Kids Say the Profoundest Things

I don't know about you, but I love listening to kids talk. They are funny, obnoxious, ornery and, at times, profound. The words that fall out of their mouths are true gems.
One time, my wife Patti and I were having dinner in a restaurant with our 10-year-old, John. This restaurant had a piano bar. John had just come from a piano recital, a fact we casually mentioned to the waitress.
A few minutes later, she came back to our table with an announcement.
"We took a vote, and we'd like your son to play the piano for us," she said.
Patti and I looked at each other and at John, who just sat there and shrugged. We decided it would be OK for him to play a song or two in the bar.
He sat down and played a few songs, even accompanying the crowd in a chorus of "Happy Birthday" for one of the patrons.
When he finished, he collected his tips -- $3 for five minutes of work -- and we headed back to our table.
When we sat down, Patti and I congratulated John on his first "real" public performance.
"But you can't tell anyone about me playing in a bar," he said.
"Why would that be?" I asked.
"Because -- you'll ruin my reputation," he insisted.
Another time, I was driving a van load of kids past a farm during harvest. Combines were crisscrossing the field as we drove down the road.
One of the kids chirped, "When I grow up, I want a combine, too."
"Oh? That's nice," I told him.
"Yeah! I want a combine -- a jet-powered combine!" he said.
"That'd sure get harvest done fast," I said. "And you could burn your fields at the same time."
Still other times, kids manage to find a deeper meaning in even the saddest events.
Some years ago, a sister-in-law died after a long illness. She was more than an in-law; she had actually introduced me to her sister, who would become my wife. She had been a friend and had always provided Patti and me with a bushel basket of good advice and common sense about all sorts of topics.
When I heard the tragic news, I was devastated. I sat at the kitchen table, inconsolable. Our oldest son, Paul, was 5 years old at the time. He sat down across the table from me, studying me.
"Dad, what's wrong?" he asked.
"Oh, Paul, I'm just sad," I said. "Your aunt died today."
He was silent for a while.
"Dad, you know the doctors tried their best to help her," he said.
"Yes, Paul, I'm sure they did," I responded.
"And you know she'll always live in your heart," he added.
I was stunned, and I realized the wisdom that can only come from a 5-year-old.
"Yes, Paul, you're right," I said. "She will always live in my heart."
This spring was our youngest son's first communion. For Catholics, it's a milestone, when a child participates in the most important part of a mass.
First communion is also a time when kids dress up. The boys wear ties and sports jackets. Some even wear tuxedos for the occasion. The girls look beautiful in their white dresses.
Through all of the ritual, I wondered if our son Mark understood what he was participating in. Patti and I followed him up to the priest and back to the pew. We sat down, and he was beaming.
Then, he leaned over to me and whispered, "That's good stuff."
"Yes," I told him. "It is good stuff."

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

It's baseball season, and I've got the fever.
I signed up our youngest son, Mark, for T-ball, and ever since then he's had the fever, too. Every waking moment, he's asking me, his mother, his brothers and even our dog to play catch and throw pitches to him for batting practice. He is obsessed.
Baseball isn't a pastime for him; it's a passion, and I think I understand what he's going through. I think a lot about baseball these days, and all of the time I spent as a kid in Bossier City, La., playing ball with my best friends, Buzzy and Hoppy.
We'd get home from school and within 15 milliseconds have our ball gloves, bats and baseball in hand for a game of 500, flies-and-grounders, catch, burnout and any other permutation on baseball an 11-year-old mind could think of.
We played in a huge open field behind the trailer park. In the summers, the heat and humidity would both be in the 90s, but it was nothing a 10-cent grape Nehi from the soda machine in front of the laundromat couldn't fix.
I was one of those kids who was fixated on equipment, and the more the better. That meant I was the catcher.  My heros were Dick Brown, a catcher for the Detroit Tigers, and Yogi Berra of the New York Yankees. When the CBS "Game of the Week" came on our black-and-white Zenith with Dizzy Dean and Peewee Reese announcing, I'd put on all of my catcher's equipment and "catch" the pitches as they were thrown on the TV. I'd even argue with the umpire if I felt he was visually impaired on any particular pitch.
I also played in the Barksdale Air Force Base Little League. My team was the Little Commanders. One day, the coach got the idea that he would have me pitch.
Bad idea.
We were playing the Jet Aces, and our regular pitchers weren't there. One Jet Ace player had my number. He hit not one, not two but three home runs off me that day.
I felt like Charlie Brown out on that mound, with all my clothes blown off. The final score was something like 423-0.
That was the low point of my baseball career. But there has never been a spring when thoughts of baseball haven't returned.
The other day, I saw a movie called "Fever Pitch." It was about a teacher who is a diehard Boston Red Sox fan. I went to school one summer with one. He was a breed apart. We were students at a Russian language school in Vermont, and every Saturday we'd sneak into the recreation hall to watch a Red Sox game on the television. Every time, the Sox would get hammered, but he'd just shrug and say, "We'll get 'em next time."
The movie reminded me a lot of him. Being a Red Sox fan is a lifestyle and an obsession much more than anything else.
By the end of the movie, an amazing thing happens. The Red Sox win the World Series for the first time in a bajillion years, and the Sox fan finds his true love.
Maybe that's what's so attractive about baseball. Maybe we are all Charlie Browns or hapless Red Sox fans and we're just looking for that one magic moment, when the Sox win the series and the prettiest girl in stadium falls for us.
Maybe it won't happen this year. If not, we'll get 'em next time.

