Barely Breathing

There are a few basic truths to parenting that are inescapable:
1. Every parent has a bad day.
2. In hindsight, many parental decisions just don't make sense.
3. Even bad parental decisions can teach us something good about our parents.

Despite possessing numerous allergies to every animal with fur, I've always lived in a house with cats.  I grew up in a house that re-cycled cats one at a time...as soon as one cat died, we'd replace it with another.  And the thing about cat deaths, at least in my experience, they were all pretty gruesome.  I can't think of one cat that died gracefully or peacefully. Clearly, all the cats we ever owned had expended 8 of their previous 9 Lives elsewhere, because when they died at our house...they really died.  They were done...there would be no comebacks.
My dad had allergies...my brothers had allergies.  I have allergies.  Yet we tortured ourselves with an endless cycle of cats.  We all suffered from asthma and continuous running noses...and we never seemed to put it all together.  In fact, we never even knew what "asthma" was...me and my brothers simply called it "The Breathing".  So whenever one of us would slump over in a desperate search for one good deep breath, the other brothers would simply say, "Oh, he's got The Breathing...let's leave him alone".  Yes, you know...that terrible affliction in which you need to fill your lungs with oxygen, known as "Breathing"...that's what we suffered from.  In today's logical world, it all makes sense.  We had allergies to animals...we owned cats continuously...of course we got asthma and sneezed a lot!  But back then we were obviously too close to the situation to figure all that out.

Recently my dad, who just turned 70, confessed a story that I had only heard rumors of before.  One snowy morning in the rural town of Griffins Mills, NY where I grew up, my brothers and I went to the school bus and saw a trail of blood through the snow.  We learned later that our cat-of-the-month, "Stinky" had died.  Obviously it was a bloody death, but the other details were sketchy.  We never saw the body of the cat, only the curious trail of blood.  Stinky's death was always a mystery to us.  Until now.

Apparently Stinky had a bad day.  Even my dad doesn't recall the nature of Stinky's initial injuries...it was either an unfortunate episode with a car on Mill Road or a bad run-in with a neighborhood dog...by far the #1 and #2 causes of cat deaths at our house.  But all of that doesn't really matter to this story.  Either way my dad found himself that morning dealing with a barely-breathing, near-fatally injured cat.  So my dad weighed his options.  We lived nowhere near an animal hospital.  He was probably running late for work.  He knew his 5 children would be waking up soon to get ready for school.  The cat was obviously not going to make a miracle comeback...this was not Lazarus The Cat.  So my dad reluctantly grabbed the heaviest snow shovel we owned in a merciful attempt to finish what the car or dog had started. It was the humane thing to do.

As a backdrop to this story, my dad was well aware of the cause of all his allergies in his own home.  Unlike his kids, my dad had figured out that he was painfully allergic to cats.  Yet he tolerated them...and always allowed us to own a cat.  But make no mistake, he was never fond of the cats.  To my dad, cats represented the reason he could barely breathe in his own home.  Because of this, the cats and my dad formed unique relationships based on fear and disdain.  Every cat we owned learned to hide from my dad the minute he walked in the door...lest they be tossed outside in a 4-foot snow drift.  In fact, the cats got so smart, they learned to recognize the sound of my dad's car pulling into the driveway.
  

So now, back to Stinky.  As my dad told us this story involving a shovel, we couldn't help but wonder how this all looked to poor Stinky.  Here he is, lying in the snow, barely breathing, badly injured from either being run over by a car or mauled by a dog, and the last friendly face he sees, his last possible hope on earth, is his arch-rival, my dad, standing over him with 2 hands on a shovel.  The man who could barely breathe in his own home because of cats, was now on the verge of taking the last breath away from poor Stinky.  If cats could see irony, surely Stinky would have smiled whimsically at this strange twist of fate.  Irony, however, is usually lost on cats.  Stinky's heart must have sunk as he realized his bad day was about to get worse.  But my dad has a heart of gold.  And his attempts to put an end to Stinky's misery were half-hearted at best, which is not the way to complete a task like this.  My dad is not sure how many half-hearted attempts he made with the shovel, but he does remember the anguish he felt with each one.  It was at this lowest point that a neighbor whom we rarely dealt with came across the street, having noticed my dad's plight (exactly how long this neighbor had been entertained by my dad's plight is unknown).  My dad knew very little about this neighbor, but he was about to learn that the neighbor was obviously a big 2nd Amendment kind of guy.  The neighbor mercifully finished the job with a single shot, and Stinky's terrible, horrible day was finally put to rest.  My dad was grateful for the neighbor...and for the 2nd Amendment for that matter.
  
Two weeks later we got a new cat...of course!  And Stinky's bad day went down in history as the Worst Day Ever in local cat folklore.  Cats in the neighborhood today must still meow with sadness about that fateful day...a day in which Stinky was run over by a car or mauled by a dog, knocked over the head several times with a shovel, and finally shot to death in cold blood.  Whenever a local cat feels they're having a lousy day, other cats must surely say, "Remember Stinky!"

Today, with my wife and 3 sons, I live in a house that has cats.  In fact, right now we have two of them...Jack and Ted.  We were told they're brothers, but frankly I think that was just a line at the Animal Shelter to sell us 2 cats instead of one.  Good ploy, I might add!  Fortunately, because of the mild climate, these cats reside outside for the most part...in the garage for the other parts.  Every now and then they sneak inside for a taste of the good life, but they understand my allergies, and they understand their role in our lives. I have developed a mutual working relationship with our cats over the years.  I feed them and provide a somewhat warm shelter on really cold nights; and they catch mice and various critters for me and eat the food I buy for them.  It's worked out well over the years...and they provide enjoyment for my kids.

Our first cat, "Blackie", was hit by a car shortly after all the kids had gone to school one day.  I found myself in the exact position of my father...dealing with a barely-breathing, injured cat lying in the middle of the road.  It broke my heart.  I quickly ran and grabbed a small box and as gently as I could, picked up the broken cat and placed him in the box.  A school bus full of middle schoolers stopped and waited for me to move the cat...I can still see their sad faces as they watched me move the cat.  I placed the box in my car and raced to the animal hospital down the road.  I knew it was a futile attempt.  They quickly injected a shot into the cat to end the suffering and charged me $75 for it.  Within 10 minutes I had a new box to take home and bury in the backyard.  I cried on the way home thinking about how I would break the news to the kids.

Yes, it makes little to no sense for people with allergies to own a cat.  Yes, indoor cats tend to live much longer lives than outdoor cats, and they tend to die relatively peaceful deaths too.  Yes, there are many (PETA-friendly) options available when dealing with a fatally injured cat.  All of this is true.  

But even bad parental decisions can teach us a lot about the goodness of their intentions.

The Tornado Warning

It started for me with a drive home from work on a mild Spring night, and it ended with my family huddled together in an absurd yet touching family-bonding moment. As I was driving home from work the weathermen were already forecasting a stormy and turbulent night in Atlanta. By the time I got home, tornado warnings were scattered across the entire metro area. Our 2 older sons, Alex and Adam, were completely unworried and in full Big Brother Bully-mode, doing their best to further frighten their younger brother Christopher. They cruelly suggested watching the movie “Twister” or “Wizard of Oz” to get in the spirit of the moment. Christopher, who has loved maps since he was a toddler, wasn’t enjoying the maps he was seeing on this night. The weather maps on TV highlighted the areas in the path of a confirmed tornado…and our house was well within the boundaries of the deadly red-flashing trapezoid…along with the houses of just about all my friends and relatives in the area. It’s a strange and somewhat surreal thing to be able to watch with such accuracy the path of a potentially deadly tornado. They showed the projected path of the storm detailed to the exact minute of its expected arrival, and they’d say things like…”for those of you in the Dacula area, you have approximately 6 minutes to prepare for this storm”. Six minutes? How do you prepare for something like that in 6 minutes? Well, my curiosity got the best of me and I ended up wasting about 1-2 of those precious minutes outside observing the scene. The second I walked outside I could feel the potential hazard in the air. The winds swirled in odd directions. The rain was sporadic…light then heavy, heavy then light. The sky flashed with near-continuous lightning coming from the exact spot on the horizon I anticipated it would be coming from, churning closer and closer in our general direction. And most noticeable of all, in the distance in all directions, the persistent wail of air-raid sirens could be heard…a sound I had never experienced before.

