Dad Entry #161

I wonder if there are any sort of time-stamped activities or accessories, things unique to Michael and Megan’s childhood era, that will seem antiquated to their kids, to the next generation. Young people today might struggle to conceive of things like life before cell phones, or life before the internet, or life before the internet on cell phones. Attempting to imagine this, they'll feel pity. Which is odd because I don't recall being vexed whatsoever when I couldn’t be texted or called directly when I told my parents I was at Dave’s house, and Dave told his parents he was at my house, and we were both actually at Maggie’s house, along with twenty other high-schoolers, for the entire night, none of us feeling slighted or grievously inconvenienced by the absence of mobile devices; we were untethered, and having a blast.

Internet access via dial-up sucked though. We should be pitied for that, the glacial speed and horrible screeching, although that sound had a happy association for us; it meant maybe we'd finally connect.

Will the class of 2050 talk less? I’m referring to conversation of the face-to-face variety, without digitizing intermediaries like smartphones, Skype, or social networks. One has to wonder. But I assume they’ll jabber as much as every generation prior. It'll get worse, in fact, if media prominence is any indicator; every day sees more channels and talking heads added to TV. In other words, talking too much is so very human, as in pervasive and permanent, not apt to change any sooner than the tradition of being born with arms and legs, and mouths, and overactive, judgmental minds. Now I sound cynical.

Speaking of arms and legs, I hope my kids’ kids do as many activities that require movement of these fantastic things we’re born with, our physical bodies. They are, after all, our only material possessions at birth, and also the most utterly impressive and valuable ones we'll ever own, our bodies, but each is different, of course, and in varying degrees of disuse, disrepair, deterioration, or decrepitude (and that’s only the D’s) but all exponentially more amazing and complex than anything the world's finest engineers have created. I’m so happy Michael and Megan still dig in the dirt, once in a while, and write on the sidewalk with chalk, and suffer other distinctly non-technological distractions; they wrestle, play catch, swing, jump rope, and poke at insects. They love parks and ponds and Reptile Fest. They do, however, bear some stunning deprivations their children may never know, things like TVs with only 480p resolution, and DVRs incapable of recording unlimited channels simultaneously. For shame! I think there was a commercial that spoofed this. Funny.

I remember playing in garbage dumps when I was a kid. My children have never enjoyed this very safe and sterile luxury. The first dump was a decades-old heap in the virgin, forested acreage owned by my grandparents in Iowa. My Grandma Bev still owns it. It’s an island of trees surrounded by cornfields. Unadulterated beauty. Except for the dump. My ancestors used it before we had rackets, I mean companies, like Waste Management. Yes, my family hauled their own garbage! And in the process they amassed a treasure trove of old license plates, beer cans, medicine bottles – glass medicine bottles, as was the practice in lieu of plastic back then – old appliances, and lots of rusty, crumbling, razor-sharp indistinguishable debris. Tetanus shot, anyone? I loved that trash pile. Unfortunately, they had it bulldozed and buried when I was still a kid.

The other spot I’m referring to was a fascinating assemblage of scrap from road and home construction, but it also, to my delight, contained spare auto parts and pieces. Or so I thought and bragged to my buddies. I was suddenly a mechanic. Spark plugs come from cars, right? We rode our Huffys to the site several times, excavating more nuts and bolts every visit. Jackpot! I filled a whole shoebox with miscellaneous screws, brackets, clamps, and old batteries that leaked skin-eating acid. I was in heaven, and I sincerely hope these types of experiences are always available to future generations.

Dad Entry #160

We have a new car. Thankfully, Megan is impressed with Honda Accords, even ones at the lowest trim level. I think this is okay, her tolerance for modest vehicles. As long as there's no tolerance for mediocre men. And maybe reliability is high on her list; it's high on mine, and I'm not talking about Honda's anymore. "This car is awesome!" Megan shouted at first glance. "Hop in, Sweetheart," I hollered back. Megan, however, is never one to be totally pleased; eventually she criticized the color. The car is black. Megan likes red. Or pink. But it's all very new and shiny, with a fancy command console, and Bluetooth, so we can dial and talk to Grandma and Papa together in the car as if by magic, and – even more amazing – I can play YouTube videos on my phone and pipe the audio through the car speakers. I asked Megan, "What's your favorite song, Baby?" She answered cheerfully, "Thrift Shop!" I was unfamiliar but I found the video on YouTube and hit play, and the beat was catchy as it ricocheted around the car, and we were bouncin' in our fabric-upholstered seats (the leather trim package costs two or three thousand more) when the F-words started. Geez, I tell ya....