I Am What I Am

  Humorist Garrison Keillor once described the reason people in a small a

town read the local newspaper. They just want to see if the reporters got

the stories right.

   I'm not so sure I disagree. The grapevines, rumor mills, coffee klatches

and gossip all do a pretty fair job of conveying various tidbits around a

town. The smaller the town, the faster and more accurate the gossip.

   For example, I once edited a newspaper in Wrangell, Alaska, a small town

that makes St. James look like New York City by comparison. Try to find it

on the map, if you can. One evening, I asked the high school¹s home

economics teacher out to dinner and a movie. Please note that this was 12

years before I got married. (There's one rumor quashed.) The next afternoon,

the high school-age daughter of the newspaper's owner came whirling into the office.

Before she even sat down, she proceeded to tell me who I had the date with,

where we went for dinner, what we had for dinner and what movie we watched.

   Living in Wrangell gave me a new appreciation for the powers of the

rumor mill. However, I think a good local newspaper provides two services

even the best of rumor mills cannot.

   First, a good newspaper is like a mirror. It shows us, individually and

as a community, what we look like. Individually, we each have a pretty good

idea of our appearances. I'm about 6 feet tall, have brown hair, brown eyes,

have the dark and strikingly handsome features of James Bond and so on.

   When I get up in the morning and stand in front of the mirror, though,

something happens. I still have brown hair. I still have brown eyes. But

James Bond has been replaced by this odd-looking 45-year-old dude. And so,

through the mirror, I get my daily reality check.

   So, too, does a newspaper provide a much-needed weekly reality check. We

may have a certain preconceived notion about St. James and Watonwan County,

and it may or may not be accurate. To borrow a cliche, a newspaper will show

us the good, the bad and the ugly among us, but it will also show us our

beauty, our strengths and our weaknesses.

   Second, a newspaper is like a best friend. A newspaper will be first in

line to congratulate community members on their successes. But it will also

not shy away from pointing out shortcomings. We have all encountered

"fair-weather" friends who are around as long as the going is easy, but who

disappear when the going gets rough. A good newspaper is there through the

good times and bad.

   A best friend also suggests -- never demands -- ways to improve. A

newspaper does that by actively seeking ideas and information from within

the community and, if needed, looking beyond our borders to other

communities that have faced similar circumstances.

   So there you have our mission at the Plaindealer: be a mirror and a best

friend to the people of St. James and Watonwan County.

   When I was approached by the folks here at the Plaindealer about

returning, I hesitated. I wondered what I might be able to offer that isn¹t

already being offered. I suppose I¹ll be figuring that out in the coming

weeks. Along with Beverly and Naomi, I'll be doing my best to fulfill the

expectations you, the readers, have of the Plaindealer.

   The only problem about returning after five years is finding the right

job title. Around the house, I keep trying to get the kids to refer to me

the Most Supreme Commander. They have objected and tend towards something

like "Dad."

   I once read about a political movement in Kenya or somewhere in Africa,

I can't remember where, called the Party of the Upright Young Men. The

leader was called the Most Upright Young Man, but I wonder if that will fit

on the Plaindealer¹s masthead. And my wife keeps reminding that "young" may

not be the most accurate description for a 45-year-old former newspaper

editor, financial planner, stock broker, amateur carpenter (I built some

bookshelves once) and unpublished novelist.

    Doc -- oops, that should be Mr. Doc, Sir -- and I tried to come up with

a job title. Contributing editor, editorial coordinator and What's-His-Face

each had a certain charm and were adequately nondescript but never really

captured my imagination.

   One of the kids' favorite TV shows is "Bill Nye the Science Guy." Maybe

a title based on that would work -- Carl S. the Writing Guy.

   Nah. Let's see. Maybe a combination, like Carl S., the Most Supreme

Writing Guy of the Upright Middle-age Men. Or, since I¹m just working in the

mornings, how about Carl S., the Part-time Most Supreme Writing Guy of the

Upright Middle-age Men Who Likes to Hang Around the House in the Afternoons.

   I like it! But again, I think we might have a space problem.

   How about keeping it simple. How about Writer?

