Male Internal Clock

A lot has been made of a female's biological clock, but very little is known about a male's internal clock. My wife and I had a long discussion on this very thing as we were driving to Cannon Beach with the kids for a family vacation. The subject came up when Josiah piped up en-route that he needed to pee. To gauge his urgency, which would determine if we would have to stop before we reach our destination, I asked him how long he could hold out.  He told me that he could endure it for another 30 minutes, which was just about how much time was needed to get to Tolovanna Inn at that juncture.

As we drove on, I told Jane that this is a uniquely male phenomenon. When we first feel the urge to micturate, our internal clocks start ticking which tell us how much time we have left before we absolutely have to drop our pants and relieve ourselves. After being enlightened, rather than being impressed, Jane rolled her eyes and snorted her disbelief.

A while later, as if on cue, Josiah blurted in desperation that if we don't stop driving and allow him to pee RIGHT NOW, he will most definitely wet himself!!  I immediately pulled over to the side of the road and quickly passed him a urinal. Without a second to spare, he uncorked an impressive 1/2 liter of urine, clearly backing up his earlier warning.

It was only then that I glanced up and noticed that we were just across the street from Tolovanna Inn. Confirming that Josiah's internal clock was spot on, for which he could thank his Y chromosome.

Hail, Hail, Lutherwood!

This week, both Rachel and Josiah will be at Lutherwood church camp, about 25 miles northwest of Eugene, for 5 days and 4 nights. It will be the first extended over-niter without parents or close family members for Rachel, and the first one ever for Josiah. It is a significant milestone for the kids and us, their parents.

Monday, their first full day at camp, Jane and I spent a blissful, unfettered, unstructured day in Portland. I was able to catch the early showing of the latest Batman movie without first needing to go through complicated negotiations with her about childcare duties.

The next day I woke up with a disquieting feeling. One would think that a week of reprieve from being a parent would be cause for celebration. But, being a dad is such a big part of my daily routine that being cut off from any direct contact with the kids, I felt rudderless without any clear sense of purpose. It wasn't clear to me at first why I felt so melancholy. I think it was because for the first time in their lives, they will be making decisions on how to spend their time and who to spend it with. They will be eating, sleeping, and interacting day and night with unfamiliar peers, trying to belong, but being unclear on how best to make that happen.

When I was their age, and even into adulthood, thrown into similar situations, I would usually withdraw inward and count the days until the end of the ordeal. My worst fears are that one or both of them would be feeling the same as I had, experiencing difficulties bonding and connecting with the other campers, feeling that they don't really belong, and eventually finding themselves on the outside looking in.

Fortunately, later in the day, the camp staff posted pictures of campers on their Facebook page. I felt a great wave of relief washed over me when I saw pictures of Rachel and Josiah smiling, engaging, and very much immersing themselves into the whole Camp Lutherwood experience.

I Hate Rats

I don't have a lot of phobias, anxieties aplenty, but phobias I have a bonafide one. I am terrified of rats. Like many things, my fear of rats probably stems from childhood. In 1965, my family immigrated to the U.S. when I was eight years old. We stayed with my uncle Phillip's family, who had sponsored us, at his home in rural Springfield for most of that first year, and then moved into a rental house in the center of town at 305 "E" Street. The house was small, no more than 800 square feet, dilapidated, and next to a busy street and railroad tracks. It was home to our family of 8 for the next 3 years (Our youngest sister, Ling, wasn't born when we first moved to the house).

In the "E" street house, my parents and baby John slept in one bedroom, my 3 sisters in the only other bedroom, and my brother Fai and I slept in an alcove next to the kitchen. The house was so run down, and with so many kids, it was impossible to keep clean. It was always dank and musty. At night, the rats would get active and you could hear them scratching and scampering inside the walls. In the morning, fresh black droppings could be seen scattered along where the walls meet the floor. My father would bait these huge spring loaded rat traps and set them out at night. The next day, more often than not, we would find a stiff, large, mangy, black rat bisected just below its arms or the neck in one of these traps. If you got close enough, you could make out their buggy lifeless eyes,  razor sharp front upper teeth, and many times, bloody spittle out of the corners of their mouths, which maintained their death grins.

One memorable night, while asleep, I felt a quick sharp pain shooting up from my left foot. I thought I was dreaming. But, in the morning, I noticed that the big toe was covered in wet crimson. Horrified, I concluded a rat's bite was the unthinkable cause of the previous night's pain and the following morning's blood letting. That singular event cemented my lifelong hatred and disgust of rats. To this day, I live by the axiom, "The only good rat is a dead rat".

