Dear Spike:
We've long since lost track of how many words you know in Mandarin. You're far from fluent, but you can identify all the most important people, places and things out there; you can answer simple questions and you can ask — politely — for the things you want.
Your mother is picking things up quickly also. She's gonna have a pretty gnarly English accent, of course, but she's got a lot of words under her belt.
And then there is me. I've always been a little bit tone-deaf, and Mandarin is a tonal language. I'm lousy but I'm trying.
So it was a real confidence booster today when you and I went to our favorite Chinese restaurant and — working together — successfully completed our order in Mandarin. (I think Mandy, who was waiting the tables this afternoon, was being quite forgiving, but I'm still tacking this one up in the wins column.)
Feeling rather good about ourselves, we decided to do lunch in Mandarin.
We had soup. Hē tāng.
And drank water. Hē shuǐ.
And had vegetables. Chī shūcài.
With rice! Fàn!
While we ate, you schooled me on all the animals on our Chinese Zodiac place mats, and Mandy came by every few minutes to fill our water, praise your Mandarin and correct my pronunciations.
Toward the end of our lunch — just like every meal we eat, no matter the language — I noticed that you really hadn't eaten much off your plate.
"Chī Fàn!" I pleaded. "Chī Fàn! Eat Rice!"
Finally stuffed, you turned to me and said:
"Daddy, I'm eating so much rice, I'm going to get Chī funny."
Really? Chinglish puns?
Zhēn bàng!
Love,
dad
Friday, January 21, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
OF THE TIME
Dear Spike:
Your mother and I moved your bed into our room earlier this week when you were running a fever. For two nights you sweated it out, right next to us, moaning and crying through the night, ripping the covers off, then burying yourself underneath the blankets, then ripping them away again.
We finally beat back the mercury, but three days later your bed remains in our room. You don't seem to want to go.
Tomorrow we'll force the issue, but tonight we relented. We rationalized that you still have a cough that has been keeping you up through the night, but the truth is that we just like to hear you snore.
When you were a baby, I would bolt upright in the middle of the night and rush over to your cradle just to make sure you were still breathing. I hear that's not an uncommon thing for parents to do, but I always felt a little bit silly afterward. Still, I liked to run my fingers through your thin wisps of hair, to kiss you gently on your forehead, to pull your soft blanket up to your chin.
I still do.
I won't be able to do that forever, of course, and I think I've made peace with that fact. Like everything else in life, you have to enjoy the moments that you're given today because, by definition, those moments won't be around tomorrow.
I want to let you know that I've been trying really hard to remember that these days.
As I try to figure out how best to juggle three jobs — each without a definitive time schedule to guide my work — sometimes I worry that you might end up feeling like you're just one more ball being tossed into the air.
I'm working not to let that happen. Last night you and I went out to pizza and then to a movie, where we chowed down on a $7 bag of popcorn, sipped on a $4 cup of fruit punch and nibbled on some cupcakes that we had sneaked into the theater. Next week, assuming you're feeling better, we'll head up the mountain to spend a morning on the bunny slopes. And next month we're going to Disneyland.
But I'll tell you something: None of that means anything. You can't quantify good fatherhood based on hours devoted, calories consumed, money spent or activities completed. In fact, I don't think you can quantify good fatherhood at all.
If you could, though, I suppose that part of the equation would have something to do with discipline. Not just for you — although that's certainly very important — but for me. You see, I would love nothing more than to spend our time together watching movies and eating sugary foods and racing down the slopes on our snowboards and spinning round and round at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party. That would be a lot of fun for me. And it would be fun for you — but it wouldn't be good for you.
Those are sometimes treats. The rest of the time, it's important for us to do things that will help you grow big, strong, smart and kind. We'll practice your reading. We'll clean up your playroom. We'll eat healthy foods. And we'll make good decisions.
Which brings me back to your bed. Tomorrow night, it's going back in your room. That's part of being a big girl.
It was, I'll admit, nice while it lasted. And yes, I might sneak into your room to run my fingers through your hair and listen to you snore. But if you start to wake up, I'll sneak back out again.
That's part of being a dad.
Love,
dad
Your mother and I moved your bed into our room earlier this week when you were running a fever. For two nights you sweated it out, right next to us, moaning and crying through the night, ripping the covers off, then burying yourself underneath the blankets, then ripping them away again.
We finally beat back the mercury, but three days later your bed remains in our room. You don't seem to want to go.
Tomorrow we'll force the issue, but tonight we relented. We rationalized that you still have a cough that has been keeping you up through the night, but the truth is that we just like to hear you snore.
When you were a baby, I would bolt upright in the middle of the night and rush over to your cradle just to make sure you were still breathing. I hear that's not an uncommon thing for parents to do, but I always felt a little bit silly afterward. Still, I liked to run my fingers through your thin wisps of hair, to kiss you gently on your forehead, to pull your soft blanket up to your chin.
I still do.
I won't be able to do that forever, of course, and I think I've made peace with that fact. Like everything else in life, you have to enjoy the moments that you're given today because, by definition, those moments won't be around tomorrow.
I want to let you know that I've been trying really hard to remember that these days.
As I try to figure out how best to juggle three jobs — each without a definitive time schedule to guide my work — sometimes I worry that you might end up feeling like you're just one more ball being tossed into the air.
