The Day I Nearly Ruined and Then Saved Christmas

Christmas is almost here, and once again, I am visited by the ghost of Christmas past.  This year, he’s taken me to the year 2005, when I had just 2 kids and things were… well… a bit quieter around our suburban Phoenix home.  Isaac was 5 and Emily was 3, and while my eldest was dead-set on getting some sort of video game from Santa, Emily asked for a shiny new bicycle.

As these things are prone to happen, Mrs. Claus headed off to the store in search of the children’s prizes without a plan in place to ensure their arrival at our home having been pre-assembled.  Furthermore, Mrs. Claus didn’t tell Santa that it was his job to complete the assembly until the day before his anticipated arrival.  And while nobody truly knows the exact day of Santa’s birth, around our home, it’s common knowledge that the day before Christmas (also known as Benmas) is the birthday of Mr. Dismukes, who had been conscripted to fulfill the duties of the true Mr. Claus.  I had no desire to build anything on my birthday, let alone a bicycle.  So I spent the better part of my morning lamenting the fact that a completely unassembled bicycle awaited me in our garage.  But, as always, one look into the bright blue eyes of my then youngest daughter caused every reservation I had about the daunting task that lay before me to crumble like a stale biscuit.  After all, what kind of Santa would I be if let down this precious little girl.  So I made my way out to the garage and began the monumental task.

As I entered my workshop, I informed Mrs. Claus to keep the kids occupied lest they be tempted to meddle and discover the true identity of their favorite superhero.  I cursed under my breath as I tore open the box that held the millions of microscopic particles that, once fully assembled, would comprise my daughter’s soon-to-be favorite new bicycle.  I dumped everything onto the ground in search of something resembling an instruction manual and found only a single sheet of paper with some Chinese characters in the top margin, followed by a cartoon of a bicycle magically assembling itself.  I rolled my eyes and cursed some more as I started piecing together the bike, frame by frame of the menacing Chinese cartoon.

It’s common knowledge in our family that I am not the most handy person around.  It’s also widely accepted that certain projects, such as installing ceiling fans, putting up sunscreens, hanging crown molding and (thanks to this specific incident) assembling bicycles, are likely to present me with enough frustration to push me beyond my limitations and are likely to be accompanied by loud grumblings and intermittent profanity.  So Mrs. Claus decided to steer clear of the garage on this fine Christmas Eve.  

After several rounds of banging and yelling hailing from Santa’s workshop, Mrs. Claus decided to send one of the elves into the garage to inquire as to what kind of sandwich Santa wanted for lunch, instead of coming herself.  It’s not exactly clear to me now why Mrs. Claus didn’t think through the ramifications of sending an elf into Santa’s workshop where it would be discovered by that same elf that Santa wasn’t actually the one building her present, but this Mr. Claus has never truly been able to understand his Mrs.  Nevertheless, at some point during the construction of the bike, I looked up to see a pair of loving blue eyes, though slightly bewildered, looking at me, followed by a precious little voice that asked, “Daddy, Mommy wants to know if you want ham or turkey.”

Now before you go wringing your hands and assuming that Christmas was ruined for a 3 year old girl, you should consider a couple of things, as I did in the wake of that horrible moment.  First of all, while our eyes could clearly see each other as she stood in the doorway and I sat on the opposite corner of the garage, there were several piles of boxes and assorted junk between us.  So it was entirely possible, as I reasoned in that moment, that she never actually saw what I was building.  Furthermore, this story is about Emily – my most preoccupied child.  Emily has always lived in her own little world.  She’s now 9 and comically refers to her own land of make believe as “Lou-Lou Land” (named after her middle name, Louella), a place she’s frequented since she emerged from the womb.  She has the potential to walk right by an elephant in an otherwise empty room and miss it if her mind is on something else.  So I further reasoned that she was so pre-occupied by turkey or ham that she never thought twice about what I was building beneath the pile of boxes and assorted junk.

I went in to eat lunch.  I glared at Mrs. Claus and sarcastically thanked her for sending Emily, of all people, into the garage to inquire about my lunch order.  She gasped and covered her mouth as the realization of what she had just done smacked her upside the head.  But Emily said nothing or gave any indication that anything was out of the ordinary.

