Who’s That Girl?

Last week Franklin High School’s choirs put on a “Winter Performance” (winter of course being code word for CHRISTMAS). We dropped off our little K-girl and headed to dinner while the choir prepared for the evening.

I took Michelle and the three other girls to dinner at our favorite Thai spot- Chlay’s. We always enjoy seeing the owner Suwane (most people call her Pam) and catching up on family news.

After dinner, and placing an advance to-go order that we would pick up for K-girl on the way home after the concert, we headed down the road to Franklin High School. We took our seats and awaited the beginning of the show, Sony HandyCam at the ready of course.

I was a bit shocked. While I was certain we had dropped off little K-girl, what I saw on stage and on the viewer screen was not her. I saw an amazingly beautiful young woman. Absolutely gorgeous (she gets that from her mom for sure), and looking way to mature for my little girl.

It took me a full 5 minutes to recover. Flashing through my mind were images of a newborn K-girl crying at the bright hospital lights and then settling down as I shielded her eyes. Our little toddler pointing at everything in sight and awaiting the proper word and intonation from her mom or me. The stunning 5 year old trotting off to kindergarten with barely a glance back at us. And the uncoordinated and goofy tweenager starting to struggle with increasingly hard homework and the intricate web of life I call the female social structure.

She’s growing up way to fast. It’s no longer years and years ahead of us having this precious person in our daily life… we’re down to months now. About 32 of them. Oh man, this is starting to get real hard.

Harry Potter and the Accent of English

Anyone can tell you the often quoted “Would you like a cup of tea?” is the timeless favorite line for anyone attempting a fake English accent. Or is that British accent? Hmm.

Anyway, it’s shocking how many Americans just love a good proper English lilt. I know growing up I wanted a girl that sounded like a London girl to be my wife. I often hear girls talk about how great guys from London or Manchester sound. It seems a guy with a great Brit accent automatically starts on the 1-10 hottie scale at level 6 before you even get a look at ‘em.

The popularity of Harry Potter films have altered the course of American kids attempts at sounding like they’re from the old country. Replacing the polite offer of a fine early gray steaming from the kettle are the simple words “Harry, ” or “Hermione.” Just short enough to allow any kid to sound faintly authentic.

Our youngest, R, is often attempting to sound like a Brit. She tried out her new phrase on the family and didn’t understand why we all cracked up:

“Hello, my name is R and I’m from British.”

We’re Planning To Murder The Easter Bunny

The modern day attempt to remove Christ from Christmas has largely succeeded due to the ‘logic’ of the story of St. Nicholas. You can almost make sense of it all. A kindly man, loves children, celebrates the birth of the Messiah by giving gifts to children. After all, Jesus himself said “Let the little children come to me.”

The whole thing falls apart of course when you have to explain three giant leaps in the religion of Santa:

He is somehow still alive and lives in one of the most inhospitable places on the earth.

He has an army of elves that somehow have the money and resources to build toys and gifts for more than 5 billion people.

He has a sleigh and a gift bag that will hold all those gifts, 8 reindeer (9 if you are of the denomination that believes in Rudolf) that can not only fly, but support the weight of all those gifts AND fly at an amazing speed to get Santa to all the homes in the world.

When children reach the age of understanding, and either figure out Santa is not real or the parents get around to telling them, at least one can fall back on this: St. Nicholas was a real person, he followed Christ, and he celebrated his birth with gifts to others, and today that tradition of giving gifts continues as we mark the birth of the Savior.

Easter on the other hand is out of control.

The Easter Bunny is supposed to visit our homes, bring a basket of candy and gifts for each child and hide eggs for the kids to hunt. I hope he at least wears a cross around his neck while doing all this. I’m sure there are stories out there that somehow, in someway, can connect this rabbit to the crucifixion and resurrection, but I haven’t heard them.

So he’s a giant rabbit that walks on his hind legs, and somehow has been gifted with an opposable thumb on his paw allowing his to carry and handle things. He has no elves that I’m aware of, so I guess by himself he manufactures vast amounts of candy and gifts. No one knows where he lives, but goofball logic would assume he lives in the South Pole, right? Either there or perhaps Keokuk Iowa. He somehow carries billions of Easter baskets and eggs- perhaps in his mouth? And when children reach the age where the logic of the Easter Bunny’s existence can not be sustained, we tell them what? How do we connect Mr. Rabbit to Jesus?

