Where's Papa?

"Hey, Papa! Where are you? Ayva and I came down to your room expecting to watch Sesame Street with you, but we couldn't find you. We looked under the bed, in the closet and behind the chair - no Papa! Amma said you had to go to work. We hope you are coming back."

Praying for a Nor'easter

Snow has a wonderful way of making us all slow down!

Put on the Brakes

Sometimes the days zoom by and it's hard to focus on what is important. I keep hearing the same verses over and over again sung by different people - stay on the path of love. Thank you for all the reminders.

Prayer sent to me by my son courtesy of Saint Augustine:

Watch, O Lord, with those who wake, or watch, or weep
tonight, and give your angels charge over those who
sleep.
Tend your sick ones, O Lord Christ.
Rest your weary ones.
Bless your dying ones.
Soothe your suffering ones.
Pity your afflicted ones.
Shield your joyous ones.
And for all your love's sake. Amen.

Funeral for a Friend

I hate it when I read about one of my childhood sports cards dying.

Lamar Lundy passed away today at the age of 71. He was a member of the Los Angeles Rams' famous Fearsome Foursome back in the late 1960's. He was also one of my football cards and by extension a good friend.

I use to play with my football cards. They each had a personality or role to play in my fantasy games. There were no football video games in the 60's, but with a little imagination and cards of your favorite players you could make up a game of your own.

In the Vince Lombardi days I was a staunch Packer's fan. I had cards for Bart Starr, Jimmy Taylor, Paul Horning, Fuzzy Thurston, Jerry Kramer, Carrol Dale and Boyd Dowler. I'd line them up against Deacon Jones, Merlin Olsen, Rosevelt Grier and Lamar Lundy of the Los Angeles Rams for my own version of the NFL Championship Game. Joe Namath of the Jets was waiting in a shoe box for the winner.

In my mind Bart Starr could never throw an out pattern to Lamar Lundy's side without having the pass knocked down. He was about 6'7". But let Jerry Kramer and Jim Taylor lead Paul Horning right on the Packer Sweep and Green Bay would win every time. The same play to the left would get snuffed out by Merlin Olsen. At least that is how the game played out in my mind.

I always liked Lamar Lundy. If he was on the Packers I would have made him strong at defending the run as well. But I never let the Packers lose so someone had to be the scapegoat. Thanks for being one of my companions, Lamar. I'll miss you.

Stuck in Folsom Prison

Nathaniel loves to visit us. He has a ball roaming the hallways, running from room to room and playing with Truffles. He has so much fun that when it's time for bed he's never ready. If we let him, he'd stay up to watch Conan O'Brien. Jakers is a night owl.

I can't really blame the guy for wanting to stay awake. He lives a perfect life where everyday is filled with wonderment and fun - sleep just gets in the way.

But a 2 year old (actually 32 months) needs to sleep. The only way to go from a 2T to a 3T is to sleep 10 hours a night and eat your SpaghettiOs. Nathaniel loves the carbs, but he hates to snooze.

He's beyond sleeping in a crib, but not quite ready for a youth bed. He can get out of either one at this point. But he can't get out of the bed Julie rigged up, so every night we send him to Serta Sing Sing. She took the door off a bedroom closet, put a mattress on the floor and stacked gates to the ceiling to keep Baby Papillion from running roughshod through the house at 1 o'clock in the morning.

While the set up works, it does take some coaching to get Nathaniel to enter the cell and often the warden has to join him for 30 minutes of entertainment to keep him from rioting. She has a good stock of sleepy time stories from Aesop's Fables to Brothers Grimm, but my favorite is the propaganda piece Berenstain Bears' Bedtime Battle.

It's an epic story depicting the terror tactics toddlers employ at night to fight off the Sandman and how you neutralize their efforts as a parent - it's a battlefield manual disguised as a children's book. Thank you Jan & Stan Berenstain for sticking up for us.

Okay, Nathaniel, time to turn out the lights. Good night little buddy.

Good night, sleep tight,

Wake up bright

In the morning light

To do what's right

With all your might

Dust to Dust

Lent begins today - Ash Wednesday - and ends on Easter Eve. Lent last for 6 weeks including Holy Week. The 6 Sundays during this time frame are exempt from Lent making the season a total of 40 days. The number reminds Catholics of the 40 days Jesus spent in the wilderness after His baptism in the River Jordan with John the Baptist. Jesus spent the time reflecting on His future and rejecting the temptations of the devil.

I could use 40 days in the wilderness to reclaim my soul, but I don't think the Family and Medical Leave Act has a provision for spiritual awakening. Someday I'll find the time...take the time.

