I Am Really Glad That He Is My Dad

On All Saints’ Sunday last month, I tuned in online to the worship service of my childhood church in Dallas, where I am still a member.  This was a special service where all of the members of the church who have passed away in the past year are celebrated and remembered.  The minister read each name out loud while an acolyte placed a lighted candle on the altar.  I listened solemnly as my mother’s name was read and watched as my nephew placed her candle carefully.  During his sermon, the pastor spoke about those of us who are “left behind,” and what our purpose is.

 

It was important to me to watch this service live, even if I was not able to physically attend with my father and sister.  I found the words and music very comforting, and I reflected often in the coming days, thinking a lot about my mother, my father, and my sister.

Next week, I am due to fly back to the states for the holidays, and I am really looking forward to the trip.  However, I am also feeling both apprehensive and a bit pensive; right about this time last year, my mother was coming to the end of her life.  Last year’s visit was not a very happy visit, and I have found myself feeling concerned about how I will cope with my first Christmas since her death.  It is difficult to push the unpleasant memories away and bring more pleasant thoughts to the mind.

 

It is no surprise that both my father and sister are having similar thoughts.  Just last weekend, I was skyping with my sister when suddenly my dad pinged me.  I looped him into our call and for a few minutes all three of us chatted via video conference.  At one point, I noticed that my father got a little emotional, albeit briefly, and that was really when the penny dropped for me.  A few minutes later, he hung up, leaving Lynne and me to continue our conversation.  She and I talked about our own current feelings, and she shared that she was in the same situation.  I told her that I was thinking a lot about the All Saint’s message from a few weeks back.  Being left behind, and as a result, we have a lot of living to do.

 

After a rather challenging past year, it seems appropriate for me to tell my father just what he means to me.  This past week, I actually laughed myself to sleep while remembering some of the anecdotes that you are about to read. 

  

As a child, one of the books I had in my collection was The Daddy Book.  Like many other children’s books from the early 70s, it contained a decent amount of diversity for that generation.  It might be considered a bit dated today, but for me, it was very informative.  It certainly fit with the experience I was having as a kid growing up.  By this, I mean that most of the fathers that I was interacting with  all seemed to be just like the dads presented in the book: there were tall dads, short dads, dads with varying occupations, different hobbies, etc.  This all fit in my world: the life of Bryan.

I’ll admit that I have not really thought about that book for the past 40 some odd years.  It had significant meaning for me at the time, and helped set my initial perspective.

For example, learning to play sports.  My dad taught me how to catch and throw and hit a baseball (softball).  We would play catch in the front yard during the spring and summer.  He would hit pop flies for me to catch and throw back to him.  This didn’t always go quite as well as either of us planned.  At least one time, I failed to catch the ball (my fault) with my glove and instead caught the ball directly on the hinge of my glasses, breaking them.  As an unfortunate additional consequence, the hinge cut my temple open and bled a lot.  We obviously stopped playing and went inside to get medical attention from mom. 

 

In autumn, we would throw the football back and forth to each other.  I would then run pass patterns and my father would be quarterback, telling me to “go long,” or “go short.”  Of course, I am speaking of American football, here.  My dad seemed to know a lot of different patterns, and we proved to combine really well.

 

We did not play only in the front yard.  Out in the driveway behind the house, my dad hung a basketball goal above the garage.  (Drive down any alley in our neighborhood during the 70s and 80s and you which houses had kids.)  Again, my father just seemed to know all about sports.  Shooting hoops behind the garage is a pastime that one can play on their own, but playing games like HORSE are more fun with someone there with you.   The neat thing about playing out back was that Dad could not park the car when coming home from work if I was playing.  He’d have to park out front so that we had space on the driveway.  Sometimes I think this was my strategy to be playing outside when he got home (which inevitably still surprised me….when a car swings into the driveway where you are playing) because normally he would change out of his work clothes and come outside and shoot a few baskets with me.

While I learned the basics of all three of those sports from my father, I really simply enjoyed playing with him.  Because we could do these things at home, we could decide spontaneously to go outside for a few minutes.