After lunch I finished the bike, and soon it was time to begin the Benmas festivities.  We opened presents, we had cake, but Emily said nothing.  We went out to eat that night at Mr. Claus’s favorite restaurant – Carrabba’s – and still, Emily said nothing.  We came home and began focusing our attention on Christmas itself.  We read the story of Jesus’ birth to the kids and discussed the true meaning of Christmas.  We then spread “reindeer food” out on our front lawn in hopes of giving Santa’s magical creatures a little snack as they paused at our house.  We each opened 1 present and then tucked the kids into bed.  Still, Emily said nothing.

She hadn’t noticed a thing!  Bullet dodged and Christmas saved!

The next morning, we were awakened by 2 very excited children ready to go see what Santa had brought them.  At our house, Mom and Dad have to be roused before anyone is allowed to see what Santa left behind, and for some reason, our kids have never questioned this silly rule.  So we walked to the den as a family, and Emily’s face lit up like the Christmas tree itself when she saw her shiny new bicycle in the middle of the floor.  She ran to it, climbed aboard and began riding all over the house.  She was as happy then as I have ever seen her, not once questioning the bike’s origins.  The kids spent the next 2 hours opening presents, calling relatives and playing with their new toys as Mrs. Claus and I soaked in the moment and eventually prepared a big breakfast for the family.

The excitement of the morning soon waned, and we enjoyed a quiet breakfast as a family.  Halfway through our holiday meal, little three year old Emily piped up and said to me as I sipped my coffee, “Daddy, I know that Santa didn’t bring me that bicycle because I saw you building it yesterday.”

Pppppppppppffffffffffffft, went the air out of my Christmas spirit balloon now hanging limp and lifeless over the breakfast table.  

“What?” I asked incredulously, “no, you don’t understand!” I had no idea where I was going, but I had already started going there.  Half panicked and half curious as to how I would salvage the moment, I listened to myself go on, “See, honey, I didn’t want to tell you kids this but… well… Santa and I are friends.  We’ve known each other for years.  And I told him a long time ago if he ever needed any help to just let me know.  And this year, he’s been sick a lot, so he needed some help.  He called me up last week and asked if I wouldn’t mind building your bike for him, and I told him that I had the day off on Christmas Eve and that he could just bring it by the house early…”

I rambled on and on, but amazingly, my little girl hung on every word.  Anyone else would have needed a shovel, but not my Emily.  She wanted so desperately to believe, that she extended me the benefit of the doubt at every turn.  And when my story was complete, Christmas had just been elevated to a whole new place in her eyes.  After all, not every kid could say that their Daddy was friends with the Big Man himself!

Ike the Knife

Just found this post today - it's a blog I wrote earlier in the year, but never posted.  Better late than never.  Enjoy.

A few days ago, I encountered one of those rare Hallmark moments that seem to be reserved only for those fortunate enough to hail from the Dismukes clan.  It was a precious moment that marked the passage of my eldest (and only) son from childhood to adolescence.  It was a moment filled with excitement, confusion, panic and blood - a moment where the cold steel of a knife blade parted his flesh like Moses passing through the Red Sea.  There have been many historic blade wounds throughout the history of mankind – the beheading of Marie Antoinette, the stabbing of Julius Caesar, the emasculation of John Wayne Bobbit – but none had the impact on my life that this particular incident carried.

The night of the wounding began in relative normalcy.  I was at home alone with the kids, while my wife was at a PTO meeting.  I had all the girls in the den, where we were watching a little TV.  Isaac had been playing quietly back in his room, or at least that’s what we thought he was doing.  As we watched Rachel Ray prepare a tasty and healthy meal in 30 minutes or less, we heard a strange noise coming down the hall.  Shhh-klump, shhh-klump, shhh-klump.  Isaac peered around the corner hunched over, grabbing his leg, while mumbling incessantly, “I’m sorry Daddy, I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry, Daddy.  I cut myself, and I’m so sorry.”

“Wait.  What?  Did you say cut?  Why do you keep saying you’re sorry?  If you cut yourself, you’d be crying.  Why aren’t you crying?  What are you so sorry about?  What’s going on here?”  All these thoughts ran through my mind, but I didn’t voice any of them.  I was in process mode, and I was looking for any little bit of information that would help me reach a decision as to what to do next.  The banter continued. “Daddy, I’m so sorry, Mama’s going to be so mad.  I cut myself…” he said as he shhh-klumped his way closer to the couch.  And there it was, the first glimpse of blood – a tiny trickle ran from under his clenched hand down to his ankle, disappearing into his sock.  But he wasn’t crying.  “I’m confused,” I think to myself as I grasp at any straw that smacks of logic.  Fake blood.  The boy has bought a container of fake blood and is doing his worst knife victim impersonation. 

