Conceding the Gap

It’s interesting how the generation gap makes itself evident every once in a while.

Sometimes it’s even kind of awkward.

One evening after work last week, I was unwinding with a drink, my iPad, and a Bluetooth speaker on the back deck by the pool. I have tons of old music loaded on a media server that sits in the living room, but no matter how much music I add, I never seem to find the music I am in the mood for at a given moment. I never really know what I'm in the mood to hear until I hear it.

Such was the case this evening.

So I switched the setting of my app to simply play random selections in “shuffle mode”.

One song comes up from a live Bruce Springsteen concert album. You can hear the cheers and crowd noise in the background and then the base guitar kicks in hard with a familiar repeating riff interrupted by the smash of drum and cymbals  between each. And then the Boss starts in …

I’m driving in my car …

I turn on the radio …

I start pulling you closer …

At that point my youngest daughter Ashley-Rae comes out, bored from a summer day with nothing to do, and sits down beside me.

“Ash, this is a great great tune … listen …” I said to my fifteen year old who thinks music before 2012 is too old to be bothered with.

I hit the double arrow icon on the tablet to start the song over. The crowd noise rises again as it did before, and Ashley-Rae sits patiently to humor me.

I’m driving in my car …

I turn on the radio …

I start pulling you closer …

But you just say No ….

You say you don’t like it …

But I know you’re a liar …

Because when we kiss … ohhhh …

Fire …

“Dad, is this song about rape?” asks Ashley-Rae.

“Huh? What? No …. No no no”, I stammer … shocked at this twist, not sure if she’s teasing me or seriously asking. “No this about when a man … you know … and he thinks the girl is playing hard to .. you know …”

And I stopped.

“Dad, no means no”.

“Uh yeah – yes it absolutely does … “ remembering my audience is my very pretty fifteen year old daughter that I am very proud to hear say this back to me.

“So is this song about rape?”

At that moment the neighbor lady across the corner came to the back gate announcing her arrival with “Hellloooo?”

Perfect timing. I jumped up and hurried my way to the arbor gate and let her in. She was asking to borrow a garden tool. I found it surprisingly quickly in the shed and as I was handing it to her I asked “Hey do you remember an old Springsteen song … “I’m driving in my car …”

“I turn on the radio …” she continued and she sang the next two lines as she did a little dance.

“Ashley-Rae just asked me if that song is about rape …”

The nice neighbor lady looked up at me surprised. “huh?” and she started to sing the next lines … “ohhh … gee … I don’t know … it’s such a great song … how do you handle that?”

At that moment that I realized that whether or not we thought it was a great song or not didn’t matter.

“ASH” I yelled, hoping she was still outside.

“Oh hi miss Melinda”, she said as she appeared around the corner.

“I asked miss Melinda, and she agreed that the song is about rape”, I said and the nice neighbor lady played along by nodding, accepting her new stance, understanding why.

“Okay” said Ash as she spun back around to go back in the house. “Too bad though, it’s a pretty good song”.

Reading Green Eggs and Ham

One of my favorite books of all time is by Dr. Seuss.

'Green Eggs and Ham' is a book of pure genius.

I had bought our copy for my youngest daughter Ashley-Rae's birthday when she was no more than two. I had bought it to read to Ashley and Alannah at bed time. And frankly I bought it more for my own selfish pleasure because I enjoy reading that book out loud. The rhythmic cadence, and the opportunity to inflect cartoon-like exaggerated emotion as the main character is persistently harassed by Sam-I-Am to eat that plate of green eggs and ham, chasing him across the country side by car and train, and finally into the bottom of the sea to finally achieve his objective.

It's simply a lesson in persistence.

Last night at bed time, I let Ashley-Rae – who is now more than 2 – she is now five, pick the story of her choice from volumes piled high and wide across her personal library of beaten up story books. And low and behold, she pulls out the orange covered "Green Eggs and Ham" book.

I opened it up to read. But then I stopped.

Ashley-Rae had proven she can read certain words and such before. But sometimes you did not know if she simply memorized the words of the story and recounted her memory back to you, or if she was truly reading.

"You read this time", I said as I held the book for her and put my finger under each word.

"Sam-I-am", she started. "That Sam-I-am, that Sam-I-am, I do not like that Sam I-am".

I knew Ashley-Rae was indeed reading to me as she paused for a second on each word to figure it out.

As we went along, she stumbled on a few, such as "would" or "could", but she figured them out and carried on.

And that is the beauty of this book. A beauty that was, until that experience last night, lost on me. Dr. Seuss was such a genius because he would introduce a new word or two every page. Then he would repeat that word over and over again so that the word becomes known – learned – by the new reader.