As soon as I was able to stand, I think my father put a tennis racket in my hand.  This was truly his sport, and from a really early age, we could go out to the tennis courts to practice.  This was a completely different sporting experience because of the technical development.  It is not as if we were playing best of 5 sets when I was 5 years old; I first learned the basics, then learned to rally (hitting the ball back and forth over the net to one another).  Still, this development continued throughout my childhood and adolescence. 

 

By early teens, we were playing matches with each other regularly and I actually started joining the weekly tennis group that my father was in (with several other dads).  When I finally actually beat my father in a match, I was quite proud of the accomplishment.  My father was equally pleased and certainly encouraged me to continue with the sport.

Although I did not play competitive tennis in high school, I still played in the weekly tennis group, and by this time was winning a lot more than I was losing.  I had reached a similar level of competitiveness with the other dads and I felt honored to be in their company.

 

I ended up walking on to the tennis team at college, and I am still really glad that he made that suggestion to me so strongly.  Despite the ups and downs of my life, I do not have too many regrets.  This is not a piece about regret, but I will say that I do regret never inviting my father to come see me play a match at Austin College. 

Ironically, when I developed a brief interest in playing golf as a teenager, he was not really a golf fan. The experiment (and that’s what I refer to it as) did not last long and was certainly not successful.  Once he retired, my father took an active interest in golf, learning and improving his game.  One year, I gave him a round of golf at a nice club for a present, and he took me along to play.  I enjoyed the outing because it was father-son time, but I did not play well.  I shot about a 187 (yes, you read that correctly) even though they don’t officially allow scores that high to be recorded.

After I retired from tennis in my early 20s, I actually went back to playing soccer.  I had played soccer from age 5, as did just about every other kid growing up at that time.  I think this is because it is one of the easiest sports to involve children in as a team exercise.  Usually someone’s dad acted as coach of the little soccer team, not because they knew anything about soccer, but rather that someone just had to go out and help supervise the kids and teach them about sportsmanship.

My dad certainly would kick the soccer ball with me and could guide me a little bit with technique, but it was clearly not his sport.  This is no surprise since most North Americans of his generation never played the sport.  Hence, it is not as if they were particularly interested in teaching their kid how to become a footballer.  This is quite the opposite in Europe, for obvious reasons.

My footballing career was rather slow to start.  I was actually a pretty good player as a youth, but when it came time to decide, I elected in favor of tennis.  Once I became less enthusiastic with tennis and turned back to football, I jumped into the fray with gusto.  I got even better at football as the years progressed, and interesting enough, by the time I was back living in Dallas as a 30 year old, I was playing on 3 or 4 teams around the city. 

My father and mother started coming to some games and eventually became our designated parental mascots of our indoor team that played at a soccer center not too far away from where they lived.  For almost 5 years, my folks came to about 80% of our games each Friday evening, whether they be at 5pm or 11h30 at night.  True, my father became more interested in the support through his understanding of the game, but also because he got to see me out on the pitch.

 

I appreciate that my father is naturally athletic, and I got a great deal of this athletic talent from him.  It had a lot to do with encouragement and together time, us playing sports together.  I liked having the exposure to different activities, and naturally (albeit naively) thought that everybody else’s dad was doing similar stuff with them.  It was so much more than simply learning how to throw and catch and jump and run and stuff.  Sportsmanship, working as a team, learning to follow your heart and push yourself to practice and get better, and to always give your best…all of these things started because my father took the time to play ball with me in the front yard.

I am pretty fortunate that my parents complimented each other in their areas of strength.  The whole time I was playing sports with my father during my childhood, I was developing the musical side of Bryan, helped extensively from my mother, who was the musical influence in our family.  Learning piano, singing in choir, playing French Horn; these are things that I did most often with my mother, but my father’s encouragement and support has been there from the get go.

I am not trying to make a huge point about how parents differ in their skill sets, but logic tells us that we tend to go to an expert for support on something.  Although I did not know it for the longest time, my father does not have much of an ear for music, so therefore never played any instruments or sang.  Thus, I did not go to him for anything other than love and support when needing assistance on learning a new piece of music or how to practice my scales on the piano or whatever.