One less toolbox to worry about

A wonderful thing happened to me last spring. Someone stole my toolbox.

Before you get all up in arms about “what’s the world coming to, that some junkie has to go around stealing people’s toolboxes,” I should describe it.

First of all, the box was worth more than the tools inside it. It was one of those nifty plastic toolboxes that allowed you to take only what you needed. It was divided into trays, each with its own handle. I have to admit, it was a pretty cool setup.

What was in the box, however, was, shall we say, marginal. The torque wrench a college buddy willed to me 32 years ago when he was moving out of his dorm room. A pair of $2 pliers. A random assortment of sockets for a wrench I had lost. Miscellaneous do-dads and whatyamacallits, And a couple of things that were total mysteries, like one electronic gizmo with red and green lights and wires with alligator clips. It had probably been used by the CIA for interrogations.

All I know is they all were stolen and, with them, most prospects  of fixing anything around the house.

Which is fine with me. In fact, it’s great with me. In fact, I want to thank the junkie who stole them. He has saved me more grief than anyone I can think of.

Now, when Patti, my soul mate and the love of my life, asks me to fix something around the house, I usually just shrug and say, “Sorry. That junkie stole all of my important tools. I just can’t. I’d really like to help, but I just can’t.”

And I push back the old recliner and crack open that book I’ve been reading.

Which, of course, makes me no brownie points whatsoever. I should also add that we do a have a small auxiliary toolbox under the kitchen sink that is adequate for most of the little jobs, like fixing a faucet, so I’m not a complete heel.

The big jobs, however, are completely beyond my reach.

Which is just as well. I’m one of those guys who keep repairmen in business. I’ll usually monkey around with something for a few days, trying to fix it, and then give up and my wife will call a repairman, who will have it fixed in 20 minutes.

Now, she just calls the repairman and saves me $80 in materials and three days of aggravation.

All is good.

However, I know this interlude of bliss is rapidly coming to a close. I know that, for Valentine’s Day, my birthday or some other national celebration, I’ll get a gift of tools, complete with a bright, shiny new toolbox.

And then all I can do is hope for the best: that some junkie will steal it, like he did my old one.

Hmm. Maybe if I put it on the driveway with a “Free” sign on it,  that would help.

Multi-culturalism gone wild

   I'm really getting into this multi-cultural thing. I've been working on

my family tree and, apart from a few squirrels that took up residence there

over the years, I found that I'm about as multi-cultural as a guy can get.

   In fact, when it comes to diversity, I'm a one-man United Nations. One

side of my family moved straight from  Finland to the Upper Peninsula of

Michigan. Yep, I'm part Yuper.

   The other side is pure Californian. My great-great-grandfather helped

develop Coronado Island in San Diego. So, like wow, man, I'm, like, a truly

Californian dude.

   Add to that the fact that I was born on the Island of Guam, and have

lived in seven states from Alaska to Florida, and I'm so doggone culturally

diverse I don't know what to do with myself. (Maybe that's the problem.)

   All of this occurred to me the other day when I picked up the Time

magazine with Ricky Martin on the cover. For all of you culturally

non-diverse folks out there, Ricky Martin is one of the hottest new Latin

music stars. And Latin music is hot, hot, hot.

   Which got me to thinking. My wife and I have been bugging our kids to

learn a foreign language. My wife is pushing for Latin ­ gag me with a past

participle ­ and I've been pushing for Spanish or French. I know a little

Russian, but I also know that the likelihood of using Russian ranks right up

there with Latin, Swahili and Tamil.

   Our kids are leaning toward French, mainly because my wife is fluent in

it, and I even know a little.

   Besides, our kids say they already know Spanish.

   "Una mas cerveza," our 11-year-old says. "See, I know Spanish."

   Let me explain. One of my favorite bands, multi-cultural or otherwise,

is the Texas Tornadoes, which a brother-in-law once played non-stop for two

days on a fishing trip. One of the extremely multi-cultural songs they do is

"Una Mas Cerveza."

   Actually, their songs" lyrics are very poetic. "I've got some dinero,

You get your Camaro,  We'll get some cerveza, and go up on the mesa."

   Longfellow never sounded better.

   Where was I. Oh, back to Latin music. Anyway, Time had a listing of

Latin musicians who paved the way for the current popularity  ­ Richie

Valens, Carlos Santana, Gloria Estefan, but, incredibly, the Texas Tornadoes

were left out.

   I was looking at the pictures of the current stars ­ Jennifer Lopez and

Ricky Martin ­ and it seems that the main ingredient of their image is a

willingness to be photographed in various states of undress.

   I can do that. Plus I'm a Modern Multi-Cultural Kind of Guy.

   So I started taking off my shirt and asked my wife if I was as sexy as

Ricky Martin.

June 3, 1999

The Best Age

I think the best age to be is 10. As a matter of fact, I know it is.

