Family

I'm starting to get a cold of sorts, so this will be brief. 

I am blessed with a wonderful family, both biological and legal.  Every so often I forget this fact, thinking that I have an average family with its share of problems; there is truth to this, but it's like saying The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is a decent American novel.  It woefully underestimates the value of the heart of it.

Every time I forget just how great my family is, I'm gently reminded.  This past weekend at the cabin, my in-laws were wonderfully gracious.  Today, my baby sister flew into town.  To see them interact with Grayson is to see love.  None of my siblings, biological or legal, are local, so watching them with Grayson is a special treat, for him, for me, and (from what they tell me) for them.  Aunt Jen, like all of the aunts and uncles, is incredible with Grayson.  She immediately shows how enamored she is with him, showers him with love and attention, and cares for him like nothing else matters.

Tonight was no exception.  I am so lucky to have the family I have, full of love and full of laughter.

iPhone Update: The Price of a Memory

If you've been lucid over the last 10 years and have had access to a television, you've seen the ads for a major credit card company.  Airfare to Orlando: $1,298.  Admission to Disney World: $375.  The look on your child’s face when they meet Mickey Mouse: Priceless.  There is some truth in this sentiment; you can’t put a price on making memories with your child, but the hidden message is actually more tangible.  For the price of $1,673 plus 18.9% APR, you can “afford” to make these memories.  Forget the cost of getting there and getting in, the memory is worth it.  To a point, I agree.  One of the greatest joys of parenthood is seeing a smile on your child’s face. 

Sometimes that smile comes relatively cheaply: peek-a-boo is free to play, and at just about 8 months old, it is guaranteed to grant a smile or two.  Sometimes the cost is a bit higher; gas at $4.17 a gallon, a few hours, and some groceries gets you up to the lake, and Grayson was certainly impressed with the cabin.  Other times, a family vacation to somewhere warm can cost thousands of dollars.  You hope that the investment of time and money is worth your while, that you (and your child when s/he gets older) will have memories that last a lifetime. 

As we grow older, though, memories blur.  They fade and morph.  They get dim.  Knowing this, and being an inventive, technologically advanced society with the kinds of disposable income that affords us the opportunity to take vacations, we have created ways to preserve these memories, or more accurately the moments associated with these memories.  Photos and videos have been around for a long time now, and they’ve been accessible to the middle-class public for at least a half-century.  In fact, the cost of capturing memories has diminished greatly over time, becoming exponentially cheaper over the last decade or so.  Today, if you have about $200, you can get a device that not only makes phone calls, but can take very acceptable digital images and shoot high-definition digital video.  No longer do you need to spend $1,000 on a good camera, another $1,000 or so in lenses and filters, $5 for a roll of film and another $5 to process that film.  Heck, you don’t even need to think in terms of numbers of exposures; you aren’t limited to 24 or 36.  This rough math doesn’t even account for the cost of a “camcorder,” VHS tapes and the VCR on which to play them back.

The seemingly costless access to digital photos and video has changed the way most people think about capturing these memories.  The majority of images today are spur-of-the-moment, candid shots.  The days of posing for a photo, while not gone, are waning.  The care taken to make sure the images are quality has dramatically decreased; if the photo doesn’t turn out, all you have to do is delete it and try again.  I would wager that I currently have more photos of my son in 8 months than my mother has of me in my first 35 years.  The memories are no less important, but accessibility to capture the moments (with a camera always in your pocket) is infinitely greater.  I often take this fact for granted…

…until that camera ends up in water…

You learn the true price of keeping a memory from dissolving.  It costs anywhere from $500-$1500 for the lot.  The wonderful news is that with technology, most of these moments can be recovered most of the time.  Data recovery services (and the digital media they recover) make possible what was once impossible.  If your photos and videos on film were destroyed in a flood or fire 20 years ago, no amount of money could bring them back.  Today, even a mangled hard drive contains some data, and there are people out there who will work tirelessly to move that data from an unstable device to a stable one.  With the proper mix of science, love and time, a large percentage of photos and videos can be restored.  The missing ingredient: mullah. 

Now I’m left to do some more math.  The true cost of a memory is “the price to recover my data” divided by “the number of memories can I recover.”  How much would you pay for a memory?  Whatever the cost, my credit card will only charge me a percentage every month to spread those payments out over time.