Perhaps there was a rabbit that was to be served for the last supper, but it was decided to spare him and instead eat bread and wine. And today, that rabbit is so thankful that he travels the world giving baskets of …I give up.

Michelle and I have always enjoyed keeping Santa Clause alive with our young kids, though the two eldest have moved on. We are sure to focus the majority of our energy on the true meaning of Christmas. As for Easter, we have fallen into the trap and half-heartedly kept Mr. Rabbit alive too, though we keep mentions of him to a strict minimum.

We are ready for him to die. It’s just too hard to have the story of the Easter bunny co-exist with the real meaning of Easter. The Easter Bunny is like a giant furry sponge that soaks up the glory of the day, whereas at least Santa provides an example that allows an easy transition to the real Christmas story.

We haven’t decided 100% yet, but I think Michelle and I will be knocking off the bunny this year. I’ve got my BB gun ready.






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I Fought The Law And The Law Won

I have never been to jail, officially, though I have had some very close calls. I wasn’t what you would call a juvenile delinquent; I just had a knack for running afoul of the law with no ill intent. I thought it would be fun to share a few of my more interesting run-in’s with the man with the badge:

Age 5
I was fascinated by all things mechanical, and also the labor and laborers involved in work. Fire engines, garbage trucks, garbage men, mechanics, and gas station attendants. I especially liked those guys in the snappy hats with a rag in their pocket, filling up the car and cleaning the windshield. I decided to imitate them, filled up a large jug with water, went outside and proceeded to pour the water into the gas tank of a neighbors car. Not good. The neighbor saw me, ran outside and grabbed the jug. He yelled at me and asked me where I lived. I knew instantly I was in big trouble, and figured I could avoid a harsh penalty and keep my parents from finding out by lying. I told him I didn’t live here and was visiting my friend. He asked me where my friend lived, and I pointed to my own house. Oops. He walked me to my house knocked on the door, and hell was unleashed.

Age 10
My friends and I loved firecrackers. Don’t all boys? Problem was they were illegal where we lived- not only in the state of Maryland, but we were also on a military base- where they are always illegal everywhere. Double illegal. We had accessed the contraband from a boy that recently moved into the area from California (where everything is either legal or ignored) and bought the precious materials with pockets full of quarters. We devised a cool, non lethal bomb- we used Elmer’s glue to attach a ring of firecrackers around a large raw egg, wrapping the fuses together and up to the top, and gluing a small paper stand on the bottom of the egg. We called it the Scrambled Egg Bomb. Theoretically, it would explode and spew quickly half-cooked egg in all directions. We thought it would be fun to place these on peoples porches, light it up, knock on the door, and plaster the place with egg (every house there had storm doors with screens and people didn’t open the door so we thought there would be no danger to people. 10 year old thinking). The very first house we tried it at we were busted. The plan was Clint would stay on his 10 speed bike and hold up mine and Robby’s so we were ready to blow. Robby lit the fuse, I watched intently, and then looked up to do the knocking. As I extended my hand I noticed there was a very large US Marine with his arms crossed looking down at us through the screen. RUN! Robby and I made a mad dash for our bikes, the Marine made a mad dash for us, and we barely escaped. Or rather, Clint and I barely escaped. Robby had left his bike in first gear. He was grabbed from behind and taken down. Clint and I kept going. We didn’t stop until we were far away, then stopped, congratulated ourselves on our escape, and then went back to turn ourselves in. We couldn’t leave Robby to face death on his own. By the time we got back the MPs (Military Police) were already there. They were men of honor, and appreciated so much that Clint and I came back to turn ourselves in they let us all go with a warning (and confiscated our explosives, eggs and matches).

Age 11
I thought it would be really cool to attach some fishing wire from my second floor window, down to an abandoned building across a rarely used access road for the sole purpose of sending my GI Joe’s sliding down the wire for Special Forces missions. It was there for days, undisturbed, until a military police officer knocked on our front door. My mom answered it, and then called me to join her. He was a very nice man, pleasant smile, and had been driving along that rarely used access road I mentioned. I knew it without asking since he had a nice perfectly straight cut across his forehead, courtesy of my zip line and his open air jeep.

