Last weekend I joined Merritt and his friend Daryl on a cross-country skiing trip on Beaver Mountain. Actually, we were guiding a couple of scout troops who had signed up for the overnight trip, which covered about three miles backcountry to a rustic lodge, followed by a backcountry tour in the morning and a return trip after Saturday's lunch.
I'd never been to this part of the state, and found the mountain incredibly beautiful. There was about a foot of new snow, and more fell softly as we skied in Friday night. Come Saturday the sky was clear and blue, and the sun sparkled off the fresh blanket of snow in the meadows. The snow hung heavily on the spruce branches, which made our meanderings through the woods quiet and serene.
This is a beautiful world that we live in, although it is easy to miss so much of it for lack of effort. I count as one of the great blessings of my life the appreciation and enjoyment of the wilderness.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday, February 18, 2007
No More Peas
When I was a child, we would make up our own games. I spent hundreds of hours rolling dice and keeping statistics for a baseball card game I invented. And my friend Randy and I had a daily ritual of setting up action figures and plastic army men at each end of our hallway, then rolling balls down the wooden floor to see who could wipe out the other side's army first. And every spring we would get out our marbles and make rings in the dirt and compete in games of our invention, along the way winning and losing fortunes measured in Steelies, Cats-eyes and Bumblebees.
We made a lot of our own stuff back then, like horns out of cardboard tubes, waxed paper and rubber bands. And along the way we learned about the physics of our creations, as Christmas wrapping rolls were too big, toilet paper rolls too small (and revolting) but paper towel rolls just right for a fine baritone riff.
The most memorable toy of my early childhood was a wooden rifle that my foster father, Ross Toomer, had cut on his table saw, sanded down, and painted black and silver. It was an individualized plaything, customized for my size, age and tastes, and thus it became a crucial part of my identity. Many nefarious characters met their fate by that gun, as I crouched behind the peonies in my backyard, sneaking up on the enemies that were alarmingly prevalent in my suburban Bloomington neighborhood.
But as we got older, imaginary battles were not nearly as exciting as those fought with functional weapons and live ammunition. And thus our highest level of ingenuity was reserved for our personal armory, which would reflect upon the bearer as not only a matter of pride, but also, at times, one of personal preservation. Most of us had clothespin guns that when strung with a fat rubber band would inflict just enough pain from medium range to make things interesting, particularly with the feared neck-hit. We also had sling shots, which were difficult to make well, but when properly crafted and with the right piece of innertube and a smooth rock could wound a bird or kill a mouse with a lucky shot; or with a small green apple could strike a friend with sufficient force to set off a battle of raging intensity. We looked forward to Christmas for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that my mother traditionally put out a nut bowl, which provided perfectly sized ammunition for a well-designed slingshot.
But of all the childhood ordnance, the most common was the pea shooter, which was, I suppose, the equivalent of the Old West sidearm. You could buy a pea shooter at any store for 25 cents, although occasionially you'd run across a fat straw that worked about as well. Pea shooters were extremely accurate, had impressive range, were noiseless and easy to conceal: Basically, the perfect elementary school accessory. You could shoot tiny paper balls, or when feeling nasty, spitwads. But as might be expected, the most effective ammo was peas. In those days, every mom made pea soup and every kitchen had dried peas. We'd put a handful in our corduroys before school and be ready for a full-scale battle at recess. But for the more intrepid boys there was an almost overwhelming temptation for occasional sniper action during class, where a surprise shot from an unseen corner of the room could, with the right combination of accuracy and lung-power, cause even the biggest bully to holler out in pain in the middle of one of Miss Mlodzik's endless soliloquys on fractions.
I haven't seen a pea shooter for years. I suppose they were done in by modern gadgets with LCD screens and microchips, but maybe more so by a dearth of dried peas, which have been replaced in most kitchens by sanitized versions of pea soup packaged in a cup, to be filled with water and heated in a microwave; a dietary shift which has resulted in tragic and unintended consequences for today's young boys.
We made a lot of our own stuff back then, like horns out of cardboard tubes, waxed paper and rubber bands. And along the way we learned about the physics of our creations, as Christmas wrapping rolls were too big, toilet paper rolls too small (and revolting) but paper towel rolls just right for a fine baritone riff.
The most memorable toy of my early childhood was a wooden rifle that my foster father, Ross Toomer, had cut on his table saw, sanded down, and painted black and silver. It was an individualized plaything, customized for my size, age and tastes, and thus it became a crucial part of my identity. Many nefarious characters met their fate by that gun, as I crouched behind the peonies in my backyard, sneaking up on the enemies that were alarmingly prevalent in my suburban Bloomington neighborhood.