Megan, referring to our condo, said, "Dad, our house here is just so, like, for boys. We need more pictures on the walls or something." She has a point. It doesn't help that we play baseball in the family room. But we don't use real baseballs. And we haven't broken anything yet. And there are things to break; there is art, and vases, and other glass and ceramic thingies of some kind or other. Rare and valuable pieces all. There are potted plants, lamps, ornamental bowls on glass tables, sculptures and candles and, yes, pictures in frames. It's a bunch of stuff Megan apparently doesn't notice or she wouldn't disparage the decor. I'm no Martha Stewart (I'm not a felon, for example) but I'll consult with Megan and maybe we can freshen things up a bit.

Michael laced a bases-loaded single through the right side last night, his first hit of the young season. It drove in two big runs, but more importantly, it gave Michael a potent dose of confidence. He'll relax a little now, and so will I. Yeah, to say I was unaffected would be absurd; I was elated. He's got an average now, baby! But I keep things in check. I know he has a beautiful swing. And a beautiful mind. We are the Palatine Youth Baseball Mustang Yankees. My reign as head coach is underway. So far it's been wonderful and interesting, the latter mostly because my players have parents. I suppose this isn't the place for a treatise on positive psychology, or the Losada ratio, or emphasizing mastery over winning. Did I mention I have a dominant lefty pitcher? The kid is filthy, nobody can touch him! That's baseball talk, if you're uninitiated, and has nothing to do with hygiene.

Cutest Ushanka Wearer of All Time

If You Need to Laugh, this One is a Sure Thing

Dad Entry #159

The kids and I flew to Texas for spring break. Grandma, Papa, and Uncle Bill scooped us up at the airport and we all sobbed a little over Iowa State's last second NCAA tourney loss to Ohio State. The game ended only minutes before we landed and – a frustrating thing in many sports – the outcome hinged on a controversial referee decision, a charging / blocking call. Charles Barkley was livid and insisted, in post-game TV commentary, that Iowa State was robbed. I'm not one to disagree with Charles Barkley. So we shook off disappointment and headed straight for the Fort Worth Stockyards, a place that looks and feels – and smells – like a real cowtown. Real cowboys and cowgirls ride up and down the streets – they ride horses, I mean, not Harley's or in cars, although those were mixed into passing traffic also. The horse-riders appeared very capable and authentic, with all the proper accessories and tools; they had worn and dusty boots and hats, spurs, chaps, ropes, and Wranglers. They had humongous belt buckles. Yosemite Sam comes to mind, and not as a caricature or exaggeration. And many had holstered guns, which really consummated the image until I noticed they also had holstered cell phones. The area gets its name from cattle drives that still pass through the town and into nearby sale barns and pens, aka stockyards. We saw wagons and steers and several mustaches. We heard twangy voices and sounds – I'm pretty sure they aren't words – like y'all, reckin', fixin', and pardner. People were very nice. And I was relieved to see exactly zero cowboys squinting at Google Maps on saddle-mounted Android devices. Yee-haw!

I am Megan's sherpa. If we go for a walk, or to a store, or a restaurant, or anywhere at all, Megan will say, "Dad, will you hold my chapstick?" Sure. Then, "Dad, will you carry my scarf, please?" I guess, followed by, "Dad, I'm hot; will you take my coat," and "Dad, can you carry my sweater?" and "Dad, here's my hat." We go through everything after that – purse, book, water bottle, paint chips, stupid pamphlets she picks up, (which I discard immediately) – until finally, "Dad, will you carry me?" I oblige, because I won't be able to do it forever, and I don't get to snuggle and sniff her much otherwise. And it's good exercise. And, I don't know, shit, do I need more excuses not to sound like putty?

At dinner last night, Michael said, "Do we ever vacuum the kitchen floor?" I said, "As a matter of fact, Michael, we do not ever vacuum the kitchen floor, but I do." Sometimes. Maybe not super-often. Maybe not often enough. Okay, I get it. Although, in my defense, I just vacuumed last weekend (after a minor, month-long hiatus) and I am definitely not one of the two people who leave mountains of crumbs every time a cracker, cookie, or chip is consumed, or a slice, piece, or bite of anything whatsoever is handled, or, rather, mishandled. And, for the record, Michael has never complained about the toilets. I clean those often. Maybe it's time he clean those often. I still have the dishes, laundry, sinks, counters, tables, mirrors, tub, and shower to keep me busy. And the floors! Don't forget the floors!