, and wish them a happier life to come. If they have the energy and strength to pursue the appeals, bless them. If not, help them heal.
There but for grace...
I am an adoptive father. I have also been a foster father, and it is an experience that I never again wish to have.
I should qualify the following remarks by stating that both of my adoptions were relatively trouble free. We had heard all of the horror stories but felt strongly that we needed to adopt. In both cases we were successful, although we had to wait until our daughter was 18 before we could legally make her ours. She agreed, of course, but the State of California had a policy that it's cheaper to emancipate any child over 15 than it is to grant an adoption to a loving family.
The wisdom of bureaucrats.
My experiences as a foster parent were closer to the horror stories that one often associates with both foster care and adoption. To be (for me, anyway) succinct, we accepted a 2-1/2 year old boy whose mother had no mothering skills whatsoever. He had been badly neglected while his mother went on drug binges with various boyfriends. She was herself profoundly deaf and could never, therefore, hear the child's cries. Also, she was severely learning disabled. It simply never occurred to her that she should check on her baby every few minutes to make sure he was alright. Social Services intervened when the toddler was discovered wallowing in soiled diapers eating snack food he had pulled out of the cupboard. The boy had serious behavior problems, but I felt it was something my family needed to do.
The mother had visitation rights, but the visits were never pleasant. They were civil enough, because she was always on her best behavior when she visited, but the boy lapsed into his worst behaviors after every visit. After a couple of years, my family had to admit defeat and petition Social Services to place him in a different environment. Last we heard, that family wished to adopt him. I've never been clear as to whether they did.
After we had the one boy for about a year, this mother had another baby. This time, Social Services didn't even want her to take the baby home from the hospital. I had to go to the hospital with Social Services and collect the baby. I felt a little like a thief in the night, but this boy was the sweetest, most even-tempered child I'd ever met. The whole family instantly fell in love with him. So you can guess what happened.
The mother wanted her children back. I suspect her own mother was partially responsible for this desire, or, perhaps, deep down one of her instincts finally kicked in. Subsequently, the courts and the State had decided that if she would hold a job, get an apartment, and take "parenting classes" of which they approved, she would be given the chance to have her child back. It was probably too late for the older child, but the younger one was still in a foster home. My foster home.
I won't get into the details of the court sessions, the conversations with Social Services, or the trauma I put the family through by agreeing to become the boys' foster family in the first place. Suffice it to say that I have chiselled the following list in stone in a place that will forever color my view of foster parenting:
1. Foster care is only for those who are emotionally tough enough to deal with heartbreaking disappointment on a regular basis. If you become attached to the children, your heart will break. Frequently.
2. Do not expect the State or the courts to weigh the interests of the child over the "rights" of the natural parents. Ever. Unless the parents have proven themselves to be abusers or murderers, the courts will almost always come down on the side of the biological parents. Prepare for this the moment you agree to foster the child.
3. Adoption is considered by the State to be a last option, to be attempted only when all other legal options are exhausted. You will become exhausted going through all of those legal options. Your chances for success, based on my own unscientific data, are less than 1%.
To this day, I admire those who choose to be foster parents for the right reasons. I will also continue to believe firmly in adoption. In reading some of the background information in Michelle's post, let me point out a couple of things:
1. If you are a single parent and initially give up custody of the child, make that your final decision. Changing your mind later will only harm the child and destroy what very well may have been that child's best chance for a normal life.
2. It is far easier for you as an adult to deal with gut-and-heart-wrenching grief than it is for a baby or toddler.
I've seen far too much of the inner workings of this state's social care programs to ever trust them again. I have to speak in blanket generalizations here because they need to be judged as a whole. I recognize that there are good people trying to work the system, but the system itself is fundamentally flawed. The children become bargaining chips, while loving parents are forced to sit and watch the machine ruin the lives of everyone involved.
I can offer no fixes because I'm not that smart. I can only say that I sympathize completely with the Scott family, and wish them a happier life to come. If they have the energy and strength to pursue the appeals, bless them. If not, help them heal.
There but for grace...
Thursday, January 13, 2005
#5 - Home, Home on the Range
Home with a mild (so far!) flu bug this morning. I'm sore and tired, but functional. Headache, fevers, you know the drill.
Still, I've been having fun listening to my Woodyettes this morning.
Part of the magic of homeschool, even a relatively regimented one like Mrs. Woody has put together, is that you can be very flexible about your school day. Days like this, where other issues need to be addressed, lend themselves to "unschooling." Or, in this case, "child-directed schooling."
During last summer's Olympic games, the girls learned about Greece through a website devoted to a little girl named Amarandi. Amarandi became their new heroine of play, and dolls have been named after her.
This morning, Woodyette Number One decided she wanted to peruse our globe. I bought it before term started last summer, and it's been gathering dust up our bookcase ever since. So, I got it down, had the girls help me dust it off, and showed them a few key places. They've been playing with it ever since.