Age 12
I walked home from school with my best-friends Clint and Robby, and got to my front door only to realize I had forgotten my house key that morning. Dad was at work, mom at work (out shopping) and my sister was at a friends. Clint and I thought it would be a good idea to borrow his dad’s ladder, and have me climb up to the second floor in the back and climb through my window that was almost always left unlocked. As I climbed up, a man passing by walking his dog looked up at me and jokingly said “pulling a second floor job, huh?” I had no idea what that meant, said “Um- yea” and climbed in my window. 15 minutes later two police officers knocked on the front door.

Age 13
It was Christmas day, 1979, and it was warm. Very warm. That morning I had received a very cool gift- a small rubber raft, 2-seater, and Clint and I headed out in the afternoon to give it a test run. We rode our bikes to Burba Lake, blew up the raft, and christened it with our canteens of water. Off we went, an oar each, and explored the lake. Shortly after reaching the small island in the middle, and watching Clint debark to explore the magical place on foot, I left shore thinking it would be funny to leave him stranded for a bit. As I turned the boat around I noticed two police cars with lights on, and two MPs staring at me. One- the officer- with a scowl on his face, arms crossed, the other- the grunt- waving me in. I reached the shore (Clint still on the island, now crouching down hiding behind some rocks) and the senior officer proceeded to rip me up and down for my illegal act. He asked me if I was stupid. He asked me if I was smart enough to read. He asked my why I couldn’t follow orders. He pointed out the signs that clearly stated NO SWIMMING and NO BOATING. I told him, sir, that the sign didn’t say NO BOATING. He was infuriated, insisting they did, and I kindly insisted they didn’t. He marched a hundred yards or so, placed himself in front of one of the signs, read it, and marched back with an awful look on his face. He informed me that while the sign may not actually say NO BOATING, there was most certainly NO BOATING allowed. He ordered me to deflate my raft and leave immediately. I told him I had a friend on the island I needed to pick up since there was NO SWIMMING. That made him very happy- to have to stand there and wait while I rowed back out to the island and picked Clint up. The signs at Burba Lake now include NO BOATING.

Age 16
Gaithersburg High School had an annual trip to the seashore for its best biology students. I was one, and so excitedly packed the morning of the trip, and headed out with 30 or so class mates for the overnight camping trip. The focus was on marine biology, and we spent the two days digging up creatures from the sand, taking a short boat trip on a research vessel, and having tons of fun with our friends. We had some free time so a group of us headed out to explore the abandoned forts and bunkers from WWII. The US had built a string of these along the Atlantic coast to defend against German U-Boats. We found one that looked promising- there were metal bars keeping out intruders, but two of the guys with us were so skinny they could slip through. They had a flashlight, and yelled back to us the play-by-play of what they saw as they explored. We had hit GOLD. The explorers called back that they had found old uniforms, books, pens and all sorts of military-type stuff. They brought out armloads, and we all divvied them up. When we got back to camp the police were waiting for us. Turns out it was a museum designed to look exactly like a bunker in 1942. The guys had tripped an alarm, and the police saw us walking back to camp and met us there.

Age 18
I purchased a brand new motorcycle and thought I was the coolest. I rode it everywhere- in all weather. Sun, rain, even snow. Yes. One winter night riding home from work I was pulled over for driving with an expired registration. Very expired. So expired that the policeman said he needed to impound the bike. He told me to wait there as he needed to leave, and another police officer along with a tow truck would be there shortly. I moved a bit away from the road, and sat down with my back to a building to escape the wind. It was so cold I tucked my arms inside my jacket to wait. I put my head back against the wall and closed my eyes to rest and wait for whatever was next. A few minutes later I head a voice, shaky, scared sounding, and very loud- “Take your hands out of your jacket- VERY…SLOWLY.” I sat up and saw a young police officer, weapon drawn, pointing right at me with a very concerned look on his face. Great. I’m gonna die for not renewing my registration.

Well that’s it- after that last one I was pretty much scared straight.






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Snow Softball

We finally got snow in Franklin, Tennessee. We had a false alarm on Thursday when we got a slight dusting at 5AM that was completely melted by 7AM.

Williamson County Schools were closed somewhere between that time.

Friday morning we got the "biggie."

We woke up to 2 feet of snow! Scratch that...it was actually 7/8ths of an inch. Same effect though- the entire county shut down. No school again.