Service Can't Be Beat

It feels good to be home.  Vacationing up north was wonderful, but all that vacationing can be exhausting.  We drove home today, and even though the traffic wasn't bad at all, I still felt road-weary while unloading the car. 

The day wasn't over though... I had an appointment at the Genius Bar.  Either the definition of genius has changed, or it isn't as elite as I was led to believe.  My "genius" told me that if the phone would fully boot, he would be able to get my pictures off of it, but since it can't, there is nothing he can do.  Funny... if I could get the phone to fully boot, I might be able to find a way to get the data off of it too!

I left feeling less than satisfied, but I knew I didn't want to cook tonight. 

I entered a chain Americana restaurant pretty bummed, and I was determined to be dissatisfied with my meal too.  Nothing on the menu seemed appetizing; the booth was a little tight; I even noticed the napkin was something between paper and cloth.  Just as I was about ready to give up on the night, something magical happened: Angie.  Angie was my waitress tonight; she was older than 50, shorter than 5'2", and heavier than 175.  I expected her to be another off-putting thing in my life today.  I couldn't have been more wrong.  Angie was spectacular.  She was kind, honest, straight-forward.  She looked out for my bill by offering me a cheaper option to get the same thing.  She offered a fresh drink when the first glass was dirty.  She even accepted the lack of a dessert order with a "sometimes you're in the mood for Dairy Queen." 

Angie got me, and she made my day.  She served me.  It was a pleasure to tip her well.

In Memorium

Today is the day we remember that freedom is not free. It takes sacrifice and suffering. It takes determination and vigilance. It costs lives.

Today is the day I ate cheeseburgers and ice cream cake.  I watched television, and I worked on a carburetor.  I sat by the lake, and I played with my son.

I could never make the choice to fight in a war, but I like to think that I choose to stand up for our freedoms, to be outspoken in the face of inequality and injustice. And I know that I remember the countless lives that have gone before me, fought, died, and secured my freedoms.

Happy Memorial Day

Another Lazy Day

Most would argue that I haven't accomplished much today. I'm not sure I can effectively argue against it, but I'm going to try.

I woke around 6:00am this morning to let the dog chase after all the sounds she'd been hearing throughout the night. In her mind, the cabin was surrounded by squirrels, chipmunks and deer. Who am I to call her a liar?  She nobly spent the next hour sniffing the perimeter of the house, growling at ghosts and barking at the neighbors. Then Grayson woke up, eager to explore the new world around him and the fresh set of toys that Nana had purchased. Before I knew it, it was time to make lunch.

After lunch, I proved to the whole family why I never played baseball; I can't get a 3 year old out, and I can't hit his curveball. A walk ensued, down to the main road and back. A grand total of 10 legs and 12 wheels, 1.5 miles. It was well past Noon, so I PBR'ed myself ASAP.  While drinking from a red, white and blue can, I helped my father-in-law run a brand new flag up the lake-facing flagpole. I felt patriotic.

Before I could blink, it was time to teach my mother-in-law the way to slice an avocado without a trip to the emergency room. Steaks were on the grill. Dinner was served, and I ate while feeding Grayson some peas. He likes them more now that he is used to them.

After dinner, it was time to clean two diapers full of pea soup. There was a bath in between the diapers. Grayson splashed in the sink like only a child can. His smiles make it worth the while.

Now I'm sitting alone on the deck, taking too long to type this on my phone, drinking another beer with the dog doing another sweep of the yard for critters.

I haven't done anything today, but I feel good about everything I've accomplished. Hopefully tomorrow can be more of the same.

Mobile blogging

I'm far enough north that cell service is shoddy indoors. LTE doesn't exist up here, and high sipped internet is sparse. The cabin doesn't have wifi, so I'm writing on my iPhone.  It has taken me 3 minutes to type this.

It is nice, though, to be disconnected (somewhat disconnected). We've taken walks, put the boat in, set up the deck. The dog is happier up here.

Because of this, I'm keeping this short. I'll still write everyday. I just might not be as verbose.

Driving with an Infant

I must admit I'm a little worried about the drive ahead of me tonight.  To get up to the lake on a good day takes about two and a half hours, maybe three.  On the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, it could take up to four hours.  Traffic will simply be that thick on roads that were designed to service small towns only.