I'm working not to let that happen. Last night you and I went out to pizza and then to a movie, where we chowed down on a $7 bag of popcorn, sipped on a $4 cup of fruit punch and nibbled on some cupcakes that we had sneaked into the theater. Next week, assuming you're feeling better, we'll head up the mountain to spend a morning on the bunny slopes. And next month we're going to Disneyland.
But I'll tell you something: None of that means anything. You can't quantify good fatherhood based on hours devoted, calories consumed, money spent or activities completed. In fact, I don't think you can quantify good fatherhood at all.
If you could, though, I suppose that part of the equation would have something to do with discipline. Not just for you — although that's certainly very important — but for me. You see, I would love nothing more than to spend our time together watching movies and eating sugary foods and racing down the slopes on our snowboards and spinning round and round at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party. That would be a lot of fun for me. And it would be fun for you — but it wouldn't be good for you.
Those are sometimes treats. The rest of the time, it's important for us to do things that will help you grow big, strong, smart and kind. We'll practice your reading. We'll clean up your playroom. We'll eat healthy foods. And we'll make good decisions.
Which brings me back to your bed. Tomorrow night, it's going back in your room. That's part of being a big girl.
It was, I'll admit, nice while it lasted. And yes, I might sneak into your room to run my fingers through your hair and listen to you snore. But if you start to wake up, I'll sneak back out again.
That's part of being a dad.
Love,
dad
Monday, December 27, 2010
EVIL-DOERS BEWARE
Dear Spike:
I had to work Christmas Day, so we all got an early start.
Some earlier than others.By the time I woke, you'd already barreled into your stocking like a hound going after a squirrel. Your mother had filled mine, too: Golf balls and tees — a lovely, albeit bittersweet gift, since there are several inches of snow on my favorite course right now and since every one of those balls is destined for the bottom of a water hazard.
Other than the stocking-stuffers, we maintain a fairly simple Christmas tradition: Handmade gifts. Your mother made you a superhero cape, complete with your very own hand-embroidered logo — and she made a matching one for our cat. We outfitted you with a pair of goggles and away you went, flying through our home in search of evil-doers.
Every superhero needs a secret hiding base, so that's what I built for you. It's not much: Just a 2-by-4 frame, some plywood and a door, but later this week we'll paint it up and maybe put some curtains in the window. Even superheros need curtains.
For your mother, we build an office in the closet of the upstairs library — sort of like her own little secret hiding base. Evil-doers beware!
She made me a quilt — stitched from old T-shirts that are no longer wearable but that I've had trouble throwing away. It's soft and it's warm and I love it (and so do you – you like to use it to make a little tent next to the heating vents in our home!)
All told, it was a wonderful Christmas Day — the kind I've really come to expect since you came around.
Love,
dad
I had to work Christmas Day, so we all got an early start.
Some earlier than others.By the time I woke, you'd already barreled into your stocking like a hound going after a squirrel. Your mother had filled mine, too: Golf balls and tees — a lovely, albeit bittersweet gift, since there are several inches of snow on my favorite course right now and since every one of those balls is destined for the bottom of a water hazard.
Other than the stocking-stuffers, we maintain a fairly simple Christmas tradition: Handmade gifts. Your mother made you a superhero cape, complete with your very own hand-embroidered logo — and she made a matching one for our cat. We outfitted you with a pair of goggles and away you went, flying through our home in search of evil-doers.
Every superhero needs a secret hiding base, so that's what I built for you. It's not much: Just a 2-by-4 frame, some plywood and a door, but later this week we'll paint it up and maybe put some curtains in the window. Even superheros need curtains.
For your mother, we build an office in the closet of the upstairs library — sort of like her own little secret hiding base. Evil-doers beware!
She made me a quilt — stitched from old T-shirts that are no longer wearable but that I've had trouble throwing away. It's soft and it's warm and I love it (and so do you – you like to use it to make a little tent next to the heating vents in our home!)
All told, it was a wonderful Christmas Day — the kind I've really come to expect since you came around.
Love,
dad
Friday, December 17, 2010
I SAID 'AHA!'
Dear Spike:
One day, I am quite confident, your epiphanies will be far more profound. But for now, I suppose, this will have to do:
"I was really hungry. I thought and I thought and I said, 'aha! Macaroni and cheese!'"
Love,
dad
One day, I am quite confident, your epiphanies will be far more profound. But for now, I suppose, this will have to do:
"I was really hungry. I thought and I thought and I said, 'aha! Macaroni and cheese!'"
Love,
dad
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
THANKSGIVING FROM HELL
Dear Spike:
We don't usually leave home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. There are several reasons for this, but the main one is that we prefer to enjoy the company of our extended family outside the stressful gotta-go-here, better-be-there, hustle-bustle and rigmarole of the holidays.
But this year was different. Traditionally, your great-grandmother (my mom's mom) has hosted a large Thanksgiving gathering for all of her kids, grandkids and great-grandkids. But earlier this year she decided she'd had enough of her big, old house in on Mark Avenue and moved into a retirement home close to where my parents live. And so my mom decided that she'd take on Thanksgiving.
The confirmed guest list was 34 names long.
At some point, it was decided that it wasn't enough to just have dinner. We were going to have a sit down dinner.
Wine goblets, china, cloth napkins — the whole nine yards. Cool right?
