CRITTER CAPERS: Aunt Betty and the Mice PART II

From time to time when our parents wanted an opportunity to get away for an evening, Aunt Betty would come to the farm and babysit. She was actually my mom’s second cousin, but they grew up together and in a sign of respect, we children referred to her as Aunt Betty. Now Aunt Betty had to weigh every bit of 300 to 350 pounds. For a big woman, she was quick on her feet but could be somewhat awkward. We children loved our Aunt Betty because of two things. She was very warm and pleasant and she was an incredible cook. When we visited her home, she always had a freshly baked cake to share. And as a child, the cake looked like it had been built proportionally to Aunt Betty’s frame. It was huge! Now Aunt Betty brought one of her cakes with her for the visit and I hoped to get more than the one piece that children usually are allowed.

Aunt Betty was deathly afraid of mice. So, Aunt Betty asked me during dinner if I would mind staying awake with her in case the mice came out of the stove. So, after Aunt Betty settled my younger brothers and sister Diane at bedtime, Aunt Betty and I settled ourselves in the living room of the farmhouse for the evening. She could tell that I was struggling to stay awake with her. So, she pleaded with me not to fall asleep. I tried to stay awake as best I could. As we sat there, Aunt Betty shook me and said, “Buzzy. Listen. Can’t you hear that?” Sure enough, I could hear a faint scratching noise coming from the kitchen. We stood and peered around into the kitchen to have a peek. On the stove were two very small mice trying to get crumbs from under the electric burner. The scratching sound was from their tiny fingernails reaching for the small flecks of food from dinner. Aunt Betty turned red and panicked at the reality of her fears being in the next room. “Buzzy, you’ve got to do something!” Go in and shoo them away! Make them go away! I knew what would happen so I said, “Sure, Aunt Betty.” Just walking into the kitchen, the mice squeezed down into the stove through the opening between the porcelain top and the electric circular burner. I announced to Aunt Betty, “They’re gone now.” Aunt Betty peeked around the wall and seemed relieved at their disappearance. But at the same time, she continued to be anxious wondering when they would reappear. “Buzzy, you must stay awake.” And towards this end, she asked me if I wanted anything to eat that might help keep me awake. Food was a great motivator for the children in this family. And like any youngster with a sweet tooth, I saw this as a great opportunity. Now I didn’t want to go straight for Aunt Betty’s cake, so I thought I would start off with something little. “Oh, Aunt Betty. Why don’t you get me an apple. I think that will keep me awake.” Aunt Betty said, “Sure! I’ll get you an apple right away.” To be in the kitchen for the tiniest of moments, Aunt Betty would move in and out of the room as quickly as she could. It was funny to see Aunt Betty run as fast as she could to the refrigerator, because her body weight would jiggle. I remembered thinking this must be what Santa Claus is like getting around, you know, that belly shaking like a bowl full of jelly. Well, it wasn’t only the belly shaking, the arms and legs jiggled in a similar way. I remember that Aunt Betty always wore muumuus, which I’m sure was for comfort, ease of mobility and in this instance it seemed to work well for quick bursts into the kitchen. Many of the adults in our extended family were very large people. Girth was not viewed as a negative the way it is today. Our family viewed it as kind of a plus. To be large was like bigger than life. And then there was the jolliness that is usually associated with Santa. Big people were fun!

Well, after I finished the apple I went in for the kill. “Oh, Aunt Betty, Could I have a second piece of cake?” The cake Aunt Betty had brought to share was a white cake with coconut frosting and there were very thick layers of frosting between four cakes. She said, “Sure, Buzzy. Right away.” And she ran off to the cupboard. And true to form, she brought me a hunkin’ piece! I wasted no time getting this down thinking about whether I could parlay this into ice cream, too. Twenty minutes later, I queried, “Oh, Aunt Betty, why don’t you get me a dish of ice cream? That will help me stay awake.” And she said, “Sure, Buzzy right away.” And she ran off to the freezer to get some ice cream. Rather than the food working to keep me awake, it actually did the opposite. I could not hold my head up and began to fall asleep on the couch.

Aunt Betty was not happy, especially when the sounds started up again. I did not hear them the second time because I was asleep. “Buzzy, Buzzy, get up. Can you hear them?” She tugged on my arm and I kind of came out of the grogginess to find myself being pushed into the kitchen with Aunt Betty directly behind me. She managed to put a broom into my hands and wanted me to attack the mice on top of the stove. When I didn’t move quickly enough, she took the broom and started swinging at those mice. I can only imagine what those mice thought when they looked up to see this large woman in a brightly colored muumuu swinging a weapon of straw at their heads. Swoosh…Swoosh… back and forth she swung the broom. They dove into the stove. I don’t think she hit either of them. Aunt Betty turned from the stove to me. She said, “I brought you everything you asked for and you didn’t stay awake with me like you promised. Buzzy, are you a man or a mouse?”  I looked down at the kitchen floor pondering Aunt Betty’s question and shrugged my shoulders. I then looked up and said, “squeak, squeak.”