Mrs. Woody and I both love listening to this kind of play. We're both drudging away on our computers while the girls are in another room saying things like, "Hey! That's where Canada is!" They know where Santa lives and where the penquins live. We showed them where Mommy and Daddy served their missions lo these many years ago. They know where they live, older siblings, and good friends.
Their teacher was experiencing that warm glow that comes from young minds soaking stuff up like the little sponges they are. The school administrator was impressed, as he always is when he stays home sick, at just how much the kids are learning.
Now the girls are perched on either side of their teacher being read to. The house is tranquil, and even Daddy is feeling nominally better. Not good, but better.
Home is a wonderful place.
UPDATE: It's now Friday morning. Roaring fevers overnight, up by 5:30 AM, fire up the work laptop and launch a process on my day off. What a hero. So, I feel worse. Much worse. But I'd still rather be home than anywhere else. That alone makes me feel as good as my body will allow today.
Still, I've been having fun listening to my Woodyettes this morning.
Part of the magic of homeschool, even a relatively regimented one like Mrs. Woody has put together, is that you can be very flexible about your school day. Days like this, where other issues need to be addressed, lend themselves to "unschooling." Or, in this case, "child-directed schooling."
During last summer's Olympic games, the girls learned about Greece through a website devoted to a little girl named Amarandi. Amarandi became their new heroine of play, and dolls have been named after her.
This morning, Woodyette Number One decided she wanted to peruse our globe. I bought it before term started last summer, and it's been gathering dust up our bookcase ever since. So, I got it down, had the girls help me dust it off, and showed them a few key places. They've been playing with it ever since.
Mrs. Woody and I both love listening to this kind of play. We're both drudging away on our computers while the girls are in another room saying things like, "Hey! That's where Canada is!" They know where Santa lives and where the penquins live. We showed them where Mommy and Daddy served their missions lo these many years ago. They know where they live, older siblings, and good friends.
Their teacher was experiencing that warm glow that comes from young minds soaking stuff up like the little sponges they are. The school administrator was impressed, as he always is when he stays home sick, at just how much the kids are learning.
Now the girls are perched on either side of their teacher being read to. The house is tranquil, and even Daddy is feeling nominally better. Not good, but better.
Home is a wonderful place.
UPDATE: It's now Friday morning. Roaring fevers overnight, up by 5:30 AM, fire up the work laptop and launch a process on my day off. What a hero. So, I feel worse. Much worse. But I'd still rather be home than anywhere else. That alone makes me feel as good as my body will allow today.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
#4 - How to Enjoy Movies Everyone Else Hates
and vice versa
I readily admit that I don't get out much. At this stage of my life, I have very little motivation to hit the social scene. I get all of my socialization at home, work, or church. My wife and I love our date nights, but babysitting is a problem (cost and availability) so most of our dates are "in house."
Occasionally we get to sneak off and go see a movie together. Here again it's a question of cost and availability. Tight budgets generally demand a matinee if we wish to see a first-run film, but then there's the question of selection. I guess I need to explain where I'm coming from.
If I had my way, the current movie rating system would be thrown out in favor of three ratings:
G - Completely family friendly. No sex, no real violence, no questionable language. Take the kids and enjoy. Or, send the kids and stand waiting at the theater entrance packing a sidearm (strictly for security).
PG - G-rated as long as Mom and Dad are there to explain the few questionable elements that may appear. Still no sex, although romance is acceptable. Still no real violence, but it can be implied. Still no questionable language, although an occasional "damn" can sneak in to show human weakness, and if the story really, really needs it. The Harry Potter films cross the line every time Ron mutters "bloody 'ell," which he appears to have to do under contract at least two or three times in every film. I stretch my own standards for Harry Potter.
E - Everything else. Don't even bother advertising it. I don't wanna see it.
You may have guessed that I have never been consulted as to how movies should be rated.
Some of the movies I've seen recently came perilously close to my "E" rating, but would be (and are) considered quite tame by most standards. For example, I've been reading with some amusement the general consensus of Shyamalan's "Village." I actually enjoyed the movie because I allowed myself to be entertained by the story. Predictable or not, I allowed myself to be held in suspense to the end, and was even surprised at the end. Not in hindsight, of course. No, in hindsight I really should have seen it coming. But I didn't, and I'll probably add the film to my library. Ditto "Signs," which is already in my possession.
Mrs. Woody and I had the opportunity over Christmas (cost AND availability!) to go to a movie sans Woodyettes. We really wanted to see "National Treasure," because Mrs. Woody and I both happen to be suckers for intrigue, or, in my case especially, historical intrigue. I'm sure most of my blog friends (and perhaps even family) thought the film too pedestrian, completely predictable, or just plain boring.