As long as so many people were coming to town, my father and uncle decided they'd wait to hold your other great-grandmother's wake until the day after Thanksgiving.
Practical people, my relatives.
And thus began... the Thanksgiving from hell.
On Turkey Thursday morning, I woke up and headed to the kitchen, where I found my mother in the kitchen looking...
... rather peaked.
"You're dad's not feeling well," she said.
"You don't look so good yourself," I said.
"Yeah, I don't feel so good."
And then I heard it. The sound of a grown man retching in my parents' bathroom.
"I think you'd better not touch any food that anyone is going to eat tonight," I told my mom.
And with that, your mother and I had inherited Thanksgiving for 34.
The phone rang. My cousin Paul. His wife's family plans had fallen through.
OK. Make that turkey for 37.
Your mother didn't skip a beat. Like General Patton headed to Bastogne, she took command. Potatoes were peeled. Turkeys were basted. Stuffing was, um, stuffed.
And Thanksgiving went off without a hitch, though it also went off without my mother, father, sister and brother, who were all, by this time, well out of commission.)
By 9 p.m., your mother was, too.
And then it was your turn.
I've never seen you so sick. Never. You poor thing. You spent the entire night throwing up. You'd fall asleep for a few minutes, then wake up and ralph, then scream — with what I can only describe as righteous indignation — "No more! That was the last time!"
All night long.
The next day was your great-grandmother's wake. You and your mother were in no shape to go.
But by that evening, everyone was feeling pretty good again. And the next day we headed off to Stanford University to watch the Oregon State Beavers take on the sixth-ranked Cardinal.
Um... did I say "take on"? What I meant to say was, "get pounded like a piece of meat." It was 24-0 at halftime and we didn't even stay to watch the infamous Leland Stanford Junior University Marching Band.
But we didn't leave because of the score. And certainly not in protest of the Stanford band's historic send-ups of Catholicism, Mormonism and a bunch of other -isms.
No, we left because you couldn't pee.
Oh yeah — and you were screaming in agony.
A bladder infection, we figured — and so we came home and pumped you full of cranberry juice. Problem was, that only made you have to go more. And you couldn't.
You tried and you tried. And you screamed and you screamed. But you just couldn't go.
At about 9 p.m., we decided to take you to the emergency room at the local hospital.
At about 12 a.m. we finally got in to see a doctor.
And it only took him about two minutes to decide you needed a catheter.
"This isn't going to be fun for anyone," he said.
And it wasn't. You spent the next 20 minutes screaming and writhing in agony as the nurses tried to do what needed to be done. Your mother and I had the excrutiating duty of holding you down as you begged to be released.
When it was all over, the doctor prescribed some Ibuprofen and sent us on our way. We finally got back to my parents' home that night at 2 a.m.
Things were not a whole lot better the next day. One of my friends, a doctor himself, suggested we take you to Stanford Children's Hospital, and that's where we spent our last day in California. The doctors and nurses there were kind as can be, but they didn't have any answers. They took some samples (another catheter — although this one went a lot better) and, when you impressed one doctor with your knowledge of various medical tools, they offered you a job.
Whatever was wrong, you were feeling quite a bit better by the next day — just in time for us to get on an airplane and head home to Utah, where I had to scrape 10 inches of snow off of our car in the long-term parking lot before driving our family home.
I'd never been so happy to end a vacation.
Sometimes life gives you lemons.
And sometimes you can take those lemons and make lemonade.
But sometimes the lemons are rotten, and so the lemonade makes you sick. That's how this vacation was. We did our best to have a good time and, when we did, we got kicked around like the Oregon State University football team.
Of course, the football team can always say "there's always next year."
But you won't hear that from me. Because next year, we're staying home.
Love,
dad
We don't usually leave home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. There are several reasons for this, but the main one is that we prefer to enjoy the company of our extended family outside the stressful gotta-go-here, better-be-there, hustle-bustle and rigmarole of the holidays.
But this year was different. Traditionally, your great-grandmother (my mom's mom) has hosted a large Thanksgiving gathering for all of her kids, grandkids and great-grandkids. But earlier this year she decided she'd had enough of her big, old house in on Mark Avenue and moved into a retirement home close to where my parents live. And so my mom decided that she'd take on Thanksgiving.
The confirmed guest list was 34 names long.
At some point, it was decided that it wasn't enough to just have dinner. We were going to have a sit down dinner.
Wine goblets, china, cloth napkins — the whole nine yards. Cool right?
As long as so many people were coming to town, my father and uncle decided they'd wait to hold your other great-grandmother's wake until the day after Thanksgiving.
Practical people, my relatives.
And thus began... the Thanksgiving from hell.
On Turkey Thursday morning, I woke up and headed to the kitchen, where I found my mother in the kitchen looking...
... rather peaked.
"You're dad's not feeling well," she said.
"You don't look so good yourself," I said.
"Yeah, I don't feel so good."
And then I heard it. The sound of a grown man retching in my parents' bathroom.
"I think you'd better not touch any food that anyone is going to eat tonight," I told my mom.
And with that, your mother and I had inherited Thanksgiving for 34.
The phone rang. My cousin Paul. His wife's family plans had fallen through.
OK. Make that turkey for 37.
Your mother didn't skip a beat. Like General Patton headed to Bastogne, she took command. Potatoes were peeled. Turkeys were basted. Stuffing was, um, stuffed.
