School Pics - 2008

No matter how negligent I am about updating this blog with family information and pictures, I feel compelled to post "back-to-school" pics (as well as Halloween costumes). So twice a year - at least - you can count on something new.

Here are my big boys - an 8th grader and a kindergartener. Enjoy!

"Dad, My Goldfish isn't Swimming"

One of Braden's favorite things to do is punch me in the stomach. I'm not talking about a pat or a slap either - I'm talking about a Popeye-after-eating-his-spinach punch that starts as far back as he can reach and ends in my belly. If the mood strikes him, he will head-butt me in the gut instead, usually with a running start of several steps. And I have to be paying careful attention if I ever find myself lying on the floor while Braden's awake, because he will jump into the air and land on my midsection with legs bent and malice of forethought. The only response to all of this is, of course, to roughhouse and tickle him until he begs for forgiveness.

Braden looking good at his Christmas program.

It will come as no surprise then that he is a charter member of the "Bad Boys Club". This is the name he and his friend Landon have taken for themselves at their preschool, and their primary functions appear to be chasing, and subsequently being chased by, girls during recess. One such child - Jordan - recently caught him and kissed him on the back. The whole affair left him forced to name her his "arch-enemy" (his words.) His teacher says he is smart and well-behaved, and he earns a green check mark every day, but beneath that sweet exterior lies a bad-boy, don't you doubt it.

Braden and Landon (The Bad Boys) on their school float for the Christmas parade.

Tuesday night we sent him upstairs to put on his pajamas and brush his teeth in preparation for bed. Shelley and I were visiting on the couch in the living room when we heard him call from the door of his bedroom, "Dad, my goldfish isn't swimming". He got a 2-gallon aquarium for Christmas, and we set it up and bought some fish over the weekend. We arrived at his bedroom to assess the scene, and I told him after a brief investigation that his goldfish was dead. "I'm sorry buddy" is the comfort I offered as he leaned into my leg. With a pat on the back of his head, I turned to go downstairs to get the fish net. But before I'd taken two steps, he was leaning into his mother, his face buried deep into her shoulder, and he was crying. Not a loud, wailing cry, but the soft, heartbroken sobbing that loss brings. It sounded like a little of his innonence, rising in sad waves, gone forever. When he could finally speak, he protested to Shelley "but his eyes are still open". So death was added to the palette with which my youngest son will color his life.

Yet life goes on. Yesterday, he spent a part of his Target gift card - also a Christmas gift - on a "Rock 'Em, Sock 'Em" robot game, a smaller version of the same toy his father owned as a child. True to his personality, he has re-named it his "Whack 'Em, Smack 'Em" robots.

Finally, he paid me a remarkable compliment on Friday after we had lunch at the hospital (the Subway in our cafeteria had a grand opening special, and Subway is the boys' favorite place in the world to eat). He was getting a haircut, and talking to his barber about this and that. He mentioned that it was almost his Dad's birthday, and the barber asked him what he was going to give me. He couldn't really think of anything to tell her, so she asked him what I liked to do in my spare time. She mentioned golf, sports, hunting. He shook off her suggestions, then told her "he likes to play with his boys". When Sheila called to tell me that story, I felt for a moment like I might just be getting something right...

Halloween - League City Style

Our first Halloween in our new house in League City proved to be quite a party! The weather was the most cooperative Sheila and I could remember since moving from Amarillo - mid to low 60's with no wind or rain. A bright moon shone down over the busiest night our neighbors could ever remember in our neighborhood. We carved our pumpkins before having a baked snake dinner with swamp juice and witches brew. Then the boys got dressed in their costumes.

 

 

The neighbor a few houses down borrowed a small trailer, bought some bales of hay, and volunteered to drive the kids around the neighborhood from section to section. The kids had a blast, as you can see.

 

At about 8:30 the sprinting from house to house had turned into "Da-ee will you go trick or treating for me? I'll wait here on the trailer..." Home for a quick inventory, bath, reading our expanding collection of Halloween books ("Thanks Grandma and Grandpa") then off to sleep -- though no need to dream tonight. The day was already filled with princesses and ninjas and superheroes, and getting candy from friendly neighbors for no reason whatsoever...

Back to School

Thought a couple of pictures of the boys on their first days of school would be in order. Austin is off to 7th grade, and Braden off to 5-days-a-week, 3.5 hours per day pre-kindergarten.

(More pics will be posted now that we have replaced the camera someone stole out of Shelley's car in the parking lot of Braden's Mother's Day Out school in Cypress. Story for another time, I'm sure...)

