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"One Heckuva Run"

4/19/2010

 
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Precious, fragile, fleeting, and way too short. Life. Your born, you grow, you have your own children, they grow and on and on it goes. We have our triumphs and failures, our pains and pleasures. Neither wealth or position can slow or change this inexorable process. Life itself is what we all have in common. Seasons, holidays, births, graduations and yes, the end. Death. It’s the end of the road for us all. No escape, no pardon.

We were planning to all head out to the track this weekend, me my wife and my son. Another weekend of motocross; out camping and visiting with our part time neighbors. The phone rang mid week. My wife answered. It was her child hood friend. She had married my wife’s cousin and like us, their three children are pretty much grown. She had some bad news. Her grandmother had passed away. Ninety seven years old. I remember seeing her in recent years. Bright eyed, clear headed and well spoken and yet when at ninety seven someone dies we just accept it. In fact when someone makes it into their nineties we tend to say things like “she had a heckuva run”. No disrespect intended, rather simply a factual statement of how we feel. A long life, well lived is a heckuva run. We accept this passing as a natural step. We don’t feel the same though when the young are taken.

My son and I got to the track and unloaded the trailer. We were talking to our friends who were wondering where my wife was and if she was coming. “She had a funeral to go to.” A few words were exchanged about who, how old, etc. and on to other topics. It was a beautiful spring day, fresh crisp air and warm sunshine. The hustle of morning preparations in the “pits” as everyone worked to prepare their machines for the day’s riding. We hadn’t been there long when we heard the news. It was about one of the riders we regularly see at the track. Three of his high school friends had been in a crash that very morning. One was killed and another was in critical condition after a life flight. More word as the day passed. The second boy didn’t make it. He was the rider’s cousin. It was prom night for their small school. A class of eighty students, now seventy eight. One of the young riders friends balked at the news; “No way, you’ve got to be kidding” we just can’t take it in when the young leave us, suddenly or not. 

Now of course when I was that age, I was just as incredulous. After all, we were the new young generation, indestructible, immortal. At the end of a long hot day, late in my senior year of high school I plopped into my seat at my last period class. Red faced and drenched in sweat. No air conditioning and I had just left gym class at the far end of the building. A good number of us had just come from gym, disheveled and half dressed with shirt tails out, hair still wet and uncombed. Mr. Desenfants sat on the front edge of his desk, lessons open behind him. The bell rang and the last few students took their seats. He looked across the room, smiled, shook his head and turned to close up his lesson book. “I don’t think we’re going to get much learning done today” he said. What followed was a rare experience. A full period of wide ranging conversation from how wonder bread is viewed in Europe as “air that has been taught to stand up” to the meaning and value and tenuous nature of life. He got us on that last one. “Do you all realize” he asked “that it is likely that one or more of your graduating class will not make it to the end of the year?" Silence, gasps, wide eyes. What was he talking about? C’mon, we are the new generation, invincible, immortal. A very interesting and sobering class period. He was right. Painfully right. I don’t recall the exact number any more, seven I think, did not make it to graduation. One was a friend of mine. By her own hand. Suicide. I could not grasp it. Dead, gone. Forever. Now don’t get me wrong, I am not one of those folks who can’t handle funerals. My grandmother was one of thirteen children. I was fine with funerals. Friends, classmates, different story altogether. Losing a friend, someone so close, so young. Beyond comprehension. I think of that day with Mr. Desenfants often. Pretty much whenever someone young leaves us. 

My son and I spoke about it on our way home. How tough it was going to be for those kids, that entire school. Prom night. Two of their class. Tough stuff. A real eye opener for my son. For me as for all of us, that profound sadness when we see a life cut short. These moments always make me think of my children. How I want to continue to protect them from the world. An unrealistic goal for sure; to live life it has to be well, lived. There was a commercial on the news tonight. I don’t even remember what the pitch was for, but it showed a hockey player getting a phone call on the bench. At “MOM’s” request, he sang “itsy bitsy spider” for his little girl. His friends laughed as he turned and saw them in embarrassment. But did he really care? Of course not. One thing we do know about this life is that friends and family are what make it worth living. Our children are number one, what really drives us. Feed them, clothe them, put a roof over their heads and in my case, play them Brahm’s Lullably on the piano as they fell asleep. I know that as with all of us, my children too will leave this life one day, I can only hope and pray that it is after “a heckuva run” for each of them. 

The Man Card

4/12/2010

 
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  By D.A.D.