Most holiday weekends, this is a bit of an annoyance, but nothing horrible.  It is the price of going somewhere beautiful and relatively remote.  But this will be my first road trip with Grayson (not yet eight months old).  Stacy took him to Iowa when he was about three months old, but he is now at an age where he is alert and curious.  I have no idea what this will mean.  The farthest I've gone with him is 30 minutes down to Bloomington.  The prospect of potentially four hours is nerve-wracking.

I'll report tomorrow how the drive went.  Until then, pray for me.

Heading North

It is a Minnesota tradition to "head north" for the weekend, even if you are heading west, or northwest... or, god-forbid, east.  The concept is to get away from the stress of your normal life, to escape to a simpler time and place, to relax, fish, and read.  I didn't experience this as a child.  My family didn't own lake property or a cabin; our vacations were out west to see our grandmother, Gigi, in San Diego. 

I didn't get the chance to go to the family cabin until I met my wife.  Her family has been going up north for generations now, almost every weekend in the summertime.  Stacy's grandfather came back from WWII with a little cash, so he and his father bought some land and built a modest cabin (with an artisan fireplace) together... by hand.  The cabin has been turned into a four-season home now, but the structure remains basically the same.

It is beautiful.

So for the last half decade or so, I've been able to enjoy this land, this shoreline, this nature a handful of times each year.  Most of my trips have involved working on a Friday until 4:00 or 5:00, getting home, throwing some clothes in a bag, stopping by the liquor store, and hitting the road to fight traffic.  Stacy and I have arrived as late as midnight on a Friday.  Our only real concern was stopping along the way to let the dog pee.

Our next trip is different.  This will be our first trip to the lake with Grayson.  This will be Grayson's first trip up north.  This means we need to plan.  We've made lists.  This requires more than one suitcase.  Did you know there is baby-specific sunscreen?  (Okay... I knew this too, but I'm trying to prove a point.)  We have to make sure we've got waterproof diapers and shady hats.  We need to make sure to take toys, enough regular diapers for a long weekend.  And we can't just expect him to figure it our or make due if we forget something.

It is 10:30 the night before we leave, and we're not done packing.  But we have a list.  AND the whole family is looking forward to Grayson's first trip to Pequot.  I can't wait to see his reaction when he sees the lake for the first time, or when he takes his first cruise on the pontoon.  I've got a feeling he is going to fall in love with life up there, up north, and that this will just be the first of hundreds of trips throughout his life.

And we are mobile...

Life is full of serendipity (and not just because Showtime7 exclusively shows John Cusack movies).  I was struggling all day trying to figure out what I was going to write about.  I thought about writing a poem about mirrors, but even my ideas are pretty crappy for that, let alone anything that resembles words on a page.  I thought about an update to yesterday's post, but the iPhone is still chillin' in rice.  I just didn't have the inspiration I was looking for... until Grayson crawled.

Yep.  Yikes!

He's not quite 8 months old, and he did more than scoot tonight.  It wasn't like he crawled 10 feet across the room, but he made distinctive movements, spanned a distance, and reached his goal.

Because of the iPhone debacle yesterday, I've already transferred this video to the laptop, uploaded it to Facebook, and I'm uploading it here.

I'm so proud of Grayson for figuring this out.  I know that all kids do it, that Grayson isn't special in that sense, but it still fills me with pride that he learned this skill.  Grayson probably learns more in an hour that I learn in a week; babies are remarkable learners, sponges for knowledge.  One of the most surprising joys of parenthood has been watching him learn.  I can honestly see him processing the world around him, discovering colors or his own reflection.  When G was about 6 months old, he recognized the dog as a member of the family.  All he wants to do now is interact with her.

Now that he is mobile, Delilah had better watch her nubby tail. 

I had better keep my eyes peeled too.  It was bad enough when he started rolling, but now I can't leave him anywhere without keeping an eye on him, or keeping him quarantined from outlets and cords.  Heck... we need to get the baby gates out finally!

There is plenty of time to worry about this.  For tonight (now that he is asleep), I will smile, as I share this 45 seconds with y'all.  Enjoy.

 

Memories Down the Drain?

As we were getting ready to leave for our days, to take Grayson to the doctor, to go to work, to provide lunch for our coworkers, I heard a shriek come from the upstairs bathroom.  I rushed halfway up, greeted by my wife with a toothbrush in her mouth and a wet iPhone in her hand.  “I dropped it in the sink!  Help!”

