Wee Quinn is a traveler. She has flown, and her ship (actually a ferry) has sailed. We were fortunate enough to visit family in Upstate New York, and friends in Boston week before last. A change of pace was nice, and probably needed. And-a pleasant surprise-Q is a master jet setter. She is a friendly and compliant flyer, and brings a three year old's perspective to things that we jaded adults have long forgotten to be amazed by. And seeing how different the rest of the world is from our home certainly gives us perspective on both.
The look of wonder on her face would be hard to capture in words, but her words were the most endearing. Highlights: "I can see the whole village out the window dad." (In this case the city of Norfolk). Upon beginning our decent, "We're going down guys!" I explained that landing was probably a less provocative description. Adjacent passengers laughed. . .nervously. When landings were bumpy--which they all seem to be when traveling with such precious cargo--"Phew that was a close one!" When I asked close to what, she just shrugged and looked at me as if I was the most naive person in the world.
All of our flights went smoothly and flying from Norfolk to Albany, things seemed tame to say the least. By the time Q was awaiting departure at Logan, she was an old hand. I, on the other hand, found a lot at Logan to occupy my parental mind. I sensed Deanna was feeling the same way when she pointed out a guy in a Saint Louis Cardinals hat (the Cards had beaten Boston the night before, no small crime in Boston, and during the world series). "Why's he gotta wear that hat, is he trying to get beat up?" Then there was the guy doing yoga, why he had to be limber for the flight I couldn't guess. I like to be limber for a flight, but bloody marys work way better than yoga.
Of course yoga guy and his buddy stood in the aisle for five agonizing minutes in which I was 48.7% sure they were up to no good. I was beginning to feel a little like Juan Williams, but nobody had a beard--except me. Maybe this is not unique to me, but as a father, pretty much everyone seems like at least a low level threat. Watching someone do yoga in an airport terminal while listening to the TSA's admonishment to report strange behavior raised my suspicion. In truth, I did a quick inventory in the terminal. I'd say eighty percent of my fellow passengers waiting in the terminal were either reading or drinking coffee or both. I decided to keep an eye on everyone else.
Then we landed, or "went down," if you will. And I spent fifteen minutes of the car ride home silently berating myself for being a paranoid jerk. Then last week there was a shooter at LAX. And I thought about the terminal we'd been sitting in. I thought about wrangling my friendly kid in an airport. I though about trying to keep her close when all she wanted to do was talk to everyone. I thought about how hard it would be to get to her to keep her safe as we stumbled into our shoes just past the security check. I spent some time berating myself for feeling comfortable in our little Norfolk airport--for letting Quinn or Deanna get more than eighteen inches away from me.
Statistically speaking, the ride to daycare, or time in the ocean or pool are far more dangerous to Quinn than flight, airports, terrorists and run of the mill nut jobs combined. Were I a sensible man, this would help me to just relax and take life as it comes. But, I'm a father, so at home or in the airport terminal, I'd say I hover around the same threat level. I'm not sure what color that threat level would be, so I'll just call it threat level DAD.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Pure Coincidence
I happen to be reading Paul Krugman's The Conscience of a Liberal. And I just happened to read this passage commenting on the federal government shut down of 1995:
". . . But the rawness of the event was still remarkable: Republicans were willing to play chicken with the government's ability to function in their drive to take down one of the pillars of the U.S. welfare state (medicare). As it turned out, Gingrich had misjudged both Clinton and the voters. Clinton held firm. The public blamed Gingrich, not the Clinton administration, for the standoff, and the Republicans eventually backed down."
And here we are again. Krugman also spends a lot of time highlighting our current income inequality and comparing it to the Gilded Age. He explains in detail how the most conservative wing of the Republican party has hijacked social issues and glossed over or overtly lied about economic inequality to secure support from individual voters who's interests are not really in line with the party. Put another way, and in my terms. Joe the Plumber became a Republican "standard bearer" during the McCain campaign. He would have been better served as a newly minted business owner by Democratic policies, at worst, and at best, might have found more income and job security in a union. I reference all of this to give context to something I've noticed.
I spend time with a lot of people who are adamant Republican voters. Shockingly, they vote so in direct conflict with what seems like their self interest. One family loathes Obamacare, but fortunately receives substantial aid from Medicaid, and WIC. Others own small businesses and struggle to provide healthcare for their employees, make less than $250,000 a year but are somehow convinced that it serves their interest to vote Republican.