"Would you, could you in the rain? Would you could you on a train? "

Halfway through the book, Ashley-Rae had learned a wealth of new words that she knew as soon as she saw them. But the genius of Dr. Seuss is even more dazzling by the way he takes what would normally be such a mundane, monotonous method, and he makes it fun.

Giggly.

Ashley-Rae ended her reading - "Thank you, thank you, Sam-I-am". Ashley turned to look at me with the realization that she had just read a complete book, a literary masterpiece in my mind, from cover-to-cover.

All by herself.

And that beautiful little smile poked up from the sides of her mouth, her eyes got real big, and she gave me a great big daddy hug. Then she scrambled out of bed, and all around the remaining corners of the house to tell Mommy, Alannah, and the Grandma what she had just accomplished.

And I know that she now has the confidence to do it over and over again. She will pick up books to read so as not to look at the pictures, but to actually read the words. And Ashley-Rae will now like reading. She will enjoy it.

I have always known that there is no more fun book to read aloud that 'Green Eggs and Ham'. But until last night I did not understand the true genius behind the book, or the reason that educators herald the book as a treasure.

But now I do.

And Ashley-Rae has been given the greatest gift in the world. The confidence and desire to read.

And that is the best gift I could ever receive.

Thank you Dr. Seuss.

The Last Day of Turtles

After six months of Saturday and Sunday practices in a gymnasium, with outdoor practices and then games taking place on the infamous Turtle Club ball diamonds; today was the wrap up of both Alannah's Red Timbits T-Ball team, and Ashley-Rae's Green McDonalds Blast-Ball team games.

The season ended today with the Turtles Club annual Tournament of Champions.

The progress made by Alannah's T-Ball team since those first days of gymnasium clinics has been pretty astounding. Remember that explaining baseball to a child for the first time is a huge educational task. The game is not easy to figure out until it has been instilled as a part of personal experience.

Now, after six months of dedicated coaching by persons I can only describe as Saints of Patience, not only do the girls know how to throw a ball, catch another player's throw, field a ground ball, and hit the ball off the tee to a target area where the opposition has left a gap in their coverage – but they now even know where the next play is to be made – and what their role in that play is. Each infielder covers their base. Outs made by infielders throwing the hitter out at first are common.

It's an incredible example of progress and player development.

The fifty year old Turtle Club's facilities are exceptional. Six quality diamonds, each perfectly fenced with nice dugouts and groomed with perfectly cut grass, orange clay dirt with perfectly straight white chalk lines defining the boundaries of each field. Bleachers that change from shade to sun found on each side of each diamond make watching a game a pleasure. And three parking lots intertwined through the facilities accommodate the traffic of the busiest game days.

Like this weekend's Tournament of Champions.

Between games, Alannah and I would go watch the big girls play fast pitch softball. Today the Turtle Club's under-seventeen girls travelling team was playing a Michigan clubs traveling team. The flags of each country were proudly stretched across the back of each team's dugout. The pitchers of both teams wind-milling their underhand pitches at speeds comparable to boys overhand pitching.

Alannah and I sat and watched three innings of this game – sitting in the shade of the bleachers. Watching the girls hit line drives, steal bases, and turn double plays.

"This is the kind of ball you will play when you get older, Alannah." , I said to my eldest daughter as she watched the big girls with wide eyed amazement.

The announcer on the PA speakers announced the next batter. Her name was Alannah. Alannah looked at me with her mouth wide open. Then she sat and watched the older Canadian Alannah drill a line drive into left center field, through a gap, for a stand up triple, and driving in two runs.

Alannah stood up and clapped real loud for her older namesake.

"Dad, do you think I will be that good?", asked Alannah.

"If you practice real hard and try your best, I bet you could, Alannah", I answered. "You might even play on this team."

"Wow – that would be sooo cool."

"Yes, Alannah. Yes it would".

So now that the season is over, and the girls have their participant trophies, I find myself sad that the 2008 season is over. I will admit that in mid March – after two months of 9:00 AM Saturday and Sunday gymnasium practices, I was ready for this day to come a quarter of a year ago. But now it is over. And Alannah has grown to become a ball player. Perhaps not a great player, or maybe not even good yet, depending on your criteria for judgment. But a ball player is a ball player.

And ball players are my favorite kind of people.

Now I fully recognize that things may change in Alannah's mind as the next six months unfold. But I hope some of her accomplishments, achievements, and the things she saw the big girls do will stay with her and she will still want to be a ball player again next year.