Michelle and the girls and I got bundled up and headed outside for a snowball fight before it all melted. It was girls against boys- that made it 5 to 1.

After Michelle and I called it quits, the girls stayed outside and invented a new game- Snow Softball.

How is it played? A pitcher throws giant snow balls for the batter to hit. The batter uses a racket to slam the snow ball, and the catcher holds an umbrella instead of a catcher's mitt. Every other player stands in front of the batter waiting to get plastered with the exploding snow ball.

To be a kid again. Something as simple as snow, causing school to be canceled, removes every weight and worry in the world. The joy they had that morning was contagious. Even though I had a ton of work to get done, the time spent outside with them pulled me into their world, even for just a little while.

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You Say It's Your Birthday

I was organizing some family pictures on our home network server this morning and stumbled on some old image files I had forgotten about.

On my birthday several years ago I arrived at the office to find my staff had plastered doctored photos of me throughout the building- walls, elevators, stairway halls, even the backs of the doors in the men’s room stalls.

Anyone who knows me knows I am a Beatles Fan to the 9th power. I got hooked, long after anyone really should have got hooked, when I was 8 years old in 1974- many years after Beatlemania subsided.

The birth and the zenith of the group happened before I was born, but when I was 8, my parents bought me my own personal record player (remember those bright plastic kiddie-players with the big plastic stubby arm and “Real Diamond Needle?”).

The player came with a starter set of records and one of them was “Yellow Submarine” by some group of no-name studio musicians that made kiddie versions of big songs.

It was my favorite recording of the set, and not long after that I remember walking into a Sears store with a buck burning a hole in my pocket. I went over to the record section (yes, Sears used to sell records) and found a Beatles record cheap. I looked and sure enough “Yellow Submarine” was on the tune stack. My mother warned me I wouldn’t like it- it didn’t sound anything like the songs I listened to on my record player, but I insisted. The challenge made me determined to “like” the Beatles.

Years and countless tapes, LPs, compact discs, posters and books later, I am a true fan.

I thought I would share the images I saw this morning that reminded me of my first record, a great birthday with old friends and co-workers, and the dare that set me on the path to collecting music.

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Family Secret Revealed

Once in awhile a manager needs to jump in to try to fix something when a staff member just can’t seem to make headway. It’s best when asked to jump in, but some people just won’t ask for help. It was one of those occasions that caused me to pick up the phone and call a customer.

It was a couple years- and jobs- ago. It was not often that I did this. The person managing the account was having difficulty with a buyer, and I had a good relationship with the president of that company so I made the call to politely and tactfully explain that his buyer was a tyrannical imbecile.

When the receptionist answered the phone I stated my name and company, and asked to speak to Mr. D. She politely asked me to hold and she would ring his office. I listened to the hold music for a few seconds, noticing it was a song from one of our competitors, when the receptionist came back on the line.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to make you wait, but do you by any chance know a Marilyn (last name- same as mine)?” she asked.

“Yes I do, I responded, my mother’s name is Marilyn.”

Another question from the curious receptionist- “Have you ever lived in Hawaii?”

“Yes we did- many years ago”

A 30 minute conversation ensued with Donna, broken up several times when she needed to put me on hold to answer incoming calls. It turns out she was a sixteen year old runaway in 1975, when I was 9 years old, and my mother pulled the car over on the side of the road near Honolulu to chat with an unkempt, unwashed, backpack carrying young girl. Serious problems at home had caused her to runaway, and after hearing about them didn’t disagree at all with her solution. An amazing story unfolded.

My mother, with me in the car according to Donna, had pulled over and started a conversation. After awhile my mom invited her to come to our house to bathe and eat, and think about what she should do next and where she should go that was safe. She ended up living at our house for several months (I do not remember this at all) and started to go to church with our family and made new friends. She was able to move out and into a safe home, and over the next year or so lost touch with my mom.

I never did talk with Mr. D that day- I was too stunned after hearing the story of this half-sister of sorts that I never knew about. When the conversation with Donna was over, we simply said goodbye and I hung up. I didn’t remember to call Mr. D back until the next day.

When I got home from work I called my mom to relay the story and the greeting from Donna. Mom lit up, confirmed the story, and asked how she was doing. I gave her Donna’s work and home number.

