My little camper is away

And the house is silent. Too silent. Why do I feel so guilty that she's at camp? Maybe because she didn't want to go. Do I think she's having a good time? Probably. But I can't shake the feeling, or more specifically, the sight of her as her mom and I walked away while she was trying to fit in with the rest of the girls already in the cabin. I'm glad she got the top bunk. She always likes the top bunk best. I'm glad we turned around and went back home to get her hat. She loves her hat. And I'm glad she at least knew someone as we stood in line to check in. I'm worried about her cold. I'm worried that she'll get homesick. I'm worried that she'll be sad until she gets back. But she's stronger than me. She's more secure. She's able to adapt. Her tolerance level is amazing. And after all, it is camp. Hell, I wished I'd have been able to stay. Swimming all day. Stomping around in mud. Canoe riding. Zip lines. Midnight polar swims. Hell, what's not to like. Except being away from home, I guess. I miss you, bean.

Winter Park Isn't West Chester, PA . . .

But a vacation is a vacation. WC was our destination of choice this summer, but a baby to be kind of put a kink in those plans. So we're off to Winter Park, and really, is WP that much of a compromise? Nah. The alpine slide awaits, and I have a feeling my kids will wear it out. I'm going to give it a shot, myself.

Why WC in the first place? To visit family, and missing that puts much regret in my bones. I'd rather be there, soaking up the wisdom of June and Marianne. Soaking up the spirit that is there enthusiasm. Soaking up the nature of family. Until next year . . .

Swimming, summer, and exploring.

My kids adore swimming. They go every chance they get now with the weather picking up, steam-wise. Regrettably, we don't have a pool in our backyard (I wouldn't want one if we could manage it), and we don't have a city pool nearby, either. Yet, they've managed to make the connections necessary to get themselves into the few pools we do have nearby. They're resourceful, and I admire that. You have to be in this world. Lesson learned, children. Keep up the good work.

They'll get plenty of swimming this summer, and camping, and camps, and other stuff I didn't get a chance to do regularly. And for that, I'm thankful. That was one of the big reasons I wanted to become a parent. Giving them opportunities I didn't have is a big reason I get out of bed. Some days, it's the only reason. Other days, not so much. On those days, they seem to make their own opportunities. Some times for the better; others the worse. Another lesson learned.

Pregnant Ladies

It's funny how I seem to be noticing pregnant women more these days. They're everywhere. Maybe it's my keen sense of what's to come. Maybe it's my keen sense of not knowing what's to come. At any rate, each time I see a woman expecting child, I'm reminded of my own. I'm also reminded how much younger these women seem than me. I think a lot about being 40 when I'll have these child. I try to comfort myself with the fact that Jimmy Stewart, Hugh Hefner, and the like were great-grandfather age when they helped conceive. I try to forget that they are/were very rich men. I don't know what kind of father Jimmy Stewart was, but I'll compare myself to Heff anyday, although I'm sure his sons aren't complaining of their lineage. I can't offer my child, if he is a son, the same kind of visual perks flooding my house (if you dare call women "visual perks"), but I'll offer him better. If my child is a girl, I'll offer her protection to my death, without question or hestitation. My daughters now could probably verify as much. I'm too involved. Too protective. But I'm not bothered by that. It's my job, and I take it seriously. Too much? As long as they are alive, laughing, and thinking for themselves, I don't really care. Label me an idiot, meddler, overbearing, or extreme. I'll take all of the above for their happiness and well being. I'm sure in hell not handing them over to just any moron without a stitch of character. Won't happen. My girls have too much to offer.

Integers

Tonight, I helped my 13-year-old prepare for her end-of-the-year math test by doing far too many review problems. Good Lord, what am I getting myself into with having another baby? Before, during, and after integers, I read my nine-year-old 50 pages of "Matilda." After that it was on to help my significant other fill out online applications. Am I insane for adding another chick to the nest? How am I ever going to find enough worms to feed the birds? Speaking of birds, my 110-pound dog started the evening by terrorizing two sparrows in our backyard into such fear, I'm sure they'll never squawk again. Squawkless birds are a site no man should ever envision.