I swiftly took the phone, poured a bag of rice, and prayed that we got to it quickly enough to limit any damage.  My first thought was the replacement cost.  We certainly aren’t living hand to mouth, but these things are expensive gadgets, and I hadn’t planned on replacing one for another 16 months or so.  Stacy brought me back to reality, though; her first concern was the 17.5 GB of photos and videos, the majority of Grayson’s first months and major milestones, precious memories that are far more temporary than their digital format suggests.  After all, these images are just ones and zeroes, ons and offs. 

My parents, and their parents before them, captured these memories on film.  Sure there were mishaps, overexposure, or the role that didn’t load properly into the camera, but for the most part, a few days after the moments were shot, we would drop them off at the local film or drug store.  The negatives would be developed, and each photo would be printed in duplicate on 3”x5” or 4”x6” sheets of photo paper.  If my parents were ambitious, they would sort the photos into albums, place them on a shelf, and move them only so we could dust.  A select few would end up in frames on display.  The only things that threaten them were time, flood, fire or a catastrophe like a tornado.

Seeing the footage out of Oklahoma and Kansas over the weekend, specifically the images out of Moore, OK from yesterday, my heart breaks and my prayers go out to people who have lost everything: homes, cars, pets, memories… even loved ones.  Tornadoes are one of the most powerful and destructive natural events we experience.  They literally reshape and flatten the land in their path, stripping down in minutes what humanity and Mother Nature have built over decades.  In the case of Moore, a tornado erased a town, made it unrecognizable to residents.

When I was a child, just over three years old, a tornado destroyed the house I was born in.  It was a Friday afternoon in early June; my sister and I were napping.  (My youngest sister wasn’t born yet.)  My mom grabbed one of us; my dad, who had Fridays off of work, grabbed the other.  They rushed to the basement of our split-level home just in time to keep the whole family safe.  The house was a total loss.  The garage was sucked off and strewn about the neighborhood.  My sister’s crib was riddled with glass.  The storm took the sheets off my parents’ bed, but it left the comforter in place.  As far as I know, our family photos and documents survived, but others weren’t as lucky.  As a family, we were displaced as we rebuilt on the same lot.  My mom will tell you our neighbors were just too good to leave, too hard to replace.  As a family, we learned to value what was important: neighbors, friends, and each other.  This particular storm even created something most people take for granted: Best Buy.

The jury is still out on our memories.  I’m confident that we did all that we could in the moment to preserve the functionality of the device, and I’m hopeful that, even if the phone doesn’t fully function anymore, we will be able to move the photos and videos to our laptop and properly back them up there.  Worst-case scenario, some of the memories have already been uploaded to the cloud, to Facebook, texted to family.  They are preserved in our hearts and minds, and we have a lifetime of memories ahead of us. 

I’ve certainly learned a lesson about regularly backing up our devices; technology in general, but phones in particular, are fragile pieces of equipment, and the permanent memories stored there are just as temporary as prints when exposed to the elements.  I hope this story can be a bit of a warning to you, too.  Hug your children, then plug in your phone and download your photos.  There are far too many sinks in this world.

Paper Tigers

I put a CD in the stereo tonight over dinner.  I don't remember the last time I listened to a CD, as opposed to some playlist, a smattering of songs, my iTunes library on shuffle.  It was invigorating.  There was a time when an album was more than an afterthought, when an album was a plan and an intention.

When I was about a freshman in high school, I wore a pair of Chuck Taylor All-Star low tops, a shade of green between olive and forest.  The rubber soles provided a canvas of expression, not to be confused with the actual canvas from which the shoes were made.  Between the heel and the toe, there was white rubber with a black line, like wide-ruled notebook paper, providing eight evenly divided snippets to record, and to display, words that were important to me.

Like most teenagers I've ever met, music held overwhelming power over me.  Lyrics were my scripture, offering me guidance, solace, love.  I remember sitting in my childhood bedroom with a black Bic pen, toiling over which verses were moving enough to make the cut.  I owned a hundred albums if I owned one.  Assuming an average of 11 songs per album, there was at least a Bible's worth of poetry at my disposal.  This didn't include the songs I'd heard on the radio, nor did it include my father's collection of music on something called vinyl. 

