Thursday, July 17, 2014

Simon Welcomes His Aunts


One of the things we human beings learn at a very early age is to live vicariously.  It’s what keeps a child on the edge of her seat when the trapeze artist leaves the safety of her own swing and spins into the arms of the barrel-chested guy hanging on the swing across the way.  When she is a teenager watching the young actor remove his t-shirt her heart races and her palms sweat as she imagines being the ingénue.  The vicarious experience motivates readers to turn pages.  Years after our bodies atrophy, it gets us to spend hard earned money to watch some juiced up athlete make tens of thousands of dollars for every swing of the bat.
Simon is the center of attention for Aunts Heather & Courtney
and Mommy Beth on their left--your right in the photo.
So, when my younger daughters decided to fly to Milwaukee to see their older sister and their new nephew, naturally my heart went with them.  While their mother and I had the privilege of seeing Simon in the flesh first, the amount of change in size and disposition that took place over the course of the past six weeks renders the child they get to hold and love a different individual than the one we met.  For Simon the opportunity to be cuddled by these adoring aunts is nothing less than the attention he feels he deserves.  After all, he knows his big smiles will melt their hearts no matter how many times he fills his diapers.  He also knows that while his mother’s sisters may have the same curves she and his father’s sister have, only Mom has the breasts to sustain him through this portion of his life. 
Simon learns to share the limelight with a Wisconsin favorite
--a Green Bay Packer helmet hood ornament.
Being the father of three beautiful and talented daughters, the next best thing to spending time with them is seeing them take time to spend with each other.  While Simon cannot appreciate how difficult it is for his mother and her sisters to leave their professions even for a short visit, as one fortunate to have completed his time as an employee of a worthy profession his grandfather knows full well the stress and shares this, too, vicariously.
Setting all tensions aside, Grandma Debbie and I are thrilled to be living in a time when we can share some aspects of their visit through social media.  We have looked forward to regular postings on both Facebook and Instagram.
Simon loves all his aunts.
A little more than a year ago, we visited our great-nephews in Florida for the first time. Then, we were lucky enough to see the younger one, Isaac, when he came to Wisconsin with his parents at the same time we visited last October.  Spending time with Isaac, Jennifer and Nelson in my estimation influenced his great-aunts, my sisters-in-law, Kathy and Candee, to visit Simon, their great-nephew when their nieces were in town.  They made the hundred-mile journey from Appleton to Milwaukee last Saturday.
While the vicarious experience is better than no experience at all, it pales in comparison to being there.  As I write this post we have no specific plans to see Simon.  No doubt, this is a shortcoming of being an absentee grandparent. We will have to work on this situation and inform you of its resolution.  

Thursday, July 10, 2014

And the Home of the Braves



My star-spangled breakfast.
Growing up in Milwaukee in the late 1950s and early 1960s profoundly influenced my perceptions of what it means to be a patriot.  While people complained the President spent too much time on the golf course and didn’t know what was going on in the world with Khrushchev in Russia, the Koreans and the Middle East—we’re talking about the general in charge of the D-Day invasion of Normandy, similar to the way people complain today the President spends too much time on the golf course and doesn’t know what is going on in the world with Putin in Russia, the Koreans and the Middle East—we’re talking about the guy who gave the order over some dissenting generals’ advice to invade Pakistan to take out Osama ben Laden, those of us who grew up in Milwaukee stood up proudly and sang the national anthem dedicated to our major league team.  Since then I have heard the amusing tale of how some recent immigrants from Mexico thought the opening line of the anthem asked, “Jose, can you see?” but at the time my friends and I thought the final line was, “and the home of the Braves.” By 1967, when the Braves moved to Atlanta, most of us figured out the national anthem was not celebrating the team whose feathered mascot remains locked in a controversial discussion of whether it honors or derides a segment of the earliest inhabitants of this great land.
Yorba Linda requires a patriotic walkway.
What I did know for certain was come the Fourth of July there would be a parade with kids riding bicycles and tricycles with red, white and blue crape paper wrapped around the frame and baseball cards clipped to their spokes with a clothes pin to make a simulated motorcycle sound.  Little blonde, red-haired, and brunette—who today would no doubt have hair sprayed blue to complement those with already patriotic hair—wore flouncy skirts and helped their mothers push baby buggies draped with the aforementioned red, white and blue crape paper.  Everyone assembled in a nearby park to receive little flags, ribbons for the best decorated and a rousing speech of how fortunate we Americans are delivered by the mayor, who must have travelled a couple hundred miles that day to get to the dozens of parks throughout the city—fortunately gas was plentiful and 25 cents a gallon.
We risked fire hazards due to our drought
conditions to watch All-American fireworks.
While the fervor of patriotism has been tainted by the intrusion of less glamorous wars than the World Wars, attacks in Oklahoma, on September 11, and at the Boston Marathon have solidified red states and blue states, white skinned and black skinned, Democrats and Republicans, young people and old people, natives and immigrants to stand together and affirm their commitment to the ideals of this great nation.   So, when I woke up on the day our country declared its independence, though I no longer went looking for my bicycle, or even those of my children who have flown the nest during the past decade, I chose to decorate my morning bowl of cereal with those glorious colors. Then, I made sure the walkway to my home is outlined with the flags the real estate agent used to leave in years gone by. Finally, as I did when I was a child, I went to the local park and watched the skies light up with fireworks and saluted those who sacrificed so much so that I could declare myself proud to live in the land of the free, “and the home of the brave(s).”   