But as we got older, imaginary battles were not nearly as exciting as those fought with functional weapons and live ammunition. And thus our highest level of ingenuity was reserved for our personal armory, which would reflect upon the bearer as not only a matter of pride, but also, at times, one of personal preservation. Most of us had clothespin guns that when strung with a fat rubber band would inflict just enough pain from medium range to make things interesting, particularly with the feared neck-hit. We also had sling shots, which were difficult to make well, but when properly crafted and with the right piece of innertube and a smooth rock could wound a bird or kill a mouse with a lucky shot; or with a small green apple could strike a friend with sufficient force to set off a battle of raging intensity. We looked forward to Christmas for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that my mother traditionally put out a nut bowl, which provided perfectly sized ammunition for a well-designed slingshot.
But of all the childhood ordnance, the most common was the pea shooter, which was, I suppose, the equivalent of the Old West sidearm. You could buy a pea shooter at any store for 25 cents, although occasionially you'd run across a fat straw that worked about as well. Pea shooters were extremely accurate, had impressive range, were noiseless and easy to conceal: Basically, the perfect elementary school accessory. You could shoot tiny paper balls, or when feeling nasty, spitwads. But as might be expected, the most effective ammo was peas. In those days, every mom made pea soup and every kitchen had dried peas. We'd put a handful in our corduroys before school and be ready for a full-scale battle at recess. But for the more intrepid boys there was an almost overwhelming temptation for occasional sniper action during class, where a surprise shot from an unseen corner of the room could, with the right combination of accuracy and lung-power, cause even the biggest bully to holler out in pain in the middle of one of Miss Mlodzik's endless soliloquys on fractions.
I haven't seen a pea shooter for years. I suppose they were done in by modern gadgets with LCD screens and microchips, but maybe more so by a dearth of dried peas, which have been replaced in most kitchens by sanitized versions of pea soup packaged in a cup, to be filled with water and heated in a microwave; a dietary shift which has resulted in tragic and unintended consequences for today's young boys.
Leaving Layla
Angelica formally moved to Phoenix this week, where Ryan has been awaiting her presence. They closed on their house and now begin a new phase of their lives which I expect will be very good for them. The immediate tragedy to all of this was, of course, that she took Layla with her. We had all come to depend on the presence of that delightful child. Every morning she and I would spend time together, smiling and laughing, and I would read her books and bounce her on my knee and fly her through the air and it would be such a lovely way to start my day that I never wanted to go to work. And of course Mother could hardly stay away from her when she was at home. She would forgo her studies to sing songs and change her diaper and I suppose Layla cost her at least 2/10ths on her GPA, which was more than a fair trade.
She is a sweet and darling child and a pleasure to be around. Babies can be nice that way (although you probably couldn't convince Merritt and Stacie of that right now), sharing a magic innocence with those around them, spreading a peaceful testimony that there are corners in the world where smiles can warm the soul and coos melt even the hardest heart.
We will see Layla again before long, but I doubt that it will ever be the same as those weeks when we shared a house and blended our routines into an extended family. This has happened for thousands of years, and still does in most countries. But ours is a transient society and like I did a generation ago we are often inclined to allow our careers to dictate our geography, rather than the other way around.
I am by no means qualified to judge these events, and even if I were, I couldn't tell right from wrong. But I know this, that we will miss Layla (and her parents) when she is gone, but that the reunions will be all the sweeter. And life will go on and relationships will find their way into something of value. Time alone will do her business and things won't stay the same. Memories will continue to be made no matter what, but let me take the time occasionally to cherish those that are now so pleasantly fresh upon my mind, and look forward to the time when I will see my granddaughter again.
She is a sweet and darling child and a pleasure to be around. Babies can be nice that way (although you probably couldn't convince Merritt and Stacie of that right now), sharing a magic innocence with those around them, spreading a peaceful testimony that there are corners in the world where smiles can warm the soul and coos melt even the hardest heart.
We will see Layla again before long, but I doubt that it will ever be the same as those weeks when we shared a house and blended our routines into an extended family. This has happened for thousands of years, and still does in most countries. But ours is a transient society and like I did a generation ago we are often inclined to allow our careers to dictate our geography, rather than the other way around.
I am by no means qualified to judge these events, and even if I were, I couldn't tell right from wrong. But I know this, that we will miss Layla (and her parents) when she is gone, but that the reunions will be all the sweeter. And life will go on and relationships will find their way into something of value. Time alone will do her business and things won't stay the same. Memories will continue to be made no matter what, but let me take the time occasionally to cherish those that are now so pleasantly fresh upon my mind, and look forward to the time when I will see my granddaughter again.