 

The other day Anika reminded me that I had been using the term “Man Card” for quite a few years. The context is very important. I have almost always used the term in a humorous and somewhat sarcastic manner. “That guy doesn’t have a clue…they should take away his Man Card”.
So, what exactly do I mean by Man Card? You must have a bit of a glimmer from the line above. Let me give a better example. Anika had met a strong strapping young man in his mid-twenties. He had volunteered to help her move and did a fine job with the heavy lifting, quite literally. However things took a bad turn when it was time to get the new place set up.
She asked him to hang a curtain rod. This has to be one of the simplest tasks you can imagine. An electric drill, a tape measure, a pencil screws and anchors and you’re done in a jiffy. As in like five minutes. It is the simplest of tasks that a man with any mechanical abilities should be able to perform. He did not have a clue. Did not even try. I would have to guess that McGyver was not one of his favorite shows.

The parade of young men that have vied for my daughters attentions rarely deserve to hold a Man Card. What the heck is up? Did they take shop class out of the schools? Nope, both girls and recently my son the freshman all brought home well crafted projects. My girls and my boy get this. How is it then that so many young men out there are clueless when it comes to the skills that would earn them a Man Card? You doubt my concern? Okay, here’s a clue, Cup-Stacking is now considered a sport, no really, I’m not kidding, they teach this in Middle School Gym class. If your child is a national level competing Cup-Stacker, I make no apologies, not even to you. Cup Stacking, not cool. Lacking basic man skills, way not cool. So seriously, how did it come to this, so many men in the current generation so undeserving of a Man Card? Ready for this? Our generation has made it way to easy for our kids. Hire the carpenter while we take Billy to the Cup Stacking competition instead of Father and Son working on a project together. Many schools have dropped wrestling, gymnastics and other sports. Working with your hands is not respected any more. How many plumbers, electricians and carpenters are doing better financially than their white collar counterparts? Many, trust me on this, many.  We have had this shift of thinking that somehow actually doing things is, beneath us, a less than desirable pursuit. This spells trouble, serious trouble.

Now realize there are other qualifications and disqualifications for a Man Card. Being a bully, no card, never ever ever. Being rude and disrespectful to women. Definitely no card and a nice long session out back of the wood shed is in order. Being polite and respectful to your peers and elders, bingo, good points towards your Man Card. Treating a woman with kindness and respect; ah you’re catching on, Major Points for the card. So here’s the deal Mom and Dad, take a pass on the Cup-Stacking, get the little guy working with some tools and teach him manners. My son knows the only things that might ever make me raise a hand to him are being a bully, or in any way hurting a woman. Kind of old fashioned I know, but honestly, he knows I will never raise my hand to him. The good news though, I'll never have to face that dilemma. Yup, he’s earned his Man Card.

She’s Leaving Home, bye bye…

4/12/2010

 
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By D.A.D.

The empty nest; all parents joke about it, hey they’re gone! Hurray! Sleep, privacy, a clean house, all those things we have been missing for so long. We’re sure it will be new found FREEDOM.

Our second child my daughter, left for an overseas trip the other day. Six months she’ll be gone, after living with us at home again for the past year and a half. We all have our ups and downs, our points of contention, but gone is gone. I have to admit that although I’ve been through this so many times in the past; trips to camp, off to college and the dorm, school in another country, etc. I always find myself aching with a sense of loss, each and every time.

Anika has been on her own for a while and when she hasn’t visited for a time, it’s kind of like we all need a fix, as though we’re slipping out of control until we connect again. The frequency of phone calls outbound and inbound seems to increase as the time since that last visit falls further into the past. The same happens with her sister when she is gone. She has planned this departure for some time, but still, the ache is there. It’s like I wasn’t ready. Just like every time before.

This is the first time that both girls have been a good distance from home at the same time. Our nest is now two-thirds empty. Little brother remains, a freshman in High School. I thought today about his future, when he will be off on his own. His sports put us on the road together week-end after week-end much of the year. It’s a rare thing for Mom, Dad and son to spend so much time together. I cherish it, because I know that it will end sooner rather than later. The completely empty home, I know it’s inevitable, but I am not eager for that day to come.

Mud and Letters

4/5/2010

 
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Being a Dad has its challenges and rewards. The rewards come in many forms: “Thanks Dad”, “I love you Dad” are a couple of the good ones. Seeing your children grow into adulthood, making good choices (better than mine!) is one of the best. My son has grown to what must be near his full height in the past year, just about eye-to-eye with me. He has chosen without our prodding to be involved in sports for many years. He is now a bit over fifteen and has played soccer, football and basketball. He also began wrestling, again his own choice in 7th grade and has continued, just recently finishing the season as a freshman in High School. 