KENNYWOOD’S OPEN AND THE MAIDEN VOYAGE OF THE THUNDERBOLT

My extended family and I were recently at Kennywood Park for a school picnic, which made me think about my own Kennywood memories. When we Pittsburgh baby-boomers were children, there was nothing more exhilarating than the annual pilgrimage to Kennywood. Kennywood is an amusement park that goes back to the turn of the last century when blue-collar city dwellers would take a streetcar for a picnic in the countryside at the end of the trolley line. An amusement park followed and it is one of a handful of amusement parks listed in the National Register of Historical Places.
Kiddieland was the area of the park where young children began their Kennywood delight that included rides like the Turtle, the Whip and a miniature Ferris wheel, which had seats in the shape of little cages so the ride wouldn’t lose any of its preschoolers. One of my favorites, the name of which I cannot remember, was a miniature one-person train ride that ran on rails that looked just like train tracks. You powered the one-person train car with your arms. You sat with your feet forward and pumped your arms in a circular motion like you would on a bicycle. My brothers and I could make those cars go fast. And even though we were not supposed to bump into the car in front of us, we treated the experience like they were bumper cars. I was removed from the ride more times than I care to remember, but we would go back whenever the ride workers changed preventing recognition. We were definitely little hellions.

Then there was the food! Kennywood had pavilions to accommodate the picnic goers and all the families brought coolers of food, snacks and drinks. It was like Christmas, Easter and the fourth of July all rolled into one, a veritable edible paradise.
The park’s long history meant that grandparents had their own Kennywood memories that made the family elders as excited in anticipation of the school picnic as the children were. Our grandfather was a custodian at the high school and made sure we had plenty of tickets to ride, from the opening bell til well after the official close of the park. You could see the little kid gleam in his eyes living vicariously through is granchildren as the only ride his body could handle at that point included the Train, the Old Mill and the Potato-Patch. Yes, our family counts food stands as a ride, especially when tastey treats result in oohs and aahs only comparable to screams on a roller-coaster.
(As a sidebar, these oohs, aahs and screams, make we wonder who came up with the expression, Kennywood’s Open” to refer to one’s trouser zipper being down. As a child and even an adolescent, the meaning was completely lost on me. But through the years, I’ve never heard “Coney Island’s Open” or “Disneyland’s Open” or “Six-Flags’ Open.” If anyone knows the actually history of the expression, I’d appreciate a comment. Oh, by the way, I do get it now and find it more than apropos.)
Now, this brings me to an experience I had at Kennywood in the spring of 1968. I was fourteen years old and worked weekends and summers with my father in his brother’s construction company, Matta Fence. Matta Fence had a maintenance contract with the amusement park to install and repair fences. We had installed stockade fence in the train ride to simulate a fort, symbolizing the various forts during the French & Indian war that were prominent in the area’s history. The ride focused on some historical information from Braddock’s defeat, which occurred just across the Monongahela River from the park and not far from my home. Noah’s Ark had various chain-link arrangements within the ark to keep people from the displays. This spring was different in that we were installing a new fence around the new rollercoaster that replaced the Pippin. It was called the Thunderbolt and looked mighty fast and fine. As we dug holes to set the terminal posts and made wheel barrels of concrete, I could found myself trying to get brief glimpses of the rollercoaster car moving through its paces. The engineers were testing the ride to get it ready for opening day. As the noontime break approached, the engineers saw my interest and asked me if I’d like to take the coaster for a spin. I looked at my dad for his approval and given that it was lunch time, he smiled and nodded me to go with the engineers. I was anxious to get into the car and took the front seat, like most avid coaster riders. The three or four guys looked over the car and pressed the wooden bar that released the car for the ride to begin. I was thinkin’ to myself that I was taking the maiden voyage of the Thunderbolt and was probably the first person outside of the designers of the ride, the engineers or Kennywood employees to have this opportunity. There’s nothing like a little adolescent egocentrism to make a kid feel special. Like the Pippin, the Thunderbolt comes out of the gate and drops down a hill immediately after the ride begins. After a hill and additional drop, the car starts up a long hill. As it makes that distinct clicking sound of the gears while the car is pulled skyward, I try to look across the river to see if I can spot my house in North Braddock. As the coaster was being built, we saw the structure gradually extend above the horizon. When completed, the white planks looked pasted onto a blue sky. As the car levels off at the top, it starts down and hits the fastest of curves. This ride was originally designed to go through that curve at almost 70 miles an hour. A few years later, the engineers modified the speed to keep it to under 60 as the higher speeds were challenging many riders. When I went down the hill and into the legendary right curve, this coaster was clearly the fastest ride I had ever been in. The ride continues up and down and I notice my dad and some of the men walking away while I am still on the ride. I never gave it much thought, knowing that surely someone will be on the platform to let me off the ride. As it slows and comes around the turn that pulls it into the shelter where the loading platform is located, there is noone there. The coaster slows and then begins to go around for a second trip. I am both excited that I am going to get a second run on this new ride and curious that noone is sticking around to look after me. Well, my initial concern fades and I settle into fully enjoying this rollercoaster for the second time. It was as fast when the third, fourth and fifth time came around as the first and second. After three times around the track, my enjoyment begins to change to nausea. The ride quickly moves from the rush of elation to worry that I am going to be sick. I now find myself bracing for the drops and using the long hill as a breather from the fast, shaking movement. I hold onto the car with my arms extended outside, draped over it to minimize my experience of shaking inside the car. I thought to myself that this must be what it is like to be seasick.  I now realized that they all went to lunch and had decided that they would return after the entire break was over. I watched for anyone to pass by the ride, thinking that I might be able to get their attention by waving and maybe get some help. But noone ever passed by. When my dad and I took our lunch, it was usually an hour and I was praying Kennywood was not so generous. Maybe I would get lucky and their lunchtime would be a half-hour. 30 minutes came and went. Around and around and around the track I went. I’m actually getting nauseous as I write about it, re-experiencing the ride. I lost track after 17 or 18 trips. As lunchtime ended, I saw the men sauntering back across the midway towards the platform. As I can recall, the men were of two age groups, 30s or 50s. They took the same positions as they had when the ride began and I cannot begin to tell you how relieved I was when the ride finally came to a stop. I staggered out of the car like a drunken sailor on a moving ship struggling to find my balance. Everyone was laughing and one fella asked me how I liked the ride. I don’t remember what I said but quickly proceeded to find the stake-bed truck, which was NOT moving and layed down in the cab on the front seat. My dad came over, smiled and commented that it looked like I had had enough.
The maiden voyage that seemed like it would last forever was finally over! Afterwards, I wondered about whether it was like a cruel joke, where someone lures you into participating in something that you thought would be fun and then it becomes anything but. I didn’t expect adults to do this. Kids, I wouldn’t put past this kind of stunt, but not adults. It IS funny now, but it wasn’t then. Robert Hetrick, a friend of my brother’s was up visiting and at the park with our family. He thought it may have been a kind of hazing ritual like an initiation rite that guys sometimes use with novices. It’s possible, but in this case, what’s the point? Well, are there any Kennywood memories out there?
Kennywood Park continues to be one of my favorite destinations, in spite of my eternal Thunderbolt ride. My wife and I chuckled when we were eligible for the senior pass (55 and older). And yes, I find myself oohing and aahing over the fries at the Potato Patch and putting my hands in the air when the train goes around a curve. That’s about all I can handle now. But thank God, that at least for the foreseeable future, Kennywood’s Open!!

