Camping

Another adventurous weekend has come to an end.  With the Boy's school closed for the extended Easter weekend, we made the most of our time together, culminating in a camping trip on Monday night.  The Boy had never been camping before, and with the weather a balmy and sunny mid-60s, he and I decided last minute that it would be the perfect day to give it a go.

So, we made our plans.  We began by making a list of everything we'd need to survive the adventure.  My list included the tent, two flashlights, sleeping bags and extra blankets.  His list consisted of marshmallows. 

We were set! 

After our lists were complete, we packed up and loaded our gear and eventually set out on our hike toward the campsite.  We trekked together for a good jaunt, ending up at the far western edge of (drumroll) the backyard.  Whew! 

The Boy picked out a good flat spot under the stars and near the marshmallow cooking pit.  After staking down the tent (and returning to home-base for other necessary supplies including the DVD player, games, books, and Cheetos), we cooked up some hot dogs and sugary confections.  Camp-on-the-Highway was open for business!  Our nutritious meal digesting, we spent the wee hours of the late evening playing Chutes and Ladders, watching movies and eating junk food until drifting off to sleep around 10:30.  Or at least he did some drifting.

Being ever the victim of Murphy and his Law, Monday night was also the night that the neighbors to the south (and invited guests) decided to open up their backyard gazebo- and sand volleyball pit - for the first time this year and have a raucous party.  Until 2 in the morning.  On a Monday night.  Do these people not have jobs?  Of all the...not that the Boy heard any of it, though.  Only those of us with 35 year old backs trying to sleep on the hard ground took notice. 

And, it wouldn't be camping without an overnight rain storm.  Literally 5 minutes after I heard the last of the rowdy neighbors stumble toward their house to sleep off all that they had imbibed, thinking that I could finally get some shut-eye, the wind began to howl and the rain began its plunking and spattering against the tent fabric. 

Nice.

When we awoke the next morning (and by "awoke" I mean he awoke, I was still just laying there watching it get slightly lighter outside, sigh)- with the temperature hovering around the freezing point and the tent doing a below-average job of keeping the rain out - we made a break for homebase, abandoning our water-absorbent gear to the mercy of the elements. 

Overall, we had an outstanding fun time - definitely something he'll remember.  He was extremely proud of himself for staying outside for the whole night and wants to do it again.  Which is Excellent.  My favorite part?  Walking the 50 or so feet back to the house and taking a hot shower and getting the coffee pot going. 

Ah, camping. 

I confess that the neighbors were lucky it was still raining at 7:00 am when we headed indoors.  While lying there listening to them clank beer bottles around and play midnight volleyball under their bleeping floodlight with music blaring, I was secretly plotting revenge from the other side of the fence.  Amongst my sinisterly less-than-appropriate fantasies involving a chainsaw and/or gasoline and matches to burn down their gazebo, I had settled on doing some spring yard work with my extremely loud leaf-blower near their bedroom windows.  Had it only stopped raining. 

So, here's some pictures of the past few days, starting with a couple of obligatory Easter shots.  I hope your weekend was equally memorable!

The Boy had a wonderful Easter with his cousins in Northfield on Sunday.  Definitely one of the highlights for the adventurous lot was discovering the storm drain in Grandma's backyard and all of its inherent echo-iness.

It's universal for 5 year olds that during an Egg Hunt you are required to stop after each find and take inventory.  And then eat inventory.



Before the camping trip on Monday, the Boy decided he wanted to eat at the driveway-drive-thru.  I'm not to proud to flip pretend burgers and serve them out the living room window...would you like fries with that? 





And on to camping!  Here's to you, oh mighty campfire!  Thank you for your ability to melt things.

And here's the finished set-up.  I'd like to believe we were perched on a cliff side, deep into the heart of the northwoods.  Here we are,  just off the trail, after a long day backpacking our gear and rations in.  Please ignore the evidence to the contrary, namely the woodpile.....the well manicured lawn....the chain link fence with highway views....the orange power cord entering the tent....nothing to see here....




Definitely my kind of camping.  We're really roughing it here -  I mean, seriously - look how small that screen is!  We can hardly see it! 