So I went back in the house. A friend in an adjoining neighborhood called me on my cell phone and asked if were watching the weather. He was concerned because he knew my house had no basement, so he told me to keep an eye on the weather. I told him I would...not fully aware how that would help me in the slightest. Another friend texted me and told me to “be safe”…their family was huddling in a closet. The TV weathermen were now advising people in the path of the storm to hide in an interior closet on the lowest level of the house. Christopher moved from the living room couch to my bedroom, which we determined had the safest closet in the house. The people on TV recommended putting bicycle helmets and shoes on to fend off potential flying debris. Alex and Adam wanted nothing to do with that. Suddenly they were taking this storm seriously, and their focus was on protecting their collection of “Amazing Spiderman” comic books sitting in their bedrooms. They quickly started moving the boxes from their room on one side of the house to our closet on the opposite side of the house. I didn’t have the heart to tell them, but by the time they were done with that, the storm had already moved passed us and into another county.

It turns out we weren’t in the direct path of this storm. But the randomness and suddenness of these events can certainly cause you to ponder things in a different way. A tornado, like any great challenge in life, is very real for the people it touches directly, but it can be viewed as a metaphor, and a reminder, for the rest of us. As my family gathered in my bedroom, and as the storm approached, I realized quite simply there are very few things that really matter in life besides family…except perhaps a very impressive collection of Spiderman comic books.

Timing is Everything

Every now and then I have to count my blessings and appreciate that I am living a charmed life. I've been married to my wife Laurie for 18 1/2 years. We have three healthy, handsome, and relatively normal sons aged 16, 14, and 7.

We've lived in the same house for 15 years. It's a little crowded, we've run out of quality storage space, but I think we might just make it with this house. Our original furnace still keeps us warm in the winter, and our original air conditioner and compressor still keeps us cool in the summer. One of the cars we drive has logged 209,000 all-Galucki miles over the course of 11 years.

Now that I've completely jinxed all these essential elements of my life, I'll point out a recent development that made me realize just how charmed my life has become. Somehow, in some miraculous way, I have managed to avoid running a load of laundry since I was a bachelor...sometime during the original George H.W. Bush years, I believe. Put it this way, the Berlin wall was still standing the last time I poured detergent in a washing machine. Our faithful GE washer has been churning out clean laundry for 17 years now, and I've had absolutely nothing to do with it. I've heard of husbands who do laundry, but I try to stay away from them for fear of catching whatever dreadful bug they've got. I don't remember how I pulled this off, but my wife and I must have an unspoken agreement when it comes to laundry...she does it all, and I don't do any of it. I realize this makes me sound like a sleazy 1950s throwback kind of husband, but I can argue my case. I may be a slacker when it comes to laundry, but I'll dust and clean all day and all night if I have to. And I'll put my vacuuming record against any dad in town...one of my pure joys in life is making vacuum marks in our carpet. I also handle the outside chores without complaint.

Last week I came home from work in a mood. I'll admit it. Laurie was on the couch watching TV. The kids were playing video games in their rooms. And in my bedroom I saw the same pile of unwashed whites sitting on the floor near the dirty laundry hamper that had been there all week. And I knew I was desperately low on clean white socks. So I picked up the whites, brought them to our laundry closet, and opened the folding door to our laundry closet as loudly as I could. Laurie has keen hearing when it comes to her laundry area. Red flags raise instantly the second somebody opens the laundry doors other than herself. I opened the washing machine lid, and of course, found the machine full of damp, mildewy clothes. This didn't help my mood. I just doubled my workload. So now I hastily opened the dryer, and of course, found that machine full of dry, clean clothes. Great, in the span of a few scant seconds I just tripled my workload! I went back in my bedroom to find a basket, and of course, all baskets were full of clean clothes...some folded, others unfolded. Way too much work for me, so I returned to the dryer and tossed all the clean clothes out of the dryer and onto the floor where I knew Laurie would eventually step over them...I was now in full "making a statement" mode. I grabbed all the damp clothes from the washer and threw them into the dryer...again, as loudly as I could. Laurie at this point is most assuredly sitting upright on the couch rolling her big brown eyes...waiting for me to get this out of my system. Having finally emptied the washer, I tossed my little pile of white clothes into the washer. I studied the knobs on the top of the machine for a few seconds. So many options..."Delicate", "Deep Cleaning", "Extra Rinse", "Cold", "Cool", "Warm", "Hot", "Casual", "Bulky", "Normal". What I really needed was a setting called "Dumb Dad Setting", but our machine didn't have that. So I yelled out to Laurie, "Do you use hot or cold for whites?"...she answered. Then I yelled, "detergent or bleach?"...she answered again. I twisted the knob to whatever setting would start filling the machine with water. I closed the lid, closed the closet door, and felt really good about myself. 15 minutes later, I heard Laurie walk to the laundry area and let out a shriek, followed by an expletive. I came out to see her standing in a puddle of water that is seeping quickly into our kitchen and dining room. To her credit, she didn't say "What the ____ did you do???", because I sure would have said something like that. We quickly tried to troubleshoot the problem. She turned the machine off and opened the lid. I turned all water off going into the machine, I unplugged the machines. To no avail, water was still pouring out from under the machine. We desperately drained the inside of the washer using small buckets, while water continued to pour out from underneath.

To summarize, our GE washing machine waited 17 years for me to finally do a load of wash before springing a leak and ending its functional life. To put that in perspective, conservative estimates would say our household probably averages 1 load of wash every day. Over the course of 17 years, that means that machine churned out approximately 6200 loads of laundry with Laurie at the controls. I did one load of wash and the machine died.

Five days later our new washer arrived from Home Depot, just in time to rescue our house from the largest piles of dirty laundry ever heaped upon a single family dwelling. Five days without a washing machine is like the worst work stoppage in the history of organized labor. I've never seen anything like it. Baskets and baskets of laundry everywhere.

But while waiting for the new machine to arrive, Laurie stayed busy. First she attempted some hand-washing in the sink. That didn't last very long, and Laurie quickly admitted she would have never made it on "Little House on the Prairie". So instead Laurie prepped, cleaned and painted her laundry room...she even put up some Norman Rockwell-like border, with Americana images of clean laundry on clotheslines, dancing in the wind. I don't even know where she found this border, or how long she's been dreaming of putting it up. So when her new toy arrived, she was as giddy as a dad with a brand new 60 inch HDTV. She started churning out clean laundry like a factory...folding it with passion...smiles all day long.

And do you think she's gonna let me even attempt to do another load of laundry anytime soon? Like I said, I'm living a charmed life!

Defragging My Childhood Hard Drive

(Disclaimer: The incidents in the article are meant to be recollections from the perspective of a child aged 0-6. They may not be 100% accurate, which is the point of the article to begin with. No children were actually harmed in the publishing of this story)

Childhood memories are strange things, but parents who work tirelessly to forge those memories for their children might be even stranger.