And if she does, there is no better place to play ball than with the Turtle Club.

Sunday Mornings

I have always been a fan of Sunday morning.

I can easily understand why Christian faiths commonly hold services on Sunday morning.

It just seems so spiritual. Clean. There is something very wholesome about Sunday morning.

I think that should I ever find myself shipwrecked on a desert island, with no watch or calendar, I would easily recognize Sunday mornings from the rest of the mornings.

It just feels so inspirational.

On this particular Sunday morning, it is my daughter Alannah’s seventh birthday. The sun is out bright with that beautiful yellow hue that can only be experienced on Sunday morning.

It is minus twelve degrees Celsius. That’s eleven degrees Fahrenheit. It is cold. And windy. But the yellow hue of the sun replaces the draft of the cold winds inside our house.

Later in the day, Darlene’s family will come over for the family birthday party. By then it will be afternoon. And the magic of Sunday morning will have dispersed, to arrive again next weekend.

There will be excited little girls running around the up and down stairs. Left over packaging and tags from presents received both yesterday and today will be lying around visibly to signify the celebration. There will be drinks poured by the adults with glasses that clink.

There will be love.

But my bags still need to be packed; my clothes for the week to be folded into piles and put into my travel case; the work to be done this next week to be available as I ride the train to Toronto tonight.

Right after birthday cake.

I will be away for a week. Tomorrow Alannah is hosting the morning announcements at her school, reading a fairly lengthy piece over the public address system. And I will ask her tomorrow night by phone how it went. And I will tell her how proud of her I am. My little first grader.

Over the phone.

Thursday is Valentines Day. A day I would try to avoid at all cost – until I had two little girls. Valentines Day is very special to little girls. It rivals Halloween.

I missed last Halloween too. I stood in a parking lot at the corner of Yonge and College with my cell phone, talking to the girls while they tricked and treated last October. At the same time trying avoid a bum begging for a smoke.

And I missed Ashley’s Christmas play as well as the Breakfast with Santa event.

And I think the girls notice. Because they were quick to repeat back to me what I have already missed since starting this new role with the company last fall.

But they are not going without. My absence does not cancel these affairs. And Mom still attends. And I still tell them how proud of them I am every night on the phone.

The fact is that this is a great opportunity for our little family. And with each opportunity worth reaching for, a little sacrifice is often required.

The fellows that I am travelling with are fine fellows. They are good company, and good team mates. And we are starting to resemble a team as we move in our unified front.

But still, I am not looking forward to ending Alannah’s party early so the family can drive me to the train.

I am so proud of my little clan. I am so proud of my wife to the way she has accommodated these new twists. And my little girls understand. And while they don’t like it, I know they understand.

Sunday mornings are just wonderful. The gentle music on the radio. The yellow sun shining bright on what looks like frozen tundra. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and toast wafting through the air.

Sacred.

It’s the Sunday nights I am not to crazy about.

Ashley, Alannah, and Hannah Montana

When my daughters were babies, and then wee little girls, their rooms were adorned with bright colors, and cartoon characters. As they grew older, they identified to us who their favorites were.

For most of that time, their rooms were adorned with characters from the Dora the Explorer cartoon. Spanish and English words mixed together as Dora proved to be a very positive impression on them, showing that little girls can be seen as the person others go to for help.

But now, adios to Dora and Boots the Monkey.

Hola Hannah Montana.

My goodness.

The cute cartoon who wears orange shorts and pink t-shirts – and carries all her super tools in her back pack – who gets all her directions from an amazing map – who challenges such villains as Swiper the fox and hordes of crocodiles and spiders – has been replaced by a southern drawled 14 year old tight ripped blue jeans wearing teeny-bopper who disguises super-stardom with a blond wig and sun glasses.

Dora’s catch phrases such as “I need your help” and “Swiper no swiping” have now been replaced by Billy-Ray Cyrus daughter Miley’s teeny bopper catch phrases such as “Do ya think?” and “Sweet Niblets”.

Don’t get me totally wrong – Hannah’s songs – written I guess by her Billy-Ray dad – have very positive messages for the most part. Very empowering for teenage girls. There are much worse role-models out there like your Brittany’s and Paris’s, your Madonna’s and your Christine’s.

“Who said I can’t be Superman?”

That is exactly what I want my girls to believe.

Well done Billy-Ray – it beats the hell out of “Achey Breaky Heart”. I can't really speak though, because I too really want my mullet back!!

Maybe everybody's growing up?

Deep sigh.

But now my daughters – seven and five are covering up their Dora blankets with Hannah throws. Their Dora t-shirts are worn with Hannah blue jeans. And the Dora posters covered up by the Hannah posters.