His real love though, is motocross. If you are not familiar with this sport, let me just say that I will get much deeper into the world of motocross in the future. For now, just know that it is at the core, hard riding on fast motorcycles on very challenging dirt tracks with turns bumps and jumps that seem impossible.  Again, this was his idea, not ours. He came home one day asking to go to a race with a friend to “watch”. Watching motocross racing is the first step. The next step is to join in. He has been racing now since age eleven and loves it as much as one can love a sport. On my end, I have to say it is a wonderful group of sons and daughters with very fine parents. Yes I said sons and daughters. Smoke, oil, speed and horsepower are not only for the male of the species. We head to the track nearly every weekend from the first of April through mid October. This past weekend we were at a track in the middle of Missouri (about 500 miles from home) to watch my son compete in what is a qualifying round for a National Amateur Championship. 

The riding has become his total passion, with the desire to pursue it on a professional level. You will never know what you can achieve if you don’t try. It is my job as Dad, to support my children in their efforts. The event was three days: Practice all day Friday and races on both Saturday and Sunday. The weather was great on Friday and Saturday. Sunday however was a different matter entirely. In a few words let’s just say, big ugly mud pit. After two days of glorious riding Sunday arrived. The rain had started in the evening after racing on Saturday and lasted for a good number of hours. The “dirt” at this particular track that Sunday morning was pretty much adobe. You know the stuff they used to build houses for the past few millennia. Clay and straw. Add water and you have what strongly resembles concrete.  Get the picture? Ten minutes on the track followed by up to an hour of aggressive power washing. What fun! It was even worse than that with races so close we could barely remove enough mud to make the bike rideable.

Our whole family teamed together between races to get him ready for the next one, urging him on to tough it out. Mud is his sworn enemy, his nemesis, that which sucks all the fun out of racing. It is so, only if you let it be. Until Sunday this was the case. Then it happened. He came off of the track after the first race coated from head to toe. I was ready for the onslaught: “This sucks! What’s the point? You can’t ride in this!”etc., etc., etc. The usual litany we have experienced in all years past. This time was different, way different. He came off like a prize fighter after a beating of a round. Tired and worn, but head held high, ready to steel himself for the battle of the next round. We scrambled like a pit crew to get him and his bike ready. Clean goggles and shirt, as much mud as possible off of the bike and that most important thing the fighter gets in the corner between rounds, those words of encouragement and strategy; From me, from dad, there in his corner. You can’t plan those moments, they just happen. He needed to ride feet on the pegs, standing to better handle the corners. He already knew this as the fighter knows his long practiced technique. But when they stray, fighter and rider need those reminders. Off he went and around he came, standing in the turns, controlling the bike the way he never had on mud in the past. No longer the sworn enemy or nemesis, mud is now just another challenge to be beaten, beaten with calm and confidence. My son is becoming a man. If the room your are in seemed to go just a bit brighter, that is me, the proud Papa, beaming with pride. Not at what I have done, but for my son. That alone would be an excellent Dad day. But there was more to come.

Wrestler and Rider, two sports that work together like hand in glove. Both require courage, strength focus and discipline. Both are very, very hard work and they both make you stronger. Initially, my son pursued wrestling only as a way to stay in shape during the winter months to be stronger and better prepared for the coming season of motocross, but a funny thing happened along the way, he got hooked. He couldn’t go out on the mat and just go through the motions, not even in 7th grade. He was pretzled into positions that I expected would break bones, but he never quit, he always fought to the end. So it went again in 8th grade. The aggressive training and “live wrestling” was making him stronger and tougher. Along came freshman year. I wince at the mere thought, my youngest child in high school. The pangs of the soon to be empty nest are beginning to get to me already. He was excited about the new coaches, cousins who had been champions in both high school and college. The practice and training was grueling. He had a love hate relationship with the sport. The love came in not only when he won, but also when he had held his own against a tough opponent in a hard fought match. He lived for the challenge. Pre-season practice rolled into season and a spot was available for him on the Varsity roster. Freshman on Varsity. Humbling and a bit daunting to say the least. He fought hard every match and although wins were few and losses many, his coaches told he and I often that they appreciated that he wrestled with so much heart. So did I. I was in awe. Where did he get this? I have to be honest, not from me. He brought a strength and determination to the mat time after time that I could take no credit for. It was all him. Later in the season after a tough, tough schedule they moved him to JV to wrestle at the Conference Championship. At Varsity level they compete for conference, region, section and state. At the JV level, conference is far as you can go. He lost his first match and promptly told me in anger (at himself) that he should have won. Here was the fighter, between rounds. I was there in his corner and told him what he already knew: “focus! Go out there to win every match!” he did just that. He won the last four and took the title for his class. 