After a cursory round of questioning, I eliminated the possibility of fake blood and moved on to actual injury.  But judging by the volume of blood trickle and the absence of tears, I surmised that we were dealing with a scrape or, at worse, a tiny nick.  Convinced that my son was overreacting, I made him shhh-klump his own way into the kitchen where I could get a better look at his “wound”.  All the while, he’s still mumbling, “I’m so sorry Daddy, I cut myself.  Mama’s gonna be so mad.”

Prepared for nothing but the best, I made him release his death grip on his leg so I could get a better look.  As he moved his hand to the side, he revealed a 5 inch long swath of flesh hanging precariously from his leg.  If I didn’t know better, I would swear I saw it flopping about in the breeze.  A surge of blood gushed from his open wound as his little heart pounded, and as the red goo oozed, I felt my head begin to swim.  I’m not ordinarily bothered by gore, but there’s something about seeing the inside of a body belonging to one of your own.  It’s… well, it’s just not natural.

I immediately called for help with the girls (one of the many benefits of living close by to grandparents) and whisked the boy off to the ER.  After 8 or 9 stitches, the full story emerged.  Isaac was testing the sharpness of his new blade.  While testing to see if it would shave the hairs off his leg, he slipped and sliced his way to serious cut.  Apparently, the blade is plenty sharp enough.

To his credit, the boy handled the hospital visit like a trooper.  No crying - only the kind of gritty toughness that makes a father proud.  And while I had initially questioned his intelligence after hearing his account of the incident, I admired the display of manhood demonstrated in the ER.  After all, life is full of nicks and bruises, but manhood is partly a measure of the way in which one deals with them.  (Or at least it is for men, anyway.  I wouldn’t imagine we would talk about how manly a woman is for not crying while getting stitches… but I digress.)

This milestone was one I hope and pray I never live through again, but having come through it, I’m appreciative of what it revealed – a son who, though he may be prone to mistakes (like all of us), has the resolve to emerge a better man for it.

The Day My Son Officially Went Too Far

I have recently decided that I might be a strong candidate for Anger Management therapy.  I’ve always had a bit of a temper, but in the past few years, it’s become a bit more serious.  If you want to know the severity, please read the blog entitled “Hello Anger, My Old Friend.”  However, I am now consciously aware of the problem, and as they say, that’s (hopefully) at least half the battle.  Nothing made me more aware of the problem like a recent episode involving my 11 year old son.

I should pause here to point out that in his 11 (almost 12) mischief-filled years of living here on Earth, he has never really done anything that has truly shocked me.  Don’t get me wrong, he’s all boy and is constantly pushing every limit and button he knows to push of, and many he’s not aware of, all because that’s what boys do.  And so despite all the outbursts in crowded shopping centers and all the publicly repeated comments meant only for private ears and all the broken precious items that once belonged to family and friends and all the times of outright disobedience, my son has always lived within the boundaries of expectations – that is, until last week.

We were in Phoenix, visiting family.  It had been an especially long day – one in which we had been on the road for 2 hours in what I would call ‘doable traffic’, meaning it wasn’t a bumper to bumper parking lot, but rather a large number of cars barreling down the highway at a speed that is both acceptable and stress-inducing all at the same time.  I know it’s no excuse, but I was a little on edge from the traffic stress and very much tired from having to wake up earlier than I would have preferred, given that I was on vacation - a fact that was lost on no one in the truck at the time.  We were on the interchange between the 101 Loop and the northbound lane of I-17 in north Phoenix.  The ramp is two lanes wide, and since I was aware of the fact that those 2 lanes would soon converge into 1, I legally and conscientiously changed lanes leftward (and by conscientiously, I mean with no intent to impede or inflame any other motorists in the vicinity – a fact that you should hold on to as we plod along the storyline).   All was well until we got to the little stretch of road beyond the merging point where there’s no more dotted line in the center of the road, but the space between the 2 solid white lines is more than enough for just one vehicle, temporarily speaking, of course.  As we hit this space I affectionately call “no man’s land”, the car behind me decided that the view must be better from the front and pulled over to the right to pass me – in no man’s land.

As I pointed out earlier, we were travelling at a pretty good clip down the highway – I would guess 60 to 65 - so real estate quickly became an issue for us both as we barreled down the ever narrowing stretch of road, side by side.  Caught in a game of chicken I had no intention of playing, I braked hard as the car and its reckless driver swerved in front of me and away from the solid concrete wall on its right.