Dora's best friends are a monkey, an armadillo, and a wily fox she can’t trust.

Hannah has boy friends, lives a rock-stars life, and gets into more adult situations.

My little girls don’t need boy friends yet – not until they are in their thirties and well entrenched in their careers.

But you can't dictate these things. You can try to nudge - nudge them down the path you want for them - but you cannot drag them down it kicking and screaming.

Thanks a lot Disney.

My girls didn’t even have a chance to meet Mickey yet.

The List

You know its September because time just flys by.

It’s as though the whole world woke up from a summer siesta and discovers that there is a lot of work to do.

So things are busy. Busy at home. Busy at work.

Our girls, like all other North American kids – started school back up a couple of weeks ago. In our case it was the day after Labor Day. All went fairly smooth, understanding of course that they are starting a new school. And while they miss their old friends – are quickly making new ones.

In the mornings, my efforts have had to accelerate. The girls have to get dressed nice for school, not just shorts and t-shirt for the daycare. They have to eat, have lunches packed, and dressed.

Of course each of these steps is met with “I don’t want to eat that”, or “I hate those clothes, can I wear [some outfit that is just not appropriate] instead?”

Darlene does the shopping for our family. And she does a great job. But back to school shopping is at least as great a feat to achieve – a chore to tackle – a task to undertake – as Christmas shopping.

I suggested Darlene document the events of her experience this year. She happily obliged - in a little piece she calls:

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THE LIST

Well, it is that time of year again. The time where mothers all around the continent rejoice that school is now back in session.

This has, of course one major drawback. It’s called the ‘school list of supplies needed’
In our day, one went to school and everything you needed was supplied. Not so anymore. Now, the first week of school ‘the list’ makes its way home.

I looked in disbelief at the length. My youngest list wasn’t bad. Only five - six items- -for senior kindergarten. My oldest, however, who is going into grade 1, was a whopping whole page.

“When are you going to get my school stuff, Mom, when? When?” she pleaded.

“When mommy gets off of work Thursday night”, I replied.

“OK” she said, and off she went to watch Johnny Test on the telly.

Well, now it is Thursday night……THREE DAYS after school is in session. I am two hours late leaving work, the border traffic was a mess and by the time I got to Wal-Mart’s of course there was nothing left.

Lesson? OH YES I will know next year what to buy for Ashley-Rae AND to not leave it till too late!

I walked into the store. I looked around. There were still scores of parents frantically looking about with children tugging on their arms.

”NO NO Mom! Not those!! Miss said these ones!!!” I continued down the aisle.

Thankfully I had left my two darlings with their father. As I held the list in my hand another mother chuckled softly and said “Uh Oh, she has the list”. I scowled fixing her with my mutinous green stare.

“I don’t have to do that anymore, thank God.”

”Bully for you!” I said. I turned down the aisle with the markers, crayons, pencils, etc.

Again my eyes widened in disbelief. Nothing. Nada. Big fat donut. There was not a pencil, crayon, eraser, ruler left. I groaned out loud. In the next aisle I had found the same thing. Not one color of duo-tang binder left.

I mumbled a few choice words under my breath and heard a giggle behind me. It was a young woman with her son who was about 9 years of age. He had a on a right wrist cast, long black greasy hair down past his shoulders.

I hurriedly sputtered, “Can you seriously believe this list?!!” She smiled, nodded and her son piped up with, “HA! Wait till you see the Grade 4 list!! It’s THREE PAGES!!” I shook my head and resignedly left the store to head for Staples. I knew at least there I would find everything I would need.

Dinner consisted of a hurriedly wolfed-down burrito supreme washed down with a pop. That is all I knew I would have time for.

Staples. What an experience. The staff are always helpful, friendly and willing to assist you to attain what you need. In no time I was finished and on my way home.

Geez, $185.00 later; I was ready. I did not get home till 10 pm. By the time I got the supplies labeled and doled out it was 12:45 am.

LESSON: Next year I will be ready. Before we start school.

In the end, it was the excitement and joy on my girls’ faces when they got up and saw all their school supplies packed neatly in their packs that made the whole experience worth it. I sure do love my little girls

- Darlene

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Welcome to the Neighborhood

We have a new pet. It seems he came with the new house.

His name is Hoppy. Alannah gave him the name. We do not know if he was ever given a name by the previous family who lived here.

Hoppy is a squirrel.

To be quite honest, Hoppy does not truly reside on our premises. In fact he only uses the back rail of our fence for commuting between the walnut tree he scavenges and the maple tree he lives in. Both trees are in the neighboring yards.