Running With The Dogs

I've been out of the game of parenting a baby for more than 10 years. It's a whole different ballgame. My children now are at the age where they think for themselves (very ably, I'll add). They reason on their own. They make judgments and decisions on their own (not always ably, I'll add), and they take credit on their own, deservingly. They know their likes and dislikes, and they experiment and face new days on their own because they want to. Babies do none of those things. It's been quite awhile since another human being has been totally dependent on me, and that's scary. I've had a lot of years of (semi) freedom, and I have to be honest that I'll miss that. I know there are great trade-offs I'll get in return, and I plan on taking them in as completely as possible each and every time one surfaces. I can't wait, in fact. But I'll miss heading out the door day or night and walking around the block without worry. Sitting on the steps at midnight watching the moon pass through the sky without worrying about getting up because someone else needs me to. I'll miss hoping on the bike with my daughter and heading down to the gas station to get a soda. I'll miss sitting up late at night watching movies with my increasingly insightful 14-year-old. I'll miss running with the dogs in the early morning, catching the day's first breaths deep in the lungs.

But for each thing I'll miss, I can't wait to adapt my life in new ways. I can't wait to buckle the little guy/girl into the car seat and head out for a ride. To strap him/her in the stroller and let him/her experience the sun. Feel the wind on the face. See snowflakes falling from the sky above. To hear thunder and watch lightening. To take in fireworks for the first time. To feel cold water on the toes. I can't wait to play him/her songs on the guitar and sing him/her to sleep. To take naps together. To draw and paint and buy hot wheels or dolls. To experience the library and ballgames and going to the movies for the first of many times. I can't wait to hear him/her say "puppy" and come to love running with the dogs on his/her own.

I'm starting to think life is a lot about trade-offs and what you're willing to give up to get something in return. I don't know really what I need to get these days. That confuses me more than I can probably comprehend. Even if I knew what I wanted, I'm not sure I'd know how to go about getting it. My job these days seems to be helping other people get what they need and want. And that's OK. There comes a point, however, where that's not satisfying any longer, and when I reach that point, I'll adapt and move on to where I need to go and go with who I need to. I'm smart enough to remember how difficult it is having a baby, emotionally and physically. I'm smart enough to know that the worrying and stress and responsibility are going to feel like bricks falling on my head some days. I also know that I've felt nothing in life that begins to approach the true unselfishness and unconditional love as a baby invokes. I'm also smart enough to know that a very big part of having a baby is helping that baby grow to discover what trade-offs he or she is going to be willing to make.

Expectations

Today I told most of my friends that I am going to be a father again. The reception was mostly good. In a couple of cases, the reactions definitely weren't what I expected, primarily in unpleasant ways. By unpleasant I mean disappointing. There wasn't a specific tone or words or gestures I was looking for. Just happiness, I guess. In a few cases, what was returned was strange, and I'm still trying to put my finger on exactly what it all means. Am I misinterpreting matters? Did I get something wrong? It's difficult to say. It's difficult to know. It's certainly not something I'm going to ask clarification for. I don't think you should have to. And ultimately I'm not concerned enough to really want clarification. I don't need it. My mind is clear and able, and I'm confident in my position. I know the task at hand, and it's a good one. And the relationship I really want to foster remains ahead of me with this child. That's the bond that matters most, because that's my responsibility. That's mine to get right or wrong. And that's the clarity I'm in pursuit of. I've surrounded myself with good people. The people I've chosen to keep in my life are in my life for a reason. Good and bad. And lord knows I'm a demanding son of a bitch some days, and I accept that. And I think they accept that about me. But expectations work both ways, and those who expect something from me, I try not to disappoint if it means enough to me and to them. I know what's important. What's important right now isn't the scenario under which I'm welcoming this child into the world. What's important is the scenario for the child when he or she enters the world. Maintaining that atmosphere will always be what's most important, just as it has been for my children now.

Musing on becoming a father again . . .

I'm sitting here listening to Elliott Smith while contemplating recent news that I'm going to become a father again. ES probably isn't the best soundtrack for such thoughts, but he's calm, and I'm not. He's even-keeled, and I'm not. I'm amped, revved, and juiced. Fatherhood at 40 will be a mission. A terrifying, enlightening, rapturous mission.

How bizarre to share news about something so personal and life-changing with strangers, with non-faces. But this is the world he/she belongs to. This is the state of matters. This is the score. I'll be prepared. I'll be locked in. Honed. Dedicated and in all the way. Never been a doubt about that. But as I listen to ES, I realize pain and discomfort and uncertainty is always a step away, waiting to pounce. So be it. Make your move. I'm ready. Committed. Fierce. Certainly battle-worthy and experienced. Frightened? Maybe. Weak. No.

Welcome, little one. I can't wait to meet you.

For my man, D, . . .

. . . because I know he's reading and because he's a fan of pro ball. While I admire his conviction that the NBA is every bit as good as college ball, I respectively disagree. Still, knowing that I missed a great marathon like this one, pains me. I'm down with good action as much as anyone, and it sounds like this was as good of action as you can get in the regular season.