It’s kind of sad when you look at that from the perspective of the parents. Here you are, trying your best to give your little pre-school kids memories that last a lifetime, yet in the end who knows what they’ll remember? Your legacy as a parent is really at the mercy of a few scattered moments. I recently searched the deepest recesses of my 40+ year old brain in an attempt to uncover my earliest memory...it was a long, painful process, equivalent to defragging a 40GB hard drive in search of missing or corrupt sectors. By my recollection, the earliest memory I can retrieve from my dusty old brain is a very vague remembrance of my grandfather's funeral when I was 5 years old in 1973. I'm pretty sure one of my crazy uncles allowed me to illegally sit on his lap and hold the steering wheel of the van while driving on a highway to the cemetery. That is definitely the farthest back my memory bank will go. Everything before that is a default. Maybe I had some good times with my family from ages 0-5, maybe my parents took me to some cool places and did some fun and exciting things with me, but really...who knows? All I can do is take their word for it. About all I know for sure is, I survived those years...that's about it.

Beyond my earliest memory of my grandfather’s funeral, I do have some kindergarten memories...but only of the strangest events. For instance, I remember a kid named Jerry Gray, who somehow managed to stab himself with a pencil somewhere near his eye. My classmates were screaming, my teacher was in panic mode...and blood was definitely a prominent part of that memory.

And then I remember nap time. I grew up in an era in which kindergarten teachers were allowed to take an extended coffee break for themselves and force their energetic students to take mandatory naps. I don't know how long these naps were, and I highly doubt any child ever actually fell asleep, but I do remember we each had a little rug to sleep on and we could lay it wherever we wanted to on the floor. I was apparently a frisky 5 year old because I definitely remember purposely positioning my little brown rug directly in front of my very attractive kindergarten teacher's desk so I could stare at her legs. Saddest day of my life was when I discovered that Miss McGinness wasn't going to be my teacher EVERY year. So those are my earliest memories...a little blood, a death, and some skin. Sounds more like a cheap B-movie than a childhood, if you ask me, but that's all the material I have to work with.

But then there are my earliest memories of my mom and dad. I'm not quite sure how to put this delicately, especially since they're both still alive and well, but if we were just going by the evidence saved in my earliest memories, my parents would either be locked up in prison somewhere serving life sentences as abusive parents, or at the very least they would have been stripped of custody of all 5 of their children by DEFAX. I'm sure both mom and dad had loving moments with me, after all, there are a few old picture slides which show me looking pretty happy, and the pictures look genuine enough...but the core of my earliest memories only seem to recall some horrible moments. For instance, there was the time my brothers and I got in big trouble for innocently walking a few miles down the creek in our backyard without telling anyone about it. What should have been a real brotherly-bonding, "Huck Finn" type adventure for us instead turned into one of the harshest parental yellings ever heaped upon unsuspecting children in the history of the world. I COULD tell you the punishment we received from that incident, because that I DO remember, but it would probably result in the FBI hunting down my father like he was some sort of war criminal...so I'll spare him that humiliation.

Then, painfully, I remember that my parents, for whatever unknown reason, did not sign me up to play ice hockey when I was 6 years old...even though my 2 older brothers were allowed to continue playing, and even though I had just earned a trophy for "Most Improved Player" the previous season. As a classic middle child always struggling with feelings of neglect, I can tell you I'm still in therapy to this day for this sad injustice. In fact, the reason I'm still playing hockey today, as a 43 year old adult, is just to prove to my parents that they should have never pulled me out of hockey.

And finally, in very general terms, I'm fairly confident that my mom yelled at me or my siblings for something each and every day of my childhood, and only took a break from yelling at us when my dad pulled into the driveway, at which point she provided him with the daily report and a litany of all of our wrongdoings...and then HE resumed the yelling where she left off. Again, if we're just going by my vague early memories, this is the way it happened in my childhood.

Of course, I'm willing to acknowledge today that there may be some holes to these stories. Maybe my memory has exaggerated some of these details. I'm not a psychologist, but I would venture a guess that traumatic, or really negative memories probably stick out amongst the endless stream of repetitive joyous and happy memories. The bad memories may linger in our dusty old brains for years and years and shape some of our childhood stories, but those joyous and happy memories are really what form our lives.

As parents of 3 boys, while running ourselves completely ragged in ridiculous efforts to forge an endless stream of happy memories for our kids...my wife and I sure hope that's the way it works. Otherwise, we'll end up on an FBI "Most Wanted" list some time in the future as well.

'91 Braves Fulfilled the Promise of Pro Sports

I'm a typical male sports junkie, but I've sadly become jaded with age. As much as I love watching the games, I've lost interest in the players. I can't relate to them as humans, just like they can't relate to me as a paying customer...that's the bottom line. We just don't see eye-to-eye anymore. In fact, it's gotten so bad for me, from a purely theological perspective, the Catholic in me is legitimately concerned that someday my poor departed soul will be forced to spend an inordinate amount of time in Purgatory to make up for the sin of wasting so much time on earth following so many overpaid, self-absorbed, sometimes downright immoral, professional athletes. I mean, it's one thing to worship False Gods, it's another thing to worship False Gods who are also Jerks. Make no mistake, I'm not looking forward to explaining all this to St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.

Yet I stick with sports. The potential good of sports still, somehow, outweighs the ridiculously bad...the right still trumps the wrong. This was affirmed to me 20 years ago, and it's one of the reasons I still hang on to hope.

The 1991 Atlanta Braves had one of the most remarkable seasons in professional sports history...Storybook to say the least. After nearly a decade of futility, and seemingly out of nowhere, the '91 Braves soared from the depths of despair to the summit of the highest mountain, and they transformed a famously sleepy and lackluster pro sportstown into an avid, passionate fan base. They did it dramatically, night in and night out, scrapping and clawing their way to a Divisional championship over the perennial powerhouse LA Dodgers. A stronger-than-normal start to the season fizzled by the All-Star break and the Braves found themselves

some 8 games back in the standings. But they surged in July and August behind the strong young-armed pitching phenoms of John Smoltz, Tom Glavine and rookie Steve Avery; and the clutch-hitting of players like Ron Gant, David Justice, veteran Terry Pendleton, and scrap dog Mark Lemke. Week by week during that magical summer, the Braves pulled closer to the Dodgers and at the same time pulled more and more fans along for the ride.

Atlanta is a city with no geographical boundaries...it stretches in all directions endlessly, connected only by massive wide-laned superhighways. In many ways Atlanta is a Region, not a city. But during the summer of 1991 the sprawling metro area was unified and drawn together by a scrappy underdog baseball team. Apartment complexes along the I-85 corridor joined the upscale mansions in East Cobb. Inhabitants of gritty urban dwellings in Decatur shared the same passion for the Braves as those in the glistening high-rise condos in Buckhead. Fans

rushed home from work each night to catch the latest chapter of the unfolding drama. Late-night west coast trips spawned bleary-eyed water cooler discussions the following mornings. Pitching rotations were analyzed, hitting slumps were scrutinized, and missed opportunities were agonized like never before. By August, as the first place gap had tightened, the "Tomahawk Chop" was born, complete with a mesmerizing and infectious chant that drove opponents crazy and inspired the local team to new levels of greatness. On a good night, the chant would linger in the catacomb corridors of Fulton County Stadium long after dramatic victories, as smiling fans, complete strangers away from the ballpark, high-fived one another and dared to ask, "Can this team really pull it off?" The Braves spent almost the entire season in 2nd Place, dreaming of catching the Dodgers before time ran out. The final week of the season provided the pivotal, signature moment. In a key game against the defending champion Cincinatti Reds, the Braves came out flat and trailed 6-0 in early innings. But like a microcosm of their entire season, the Braves scrapped and clawed their way back into the game, and then pulled off a dramatic 7-6 victory highlighted by a monster 2-run homerun by David Justice in the 9th innning. Destiny was calling. John Smoltz pitched a complete-game victory over the Houston Astros on the final Saturday of the season, and the entire stadium, including the Braves players standing on the field, watched on the jumbotron as the Dodgers fell to the Giants on the west coast, thereby clinching the Division Championship for the Braves. Cinderella reincarnated.