8 verses.  There was R.E.M., Nirvana, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, U2... I don't remember all eight I chose, but one of them serenaded my dinner this evening. 

"My words are paper tigers, no match for the predator of pain inside her." - Indigo Girls

IG was my favorite band; they still are, and this piece of poetry spoke volumes to me.  First, what a powerful (and powerless) image: a paper tiger.  At once ferocious and tame.  This is what the poet does, though; she creates something both biting and insignificant, meaningful and powerless.  Ever since I heard that line, I've been hooked; I've been attempting the impossible.  I've been writing. 

This blog is just another attempt to capture some meaning.  Maybe these words will serve as a record of a moment in time.  Maybe they will impact my life or the life of those around me.  Maybe they will just be animals in a diorama zoo.  My words are paper tigers, no match for the enormity of life around us.

But for now, words are what I have.  I'm happy to share them.

Thunderstorms

Today we had the first real thunderstorm of the season, and I got caught in part of it. 

When I think of thunderstorms, I think of being a six-year-old, sitting on the front stoop with my dad watching the storms roll through.  We'd try to guess where the next bolt of lightning was coming from; we'd count the seconds until the thunder to track how far away the lightning was... mostly we'd just sit and watch it rain.  We'd sit together.  Sometimes my sisters were there.  Sometimes my mom would yell at us to come inside, scolding my dad for putting us in danger.

But there wasn't any real danger.  I know the odds are pretty slim to be struck by lightning, and it's not like we were holding golf clubs above our heads in a field.  That house had already been struck by one tornado, and they say that tornadoes never touch down in the same place twice.  It was a covered porch, so hail wasn't a problem.  It was just rain.  And bonding time.

Dad and I wouldn't ever talk about much, and these storms were no different, but we always had a connection.  These evenings on the porch were a chance to connect. 

I was out grocery shopping tonight when the storm hit bad, when the skies opened up like a reservoir breaking free.  I made the decision to run from my car to the building like I needed a second shower today.  But I probably did.  Storms like this roll in to wash away our sins, to rush away the grass clippings, to test the wax on the car.  They are refreshing.  Rejuvenating.  Revitalizing.  There is a magic that comes with a torrential rain, makes you feel alive.

I bought pasta, shrimp, some frozen bread knots, all while dripping.  All while letting the cleanse soak in.  The storm let up as I was leaving.  When I got home, my wife told me how she and Grayson sat on our front porch watching the storm roll in...

Restringing my Guitar

I don't play my guitar as often as I should.  My newest guitar was a gift for my 30th birthday.  I was really excited about it for a while, but much like my writing, life got in the way of playing.  When I did find some inspiration to pick it up, I found out how rusty I had grown... my hands didn't do what I remembered them capable of...

The one thing that has kept me playing, even infrequently, has been the occasional gig at church.

I played about a month ago, accompanying the kids.  It was fun, but I recognized how dull and old my strings were.

Strings are an overlooked (and key) component to how a guitar performs and sounds.  Most strings are some sort of metal round around another metal.  Over time, oils from the fingers dirty the strings, seeping into the grooves.  The metal oxidizes to a degree.  The strings lose their elasticity.  Because of all of this, and more things I can't explain, the strings just sound dull after a while... the guitar doesn't ring or project the way it should.

I need to change my strings.

There is nothing quite like new strings; nothing like restringing a guitar.  To a degree, it is like performing surgery, at least like performing first aid.  To many it is a ritual, performed on a regular basis.  For me, it is like a mysterious, foreign ceremony from an old religion.  I don't fully understand it, but I can perform it, and it is beautiful. 

New strings, though refreshing, can be tricky.  They are bright in tone, exposing flaws clearly.  Even though they are more responsive, they are more prone to error and buzzing.  They go out of tune quickly; they stretch and bend.

But there is no sweeter sound than new strings.  The world is brighter, crisper, in color.  In contrast to the old strings, it's like the notes are new again.

It's time to change my strings.

Haiku... why not

Sleeping on the couch,
my son snuggled on my chest;
best blanket ever.

One Week Down; Fifty-One to Go

Oh Shit!  I almost forgot to write today.  Day 7.  If I have a hard time remembering to write every day for a week, an entire year feels like a bit of a stretch goal.