Here is a link to a portion of a WQED video on youtube about the Thunderbolt. The cameraman is clearly in the front seat to give you the right effect.

Gershwin’s “Summertime” performed by Dr. Tom Matta with the Mercyhurst Jazz Ensemble

I’ve been noting my fondness and love for gospel. But I must admit, there is absolutely nothing that beats singing with a live “jazz” band. I would love to sing gospel with one, but any of the ol’ songs from the early days of jazz, rhythm & blues or big band will do in a pinch. I had just such a chance twice in the last two years.

It started with my son who was attending Mercyhurst College where I teach. He’s been a boy with a beat in his diaper. He literally stood in front of the huge speakers from my stereo system putting out the Funk brothers sounds of the Temptations, Four Tops, Supremes, Smokey Robinson and others. He would stand there, diaper hanging low, a real-real low-rider, if you know what I mean moving back and forth, up and down right with the beat. So, this youngest child of ours becomes the piano playing, baritone sax maestro of the family. He actually did some training with Bruce Johnstone, the legendary baritone sax player who was with Maynard Ferguson for a number of years. Actually, I was able to attend a lesson Johnstone conducted with Scott and I will never forget it. He invited me in with Scott, my son, and had me take a seat. He then proceeded to turn both music stands around so that both Bruce Johnstone and my son, Scott, would place directly in front of me. And then they began to play. I may not have had a diaper on, but I was a low-rider for the next 50 minutes as they blew those notes into my chest, my lower torso, legs and feet. I could barely keep myself still as not to distract the two of them.

I digressed to give you some context for our family’s love of music. Scott, played with the Mercyhurst Jazz Ensemble all four years he did his undergraduate education. During his junior year, he asked me if I would like to audition for a Cab Calloway standard and I acquiesced. There was no way that I would approximate Calloway’s “Minnie the Moocher,”  but with the help of the other son, I soon came up with some moves of my own. And the mint green Zoot Suit definitely became part of my signature image.

You can take a look if you like.

Well, Scott is now doing graduate work at the University of Missouri in Columbia but an opportunity presented itself through the help of one Jax Brown and Dr. Scott Meier to audition for “Summertime,” the classic Gershwin tune from Porgy & Bess. I broke out the Zoot Suit once again and joined a number of other vocalists in the third annual Vocal Jazz Extravaganza. There are two videos here. One is a wide version and the second is more of a closeup, if you are up to it. Thanks go out to my son, Tommy for coming from Pittsburgh to the show and he and my wife took the two different shots. Enjoy!