I like the direction the NBA is taking. It's definitely on the upswing. Unlike my boy, Randy, I don't remember the Jordan years so fondly (I don't even like the guy). I'm old enough to remember the real resurgance of The League--the Larry and Magic days. I was college-aged then, so I'm not just throwing that statement out there. I watched both play in college, and I watched both transend the game. Jordan transended his pocketbook, and then he took the game into the dunk-heavy plague it's just getting out of now. Dickie V says this year's freshman crop of college ballers in the best in decades and one of the best ever. That bodes well for coming years. My man, D, should be set for years to come.

Always have hated November.

Damn month means that October is over. Means it gets nothing but colder from here on out. Means the trees are dying. My garden is empty. The grass is hard with frost. My windows need to be scrapped clean every morning. My car seat is cold. My plants' leaves are crispy. My wife is cold. My toes are cold. My nose is cold. My head is cold. My fingertips are fragile. My ears are red-hot. Children are in the park at night with no coats. No coats. In the park. At night.

Guitar, Dylan & Stuff

Saw Dylan on Wednesday night. The seats could not have been better. Six rows from the stage, dead center. I've seen Dylan numerous times, and I'm about as loyal to him as I am anyone. I feel that way about people sometimes, and I tend to overlook their less savory traits in the process. Take Elvis, for example. I know everything he did, and who he did it with. I've read all the stories, but still, I'm willing to look past it. Same with Dylan. He's got scars and flaws miles deep. I don't suspect for a second that he always treate people with the greatest kindness. I don't believe that he didn't use, abuse, and choose to treat probably more than his fair share of people poorly. But I'm willing to overlook it. I'll overlook Jerry Lee seemingly being half-crazed. Hank Williams drinking. Neil Young being flaky.--That's why it pained me so much that I didn't like the show. It was just flat and boring and too uneven for me to sink me teeth into. And I really wanted to. I had been looking forward to that show as about as much as any. I scouted the tix out way in advance. The Kings of Leon was awesome opening up (much more full of spirit and intensity than Dylan's hired hands; brother tend to play that way together). So it was a major downer that it didn't move me more. Others I know who went had different takes, so it could just be me.

I love my guitars, but I'm thinking about buying a new acoustic. I feel like I'm cheating on a wife or something about when I play me other one. It's my first, and it's the one I taught myself to play on.

Just when you think your down

your not. I was reading some blog entries of a friend of mine who went through a tradegy more than a year ago. Much pain. Much confusion. Much anger. I wish there were actions to carry out to comfort those who have been torn apart. But there aren't. Actions mean everything, but they mean nothing. Some pain doesn't go away. It can't. My thoughts are with him, but there also with me. You can learn much if you stop and recognize what's in front of you--if you dont' walk around it, step over it. Just look. Really look. And then recognize. Always recognize.

On getting old . . .

It's not getting older that I have uncertain feelings about; it's watching those around me get older. I've been to two funerals recently, both for men named Bob, and both were outstanding men for different reasons. And sitting through those funerals was pretty moving on both occasions for different reasons. But both times I took a good look around at the people gathered, and it was impossible not to notice how they had aged. I don't see these people regularly any longer, so the gradual ebbs and flows we are all going through show up more intensely in them. Some faces never change, but everything else does. Some faces sink or expand. Some faces are still about the eyes or the smile or the nose. Some of these people I never knew very well. Some of them I knew very well but don't any longer. So of them I'll know well my entire life. Regardless, I've come away both times feeling sadder about these changes. I don't know why. It's not the age that they are reaching. That's always a secondary thought for me. It's the changes in my perception. These aren't the same people as when I knew them best.

It's amazing, though, how what some of these people represent to me never changes. The first Bob to pass was a family man. Loved his family. They loved him. Had three sons and a long-time wife. Best friends. The entire family made each other laugh. The latest Bob was my junior high teacher and neighbor. I never really appreciated all that he was teaching me, though, until much later. He set an example of how a man or woman should live life seemingly every day, by enjoying the minute for what it was, not for what it wasn't or could have been. He greeted every one with a smile and a question. The question was never anything to do with himself. Salt of the earth. Proud. Tolerate. Strict when he had to be. Teachers who touch the lives of hundreds of kids positively over many years are some of the best people. Men who love their families without question or care for them are the best fathers.

You can't help but to make an accessment of your life while at a funeral. You wonder if how your life will be celebrated and mourned, and by whom. You wonder are you living the minutes each day properly, taking notice of how to enjoy them. You wonder what wisdom you can obtain from those who have passed, what examples they've given you. You wonder how you can use their gifts. I'm not sure where I stand next to such men. Seems far away right now. But maybe it should feel that way, and maybe funerals are the best time for moving forward purposely.