And Thanksgiving went off without a hitch, though it also went off without my mother, father, sister and brother, who were all, by this time, well out of commission.)
By 9 p.m., your mother was, too.
And then it was your turn.
I've never seen you so sick. Never. You poor thing. You spent the entire night throwing up. You'd fall asleep for a few minutes, then wake up and ralph, then scream — with what I can only describe as righteous indignation — "No more! That was the last time!"
All night long.
The next day was your great-grandmother's wake. You and your mother were in no shape to go.
But by that evening, everyone was feeling pretty good again. And the next day we headed off to Stanford University to watch the Oregon State Beavers take on the sixth-ranked Cardinal.
Um... did I say "take on"? What I meant to say was, "get pounded like a piece of meat." It was 24-0 at halftime and we didn't even stay to watch the infamous Leland Stanford Junior University Marching Band.
But we didn't leave because of the score. And certainly not in protest of the Stanford band's historic send-ups of Catholicism, Mormonism and a bunch of other -isms.
No, we left because you couldn't pee.
Oh yeah — and you were screaming in agony.
A bladder infection, we figured — and so we came home and pumped you full of cranberry juice. Problem was, that only made you have to go more. And you couldn't.
You tried and you tried. And you screamed and you screamed. But you just couldn't go.
At about 9 p.m., we decided to take you to the emergency room at the local hospital.
At about 12 a.m. we finally got in to see a doctor.
And it only took him about two minutes to decide you needed a catheter.
"This isn't going to be fun for anyone," he said.
And it wasn't. You spent the next 20 minutes screaming and writhing in agony as the nurses tried to do what needed to be done. Your mother and I had the excrutiating duty of holding you down as you begged to be released.
When it was all over, the doctor prescribed some Ibuprofen and sent us on our way. We finally got back to my parents' home that night at 2 a.m.
Things were not a whole lot better the next day. One of my friends, a doctor himself, suggested we take you to Stanford Children's Hospital, and that's where we spent our last day in California. The doctors and nurses there were kind as can be, but they didn't have any answers. They took some samples (another catheter — although this one went a lot better) and, when you impressed one doctor with your knowledge of various medical tools, they offered you a job.
Whatever was wrong, you were feeling quite a bit better by the next day — just in time for us to get on an airplane and head home to Utah, where I had to scrape 10 inches of snow off of our car in the long-term parking lot before driving our family home.
I'd never been so happy to end a vacation.
Sometimes life gives you lemons.
And sometimes you can take those lemons and make lemonade.
But sometimes the lemons are rotten, and so the lemonade makes you sick. That's how this vacation was. We did our best to have a good time and, when we did, we got kicked around like the Oregon State University football team.
Of course, the football team can always say "there's always next year."
But you won't hear that from me. Because next year, we're staying home.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
DOREEN ANN LAPLANTE 1932-2010
Dear Spike:
I was 16 or 17, I suppose. I can't remember for sure, but I know it was some time shortly after I had my second ear pierced, since that's apparently what prompted the whole conversation.
I was sitting at the kitchen bar in my grandparents' home in Santa Clara. Grandma was on the other side of the bar, probably diddling about on one of those hand-held video poker games that she enjoyed so much. We were making small talk. This and that. School and work. Soccer and girls.
She asked about the new stud in my right ear. "You don't see that on boys much, do you?" she said.
No, I told her, you don't. That's one of the things I liked about it.
She looked at me and smiled. And then she reached across the table and placed her hand on top of mine.
"You know," she said, "I will always love you — no matter who you choose to love."
"Um...." I said. "Yeah, I know."
"I mean it dear. No matter who."
"Grandma..." I said. "Are you suggesting... What I mean is... I appreciate that but... I'm not gay."
She just smiled and looked at me with a look that said, "I know a lot more about you than you think."
Whatever. It was the thought that counted. And it was a lovely thought.
She was the product of an old-school Catholic upbringing. She was a strongly opinionated woman. Her sons didn't always make the decisions she would have made. Her grandchildren even less so. And while she didn't always approve — and often let us know it — she never failed to remind us that, above it all, what was most important for her was that we were happy.
Your great-grandmother, Doreen Ann LaPlante, died Nov. 4 — just about six months after her beloved husband passed away. On the day after Thanksgiving, her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren gathered together at her favorite restaurant for an old-fashioned Irish wake.
We drank. We sang songs. And we told stories.
And we remembered a woman who loved us just the way we were.
Even if we weren't.
Love,
dad
I was 16 or 17, I suppose. I can't remember for sure, but I know it was some time shortly after I had my second ear pierced, since that's apparently what prompted the whole conversation.
I was sitting at the kitchen bar in my grandparents' home in Santa Clara. Grandma was on the other side of the bar, probably diddling about on one of those hand-held video poker games that she enjoyed so much. We were making small talk. This and that. School and work. Soccer and girls.
She asked about the new stud in my right ear. "You don't see that on boys much, do you?" she said.
No, I told her, you don't. That's one of the things I liked about it.
She looked at me and smiled. And then she reached across the table and placed her hand on top of mine.
"You know," she said, "I will always love you — no matter who you choose to love."
"Um...." I said. "Yeah, I know."
"I mean it dear. No matter who."
"Grandma..." I said. "Are you suggesting... What I mean is... I appreciate that but... I'm not gay."