It comes after the skinned knees and trials and errors of being a little kid, fluttering around in the mother’s shadow, and it’s before the teen-age hormones take over all functions of the brain, rendering it completely useless.

In short, being 10 is just right.

It’s when the biggest adventure ever involves exploring the backyard looking for bugs or watching for shooting stars in the night sky.

It’s when the biggest thrill is taking an old piece of plywood, spray-painting a rectangular strike zone on it, and spending hour after hour practicing your super-secret fastball-curve-slider combination pitch.

It’s when everything in life is still new and inviting and wonder-filled, and every day really is an adventure, not just a saying on one of those inspirational posters that you buy from an airline magazine.

The other day, I was helping my wife get a load of laundry going — I am, after all, a 21^st Century guy — and I was emptying the pockets of a pair of pants that belong to Mark, our 10-year-old. Here are the contents:

— One wallet. This particular wallet was completely empty, except for a library card. No money — just like his old man’s — no credit cards, no responsibilities. It was perfect.

— A lucky stone. This is not one of those fancy, polished stones, but a rock that only a 10-year-old could see as special.

— An auxiliary lucky stone. This is in case the main lucky stone gets lost.

— Thirteen cents. You never know when you’ll face a dire emergency, such as a bubble gum shortage.

— A pound of sand. I wondered when Lincoln City would call wanting its beach back.

— A paperback copy of Lemony Snicket’s “A Series of Unfortunate Events.” Mark worked out a deal with me that he would read for an hour before he can watch a video or play a video game. He keeps the book on ready standby.

— A key. I have no idea what the key unlocks. Maybe the future.

When I compared what was in my pockets — a wallet full of credit cards, a drivers license and other equally meaningless stuff — all I could think is that I’d trade with any 10-year-old.

Anytime.

Top 10 Reasons to Like St. James, Minnesota

   Every so often, I do a general accounting of where I am, what I¹m doing,

the meaning of life and the price of tea in China. In doing that, I make

mental lists of what I like and don't like about various things in my life.

   Two of the lists have to do with what I like and don't like about St.

James. I won't go into the list of "don't likes," other than to say that

tornadoes, wind, hail, blizzards,  thunderstorms and shoveling snow figure

prominently on it.

   On the other side of the ledger are the things I really like about St.

James. It's not a complete list, but it's based on my experiences the past

six or seven years.

   So, without further ado, and with apologies to David Letterman, here is

my  personal, annotated list of the Top 10 Reasons to Like St. James.

   10. Bacon. If you love the smell of frying bacon, you've got to love St.

James when Tony Downs Foods is making bacon bits. In fact, I'd wager that

St. James is the Bacon Bit Capital of America, and probably the hemisphere

or even the world. Every time I get a whiff of that bacon frying, I start

hallucinating about BLTs, bacon cheeseburgers, ... I'd better stop before my

cholesterol level goes ballistic.

   9. Deep Roots. I can't remember the number of times I have talked to

folks whose grandparents or great-grandparents or great-great-grandparents

settled in this area. Just the other day, I was talking to a gentleman and

asked him where he was from. "Right over there," he said, pointing to the

house where his son and his family now lived. "I was born in that house. My

Dad built it in 1922." I like that a lot.

   8. The Wave. Folks in St. James love to wave. They wave at friends. They

wave at enemies. They wave at complete strangers. This may be the waving-est

place in America.

   7. The Volunteers. If you need a hand doing something ­ anything ­ folks

come from every direction to pitch in. And they come running. No

complaining, no excuses, just a friendly hand.

   6. Civic Clubs. St. James  is lucky to have a healthy collection of

civic clubs, people who band together for one overarching purpose: to do

good. A town can never have too many of them.

   5. Understatement. The folks of St. James are masters of understatement.

It could have rained 4 inches in torrents ­ like it did on Saturday ­  and

the typical comment would be, "Got a little wet the other day."

   4. First Avenue and Memorial Drive. With help from local civic groups

(see No. 6), the city has transformed downtown and Memorial Park into a

strikingly handsome area. Gazebos, old-fashion street lights, hanging flower

baskets and banners combine to create a focal point of pride for our

community.

   3. Fourth of July Fireworks. It combines equal parts of patriotism and

pyrotechnics for the perfect ending to an Independence Day. Thanks to the

VFW and the St. James Fire Department for putting it on.

   2. Railroad Days. This is the something-for-everyone kind of event. From

the parade to the athletic tournaments to activities for the kids, a family

can spend the better part of three days enjoying the sights and sounds.

   And now, a drum roll please, as we reveal the highly sought after top

billing.       

1. Friendly People. If you can make it through a grocery

store ­ or any place in town, for that matter­ without stopping and visiting

with someone, then you've been living in a cave. A smile and a kind word go

a long way in St. James.