For now, I'll carve out a moment each day to say my prayers. I'll keep you in mind.

Just Passing Through

I'm constantly trying to understand my lot in life. It's not entirely a mystery as I can see the little pieces all around me. I've got my job, a wife, my family, grand kids, a few friends, some hobbies (photos & blogging), and the Catholic Church complete with a choir full of Saints, Mary and the Holy Trinity - a lot of really good stuff.

But while I recognize each colored patch, I can't quite figure out how the quilt is supposed to come together. Maybe there is no need to know so long as you keep sewing; it'll get finished some day.

I'm in no hurry. Let's just see what tomorrow brings.

Showdown

I babysat the kids yesterday for 8 hours. Nathaniel was a good boy, but Ayva almost broke me!

She has a limited vocabulary - Papa, Dora, Jessie, Amma, Daddy - so when she needs something she barks, screams or cries. Yesterday she specialized in crying. I changed her diaper, gave her a bottle, fed her (don't toddlers like pizza?), wiped her nose, washed her face, put on a new outfit, but no matter what I did she cried...and cried...and cried.

Most of the time I couldn't find anything wrong with her, so the wailing was catching me by surprise. It was like seeing the oil warning light on in the car, but the dip stick always read full.

"Diaper is dry, that's not it! Okay, so you want the bottle? (Ayva throws the bottle) No, you don't want the bottle. Want Papa to change the TV to Telly Tubbies? Papa doesn't really need to watch the NBA All-Star Game if it makes you cry."

There was no relief in sight. Figuring out the Davinci Code was easier. What was baffling to me was Ayva didn't even do any warm ups if she was unhappy (and she was unhappy). She'd squeeze the eyes real hard and jump right into a blood curdling cry - no whimpering or sobbing but a full throttle scream that she'd turn on and off like a water faucet.

I put her down for a nap at one point figuring she was tired. She slept for almost 2 hours, but when she got up she started in all over again. After 30 minutes of trying to reason with her I put her back in bed and told her if she'd stop crying she could stay up. She looked me straight in the eyes and started wailing.

Relegated to being behind bars in the crib, she cried - 20 minutes straight of wah, wah, wah at the top of her lungs. When I went in to ask if she had had enough she stopped on a dime - she hadn't squeezed out a single tear - all dry heaves. I took her out of the crib.

"Okay, you won today, Ayva. But you better bring something better than that tomorrow - I'm not going to be beat by a 1 year old!"

Julie came home about an hour later, "How is everyone? Ayva looks like she's been crying."

"Crying? She wouldn't stop crying! I changed her diaper, changed her clothes, fed her a bottle, gave her food, made funny faces, tried different TV shows, gave her hugs and kisses, put her to sleep...you name it."

"Did you check her gums?" Julie asked while poking a finger into Ayva's mouth.

"What?"

"Yup, that's her problem. She's teething something awful the poor little thing. Grab me a cold cloth and the baby Orajel."

Beware of Darkness

 
Watch out now, take care
Beware of the thoughts that linger
Winding up inside your head
The hopelessness around you
In the dead of the night
Beware of sadness.

George Harrison

Just a Boy

Nothing trumps hockey in Canada - not politics, not the economy, not the war. Hockey is king and front in center on everyone's mind. The sports section of the major newspapers carry 10 pages of stories and scores of games from the NHL to the Juniors to the Pee Wees. It is a religion embraced by all.

Our nephew John played in a very prestigious international Pee Wee tournament this past week for a team representing the City of Quebec - The Citadel. They won their opening game against a New Jersey team, 1-0 at Le Collisee before a raucous hometown crowd to advance in the tournament.

On Wednesday they lost 6-3 to a talented Syracuse squad. John had a great game in defeat with a goal and assist and did all he could to spark a comeback. Syracuse however was led by a goalie who looked good enough to play college hockey. I am hoping UVM recruits him, but they'll have to wait another 6 years - he's only 12 years old!

In the aftermath of the loss the local newspaper wrote an article chiding the Quebec Citadel for their play and post-game tirades which supposedly included trashing the locker room and a lot of foul language. My own source says that what was reported in the paper never happened and was a misunderstanding between a coach and the locker room attendant. Sounds more like the headlines you'd read after a Stanley Cup game than the reporting you'd expect of what is the equivalent of a Little League game. A little perspective is in order.

JUST A BOY * * * * * * *

Got to understand the lad –
He’s not eager to be bad;
If the right he always knew,
He would be as old as you.
Were he now exceeding wise,
He’d be just about your size;
When he does things that annoy,
Don’t forget – he’s just a boy.