She just smiled and looked at me with a look that said, "I know a lot more about you than you think."
Whatever. It was the thought that counted. And it was a lovely thought.
She was the product of an old-school Catholic upbringing. She was a strongly opinionated woman. Her sons didn't always make the decisions she would have made. Her grandchildren even less so. And while she didn't always approve — and often let us know it — she never failed to remind us that, above it all, what was most important for her was that we were happy.
Your great-grandmother, Doreen Ann LaPlante, died Nov. 4 — just about six months after her beloved husband passed away. On the day after Thanksgiving, her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren gathered together at her favorite restaurant for an old-fashioned Irish wake.
We drank. We sang songs. And we told stories.
And we remembered a woman who loved us just the way we were.
Even if we weren't.
Love,
dad
Sunday, November 14, 2010
GEE-WHIZ AWE
Dear Spike:
I'm writing to you from somewhere over the U.S. Midwest, en route to Philadelphia for a conference.
It all seems so technologically fantastic to me: pecking away at the keyboard on my phone which is connected to the airplane's wireless Internet system. But, as is the case with pretty much all new technology, the gee-whiz factor is going to go away quite quickly. Eventually, this will all be old-hat -- or even obsolete.
Things change. That's the way things are in this world.
That also happens to be the reason why I'm on this airplane to begin with -- because my life is changing, too.
While I'm still employed at the same job I've been at since hour mother and I moved to Salt Lake City in 2003 -- and while I enjoy that job quite a bit -- I'm growing more and more aware that it's unlikely that I'll still have a viable newspaper career in 10 years. That's a big part of the reason why I went back to school, a few years ago. And it's a big part of the reason why I have begun working, part-time in a few other capacities in the world of education.
So this week, I'm headed to Philly to learn more about how to prevent dropouts as part of my job with a group that works to give struggling kids a second chance at school. And next month, I'll start commuting once a week to Utah Valley University, where I'm teaching a class on crisis reporting.
One of these things is a stepping stone to my professional future, I suppose. Or maybe I'll be doing something entirely different -- something I haven't even thought of and could nary conceive of at this time.
Or maybe, just maybe, I'll find some way to continue doing what I've been doing for the past decade: Comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable, as we journalists like to imagine it is our job to do.
The future used to be scary to me. Now it's simply fascinating. I enjoy all of this. Whatever direction the world takes me, I have you and your mother. And whatever I do, I'll always look at this world with a gee-whiz awe.
Love,
dad
I'm writing to you from somewhere over the U.S. Midwest, en route to Philadelphia for a conference.
It all seems so technologically fantastic to me: pecking away at the keyboard on my phone which is connected to the airplane's wireless Internet system. But, as is the case with pretty much all new technology, the gee-whiz factor is going to go away quite quickly. Eventually, this will all be old-hat -- or even obsolete.
Things change. That's the way things are in this world.
That also happens to be the reason why I'm on this airplane to begin with -- because my life is changing, too.
While I'm still employed at the same job I've been at since hour mother and I moved to Salt Lake City in 2003 -- and while I enjoy that job quite a bit -- I'm growing more and more aware that it's unlikely that I'll still have a viable newspaper career in 10 years. That's a big part of the reason why I went back to school, a few years ago. And it's a big part of the reason why I have begun working, part-time in a few other capacities in the world of education.
So this week, I'm headed to Philly to learn more about how to prevent dropouts as part of my job with a group that works to give struggling kids a second chance at school. And next month, I'll start commuting once a week to Utah Valley University, where I'm teaching a class on crisis reporting.
One of these things is a stepping stone to my professional future, I suppose. Or maybe I'll be doing something entirely different -- something I haven't even thought of and could nary conceive of at this time.
Or maybe, just maybe, I'll find some way to continue doing what I've been doing for the past decade: Comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable, as we journalists like to imagine it is our job to do.
The future used to be scary to me. Now it's simply fascinating. I enjoy all of this. Whatever direction the world takes me, I have you and your mother. And whatever I do, I'll always look at this world with a gee-whiz awe.
Love,
dad
Monday, November 1, 2010
MADE ME BELIEVE
Dear Spike:
Here's to the misfits. The outcasts. The freaks.
Here's to surprise. To passion. To dreams.
Here's to the team that made me believe, again, in baseball.
Here's to the San Francisco Giants.
You'll not likely remember this moment, but I'd like you to understand it, so I'll fill you in on the particulars: You were sitting in your high chair, eating some bananas and chocolate chips, when Brian Wilson blew a fastball past Nelson Cruz to give the Giants their first championship since your grandfather was still in diapers.
You, your mother and I all exploded into cheers. Foot stomping. Hallelujah-making. Whooping and hollering and laughing and crying.
Yes, a little bit of crying.
Why should I care like this? About a game? About a game played by millionaires?
Well, maybe I shouldn't. And for a long time I didn't.
I grew up on this game, following the Giants and the more successful band of Bash Brothers on the opposite side of the Bay. I can still remember the lineups of both the teams that faced off in the 1989 "Bay Bridge" World Series. That series was interrupted by an incredible earthquake — but when it finally ended with an Oakland A's victory, I remember wishing that it could have gone on forever, so that night after night I could hide under my covers and tune my little red radio in to listen to Will Clark knock a Dave Stewart pitch over the center field fence, or to hear about how Carney Lansford snagged a rocket-shot off Matt Williams' bat that just should have gone up the third base line for a double. I had it all planned out: The A's would win a game, and then the Giants would win a game. And they'd just keep playing, forever and ever, marching from one side of the bay to the other, and back again.