 

Sunrise, Sunset

So, it snowed last night.  Silly Minnesota.  About 2 inches of the white stuff flocked the trees overnight, and now with the mid-morning wind picking up and warming the air, it looks like Snowmageddon, with giant white clumps leaving their tree roosts and hurling themselves toward the unsuspecting ground. 

Snowbombs.  Awesome.

The Boy was equally unhappy with the weather this morning.  His exact comment as he climbed the stairs from his basement domain and caught a glimpse of the trees and yard:  "What?  No-ooo.  No no no.  This can NOT be happening again.  (one second pause, then turn to face kitchen) Can I have strawberries for breakfast or are those a dessert?"

And so the snow plops to the ground, melting on contact with anything previously sun-warmed.  It's supposed to rain in the next few hours/overnight.  Winter's last gasp.  It will all be over soon, and while the winter every year seems to drag on forever while in the middle of it, really it did go by fast on reflection. 

Speaking of fast, The Boy is nearing the end of Year Two of his pre-school.  How is that even possible?  It wasn't that long ago that we brought our trembling little 3 year old to the school for a visit, his tiny body fighting back tears brought on just by sitting on the floor with these strange new faces for "morning meeting", and me and the missus just standing there shell-shocked about how old he was getting.  Now, he's a 5+ year old, his confidence and courage booming, (sometimes to an aggravating fault) and we're drawing the pre-school chapter to a close in only a few short weeks. 

And I suppose that'll be good.  Let one school build him up, and then ship him off to a new one to rejoin the trembling newcomers.  I know we'll look back at this transition - and then the next from Kindergartner to grade-schooler, and then the next....and wonder at how fast things seem to move, like April snow plopping from the trees.  His mom's family has a tradition of singing "Sunrise, Sunset" to each other at milestones like this, I can hear them now...

The Boy finished his strawberries and begrudgingly put on his winter coat and hat, lamenting that he "was just wearing shorts and flip flops last week!".  He seemed to know that this new snow didn't stand a chance against the looming summer, announcing that he wasn't even going to bother making a snowman at school because it would melt before he got it finished. 

He's so right.

File under Drown, Attempt Not To

For a significant portion of my early grade school years, my family lived up over the hills of Duluth in a rural area called Pike Lake, cleverly named as such because, well, there was a lake in the middle of it.  Called Pike.  Genius, that.  We didn't live on the lake - no, no.  That was reserved (in my elementary eyes) for the uber-rich and uber-lucky, like professional hockey players and Italians that sold frozen pizzas.  Seriously.

And both Grandmas and Grandpas.  The nice thing about having both Grandmas and Grandpas living on the lake's northside, besides being able to tell all my friends that both my Grandmas and Grandpas lived on the lake's northside, was that I had free access to the beaches pretty much every day of every summer that wasn't a thunderstorm.  I remember when I learned how to swim, around the Boy's age.

I didn't have much choice in the matter.  When you "grow up on the lake", you learn how to swim in the following series of steps: 

Step One:  Get in the water.  And do it quickly, because your cousins, including some of the younger ones, already did, and you don't want to look Chicken.

Step Two:  Don't drown.

That's it.  Congratulations, you're a swimmer!  No instructors.  No lifeguards or Life Vests or Kickboards or Lane Dividers.  You just jump in.  Sink or swim.  (Or more literally - sink and then swim).  

Honestly, not until I was an adult, having moved to the safely-lit suburbs of an Urban Cultural Center, did I discover that people actually paid other people to teach them how to swim.  In chlorine!  With strangers!  And you had to shower first!  With strangers!  In a locker room!

Shudder.

So, anyway, the Boy, being an Urbanly Cultured lad, had his first "swimming lesson" back on Saturday.  A "rite of passage", my wife calls it.  An exercise to be labelled and filed under Drown, Attempt Not To.

And I will say, he composed himself very well, given the situation.  First, I'll start by saying he absolutely loves the water; has a blast whenever he goes "swimming" with his cousins in the Shoreview pool or his cousins in Duluth.  He even loves the Log Flume at the MegaSuperHugeAndUnnecessaryMall in Bloomington.  But even at his young age of (as he calls it) "halfway past five", I saw that he could sense just how unnatural and contrived a "swimming lesson" can be.  He was very unhappy about the whole experience, this Boy that loves water, and I'm just hoping we aren't ruining future visits to water parks for him. 