The powerful Pittsburgh Pirates, a runner-up themselves the year prior, waited for the Braves in the NLCS. With the national spotlight shining brightly on them for the first time all season, the Braves magical season looked like it was nearing its end. After a sensational pitching performance from rookie Steve Avery in Game 2, a 1-0 shutout, the Pirates took 2 of 3 games in Atlanta to put the Braves on the brink of elimination. To keep the dream alive, the Braves would need to win consecutive games in chilly, rainy Pittsburgh. Avery spun another shutout masterpiece to help win Game 6, and John Smoltz started his "Big Game" aura that would stay with him his entire career in Game 7, a 4-0 Braves victory. The improbable Atlanta Braves were headed to their first World Series.

The city of Atlanta was now fully awash in Braves mania...24/7. The 1991 World Series between the Braves and the Minnesota Twins is still regarded as one of the finest of all time, played between the first 2 teams to ever go from Worst to First in their divisions. Five of the seven games were decided in the final at-bat. Game 3 alone packed more drama into its 12 innings than most 7-game series combined. The Braves needed 1 more win in the final 2 games in Minnesota to win their first World Series and complete their most improbable fairytale. But the magic stopped. Kirby Puckett won Game 6, first with his glove in the Top of the 11th, and then with one swing of his bat in the Bottom of the 11th. Game 7 was one for the ages, a pitching masterpiece between young John Smoltz against his idol, veteran Jack Morris. Morris pitched, astonishingly, a 10-inning complete game shutout, surviving a bases-loaded/nobody out jam in the 8th inning. Smoltz pitched shutout baseball into the 9th inning himself, only to watch as the Twins won the game dramatically in the Bottom of the 10th.

A dejected city of Atlanta unified one last time and threw a parade for the team, not for victory, but for pure gratitude. In hindsight, it was a magical 7 month odyssey that would spawn a generation of Braves excellence and a legion of fans across the country. A seven year old might have fallen in love with that '91 Braves team...many did...and that same fan would have turned 21 before the Braves relinquished their hold on Division Championships. 14 consecutive Divisions, 5 League Championships, and 1 World Series Championship...a dynasty by any definition.

While the team maintained a consistency unrivaled in pro sports, their fans, sadly, did not. By 1997, the fervor dissipated, complacency settled in, and Braves fans became more famous for their apathy than for the tomahawk chop they made so infamous. But the legacy of that '91 Braves team will live forever...for one glorious baseball season, from April-October, the city of Atlanta came alive and united like never before.

And that's why we follow pro sports.

The Great Outdoors

I thought I enjoyed camping. With 3 sons, all in Scouts, it was inevitable that sleeping outside on hard earth with just a thin layer of nylon held up by a couple of poles as protection would emerge as a favorite thing to do. My two older sons are Boy Scouts now, and they camp at least once a month. They've hiked the Appalachian Trail (where bears also hike), they've slept in caves (where bats also sleep upside-down), they've eaten meals in swamps (where crocodiles also eat their meals), and they've slept through some of the wildest, most intense southern thunderstorms imaginable (like the kind of storm that sent Dr. Emmett Brown back to 1885 in "Back to the Future 2"). Yes, there are inherent dangers to sleeping in the great outdoors...bears top the list, followed closely by snakes, skunks and lightning strikes. Further down the list you'll find racoons, poison ivy, falling tree limbs, and ridiculously loud snoring.

But camping, at its core, is really an exercise in tolerance. How much can you tolerate, and for how long? My wife Laurie refuses to camp under any of the conditions I've highlighted above. Her tolerance level is at the low end of the spectrum, virtually non-existant. In fact, to get her to camp outside, I would need to provide electricity (for her hairdryer and curling iron), and I'd have to guarantee mild temperatures in the range of 62-78 degrees. I would also have to guarantee that no other human being besides our immediate family would lay eyes on her in the morning until she's had a chance to do her hair or fix her makeup. And one last caveat, there would need to be a shopping mall within 15 minutes of the campsite...otherwise we're in far too remote of an area for her comfort level.

My youngest son is 7, and he's yet to experience a full campout. He's new to Scouting, and there will be plenty of opportunities very soon, but he was envious of his 2 older brothers this Summer when they disappeared for a week at Summer Camp in North Georgia. I felt bad for him, so I decided to offer him the "sampler" version of camping in the Great Outdoors...namely the "Backyard Campout". We set up our tent no more than 15 feet from our back door. To prepare for the night away from the comfort of our home, we loaded the tent with a laptop and DVDs and books and fresh microwaved popcorn. We inflated air mattresses and threw in our fluffiest pillows and most comfortable blankets. And then, since it was the middle of summer, we brought in our battery-operated heavy-duty industrial-strengthed fan to be placed somewhere in the vicinity of our heads all night long. It was gonna be great!

We set the tent up before sunset and decided to keep the rain fly off since it promised to be a warm, clear night. After sunset, Christopher was busy playing a video game, and I was watching a pretty good ballgame on TV, so we delayed our outing until after 9PM. When the time came, we kissed Laurie goodnight and headed for the long trek from our back door to the tent. Took about 8 seconds, door to door. Once inside the tent, after watching a movie, eating some popcorn,

and reading some books, we turned off the light and attempted to sleep. Christopher was excited to be out there, but eventually he faded off to sleep.

Then the noises began. First, a wild animal brushed up against the side of the tent near my head. Skunk? Racoon? Or that most-dreaded of all residential rodents...the grotesque Opossum with the cone-shaped head and the evil, beady red eyes? No, just Jack...our curious pet cat. His purring gave his identity away. He was attempting to test his claws on my brand new over-priced tent from REI, so I smacked his back leg through the tent. Disaster averted. I laid my head back down on my pillow. 10 minutes later I noticed faint flashes of lightning. Stupid weather forecaster said no chance of rain. I intently watched the skies...measuring the frequency and intensity of the lightning. After determining that the storm was indeed getting closer, I

gathered the laptop, the DVDs and the books and took them into the house. I returned to the tent and, for a few minutes, contemplated picking up Christopher and taking him to his bed and calling it a rainout. He would have never known the difference...but I just couldn't do that to the kid. So I crawled back in the tent and, now wide awake, tried to fall asleep. Naturally, I couldn't. I turned the fan off to see if that would help me fall asleep. The lightning faded away and stopped, but next I heard the amazing sound of an owl in the woods down my street...sounded like it was 2 or 3 houses down. Cool sound! But a few minutes later I heard another owl, much closer in the woods behind my home, but this owl didn't sound "real". In fact, to me it sounded like a human trying to immitate an owl..."woo, woo-hoo". Every time the real owl hooted down the road, the phoney owl in my backyard gave its awkward reply. And each time, it sounded more and more like a fake owl..."woo, woo-hooo". As fascinated as I was by this, I began to

wonder, "Is there some sort of deranged stalker lurking in my backyard woods pretending to be a nocturnal bird?" Has he been doing this for years without us knowing about it? An escaped asylum patient perhaps? (I'm not sure where the closest Asylum is, or if they're still called "Asylums" for that matter, but the mind does strange things when camping).