Four years later, the players — many of them millionaires, many times over — stopped putting on their spikes over a dispute regarding revenue sharing with team owners. For the record, I think the owners were greedy pigs, but it was still a strike over a game played by rich men. And it resulted in the cancellation of a large part of the 1994 season, including the playoffs and World Series.
Sacrilege.
After that, it almost didn't matter when I learned that many of the players I'd cheered for in that all-too-short World Series in 1989 were using steroids. Mark McGwire. Jose Canseco. Traitors. Scum. Cheaters.
But I didn't need to know that Barry Bonds was on the juice to know that guy was a complete horse's ass. For 14 years, I couldn't look at The Giants.
But I fell in love again last year during a date with your mother at the Giants' beautiful ballpark at Willie Mays Plaza, right across the street from where your great grandfather once worked as a copy editor off Mission Bay. We ate hot dogs and Crackerjack and watched Tim Lincecum pitch a less-than-perfect game. Still, to watch that young man, uniform hanging off his skinny frame, hurl a baseball that fast. Incredible.
What a freak.
And a completely likable freak at that. Sure enough, as manager Bruce Bochy pieced together a ragtag gang of players for the 2010 season, they were all just...
... so damn likable.
Oh, they're still millionaires. And some of them are scoundrels, no doubt. But they keep it to themselves. And that's really all I've ever asked of my professional athletes.
So there was Edger Renteria, an aging and injury-prone infielder who not so long ago had been relegated to the minor leagues.
And there was Buster Posey, a 23-going-on-14-year-old kid with a swing as sweet as a honey-dipped Baby Ruth.
And there was Aubrey Huff, the veteran who had never even been to the playoffs and who didn't even have a team to play for nine months ago.
And then, this evening, there was Lincecum, pitching as perfect a game as I've ever seen in the Series. Eight innings against one of the best hitting teams in the big leagues. Ten strikeouts. Just three hits.
Oh, I could go on. And I will. Again and again. Not all bedtime stories are fairy tales, but this one will surely sound like one.
Love,
dad
Here's to the misfits. The outcasts. The freaks.
Here's to surprise. To passion. To dreams.
Here's to the team that made me believe, again, in baseball.
Here's to the San Francisco Giants.
You'll not likely remember this moment, but I'd like you to understand it, so I'll fill you in on the particulars: You were sitting in your high chair, eating some bananas and chocolate chips, when Brian Wilson blew a fastball past Nelson Cruz to give the Giants their first championship since your grandfather was still in diapers.
You, your mother and I all exploded into cheers. Foot stomping. Hallelujah-making. Whooping and hollering and laughing and crying.
Yes, a little bit of crying.
Why should I care like this? About a game? About a game played by millionaires?
Well, maybe I shouldn't. And for a long time I didn't.
I grew up on this game, following the Giants and the more successful band of Bash Brothers on the opposite side of the Bay. I can still remember the lineups of both the teams that faced off in the 1989 "Bay Bridge" World Series. That series was interrupted by an incredible earthquake — but when it finally ended with an Oakland A's victory, I remember wishing that it could have gone on forever, so that night after night I could hide under my covers and tune my little red radio in to listen to Will Clark knock a Dave Stewart pitch over the center field fence, or to hear about how Carney Lansford snagged a rocket-shot off Matt Williams' bat that just should have gone up the third base line for a double. I had it all planned out: The A's would win a game, and then the Giants would win a game. And they'd just keep playing, forever and ever, marching from one side of the bay to the other, and back again.
Four years later, the players — many of them millionaires, many times over — stopped putting on their spikes over a dispute regarding revenue sharing with team owners. For the record, I think the owners were greedy pigs, but it was still a strike over a game played by rich men. And it resulted in the cancellation of a large part of the 1994 season, including the playoffs and World Series.
Sacrilege.
After that, it almost didn't matter when I learned that many of the players I'd cheered for in that all-too-short World Series in 1989 were using steroids. Mark McGwire. Jose Canseco. Traitors. Scum. Cheaters.
But I didn't need to know that Barry Bonds was on the juice to know that guy was a complete horse's ass. For 14 years, I couldn't look at The Giants.
But I fell in love again last year during a date with your mother at the Giants' beautiful ballpark at Willie Mays Plaza, right across the street from where your great grandfather once worked as a copy editor off Mission Bay. We ate hot dogs and Crackerjack and watched Tim Lincecum pitch a less-than-perfect game. Still, to watch that young man, uniform hanging off his skinny frame, hurl a baseball that fast. Incredible.
What a freak.
And a completely likable freak at that. Sure enough, as manager Bruce Bochy pieced together a ragtag gang of players for the 2010 season, they were all just...
... so damn likable.
Oh, they're still millionaires. And some of them are scoundrels, no doubt. But they keep it to themselves. And that's really all I've ever asked of my professional athletes.
So there was Edger Renteria, an aging and injury-prone infielder who not so long ago had been relegated to the minor leagues.
And there was Buster Posey, a 23-going-on-14-year-old kid with a swing as sweet as a honey-dipped Baby Ruth.
And there was Aubrey Huff, the veteran who had never even been to the playoffs and who didn't even have a team to play for nine months ago.