Are you ready for some Gospel Music?

Well, it’s 2009 and I want to take the time to clue you in to some of the best gospel numbers and artists out there. Some of these are a couple of years old, but most are fairly recent. A number of them are done with a traditional gospel feel while others are very contemporary. There’s no mistaking how these songs of struggle, prayer & praise will move you and make you ponder God’s love, tenderness, grace and redemptive power through Jesus Christ. I’ve used Imeem to give you a listen, but you can go to iTunes for all of these. Imeem permits you if you signup to listen to the whole cut and iTunes gives you about 30 seconds, but many times that’s just enough to tell the difference between a so-so number and one that moves you. The Lord is good! Enjoy. Feel free to tell me what you think after you’ve had your chance to listen to some of these. And if you know of something that I just can’t live without, feel free to clue me in. You can never have too much of this music!

 

Jesus Promised Me A Home Over There by Jennifer Hudson http://www.imeem.com/jenniferhudson/music/Est035I3/jennifer_hudson_jesus_promised_me_a_home_over_there/           

Up Above My Head (There’s Music in the Air) by Ruthie Foster

http://www.imeem.com/bluesmusic/music/Q-Mg5Oj-/ruthie_foster_up_above_my_head_i_hear_music_in_the_air/         

Joy by Ruthie Foster

http://www.imeem.com/bluesmusic/music/N5tkOnAu/ruthie_foster_joy/ 

Mercy by James Ingram

 

I Want Jesus to Walk with Me by Eric Bibb

http://www.imeem.com/people/oJC9cdr/music/ucdxOcIC/eric_bibb_i_want_jesus_to_walk_with_me/

Just in the Nick of Time by Spencer Taylor & the Highway QCs

 

God is a Good God by Bishop Paul S. Morton, Sr. & the Full Gospel Baptist Church Fellowship Women’s  Mass Choir

http://www.imeem.com/majestic180/music/2SHK5WKR/bishop_paul_s_morton_god_is_a_good_god/  

Clean Inside by Hezekiah Walker & the Love Fellowship Choir

http://www.imeem.com/jukeboxmusic15/music/FosMFv61/hezekiah_walker_the_love_fellowship_crusade_choir_clean_in/  

What Did You Do? By Paul Porter

 

I’m Free by The Charlotte Chapter of the Gospel Music Workshop of America

 

Jesus is Sweeter by Nicki Tucker

 

God is Good by Regina Belle

http://www.imeem.com/soulmusic/music/90yafFy8/regina_belle_god_is_good/  

Get Up by God’s Image

 

Coming Home by Lizz Wright

http://www.imeem.com/people/k-TGaRV/music/ecKQ-LkL/lizz_wright_coming_home/

Walk with Me, Lord by Lizz Wright

http://www.imeem.com/jazzmusic5/music/SXm-dE6L/lizz_wright_walk_with_me_lord/ 

Sit Down, Servant by Mike Farris

 

Oh, Mary Don’t You Weep by Bruce Springsteen

 

Gotta Soul by Cynthia Jones

http://www.imeem.com/soulmusic/music/bbnANeVp/cynthia_jones_gotta_soul/

I Understand by Kim Burrell, Rance Allen, Bebe Winans,  

Mariah Carey & the Hezekiah Walker’s Love Fellowship Choir

http://www.imeem.com/soulmusic/music/tWGwFC0R/kim_burrell_i_understand/

            Sweeping Through the City by Shirley Caesar

 

Counseling is to men what rape is to women

I can still remember the middle-age man who accompanied his wife making this pronouncement prior to their first couples’ session. As it is with many men, they go to all doctors reluctantly, myself included and if it were not for women I think most of us men would die an additional 10 years earlier than we do already. But his comment struck me as significant and I have pondered this comment for many years. Most men come to counseling or therapy somewhat reluctantly. Others refuse to go altogether. Given the cultural messages given to men about the importance of self reliance and self sufficiency, it seems reasonable to assume that the idea of confiding to a relative stranger about anything personal or admitting “a need” for something or someone outside of one’s own strength could be troublesome. So, at first glance, therapy is viewed by this man as an anathema, something to be loathed.

Second, I am struck with the analogy of men who submit to counseling and a women who is raped. Rape is not only a violation of the woman’s body, but her very person. The rapist forces his will and threatens his female victim before, during and after the rape. The overwhelming sense of powerlessness follows the woman who has been raped for years afterwards. Many women report feeling a loss of innocence regarding intimate sexual contact that also impacts future lovemaking.

Staying with the analogy, the man who made the comment is making the statement that he is not here willingly and any engagement in intimate conversation and/or disclosure of private thoughts and feelings is AGAINST his will. The concern is that by participating in the conversation of therapy, the man will be mind f—ked. He is concerned how the process of therapy will change him forever altering his personality or identity to something he would not approve of for he would no longer be himself. Although no one else has articulated this cliché for me in quite this manner, many men have joked with me in session about how with one press of the space bar on a keyboard the word “therapist” becomes “the rapist.”