Eventually I think I drifted off to sleep. Only to be awoken by the sound of an animal walking through the pinestraw of my backyard woods. No mistake about it, this was a heavy-sounding animal. Then suddenly the walking turned to an all-out sprint through the woods with a trailing beast-like growling noise. Definitely not one of our cats. Perhaps a coyote or a fox? But honestly, to me it sounded more like a half-man/half-wolf of some sort...either that or a prehistoric raptor.

Or was it that escaped Asylum patient, up to his old tricks?

Now I was wide awake...and we weren't even close to sunrise. Christopher of course was sound asleep. I couldn't get comfortable. To make matters worse, the $75 inflated mattress pad under my sleeping bag obviously had a leak, because I was now pretty much sleeping on solid earth. I turned the fan back on, to try to drown out the noises of my ridiculously weird and annoyingly loud backyard. Backyards are a lot like neighbors...the more you learn about them, the less you wished you knew.

As dawn approached, a stark reality dawned on me. There's a reason I sleep inside my house. There's a reason I sleep on a firm mattress. There's a reason I lock the doors at night. There's a reason I don't go for walks in my woods after sunset. And there's a reason camping is fun ANYWHERE BUT your own backyard!

When A Sports Team Leaves You

It's something I've read about happening in other cities. It sounded about as unpleasant as I could have imagined, but from a distance I could never fully relate, could never fully appreciate the emotions involved. But now it is happening to my city...it's happening to me. A professional sports franchise that I've followed closely since it's inception is packing their bags, loading the trucks and relocating to another city. The NHL Atlanta Thrashers are moving to Canada. A sucker-punch to the gut is a lame cliche to describe how it feels, but it really is the best analogy for the moment.

Blame for this will be analyzed, blogged, and twittered for days, weeks, and years to come. But as a powerless hockey fan, my initial thoughts turn to my memories. I was there when the franchise was announced and granted to the city of Atlanta. I was there when the logo and team colors were unveiled. I was there when the brand new stadium opened their doors to the public for the first viewing. I was there as a season ticket holder on opening night. I was there through the inevitable painful early years, suffering through defeat after defeat. I was there when the first high draft picks started to blossom, when the team seemed to be taking shape. I was there for the first, long-awaited home playoff game. I was there when the promising young team floundered and lost their way, when coaches were replaced and favorite players traded away. I was there in the passionate post-game/post-season discussions, debating the flaws of the team, worrying always about their future.

And now that future is gone. That future painfully belongs to the fans of another city. The sport I love most has abandoned me, and it's hard not to take that personally.

I was there with my family, with each of my 3 sons, sharing my passion with each of them, on their own individual levels.

My sons will still play hockey as long as the rinks remain available to them. They'll still follow hockey with the same enthusiasm and passion. But their innocence in regards to team loyalty, like the team itself, is gone forever.

When A Boyhood Sports Hero Dies

Boyhood sports heroes are flawless. They have no vices. They have no weaknesses. They brim with confidence. And they always deliver, right when we need them to.

Boyhood sports heroes are graceful and charming. They're handsome, they're personable, they smile.

Boyhood sports heroes don't get paid. They don't have contracts, and they don't need agents. The adulation they receive from their countless fans sustains them and keeps them striving for more. Their sole enjoyment comes from seeing the smiles on little boy's faces.

Boyhood sports heroes are fueled by the desire to Not Disappoint.

Boyhood sports heroes are strong, capable of carrying a city's dreams on their broad shoulders and never flinching when given the opportunity, always wanting to be the one to make the play, to make the difference.

Boyhood sports heroes come on bubble gum cards, and those cards are cherished for a lifetime.

Boyhood sports heroes never point a finger or pass the blame.

Boyhood sports heroes are not perfect, and they'll be the first to admit it. They can be beaten and they can fail. But what they lack in invincibility, they make up for with heart and determination.

Boyhood sports heroes never cry.

They never disappoint.

And they stay forever young.

Dedicated to my original Boyhood Sports Hero...Rick Martin, Buffalo Sabres.

1951-2011

The Battle of Atlanta; The Siege of Dacula-burg

Civil War history lesson: The Confederate Army had a bad week in early July, 1863. They gambled and lost in the "Battle of Gettysburg"; and they yielded their last Mississippi River stronghold in the "Siege of Vicksburg". Both simultaneous events all but sealed the fate of the Confederate cause. You can read all about those pivotal moments on Wikipedia if you like, I won't bore you with the geeky details, but there's one thing I've always wondered... what's the difference between a "Battle" and a "Siege"? Well, last month here in the south, Atlanta witnessed a menacing attack from the north reminiscent of Sherman's March to the Sea. And for one full week I discovered firsthand the answer to my question.

Snowstorms in Atlanta are prefaced by a week's worth of pregame hype, comparable to Super Bowls and Election Night. It's comical for my northern-bred wife and I to watch the buildup for a storm that wouldn't even register as a blip on local news in our native Buffalo, New York. We got caught up in the hype this time and on the Sunday morning before the storm was scheduled to arrive, we desperately ran out to find a sled. I was embarrassed to stoop to that level of desperation, but truthfully I was even more embarrassed that a family with Buffalo blood didn't have a legitimate sled somewhere in their attic. I refuse to allow my kids to even attempt sledding in a laundry basket or on top of a lid to some plastic tub. I have some pride.

Well, my pride went out the window when the clerk at the hardware store laughed and told me sleds have been sold out in the metro area since Wednesday. So we went home, emptied the laundry baskets, and waited for the snow to arrive...which it did, almost on cue with what the weatherman told us all week. The weathermen, by the way, have taken all the fun out of weather. I miss being surprised. Would it be so bad to be surprised by the weather?

Anyway, it started snowing around 10PM on Sunday, and by 11PM school's were closed. The kids ran outside in euphoria and played till after midnight. They awoke the next morning and played some more, but then realized playing in the snow when it's really cold, without proper winter clothing, is really not that much fun afterall. And with that realization, the Siege at home began.

This winter storm was legitimate, even by Buffalo standards. Many roads were treacherous and impassable. I weathered the Siege at home for two days. The purpose of a Siege is to surround a fortified place and isolate it from reinforcement. At one point, out of pure boredom, my son Adam and I contemplated walking a couple of miles to get food...even though we had plenty of food at home, and most likely the places we wanted to get food weren't open anyway. But that's what a Siege can do to you, those are the tricks a Siege will play with your mind!

By Wednesday I had had enough, and decided to flee the Siege at home and join the Battle on the streets of Atlanta. After two days of wathching the Battle unfold on all the local news channels, I just had to go out to see for myself how bad it was. My wife Laurie kissed me goodbye as I headed out to the Battlefield. And truth be told, it was bad. Cars driven by inexperienced drivers, on icy roads untouched by plows, contributed to an overall sense of chaos and lawlessness. Spinning tires from cars trying to climb uphill, skidding cars with wheels turned and locked in desperation going downhill. I drove to work with a full awareness of every car around me, fully expecting to get hit at any moment. That's what a Battle is all about.

