The Thunder Rolls

 

Title from the Garth Brooks song of the the same name.

Thunder sounded through the house last night, as it has done a lot this spring. My wife and I knew what was coming. Shy footsteps arrived a couple of minutes later.

“Where’s the iPad?” our 11-y.o. asked.

“The end table,” I said.

My son hit the button to wake up the iPad and immediately went to what is now his favorite app, an app that holds his interest more than any downloaded game, free or bought: The Weather Channel.

His fingers scrolled through various pages. “The storm will last until 4:30 a.m.” He put the iPad away, then went to what he considers his second bed in the house, the love seat in the master bedroom. He spent the rest of the night there, because he hates storms.

A few Saturdays ago, thunder shook the house, waking my son who ran into our room. “Tornado,” he yelled, and started begging us to go the basement. We groggily moved, knowing he was overreacting but still understanding his concern. Another thunderclap sounded a minute later and the lights flickered before going out. “Tornado,” he screamed again, pleading to go downstairs.

We roused our older son and told him we were going to the basement, as we had done during actual tornado warnings in the area earlier this year. We dressed quickly, grabbing blankets and heading to the one spot in the house that we know is the safest. We sat there for nearly two hours, our battery-operated radio providing periodic weather updates. We were glad that the batteries worked in one of the two flashlights we had stored away for emergencies, and we chilled until the weather report said the warnings were over.

We then woke our younger son, who had fallen asleep in the chair we have downstairs for these times. “It’s over?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “It’s over. We’re going back to bed.”

Part of me wonders if we shouldn’t have played along. He needs to understand when a storm is just a storm, and learn to deal with it.

Yet, he was dealing with it, saving what mattered to him most. His family.

Maybe we’ll try next spring.

Give Me A Brake

About sixteen years ago, my wife and I gave birth to a kid who is now of the legal age to drive.

Let me rephrase that: my wife gave birth to him, after nine months of extremely hard work, while I was there at the beginning and drove her to the hospital after her water broke.

Now, enough time has passed to where society has said he can legally get behind the wheel of moving pieces of metal. I’m not surprised. I knew he would reach this point eventually. What has surprised me, though, is how the process has changed from when I was learning to drive.

When I was his age, learning to drive meant first taking Driver’s Ed, which included a minimum number of hours of road practice with an instructor who had a brake on his side of the vehicle. After completing the mandatory training, I went to the DMV and took a test for my permit. At that point, I was able to drive parental supervision. I drove my mother home from the permit office. That night, my dad took me for a drive around town so I could practice night driving. Eventually, I got my license.

So, it took me aback when I learned that kids get their permits in advance, before taking Driver’s Ed. I thought this backwards, but my son studied and obtained his permit. We practiced in parking lots and I told him he could drive on the road, once he had been through Driver’s Ed and practiced with an instructor that had a brake on his/her side of the car.

His first day of Driver’s Ed was yesterday. During the class, the instructor asked who had experience on the road. Over half the kids did. There were also a number of students who, like my son, had not driven anywhere other than in empty parking lots. The Driver’s Ed instructor gave out homework. The kids who’d only seen parking lots needed to practice on the road before the road portion of Driver’s Ed.

Easy for the instructor to say. The instructor has his own brake.

So, I steeled up my courage and let him drive me home from his scout meeting. The fact that you’re reading this means I made it home alive. He actually had no problems on the road but really spiked my adrenaline trying to navigate our subdivision.

My favorite comedian, Bill Engvall, once commented that their should be a driver’s lane for teenagers “with nothing but mattresses and tires.” He also said that the big bass pounding from inside his vehicle was his foot slamming the passenger side floorboard, trying to hit the brake he wished were there. I have to say I agree. But I can’t stop the car. He’s getting older and I have to learn to let him take the wheel.

Unfortunately, there’s no brake that stops him from growing up either.

Let Them Be Shōgakusei A Little While Longer

Years ago when I lived in Japan, a friend of mine returned with a sad face after attending an elementary school graduation ceremony. The problem, my friend commented, was that the graduating kids showed up to school wearing the uniforms they would wear in middle school. It was pushing too soon, my friend thought. Her comment was “Let them be shōgakusei (elementary school students) a little while longer.”  