And I'll say in his defense, while sitting just beyond the Splash Zone,  the whole environment bordered on surreal.  I would've hated it too.

Where to begin.  Hmm.  Oh, how about the instructor?  I have never - NEVER - heard a voice like hers.  The closest comparison I can think of is Alvin - of chipmunk fame - after sucking the life out of a helium balloon.   I imagined dogs in the neighborhood barking at the wind, picking out phrases of hers that were beyond human capacity to actually hear.  It was all vowels, the consonants completely lost, tied up in knots in the back of her tightly pinched larynx.  Maybe that helps the kids focus or something. 

Like when they hear helium-Alvin say:  "o-HAY!  Nah ley's AH foh AHN ow ACKS!!!" (translation:  OK, now let's all float on our backs!), the students are so intensely focused on NOT allowing their ear drums to burst that they forget to splash each other in the eyes for a moment.  Excellent teaching strategy, I suppose, to keep the kids' fingers in their ears.

And add to that, the parent next to me.  Poor guy.  I'll start by saying that he's probably a good guy.  Pays his Taxes.  Drives the Speed Limit.  And definitely a Dedicated Dad.  He's here, after all, sacrificing his Saturday morning watching his boy or girl Not Drown.  But the book he's reading to pass the time?  I kid you not - it's called How to Read a Book.

Fail.

How to Read a Book?  A book called HOW to READ a BOOK?  The irony-meter in my head had mercury busting through the top like a cartoon.  So.  Many.  Jokes. 

Like I wonder if they have an audio version?  With a bonus disc called "How to Listen to a Narrator"?

Or, Did he know to start on the left and move his eyes toward the right?  I'll bet there's a helpful navigation on the last page that says "If you are reading this, and you haven't read anything else to this point, you've started in the wrong place.  Please close this book, flip it over, and then re-open it again from the other side."

Or those helpful hand diagrams near the top of the first few pages that illustrate how to grab the corner, and in a gentle sweeping motion, pull Page One to the left, thereby uncovering Page Two?  Ha ha!!!

I have more.

But I won't.  Go there.

Back to swimming.  The Boy survived (both in the physical Not Drown sense, and in the emotional I Need to Get Through This Somehow Without a Complete Nuclear Meltdown into a Nervous Puddle of Brain Mush Like I'm Sure Will Also Occur the First Time I Want to Ask a Girl on a Date or Ask Dad for the Car Keys or Have to Give a Speech in 3rd Grade About Squirrel Habitats or President Eisenhower or Why I Love Minnesota sense), and did all of his proper kicking and back-floating and get-face-wetting. 

Once he was away from all the other kids, safely with Dad on the way to the locker room to reclaim his civilian clothes, he lost his composure, melting into sorrow about how NOT fun that was.  I couldn't help but agree.  After re-dressing, (I won't even START to describe the anxiety I felt, returning for the first time in 20 years to a boys' locker room), we soothed his nerves with a surprise trip to get ice cream.

Sigh.  Only 5 more weeks to go.  I'm going to need some Dairy Queen coupons if you have any.

Oh, and the guy was actually highlighting things!  I can hardly stand it!  Must! Make! Fun! Of!

Heh.  Highlighting must have been in Chapter One of the book, titled "How to Look Serious When Reading".  I imagine there exists a  paragraph that kindly warns purchasers that reading an ironic book in public could lead to ridicule from strangers.  It continues:  

"Therefore, we strongly recommend that if you are reading a book called How To Read a Book, in a public place, that you carefully color with (the attached) bright yellow marker.  This is called Collegiate Highlighting.  To achieve the desired effect of Not Looking Like a Complete Imbecile, be sure to highlight whole sentences, starting with the first sentence of each new paragraph you encounter and also anything that's printed really dark.  This is called bolding. (highlight this)  We recommend you also have a pencil handy to write small incoherent notes to yourself in the narrow white space to the left and right of the big clumps of words.  These are called margins. (highlight this)..." 

OK, I'll stop.  Just too easy. 