Hoppy uses our back fence like commuters in Chicago use the El train.

He is quite industrious. He constantly makes trips from the maple tree, across our rail, to the walnut tree. There he collects a green walnut in his mouth, and travels our fence back to the maple.

As he crosses our yard on the fence rail, he hops over the fence posts that protrude higher than the top beam.

So Alannah calls him Hoppy.

I guess now we all call him Hoppy.

But Hoppy does not have free reign. He has competition. A bully squirrel we have yet to name; perhaps we will call him Sluggo; likes to ambush Hoppy, and contest him for his walnuts. Hoppy usually prevails. No fights ensue. And then Hoppy makes another trip.

This morning, Darlene was sitting on the deck having a morning coffee and reading the paper. Hoppy was returning from the walnut tree. Sluggo was waiting. Up popped Sluggo, and off ran Hoppy, walnut in his mouth. The got to a corner of the fence, and all that could be heard was the trickle and thud of the walnut as it fell down the wooden fence and hit the ground below.

Shortly after, Darlene saw Hoppy emerge to the fence top with the dropped walnut. There was no sign of Sluggo. He hopped a couple of posts, and then flopped out on the flat fence top – all four legs sticking over the side – as if to say, “"Whew! That wore me out!!” After a minute or so of resting, he hopped back up and finished his commute.

Later this morning, on a subsequent trip, Hoppy had two walnuts. One walnut is bigger than his head. Some how he had snagged two, most likely by a joined stem. He stopped in mid-trek, put one down, and proceeded to eat the other.

All the while he was watching us watching him.

We had several squirrels at our last house. They sat in our crabapple tree and ate nuts from the neighboring yard. The nuts are still green, and they turn the nut like we would turn an ear of corn, chomping circles around the nut until the nut is consumed. All the while, a green dust falls like sawdust from a cutting saw.

Darlene turned and said “Look how pretty Hoppy is”. I turned to look. “His fur is nice and full and shiny, and his tail is so fluffy and soft”, she continued. I knew where she was going. The squirrels at our old house had patchy fur and scrapes and scars from battling the neighborhood pets. One’s tail had been broken and carried bent and crooked. They were tough squirrels.

Hoppy looked so soft and clean, you might think he was a house pet.

“Amazing how you can tell you’re in a nice neighborhood, eh? Even the squirrels are of a better quality.”

After I came in, Darlene continued drinking her coffee. She was reading her latest Nora Roberts novel. She heard a “Thumpity- Thumpity- Thumpity- Thumpity- Thumpity…” from the pool deck. She looked up.

There sat Hoppy – thumping his hid foot like Thumper from Bambi. When he had Darlene’s attention, he looked at her and dropped the walnut right there. He turned to hop away behind the pool to the fence. But after two hops he stopped to turn and look back at Darlene – as if to say “It’s for you – go ahead”.

I’m not sure how this relationship will evolve. I have fears of little squirrel houses and feeding schedules. I worry that I will wake up to find the girls holding Hoppy like a cat in the living room – stroking his fur while he … does whatever squirrels do when they are content.

But it does prove to me that we are in a friendlier neighborhood.

Even the wildlife drops by to welcome you.

Raymond and the Seven Dancing Princesses

My youngest daughter is about to turn five years old.

Because of the schedule of events, we had her birthday party last Sunday. Ashley-Rae invited about ten kids. And six showed up. The parents of two announced their coming the morning of the party.

Therefore there was a flurry of activity before everyone arrived at one o’clock.

The attendees were 5 little girls and one little boy, and Alannah and Ashley-Rae of course. That makes eight kids all together.

The theme of the party was “Barbie’s Twelve Dancing Princesses”.

Ashley-Rae loves anything to do with Princesses. But she especially loves Barbie’s Twelve Dancing Princesses.

When I ask Ashley what she wants to be when she grows up, she says “a Princess”.

So I have to find her a Prince I guess.

The little boy was Raymond. Raymond is a tough little boy. I think that of all the little boys I know who are not in our family, Raymond is my favorite. Maybe because his name is Raymond - like my Dad.

Raymond is about three feet tall, and two feet round. Raymond is solid muscle. And Raymond does things his way.

This may not sound like your typical prince. But he is.

Last year, there was an older boy who picked on Alannah and Ashley-Rae at the daycare they went to, This boy was older than Raymond. And bigger too.

Raymond stood up to that boy. And he protected my little girls. They love him. And I do to. I go out of my way to let him know he is my bud.