I have never heard my mom or dad ever mention her or that she lived with us, and was amazed at what Donna had told me. She firmly believes her life was saved the day my mom picked her up. Her life has changed dramatically- she is committed to God, married, has children, and loves life and all it has to offer. I guess mom is pretty cool after all (just kidding mom!).

So, I am sure it was just a coincidence that on this random day I called and talked to a receptionist 500 miles away that within a few minutes filled me in on a part of my life I didn't remember, made me even more proud of my parents, and encouraged me once again that God changes lives, right?






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Looking Up At President Ford

I heard about President Ford passing away early Wednesday morning, and I recalled meeting him many years ago as a child. He was visiting Hawaii and my mother took my sister and me to the airfield in hopes of catching a glimpse of him as he deplaned.

My mother has always taken us to witness big events like rallies, dedications, inaugurations and parades. We saw the children arrive in Hawaii after they were evacuated from Vietnam, and we even went to Andrews Air Force Base to see the Iranian hostages arrive after they were freed.

On the day I met President Ford it was a bright and beautiful day. We saw him get off the plane, wave, and then walk straight towards the crowd of well-wishers. As the crowd tightened, I slipped down, under and around anyone I could, and popped up right in front of the President. He looked down, smiled, and shook my hand. I knew nothing of politics, Watergate, or any of the turmoil Americans had endured the few years before that moment. All I knew was that I got to shake the hand of the President of the United States. Cool.

To top off the experience, a local TV news reporter saw me shake his hand and came up to interview me. I have no recollection of what I said, but it must have been expectedly inane blabbering from an eight year old little boy, because I do remember it lasting only a couple seconds.

I told my girls about the experience while we were all in the car yesterday and noticed the flags at half-staff. They asked me how long ago that was, and I responded twenty years. I quickly corrected myself and said that it was actually more than thirty years ago. I then spent the next several minutes pondering, yet again, at the speed life flies by. Thirty years. I am getting old. Life is fleeting. What really matters? Does my job, or lack of one, matter? Does my house? My money? It will all be gone. Every single material thing, every single thing I am seeing right now as I drive by will be gone with time.

What really lasts? Find that, and put your time and efforts there.






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We Hurt The Ones We Love

In a previous post, I briefly mentioned a duck that I killed. I thought it would be interesting to explore that a bit more. By nature I am not a hunter/killer, and in fact have only been hunting once in my life. I don’t imagine I’ll ever do it again.

A friend of mine, Troy, invited me to join a group of gents I know to go dove hunting. They had received permission to hunt on Gary and Amy Grant’s Franklin farm northwest of Franklin, TN. I remember being extremely envious of the vast tract of land they owned, 1/3 of which was surrounded by the wide and gently flowing Harpeth River.

After we got to the farm, Greg, another friend, drove his truck around dropping off hunters in 1s and 2s at various spots around the property. I had borrowed his shotgun for the day since I didn’t own one. Greg picked out a nice spot for me along a line of soaring trees and a stones throw from the river. I was given a quick tour of the gun, a refresher on how not to get killed by myself or another hunter, and a briefing on what a dove looked like. Yikes.

I jumped out of the truck, took my spot, and watched them drive a short distance away to drop off Grant, another friend. I got comfortable, loaded my gun, and wondered why the heck I was out there. If I did bag a dove, I wasn’t about to clean it, and I can tell you for darn sure, Michelle certainly wasn’t going to cook it.

On several occasions I spotted what might be a dove, and half-heartedly took a few shots, but didn’t hit anything other than tree tops. After a few hours, the group decided the dove count was too low in this area and we decided to head to another farm that Greg had lined up as a back-up just in case this happened.

We got to the new farm, and stood in the middle of the field in small groups of 3s and 4s. The doves were flying. Over the next couple of hours the group bagged dozens and dozens of birds. I got a few too. I remember one in particular.

Dove’s are small and delicate birds. If hit with a chunk of buckshot they almost always succumb to it instantly, and fall to the ground with a slight thud. Once in a while, the job is not done. That happened to me. The dove fell to the ground and started fluttering, and wouldn’t stop. I asked Troy what to do, and he told me to pick it up and twist it’s little head off like a 2-litre bottle top. Nope. Wasn’t gonna do it.