As the week wore on, more and more soldiers joined the Battle, which of course only contributed to the mayhem. The new soldiers were like new recruits joining the frontlines with zero Battle experience. Driving on icy roads is an artform, but it became clear by Thursday and Friday that not all Atlanta drivers are art lovers. Meanwhile, the Siege at home was taking its toll. School was closed for the entire week, and the kids had lost all interest in the white stuff outside on the ground. They became bored with video games, and then they turned on eachother, becoming abusive and ill-tempered. Meals were becoming a daily challenge as we dipped into the canned soups that had been sitting in our pantry since 2006. The snow was winning, there was no doubt about it.

But then, just before waving the white flag, the sun came out and temperature's warmed. The Battle ended, the Siege lifted. And I finally figured out the difference between the two...and decided they're equally unpleasant.

Anger Management, 1st Grade Style

It's hard to say if today's kids are under more stress than kids from, say, 35 years ago. I mean when you really look at it, the world's not THAT different. Sure technology has added a few wrinkles, and bad news is more readily available, but the core stress-inducing elements are relatively unchanged. In fact, there's a timelessness to many of them. Afterall, we had a long drawn-out war with unclear objectives in the 1970's too. We had Middle East hostilities to worry about. We had shady political practices, corruption and unhealthy bipartisan cooperation. This generation may have Wikileaks, but we had Watergate. We had stagnant home values, and lifeless stock markets. Heck, I can remember many sleepless nights in 1st Grade worrying about rising oil prices and the potential effects of inflation on an already overburdened economy. My kids seem so proud of these difficult days they live in, almost like these are Historic Days or something, a badge of honor. "Hey, we had massive, crippling National Debt back when I was a kid, too, you know, not to mention really bad fashion!", I proudly tell my children.

Here's the difference, though. Today's kids are being taught how to handle these crises, while my generation was pretty much clueless. The fact that I came from a clueless generation is not too surprising, considering this is the same generation that thought nothing of the dangers of second-hand smoke from cigarrettes. I also proudly boast to my kids that I survived an era in which seat belts in cars were not used to save lives, instead they were just those annoying straps that were designed to be shoved into the seat cushions to allow all 5 of my siblings to fit in the back seat of our Ford Country Squire station wagon...while my Mom and Dad puffed away on cigarrettes in the front seats. I also survived an era in which I was allowed to go outside in my neighborhood without adult supervision and without any means whatsoever of getting in touch with adult supervision, other than yelling as loud as I could yell. Those were dangerous days in the 1970s. How any of us survivied I'll never know. Thank goodness for cell phones!

But anyway, I'm getting sarcastic AND digressing...let's get back to sarcasm and handling stress. Gwinnett County schools weren't voted #1 Urban School System in America for nothing. The other day our over-burdened 6 year old Christopher came home from school with his first psychotherapy self-assessment. You may think that sounds a bit excessive for a 1st grader, but Gwinnett County understands today's children. As part of his usual collection of paperwork in his Friday Folder my wife Laurie found a crazy piece of dark, scribbled artwork. Fearing that Christopher had suddenly regressed to Pre-K art skill levels, Laurie questioned him on it. His answer: "My teacher told us when we're in a bad mood we should either 'scribble it out' or punch a pillow". The dark scribbled artwork, it turns out, was Christopher's interpretation of a very bad day. While technically that still qualifies as "art", it served more as "therapy" in this case.

"Brilliant!", was my reaction. I never had an outlet like that when I was a kid. All I had for venting frustrations were my 3 brothers, and believe me, we vented our frustrations on eachother on a daily basis. Which occassionally led to our Mom or Dad venting their frustrations on us, but the system seemed to balance itself correctly. Thankfully, not one of us ever dealt with bouts of Depression.

I'm not too worried about our 2 older Middle School sons, Alex and Adam. I'm confident that if they're in a bad mood they'll find a way to let us know. They'll text us, or tweet us, or post it on FB for 200 friends to read, and one of our distant cousins who "friended" them will email my brother, who will tell his wife, who will call my wife, who will let me know the second it happens. That's a system I'm confident will work. It usually takes about 10 minutes for all those pieces to fall into place.

But now with Christopher, in addition to checking his progress with reading, writing, and arithmetic, Laurie and I have the added responsibility of assessing his artwork to determine if his mind is in a positive or negative place. Is that an "Angry Scribble", a "Draw for Help" or just an accidental wandering crayon mark? Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. Did he mean to use excessive black crayon marks, or is he trying to tell us something? I'm really not sure if I'm up for this added parental responsibility. Art was never one of my strong points.

The good news is, we'll know for sure when Christopher comes home from school in a good mood. When we flip through his Friday Folder and see one of his old favorite drawings of the doomed Titanic sinking into the abyss of the deadly dark sea, we'll know he's in one of his usual great moods! Nothing to worry about.

Transitions

Our youngest son Christopher came home from school during that first week and grimly declared, "1st Grade is SO much harder than kindergarten". He somberly talked to us about the amount of work he has to do during the day. He sadly reminded us about all the work he brings home each afternoon...work he knows he must complete before any playtime. And then, the final straw, he told us about the lack of toys in the classroom, and the sad fact that the only time he gets to play in school is during recess. I'm guessing not once during kindergarten did they warn him about these possibilities. Poor kid. He's finding out the hard way, some years are just tougher than others.

Our other sons complained of similar circumstances. Our 8th grader Alex proclaimed the first week of 8th grade was harder than all of 7th grade put together. And our 7th grader Adam was placed, not just in Honors Math, but in Honors Math Accelerated! That’s basically Math on Steroids. He’s in 7th grade and he’s already ventured well beyond the friendly confines of the math my wife and I ever retained. So he’s on his own.

When Christopher complained about how hard 1st grade is, I didn't have the heart to tell him that it'll only get worse...that kindergarten may have been his peak. Nobody likes to hear that their best days are behind them. I had a similar discovery myself recently. It started innocently enough. I was cleaning up some of the strewn cables behind our television. One of those projects that needs to be addressed once every decade or so. In the shuffling of cables, I accidentally unplugged some of the left/right audio cables from the back of the TV. So now I really had to commit to this project. I squirmed my way completely behind the television in the corner of our family room. The dust back there could choke you. I found a few random, long-forgotten toys and tossed them into the middle of the room, much to the joy of Christopher. It’s like Christmas again when lost toys are rediscovered. The Prodigal Toys returned! Lying on my side I grabbed the red and white audio cable and arched my neck to see where I needed to plug them back in. Our TV, like any TV, has about 75 input and output jacks on the back. Finding the right one to plug into needed a closer look. I didn’t have a flashlight on me, and the odds of me crawling back behind this TV anytime soon were highly unlikely, so I arched my neck even further to try to read the raised all-black text on our all-black TV (c’mon, don’t they have white paint in Taiwan?), hoping to make out the words “Audio In” or “Audio Out”. Five years ago this is a task I could have handled in my sleep. But something has happened to my eyes since then. Depending on the lighting, my eyes now require that awkward “backward/forward” shifting thing that you see elderly people do when reading small print. Well, because of the placement of my head and the immovable wall behind my head, I had no room to do the “backward/forward” shifting thing. I tried. I gave it some time for adjustment. But I couldn’t read the words on the back of my TV to save my life. Desperately, I tried to read the raised lettering like a blind man would read Braille, feeling with my fingers to see if I can tell the difference between IN and OUT. That didn’t work. Defeated, I crawled back out from behind the TV and resorted to sliding the TV away from the wall for a clearer view. Suspecting the worst, I calmly walked to the bathroom to look in the mirror. What I saw confirmed my fears. Wrinkles have formed around my eyes. I have some gray hairs on top of my head. It’s official, I’m aging.