At this point I, along with everyone else in the vehicle, realized that I officially have an issue with anger.  I said things you wouldn’t expect to hear in a PG-13 movie – good thing my sweet little girls were asleep.  My lovely wife quickly chided me.  I didn’t hear her words of correction, however, because my son had some choice words of his own. His were PG, but the situation swiftly deteriorated from there. 

As I now recount the story, I can see the whole scene unfold in sloth-like motion.  Rest assured, however, the following events happened in such rapid succession that I was unable to think as clearly as I can now.  In a fit of rage, I hastily chose to get even with this numbskull, who had ruined my otherwise perfectly tolerable drive, by pulling up beside him and giving him the look of death.  In moments such as this one, where I’m simply recounting a story with little, if any, emotion other than shame, I well know that glaring at someone does next to nothing to extract revenge.  In fact, my experience tells me that most of my evil looks at other motorists simply go unnoticed, which only makes me madder.  After all, if I’m going to glare at someone, the proper thing for them to do is at least take notice.  But as I said, I wasn’t thinking with my head, but rather with the adrenaline that was coursing through my veins.  So I commenced with operation stare down. 

As my foot hit the accelerator, my son popped off a question, “want me to flip ‘em off, Daddy?”  I promptly answered with a resolute, “yes!”  And before I could correct myself, I caught a glimpse of his little arm flailing about in the window, middle finger extended.  I gasped, “What are you doing?” I then noticed that the “he” who was driving the car was a very much elderly “she”, who gawked back at my son and me as if we were the Manson family.  A wave of nausea hit me like a baseball bat to the groin.  Thoroughly embarrassed, I turned away, hung my head in shame and eased off the accelerator.  I was a monster – not a father.

In all fairness, I truly thought he was joking.  My son has never seen me give anyone the finger.  I know this because for all of my flaws, flipping people off is not one.  I always saw that gesture as being beneath me, somehow.  However, my half-joking, half-angry ‘yes’ was enough license for him to begin gesturing like a drunken sailor at a blue haired, cataract sun-glasses adorned old lady who’s only sin was scaring the bejeepers out of me, a trigger-happy, stressed out driving buffoon.

My wife quickly moved from chiding to outright rebuke, and I can’t blame her in the least.  I may as well have doused the boy with gasoline and given him a lighter to play with.  This is what’s known as an epic fail in the fatherhood department, and I owned up to it. 

Few things have ever truly shocked me.  At the top of my list is the sight of my son flipping off an old lady…  with my permission.

How to Teach Perseverance For Those Who Lack Patience – Part 2 – or Dusting Off Your Old Basketball Injuries

As I mentioned in my previous post, I’m committed to the seemingly endless task of teaching my children the virtue of perseverance, and if things don’t start to click soon, I might throw in the towel.  For those of you that are wondering, I still have all 5 chickens, but they seem a little reluctant to give us any eggs.  I wonder if they can lay at will.  If I were a hen, and I’ve been called that in my younger years (kids will call you anything as long it rhymes with your name), I would definitely not lay eggs for a kid who has trouble remembering when meal times are. 

This fall, my son has decided to be a 2 sport athlete.  Retract that… actually he decided to be a 1 sport athlete and is playing football, but since I agreed to help coach cross country for the school, he was forced into joining the cross country team in addition to his participation in football.  Growing up, I always played sports.  Baseball was my thing, and I have to confess, I always imagined myself to be a pretty good ballplayer – much more so than those around me, including my coaches, apparently.  I could never understand why they didn’t see in me the things I saw myself, but that is likely the subject of another story, meant for another time.  I also played basketball and tennis.  I tell you all this in order to say with some semblance of authority that you can learn a lot from playing a team sport, and perhaps just as much playing an individual sport like tennis.  And whether or not my son is ever skilled enough (in his eyes as well as the eyes of those who ‘matter’) or interested enough to play in high school, or perhaps even beyond, it’s important that he have the experience afforded to him by athletics in these crucial developmental years, thus the reason for my possibly overzealous decision to make cross country mandatory for him.