Could he know and understand,
He would need no guiding hand;
But he’s young and hasn’t learned
How life’s corners must be turned.
Doesn’t know from day to day
There is more to life than play.
More to face than selfish joy.
Don’t forget – he’s just a boy.


Being just a boy he’ll do
Much you will not want him to;
He’ll be careless of his ways,
Have his disobedient days.
Willful, wild and headstrong, too;
He’ll need guidance kind and true;
Things of value he’ll destroy,
But reflect – he’s just a boy.


Just a boy who needs a friend,
Patient, kindly, to the end;
Needs a father who will show
Him the things he wants to know,
Take him with you when you walk,
Listen when he wants to talk,
His companionship enjoy,
Don’t forget – he’s just a boy.

Author Unknown

A Day for Lovers

Sonnet LVII

William Shakespeare

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

Yahweh Prepares

I am a proud parent. I'm not afraid to admit I have lived vicariously through my own children. All my schoolboy miscues have long been wiped clean through the triumphs of John, Jessica and James.

I am also a joyful grandparent; I love having Nathaniel and Ayva in my life. I no longer measure time by the changing seasons but instead through steps first taken, a spoken word, or blocks stacked one atop the other. Time marks slowly when measured by the day which is all just fine by me. Every grandparent shares these joys.

Today Julie and I visited the Basilica of Saint Anne de Beaupre. Saint Anne was the mother of Mary. Her husband was Joachim, the grandfather of Jesus. Until today I had never even given thought to Jesus having a grandfather, but he did. We met him through the stained glass windows flanking the altar of the Holy Family.

I couldn't help but think as I studied Joachim that he and I were kindred spirits. Not exclusively linked mind you, but universally joined through the fraternal order of grandads.

If we had the chance to speak, I bet he'd tell me of a boy chasing his own shadow, or of the first time Jesus called him Papa. He would tell me of the day when Jesus fell asleep in his arms as he was reading a bedtime story. Joachim would recount the first time Jesus said he loved him. Every grandparent shares these joys.

Nice to meet you, Saint Joachim. I can't wait to hear more stories about your grandson. I'll bring a few of my own.

POSTLUDE:

Do you think Joachim played up Jesus to his pals? You know how proud a grandfather can be when his grandson has a special talent - Little League slugger, spelling bee champ, Old Testament expert.

"Jesus, come sit with Papa for a minute. Hey, Baruch, a leg of lamb says he can list off the sons of the sons of Noah in less than thirty seconds. What say you, you game? Go ahead and ask him, I dare you!"

Desperately Seeking a Hockey Housewife

I have a friend named Buck. His real name is Paul. We tagged him with the nickname when he was in the 7th grade. Back then his teeth were parallel to the ground and the name was appropriate. Today he is a handsome man with perfect teeth, but good branding never goes away.

He was Uncle Buck before John Candy ever read the script. It would be interesting to trace back the idea for the movie to see if it’s origins were in a crazy yarn or two spun at the Church Street Tavern in Burlington, VT. There just can’t be two Uncle Bucks.

He really is an uncle to his siblings’ kids. But he is also a pseudo-uncle to 50 other children; none of them by birth. My children all refer to him as Uncle Buck and I am sure within a year, my grandson Nathaniel will be calling him the same. Kids love Buck as much as he loves them.

But you know the guy should really be a known as Dad. He’d make a wonderful father and he deserves to have his own family. He’s got the house (two of them), car, nice furniture, four bedroom sets, all the kitchen appliances, a vacuum, big screen TV, piano, fish tanks, computers, total gym, washer and dryer, DishTV, Jacuzzi, artwork, floor lamps, a sock drawer, closet full of Hawaiian shirts, cowboy hats, extras skis, Q-tips in every bathroom and a music DVD library with more titles than Amazon.com.

What he doesn’t have is a woman. We’ve got to find one for him and the sooner the better. I figure he is going to want at least 3 children and if he waits much longer he’ll be 80 by the time the last one graduates from college. No, we need to find Buck a good looking, fun-loving fertile female that wants to bare kids three at a time right now! We need a pioneer woman. Anybody got any candidates?

The problem is Buck is a bit finicky when it comes to women. He’s been trying forever to meet a nice girl in a bar - that’s kind of an oxymoron. He also was on a kick for last 15 years where he wouldn’t entertain the thought of hooking up with anyone over the age of 21. Now that he’s 50, I think he has given up on that fantasy, or at least until the next time he watches Bo Derek in the movie 10. Note to Buck: It’s a movie!

Where does a guy meet a nice wholesome girl? I’ve always thought church would be a good place. I see plenty of lovely single women in the pews every week. I can’t read minds, but I’d be willing to bet a paycheck a few say a prayer on Sunday hoping God will drop a nice man into their life. This strategy would work if I could only get Buck to go to Mass.

