Monarchy and Dynastic Inheritance

A few months ago (back in the high days of summer) Beemer was playing in the back yard as I grilled some burgers. Sometime during the process where raw ground cow metamorphoses into caramelized juicy goodness, Beemer shouted "Daddy, Daddy! I found a cocoon!" I was busy flipping the meat, or something, and so to distract her/postpone any direct involvement I said, "Cool. What kind of cocoon is it?" There was a pause of maybe 15 seconds, then she declared, "It's a Monarch!" "How do you know that?" Without missing a beat she came back with, "Because it's green. With gold dots. And there's orange and black wings inside it."

I had been telling her a few weeks prior about how her grandma (my mother) and I used to collect a few monarch caterpillars, feed them and raise them into chrysalides (chrysalises, if you prefer), hatch them and release them. I was impressed with her memory. I was more impressed, though, when I finished grilling and found this:

So, we continued the dynastic tradition (thanks again, mom) and brought it inside. This was the result.

We released it later that day. Tender mercies, indeed.

Proud Daddy Moment

A few months before we abandoned the comforts of hearth, home, kith and kin, Beemer & I had spent quite a lot of time outdoors. I had taken her to a couple Audubon events, and she loved birds. Once, when we were driving through Hyrum to the proverbial nest (i.e., my folk’s house), I spotted an American Kestrel on a power-line. I said, “Beemer! What’s that bird?” She looked at it and said, “A kestrel!” It was a proud moment.

Of course, if it had been a robin or magpie she would probably still have called it a kestrel. She knew that I loved kestrels and was eager to make me happy.

Well, a couple days ago Beemer came up to me with this feather in her fingers.

I asked her what bird she thought it came from and she replied that “it’s mostly red, but with some brown, so it’s from a female cardinal.” Honest. Entirely her own logic & her own words. My eyes misted over. That’s my girl.

Saturday is a Special Day

it's the day we get ready for Sunday:

I don't know how this could be more cliché.

At Bat, on Deck, and in the Hole

In an attempt to change our dating routine a bit, Pulcheria and I decided to forgo our usual eateries and go mini-golfing, last night, instead. We finished quickly – she beat me by two strokes – and still had time before picking the girls up. We tried the batting cages at the same place. It’s been so long, I thought softball was just the ticket. I hit every one, with only one foul ball, then Jan was up. She got in a few solid hits (one good one got a piece of her finger), too.

We took Beemer back, today, and she loved golfing. I tried fast-pitch baseball and very thoroughly and completely sucked (I’ll go back and try the slow-pitched machine, though I’ll have to wait for all those talented six-year-olds to go first)! Bree wasn’t ready to go in, so we snapped this shot instead.

Solipsism

Eyes closed, he moves in,
squeezes tight,
prepares lips -
and kisses.

Then she kisses.

One thousand three hundred fourteen miles
between them,
discrete pillows
soak up their owners’ saliva,
indifferent.

-11 August 2008

Wall-E

Just saw Wall-E. Loved it. Chris & Lish are right about the short: their best yet. But, I must say, I thought the film itself was great, and contained a full, complete story.

The subliminal (though not subtle) commentary on today's consumer-society wishing to return to the protection of the womb/infant state was provoking - but that wasn't the story. The message about being good stewards over the earth was timely - but that wasn't the story.

At heart it was a LOVE STORY explaining how one person/thing relates to someone/something s/he loves. The love story is complex, and illustrates the dangers of loving someone/something more beautiful/powerful than yourself; how media affects the way affection is shown; how a united loving unit (i.e. family) can overcome nearly insurmountable odds. Indeed, I thought it well worth my time (though a bit expensive). Everything not directly related to this main plot-line is merely the canvas upon this work was painted.

To be sure, it doesn't beat out The Incredibles for the #1 Pixar movie, in my book. Even so, it's still a great show. Any flick that can go - what was it? like 20 minutes? - without dialog (and I don't even notice it) has got to have something special going on.

So: what’s your prime directive? Do you control it, or does it control you?

Paternal Passion

In my family there was no clear line between education and athletics. My father is a teacher and a ball-player who plays his own sports and teaches others.

I’ve spent much of my “adult” (quotation marks used conscientiously) life trying to distance myself from my youthful escapades, and nowhere is that more obvious than in the realm of sports. As a kid, I played soccer, basketball, baseball, and even golfed a couple of times. This was largely due to the fact that my dad is a sports fan extraordinaire. Behind every one of these forays into the world of athletics, my father was my guide. Quite literally. He never hesitated to sign up as coach, if one was needed. In fact, I can’t think of a time that he has ever hesitated to step up and take the lead.

Given that I’ve spent the last 1.5 decades of my life studiously avoiding all things athletic, I was shocked when I found my mouth agreeing to a departmental softball game [Is that my voice? Is that my voice? Oh, well.] about a month ago. I’m glad, now, that my mouth was so agreeable. Not only was it a great time, but I also found myself remembering lessons my dad had taught me. That, and the fabled love-of-the-game actually resurrected itself in me. I ended up hitting 3 homers, and fielding pretty decently too. The result: the grad students squashed the faculty.

It is one of life’s quiet victories to realize that lessons, once despised, are, in fact, invaluable and irreplaceable. My two left-hand-only gloves (the softball mitt and the falconer’s gauntlet) are now peaceably reconciled.

I am grateful my dad taught me how to break-in a mitt. I am more grateful he taught me how to play a few of his most prized games. But most of all I’m grateful for his example of fatherhood: lovingly passing along his passions and teaching something much, much more than sports to the next generation.

Thanks for teaching me to throw and catch;
Thanks for showing me how to overcome seemingly insurmountable challenges, from a severe stroke to (heaven help us) raising two red-heads;
Thanks for being such a worthy hero, pops: I’ll try to teach my young’ns as well as you taught me;
Thanks for still being my teacher.