While football is great, if he decides not to play another year, I’ll be okay with that decision.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy watching him play.  Seeing him dance around play after play desperately avoiding every player on the field while trying to appear as if he’s interesting in blocking and tackling reminds me of how reluctant I was to get hit at that age.  He plays both cornerback and wide receiver and while on offense, has only had a few balls thrown his way all year.  One of those he caught, but it was one of his misses that made me most proud of him.  His team was playing a team with much bigger athletes, and on this particular play, he went over the middle on a crossing route where he found a perfectly thrown ball headed straight for his chest.  I’m not exactly sure of the timing of events that unfolded, but at some point, all three of these things happened in quick succession.  He reached up, grabbed the ball, and took a suffocating blow to his side by a very large, salivating linebacker who had watched the whole play evolve with the scent of blood in his nostrils.  The ball came loose as quickly as he had ‘caught’ it, and my boy went flying through the air sideways, rib-cage first, with head and feet in tow, until he landed hard on the ground.  I jumped up, thinking his football days had come to an abrupt end, but no sooner had I stood to my feet did I see him bounce back up and run to the huddle.  After the game I bragged on him for taking such a lick and getting back up, to which he replied, “Daddy, I don’t know why, but the referees aren’t calling roughing the catcher today.”

But football is not the sport I am writing about today.  Cross-country - a sport I used to think was for the weaker kids who weren’t talented enough to do anything else - is.  In the past few weeks, my stance on cross-country, if you consider it important enough of an ‘issue’ upon which to take a stance, has changed dramatically.  Those brave enough to participate in cross-country deserve to be called athlete.  Runners are quite possibly the gutsiest of athletes, having whipped their bodies into shape by the sheer force of their resolve.  And as my views have evolved, I’ve come to the conclusion that every child ought to have to run cross country competitively at some point in his or her childhood. 

It goes without saying that distance running is a tremendous way to exercise, which everyone needs, but the beauty of running is that anyone with healthy legs can do it, regardless of ability (as I so astutely, if not rudely, pointed out a few sentences ago).  But it also teaches kids how to compete against themselves, which, when you get down to it, is what 75% of life is about.  The key to success in life, in my view, is knowing how and when to battle and overcome oneself.  And distance running is metaphor for life. 

To us, it is the most sacred of metaphors.  It’s the grid work through which we discipline.  Kids not practicing the piano?  No problem, we’ll just have a conversation about the importance of conditioning yourself for the race, only in this case, the ‘race’ is actually the recital.  (On a side note, you might think piano recitals are more about the expression of art and less about competition, but I think that is utter nonsense.  To me, EVERYTHING is about winning, no matter how seemingly subjective a task.)  Kids fighting and arguing?  We’ll just discuss the value of teamwork while running a race, and before you go there, yes, cross-country is a team sport, as well as an individual one.  The kids encourage and push each other, and that makes them better.  So I simply dust off an analogy of the importance of teamwork in the game of life, asserting that we Dismukes are a team, and if we stick together, we can win at just about anything we set our minds to.  And if the kids are in need of a little old-fashioned punishment, I just make them run an extra mile in order to teach them a lesson.  My rationale is, it hurts more than a spanking does and for a much longer period of time.  And in the end, my kids have not only learned their lesson, they are now more physically fit as well. 

The greatest life lesson, in my opinion, one can take away from running distance, however, is the virtue of perseverance.  When we started, neither of my children could run a mile without stopping to walk every 15 paces.  But I pushed them into embracing the pain brought about by pushing their little bodies beyond their perceived limitations.  How I did this, I’m not sure, but I take full credit for whatever caused them to strive for greatness (only kidding, of course, we Dismukes are born with an inherent desire to achieve greatness and need little external motivation).  And because they did, I now have unlimited opportunities to help translate that experience into solutions for everyday life situations. 

Everything in life worth doing is met with some form of resistance.  The friction created from meeting that resistance almost always results in pain of some kind.  It could be the personal sacrifice of devoting one’s time to a noble cause or the emotional pain of entering into a relationship with another person.  We are almost never unsusceptible to pain.  Winners, as I tell my kids, learn to push through the pain, and Dismukes are winners.

Not all Dismukes are winners enough to push all the way through their pain, however.  This particular Dismukes stopped running just 2 weeks into practice because he enflamed an old basketball knee injury.  However, I will say that there are certain benefits to being legitimately injured.  I now coach from the couch in my den – a fact that has somehow eluded my 2 kids who still listen to everything that I say.  But let’s not waste too much time focusing on that minor detail.   This story is about raising up the next generation of winners (and by the way, in my book, all Dismukes are winners – even the injured ones).