Several hours into our 500 mile drive home, my son commented that he was missing the wrestling awards banquet. A few minutes later as he texted with his friends at the banquet he said “I got my letter”. “Varsity letter? I said. “Yes” was the answer. We knew it was coming, but to hear it, for it to be real, at that moment, well it was the perfect end to a perfect day for this Dad. The room goes brighter still. Mud and Letters. What could be better?


First Things First

4/5/2010

 
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First things first, being a Dad has one ultimate initial requirement. You must have a child. Duh. Pretty obvious, I know but this is the beginning of the whole thing. It is life changing and never ending. One day you’re just a guy, then you’re a guy whose wife has the proverbial bun in the oven, then bang….it happens. Your name has changed, it is now Dad. Well it’s actually Daddy for a good number of years, but at the core you are Dad and there is no turning back. There are a few other “no’s” that come with being a Dad (or Mom).No uninterrupted nights of sleep, no sleeping in on the weekend, no carefree weekends, no extra money and above all, no extra time. Now I am not whining here, these are just simple facts.

So first things first you either get married and decide to have children, then “get pregnant”. I love that one, when the guy says “we are going to get pregnant”. We? Really? WE DON’T’ THINK SO….. The woman in the equation surely doesn’t think so. Or without getting married you decide to “get pregnant” Okay, so the decision consciously made, or subconsciously (someone forgets to use protection just this one time) and life is about to change forever. The test is positive, OMG! What now???

I’m going to step back in time for a moment. I was 19 years old, in a might-be-heading-towards-marriage relationship. This alone was a frightening prospect for me. Heck, I had just moved out of my folk’s house. Wife? The thought sent chills down my spine, I was NOT READY. As with all couples, we each brought our own group of friends to the table. One evening we went to visit a newly-wed couple, friends of hers. My throat was tightening and I broke out in a cold sweat as she joyfully told me they were married less than a year and how she was eager to see their new baby. BABY?!?! I had gotten out of high school, a mere year ago…. WIFE? BABY? This couple was just over twenty as I remember, having gotten married when they were both nineteen. NINETEEN! Oh boy, not me man, no way! I could not even get my head around a household of children with a child.

My worst fears were realized. They lived in a small third floor walk up apartment in an older building with hardwood floors. Lots of nice hard surfaces to reverberate and amplify the NEVER ENDING CRYING AND FUSSING of their precious new baby. This young new Mom seemed to take it all in stride with peace and calm as most Moms do. The smile never left her face. He on the other hand never smiled, not once. He looked worn, tired, haggard and well, he had the pallor of an inmate that doesn’t get enough sun in the prison yard. Two jobs, no sleep, no money, bills piling up, no chance to go to college. A trap, a big, frightening trap. I couldn’t wait to leave.

I didn’t say a word on the way home. She on the other hand talked endlessly about “what a lovely baby” how happy “they” seem. Had we been to the same place? Seen the same people? She had it, the bug. The I want to get married and have a baby bug. It was the beginning of the end of our relationship.

I sound like a real jerk just then don’t I? But ponder this: I was truly not ready, nor was he. I don’t know if their marriage lasted, but many don’t. Here is a tip if you haven’t taken the get married have a baby step: TAKE YOUR TIME!! You want to be completely sure you are ready! This is life changing stuff. Remember my comments above? Facts, real true facts. I knew it and I knew I wasn’t ready.

Now let’s fast forward a bunch of years. I have sown my wild oats (read: wasted years having too much self centered fun) and now I am ready. Marriage then baby. It is quite different when you are ready. Now was I (were we) fully prepared? No, you just can’t grasp the life change until you live it. But we wanted a family, we wanted children, plural. We had lived enough life and seen enough young familes succeed to know that it can work. Work, now that is the correct word. Being Dad or Mom is WORK. Hard work, never ending, but with more reward than you can gain in any other way. In my youth I looked at the double-income-no-kids crowd as the smart ones, the lucky ones. Then SHE arrived, our first born.