Josiah

My nine year old son, Josiah, is an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, encased in an energetic body, guided by an inquisitive mind, infused with an indomitable spirit, strengthened with self determination, gifted with a talent for music, filled with the joys of life's simple pleasures, blessed with a loving soul, cherished by his family, and embraced by God.

(Josiah painted this portrait of me for Father's Day. I must say, it is a remarkable likeness)

Death, Taxes, and Beef Jerky

We are told that there are only two guarantees in life, death and taxes. But, at least for me, for the past four years beef jerky for Father's Day is the third life guarantee. Every June, I am asked what I want for Father's Day, each and every time I would answer "beef jerky" and could count on getting it on that sacred day of all days. And just as certain, two days, at most three days after Father's Day, all the jerky would be gone because my kids had devoured it by the fistfuls to the very last smoky sinew.

This past Father's Day, inside a brightly colored gift bag, delicately wrapped in snowy white tissue paper was my long anticipated 3/4 pound of untouched "old fashioned" beef jerky from Freddie's. The Epicurean delight itself was vacuumed sealed in a hefty protective plastic bag equipped with the ever brilliant "FreshLock" zip lock (an ingenious invention to keep the freshness in after the bag's been opened).

Predictably, the next day the shameless vultures cornered me and demanded their jerky. I confess here and now that I outright lied to them. I told them that I had lost the entire bag in transit coming home from our family beach vacation at Cannon Beach. The truth of it is, the precious cache is hidden in my underwear drawer, where I know they will never look. The last two weeks I have been slowly savoring these "smoke flavor added" tasty treats made from "solid strips of beef".

Hey, when it comes to desiccated bovine, it is the survival of the fittest, baby!

Fly...Fly...Fly Away Home

(Father's Day is next Sunday. That got me thinking about a time in the future when my children, one after the other, will leave the nest)


They linger in front of their house next to her car. For the fiftieth time the Father reminds her not to drive more than 300 miles a day, take plenty of rest stops, don't pick up any hitchhikers, and to call them every night until she got to her destination. The daughter looks tenderly into his eyes, smiles at him lovingly, hugs him one last time, and settles into the driver's seat.

It seems to the Father such a short time ago when he and her mother went to Wuhan, China to bring her home to live with them. She was a beautiful, bright, sparkly infant, and that has not changed through the years. Seventeen years went by in a blur. Three months ago she graduated from high school, today she sets out on a solo cross country trip to attend college on the East Coast.

Peeking out the back window of her car is her beloved teddy bear, Bamboo. It was given to her by a family friend when she was just a year old and still living in their first home in the Concordia neighborhood. Ignored and dismissed for the first few months, but inexplicably one day, he was given a gender and a name, and became the Chosen One of her many toys. Through the years Bamboo has been her constant companion and confidant. He has soaked up an ocean of tears and rejoiced in countless breathless hugs as he shared the peaks and valleys of her childhood and teenage years. More than a few times, the tears were brought on by the invariable conflicts that occur between a father and his daughter. At those times, he was the outsider, standing on the other side of her bedroom door while she buried her tear stained face into her Bamboo. He had been envious of the bear then and of the bear's total access to his precious daughter. He knew it was silly to be jealous of an inanimate object, but he couldn't help it. And now, Bamboo is again going to be with her while he will be even further away.

The Father allows himself a smile when he notices that Bamboo and he have aged similarly through the years. The bear's once luxurious dark brown fur is now a dirt colored, matted mess. Gravity and wear have taken a toll as well. The full stuffing that once gave him form is now compressed and have settled into his mid section, giving him a pear shaped body with a hollow chest and a lumpy stomach. But, one thing that has not changed are the bear's eyes. They are still warm and accepting. For once, the Father is glad that she is taking her bear. Bamboo will be a tangible tie to her childhood when she's far away from her family and friends. The bear will be able to comfort her during those trying times in a strange city when the Father couldn't.

A short tap of the car horn, followed by her bare waving arm brought him back to the present.  A few seconds later, a right turn, and she was gone. The Father turns to his wife, she hugs him tight, the dam breaks, and the tears flow freely.

Come Out, Come Out, Where Ever You Are....