I thought about that last week as I watched the graduation of my younger son from elementary school. My son finished off the year with one of his classes performing “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” attending a sock hop, a graduation ceremony followed by a final walk through the halls. The post graduation festivities included a lunch with friends and an evening pool party. Two days later, my younger son wanted to go back to elementary school.

My wife and I had expected such a reaction. As the day had drawn nearer, our son had admitted her wasn’t ready to move on. Only the realization that his friends were leaving too, ready to move on to middle school, kept him going.

I’m not sure my wife and I were ready either, as if watching him leave meant we no longer had a younger kid in the house. It was easier watching our older son move on. He seemed ready to move. Due to our cross-country move from Portland to Atlanta back when our older son was in third grade, our older son lost three months of school. We petitioned the school to have him repeat (something which he has still not forgiven us for). He studies as if he’s trying to catch up. My younger son seems content where he is. My wife and I were also content.

“Let them be shōgakusei a little while longer.”  I couldn’t agree more.

When Good Pitches Go Bad

In a season where I’ve watched my 11-year old pitch well, and then struggle and pitch good, there had been one thing missing. A meltdown. He’s had them before. He’s 11. It’s expected.

I just didn’t expect to see it a little over a week ago.

In a game where his teammates played great and they had a chance to beat the top team in the league, my son had his worst game of the season. Facing a group of kids that he’d fanned the week before, he couldn’t find the strike zone. The last time I saw him pitch this poorly was on a night several years ago where my wife got so upset with the calls behind the plate that she blessed out an umpire after the game. (I will probably be in the doghouse for bringing that up.)

After the game was over, my son held it in until reaching the car before collapsing into a mound of tears. He refused to leave the car when we got home. I left him alone, returning ten minutes later, and found him on the steps in the garage that lead into the house. I sat down next to him, and he leaned on me and continued to bawl.

I tried to console him, saying that his favorite player, Craig Kimbrel, was now blowing saves. He responded that he doesn’t like Craig Kimbrel anymore because he found out the Kimbrel’s favorite team is Alabama. I told him that the Braves starting rotation, who has pitched well this season, really blew it in Detroit. He didn’t care.

Still, part of me was proud of him. In previous seasons, he would have gotten mad in the dugout. He kept his emotions in check until he was away from his teammates.

My son was able to move on, regaining a bit of his smile. He spent a night with friends, which improved his mood even more. He’s practiced hard at home and ready to pitch again. One thing has changed however.

His new favorite player is Evan Gattis.

My Son Wears 42

My last post was about the movies, so I wasn't expecting to make this one about them as well. However, it couldn't be helped.

I recently went with my dad and my sons to see 42 in the theater. For my dad, it was a look back at his childhood. He’s old enough to remember when Jackie Robinson broke into the league. For my kids, it was a chance to watch a baseball movie. Both of them love baseball and play in rec leagues. My younger son even wears 42 on his jersey and has me read to him from *Branch Rickey’s Little Blue Book.  

I was nervous about taking my kids to see the movie. I knew my teenager could handle the language, but worried it would shock my 11-y.o. A few years ago, I declined to take my kids to another sports movie, Glory Road (the story of Texas Western's NCAA Championship, with a primarily African American team.) One of the harshest scenes in the movie is when the Dodgers play in Philadelphia. The Philadelphia manager lets loose every racial epithet possible, trying to goad Robinson into losing his temper. Robinson holds it, finally letting loose in the player's tunnel underneath the stadium, where no one can see him.

However, I was unprepared for the scene my 11 y.o. eventually questioned me about after we returned home. In the scene where the Dodgers makes their first trip to Cincinnati, there was a kid in the stands that wanted to see Dodger shortstop Pee Wee Reese, a major leaguer that grew up in a town near Cincinnati. When the Dodgers take the field, the kid's father starts hurling racial insults at Robinson, and then the young boy copies them. My son couldn’t fathom why the kid was saying what he did. I explained to my son that racism is learned. The attitude of treating someone differently due to the color of their skin is something you're not born with. The Cincinnati scene in the movie ends with Reese putting his arm around Robinson in front of everyone in the sold out stadium. In real life, this is a scene that no one can confirm but, like Babe's fabled "called shot," lives on in baseball lore.