What about a dating service? It might work but if you look up the profiles of people registered on Match.com who have an interest in the Green Bay Packers or Montreal Canadians it returns a lot more men than women. A query on “pizza and beer” brings back the same results. There is no time for Pygmalion with Buck. He is what he is at this point in life.

So what is left? Well, yesterday I was at an international youth hockey tournament in Quebec. Between games they had the Stanley Cup on display in the lobby of the ice arena. People lined up to get their photo taken with the Cup. Julie lined up with them. When it was her turn to be photographed you could tell the guy from the NHL was gaga over her. Years ago I would have been jealous. Yesterday it sparked an ingenious idea – have Buck follow the Stanley Cup around to find a woman.

I’d even suggest he stick to the tour in the Province of Quebec. There is a natural hat trick waiting to be had:

1. A woman of his kind – French.
2. A lovely woman – French Canadians are very feminine.
3. A woman who is crazy about the Montreal Canadians.

Buck’s dream girl isn’t on the beaches of Florida, Mexico or Portugal. He isn’t going to find her in a bar in Burlington, VT, Madison, WI or Dublin, Ireland. No Brother, your Barbie Doll is bundled up somewhere in Drummondville, Quebec and she is waiting for your arrival.

We’ll begin the search as soon as you get back from Cancun. I am thinking we can make this into a reality television series and sell the rights to Hockey Night in Canada. CBC will follow you around with a camera as you search for the perfect hockey hottie. Fans will be instructed to text message a vote for their favorite by entering 1-43-726737 (he scores) on their cell phones. This is going to be big!

Congratulations, Uncle Buck. You’re finally on your way to fatherhood

P.S. While in Cancun if a 21 year old walks out of the azure waters of the Atlantic clad in a gold bikini and offers you a Tequila Sunrise – don’t take it! She is a whore sent by the devil.

The Big Chill

Greetings from up beyond the 45th parallel. Not quite the North Pole, but once you hit 5 below Fahrenheit does it really matter? It's hard to describe how cold it is in Quebec City, other than to tell you I haven't seen my testicles for 2 days.

People up here make a lot of eye contact - it's the only part of the body that isn't covered in wool or goose down. Construction workers give out a catcall if a gal walks by with long curly eyelashes (some women wear falsies!). A young woman with "nice cheeks" is someone with a pretty face; half an ass hanging out of a pair of low-rider jeans would only result in fanny frostbite. Did I say it was cold?

This morning's chill got me to thinking of our good friends Buck, Shawn, Diane, John, Bob, Mary, Greg and Sheila. About the time we began driving north on US-201 through Jackman, ME (only pharmacy is still a Rexall), the Burlington Gang was boarding a jet plane headed for Cancun. They had made plans late this fall for a 50th birthday bask on the beach in the Gulf of Mexico. Buck sent me an invite along with a review of the hotel he picked out. Part of the review read, "if you are offended by topless women in the bar don't be a killjoy - make your reservations elsewhere!"

I can't speak for Julie, but I am not easily offended. We did however have other plans for the week - good plans with the family. It would be nice to be in two places at one time, but Spock still owns the patent for the transporter.

So we are all happy right where we are, and here is our long distance toast to fine friends. Belly up to the bar, and we'll serve you a cold one. Slainte.

Chilly

Greetings from Portsmouth, NH! The temperature here has hovered just above or below 10 degrees since I arrived on Monday. When you step outside in the morning, you only need to take one breath to know you are alive. The cold snap has been a nice reminder that February still belongs to Old Man Winter.

Drummer Boy

The kid reminds me of a young (really young) Gene Krupa. Click on the link to check out the video on YouTube.

I don't want to work
I want to bang on these drums all day
I don't want to play
I just want to bang on these drums all day

- Todd Rundgren

The Better Side of Communism

I was thinking about buying a TV this weekend for the Superbowl. They are on sale at Circuit City, Best Buy, Bernie's, Sears, Sam's, Walmart, KMart, Target, and 7-11. Everyone wants me to buy a new TV for the game.

The guy at Best Buy says with the new HD technology I'll be able to see the laces on the football. I was afraid to ask him what I'd see on the cheerleaders. I did tell him that while the technology projecting the image is improving, the technology viewing the image (my eyes) is deteriorating. I'm not sure any of it would make a difference without my glasses on. Maybe I should invest in lasik surgery first.