Have a great Monday everyone!  Don't drown.  Or at least attempt not to.

This is the Big One!

So, as many of you kind readers know, I've been a stay-at-home dad since last September.  Of course, that's just my ego-protective way of saying "unemployed", but still, it's been a grand adventure waiting for the Next Big Thing. 

And today I get to announce, with my wife's reluctant permission, the Next Big Thing for our family.  Yesterday, I was offered a position at a start-up company.  The pay is decent, not great.  The benefits are shady, but they are at least...existent.  

The only drawback is that the position is located just outside Anchorage, Alaska.

So, with excited hearts and a healthy dose of concern, we are packing up the family and heading North!  I truly believe it is Murphy's law that is driving us up the Alaskan Highway, what with all my complaining about the cold and snow.  Thankfully, we'll have housing paid for us - a small place, one bedroom and a kitchenette in the cabin.  Our nearest neighbor for this little adventure in the mountains, I've been told, is about 20 miles to the south. 

We leave mid-May after they have the road cleared.  We have a whirlwind of things to do before then - sell or rent the house and cars (the only road into our place requires an ATV or Jeep), get a Jeep, and arrange for storage and/or sell off all our furniture in order to downsize into the 350 sq ft cabin. 

Oh, and my wife is having triplets we just found out at our ultrasound appointment last Tuesday. 

Oh, and it's April First, which makes me realize I've got lots of packing to do! 

Or not. :-)

Strong-arm parenting is so 1950s

Look how strong I am, Dad!

I learned a while ago that this particular sentence warrants immediate attention.  Regardless of the tie-score- and-under-a-minute-to-play of one's March Madness bracket busting game.  Regardless of the food burning on the stove.  Or phone ringing or bathroom beckoning.  If you here this sentence, as the Parent of a 5-year old Boy, you pay attention. 

This particular time, yesterday, the Boy had managed to lift a wooden end table and was holding it upside-down over his head.  Standing on the couch.  His biceps were quivering.

Wow, that's pretty strong, I said in as even a tone as I could muster while very nonchalantly RACING over to him to save him from imminent blood-letting.  I took the table from his hands, much to his chagrin. 

I wanted to put it down myself, he harrumphed. 

Sorry, Boy, it was too big, it would've crashed.

No it wouldn't.

You don't know that.  You don't know that it wouldn't have crashed.

Yes I do know it.  I know everything.

Everything?

Everything!  You don't have to tell me anything else ever again!  I know everything!

And with this proclamation, we've apparently entered the teenage years.  He knows everything now, my job is done!  I'd always heard that you learn everything you need to know in kindergarten, which he doesn't start until fall. 

He's so advanced. 

Stomping from the room, he also added I'll worry about me, you worry about you.  For one incredibly tempting moment, I thought about saying "see ya in a couple hours then" and leaving in the van.

I didn't.

Speaking of stomping, I still don't have my car back from the mechanic yet.  Two weeks ago today I dropped that blessed car off to fix an electrical problem.  A week ago today, I wrote that I thought it would be done, and then the mechanic called to say it was done.  Before I could leave my house to walk there and pick it up, they'd called again to let me know they couldn't get it started.  Again.  Three (or more) attempted solutions later, they still cannot figure out what's causing it to short out.  Other than being a 17 year old Oldsmobile, I don't know what it could be either, so there it sits. 

If I was strong enough to lift it over my head, I'd drop it in a ravine.

Sigh.

Curse you, Perry the Platypus!

In Minneapolis today, the second day of spring with flood warnings on full throttle, we have a winter storm.  Cold and blustery, heavy and wet snow, treacherous roads.  Feel free to thank me, because I caused it. 

Not with wizardry, but with the Law of Murphy.  You see, I mistakenly brought the family Astrovan through the car wash on Monday.  This is something I rarely do, not liking to spend the money, preferring to use the hose in the driveway.  So, in the winter, I'll usually watch a weather forecast first, to be sure the roads will stay dry long enough to justify the 7 or 8 bucks needed to wash the salty grime off the White Wonder.  I'm pretty sure this storm would have stayed north had I not sprung for the Deluxe+Undercarriage.