From this point, there were 3 teachable lessons I could pass on to Christopher about his 1st Grade predicament: 1) Accept and embrace the challenges ahead of you because you’re capable of it; 2) No matter what, never admit your best days are behind you; or 3) Don’t bother cleaning behind your TV because no one will ever notice the difference and you may not like what you find. Christopher’s response to this: “But daddy, I liked the toys you found”. And that comforted me. Because really, a good parent is only as old as his youngest child.

Bring the Kleenex to TS3

Pixar movies aren't supposed to be gut-wrenching emotional experiences. I've seen them all...from Bugs, to Monsters, to Incredibles, to Cars, to Nemo, to Wall-E, and all the way "Up". They're usually well produced with incredible CGI, comfortable plot lines, and lots of good laughs for kids and adults. And rarely do they disappoint. But at the heart of Pixar is the story that started it all...Toy Story...Woody and Buzz. My wife Laurie was pregnant with our first son when the original Toy Story came out in 1995. That son, Alex, grew up with a steady diet of continuous viewings of that movie on good old VHS video cassette. He pretty much wore that tape out. And then, shortly after our second son Adam was born, Pixar released Toy Story 2. The love affair was born all over again. By then we had switched to DVD format as our home player of choice, but the effect was the same...more continuous viewings of both movies. And by this point we had every piece of Toy Story merchandise imaginable. The boys wore Woody and Buzz pajamas and slept in Woody and Buzz sleeping bags. They dressed as Woody and Buzz for Halloween. And of course they had Woody and Buzz dolls which went everywhere with them. They lugged Woody and Buzz on vacations, to church, to sporting events, and most importantly of all, to bed each night. I can tell you right now, you should never under-estimate the bond between a boy and his favorite toy at bedtime. It's one of the most powerful bonds known to mankind. And that bond, ironically enough, is what the Toy Story movies are all about.

Alex and Adam's attachment to Woody and Buzz always seemed manufactured to me. I mean, it was brilliant marketing by Disney and Pixar of course, to make a movie about fictional toys and then market those same toys to unsuspecting children around the world. But really, how attached could my boys possibly be to these made-up toys? Try as they might, they would never be able to duplicate the same emotional attachment to Woody and Buzz as the fictional lead CGI character Andy.

I went into Toy Story 3 with the bare minimum of story background. I had heard that Andy is now 17 and preparing to head off to college... that's about it. As you might expect, the central theme of the story revolves around growing up and saying goodbye to the symbolic "toys" of our youth. And from the toy's perspective, we're shown the sad and tragic fate of toys being relegated to the attic. Sticking with the nostalgic mood of the moment, we opted to not see the 3-D version of the movie since that seemed contrary to what Woody and Buzz were all about. Woody and Buzz never needed gimmicks to be entertaining (that sounds good, but actually the real reason, at 3 bucks per ticket, the silly looking glasses are a rip-off). The movie had exceptional humor and well-crafted plot throughout, and in my mind was well on its way to being the best of the trilogy. But then came the dramatic conclusion, which took the movie to a whole new and unexpected emotional level. Without giving away too much plot, let's just say it became very apparent in the final scenes of this movie that this is truly the last we will be seeing of these iconic toys on the big screen. The farewell scene at the end was as touching and poignant as a CGI movie about toys can possibly be. I found myself choking back tears watching these fictional toys pass into the memories of youth, knowing full well I have a tub full of these same toys up in the attic of my own house. Very rapidly the final scenes were becoming emotional for me and my wife. Slightly embarrassed to be wiping the corner of my eyes with my sleeve, I glanced over at Alex and Adam to make sure they weren't witnessing my moment of weakness. Most dads do not like to get caught crying. And for me, it takes a lot to induce tears at the movies. Not counting "Schindler's List", which was created intentionally to induce tears for 3 straight hours, I cried when Rocky got back on his feet in the 14th Round, despite Mickey's plea to "Stay down!"; I cried when the Apollo 13 capsule touched down safely in the ocean; I cried when Captain Miller bit the dust in "Saving Private Ryan"; I cried when Forrest Gump read little Forrest's letter at Jenny's gravesite; and I nearly cried when Chuck loses Wilson the Volleyball in "Cast Away". That's about it for me in terms of crying during movies. (If you're keeping score, that's 1 Sly Stallone movie and 5 Tom Hanks movies, counting Toy Story 3). But when I looked over at Alex and Adam, I was stunned to see both of them crying openly. I must admit, I was pleasantly shocked. Of course, at this point I think they were both wishing they had some 3-D glasses to hide their tears behind, but there was no denying the outpouring of tender emotion they were displaying. My 4 nieces were at the movie with us, and not one of them was the least bit emotional. They thought it was a "cute" movie. They were smiling, even laughing at the movie's conclusion. They each seemed stunned to witness their cousins reduced to tears over a Toy Story.
But like I said before, never under-estimate the special bond between a boy and his favorite toys. There's a loyalty factor which girls may never understand.

Post-script: 3 weeks later, our youngest son Christopher, who did not grow up raised on Toy Story but instead grew up on Nemo and Cars, and who also seemed cynically puzzled by Alex and Adam's strange emotional reaction to Toy Story 3, was found recently sleeping in bed clutching his very own brand new Woody doll. Here we go again.

Mr. Todd's Wild Ride!

Let me preface this story by admitting I will never be mistaken for Ernest Hemingway, neither for my writing skills nor my rugged outdoorsman qualities. My 2 oldest sons are Boy Scouts now, working their way up the ranks. I've purposely stayed clear of their progress, trying not to disrupt their path or corrupt their manliness. But I do like to pay a visit once in a while to some of their monthly outings. They go to some interesting places and they often do some pretty cool things. A recent outing to Watson Mill State Park intrigued me because it promised an opportunity to do some mountain biking or kayaking. So I brought my tent and tagged along.

Every good story has a good backdrop, and this backdrop involves the other scout dads who went on the trip, also known as "Adult Leaders". They're all great guys, and more importantly, great role models for my kids to hang around, but one thing I've noticed about the adult leadership in the Boy Scout community in Northeast Georgia: political affiliations are assumed to be Conservative, unless otherwise stated (and only the bravest Liberal would risk stating it otherwise). There's no hiding the fact that most of the dads in the Troop are card-carrying, red-blooded, right-minded Republicans...not that there's anything wrong with that. Now, I've always tried to teach my kids the value of keeping political views to yourself. I tell them that one day they'll have a political voice that they'll exercise on Election day each year, but otherwise, unless they're running for office, there's really no need to reveal their political leanings or rant about political happenings. That's how my dad taught me, and to this day I don't know if my Dad is a Democrat or Republican...I suspect he's neither, or more accurately, he's both. I've tried with my own sons to instill this same appreciation in regards to both spectrums of the American politcal landscape. After all, I'm a classic Middle Child, fully capable of appreciating the left and right side of any debate. I personally feel America works well with its Left-Right give-and-take. The 2-party system has an incredible track record here. I often tell my kids that when they're old enough to vote, they'll appreciate the fact that when they step into an election booth, only their conscience will go with them. I realize, however, not all dads or Adult Leaders would subscribe to this simplified rationale. The results of a mock-Presidential election we held with the Cub Scouts in 2008 (kids aged 7-11 years old) tells me Dads in this area are not shy about revealing their political affiliations at the dinner table. John McCain blew away Barack Obama in the most one-sided landslide in politcal history...according to the youths of Pack 597.