It reminds me of the movie, “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” when McMurphy (played so memorably by Jack Nicholson) is subjected to a frontal lobotomy for his unwillingness to comply with hospital rules and standards and as a result the risk he poses to the safety of the residents. Following the lobotomy, the viewer is moved with compassion for Mac as he is now a diminished and partial person, not aware of himself let alone anyone else seeming to be no longer human. Once Chief, a large Native-American, who is one of the residents most positively impacted by Mac’s antics realizes the surgery has left his friend a human vegetable, he takes Mac’s life out of pity for the change that occurred and escapes.

 

 

The legitimacy in the comparison between counseling and the rape of women is that many men are frightened at the prospect of engaging in therapy. If they engage and participate, they wonder if they are selling out their identity and like Mac, they too will be lobotomized in the process. But this perspective is based on an assumption that identity, once it is formed, remains the same throughout the guy’s lifespan. And from what we know about human development, identity continues to change whether the person participates in therapy or not. Identity is not static. So, the worry or concern, real as it may be, is unfounded unless all change is viewed as violation. This is where the analogy to rape falls short.

Therapy is referred to as “the talking cure.” It is a discourse or conversational exchange that should empower the participants as they give meaning to the distress and explore options to cope or alter their present coping strategies. Occasionally, it does mean changing, but it is a healthy pro-social change as opposed to a lobotomy or “selling out” to what is expected. In the movie, Chief runs to escape and engage life. In real life, many men try to escape through booze, affairs and self-imposed lobotomies like watching television for hours on end. My encouragement is for men to engage life head-on. Be man enough to know what you don’t know and get help. See you in therapy!

“IS IT OK FOR FOOTBALL PLAYERS TO SNUGGLE?”

Scotty

          Most cultures have rituals or experiences to toughen boys to withstand the hardships of life. In our postmodern culture those rituals are more nuanced and subtle, but if we try to stay attuned to them, they can become apparent. The challenge for the culture, community or family is to toughen the boy but not so much that he loses important capacities that we associate with the best qualities of humanity.

While I was in the midst of working on my dissertation, which was a treatise on masculinity making, I came across a wonderful experience with my son. The township we live in was exploring starting a little gridder football program at the time. When signups came, I was thrilled that my 9 year-old son wanted to play. All the boys were so excited! They had seen football games on television at the college and pro level and had gone to some of the high school games. But what a shock it seemed to be to them when adult men began encouraging them to be aggressive and hit. The coaches were smart in that they started by having the boys hit coaching dummies. These are large vinyl or leather bags with soft padding filler that made hitting more like a push. The practices moved from the boys being asked to hit or tackle the dummies to encouraging them to hit each other. The coaches would admonish the newbies with clichés like, “Men, it’s either hit or be hit. Give the blows or take the blows. Which is it going to be? I want you to slam into your opponent with all your weight, all your body, become a missile.” The shock for the boys was tied to seeing these adult men yelling for them to be aggressive and letting go of the tendency they had to restrain such impulses. The message by the coaches created some dissonance in the boys. At home the boys, in all likelihood, were instructed by their mothers and fathers to “be careful.” Or they were told “keep your hands to yourself” or “don’t hit your little brother” (or sister). In this new setting and arena, they are being encouraged to remove the restraints and “have at it!” And the coaches, consciously or not, use their voice and posture to train the boys what aggressive football player behaviors look like. They provide ready models to emulate. The coaches are trying to teach, whether intentional or not a kind of hypervigilance that is framed as focus with regard to the game. But as the coaches get louder and more passionate, the boys, in the first several practices look more and more concerned. At one point, the coach is imploring the boy to hit another boy with reckless abandon and the instruction is fostering resistance. “What’s the matter with you, son? Are you concerned you’re going to hurt him? That’s why you wear all these pads. You can’t hurt him. He’s well protected.” The coach is saying this as he’s pushing the other kid around like a rag doll. At certain points, most of the boys on the team showed concern and it was evidenced by the expression in their face and eyes. When you looked in their helmets, the whites of their eyes represented a disproportionately large part of their face. They were frightened and their faces seemed to say, “Where’s my mother? There’s been a big mistake made. Mom and dad, you don’t realize that you left me with crazy people! Get me out of here!” But in a matter of weeks, these boys learn to hit one another in preparation for the season and upcoming games. A few boys have trouble embracing this skill as a part of who they are and one actually quits because of it. But the great majority of boys on this team learn the necessary football skills and are proud of it.

The day of the first game held great anticipation by my son as well as his teammates. The game begins and before long our team goes on offense. Now the coach communicates offensive plays to the team by rotating players from various positions, in with new plays and out after each play is finished. Sure enough, the coach sends in a pass play that is to be thrown to the tight end. The play works beautifully! The quarterback takes a short drop and lofts the ball a few yards downfield. My son catches it and scampers down the sideline for a score as a fellow father yells “Rumble, Scotty!!” The team goes on to win their first game. And as the father of this boy who scores the first touchdown of the team and season, I am proud as a peacock.