Instead, I decided to put it out of its misery with the gun. I don’t think I truly understood the power of a shotgun at close range until after I pulled the trigger. I did put it out of its misery- all that was left was feather vapor and a six inch hole in the ground, eliciting much laughter from the group. That was it for me- I was done. I handed over my six doves to Troy for him and his family to enjoy, and spent the next hour or so just watching the others.

Oops. I forgot this was supposed to be about the duck I killed. Well, I can get that one out much more quickly. I was about 2 years-old and my mother brought home a baby duck she had rescued from a local farm. As my mother tells it, the baby duck was rescued from being bitten, pecked and harangued by its siblings.

The previous Christmas I had been given a little duck shaped tricycle, kind of like a big-wheel, but it was white and in the shape of a duck. When ridden it would make quacking sounds. Evidently I was a big duck fan, what with my duck-mobile and Donald Duck toys.

My mother thought I would be thrilled to have a real live duck as a pet, and so was presented with the little guy that I appropriately named “Duck.” As I would travel to and fro in my duck-mobile, Duck would be right behind me, waddling as quickly as he could to keep up. My mother thinks Duck became attached to the toy and though of it as his mother.

One day, while I was out in front of the house with Duck, my mother noticed the familiar sound of my duck (the riding one) had ceased. She was used to hearing it constantly, and the silence was an alarm of sorts that I was up to no good. When she went outside to check my status (was I eating a poison berry? Eating ants? Eating dirt?) she saw me squatting down next to Duck, who was laying lifeless on the sidewalk.

“C’mon duck. Go duck. C’mon duck.” Were the words she heard me saying as I poked at Duck to get him moving again. I had run over Duck and ended his short little life. What really pains me now thinking about it is not that I was the one that killed Duck, whom I loved dearly, it's that Duck must have been horrified to think his mom took him out.






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Here Fishy, Fishy, Fishy

Earlier this week I attended a meeting about a half-hour from my home office, and on the way took a short-cut passing by a small man-made lake/pond in Brentwood TN.

As I miraculously drove the speed limit of 25mph or so, I noticed a group of six kids standing by the shore. They were bending down picking up rocks and hurling them side-armed, full speed, at a group of geese about fifty feet beyond. The kids looked like they were out for blood.

It’s amazing how memories can flood instantly. I was about seven years old, standing outside the Honolulu airport waiting for my grandparents to get their luggage. My mother and sister were with me while dad was helping his parents. We had a few minutes to kill, so I wandered over to a carp pond (I don’t know if there still is one at the airport- I would be interested to know) and watched the colorful fish. I noticed, as do all young boys, that if you spit in the water, the fish come running. Or swimming or whatever.

I progressed to dropping in bits of paper, then small pebbles. Each new item, the larger it got, summoned more fish. I remembered wondering if I could hit one of the fish with a pebble, so I picked up a large one, threw it in, and struck one of the carp squarely on the head. He sunk to the bottom and rested on his side, not moving again as I watched for a few minutes. I was devastated and ashamed- moving quickly away from the area while looking to see if anyone saw what I did.

That was the first creature- other than insects and a baby duck- I had killed. The baby duck thing was when I was 2 years old, and that’s another story.

I honked at the group of kids by the lake, and they glanced at me and continued throwing rocks. So I pulled over, honked several times and when I got their attention, gave them the universally known hand signal communicating "cut-it-out" (flat hand moving back and forth in front of the neck). They slinked away, unsuccessful at their attempt to fell a goose.






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USS Arizona

Sixty-five years ago today the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor killing 2,403 American servicemen and 68 civilians.

Thirty years ago, as a ten year old boy, I stood over the USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor listening to a tour guide say that 1,102 sailors bodies were still trapped in the ship’s hull. I was horrified. I remember looking down into the murky water fearful I would see one of those men.

For ten year old boys, death- the kind that is explored in war movies, horror movies, action figures and video games- is fascinating. The kind I experienced that day was vast, still, dark, and very real. I had bad dreams for weeks.

I am so very thankful for our military service members. Those that served us in times of peace and war, including the brave men and women in Iraq and Afghanistan that are fighting on this very day. We owe them much. Thank you.

Wanted to share some information learned when fact checking this post- Every President of the US since Roosevelt, and every Emperor of Japan since Hirohito, has made a pilgrimage to the USS Arizona memorial. Also, everyday a different flag is raised at the memorial, and the previous day’s flag folded and given to a VIP (presidents, ministers, dignitaries, retiring service members, etc).