Also contributing to the stormy weather, it's Picture Day at the Boy's pre-school, the annual newly-pressed-and-collared-shirt and the What-can-the-boy-eat-for-breakfast-that-won't-leak-down-his-chin Rite of Passage day, to be memorialized in scrapbooks and on grandmotherly walls for decades to come.  

Someday in the distant future, the Boy's wife will look at today's picture in the orange polo and spiky, gooped-up hair and see just how cute her darling husband was as a 5 year old.  What she won't know is that the winds were gusting to 20 knots with swirling wet snow.  Only on picture day. 

But anyway, that's not what I wanted to blog about this week.  I'll leave the SNOMG's for facebook, as I'm sure your newsfeed is filling up as fast as mine with harrowing adventures and pinings for warmer weather and empty promises to move south. 

This week, I decided on what I was going to 'give up' for Lent.  I haven't typically observed any fasting rituals (hence the present waistline, I suppose), probably because I'm usually still sulking over a too recently failed New Year's Resolution.  But this year, I decided to stop swearing.  I don't swear all that much, but recently I've noticed that when something isn't going my way (for example, the mere presence of another vehicle on the highway in MY lane....a slow computer....exercise) I've been muttering curses to the wind.  Which doesn't help, just makes me more miserable.  So, last Wednesday, I decided not to swear anymore.

Enter Murphy.

It wasn't even an hour after I committed this to myself quietly that my car wouldn't start.  At the library.  With no cell phone. 

And then after 20 minutes of threatening the scrapyard,  it finally started.  But wouldn't stay running.  Unless I kept the engine revving.  Like at 3000 rpm.  So, I began my trip to the mechanic, only a mile or so down the road from the library, revving in neutral like a teenager at every stoplight and popping it into Drive when it turned green. 

Enter Murphy. 

This time, he manifested himself as a Spring Lake Park police officer with no sense of humor as to why I was barreling through his quiet neighborhoods, engine screaming.   He asked me to turn off the engine, of course.  I could actually see the mechanic's parking lot a block away.   I was able to convince him to let me keep it revved up, in neutral. 

After collecting my violation along with a brochure titled "You've Received a Citation in Anoka County - What's Next?" I proceeded to the mechanic.  I know them on a first name basis, unfortunately. 

"What's Next" is right.  Ah, Murphy, there you are. 

They didn't have time to look at it right away.  I didn't have a coat on, or gloves, or a hat, but walked home a mile because I don't have a cell phone to call anyone.

Fast forward a week, and they still have the car.  I finally got a diagnosis yesterday (they had been working at it, but couldn't figure out what was wrong with it), and Murphy, cleverly disguised as a broken catalytic converter, is charging me around 500 bucks to get it road worthy again.

Murphy?  Is that you?

Yes.  Yes it is.  My prediction is that the Olds will be done today.  Why will it be done today?  Because my plan has been to walk the 1.6 miles to pick it up while the Boy and my wife are navigating their separate workdays and not returning home until after 5, when of course the shop closes.  Couldn't be worse weather.

But anyway, as far as small victories go, I haven't been cursing through any of these trifles.  Just inconveniences, I tell myself.  Having the best day ever.  

Okay, so maybe one or two slips here and there - mostly during the "Ab Ripper" part of the P90X program. (if you've done their banana roll/superman, you have my pity)  But overall, my mood has improved as a result of Lent, I swear.  

I mean, I don't swear.

(If you find yourself wondering what the title of this entry is referencing along with some of my cleverly pilfered phrasing, you NEED to watch Phineas and Ferb on the Disney channel.  Brilliantly insightful comedy for all ages.  You can click on this sentence to get acquainted.)

A humbling week

About two years ago, I was mesmerized by an infomercial for the P90X exercise system.  If you've heard of it, you know that it is - to put it nicely - rigorous.  (click here if you don't know what it is).  I actually watched the whole 1/2 hour sales pitch.  Two years later, with lots of time on my hands while the Boy is at school 3 days a week, I finally pulled the trigger and purchased the set of 13 1-hour long exercise DVDs.  I started the program last Wednesday. 

Today, I cannot lift my arms above my shoulders.  Which makes me angry.  But I suppose that means it's working?  Yeah, angry angry swear at the ceiling working.   I knew I was out of shape - have been my whole life - but come ON.  It's very humbling.