Viva Nash-Vegas

So I was in Nashville a couple of weeks ago, home to the corporate offices of HCA, getting trained how to use the HR Information System at our hospitals. The training was 8-4:30, Monday - Thursday. My plane got in too late on Sunday night to do anything but check in, have a salad in the hotel restaurant, and go to bed. From my window, I could see the Country Music Hall of Fame, the Gaylord Entertainment Center (the "geck" as the locals called it) and the Symphony center. On the back side of my hotel was a strip of bars on Broadway, including the "famous"(?) Tootsies and the Coyote Ugly bar. Some locals to whom I spoke said there had been so much entertainment development in the last decade that they now, tongue-in-cheek, referred to their hometown as Nash-Vegas.

The training was efficient and useful, but taxing. Monday night a group of us from Houston went to The Tin Angel for dinner, having been promised that it was a favorite spot for local music celebrities (Vince Gill, Amy Grant, Clint Black). When we got there, it dawned on us that no one was a country music fan, so we tried to name all the artists we might actually recognize if they did come in to eat dinner. The three above, Willie Nelson, Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton were about as far as we got. None of those six dined there that night, so we all went to our rooms full but somewhat let down.

Night two was just plain cool. After dinner at another local spot (forget the name), we went to a concert at The Blue Bird Cafe. This is an unremarkable room of about 3000 square feet, with a bar on one wall and small to medium tables everywhere else. In the center of the room, set in among the tables, were 6 chairs facing each other in a circle, with a keyboard in front of one chair and 3 microphones in front of the others. Two female songwriters, two male songwriters, a keyboard accompanist and a guitar accompanist occupied the chairs.

The Blue Bird Cafe is famous in Nashville for featuring songwriters who have written songs recorded by popular musicians, though I'd never heard of any of the songwriters. But I had heard the songs "It Matters to Me", "Heads Carolina, Tails California", "I Hope You Dance" and "Delta Dawn", each of which had been written by one or the other of these songwriters. Each introduced a song they wrote, told what it meant or how it had been inspired, then performed it, and so on around the circle. While one was performing, though, the others wouldn't just sit there: they'd sing harmony, play lead guitar to their melody, and just basically jam. And for a dingy, no frills room in a strip mall, the acoustics were incredible. Of course, we were about 20 feet from the performers, which didn't hurt.

"Delta Dawn" was co-written by Alex Harvey who performed it that night. It was inspired by his mother, who was a poor, beautiful alcoholic who killed herself when Alex was a teenager. For years - he said - he was ashamed to admit she was the inspiration for the song, and when he sang it that night it was obvious he had written it as a blues number, not a two-stepping dance tune. He was a rough looking older guy with long gray hair and a brown leather cowboy hat, and he made the strongest impression on "the Texans". But they were all remarkable performers who sang incredibly, played perfectly and literally blew us away.

The next day at training, we couldn't bear to stay in that room for lunch one more day, so we went to a local bar called the Wild Horse Saloon. Three stories tall with a stage fit for Broadway facing a huge dance floor, this was no run-of-the-mill saloon. As we were finishing our lunch (BBQ with fried pickles, a specialty of the house), we saw Alex Harvey sitting at the bar talking to a man. So the four of us went over to him, introduced ourselves and told him how fantastic the show had been. And then he hugged me. He hugged all four of us actually, but I was expecting it least, I think. He introduced us to the manager of the saloon, then gave us 2 CDs, one of his songs from "the old days" and one by his new band "Alex Harvey and Galilee", a collection of Christian songs he had written and recorded. He was meeting with the manager to finalize the details of his band's performance that Sunday for brunch. He's a born-again Christian, and when we told him we were from Houston he asked for our email addresses so he could invite us when he would be in town to perform at Lakewood Church (Pastored by Joel Osteen in the former Compaq Center - you know the one).

When we were late getting back to class, the instructors stopped the lesson to hear our excuse, knowing it would be a whopper and not being the least bit disappointed.

Last night in town was a good dinner (more BBQ for some reason), then a couple of beers at "The Stage", with a band which was very talented but not noteworthy. Though it tells you something about the times that the front of the stage had a banner with their web site address on it.

So I have now added "hugged the co-writer of 'Delta Dawn'" to my impressive list of celebrity encounters. But more remarkable than that, I now find myself stopping on the country stations as I channel surf in the car, hoping to hear some good "banjo" music. I think I've even figured out where the Country Music Television station is on our cable...

Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on
Could it be a faded rose from days gone by?
And did I hear you say he was a-meeting you here today
To take you to his mansion in the sky?

Tid Bits

Quick update tonight before going to bed under extra blankets and no ceiling fan. We are still in the frosty grip of "Ice Storm 2007!" and you'd think the world was coming to an end. The news stations have been relentless in their coverage of every sand truck in Houston and its comings and goings. "We go now to NW Harris County, where John Long has breaking news of a bridge which appears to have something meteorologists call "sleet" falling on it - John?!" I told Julie the other night that the local stations were making such a big deal out of the cold front I felt like I should be blogging updates of my family's safety. "Tuesday, January 16. We covered the plants in the front today, though it was too late for the banana plants and ginger in the back yard. The children are safe though, and our groceries appear to be adequate for the duration." Everyone take a deep breath. Austin did miss school today, so he's satisfied with the reaction everyone has had.

I have attached pictures Shelley took of B to help make a poster in his room of his daily chores. Inspecting the pics will show you what demanding, merciless parents we are, expecting the child to get dressed, put his dirty clothes in the laundry basket, brush his teeth and feed Snoopy. EVERY DAY!


Please note that he is holding his nose as he fills Snoopy's dish, as he dislikes the smell of the dog food. "Oooh, what's that smell like?" is the quote which would go with that picture, his very common question whenever he encounters an unfamiliar smell. Not "What's that smell?" but always "What's that smell LIKE?" Other common phrases are "That's so weird/You're so weird" and his (often oddly placed) use of the word "banjo" to describe things for which he does not care. I guess he was introduced to the banjo in his Kindermusik class, and he immediately associated it with country and western music. Whenever Shelley channel-surfs in the car with him, he complains "I don't like that banjo music" whenever she stops on a country song. He approached Shelley on the couch one recent Saturday morning while she and I were having our coffee. He invited her to come with him to the bathroom so he could fix her hair, noting "You have banjo hair, Ma-ee". He's also asked Shelley to sell the Suburban, because it is a "banjo car". You get the idea.

Speaking of hair, we have entered into the era of fighting with Austin over his. He desperately wants long, shaggy hair (like 90+% of the boys in his school), but his hair is as straight as Billy Graham and as long as one of his old time revival meetings. To his parents, it is not just the fact that he is so handsome with short hair, which accentuates his eyes (one of his best features). What really grates on us is the obsessive nature of his "relationship" with his hair. By this I mean the constant touching and head-dip/bang-shake motion which has become so ubiquitous that strangers might mistake him for having a silent form of Tourette's Syndrome. Add to this the fact that his clothes are baggy and ill-fitting, and he never tucks his shirt into his pants anymore except when forced to for church, and we are getting a taste of adolescence which makes us worry...

On the other hand, we are reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" together, and there is still a closeness and innocence and accessibility to him that gives me hope we will all get through this okay. (He asked a couple of months ago if he could check out a book on OJ Simpson because he wanted to read a book about a trial - in preparation for his becoming a lawyer - and his old-fashioned, strict parents said 'no'. I offered an alternative, bought him a paperback copy, and we began reading it about a week ago. What a great book.)

And finally, out of the blue last week Braden asked me to sing him some songs to "heb me go to sleep". We hadn't sung songs (after reading our books) for several months - roughly the time we updated his room and moved in the bunk bed. So I get to read him books and then turn out the light, rub his head and sing him songs, often until he falls straight asleep, the fatigue of "going" since 6:30 that morning finally taking its toll. He too loves books, and his face is all innocent excitement as bad bunnies or hungry caterpillars or colonies of ants act out their plays.

With a long commute to work, mornings come early and hard. But nighttime is sweet, and tender, and hopeful...

Giving Thanks

 
Picture description, from top left to lower right: Braden asleep in the "big boy" chair "like Brurs" (brother's) which replaced the rocking chair when we updated his room (see "Moon & Stars" below); Austin dressed as Arnold Schwarzenegger as part of a "Wax Museum" book report alternative his Jr. High School does each fall; Braden with a classmate at his Wee Wuns Thanksgiving lunch; Braden and his dad at his birthday party in August - trying to make dad smile bigger, I think; Austin in his Class A uniform in front of the WWII-era tents of Camp Constantin, his first (and last) Boy Scout summer camp; Austin & Braden watching the July 4th parade in Edmond, OK; Braden in his t-ball uniform (after it got too hot to wear the white baseball pants); Sheila & Austin at his 5th Grade Day celebration last May, the last hurrah of the 'too cool for elementary school' 5th-graders; and Austin, mid-delivery, in his first ever starting pitching assignment last spring.