But I made it.

What was I doing instead of writing?  I was watching the Office Retrospective.  (I haven't seen the finale yet, so don't ruin it for me.)  I've always been a fan of the Office, often watching whole seasons religiously.  I must admit, though, that I've probably only seen snippets of episodes this year, and only in passing.  Which might be a bit sad.  It's like I've given up on something out of boredom, or just because it was getting old... like I didn't have the fortitude to stick with it.  In all honesty, life just got too busy for it.

But I'm nothing if not loyal, so I recorded the retrospective and the finale.

Watching the look back, I couldn't help but be amazed at how the actors have aged.  Not as much as a normal person would age, but I'm sure when they take off their makeup, they look horrible.  I got to thinking about how much has changed since the Fall of 2005.  W was wrapping up the first year of his second term.  The country has heavily involved in two theaters of war.  I was still naively married to my first wife.  Calvin was a discussion, not yet a zygote.  The iPhone wasn't even around; everyone who was cool had a Motorola RAZR. 

A lot has changed in 9 years...

I wonder what I'll say a decade from now... I'm sure my first words will be: "my how he's grown."  My second will probably be: "Grayson, you missed a spot!"  (Really hoping he mows the lawn by age 10!)

Taste

Grayson is just starting to eat food other than breast milk and formula.  We started him on rice cereal a few weeks ago, introduced oatmeal over the weekend.  Tonight we offered him peas.  It was really closer to pea soup than actual peas, but the flavor is about the same.

The experiment, his first taste of anything flavorful, wasn't a failure, but it was clear he wasn't yet a fan.

He made faces that screamed "Help me!" and "Ewww!"

I'm still laughing about it.

Time will tell whether Grayson enjoys peas, whether he likes avocados, pears, yams.  He may end up liking shrimp and tofu, possibly even eggs.

I hate eggs.  Hate them.  I hate very little in this life, but eggs are near the top of my list.  They taste rotten to me... every time.  (One of my favorite books, though, is still Green Eggs and Ham.)  I don't like them scrambled, fried, over-easy.  I don't like them in an omelet, quiche, or hash.  I do not like green eggs, blue eggs  or red.

And I don't like your eggs.  I promise!  I'm sure your eggs are delicious to most people, but I'm positive they will not be that way for me.  The amount of ketchup does not matter.  Your poaching skills will have no sway.  I've tried; I just don't like eggs.

But thanks anyway. 

90 Degree Day

To feel the radiant heat, the first 90 degree day of the season,
to see skirts flowing and fans waving, women standing on the corner,
to hear shrieking and laughter, children throwing a Frisbee in the yard,
to smell grass growing, perennials poking through the dirt,
to taste charcoal and mustard, the burnt casing on a hot dog,

to experience summer for the first time...
A baby giggles, joyfully babbling about his day.

I loosen my tie and sweat out the sins of winter.

History in the Making

I watched history on Thursday, and I’m watching it again today.  This is a rare opportunity, or at least it is rare to know at the time that one is observing history.  It is rare, and I am honored.  The Minnesota State Legislature has been debating a law which will extend the state-sanctioned benefits of marriage to all consenting adults regardless of their sexual orientation, regardless of the gender they love. 

Make no mistake: this is a huge, redefining moment.  As a state, we are redefining the institution of marriage to be inclusive and gender-neutral.  But make no mistake about it; we aren’t changing a definition that has been in existence for millennia, as many would have you believe.  As a society, both State and Nation, we have redefined marriage a number of times, and we’ve redefined the rights and privileges and responsibilities of marriage countless times.  And this has been within the span of just under 240 years.  Polygamy was at one time legal.  It was illegal, at one point in time, to marry a person of a different race.  At one point in time, women were considered property of their husbands under marital law. 

We have been refining and redefining marriage as a country and as a state for quite some time now.  Extending the right of marriage to same-sex couples is just the latest step in refining our laws to recognize the humanity and liberties of all people.

I’m clearly for the legislation before our representatives, but I also understand how controversial this bill is given the social climate of our time, so I’ve tried to listen intently to arguments against allowing same-sex couples the privileges I’m afforded as a heterosexual.  There are dozens of arguments that I’ve heard ranging from “it’s not discrimination” to “it’s icky” to “it threatens the institution of marriage and the foundations of our society.”  The most common argument I’ve heard, though, is that the majority of Minnesotans don’t want it. 