So I've gotta know. And I don't usually do this, but rather than simply post thoughts and see what sticks--What am I missing? Most of my readers know me. Do any of you wonder about me the way I wonder about others? I want to start a discussion. I know reading Krugman is like drinking the Liberal company cool aid. So humor me. But be advised, keep it data based, keep it civil, and keep it vigorous.
". . . But the rawness of the event was still remarkable: Republicans were willing to play chicken with the government's ability to function in their drive to take down one of the pillars of the U.S. welfare state (medicare). As it turned out, Gingrich had misjudged both Clinton and the voters. Clinton held firm. The public blamed Gingrich, not the Clinton administration, for the standoff, and the Republicans eventually backed down."
And here we are again. Krugman also spends a lot of time highlighting our current income inequality and comparing it to the Gilded Age. He explains in detail how the most conservative wing of the Republican party has hijacked social issues and glossed over or overtly lied about economic inequality to secure support from individual voters who's interests are not really in line with the party. Put another way, and in my terms. Joe the Plumber became a Republican "standard bearer" during the McCain campaign. He would have been better served as a newly minted business owner by Democratic policies, at worst, and at best, might have found more income and job security in a union. I reference all of this to give context to something I've noticed.
I spend time with a lot of people who are adamant Republican voters. Shockingly, they vote so in direct conflict with what seems like their self interest. One family loathes Obamacare, but fortunately receives substantial aid from Medicaid, and WIC. Others own small businesses and struggle to provide healthcare for their employees, make less than $250,000 a year but are somehow convinced that it serves their interest to vote Republican.
So I've gotta know. And I don't usually do this, but rather than simply post thoughts and see what sticks--What am I missing? Most of my readers know me. Do any of you wonder about me the way I wonder about others? I want to start a discussion. I know reading Krugman is like drinking the Liberal company cool aid. So humor me. But be advised, keep it data based, keep it civil, and keep it vigorous.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Drawn In
The surf was pretty phenomenal yesterday.
If your car is covered with salt, the weather has been unseasonably cool, traffic has been unseasonably heavy, and then all the sudden it's ten degrees warmer and all of the tourists are at the beach, you can bet the surf is pumping. At the moment the wind switches to come out of the southwest, the surf spends about an hour getting organized and then it is a race against time. The swell is falling. As the gentle west wind grooms the face of each wave, it begins to equalize the force of the wind driven sea. If it's blown over twenty five miles per hour onshore for more than three days, it should be head high. At low tide, it will be fun, and in most places serious enough.
If you are on vacation and it has been blowing northeast over twenty miles per hour for more than three days, you may be contemplating going home. At least you can cut the grass before you go back to work. You've over payed for several movies, and some t-shirts that you don't need. You haven't been on the beach, because to do so is to risk death by micro-derm abrasion. And then, the clouds part, the wind shifts and the angry sea (and roadways) give way to the pristine beaches you had been hoping for all along. There's just one thing...the waves still look pretty big, even though they look far less threatening in organized lines.
When the wind shifts, surfers will be standing on dune crossovers gazing to the east, as I was yesterday when I saw a familiar sight: lifeguards speeding down the beach on four wheelers. They stopped about two hundred yards north of our beach access, and I commented to some strangers checking the surf that it looked like a rescue. There was someone stumbling out of the water with the kind of surfboard that indicated that he didn't know what he was doing. We figured that was it, but then, there in the impact zone was a head bobbing. The lifeguard was in the water in seconds, and thanks to the rip current that had caught the victim, was within feet of the individual in distress in less than one minute. As the guard offered the float to the swimmer, who's head was still above water, I commented to the strangers that it looked like the show was over.
I surfed literally until I was exhausted. I caught great waves. I watched friends catch great waves--hollow tubes that fully cover a crouching man. I made it out of some, and was crushed by others. The surf was serious enough to demand complete attention but it was familiar. The waves aren't that good that often, so I'd say it was like being with a great friend that you don't see all that much of. I should have gone back to work when the lunch hour ended. But I knew conditions were fleeting. I stayed until I couldn't.
Yesterday afternoon I was in the town office (completely exhausted) picking up a building permit. I overheard a comment about an ocean rescue that was unsuccessful. I asked if it was the one I'd seen and my fears were confirmed. I didn't see that one going that way. I once asked a friend of mine who is an ER nurse if her experience made her see life as extremely fragile or extremely durable. She said working in the ER just made life more mysterious because she would lose people who seemed to have relatively minor injuries and see people with horrific trauma pull through.