Needless to say, these scout outings can have some pretty opinionated, one-sided campfire chat sessions. I rarely contribute to these discussions, which leads me to sometimes imagine "suspicious" glances from some of the other dads. As you can imagine, the usual Left Wing stereotypes are tossed into the mix...you know, the whole "over-dependency" thing, the "free handouts" thing, the "bailouts", and the "lack of concrete planning" thing. At one point I thought Glen Beck was going to drop in on our campfire from a FOX helicopter and setup some remote wilderness broadcast. I feared the campfire was quickly turning into a tea party.

Why the long backdrop to this story? Well, it sets up my inevitable fall from grace, of course. I decided to go kayaking instead of mountain biking. It was going to be a 90 degree day...why would I want to do all that pedaling when I can instead allow a river current to gently whisk me away? My oldest son, Alex, qualified for kayaking based on his age. So, along with 9 other scouts and 2 other dads, off we went. Every scout trip should be a learning experience, or I should say a "teaching experience". That's really why we do these things. Well, I came back from this trip with a wealth of learning tips which I will now share.

Lesson 1: When the lady at the kayak rental place suggests at the last minute that it might be a good idea to leave your car keys at the rental place, that's a clue for potential hazards. Pay attention.

Lesson 2: Kayak rental places are generally built near a quiet part of a river, for good reason, it allows for easy drop-in's. This does not necessarily represent the nature of the entire river.

Lesson 3: Small electronics, like phones and cameras, have no place on a kayak trip. And you won't need your wallet either.

Lesson 4: When your son gets to his first set of rapids and is hung up on a rock and about to drift backwards, let him deal with it on his own. Really, he'll figure it out. Just like they tell you in case of an emergency on an airplane, take care of yourself first. You can't help others until you first help yourself...which leads to Lesson 5.

Lesson 5: When drifting down a river, pay attention to what's ahead of you. Don't look back and fruitlessly yell instructions to your son who is hung up on a rock and about to drift backwards down a river. That's his problem.

Lesson 6: When flipped over in rapids and ejected from your vessel, focus first on holding onto your paddle and then retrieving your vessel. Actually focus first on holding your breath and getting to the surface, then do the other things. Do not waste your time trying to salvage your phone, your camera, and your wallet. Most likely they're already ruined beyond repair and/or lost forever. Life will go on without those gadgets, but a kayaking trip in which you lose your kayak and your paddle with Republicans watching is something you may never recover from.

Less than a half mile into our 6 mile trip, I had flipped out of my boat, lost my paddle, flooded my vessel, ruined my Blackberry, and lost my camera. Luckily I wasn't alone. The baseball caps, t-shirts, and shoes floating downstream told me most of the scouts had tipped over as well. But among the adult leaders, who are technically supposed to be there as guides and mentors to the kids, I was all alone. The two dry Republicans downstream had already BAILED ME OUT and fetched my paddle. They brought cameras as well, but of course, because they are NATURALLY GOOD PLANNERS, they also brought these amazing things called Dry Bags to store them in. Looking for a FREE HANDOUT at this point, I asked to store my water-logged Blackberry and wallet in one of their Dry Bags. In no time at all, I had become the very thing they despised most: an OVER-DEPENDENT BURDEN, looking for a FREE HANDOUT while BAILING OUT my kayak.

Later that night, back at camp, news of my demise spread like wild-campfire. Adding insult to injury, the 2 Republicans described the rapids, which in my mind were Burt Reynolds-like, as "Class 0.5" at best. Tea anybody?

Note: The picture above is an artist's rendition of the actual event...since my camera was lost to the river.

All Burnt Out?

Last week I changed a light bulb in our living room. The box which held the new bulb claimed it could last 10 years. Ten years! My mind was spinning trying to comprehend that kind of light bulb lifespan. Americans can only deal with a maximum of 4-year cycles. Our brains aren't trained to comprehend beyond that. Elementary school, 4 years. Middle school, 4 years. High School, 4 years. College, 4 years. Presidential terms, 4 years. Olympics, 4 years. World Wars, 4 years. And now light bulb manufacturers are expecting us to imagine a bulb lasting a full decade? According to GE, my little kindergartener, Christopher, will be a sophomore in high school the next time I have to change that bulb. He might even be driving a car...right now he just plays with the Matchbox versions. My oldest son, Alex, will be 24, hopefully done with college, hopefully gainfully employed, maybe even married...right now he's finding his way through the 7th grade, complaining about doing basic household chores, begging us to give in to his need for a cell phone, and he still thinks girls are germ-carriers. Clearly this new light bulb is destined to shed some light on some incredible changes in the next decade.

As you can see, it doesn’t take much for me to ponder deep thoughts. A simple light bulb swap in an effort to "Go Green" can lead to some sobering realizations. Everyone warns you that the child-raising years go by way too fast. And they do. Our three sons run us ragged with extra-curricular activities, and I would say we’re a relatively low-activity family by today’s standards. First of all, we’re living in an all-boy world, which means we don’t even worry about activities that involve dancing, singing, cheerleading, or looking attractive. That eliminates a lot of running around. And besides that, our boys are kind of old-school home-bodies compared to most other kids. I know people who have some sort of extra-curricular activity with their kids every single night of the week, quite often multiple activities that involve complicated, split-parenting “drop-off/pick-up” strategies, using cell phones like walkie-talkies. Like wartime generals, they're consumed with the logistics of getting the troops in place, all fed and nourished, ready for the next battle. Whereas, Laurie and I actually get an occasional night off from all the running around. We circle those nights on our calendar like major holidays and plan intimate movie date nights around them. Of course, these romantic “date nights” typically include 3 entertainingly noisy boys who require frequent feedings, help with homework, etc. Before we know it, "movie night" quickly dissolves into falling fast asleep on the couch to the soothing sound of the dishwasher churning away in the kitchen, all within minutes of the movie’s opening credits. We're often awoken by the not-so-soothing sound of late-night TV poker chips around 2AM, but hey, at least we’ve spent some quality time together snoozing on the sofa.

When it comes to the kids extra activities, I’ve tried not to be a “drop off” dad. If my kids are involved in something I strangely feel compelled to get involved with them. So this means when they sign up for cub scouts, even though I couldn’t tell a square knot from a slip knot if my life depended on it, I somehow end up the Pack Cubmaster . When they sign up for hockey, I put on my skates, grab a whistle and eraser board, and become the Head Coach. When they go to religious education classes, I suddenly turn into a theologist-in-training and become a catechist. Of course, all this really proves is how easy it is to volunteer for something. It seems they’ll take anybody. I credit (or blame) my own mom and dad for this desire to take on new challenges. They were the same way.

And so our lives are a blur of activity. A ton of taxi-cab driving all over town without the meters or fares or tips, while we live our lives vicariously through our children, who are either doing the things we loved to do as kids, or are doing the things we never got to do as kids. Either way, our lives are shaped by their lives. Our new friendships are formed through their circles of activities. We think we’re living our own lives, but in reality we’re living through our children’s lives. Every now and then, in the midst of all the shuttling, coaching, teaching, cheering, worrying, and lamenting, I try to stop, take a deep breath, and appreciate the insanity and joy of raising kids in the modern age. We take pictures like crazy. The advent of digital cameras means I’ve taken thousands upon thousands of pictures, deleted hundreds upon hundreds of bad ones, and saved the good ones to the great spinning scrapbooks on our desktops, also called a hard drive.

Someday, after these whirlwind rollercoaster years quiet down, after debates over household chores and cell phone usage have faded away, and probably after that new bulb in our living room burns out again, we’ll look back at the pictures, remember the details, and we’ll undoubtedly realize all the insanity was worth the joy, all the frustration was worth the fun. And hopefully we’ll agree we wouldn’t have done it any other way. At the very least I'm hoping that long-lasting light bulb is somehow saving our environment.