Taking inventory of all for which I am thankful, the pictures above neatly summarize those blessings at the top of my list. Shelley, the loving, woman of God who literally holds us all together, the long-suffering lone "groll" (rhymes with roll & is Braden-speak for "girl") in a houseful of rambunctious boys, my smart, tender, tough and sexy best friend. How one person could be equal parts Mother Teresa, swimsuit model and drill sergeant is a great and delightful mystery to me, a mystery I intend to study long into my old age.

And the boys, those occupiers of thoughts and stealers of hearts, the very embodiment of the joie de vivre, my hope and my pride.

I wish each of you a very Happy Thanksgiving, enjoying food and family and the opportunity to be still and consider all that life has given us. If your Thanksgiving finds you travelling like us, may your journey be swift and safe.

And if you find yourself surrounded by the noisy racket of chefs cooking, children screaming, TV's blaring or any combination of those things (i.e. Chefs screaming, children blaring, etc...) then count it all joy. Once during the day, kiss everyone you can catch standing still, right on the top of their head, for me and my family. And we will hug and kiss each other for you, and count the days until we can be together.

Halloween

I get requests for pictures...

Here's Austin in July, serving as co-pilot on a flight in Jim's airplane. They travelled to a small airport somewhere in North Texas, had lunch, toured the local flight museum and flew home.

Then there's Braden, shown here in September with his cousin Georgia. This was the day that Sheila had a very hard time convincing him to take off his swim goggles. All day...

And on a personal note, I have decided the best way to break out of my funk is to start listening to books on tape in the car as I commute 90 minutes or so each way to my interim work assignment. "Night" by Elie Wiesel was one of my first choices, the Nobel laureate's first of three books in which he details his personal experience with the Holocaust. Hoo-boy do I know how to pick 'em! Next up: "Leadership" by Rudy Giuliani. I'll keep you posted...

"Breath of Eternity on Your Lips" Part 2

"...(T)hey're (President Bush and Donald Rumsfeld) getting out there and they're beating this drum, to drown out, as they did in 2002, to drown out other -- in that case it was Enron. Now we have another situation, so it's this war on terror, boom, boom, boom. Drown out the reality of what's really happening." -- Sean Penn, on Larry King Live September 14, 2006

"Radical Christianity is just as threatening as radical Islam in a country like America." -- Rosie O'Donnell, on The View September 12, 2006

"The NBC television network is still making up its mind about whether it will allow pop star Madonna to stage a mock crucifixion on its airwaves as part of her upcoming prime-time concert special." -- Reuters News Service September 19, 2006

The Bruce Springsteen song to which this blog's title and my last posted referred continues to be the soundtrack of my life to and from work, in spite of Blair's heartfelt recommendation I upgrade to Classic Soul Ballads by Time Life. I have decided the lyrics about the bomb preparation and suicide/homicide bombing in a "crowded marketplace" are dishonest by omission. Granted, it would have been difficult to include "nails and ball bearings" in the line about what gets put into the backpack, in part because that would be too many words and in part because it makes the scene less sympathetic. Nevertheless, nails and ball bearings are symbols of terror's devotion to maximizing suffering and pain and death, so leaving them out omits a critical element of the event.

Hezbollah’s “spiritual” head, Hassan Nasrallah gave voice to the terrorists' rationale for such actions when he said: “The Jews love life, so that is what we shall take away from them. We are going to win because they love life and we love death.” In Iraq, Afghanistan and Lebanon, those who "love death" hide among civilians because they know those who "love life" get more outraged over innocent civilian deaths than the fact that terrorists are fighting from behind civilians in the first place. They are right, which worries me, because they might be right about winning this war, too.

Yet I can't get too upset about musicians', actors' and authors' disdain for the War on Terror. They are, after all, artists, and their "calling" is to point to that which is beautiful and transcendant through their words, their music and their acting. War is a horror which only a madman would seek or desire, so it is an easy target for those devoted to beauty. [How mocking the crucifixion is either beautiful or transcendant I cannot fathom, but imagine the bloodshed and violence that will erupt throughout the United States once Rosie's imagined "radical Christians" take to the streets.]

And yet we cannot hide from the fact that we live in a time of war that was, as our President has said, "begun on the timing and terms of others". By "others" he meant madmen who hate life, I say, uneasily...