At that time, I had a gray 87 Cadillac Sedan DeVille and was not above engaging in some male display behavior. I mean, after all, here were a couple of football studs, right? I put all four windows all the way down, turned up the Motown to almost blaring and playfully elbowed my son on the drive home. We were having a warrior whoop! What was interesting is that he was not into my exuberance for his performance or the team’s victory. He seemed pensive, almost reflective, as reflective as a nine-year old boy could get. After we pull into the driveway of our home, he gets out still in uniform and spots our cat, Sweetie. Sweetie is a black cat with white paws and white snout. He calls Sweetie to him and in what appears to be a very intentional way picks up the animal and gently holds and squeezes her to his chest and up under his chin. He puts the cat down and continues towards the house and a flowerbed. My wife had an area of flowers that the children were permitted to pick and pull so as to preserve her other garden arrangements. Sure enough, like Ferdinand the Bull from the cartoon, my son picks a couple of flowers and carefully looks at them and takes a whiff of their scent. We go into the house and I don’t think anything more of it other than to log it away in my mind and memory.

The morning ritual in this house with our children had always consisted of me getting up early to make coffee for myself, tea for my wife and sitting in a club chair in the bay window with that big cup of coffee just off the kitchen. The children would come down the stairs, look into the area where I was seated, make eye contact with me and run and jump into my lap. We would cuddle, snuggle or roughhouse depending on our respective moods. This morning was no different. I hear Scotty come down the stairs and see him look into where I am seated. I nod the “ok” sign and he comes running and jumps up into my lap. We squeeze, tickle and snuggle there and after several minutes we both pause for a breather. Tickling and cuddling can be hard work! My son is laying with his head in my lap and looks up at me. I can remember gazing at this “cute as a button” towhead with big blue eyes. He proceeds to ask me the most profound question anyone has ever asked me prior or since. “Dad, is it ok for football players to snuggle?” Just writing it, I’m forced to pause at the multi-layered meanings behind this boy’s question. When one parents, there are those moments when everything slows down and this was definitely one of those. I was stunned, momentarily, recalling what just happened the day before. I found myself thinking over and over again as the nano seconds ticked by, “what is he really asking me.”

          It was at that point that I realized his exposure to football became a kind of “rite of passage” for him and he was asking as he begins this process of becoming a man, was he required to be different now. “Am I to leave the soft world behind me?” To be a football player could mean that it was now time to be TOUGH, which is in contrast to sensitive, caring, affectionate or relational. Must he leave those very capacities that characterize the richness of being human behind him? Granted, to embrace his tough side may mean he would leave the vulnerable or powerless feelings associated with the world of childhood but on some level he recognized that it would result in a diminished self, a self with less awareness of his empathy and compassion for others, a private thought life that results in less reflection, a disconnect from self and others and he did not want it if it was his choice. It is why I paused so long before I responded. I squeezed him gently and said, “Yes, it is ok for football players to snuggle. Son, you will always need or want someone to be close to.” It’s funny, I watched his entire football career and he drove the coaches crazy because he was so-o nice. He’d block some lineman or linebacker and if he happened to knock them over, on occasion he’d offer his hand to help the opposing ball player to his feet. The coaches would yell, “Quit dancing with the enemy. Save that for after the game.” I love football, but I raised him to be a wonderful, caring person that would one day be a great husband and father. Did my message to him stick? I think so, probably not from our discussion in that moment, but the way his mother, our extended family and I have loved on him, we layered in a kindness you find only in gentlemen. This moment in the life of my boy happened so quickly and I hope it marked him. What I know is that his question left an indelible mark on his dad.

Uncle Dan’s “Pearls of Wisdom” for his nephew, Scott, who is off to grad school

I mentioned in a prior posting about a mentoring ritual for our sons where we gather the significant men in his life and speak words of wisdom at a particular milestone. For my son, Scott, who left in August to attend the University of Missouri, his Uncle Dan’s words were wonderfully simple, direct, and funny, delivered as only he could.

By the way, Uncle Dan or “Bugsy,” who has his own PhD in marriage & family therapy, has his own professional website. Check it out!!

http://mytherapysite.com/dmatta/viewmyblog.asp?EUID=

1. Coffee is your friend!
2. Keep a sense of humor
3. No classes before 10am.
4. If you have to have a class before 10am, go back to rule 1: Coffee is your friend!
5. Good writing is hard work.
6. When all else fails, take a nap.
7. Keep a sense of humor.
8. When a nap doesn’t work and all else fails, go see a movie.
9. Read about others through biographies and autobiographies. There you will find others have thought, felt and been through similar circumstances since the beginning of time.
10. “Pizza Dough” metaphor. Your dad, Buzz told me this one when I was in grad school. To prepare you for this field, you will be stretched and stretched again. When you feel overwhelmed and like you can go no further, remember it’s just a process of preparation to do what you love.
11. Do things that keep your morale high. This example comes from your Uncle Jim. While he was going on for his doctorate, he bought a hat that he wanted. He didn’t need it, couldn’t afford it, but bought it anyway. Do little things to pamper and take care of yourself.
12. Keep a sense of humor.
13. You are going to a major university. Enjoy all the beautiful women there!
14. There is a world beyond the United States. Learn about it and travel, asap!
15. My biggest tip is to take risks. Anxiety and fear will not kill you.
16. Follow your heart.
17. Dream BIG!