So here is a yard full of twelve dancing princess stuff. And Raymond is running around like a bull in a china shop. My china shop.

All the games that we played, Raymond won. All the swimming in the pool was stifled by Raymond splashing like a crazed seal. And every five minutes, one of the little girls came to me crying that Raymond did … something … that bothered them.

”Well, let Raymond know that it bothered you” I told them. They did and Raymond said “I’m sorry” each time.

When it was cake time, Raymond put on his Princess party hat without even a second thought. And he commenced to banging his fork and screaming “WE WANT CAKE” – over and over again, until the seven little girls chimed in with him.

When it was time to open presents, Raymond was right there beside Ashley-Rae. He gave her his presents first. There were three wrapped presents in his gift. They were coloring books and crafts. And for each one he helped her when she needed help unwrapping it. And he explained what each craft would make. Very proudly.

When his presents were all opened and he finished explaining to Ashley-Rae what everything was, Ashley looked at Raymond and said in her five year old voice – with her pretty eyes fluttering her lashes and a sweet smile.

She said “Thank you Raymond”. And she kissed him on the cheek.

And that was the first time all day that Raymond didn’t know what to do.

Resting Up From Vacation

It is the first day back to work after using my vacation last week to move into our new house. Thank goodness.

I need the rest.

The bad news is I have another week off next week.

It’s been a long week of slogging back and forth from the new house to the old house – still picking up the remainders of what the movers didn’t.

I fell down our new basement stairs once. I could swear my heels touched my shoulders. I screamed quite loudly. Have you ever thought you were on the last step but you weren’t?

I did that with about five steps to go.

I was carrying Darlene’s favorite framed pictures at the time.

As I laid there, I moaned “it’s broken”. I was talking about my leg. Dar thought I was talking about the frames.

“It better not be!” she growled. I still thought she was talking about my leg too!

She pulled the best picture out of the box – “No, it’s fine”, she said as she pranced away happily.

I untied my legs from their new pretzel configuration and was delighted to find that I did not break anything, only sprained my ankle and twisted my bad knee, And the only nurse in the house just pranced away happy.

Both the ankle and knee swelled right up. But unfortunately I could still walk. I got a reprieve that afternoon, and tried out the new pool with ice on both joints. But the next day we went right back at it. And it got hot again.

My Mum is coming up from Pensacola for a visit. She arrives Thursday night. She is anxious I believe to see the new place. And we have everything all ready for her.

Except a bed.

We took this opportunity to move my youngest from her Dora the Explorer toddler bed, into the cabin bed that my eldest had. And we moved my eldest up to the double bed we kept in what we called “The Grandma’s Room”.

Unfortunately we have to wait until this weekend before we can replace that bed with a new pillow topped one for Grandma.

I also put my old TV in my eldest’s room. I plugged in the cable for it, and the cable TV was still working. We are trying a satellite company now, so we did not move our cable.

The girls were very excited. They spent all their free time in my eldest’s room watching TV – their own TV.

Then the cable guy turned off the service.

And to my daughters, I am an “Indian giver”.

I apologize for using this term, I know it is derogatory in nature, but I do not know of another way to describe someone who gives a gift and then takes it back. And if I am not mistaken, the term truly means what the white men did to the Native Americans, they gave them something, and then they took it back.

Notice I used the royal “They”.

But I digress.

So now I have to call the cable company, and get them to turn on the cheapest service they have.

My Mum shipped up a package for my youngest daughter’s fifth birthday. She shipped it UPS. She asked us not to open it until she arrived.

When it came, Darlene’s Mum received it from the UPS driver. It was no longer a rectangular shape. It was now a triangle. The driver quipped “It looks like it’s been around the world”.

I opened the box, and everything is Ok.

But the morale to my entire moving experience is:

“If you hire a service – be it movers or UPS delivery, they likely won’t do a good job. But when you decide you no longer need a service, like cable TV, just watch how quickly and efficiently they discontinue it for you.”

Or …

The path of least resistance is most often followed by those that choose not to leave.

Packing

We have lived in our current home for four years.

It is amazing how little time four years seems when you’re over forty.

Remember high school? That took four years too.

Well for most of us anyway. But it seemed like a life time then.

My daughters are six and almost five years old now. This is really the only home they know. All that they really remember.

It’s too bad, because we have lived in some nice homes.

But we never owned those homes.

So while it seems like we just got here to Darlene and I, as we are packing, we find ourselves bombarded with memories of the girls that occurred here.

• Starting daycare.
• Riding the school bus.
• Starting elementary school and the awards they have racked up.