There is a webcam at the USS Arizona that streams video of the memorial 24/7 at http://my.execpc.com/~dschaaf/webcam.html.

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Open Mic Night

Last night the nearby elementary school held an open mic night to raise funds- inviting all kids, K-8, to get up on stage and show off their talents. Ticket price- $2 for adults, $1 for kids. No sweat.

My 8 year old daughter decided she wanted in. She played a short piece on the keyboard. My two oldest, despite their strong vocal and piano abilities decided against performing for fear of looking stupid in front of their friends.

That was a tip-off to a trend that became evident as the show began. Here is the rundown on the evening’s entertainment:

• About 60 people showed up. Not a bad audience size, but at the ticket price charged I doubt we will be getting any new Apple’s for the computer lab.
• First up- an 8yr old boy played drums while his dad played guitar, then his 5 year old sister sang the ever popular “Hit The Road Jack” hitting all the notes square on the head.
• Next on stage was a 9 year old boy bravely singing a song while looking like he was going to puke.
• Loved the next performer- an adorable 5 year old girl. She tried to sing the song “Jesus Take The Wheel” but, bless her heart, she forgot the words after about 5 seconds, and left the stage looking very sad while the music played on until the soundman awkwardly hit the stop button. Ouch.
• V was next on the bill. A very confident and silk-shirted 9 year old girl sang a pop song- the title of which I couldn’t quite figure out. She finished, received appropriate applause, and the MC came up to thank her and introduce the next performer. Just then, she pulled a note out of her pocket, handed it to MC, and after a second or two of confused looks by him and the soundman, she jumped into her second song- “Don't it Make My Brown Eyes Blue.” After that, she announced she would sing another song- “Jesus Take The Wheel.” The audience was stunned as she turned open mic night into her own concert. The little 5 year old that attempted the same song earlier was not amused.
• A 10 year old girl played “Yesterday” on the electric guitar after only a few months of lessons (she did great). Only bad moment there was when a 4 year old boy in the audience loudly asked his mom if the 10 year old was a boy. She was quickly followed by a trio of 8 year olds singing Aly & AJ’s rendition of “Do You Believe In Magic.” Fortunately, you could hear Aly & AJ’s vocals.
• My girl A was up next. She sat at the keyboard and opened up her piano book- but had no where to set it. The MC helped by placing a music stand in front of her, perfectly blocking her face from every single person in the audience. Very funny. She did a good job and played the part with few mistakes.
• Fave performance of the night was next. Two 5th grade girls, with one iPod between them, stuck one earbud each in their ears, and proceeded to sing an Al Yankovic parody song. No one but them could hear the music. Very, very funny. Especially during the instrumental parts.
• The night was capped off by the only middle school kids of the night. 5 friends that got up and sang the Veggietales theme song. Their performance was worthy of a Saturday Night Live sketch.
  

What I noticed about the night was that all the performers (except for the last group of kids) were 10 years old or under. Something happens to us right about 10-11 years of age. We become very self-aware, self-conscious, and afraid of looking like a dork. I love the wonder and fearlessness of many younger kids. They inspire me, and amaze me at some of the things they do and say. Something to be learned there.






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5 Year Old Prayer List

To be clear, not a prayer list that is five years old, rather, a list of prayers from a 5 year old. Each night (the ones that are not hectic and hurried before a school play, night out, or other event) our family sits down for dinner together, and after dinner, we read from a book called Sticky Situations: 365 Devotions for Kids and Families. A short story is told with some sort of moral dilemma, and a family discussion ensues about what the character should do and why. It is then tied to a specific place in the bible to back up the message. While it is a pretty good tool for younger kids, we have found that for our 11 and 13 year old, the answers are a bit too predictable. Its hard to have a scenario that is navigable for a 13 year old as well as a 5 year old. It requires some creative editing on the fly as I read the story to make it a bit more interesting and challenging.

After we finish, we jot down a list of prayer requests, and then divvy them up among the six of us. R, our 5 year old, takes on her share as well. Then the fun begins.

R has no inhibitions in prayer. No concern that she uses the right words or phrases the requests in the right way. Its just pedal-to-the-metal honesty and openness. Here are a few recent prayers:

· Please help daddy find a new job like a veterinarian or doctor or something.