Now comes the part where I brag on my children.  In a matter of just under 2 months, I have seen my kids come to love running.  If you’ve never been in the habit of jogging, you might think this strange, but there comes a point in time where the pain of running actually becomes somewhat addictive (unless, of course, it’s the pain of an old basketball injury – there’s nothing addictive about that).  You actually enjoy the feeling of pushing your body beyond its limitations.  I think my children have started show signs that they’re truly enjoying what started out as a chore.  Both have competed in their first meet, and both did extremely well under the circumstances.  My 9 year old daughter ran against 90 some odd Jr. High girls and finished somewhere around 50^th place – well ahead of anyone else on her team – 2 of them, 7^th graders.  All in all, not bad for a 4^th grader who couldn’t run a third of a mile without stopping just a month and a half ago.  She is so encouraged, she considers cross-country to be “her thing”, and now brags when she can run 2 miles without stopping to walk. 

All of my kids have the potential to be great at whatever they set their minds to, and cross-country has helped highlight that fact.  All they needed was a little perseverance, which I’m thrilled I was able to teach them… at least partially.  And it’s a good thing… I was just about ready to give up.

How to Teach Perseverance For Those Who Lack Patience – Part 1

Isaac, my son, is eleven years old.  And like any good father, I unreasonably expect that he consistently demonstrate the work ethic and perseverance of a canal digger from the 1800’s, only to be shocked, time and time again, as I rediscover that he actually has the attention span and the penchant for daydreaming that all 11 year old boys naturally possess.  Nevertheless, I’m determined to teach him the value of hard work and stick-to-itiveness that I wish I had myself.  My biggest problem, however, is that every time I’ve tried to teach him in the past, I seem to lose interest or give up due to the fact that it proves to be too difficult.  This latest attempt, however, is going to be different.  I know that because the vow I took to ensure it would be different was much louder and more intense than the previous vows I’ve taken.

Part of Isaac’s training is that he has a list of daily chores he must check off before engaging in any activity that could remotely be construed as being “fun”.  The list is short and relatively uncomplicated, although the simplest of tasks can prove to be complicated for an intelligent child prone to weasel out of anything and everything he has no interest in doing.  It includes such things as making up his bed, doing his homework, unloading the dishwasher, etc.  And while few kids these days have such a list, it would be reasonable for me to assume the boy is learning about hard work sufficiently so.  But I was raised by a man who taught me the value of hard work by giving me the impossible task of pulling every weed in a hundred plus acre peanut field, so I’m prone to believe I should pile on.

And so, after much scheming and plotting, I devised a plan to put my son to work as a chicken farmer.  We have a lot plenty big enough for the dog, the kids, a garden and a chicken house, and my little hometown doesn't levy unreasonable restrictions against its inhabitants as did my old subdivision in Arizona, which forbade the practice of raising livestock in one's backyard.  As I pondered my ingenious scheme I thought to myself, “that’ll teach him some responsibility.”  I pictured him waking at the crack of dawn every morning, feeding the birds and gathering their eggs in time for breakfast omelets.  I further reasoned that my little “life lesson” would provide my son with enough spending money so as to keep me in the black for years to come.  Then I just got silly, imagining that his improved work ethic would result in his eventual acceptance into Harvard Law School and, with a little luck, perhaps he would even claw his way into the Oval Office, where he would publicly thank his Dad for nudging him in the right direction.  As with any great scheme I've concocted over the years, I once again amazed myself.   

Funny how the little ideas that tend to pop into my head rarely manifest themselves as easily and quickly as they’re conceived, and by now, I should temper my enthusiasm with the memories of “brilliant ideas” of yesteryear.  But given that I’m a slow learner, I set out to create a chicken habitat for the reluctant young entrepreneur anyway.  I cleaned up an old fish house on my property - a little shanty of a building that was previously used for cleaning fish by the former owner – and prepared it to house the new additions to our family.  I fenced in the area around the building, creating a nice little chicken yard and proceeded to order the chicks.  They arrived early on a Saturday morning, several weeks later – all 27 of them – stuffed inside a container roughly the size of a cigar box.  At first, Isaac was excited and welcomed his new business venture with open arms.  But by lunchtime, he had completely lost interest.