My daughter Alannah has won the student of the month award two years in a row for being the most trustworthy in her class. This does not speak kindly of the trustworthiness of her classmates.

But we packed up her certificates anyways.

Ashley-Rae learned how to walk in this house. Then run. Then jump. Usually on the living room furniture.

We had to have the furniture cleaned.

They both really learned how to talk in this house.

Then they learned to talk back.

In the summer time we live in our backyard. It’s quite nice and rather private given our location. Both girls learned to ride their bikes in this yard. Alannah learned how without training wheels.

We made up our own version of kick-ball back here. Our rules are based on three or more players. Our scores are often 10 to 8 to 6. The pine tree is first – the fence along Mr. Bud’s garage is second base, and the crabapple tree is third.

Home plate is this big worn spot created after several years of intense kick-ball matches.

We don’t think we can play kick ball in the new house. But maybe we can.

There was the first Christmas here when Alannah was not yet three.

She woke up Christmas morning, and not having been given clear rules about Christmas presents, started unwrapping all the presents.

Luckily she came across Uncle Glennie’s box of chocolates, or she may have opened up absolutely everything.

When we realized what had happened and “sprang from our beds to see what was the matter” – there was Alannah – chocolate from ear to ear – and the living room piled with unwrapped paper.

We were mad … for about 45 seconds – until we realized it was our own fault. Christmas morning present etiquette is a learned skill and not inherent.

As I was downstairs this evening, Darlene was busy packing up behind the bar in the family room. Our bar has a lot of great little knick-knacks – bar stuff.

• Coasters and mugs, and posters.
• Bowling trophies for champions and skunks.
• Irish Guinness memorabilia.
• And dart boards and equipment.

Our new house doesn’t have a bar – not yet anyways. So this stuff will likely be packed up until we build a new one.

Darlene found my box of photographs. It’s a small box. There are probably about two hundred or so photos in there. Usually photos that people have given me from their duplicates.

There I stood in one picture, all thin and muscular. And my hair was still brown.

I looked in the mirror.

“What happened to that guy?”

There were pictures of the kids in our family that are now all grown up. Pictures of Becky and Ben, Reid and Cole, Corrine. Now they are all adults or in their late teens. And it is amazing how much Corrine and Becky resemble each other.

Good thing they are good looking.

There were pictures of Dad, Uncle Fred, Aunt Sheila, and Uncle Herb. All are gone now. Together someplace else. But in this picture they are still with me.

I looked out the window in the yard. It was full of birds. Some were looking in.

I think those guys know we’re moving too.

My Dad

I don't have a digital picture of my Dad.

I doubt that I have even 5 old-fashioned pictures of him.

We just were not "picture people".

It's too bad because today I would like to have opened this entry with his picture.

My Dad was Raymond Allen Brill.

Ray was a masterful salesman. A professional presenter of material, and probably the best mentor, teacher, coach, and as inspirational as a boy could possibly have for a Dad.

Born in London, Ontario in 1932, Dad and my Uncle Fred were brothers. They played baseball and hockey. They loved both, but they will admit they loved baseball more. Dad would draw pictures of himself stretching full out at second base to make that diving catch.

Yeah, they were Detroit Tiger fans.

He would tell me stories of growing up playing ball, and drinking beer in the hotels. And how good that beer would taste after a hot ball game. He talked of those days so passionately that those stories are primary reasons why I would later move to London myself, play ball in those same leagues, and drink ice cold beer after at those same hotels.

I only saw my Dad drink the odd beer. And it usually caused him severe stomach pain afterwards. But you could see he appreciated it when he did.

Dad worked very hard with my brother Paul and I, teaching us to throw behind the ear, charge the ball to field it on the short hop, and lift the elbow to hit consistent line drives. We could be on our way anywhere, dressed any way appropriate for our destination, but if Dad spotted an empty ball field he pulled over. The equipment bag forever in our trunk, we took infield and batting practice, Mom playing first or outfield shagging fly balls.

We loved it so much. We never fought or bickered playing ball. It's just what we did.

Dad was also a sailor. A self taught sailor. We learned together as a family and those memories are as special as any other. We started with a tiny little 13 foot Sunfish. Advanced to bigger waters in a 17 foot Viking which we sailed on the lakes of Michigan and docked in Mitten Bay. Moving to Minnesota when Dad climbed the ladder with 3M, Dad bought a Coronado 23. We would sail on week long adventures, taking our floating camper to different corners of Lake Peppin - the mouth of the mighty Mississippi - tossing out anchors - swimming and camping on the boat.

Dads' biggest dream was that we lived where it was always warm.