Our quaint little town hides a secret. We are on the margin--on the edge of human habitat. Through practice, familiarity, and probably some hubris, some learn to enjoy the ocean. We may survive there, we may revel, but we cannot thrive. Walking the beach, seeing the ocean turn from angry to inviting and back again reminds us of our fortune and our frailty. The sea, is another world, and the beach is the border. But there is a lot of nothing on that horizon. Sometimes in that nothing, we see what we need to. That is why we are drawn in. And sometimes any one of us can be drawn in too far.
If your car is covered with salt, the weather has been unseasonably cool, traffic has been unseasonably heavy, and then all the sudden it's ten degrees warmer and all of the tourists are at the beach, you can bet the surf is pumping. At the moment the wind switches to come out of the southwest, the surf spends about an hour getting organized and then it is a race against time. The swell is falling. As the gentle west wind grooms the face of each wave, it begins to equalize the force of the wind driven sea. If it's blown over twenty five miles per hour onshore for more than three days, it should be head high. At low tide, it will be fun, and in most places serious enough.
If you are on vacation and it has been blowing northeast over twenty miles per hour for more than three days, you may be contemplating going home. At least you can cut the grass before you go back to work. You've over payed for several movies, and some t-shirts that you don't need. You haven't been on the beach, because to do so is to risk death by micro-derm abrasion. And then, the clouds part, the wind shifts and the angry sea (and roadways) give way to the pristine beaches you had been hoping for all along. There's just one thing...the waves still look pretty big, even though they look far less threatening in organized lines.
When the wind shifts, surfers will be standing on dune crossovers gazing to the east, as I was yesterday when I saw a familiar sight: lifeguards speeding down the beach on four wheelers. They stopped about two hundred yards north of our beach access, and I commented to some strangers checking the surf that it looked like a rescue. There was someone stumbling out of the water with the kind of surfboard that indicated that he didn't know what he was doing. We figured that was it, but then, there in the impact zone was a head bobbing. The lifeguard was in the water in seconds, and thanks to the rip current that had caught the victim, was within feet of the individual in distress in less than one minute. As the guard offered the float to the swimmer, who's head was still above water, I commented to the strangers that it looked like the show was over.
I surfed literally until I was exhausted. I caught great waves. I watched friends catch great waves--hollow tubes that fully cover a crouching man. I made it out of some, and was crushed by others. The surf was serious enough to demand complete attention but it was familiar. The waves aren't that good that often, so I'd say it was like being with a great friend that you don't see all that much of. I should have gone back to work when the lunch hour ended. But I knew conditions were fleeting. I stayed until I couldn't.
Yesterday afternoon I was in the town office (completely exhausted) picking up a building permit. I overheard a comment about an ocean rescue that was unsuccessful. I asked if it was the one I'd seen and my fears were confirmed. I didn't see that one going that way. I once asked a friend of mine who is an ER nurse if her experience made her see life as extremely fragile or extremely durable. She said working in the ER just made life more mysterious because she would lose people who seemed to have relatively minor injuries and see people with horrific trauma pull through.
Our quaint little town hides a secret. We are on the margin--on the edge of human habitat. Through practice, familiarity, and probably some hubris, some learn to enjoy the ocean. We may survive there, we may revel, but we cannot thrive. Walking the beach, seeing the ocean turn from angry to inviting and back again reminds us of our fortune and our frailty. The sea, is another world, and the beach is the border. But there is a lot of nothing on that horizon. Sometimes in that nothing, we see what we need to. That is why we are drawn in. And sometimes any one of us can be drawn in too far.
Monday, September 30, 2013
The Circus
You've got to get out occasionally, or so I'm told... We took the wee one to the circus in Elizabeth City, our nearby metropolis. Elizabeth Town would be more accurate, but that was taken, and Elizabeth Large Town would be even more accurate, but is cumbersome. In addition to several auto dealerships, E City as it is affectionately know by outer bankers, sports a vintage (mildly decaying) National Guard Armory. This sleepy--gymnasium really--played host to the greatest show on earth last week. Now, it is possible that the Circus Pages Circus is not the greatest circus ever to be performed, but I am pretty comfortable arguing that pound for pound, it's pretty bad ass!