I think that's been the theme for this last week - humbling.  Everything happening in Japan is making me feel very small.  Humbling.  Learning that the 2 year old daughter of close friends is beginning chemotherapy today for newly diagnosed Leukemia.  Extremely humbling.  And watching my wife fight through nausea, picking up an extra class to teach and working through most of her 'spring break' is humbling. 

Oh, nausea?  I should probably explain that.  The Boy is about to have his universe rocked from it's self-centered axis this October, as he will become a big brother to the growing baby inside Mommy.  It's fascinating to watch him try to comprehend how exactly that happens.  When we announced our pregnancy to him last week, using pictures and diagrams from the Pregnancy Week by Week book, he had some Very. Specific. Questions.  Here are some of the gems he's shared with me and/or my wife at bedtime over the last couple of days:

Why does he have a power cord?  What is he plugged into?

How does he climb up to drink from your milkbags?  Do all mommies have milkbags?

Is he going to want to play with some of my toys?  Because I can probably pick some that he won't break.

What does he do all day in there? 

Is he cold because he's naked?

How can he be as small as a grape?  That's not even possible.

I don't want to be a brother.  I told you already, I want to be an astronaut.

How will you know when he's ready to come out? (quickly followed by the dreaded:  WHERE does he come out?)

I'm sure over the next several months, there will be several other observations and questions from the brilliant mind of the Boy, so I'll be sure to share them here (unless they get uniquely inappropriate for a general audience, of course :-) 

Also in the next several months, our parenting roles will likely switch, with my wife staying home with the newborn and me returning to the commuter's paradise known as "a real job."  So if you know of anything....

Winter is dumb.

I don't remember what my yard looks like without snow.  I'm sitting here, staring out the window into my frozen backyard.  Hating it.   Another 3-6" tomorrow?  Hating it.

The Boy, in keeping with his Mini-Me persona, hates winter too.  Doesn't like to be out in the snow - odd for an otherwise active little boy I suppose.  Others may call it odd, I call it intelligent.  Winter sports are inherently, well, dumb. 

Skiing?  Shyah right. Who's the first dolt that thought of that one? 

"Hey Bob, I got an idea, eh?  Why don't you strap these slippery sticks to your feet and slide down this here mountain?"  

"Sure, sounds like fun.  But how will I not end up killing myself, eh?"

 "Um, bend your knees?"  

"Ah, OK then.  But what if I'm falling sideways?" 

"Here - take these fishing spears with you.  That-ought-a-do-er." 

"Gee, thanks!  See you at the boooooootttttoooooooooommmmmmmm!!!"

Ice skating is equally inane, another stroke of frozen-brained genius.  Having trouble standing up on the ice?  How 'bout standing on these knife blades, that should help!  Seriously.  And when that got boring, they started carrying wooden sticks around and hitting a frozen cowpie at each other.  Called it hockey. 

Or how about that conversation for the first attempt at luge?

"Larry, come here."

"Yes, Barry?"

"I want you to lay down on your back on this plank."

"What for, Barry?"

"I made an ice chute for you to slide down this mountain."

"Sounds fun!  Lay down like this?"

"No, on your back.  And feet first."

"But I can't see where I'm going."

"That's okay Larry.  Just steer with your feet."

"Ah, thanks Barry.  Off we go, then."


I won't even mention ski JUMPING, but I'm definitely convinced the inventors of these 'sports' were orthopedic surgeons. 

Library Day

The Boy and I visited one of the Anoka County libraries yesterday afternoon, mostly to kill time between meals.  (And it's a wholesome, educational place blah yadda blah.  That too, of course).   I will say he selected some interesting books to borrow for the next week or two.  He is currently very interested in Ice Cream, Auto Mechanics, and the light bulb, and he has found books on each topic.  I don't know which is more surprising - that someone would be willing to pay someone to write a book about a light bulb, or that someone would be willing to write it at all.  But I guess I'm glad they did, the Boy loves it.