In 1975, 3M gave my Dad three options to move as a regional sales manager:

• London, Ontario
• San Diego California
• Atlanta, Georgia

Having just lost both his own Mum and my Mother's Mum a couple years earlier, Dad entertained moving back to Canada. But during a trip mixed with a family reunion, he realized it would not be the place he wanted to live - he wanted us to live.

Why Dad chose Atlanta over San Diego, I may never know. Most likely Atlanta was still within travel distance to come back to Windsor and London. I often wonder how different I would have been as a surfer dude from the coast beaches. I still have a slight southern trace about me in my manner - and I wonder which would have been better - good ol' boy or surfer Dude.

In Atlanta, Dad found my Brother Paul's interest in Tennis. He helped Paul rise to the Top ten juniors in Georgia, and the Top 5 in Louisiana. Tennis was big back then, and Paul had this natural ability to just beat the crap out of most anybody.

When Paul was a freshman at our high school - Berkmar - he was of course on the Tennis Team. He played in the county finals against a senior who had won last year. This kid expected to walk all over Paul - because Paul was little. But this kid had no business being on the same court as my brother.

Paul wore a horrible plaid pair of golf shorts, and a different pattern plaid shirt. He didn't take the match very seriously. At the beginning of the match, the kid was condescending to Paul. After Paul took the first set 6 - Love, the condescension turned to outrage. The kid complained about every call, and Paul just rolled his eyes and laughed at the kid. Paul won that match 6-love, 6-love, 6-love. He had to be escorted off the court because the kid kept trying to get at him to beat him up.

And my Dad watched as proud as any Dad could be.

But my Dad also loved smoking. And in the end, it was that love that proved to be fatal. He survived with emphysema after having pretty much half his internal organs removed for Cancer in 1983. He lived with my Mom in the same apartment my Mom is in now from 1984 to when he died in September of 1990.

It has been 17 years now. And I miss him.

There was a wealth of knowledge there to tap, that I did not tap.

I don't know what he would think of my life choices to now. Maybe he would have talked me into taking those jobs at Apple and IBM. Maybe he would be upset that I chose to live in Windsor again, after he worked so hard to leave.

But one thing I know. He would have loved my wife. And he would have cherished my two little girls.

I can see him there with Alannah now, positioning her leg, lifting her elbow, telling her to watch the ball all the way to her bat. "Atta-girl" he would say as she smashed the ball against the fence on the other side of the yard.

"Atta-Girl".

Happy Fathers Day

A True Tigers Autograph

When I was a boy, the Detroit Tigers were a very important part of my childhood.

Wherever we drove, Tiger baseball was on the radio, Ernie Harwell calling the play by play. There was no need for color commentators back then, because the announcers were talented enough to keep you interested in the game.

As you would drive out of Detroit on I-94 heading for Jackson, there was a Mobile Oil refinery that had one of its containers painted to be a baseball with the “Go Tigers” cheer painted on it.

When we would come home to Windsor to visit my Grandfather – Papa – we would often find him sitting in front of the radio – listening to the game – with every finger and toe crossed as the Tigers tried to comeback to win or close out a game.

It was magic to hear the game through the tiny speakers of the day – with the buzzes and whistles of AM radio. You could paint the whole game in your brain.

I still remember vividly sitting in old Tiger stadium with my Dad and Papa – eating hot dogs and watching my heros – Al Kaline and Willie Horton, Norm Cash, Bill Freehan and Mickey Lolich.

They won the World Series in 1968. I was 6 years old.
The next year, Neal Armstrong walked on the moon.

It has been amazing since I have been back in Windsor these last 6 years, how some of those memories come flooding back. It has been amazing also how Darlene and I have made new memories at Comerica Park – the successor to Tiger Stadium.

We still listen to the games on AM Radio. Dan Dickerson and Jim Price are almost as special to me now as Ernie was way back then.

“Maglio Ordonez – touch them all!” as the Tigers finished off the A’s with a walk-off home run to advance to the 2006 World Series.

But the other day, the most miraculous Tigers event occurred. Willie Horton signed my daughters T-ball baseball card.

While talking with my wife, she said as any proud mother would do: “Let me show you my little baseball player” and retrieved Alannah’s baseball card from her desk. He admired the card, and her stats on the back. He liked that her favorite team was the Tigers and chuckled that Brandon Inge (it really says “Brian” by mistake on the card) is her favorite player.

And then he signed it.

When Darlene showed me the card that night, I literally held it up to the sky to show my Dad, and Papa. “Look guys! Look who signed Alannah’s baseball card!”

A little bird should be by soon to get a peek for them.