This is your time! CARPE DIEM!!! (Seize the Day!)

NEVER BOW DOWN: Mentoring Moments with my son

Our youngest son is now 22 years old and heading off to graduate school. I am getting ready to gather the men in the family for a launching ritual this weekend. The ritual has the men in the family put in writing their pearls of wisdom and read them aloud to the mentee. We’re going to gather at our cottage for this ritual, share these pearls with Scott and put what was written into a notebook for him to take with him. We will conclude the ritual by laying hands on him as a group and praying for him.

In the process of thinking about what I want to say to my son, I came across something I wrote when he was 10 years old that captures my continual encouragement to him. I don’t even remember what the trouble was that he got into at school, but that is irrelevant. The journal begins…..

April 13, 1996

The past couple of weeks prompted me to pray and seek God’s wisdom on having a discussion with our youngest son, Scotty. Scotty is a real people person and desirous of friendships. Recently, he has gotten into trouble at school for being defiant and misbehaving as he has a tendency to do the wrong thing to preserve a friendship. While praying, I thought of my favorite Bible story, the story of Shadrach, Meschech and Abednego and the fiery furnace. I had Scotty read aloud the passage from Daniel, chapter 3 from his Living Bible. Afterwards I asked him if there was a lesson in the story for him. He said he didn’t know. As I began to retell the story, Scotty slipped out of his chair, crossed his legs Indian style and sat at my feet. By his gesture he was telling me he was ready to listen and be mentored. I said that Shadrach, Meschech and Abednego were important leaders in the land of Nebuchanezzar. And there were people that were jealous of them for their position with the King. These people convinced the King to create the golden image for everyone to bow down to and worship. They hoped to get Shadrach, Meschech, and Abednego to listen to them or get them into trouble. I bet they were party animals. There was lots of music. When the various instruments played, the people were to bow down to the image and worship it. Shadrach, Meschech, and Abednego must have felt a lot of pressure from the King as well as all the other people. Many of these people must have been their friends. Their friends were trying to get them to disobey God and do the wrong thing. Fortunately, they would not listen to them and stayed true to God and themselves. In this instance, God delivered them, but they were prepared to die in the fiery furnace and do the right thing. I asked Scotty again what the lesson from the story might be. And he said, “Don’t listen to someone when they try to get you in trouble just to keep them as a friend.” We also spoke about how Saul disobeyed God because of listening to the people. God had asked him to take no spoils after conquering a particular people, but Saul was so worried about what his people would think he went along with them and disobeyed God. Even kings can be influenced to do the wrong thing. And as a result of his disobedience, God rejected him as king. God wants to write his laws on your heart. He does not want you to obey his laws for the law’s sake, but wants people to do the right thing because of their love for him and their desire to please God. We discussed the importance of respect and honor for parents, teachers and other people in authority over children. If there is ever a time to disobey and defy someone, it is when someone, anyone asks you to do something wrong. Use your ability to defy and stand strong at that moment. When you do right even as a child, you are a leader, even if you never say a word, even if for that moment no one follows. You, at that moment, lead by example.

     I shared with Scotty that God has a special plan for his life. I told him, “When I was a little boy my mom told me the same thing. After listening to her, I went and climbed a bundle of corn stalks on a beautiful summer day and wondered what that special purpose might be. I didn’t know then, but do know now that part of that purpose was to be the father of a special boy named Scotty and to teach him how to please God and do right. I do not know what that special plan is for your life, Scotty, but I do know that if you do the right things, you will find out. The plan will unfold right before your eyes. If you live a life of disobedience and disrespect, all the bad things a person does gets in the way of that plan and in some cases the disobedience makes it impossible for the plan to be put into effect.

     I have prayed for moments and times like these and amazing enough, here it was happening before my eyes.

     “Scotty, come sit in my lap and let us pray that the Lord will give you wisdom about what we have talked about this day.” Scotty crawled up into my lap and snuggled into me. I began to pray, saying, “Lord, Scotty and I come to you to pray for your guidance and strength. Please make Scotty a cedar of Lebanon that stands strong and does not move, even if it means standing alone when it comes to doing the right thing. Make him able to stand when his friends and everyone else want him to do the wrong thing. Lord, also show Scotty your special plan and purpose for his life. Let him know that you want your laws to be written on his heart. In that way the right thing will always shine through clear to him, making it easier to withstand the pressure to go along with people. Let Scotty know how deeply he is treasured and loved. In your name we pray, Jesus, Amen.”