There will never be another Jackie Robinson.

Hopefully, we've passed the day where one is needed.

* Branch Rickey was the General Manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers and the person who brought Jackie Robinson to the major leagues.

The Connery Conspiracy

My sons recently acquired a copy of the movie, “Skyfall.” I took them to see it when it came out. I’ve always been a fan of James Bond, but had taken to watching them on TV since about the time I got married. When I saw the previews for Skyfall, though, I knew I had to see it on the screen.

The enjoyed the video just as much. After viewing it three times in one weekend, my 11-year old began affecting a British accent and calling his mother “M.” They looked forward to the Oscars, as they knew there would be a James Bond tribute. During the tribute, Shirley Bassey sang “Goldfinger.”

My sons were like, “What’s Goldfinger?”

 

At that point, I realized I’d neglected an aspect of their cinematic education.

 

I own copies of all of the Connery Bond films, so I pulled out the tape (yes, that old technology is still around) and showed my kids Goldfinger.

They loved it. They were totally enthralled. I was glad they enjoyed it. I was also glad they didn’t ask me about any of the names of the characters. I followed up a week later with Dr.  No. We’ve also now seen You Only Live Twice and From Russia With Love.

The Bond watching, though, has led to debate. My favorite Bond is Sean Connery, followed by Timothy Dalton. For my 11-year old, the best Bond ever is Pierce Brosnan, followed by Daniel Craig. My teenager is enjoying the Bond girls and has not voiced an opinion on which Bond is best as well as asking why George Lazenby was Bond only once.

They want to see Thunderball and Diamonds are Forever, the remaining two Connery Bonds in my collection. (I don’t have Never Say Never Again.) I’m certain we will soon. I’m happy to enjoy it with them as my wife has no interest in any of these movies. This Christmas, we may need to pick up a few. The movies should be available as this is the 50^th anniversary of the franchise.

I look forward to it.

Bond. Father-son bond.

Face-ing Up To Woodpeckers

It’s Sunday morning as I write this. A little earlier, as I was making my coffee, I heard a familiar, distant tapping that mimicked a muffled machine gun on metal. Looking out the kitchen window, I saw a beautiful white bird with a red crest, tapping away at my neighbor’s gutter. It continued its efforts a little while longer before flying back to its nest in the woods behind our subdivision. There’s another woodpecker that attacks the gutters of my neighbors on the other side of my house. Though I can’t tell the difference between the two birds, I’ve noticed that when they fly away, they fly to opposite directions, so I’m speculating they’re not the same one.

We used to have our own woodpecker problem. One particular bird, likely the one that was drilling my neighbor’s gutter earlier, used to attack the gutter next to one of the upstairs bedroom windows at my house. On mornings when I worked from home, I could hear the bird banging against the gutter at the edge of our roof. I’d step out on the back deck and the bird would fly away. There was no damage yet, but I knew it was only a matter of time.

Enter my 11-year old son.

Last fall, at the end of football season, my son’s team had their annual banquet. One of the items all the kids received was an actual-sized picture of their own face on a stick. My son’s had been taken with him looking mean, as if trying to intimidate an opposing team’s lineman. 

We put that picture outside the window closest to the woodpecker’s target. Since that day, the woodpecker hasn’t returned.

This wasn’t a random idea. My wife looked up on-line how to get rid of woodpeckers. Placing a picture on the window was one of two suggested options. As the other option suggested placing aluminum foil on the gutter (i.e. me getting up really high on a ladder), the picture option seemed a little safer. However, my son wasn’t amused.

With the woodpecker not having returned, my son has asked that we remove the picture. We’ve declined, saying the woodpecker may return. His presence at our neighbors is evidence that he remains close.

In lieu of that, my son has asked for money for the use of his likeness. My wife and I said that sounded like a good idea, and offered to sell copies of his picture to the neighbors. If we can scare off all of the woodpeckers in the neighborhood, we figured we could sell his picture nationwide.

He wasn’t amused by this idea either.

If any of you have woodpecker problems, please let us know.