We didn't, though. We thought it was great fun, and I thoroughly enjoyed Cage's characterization. I also enjoyed the plot line which tied the history of the U. S. to the Knights Templar and the Masons. No inappropriate language that I recall. No sex. Implied violence. PG on the Woody Scale. Another addition to our library in a few months.
This brings me to my point. My esteemed brother at Way Off Bass opines that academia produces English Lit grads who want to transform well told stories into political agendas or social metaphors. He wishes they would instead produce scholars who appreciate a well-constructed yarn for its ability to both entertain as well as teach. This is how I feel about movies.
I go to the movies to be entertained. I am not generally looking for films that are "cutting edge" in any given discipline, simply because any film that happens to be done well can be entertaining. If I want it to be. You can see by my rating system that not many films today qualify as entertaining for my family. Stories should be interesting, production quality should be evident, characters should make me care. Foul language does absolutely nothing for me. Violence is typically over-emphasized these days. Sex needs to be taboo. In-your-face attitudes make me want to throw the film in the nearest receptacle.
I would never qualify as a film critic by any measurable standard. But neither do I need to be.
UPDATE: Sheesh. Even Maltin panned "The Village." Just heard it on his radio commentary this afternoon. "I really wanted to like this movie," he said. Then, later, "I must confess I'm getting discouraged." *sigh* Lone-voice-in-the-wilderness time.
I readily admit that I don't get out much. At this stage of my life, I have very little motivation to hit the social scene. I get all of my socialization at home, work, or church. My wife and I love our date nights, but babysitting is a problem (cost and availability) so most of our dates are "in house."
Occasionally we get to sneak off and go see a movie together. Here again it's a question of cost and availability. Tight budgets generally demand a matinee if we wish to see a first-run film, but then there's the question of selection. I guess I need to explain where I'm coming from.
If I had my way, the current movie rating system would be thrown out in favor of three ratings:
G - Completely family friendly. No sex, no real violence, no questionable language. Take the kids and enjoy. Or, send the kids and stand waiting at the theater entrance packing a sidearm (strictly for security).
PG - G-rated as long as Mom and Dad are there to explain the few questionable elements that may appear. Still no sex, although romance is acceptable. Still no real violence, but it can be implied. Still no questionable language, although an occasional "damn" can sneak in to show human weakness, and if the story really, really needs it. The Harry Potter films cross the line every time Ron mutters "bloody 'ell," which he appears to have to do under contract at least two or three times in every film. I stretch my own standards for Harry Potter.
E - Everything else. Don't even bother advertising it. I don't wanna see it.
You may have guessed that I have never been consulted as to how movies should be rated.
Some of the movies I've seen recently came perilously close to my "E" rating, but would be (and are) considered quite tame by most standards. For example, I've been reading with some amusement the general consensus of Shyamalan's "Village." I actually enjoyed the movie because I allowed myself to be entertained by the story. Predictable or not, I allowed myself to be held in suspense to the end, and was even surprised at the end. Not in hindsight, of course. No, in hindsight I really should have seen it coming. But I didn't, and I'll probably add the film to my library. Ditto "Signs," which is already in my possession.
Mrs. Woody and I had the opportunity over Christmas (cost AND availability!) to go to a movie sans Woodyettes. We really wanted to see "National Treasure," because Mrs. Woody and I both happen to be suckers for intrigue, or, in my case especially, historical intrigue. I'm sure most of my blog friends (and perhaps even family) thought the film too pedestrian, completely predictable, or just plain boring.
We didn't, though. We thought it was great fun, and I thoroughly enjoyed Cage's characterization. I also enjoyed the plot line which tied the history of the U. S. to the Knights Templar and the Masons. No inappropriate language that I recall. No sex. Implied violence. PG on the Woody Scale. Another addition to our library in a few months.
This brings me to my point. My esteemed brother at Way Off Bass opines that academia produces English Lit grads who want to transform well told stories into political agendas or social metaphors. He wishes they would instead produce scholars who appreciate a well-constructed yarn for its ability to both entertain as well as teach. This is how I feel about movies.
I go to the movies to be entertained. I am not generally looking for films that are "cutting edge" in any given discipline, simply because any film that happens to be done well can be entertaining. If I want it to be. You can see by my rating system that not many films today qualify as entertaining for my family. Stories should be interesting, production quality should be evident, characters should make me care. Foul language does absolutely nothing for me. Violence is typically over-emphasized these days. Sex needs to be taboo. In-your-face attitudes make me want to throw the film in the nearest receptacle.
I would never qualify as a film critic by any measurable standard. But neither do I need to be.
UPDATE: Sheesh. Even Maltin panned "The Village." Just heard it on his radio commentary this afternoon. "I really wanted to like this movie," he said. Then, later, "I must confess I'm getting discouraged." *sigh* Lone-voice-in-the-wilderness time.
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