And then, this evening, there was Lincecum, pitching as perfect a game as I've ever seen in the Series. Eight innings against one of the best hitting teams in the big leagues. Ten strikeouts. Just three hits.
Oh, I could go on. And I will. Again and again. Not all bedtime stories are fairy tales, but this one will surely sound like one.
Love,
dad
Sunday, October 31, 2010
SLIDE IT OVER
Dear Spike:
Here in Utah, Halloween is like leap year. On most years, the annual festival of tricks, treats, ghosts and ghouls, takes place on Oct. 31. But every once in a while the doorbell starts ringing a day early.
I learned about this Gregorian peculiarity for the first time in 2004. We'd been in Utah for a little over a year then, and it's safe to say that we'd learned, by that time, that things work a bit differently here than they do in most other parts of the country.
To wit: Most Americans celebrate Independence Day on July 4, in commemoration of the day that the Second Continental Congress approved the Declaration of Independence. But in Utah, where a powerful plurality of people are faithful members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Sunday is supposed to be a day reserved for church-goin' folk to go to church along with other church-goin' folk. So whenever Independence Day falls inconveniently on a Sunday, they just sort of slide it over to Saturday and — viola! — they can have their cake and eat it, too.
Same goes for Halloween, which in that same year we learned isn't always celebrated on Oct. 31.
At first I was rather annoyed at this whole charade — and not just because it feels like a blatant mockery of the time-honored Separation of Church and Me. The thing is, I have the utmost respect for people of faith — so long as they're practicing their faith honestly. But I've got little tolerance for hypocrisy. And that's what I've long felt this whole move-the-date debacle really is.
At the heart of the Fourth Commandment of the Hebrew Scriptures is the principle that, once a week, God-fearing folk should take a break from their labors and spend the day honoring their creator. I'm not a literalist, so I've always just taken this to mean that hard work should be rewarded with rest — and that we shouldn't forget that both work and rest are blessings. But those more inclined to believe that the Bible is God's list of rules for humanity — and among these, we count our Mormon friends — often take the Fourth Commandment to literally mean they should not do anything that detracts from the restful, peaceful, and worshipful spirit of the day.
I'm cool with that. But I'm also unconvinced at the sincerity of the way most people practice this tenet of their faith. They're still prone to flip on the Sunday football game, to surf the Web, to check e-mail, to mow the lawn, to throw a few insta-meals into the microwave. And as to the things they don't do, well, what kind of honor is it, really, to simply move all the things we might otherwise prefer to be doing on the Sabbath to another day?
Here's the thing: That's not a bad philosophical argument to have with my closest friends of faith, but since I don't ascribe to the belief in a Sacred Sunday, it's really not my business to go preaching to the masses.
And in any case, in this life, you've got to choose your battles.
Back in 2004, I protested silently at the indignity of it all by simply refusing to answer the door to trick-or-treaters. "If they can't be troubled to come over on Halloween," I said, "then they don't need my candy!"
But that was before you came 'round — and before I lightened up. The truth is that most people here, Mormons and Gentiles alike, have just accepted Saturday as "Halloween Observed" on years in which the holiday falls on a Sunday. It doesn't hurt anything. It's just how things are done.
So while we could have stood on principle and taken you trick-or-treating on the real Halloween, most folks would already be out of their sugary sweets.
Gee, come to think of it, perhaps that wouldn't have been such a bad thing. I digress.
The point is that we took you door-to-door on Saturday. And you liked it. And we all had a good time. And it didn't really matter whether you trick-or-treated on a Saturday or a Sunday or any other day, because in the end, it's all just for fun.
I hope you learn to stand on principle. I also hope that, when you do, you're standing on something worthy of being stood upon.
Love,
dad
Here in Utah, Halloween is like leap year. On most years, the annual festival of tricks, treats, ghosts and ghouls, takes place on Oct. 31. But every once in a while the doorbell starts ringing a day early.
I learned about this Gregorian peculiarity for the first time in 2004. We'd been in Utah for a little over a year then, and it's safe to say that we'd learned, by that time, that things work a bit differently here than they do in most other parts of the country.
To wit: Most Americans celebrate Independence Day on July 4, in commemoration of the day that the Second Continental Congress approved the Declaration of Independence. But in Utah, where a powerful plurality of people are faithful members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Sunday is supposed to be a day reserved for church-goin' folk to go to church along with other church-goin' folk. So whenever Independence Day falls inconveniently on a Sunday, they just sort of slide it over to Saturday and — viola! — they can have their cake and eat it, too.
Same goes for Halloween, which in that same year we learned isn't always celebrated on Oct. 31.
At first I was rather annoyed at this whole charade — and not just because it feels like a blatant mockery of the time-honored Separation of Church and Me. The thing is, I have the utmost respect for people of faith — so long as they're practicing their faith honestly. But I've got little tolerance for hypocrisy. And that's what I've long felt this whole move-the-date debacle really is.
At the heart of the Fourth Commandment of the Hebrew Scriptures is the principle that, once a week, God-fearing folk should take a break from their labors and spend the day honoring their creator. I'm not a literalist, so I've always just taken this to mean that hard work should be rewarded with rest — and that we shouldn't forget that both work and rest are blessings. But those more inclined to believe that the Bible is God's list of rules for humanity — and among these, we count our Mormon friends — often take the Fourth Commandment to literally mean they should not do anything that detracts from the restful, peaceful, and worshipful spirit of the day.