My kids' piano recital was postponed to a later date that will not work for us. On a whim, I suggested to Jane that we should have a private recital at our house instead. To keep it small, I was thinking of just inviting my sister Ling, her husband, and the Wheelers with their young daughter, Clara. But, by the morning of the gathering, my wife and children have expanded the guest list, which happens to also exponentially expanded my stress level. You see, to say that I am not good at social events is an understatement.  It is very painful for me to mingle. When you add the responsibility of hosting, my heart rate goes up, I hyperventilate, and my skin gets clammy.

Eighteen years ago, I hosted a New Year's Eve gathering at my house. It was an excruciating wait until midnight. As soon as the clock struck twelve, and after my guests got to bang on a few pots and pans, I, not so subtlety, ushered them to their cars. I think they were all gone by five after twelve.  Another time, I had some family and co-workers over for a Christmas event. We pretty much sat around in a circle, munched on peanuts, and stared at each other. Judging by the amount of social interactions taking place at the time, an outsider looking on could easily have mistaken us for a 12 step group, and not an effective one at that. It still haunts me years later, I have nightmares.

I am very much an introvert. Left to my own devices, I could easily recluse myself from any human contact and hibernate for an entire weekend. That was frequently the case before I was married. It was not necessary good for me, but, when it comes to socialization, it is my natural level of stasis.

I don't want that for my children. I want them to learn to socialize, to have friends, and to fill their weekends with fun and interesting people. So, for their sake, I am going to drain this glass of social lubricant, today it's Merlot, push myself away from this keyboard, and mingle.....

Alphabet Man

The "Oregonian", Portland's daily, runs an occasional column in the Living/Styles section titled "My Workout", which features compulsive Portlanders touting their obsessive diet and exercise regiments. Several years ago the column featured a "V" shaped, broad shoulders and tapered waist, 50 year old man navigating a foaming river, solo, in a canoe.  In the column, this man flaunted that he worked out at least 2 hours a day, never touched red meat or alcohol, ate only organic produce, and religiously took a daily Omega-3 fish oil supplement. His dietary indulgences were a weekly small non-fat latte, and on "special occasions", half a bar of dark chocolate.

I was about 46 years old at the time, I remember showing the picture of "V" man to my wife, and telling her that I want to have a body like that when I am 50. I am now 54 and my upper body does not remotely resemble that coveted letter. On my best days, in forgiving lighting, standing in front of my favorite mirror, and at just the right angle, I could almost convince myself that I could be a "U" man.

Planning ahead to when I turn 60, I think I am going to aim more towards the front of the alphabet.......

Sisters of a Different Kind

What is the deal with "Sister Cities"? I read in the paper recently that my hometown, Portland, Oregon, has nine "sisters" scattered throughout  four Continents. What actually transpires in these sibling relationships? Would Portland ever visit her sisters, sleep on their couches, eat all their food, and drink all their booze? Would all the sisters ever decide to go to France for a girls night out? If Portland asks Suzhou to be her maid of honor at her wedding, would Sapporo, Guadalajara, Bologna, and the rest be offended that they are just bridesmaids?

While we are on this subject, why is there no "Brother Cities"?

War of Words

Another war of words breaks out between me and my 9 year old daughter, Rachel, over piano practice. With me haranguing her to persevere and not give up on the harder pieces, she counters by declaring that she doesn't have to do what she doesn't want to do. A few tearful rounds ensue, and in mid argument, she accuses me of rude inattentiveness. Instead of listening to what she is saying at the moment, she claims, I am just doing math problems in my head!

Rachel....dear, I am a Geezer Dad. I can't even keep my own cell phone number in my head, let alone solve long division.

Name Change

Last August was the last time I posted, I am thinking my blog needs a new name. Seeing that no one has left comments on my previous posts, one may ask the point of it all. Since most of my posts have to do with interactions with my 9 year old children, the new name is more reflective of the topics I choose to write about.
Anyways, the act of writing down one's thoughts and musings is reason enough, if it is only to please myself.

All parents know that being one is not all peaches and cream. Sometimes you are mad, often times glad to be a father. I started out later in life than most. By the time my kids graduate from high school, I will be 5 months shy of my 63rd birthday, which explains the Geezer moniker.

To support my claim of being a Geezer Parent, I have both a PTA and an AARP membership card in my wallet. (I stole that line from my wife, Jane). Actually, I have neither. But, isn't that the beauty of posting in a blog that nobody reads, I could steal and embellish material from others.