Even though most polls tell us this just isn’t true, let’s assume for a minute that it is; let’s assume that 60% of the public is against same-sex marriage, against marriage equality.  Our country, and by association our state, was founded on a number of principles, none greater than the principle the majority does not have the right to infringe on the liberties of the minority.  I’m not a constitutional scholar by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve studied history (which is one of the reasons I know I’m watching it now).  After the Revolutionary War, but before we ratified our constitution, there was much debate about how we should form our nation, what rights we should give to the state and to the union, how we should protect the ideals we laid out in our Declaration to the British.  There were a few of our founders who articulated the argument for our Democratic Republic in something called the Federalist Papers, arguing in favor of the constitution as we know it today.

They wrote 85 essays outlining everything from the number of representatives to how the navy can defend against foreign intrusion.  Federalist Paper #10, authored by James Madison, speaks directly to the principle that factions of our society shouldn’t be allowed to control our government.   He defines a faction as “a number of citizens, whether amounting to a majority or a minority of the whole, who are united and actuated by some common impulse of passion, or of interest, adversed to the rights of other citizens, or to the permanent and aggregate interests of the community.”  Madison warns against any faction, but especially “when a majority is included in a faction, the form of popular government… enables it to sacrifice to its ruling passion or interest both the public good and the rights of other citizens.” 

Our country was founded on the principle that no majority, be it religious or political, should not be able to infringe on the liberties of any single citizen.  We live this when we defend the rights of our citizens to speak what is in their hearts, to practice (or not practice) the religion of their choosing.  It is embodied when we allow the smallest of minorities to propagate their ideas; even when they seem as hideous as racism.  The fact that I don’t agree with a neo-nazi or an atheist or a vegan should have no bearing on their freedom to be who they are and to pursue their version of happiness.  The argument that the majority of Minnesotans don’t support the rights of all citizens to marry is patently Un-American.  It is unpatriotic. 

I’m a Patriot.  I believe that we are ALL created equal, and that we ALL deserve equal protections and rights under law.

The vote is coming up within hours.  I’m watching history.  I’m hoping I see love and freedom prevail.

Day 3

(I promise my post titles will grow more descriptive... but I'm setting a pattern).

Today is Mother's Day.  In many ways, today is just another corporate holiday designed to grow our economy by 75 basis points.  Today is a day in which we buy our mothers another picture frame, or a bouquet of flowers... when we make her breakfast in bed and give her a gift certificate for a massage she will not find the time to use.  Today is the day I came home from the hospital as a baby: May 13, 1978.  The latest date Mother's Day can occur.

But today is Mother's Day.  Some of us, despite a holiday, would remember to make the mothers in our lives feel special, to take them out for Olive Garden, to wash their cars and mow their lawns, to make them laugh and weep at the same time while looking at baby pictures.  Most of us wouldn't, thought, as most of us (myself included) take our mothers for granted; we just assume they'll be there.

Thank God (or Hallmark) that we have Mother's Day to remind us that, despite their unconditional willingness to fold our socks, cheer us to victory, and bandage our wounds, what they do is hard work, and it needs to be recognized.

The amazing thing about mothers is that most of us have more than one.  Even orphans have a mother or two they can present if hard pressed.  At 35, I have more mothers than I can count, all of whom remind me to wash behind my ears, to drive safe, to be respectful.  I'm still blessed to have my birth mother.  She beams with joy whenever she has the chance to mention Grayson; that is such a wonderful kind of love. 

There is Mama J who jokes with me as the choir moves from the altar to the pews. 

There is my mother-in-law who winks at me when she speaks, like she suspects I'm the only person in the room at that moment who understands what she is saying.

There are best friends who, during adolescence, teach me how to be cool without compromising who I am and what I stand for.

There are teachers who have taken me down a peg or two (Pumba) or who hold me up (Cherry) when I need it the most.

There are ministers who won't be mentioned here.  (Peter will eventually win this argument about youth group and camp... just not on the 3rd day.)

There is my wife who shows me every day what it means to be a mother, full of love for our son, who challenges me to be the best father I can be.  She reminds me that I'm not the center of my own universe, that sometimes bath time is the most important time of the day.  She reminds me to wash behind my ears.