I'm cool with that. But I'm also unconvinced at the sincerity of the way most people practice this tenet of their faith. They're still prone to flip on the Sunday football game, to surf the Web, to check e-mail, to mow the lawn, to throw a few insta-meals into the microwave. And as to the things they don't do, well, what kind of honor is it, really, to simply move all the things we might otherwise prefer to be doing on the Sabbath to another day?
Here's the thing: That's not a bad philosophical argument to have with my closest friends of faith, but since I don't ascribe to the belief in a Sacred Sunday, it's really not my business to go preaching to the masses.
And in any case, in this life, you've got to choose your battles.
Back in 2004, I protested silently at the indignity of it all by simply refusing to answer the door to trick-or-treaters. "If they can't be troubled to come over on Halloween," I said, "then they don't need my candy!"
But that was before you came 'round — and before I lightened up. The truth is that most people here, Mormons and Gentiles alike, have just accepted Saturday as "Halloween Observed" on years in which the holiday falls on a Sunday. It doesn't hurt anything. It's just how things are done.
So while we could have stood on principle and taken you trick-or-treating on the real Halloween, most folks would already be out of their sugary sweets.
Gee, come to think of it, perhaps that wouldn't have been such a bad thing. I digress.
The point is that we took you door-to-door on Saturday. And you liked it. And we all had a good time. And it didn't really matter whether you trick-or-treated on a Saturday or a Sunday or any other day, because in the end, it's all just for fun.
I hope you learn to stand on principle. I also hope that, when you do, you're standing on something worthy of being stood upon.
Love,
dad
Monday, October 25, 2010
ALL THE AWE
Dear Spike:
There it was, no bigger than a nickel. A thin, dark circle, barely raised against the surface of the rock. At first glance, it could have been a slice of obsidian — or even a raindrop upon the soft gray shale. And just like an ephemeral raindrop, it should have evaporated into the winds of time ...
... hundreds of millions of years ago.
Instead, this little bug left its tiny imprint on our Earth — disappearing into a sandy tomb long before the dinosaurs walked this land and reappearing, for the first time, as I drove a spike between two thin layers of shale.
"A trilobite!" you cried.
Indeed it was. But it was more than that. It was a tiny time machine. A window into prehistory. As old as the hills? No, that doesn't even scratch the surface. This was older. Much, much older.
I dropped my hammer, shook my head and ran my thumb over tiny, spiny fossil.
"Wow," I said.
That is all I could muster. Words simply failed me. And why should they not? Our ancestors began to communicate using language fewer than 100,000 years ago. This delicate little arthropod had been around for 500 million years. Maybe longer. And we had just unearthed it, waking it from its long slumber, robbing it from eternity.
We live just a few short hours from one of the most prolific trilobite quarries in the world. And as such, your mother and I had been meaning to do this for years. One thing or another kept getting in the way.
I'm so glad we finally did this. And I'm glad we got to do it with you. Because with all the awe I felt as we unearthed fossil after fossil after fossil, came an awe-inspiring reminder:
Our time here is short. Too short to leave undone what we dream of doing. Too short not to seek joy. Too short not to seek love. Too short not to care, deeply and passionately, for all of those around us. Too short not to be left speechless by a sunset, a snowflake, a little slice of shale.
Like the raindrops that danced on the soft gray rock as we reluctantly turned away from the quarry, we are both eternal and ephemeral.
And like the raindrops, we should dance.
Love,
dad
There it was, no bigger than a nickel. A thin, dark circle, barely raised against the surface of the rock. At first glance, it could have been a slice of obsidian — or even a raindrop upon the soft gray shale. And just like an ephemeral raindrop, it should have evaporated into the winds of time ...
... hundreds of millions of years ago.
Instead, this little bug left its tiny imprint on our Earth — disappearing into a sandy tomb long before the dinosaurs walked this land and reappearing, for the first time, as I drove a spike between two thin layers of shale.
"A trilobite!" you cried.
Indeed it was. But it was more than that. It was a tiny time machine. A window into prehistory. As old as the hills? No, that doesn't even scratch the surface. This was older. Much, much older.
I dropped my hammer, shook my head and ran my thumb over tiny, spiny fossil.
"Wow," I said.
That is all I could muster. Words simply failed me. And why should they not? Our ancestors began to communicate using language fewer than 100,000 years ago. This delicate little arthropod had been around for 500 million years. Maybe longer. And we had just unearthed it, waking it from its long slumber, robbing it from eternity.
We live just a few short hours from one of the most prolific trilobite quarries in the world. And as such, your mother and I had been meaning to do this for years. One thing or another kept getting in the way.
I'm so glad we finally did this. And I'm glad we got to do it with you. Because with all the awe I felt as we unearthed fossil after fossil after fossil, came an awe-inspiring reminder:
Our time here is short. Too short to leave undone what we dream of doing. Too short not to seek joy. Too short not to seek love. Too short not to care, deeply and passionately, for all of those around us. Too short not to be left speechless by a sunset, a snowflake, a little slice of shale.
Like the raindrops that danced on the soft gray rock as we reluctantly turned away from the quarry, we are both eternal and ephemeral.
And like the raindrops, we should dance.
Love,
dad
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