And being the task master that I am, I threatened him with every kind of restriction known to man, and he dutifully complied.  A week later, however, he awoke to a grizzly scene of chicken homicide (my wife suggested that I refer to it as an incident of fowl play, but being unwilling to expose myself to the potential humiliation that I was sure would ensue, I opted for the non-pun route, but agreed to give it an honorable mention nevertheless).  Of the 27 chicks that we received from the postmaster, only 15 remained.  The remains of their fallen compatriots, a handful of feathers and few drops of blood, lay eerily on the plywood floor of the coop, and my son instantly re-engaged in his chickens, now fewer in number.  After all, what little boy doesn’t want a good murder mystery to solve, even if the victim is a bird.

Assured that the culprit must be a fox, we shored up our fence and set a trap for the murderer.  A few days later, my son met me at the breakfast table with more bad news: 7 more dead birds and no fox in the trap.  And then there were 8.  He nearly choked on his excitement, which I thought somewhat odd, but not too odd.  After all, he is a red blooded American boy thirsting for adventure and a hint of danger, just like his brethren.  So we reset our trap and moved it to a different location.  For a couple of nights, all was well with our chicks.  A few mornings later, however, my son came bounding through the door with even more excitement than the first 2 times.  “Five!” he screamed.  “There’s only five of ‘em left!” and this time he had the slightest trace of a grin on his face.  Then it hit me.  He wasn’t excited about the mystery surrounding these avian murders.  He was just glad to see this new burden slowly lifting off his shoulders by a hungry fox.

Eventually, we caught and sufficiently punished the chicken slayer, and with a slight tip of the cap to the PETA crowd, I won’t go into detail on this point other than to say that I’m confident his killing days are forever behind him.  Isaac, still reluctant to own up to his responsibility, has to be nudged (sometimes not so gently) to feed and care for his hens, who have returned the favor by withholding their eggs from him.  Nevertheless, the responsibility is firmly his and his alone and will be until the next fox comes along and puts an end to his egg farming days once and for all.

Food is Metaphor for Life

Used to be, if you were really into food, you would be called an epicurean, or perhaps a gourmet.  Such terms evoke images of chandelier-laden French restaurants, stuffy waiters adorned in tuxedos and snobbish patrons sipping Cheval Blanc with their pinkies ajar.  Nowadays, thanks in part to the onslaught of cable TV cooking shows and the widespread use of the internet, both of which have made cooking preparations and techniques accessible to the masses, a subculture of food lovers has emerged – a people who commonly refer to themselves as ‘foodies’.  I’m a foodie, and I make no apologies for it.  I love everything about food.  I love to grow it.  I love to hunt it (although I’m not always very good at it, especially when it comes to shooting birds).  I love to cook it.  I love to watch other people cook it.  But most of all, I love eating it.  There’s something about the whole process that’s just… I don’t know… magical.

So when the creators of this blog asked me to write an article on my food POV (that’s point of view for those who’ve never watched the Food Network), I readily agreed – partly because I hate to turn myself down (it’s not good for my self esteem… on the other hand, I kinda dig the feeling that comes from turning people away – as if I’m a hotter commodity than I have time for – I guess I’m torn on this one).  Anyway, back to the point… my food point of view, that is.  

Last night, my wife and I were inspired to whip up a meal that satisfied our love for great tasting food as well as our sense of culinary adventure.  We were inspired by the most recent winner of ‘The Next Food Network Star’, Jeff Mauro a.k.a. the Sandwich King.  I, for one, have always been intrigued by the sandwich.  The whole idea that I can take food and wrap it up into some type of grain (bread, tortilla, flatbread, pita, etc.) in such a way that it becomes a portable, hand-held meal is just ingenious, in my mind.  So you can imagine my delight when a guy who hails himself as the ‘Sandwich King’ is featured on my favorite channel, with guarantees that he’ll turn any meal into not just a sandwich… but a ‘great sandwich’ at that.  The recipe we attempted, and by all estimations nailed, last night was a Schnitzel sandwich served with cider braised red cabbage and raspberry mayo, served with a side of warm bacon tarragon potato salad.

On a side note, I should probably clarify what a ‘Schnitzel’ is.  It is, first of all, in no way related to the ‘schnauzer’, as I originally thought.  They are two entirely different animals, and when I say animal I mean that in both figurative and literal terms.  In German cuisine, a schnitzel is a cut of meat pounded out thin, breaded and fried.  Doesn’t matter what kind of meat, as long it’s not a schnauzer.  We have schnitzel here in the South, but we call it ‘chicken fried’.  Cider braised red cabbage is a lot like sauerkraut, only more purple, and I love me some sauerkraut - must be my German heritage.