She was not eager to enter this world. No, Anika has always been a very self determined individual and that rigid will and stubbornness was apparent on the day of her birth. TWENTY-TWO-HOURS-OF-LABOR… It wearies me to read those words, twenty two hours of labor. And all I had to do was stay awake and be a good “coach”. We had taken the birthing course together:  bring the soft music, keep the lights dim, and quietly coach your partner as you approach the blessed moment. The birth of a child. Sounds all sweet warm and idyllic. NOT!! Three shifts of mid-wives used all their skills before the end. Mom was beyond exhausted, way beyond. The weaker sex…wow, that is way, way off. Most men would be begging to be put out of their misery to end this kind of suffering. At long, long last the moment arrived. Baby was born; Mom held her new baby smiling at her with a grin that wouldn’t end. All was right with the world. As to that weaker sex thing, Mom recovered in short order, I mean like less than an hour! Are women really machines? Nope, they are just that strong, that resilient. Men we should all be in awe. Then it was my turn. I held MY BABY, my precious first born for the first time. So small, so fragile. Welcome to the world Anika! Welcome. Life would never be the same.
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World\'s Greatest Dad

4/5/2010

 
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As a man in this modern world of ours, we all tend to define ourselves by our profession: Hey Tom, this is my friend Bill the (welder, doctor, mechanic, lawyer etc.). Yup, good old career, that is what defines us. Well not really. Over the years we have all heard the studies that men that are married with kids earn more, work more hours etc. It isn’t out of love for the job. Believe me, I spent a large part of my adult life hating the job and watching the clock. But still, whenever it was available, I was the first to jump on the over time. Three kids, mortgage, two cars, sports, gymnastics, dance lessons the list goes on, never enough time, never enough money.

How do I define myself? Regardless of how I answer when asked, in my heart it goes in this order: Husband/Father, Friend and Neighbor and oh yeah, the career stuff. In reality the number one job is Dad (for my wife it’s Mom).Full time job no doubt. We are driver, maid, mechanic, educator, coach, cheer leader, guidance counselor, purveyor of truth wisdom and morals and at the worst of times that tender shoulder to cry on. It is from us Moms and Dads that our children learn to be who they are, who they can best be. For a moment let’s examine the logical reasons for being a parent: Hard work, huge responsibility, even larger expense, blood, sweat, tears, anger, exasperation, heartache and no pay. Doesn’t sound like such a good proposition does it? Ah, but you have to look at the payback: Joy, pride, wonder and that incredible feeling when you have done something that really matters to your child. The very greatest reward is of course what they achieve. You can’t put a price on it other than to say what would my life be without the children?

On to the whole World’s Greatest Dad / number one Dad thing. You probably think I am being some kind of arrogant guy. Wrong, way wrong. The title World’s Greatest Dad  is what none of us deserve, what none of us could hope to achieve and yet when we have been there to fill the need and we receive that look of relief, joy or thanks for something we have done, we feel like nothing else in this world can make us feel. Every Birthday and Father’s Day we are showered with gifts that invariably include something that says: World’s Greatest Dad, Number One Dad, Best Dad or some other equally unearned accolade. It always comes with laughs, smiles and warmth that only our children can give us. It is only through my children that I can honestly measure my own worth and success.

My dad always told my siblings and me that we were special, that we were above average. He made us believe it. He made us appreciate everything we had, every day of health, food on the table and a roof over our heads. My Father in law had a saying he told everyone. LIFE IS WHAT YOU MAKE IT. Simple honest words that mean so much: You get what you work for, you can find joy in the darkest moment if you look for it, if you make it so. Pretty tough shoes to fill, these two guys. I don’t know that I will, but I will do my best to try.

I had the honor of attending the 50th wedding anniversary of my in-laws Art and Edy. It was a wonderful event with more than a hundred guests from all over the country. At one point, Art and Edy were put on the spot. They were brought up on stage and interviewed on a range of topics. “Who were your favorite neighbors?” was the question. “Oh they were all wonderful” said Edy. Art grabbed the microphone from her hand and bellowed “DICK and CONNIE LARSON!” Art was not a man to mince words. Anika’s mom and I had been married for little more than a year then and she was pregnant with our second child. I had not met the Larsons until that evening and had precious little time to get to know them. I did get that chance over the years and found them to be warm and friendly folks. Many years later when Dick passed away we attended his funeral. One of his son’s had found a small printed piece of paper in his pocket. It was yellow, wrinkled and worn with age having apparently spent many years in his pocket. It said simply this:

“The true measure of a man is not how much money he has or success in business, but rather what his children say about him when he is not there.”

A chill ran through me the first time I heard those words. Wow. So that’s how it is. I have gone back to those words hundreds of times since. I don’t need the paper, just the memory. A tough job this dad thing. Greatest? Best? Number One? Not likely, but I can and will surely try.
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    Doug Dartsch
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