A-rod, Buck O'Neil, and The Tigers

This article says it all about the Yankees v. Tigers series. It stills hurts to the touch, but I'm glad Leyland is the guy that got it done. Man, look around baseball and it seems fairly apparent how you have to build a ball club these days if you want to win: Get a young, energetic manager (Ozzie, Willie, Giradi) who has learned the ballgame from vets (LaRussa, Torre), or go back to the guys who have lived their entire lives in the game (Leyland, etc.). Then you get young guys who'll give you the team mentality (Granderson, etc.), plus a few vets who teach throughout the season (Zito, Rogers, Mags). Those young guys don't know any better than not to show emotion. I like that. When Bonderman pumped his fist after big outs . . . that was cool. So was when, I think it was Swisher, ran off the field in the A's game the other night with his arms stuck in the safe position after sliding home safely.

Anyway, it's time for A-rod to move on. Jeter’s not interested in protecting or going to bat for him, and he has no other friend in that organization now. He’ll bring back several pitchers in return, and somebody will probably want him, even at that payroll. He may even be willing to take a cut after this year, but I think the Yankees will eat some of it, as well. He'll be a great, great player again in two years. He'll go back to short next season for some team that will wins more than it loses. He’ll get his mind right, and he’ll make a huge comeback in two years. You heard it here first. I don’t think Torre will be around next year to shelter him, either. Besides, he'll never get a shot in NY again, and he shouldn't get one. He had three years to earn the $25 mil per. He knew there were going to be some expectations when all that money fell into his lap. And when the expectations came, he wasn’t ready to deliver.

I never met Buck O'Neil, but I have a friend I work with who did. Buck took quite a few photos with him, and my friend still talks about it with the same enthusiasm each time. That's pretty telling about who the guy was. I've heard him in radio interviews several times, and he was very sharp. His stories were amazing. I wonder how many books he could have spawned. I have another friend at work who is a Mets fan. She and her husband watch Ken Burns "Baseball" every year during spring training, which I think is a pretty good idea. She also met Buck O’Neil, and she’s sent along many stories over the months about baseball’s less known history.

The game has changed a lot over the years, but it hasn’t changed at all in others.

Colorado in the fall.

A lot of people never make it to the state until the winter, but for my money, the summer and the fall are the best times of year to head to Colorado. Last weekend's weather was about perfect, the people were incredibly nice, and the food was . . . well, it wasn't great, but that was my fault. The hikes were inspiring, and I can't wait to go back.

One song I can play

on the guitar but don't really know why is "Leaving On A Jet Plane." This guy I knew, Roger, played that song on the piano in bars years ago, and he made it believable. Sincere. Otherwise, it has the cheesy John Denver factor to it, but that isn't fair, either, because John Denver was OK. Anyway, I was reminded of that song because I'm leaving to Colorado today. Can't wait to see the mountains again. Wish I was taking my guitar.

Labor Day Weekend

Weird, fun, sleepless, flames, hog, a SouthPark character, fishing, boating, walking, and more.

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Summers Pass By Too Quickly

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Judy Garland is the female Frank Sinatra

Last night I caught the tail end of an incredible documentary on Judy Garland on PBS. For whatever reason, this coincided with me recently finishing reading the wonderful "Wicked: The Life and Times of The Wicked Witch of The West." I don't know if the two are related, but I'm grateful for allowing myself the time to sink into both. Both were amazing engaging, and both the documentary and book again made me reconsider making judgments about anything until I have all the facts. This was especially true of "Wicked," both in the sense of judging the witch herself based on "The Wizard of Oz," and in the sense of the book, which I thought I had figured out after the first opening sequence. No, I didn't. I should have known better. Same with Garland. I had her pegged for something and someone she wasn't. Again, I should have known better. Not giving her talent the consideration and respect it deserves is shameful. But better late than never. I plan to enjoy it much more in the years to come.

Bob Dylan's "Modern Times": Simply masterful. I can't say anymore, other than sixth row center Oct. 25, baby!!! Sixth row center.

My dog's leg hurts.

My main man Slim is down and out these days with a bum wheel. Not sure how it happened, but the poor chap pulled a doggy groin, and now he has a limp in his gimp. Too bad, too, because the fella likes to get up and go and go and go and go. So it's six weeks of rest and relaxation, according to the sage vet. He doesn't know our boy, Slim, very well, though. Trying to contain big boy for six weeks might as well be six years. Impossible. But pain is pain, so I suppose Slim will get the idea soner than later. So here's to your recovery Slimmidy Dim.