· Thank you for Jesus.

· Please make mommy’s tummy stop hurting.

· Please help the soldiers protect us and keep us from getting hurt. And help them come home so they can be with their kids.

· Please help Aunt Carla’s new baby come out of her tummy ok.

In 25 words or less she covers what takes many people 100 words or more (including me). While on several occasions R’s choice of words during prayer causes her sisters to have to stifle laughs, on more than one occasion I have had to stifle tears. She inspires me to speak simply and directly of my requests and needs.






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Promise Me You Will Never Grow Up

My heart hurt yesterday. While I do have a few extra pounds on me (well…more than a few), and I don’t exercise as much as I should, I assure you it wasn’t that kind of pain. It was more of a heart-ache. I have “lost” some people in my life and it hit me hard last night.

K, my oldest, performed in her school musical. She had a great part- a few solos, good dialogue, and an overall stellar performance. The other kids in the show did an awesome job as well. It was one of the best middle-school musicals I have ever seen (granted- this was only the second). There was one particular part in the musical that impacted me far deeper than I expected. K walked out on stage to start off a scene and it hit me hard. “Who is that woman?” She’s not my little girl, that’s for sure. She looked like she went from 13 years old to 18 in a matter of minutes.

While one half of my brain continued to pay attention to the show, the other half started diving deep into thoughts and memories. Where are my little girls? I remember K and L holding onto my neck as I walked around with them, each with their feet firmly planted in my hands. I remember them crawling into my lap and hugging on me, asking me questions, kissing all over me. I looked to my left and saw L and my two little ones, A & R, and sure enough…they looked older too. It’s as if some magical dust was sprinkled by the witch in the musical that made my girls age several years at about 7:30PM last night.

I think what might have contributed to all of this was a recent decision to convert all of our old High8 video tapes to DVD. I dropped them off at Wolf Camera, and within a couple of days, we had amazing DVDs of all our family movies. They even create a couple music video’s out of several scenes. The last month or so we have been watching them, and the kids are fascinated at who they used to be. Me too.

I unconditionally love my four girls, just as they are now, and am excited to see who they become. That does not take away, however, the longing I have for who they were 5 or 10 years ago. Those kids are gone forever.

Before I had kids, I remember people telling me that I will not truly understand love until I do. Romantic love is just one part of love- to have children, to love your neighbor, and to love God completes the circle. After Michelle and I had our first, we got it. Really got it. But no one told us about the pain that goes along with having children. Well- maybe during child-birth Michelle figured that part out.

For me, the pain started soon after the love. That pain becomes most evident when your child gets physically hurt, or sick, or loses a favorite toy, forgets something at a restaurant or theatre- and breaks into tears, weeping and gnashing of teeth that is worthy of an academy award. The hard ones are when a friend betrays them, or a mean kid at school hurts them with words. It is shocking how personal their pain becomes. How it feels like the pain is completely my own. It makes me love and appreciate my parents even more.

These next few years are more critical than ever. I want to be there for my oldest two as they become women, to support, encourage and challenge them to continue to grow in grace, to love God and others, and to make right decisions. I also want to have a fresh heart and mind with my two youngest- to do the same things with them I did with my oldest. Man, this is hard.

Wintery Morning

It’s beautiful outside. We had a fairly decent freeze last night, so the grass is covered in frost, the sky is grey, and the memories are flooding my mind. How great were cold, snowy winter mornings when we were kids? That feeling of responsibilities (i.e. school) thrown to the side. The new possibilities for the day were dizzying.

What snow brought out in me was the hidden architect. Here are a few of the projects I build over the years:

An igloo big enough for 3-4 people, with windows and a chimney of course

A monolith (in the late seventies- I was inspired by 2001 A Space Odyssey)

A downhill sledding race track, with iced embankments and a huge life-threatening jump at the end

The oblighitory snow-ball-war fortress, complete with a pyramid stack of snowballs with iced centers for maximum damage

An under-snow maze tunnel (the blizzard of 1978 provided almost 3 feet of snow with huge drifts)

Two things have changed for me now. First, I am forty years old and that basic kid-like drive and creativity when it comes to the medium of snow seems to have left me. Secondly, I moved to Nashville- and a big storm here is one inch.

Bring on the dirty, grassy, dead-leafy 24” snow men!