Anyway, to get to my main beef today - what's the deal with the librarians in the children's section?  Did they ever like kids?  Maybe at one point they loved children, but that has long since disappeared, it seems, swallowed up by their greater love of silence and order.  While sitting with the Boy on a miniature chair at a miniature table feeling a bit Jolly White Giant-ish, I couldn't help but overhear the two librarian women as they very obviously and rather boldly discussed the behavioral faults of what they perceived to be a troublesome foursome of 8 year old girls that were giggling.  While reading a book.  And sitting.

Oh, the humanity. 

And here, sitting at their reference desk throne are these two stereotypes - mousy faces, unexercised bodies, graying hair pulled into a way-too-tight ponytail/bun that they probably never remove even for shampooing, large-rimmed glasses, floral blouses, thrift store slacks, actually scoffing - scoffing! - at the girls' nerve to (gasp!) make sound.  While reading. 

I almost said something.  It's not like they were playing hopscotch.  Or tag.  Or arson.  But I enjoy confrontation about as much as snowmen enjoy 4th of July, and so instead, I chose to passive-aggressively talk to the Boy louder.  It was loud enough where the Boy actually told me to talk softer "because it's the library, Dad".  Which of course I've said to him hundreds of times, witlessly indoctrinating him while young because after all, everyone knows it's The #1 Rule of the Library, which they probably teach in Library College on the first day of the intro class, So You Want to Be a Librarian 101. 

I'm sure the intro class has a textbook (which you probably can't check out because I'm sure it's classified as a reference book), with Chapter One titled How to Act Superior to the Cretins that Have the Audacity to Enter Your Dust Filled Kingdom, Even Though They Paid For It All With Their Tax Dollars, and Chapter Two:  The Art of Effective Shushing.  In it will be a picture of a disheveled marm of a woman completely overrun by young, boisterous readers because she, alas,  has not learned the proper "Eye of Condescension" technique.  The caption warns:  "Loudness breeds stupidity" or "Hitler Laughed at Picture Books.  Will you?"

I will no longer heed this particular rule, written or unwritten.   For the children.

Chapter Three, I'm positive, warns of parents like me.  I bet I end up with a mysterious 25 cent fine on my library account just for writing this. 

OJ Simpson was a terrific running back, turns out

I completely lack the DNA that others possess that allows them to throw out old things.  There, I said it.  I'm not ashamed.

I'm not a hoarder, mind you.  I don't save empty Happy Meal boxes or plastic wrap, and I'm not secretly raising a family of possums in the garden shed or have engineless cars parked in my yard or anything that would make me a star on The Learning Channel or A&E.   But I've proven, mostly to myself because no one else cares, that things have value way past their expiration dates.  I'm not talking about the hamburger in the bottom drawer of the fridge - that has an expiration date for a very good hospital avoiding reason.  I'm talking about the 1978 World Book Encyclopedia set that I've kept from childhood.  Going against my better judgment, I almost threw all 26 volumes out when we reorganized some book shelves a few weeks ago.  So glad I didn't. 

Boxed up and awaiting disposal in the garage, the Boy discovered them, and once again they are worth their weight in gold embossed page edges.  In the last 3 days, while recovering from the final stages of his strep-throat induced penicillin regiment, he has spent hours perusing S, P, and T.  Some favorites include Skeleton, Skull, Texas, Platypus, Snail, Turtle, Snake and Turbine.  The grainy 1970s black-and-white photography doesn't faze him one bit. 

For me, reading over his shoulder as he flips pages one by one has been excellent fun as well - catching excerpts about the latest technologies in Television (a total of 68 channels are available for TV broadcasting!) and the commentary about the edgy new show All in the Family, and how Television technology is just now starting to spread into developing places like Asia.  Another glimpse reminded me that OJ Simpson was a revered athlete and not just a Saturday Night Live spoof.   And the article called Satellite is about moons.  Heh. 

My favorite article has to be the one about the "personal snow plow" that "homeowners use to keep their driveways clear of snow in industrial regions within northern climates like Canada".  The picture (which has a really groovy mid-70s Olds Toronado parked in the background) is nearly identical to the Personal Snow Plow (apparently they weren't called snowblowers yet) that I once again have fully functioning thanks to a benevolent and mechanically apt friend.  After this weekend's cloud vomit, I'm glad I didn't throw that out either.