Today is Mother's Day, but it might as well be called Thanksgiving... for without our mothers, who would we be thankful for?  And how would we know to be thankful in the first place.

Happy Day of Moms!

Day 2

Cutting this one a little closer than I wanted to, but the day has been busier than I thought, and it is well before midnight still.

Today was an odd conglomeration of things: my favorite sitcom got cancelled (No... it wasn't Rules of Engagement); we got a new sofa; saw Iron Man 3; and decided I want chef's pants.

Happy Endings got the boot after 3 seasons of being shuffled around the airwaves.  It was a lot like Friends, only 15 years later and 100 mph faster.  What I find troubling about this isn't really the fact that a really witty show got canned... it is the fact that it was never really given  a chance to survive in the first place.  If I didn't have a season pass set up for it on the DVR, I would have never caught it.  ABC was constantly shifting time slots and days, sometimes airing 2 episodes every other week.  The only loyal following the show was ever allowed to garner was a digital one with advanced scheduling features.

The show deserved better.

On the home front, we got a great deal on a wonderful sectional.  It was delivered today.  We spent the morning and afternoon moving and re-moving and arranging furniture in our family room.  I'm still adjusting to the different layout, but regardless of how we position the goods, I know that I will now have to paint.  Part of the good deal was not being able to select a fabric... paint is cheaper than carpet.  The paint will change.

Fe Man 3 (credit to Gretchen) was better than I expected, especially the scenes between Downey, Jr. and the little boy.  If you haven't seen it yet, you will enjoy it.  Stacy and I are split, however, whether the payoff was worth it to stick through the credits.  Marvel has a tendency to put a snippet after the credits roll; this movie was no exception... except the credits were long.  Michael Jackson's Thrillerlong.  It is a good thing that the movie broke box office records last weekend.  They will need every penny to pay the 3500 people who were listed in the credits.  For what is is worth, I feel the scene was worth it, if for no other reason it reminded me of trying to talk to my ex-wife.

And what is a movie without a dinner?  We ventured out to the Muddy Pig for some birthday whiskey, wine and food.  I spent a good five minutes staring at a man at the bar (and not just because of the history on Thursday... more on that during a later post).  I swore I knew him, and I was trying hard to place him in my mind.  He was wearing a fedora, some sort of blazer, black Chuck Taylor All-Star hightops, and chef's pants.  The chef's pants looked so comfy and hip.  I now want a pair.

I still haven't figured out if I knew the guy.  But I covet his pants.

Day 1

What have I done?!

I'm 35 years old today; this feels like a milestone, or at least the halfway point between milestones.  It is a time for reflection, a time to pause and measure yourself.  (I'm 5' 9")  As I began to approach this day, I remembered how I love writing, and I began to feel sorry for myself that I didn't write much anymore.  When I was in high school, I was writing 2-3 times a week.  When I was in college, if I wasn't writing for pleasure, I was certainly writing my fair share for my coursework.  In grad school, I took creative writing courses as electives.  Essentially, I was carving out the time to write.

But then I got a real job.  And a house.  And responsibilities.

And I stopped writing.

Anytime I would think about writing again (and there have been times), it wasn't easy.  It was work.

Reflecting on this more, my sorrow and regret turned into a tinge of anger.  I'm angry at myself: for not taking the time to write anymore, for not carving out space in my responsibilities, for letting my skills wane and rust.

Then I realized I can do something about that.  I don't need to be angry at myself.  Anger rarely solves  a problem, but it can be a powerful catalyst in problem-solving.  I can channel that energy into something more productive.  And productive I will be...

I am pledging to myself, to my family and my friends, to my son that I will write something every day for the next year.  For my 36th year.  Not everything will be fantastic writing; in fact, I expect most of it to border on crap, but it will be there.  Every day.  Some days it will be more like a journal documenting the happenings of my life.  Other days it may be poetry or story ideas.  I may even write an essay or two about topics that interest me... maybe open letters to loved ones.  I don't know what I will feel compelled to write about from day to day.  I do know that there will be days where I'm not compelled to write at all, save for the commitment I'm making here.

So here it is: Day 1 in the books so-to-speak.  Only 364 more days to go.

Wish me luck.

P.S. feel free to comment, to offer suggestions, to tell me I'm crazy... because I'm crazy.