Thursday, July 3, 2014

I’m Not Allowed to Say…



Peach is both a popular color for weddings
and birthdays in the East Room.
The gentleman standing to the left of the
bouquet thought he had to wear peach
for Debbie's birthday.
We are a year and 9 days short of thirty years of marriage.  Under the rules of the Geneva, Hallmark or some such convention, there are several issues a married man is never allowed to discuss with anyone but his wife.  The first, of course, is the quality of sex in their bedroom or in any other room of the house should he be allowed to participate. Second, and this follows closely from the first, is any thoughts, considerations or fantasies regarding sex with any member of the opposite sex outside the boundaries of marriage are strictly forbidden. No mention of hair color, chafed skin, irritable bowel, bunions, halitosis, underarm stains, wrinkles, chin hairs, flatulence, vaginal irritation or tooth discoloration is permissible under any circumstances. Finally, no hint whatsoever regarding her age will be tolerated, even if this means direct confrontation with the oldest child about how old his or her mother was when she gave birth to him or her.
What I can tell you was my beautiful wife Debbie celebrated the anniversary of her birth last Sunday.  In her honor, or perhaps by coincidence, the Nixon Foundation, which runs the library and birthplace of the 37th President, chose to invite us to a champagne and cake reception—for those considering having a wedding at a nearby venue (we have two daughters in their twenties, which certainly is enough qualification) and our neighbors decided to have our second annual block party on that date.
A number of attendees in the East Room were thrilled to wish
Debbie a happy birthday once they had their fill of hors d' oeuvres.
Since Debbie is still recovering from the ankle fracture she suffered six weeks ago, she was forced to attend both events held in her honor in her wheel chair.  This in no way slowed her from extinguishing her thirst with the complimentary champagne, nor tasting the fair of the various catering services, whether it meant suffering through some crab or shrimp hors d’oeuvres or miniature chocolate éclair or cupcake to alleviate her hunger. A number of attendees at the festivities at the Nixon Library failed to congratulate or acknowledge her on this special day, but she assumed it had something to do with our not being registered Republicans.
If you found the East Room too congested
you could come outside to the rose garden
to wish Debbie a happy birthday.
After we left the East Room and the rose garden, where one of the event coordinators explained various options were we to decide to return for one of our daughter’s weddings, we drove back to our humble home a couple of miles away.  Not long after our return, some of our neighbors erected canvas canopies to shelter us from the glaring sun, and started filling folding tables with various dishes. It was wonderful to see all our neighbors gather to celebrate this day. Then, without regard to what occurred at the Nixon Library, one of our neighbors produced a large yellow cupcake, although it might have been one of those shrunken yellow frosted cakes, placed a candle on top, lit it and led us in a rousing version of Happy Birthday. 
Although I failed to get a photograph of the aforementioned cake, somehow I managed to make it through the day without falling into the trap of violating one of those rules of a successful marriage I mentioned at the top of this post. As a result, I am looking forward to starting our thirtieth year of marriage in ten days.