     About half way through the prayer, Scotty began crying and the tears dripped onto my shirt at the collar. I asked Scotty if I could take him out to breakfast and as we drove, he reached over and grasped my hand. He held it and looked at his in mine. He stroked my hand and squeezed it.

     I chose to write this down so I wouldn’t forget this very special occasion in the life of my son and his relationship with me.

Dad’s Gone, You’re Alone and I’m Hungry!

We have a tendency to think that family humor is limited to children and adolescents. Well, I had to take a trip on board business to the midwest last weekend and our 22 year old son is getting ready to go off to graduate school. I told my wife with everything going on, that he’d be over as soon as I went through the door on my way out. (I wish I would have bet the house on this one.) It’s understandable, he’s going to be going over 12 hours away by car for grad school. My wife says, “no, I don’t expect to hear from him at all. He’s got so much to do to get ready!” I’m not gone more than a couple hours and he texts his mother seven words. “Dad’s gone, you’re alone and I’m hungry.” Needless to say they got together and broke bread. This one is going down into the family folklore.

CRITTER CAPERS: Pheasant Under Vest PART I

When we lived on the farm in Mount Pleasant, my dad was an avid hunter. He trained a Beagle, Bootsie, who was the family dog, to be quite a hunter. She could trail rabbits and flush out pheasants like nobody’s business. On this day, dad had a hankering for some pheasant. So, the plan was we would go hunting and he would get something to give to mom to prepare for dinner. But as a 6 or 7 year old, I had no idea what all would be entailed in this unfolding plan. Sure enough, Bootsie did her part and flushed several pheasant out of the underbrush and they flew into the open. Dad raised his shotgun and picked off the first one that came out as it flew to his right. As we located the area where the bird went down, I had my first opportunity to get an upclose look at a ring-necked pheasant. The bird was big and beautiful with a white ring around its neck and teal green and purple color markings just above the ring.

Shooting this bird happened within the first ten minutes that we went out. And although he was pleased to have something to take back to mom, he was not ready to hang up his coat and call it a day. You could see him thinking about how to get the bird back to mom so he could continue hunting. And that’s where I came in. My dad wore a hunting vest with lots of pockets and pouches for shells and places to put game to carry. In his aha moment, he takes the vest off and helps me to get it on. Now remember, my dad is 6’5” tall, so the vest was like putting a colorless serape onto this little boy. After he zipped up the vest, he stuffed the pheasant into the front pocket on my chest. But the pheasant could not fit entirely into the pouch so the feet stuck out up towards my face. The vest was cumbersome and now weighted with a rather large DEAD bird inside. We are way out in the field far from the house and barn. After my dad gets me ready to send home, he whistles to get my mom’s attention to let her know he’s sending a bird her way. Some people can whistle so loud, you’d think they were breaking the sound barrier making sound waves. My dad’s whistle was like that, it was not terribly unpleasant, but it was extremely loud and ear-piercing. Sure enough, we can make out a small figure on the porch waving her hand in the distance. Dad motions in the direction to the house and I knew I was to take this bird home.

Off I went, but I was so young, I didn’t understand death and birds. I saw my dad shoot this bird and it did not move from the time we found it and he loaded it into his vest. I was unprepared for what happened next. With this vest on, I felt something inside the pouch flinch. I stopped. The feet that were only inches from my face began to move going from limp to a kind of scratching motion. As I stood there feeling the movement intensify on top of my chest, I decided that this bird wasn’t dead. Somehow, he was faking it and was waiting until now to make his break from becoming a family dinner. I would have taken this stupid vest off if I could have figured out how, but the zipper was stuck. I began to run from the field to the worn path that had tractor tracks. I can feel this bird trying to spread out its wings and now the pouch in the vest is vibrating with all this movement. The feet are also moving up and down, in and out of the vest as the bird is trying to run. At this point, I am completely freaked out, not knowing what is going on. I thought to myself, “dead things are not supposed to move. Right?” I thought dad must have made a big mistake putting this bird in the vest. He should have shot it a few more times, but as far as I was concerned, this bird was very much alive. I am now running as fast as I can coming up the tractor path to the yard and towards my mother. She has her hand over her mouth trying to hide her concern and smile. My mom was terrified of birds. She had a bad experience with a headless chicken as a child. So, the concern in her face made sense to me. But the half smile did not. The only thing I could figure is that it must have been quite a sight to see this boy running with a look of sheer terror in his eyes as his entire upper body encased by the vest moved back and forth, up and down. As I run to her, I scream, “get it off, get it off!” She offered soothing words, “it’s ok, honey. It’s ok. The bird is dead. It’s body just doesn’t realize it yet.” Once the vest was off, I stood there in shock shaking my body as if to shake off the vest and experience. It is almost 50 years later, but I can still feel the bird move on my chest and see those feet moving near my eyes.