Overall, I would say this was a meal fit for the Kaiser, himself.  Who can deny the allure of fried meat?  There’s something about pork with a crunch that just… I don’t know… does it for me.  Throw in a tangy bite of sauerkraut and the creamy sweetness of raspberry mayo (which is just raspberry jam mixed with mayo), and you have a near perfect balance of savory, sour and sweet.  The warm potato salad with tarragon, bacon and grainy mustard, was the perfect side dish rounding out my Bavarian dinner.  But why go through all the trouble?  After all, wouldn’t it have been easier just to eat a burger, or perhaps a bowl of Cheerios?  Ah, but to think in such terms is against my food POV.  (See, you thought I had strayed from my original plan to reveal the POV – oh ye of little faith!)

Obviously, we need to eat in order to survive.  Everyone knows that, except for anorexics, and I’m not exactly trying to appeal to the anorexic crowd.  They probably lost interest in this blog when they saw the picture at the top.  But I believe food is about way more than mere survival.  I’m convinced that God gave us taste buds for a reason.  I’m sure that the Darwinian crowd would try to tell us that taste buds evolved as a means of survival, so that we could taste such harmful things as poison or tainted meat, which is total hogwash given the fact that all who tasted the poison would still die and therefore not procreate.  The reason, however, that we were given the thousands of little bumps on our tongue was so that we could enjoy the 3 plus times a day we’re allowed to stuff our mouths with nourishment.  And I, for one, am not about to let a good thing go to waste.  Every time I sit down to eat, I appreciate the enjoyment I derive from the very thing designed to impart life to my body.

To that end, I believe that the consumption of food should be an experience of appreciation for the things God has given us to eat and enjoy.  My philosophy on food, therefore, is simply this: life is way too short to eat the same ol’ stuff over and over.  Eating is partly about adventure with me, and while you won’t catch me eating dinner with Andrew Zimmern (you know, the guy that eats all the nasty stuff on the travel channel), I’m willing to try pretty much anything I consider to be reasonable (i.e. no bugs) once.  If it’s good enough, I’ll probably eat it again, but not too often, so as to avoid getting myself into a culinary rut.  My personal belief about life, and it’s apparent in the way I approach food, is that there’s way too much beauty in the world for me to try to limit myself to the same ol’ same ol’ day in and day out.  (In case my mother in law is reading, don’t worry, I’m not talking about my wife here… I’m just as committed to her now as I was the day I married her.)  I believe there are experiences I’ll never have if I choose not to brave the unknown.  Likewise, there are people whose company I’ll enjoy as long as I’m willing to take a chance.  There are also views I’ll enjoy so long as I’m willing to stray from the beaten path.  And there are food memories waiting to be created if only I’ll allow myself to go beyond the familiar. 

Food, in my humble opinion, is a metaphor for life.  You can tell a lot about a person by watching them eat.  I think tonight I’ll eat Chinese… or maybe Italian.

Don't Mess With Me, Daddy

Four o'clock is the best time of day for me.  It's that magical hour when the grind of working in the hustle and bustle of a small town community bank with one branch and no ATM comes to a merciful halt and I head for the refuge of my house, where the 5 most amazing people in all the world eagerly await my arrival.  Yes sir, 4:00 is my 5:00 (did I mention the grind?).

Today, as I stepped foot into my back door, instead of being greeted by a chorus of, "Daddy's Home!" followed by the ever dependable ensuing barrage of hugs from my beloved children, I was instead slapped in the face by a stark, "don't mess with me, Daddy, I have things to do."  This harsh sentiment emanated from the mouth of my precocious 4 year old, who recently informed me that she's no longer to be called 'Abby', opting instead for the nickname of 'Tiddlywinks'.  Shocked and slightly annoyed that my daughter would reject my efforts to play with her before they even manifested, I asked her to repeat herself.  (Ever wonder why we do this?  The most awful news is almost always greeted with a request that it be repeated.  Seems like we would be content to hear the negative stuff once.)  Anyway, Abb... er, Tiddlywinks... then delivered the same message, but this time with a noticeable air of irritation, as if I were taking up too much of her time (seems my children enjoy pretending they have a grind as well).  

"What kind of 'things to do' do you have to do?" I asked, complete with air quote hand gestures.  

"I have homework," she replied with a furrowed brow and a sigh that suggested that life's demands were cramping her style.

"What kind of homework do they give in pre-school?" I asked.

"I have to trace my hand.  I just don't have time to play."

Incidentally, 5 minutes later, she was running around the house with her baby sister.