Monday, February 12, 2007
All in the Family
We had the whole family together this weekend. Zach and Julie were here from Los Angeles. Ryan came up from Phoenix. Merritt and Stacie stuck around for the weekend. Courtney came by twice (once with Truman) and Brandon was here for a few hours on Saturday.
We didn't do much. Ate too much. Played a lot of games. Watched movies. Talked. We also took family pictures on Saturday. Really nothing eventful. But it was fun (for me, at least) and satisfying (again, for me). I love all of them, but as important, I like every one. When we were together there was no contention. We are an opinionated, outgoing and competitive lot, but somehow we manage to overlook each other's flaws for the sake of the family organism as a whole. We are bees in a hive, buzzing around rather sweetly, our stingers tucked away safely.
There are two grandchildren now, and things seem to revolve around them. Certainly it limits our range of motion in activities. But they are harbingers of a new era, a signal that the old is getting old, and the new will soon be arriving en masse, and that in the not-too-distant future power will shift to those in the middle. I don't mind any of this, and am happy to be both an active participant in this ancient play, as well as a bemused spectator at the proceedings (sometimes with eyes closed, but listening intently to the quiet rustling of the winds of change).
It is gratifying to look over my creations and see that they are good, and understand a little about the eternities. And sometimes I ache inside, and sometimes I am warmed from within, both natural results of the heart turning toward the children. Some day I will walk into the sunset. I would like to depart both satisfied and not, but with wisdom in my satchel, waving quietly to my posterity.
We didn't do much. Ate too much. Played a lot of games. Watched movies. Talked. We also took family pictures on Saturday. Really nothing eventful. But it was fun (for me, at least) and satisfying (again, for me). I love all of them, but as important, I like every one. When we were together there was no contention. We are an opinionated, outgoing and competitive lot, but somehow we manage to overlook each other's flaws for the sake of the family organism as a whole. We are bees in a hive, buzzing around rather sweetly, our stingers tucked away safely.
There are two grandchildren now, and things seem to revolve around them. Certainly it limits our range of motion in activities. But they are harbingers of a new era, a signal that the old is getting old, and the new will soon be arriving en masse, and that in the not-too-distant future power will shift to those in the middle. I don't mind any of this, and am happy to be both an active participant in this ancient play, as well as a bemused spectator at the proceedings (sometimes with eyes closed, but listening intently to the quiet rustling of the winds of change).
It is gratifying to look over my creations and see that they are good, and understand a little about the eternities. And sometimes I ache inside, and sometimes I am warmed from within, both natural results of the heart turning toward the children. Some day I will walk into the sunset. I would like to depart both satisfied and not, but with wisdom in my satchel, waving quietly to my posterity.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Super Bowl 2007
That Great American Institution, the Super Bowl, took place tonight. Like many Americans (and millions of others around the world) we gathered with friends and family and watched the game and the commercials and ate more food than any of us needed and generally had a good time.
I am a football fan and have always enjoyed the game. But more than that, I appreciate the Super Bowl as a magnetic entertainment event, gathering humans into groups like so many metal shavings, some on one side and some polar opposites. We clump together into huddled masses, fans and neophytes alike, attracted by this unseen social force. And if we're fan enough to care, then all is better when our team wins, yet all is eventually forgiven when we lose. In any event, the stakes--being emotionally invested in the result--improves the game.
And after it is done, we go to work and talk about the game and the commercials and who we were with and we relive our social experience and are glad that football was invented and that we are Americans and have TV's.
No public benefit emerges from this game--but there is social utility nonetheless, and gatherings like this can be good for the soul, if a bit hard on the waistline. Colts 29, Bears 17.
I am a football fan and have always enjoyed the game. But more than that, I appreciate the Super Bowl as a magnetic entertainment event, gathering humans into groups like so many metal shavings, some on one side and some polar opposites. We clump together into huddled masses, fans and neophytes alike, attracted by this unseen social force. And if we're fan enough to care, then all is better when our team wins, yet all is eventually forgiven when we lose. In any event, the stakes--being emotionally invested in the result--improves the game.
And after it is done, we go to work and talk about the game and the commercials and who we were with and we relive our social experience and are glad that football was invented and that we are Americans and have TV's.
No public benefit emerges from this game--but there is social utility nonetheless, and gatherings like this can be good for the soul, if a bit hard on the waistline. Colts 29, Bears 17.
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