Circuit City doesn't want me to wait. They say I can have the TV now and I don't have to pay any interest until 2009. If I pay it off within 24 months I wouldn't owe any interest at all. If I miss a monthly payment a default rate kicks immediately retroactive to the first payment. It's a bargain rate of 28.24%. I'm guessing they like to sell the big ticket items to people with a marginal credit history. How would you like to pay interest on a $4,000 TV? They got 'em and people buy them.

I decided against it for the moment. Not because of my eyes, and not because of the payment schedule. No, I didn't buy a TV because I couldn't figure out what kind to buy or which brand to purchase. After two hours of looking and comparing I was calling for the return of the USSR. Let the Kremlin pick one out for me.

"Comrade, congratulations. The KGB has spied on you and determined that you are worthy of a state manufactured 13.5" Kushka television set. You will be eligible to watch Soviet Channel 1 between the hours of 6:00 - 8:00 pm Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday on the 2nd week of the month. Come to the city square on Friday with this ticket, 200 rubbles and a pair of blue jeans. Don't tell your friends!"

Bernie's didn't have a Kushka, but they did have a LG, Polaroid, Samsung, Hitachi, Sony, Panasonic, Magnavox, Olevia, Sharp and Sylvannia...and they come in all sizes. If you can narrow down the brand you then get to decide on LCD, HD, HDTV, DLP, plasma, rear-projection or flat panel. The last time I bought a TV the choice was black & white or color. I gotta start to study the options; I'd hate to get stuck with a $3,000 impulse buy!

As for the Superbowl, I'm going to turn on the radio.

Michener

Today is the birthday of my favorite author, James Michener. Now, I don't want to give you the false impression that somehow I am a giant among literary critics; I am not. In fact I should read a lot more than I do, but I keep thinking at the end of it I'll have to turn in a book report.

So how does a guy who loathes reading a book have a favorite author who can't finish a story in under 1,000 pages? That is a heck of a question and until today I probably couldn't have answered it.

But today I read a short bio of Michener from Garrison Keiller's The Writer's Almanac:

It's the birthday of the novelist James A. Michener, (books by this author) born in Doylestown, Pennsylvania (1907). His parents abandoned him when he was a very young boy, and he was adopted by a poor young widow named Mabel Michener. He joined the Navy during World War II. It was in a Quonset hut that he began writing his first book, Tales of the South Pacific, which won the Pulitzer Prize in 1948. It was turned into the Broadway musical South Pacific, and the proceeds from the musical let him devote his life to writing.

He went on to write a series of big historical novels, most of them about places, including Hawaii (1959), Chesapeake (1978), Texas (1985) and Alaska (1988). He filled his books with historical and geographical details. His books sold more than 75 million copies, but even though he made a great deal of money, he lived an extremely frugal life, and gave most of his money away. Over his lifetime, he donated 117 million dollars to various institutions, including the University of Texas.

This short bio gives you a little insight into the kind of guy James Michener was. The part of about being frugal and donating his money to others is interesting. You always dream you'd be as virtuous if you ever won the lotto, but this guy lived it. He also lived abandonment, and rose above it. He traveled extensively, covered the tragedy of war as a journalist and studied humanity at every turn. His life shaped the life of the characters on the pages.

I've read Alaska, Journey and Centennial (Lonesome Dove was a rip off). This represents less than 10% of Michener's writings but close to 25% of my readings. Actually, if you did the calculations by the page it would probably be closer to 50%. I like the guy.

Footnote - The photo is one I took while visiting the Katmai Preserve in Alaska during the salmon run. Michener described the life cycle of the salmon (key to all existence for the natives) in the novel Alaska. As we stood on the shores of a summer stream in the Alaskan outback, I understood the cycle of life that lay in front of me. I was in awe.

Cousins, Identical Cousins

I see you. Sometimes when I see you I see me, too. You are my cousin. I look up to you. I learn from you. I don't always say so, but I love you. You are just like my sister, except at the end of the day you have to go home. We don't ever fight. I can't wait to see you again. Goodbye for now.

Ever wonder how you are related to another person in your family tree? Check out the charts and descriptions on Wikipedia.

Back in the Saddle Again

I'm finally back on line. Gosh, it was a hard week of IWS - internet withdrawal symptoms. And I thought I had no vices. Man, I am addicted to the Internet!

Anyhow, I had this cool shot all queued up on Tuesday night and I was about to blog from the Hilton Garden Inn in Manhattan. The title was going to be, "Live, From New York City It's..." but their Internet didn't work either. Oh, well.

Here's the shot anyways. It's Times Square amidst a minor snow squall. You can't hear it in the background, but there was a guy playing the saxophone for quarters on the street corner. It was pretty neat to watch the snow flakes fall against the neon lights with a bluesy note floating in the air.