Now, let's put aside our concerns for the strange lives of the circus performers and staff (mostly one and the same on this scale), and lets let the 300 LB animal welfare gorilla doze in the corner of the room, and let's--just for a moment--marvel. To not be impressed by this show you would have to be dead, or higher than a giraffe's buns.
Let's do stats first. The Armory's open room had to be around 10,000-15,000 square feet (guessing). There are vacation homes with more space than that (big ones, granted). There were probably less than twelve professional performers, though they wore many hats, and about as many prop guys and poop--no excrement managers. There were: three lions, two elephants, ten or so ponies, a horse, two tigers, a globe of death with four, yes four motorcycles!, a trampoline act, an ariel acrobatics act, and something that was a cross between a bullfight and a wardrobe extravaganza (you gotta see that one to believe it). Perhaps most impressively, the lion tamer, the ticket girl, the face painter, the acrobat, the bikini clad lady in the globe of death, camel wrangler, and sometimes announcer were the same person! She wasn't the only one. One of the acrobats sold popcorn, funnel cakes, did crazy business on a trampoline, and then rode a motorcycle (upside down at least thirty percent of the time) in the globe of death. Oh yeah, and there were four trained camels. From what I understand they are ornery cusses so, there's that.
The versatility, the ease of transition, and the complete lack of pretense (my kid was high as a kite on cotton candy and all over the place, no on once asked her to sit down or back away from the rail) were pretty stunning, but what was more compelling to me was the scale. I live a tiny life in a tiny town, and truth be told, I love our tiny E City. And here it was, a tiny circus in size only. Literally every trailer hauling all of this talent and animal grandeur was parallel parked in less than one city block. Elephants!! You get that? Elephants plural! Tiny footprint, huge show. I know I sound like a bit of a company mouthpiece here, but I payed full price (and then some) I assure you.
It was truly like stepping back in time. We drove forty minutes and fifty years into the past. My daughter and I took an elephant ride. She rode a pony as well. We never once saw a release form! The whole show fit snuggly inside the Armory's walls, but it completely blew our minds. I hope the magic comes to a mini city near you. You can invite them if you would like....
http://www.circuspages.com
Thursday, May 30, 2013
On Dogs
I quietly hold a controversial view on dogs. I own them. I love them. I care for them . . . if it suits me. I'm reminded of this as my new dog transitions from puppy to dog. He's turning out to be a great dog. This is not interesting accept that if he didn't "turn out," my inclination would be to find a replacement. I firmly believe that all dogs are service animals. Additionally they serve at the pleasure of their masters. If a dog cannot fulfill the responsibilities of its station, it is not worth keeping.
That said, I hold the same standard for people. Many dog owners are not worth keeping.
A dog, and its owner must be disciplined, above all else. I'm not sure that dogs must be dominated by their owners, but I am sure that dogs crave structure. Dogs crave direction. Structure and direction are the responsibility of the human. There are no exceptions on this. The true joy in mastering an animal comes after this initial commitment. Once discipline and structure are established, the nuance of dog mastery may begin.
Tonight Harry, the aloof, sometimes difficult, always intent Spanish Water Dog greeted a pack of four dogs. Harry was not leashed. He greeted the leader of the pack, with grace and poise and worked his way down from there. What's more he tolerated a lower pack member's growl and bark. He ignored this fear based behavior.
When Harry came to us, he was unsure, and seemed to be developing a fear based aggression that was not going to fit well in our family that included a three year old daughter and three cats. I was confident that I could work with him--then skeptical. As he was uncertain I bowed to our trainer's impulse to minimize negative reinforcement and concentrate on reward based training. However, after my favorite cat spent the night at the vet to the tune of $400.00, my patience had run out. Out of economic self interest I gravitated toward the dog training principle I'd grown up with. Produce the behavior you want, by any reasonable means, reward good behavior.
No longer was I standing there with my treat, and what felt like my manhood, in my hands. The choke collar was re-deployed, the shock collar was introduced. By this point I'd been working with Harry for six months. In two weeks we had the results we needed. Now we are fine tuning. I must admit that the early confidence reinforcement is probably what made all of this possible. I know how to train a dog. I am less confident that I could rehabilitate an uncertain dog.
In a perfect world though, no domestic dog would be afflicted with the injustice of a poor upbringing. A puppy is a world of potential. Not all dogs will become bomb sniffers or k9 cops. However no dog should be allowed to behave like a jackass. Our species have too much history together to allow a regression now. Train your dog. If you need help ask for it. There is no excuse for squandering the potential of a puppy.
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