As it were, my dad was who I went to for help on my math homework, while mom was the go to lady for grammar and the like.  It just sort of worked out that way.  Both of my parents have always been very encouraging, but have had the good sense to divvy things up as required.

In our family, my father was responsible for all the domestic odd jobs that needed to be attended to.  Again, I grew up thinking that this is what all fathers did in their households.  From a very early age, I was enlisted as a little helper, which, in the early days, meant that I was there to hold the light on whatever my dad was working on.  An extra set of hands proves to be most helpful in many situations, like lying under the sink trying to fix a small plumping problem. 

 

Sure, as I got older, I was not always keen on helping out when needed.  Sometimes I would just be sitting down to watch something on television or reading a good book when my father would call for my assistance.  I did not completely comprehend at the time that he was equally not interested in dealing with the task himself, but knew it had to be done.  I am quite sure that he never said to himself, “Lovely.  After I get home from work tonight I have to go and fix a backed up toilet,” right after receiving a call in the middle of the afternoon from mom informing him of the situation.

Like I said, it started with me holding the light, simply because I was an available resource with two more hands.  Over time, my dad taught me more than just the basics on various tools, so I was able to hand him the right sized wrench or screwdriver.  In most cases, I was simply the assistant.  However, my father really took the time to explain what he was doing, and how he was doing it.  There was plenty of humor flying around, although he might not have found everything so funny.  Sometimes the jobs got more complicated along the way, which generated a lot of frustration and impatience, especially when the 8 year old holding the light is distracted by just about anything else. 

It may not have simply been father-son time back then, but when I reflect on those experiences, I really better understand that my father was helping to development me, expose me to a lot of things that would become more significant as I got older.  I learned not only about how tools worked, but how to take care of the tools.  I learned how to plan a job, how to prepare things BEFORE starting, and how to think methodically.

 

This applied to doing the regular care of the lawn, where I learned to mow and edge and weed-eat, all under my father’s supervision.  These tasks might seem rather basic, but to actually do them right requires some patience, practice, and common sense.  Doing yard work became a nice little source of income for me when I was a teen-ager, as I was looking after the yards of many of our immediate neighbors.  I took pride in my work, and I would never have gotten there without my dad’s help.

I am particularly glad that I learned some valuable lessons over the years through these experiences.  One summer, I got to help out when we painted our house.  During summer holidays while I was in college, my dad employed me to paint the inside of a duplex that belonged to the family.  That was tedious work, and it took me longer than I initially thought.  My dad gave me more than a few pointers and hints, and I eventually got the task done. 

 

My dad seemed very adept at so many things: using soldering irons, doing house hold maintenance, understanding the finer points of yard work; I could really go on for hours about this.  In my experience, most of the other dads I knew from this time were doing similar things and seemed to know a fair amount, themselves.  True, both my grandfathers were also quite handy.  One time, my mom’s dad mentioned to me how impressed he was with my dad’s methodical approach to such handy work.  I did not recognize how big of a complement that statement really was at the time, since I was still under the impression that all dads could do this kind of stuff.  Fathers to the rescue, and all that. 

 

I once had a girlfriend who moved into a new apartment.  I was there to help with things, and then somehow the girl’s cat got stuck behind the washing/drying combo machine.  The girl became distraught, but instead of allowing me to help resolve the matter, she called her father.  He came over and did basically the same thing I was going to do.  (move the machine out of the way so the cat could crawl out – duh.)

More than once here in Germany, I have had female friends tell me about the lists of “to-dos” they had for their fathers on the next visit.  Dads of that era just seem to know how stuff works, whether it be how to take apart and reassemble furniture, hang light fittings, or simply get things organized.

My dad never made it out to sound like it was a “I am going to teach you something today,” experience, nor did he ever go out of his way to stress that it was father-son time.  It just was.

 

I learned a ton, and enjoyed it at the same time.  I really liked the fact that I learned not to feel completely helpless with a lot of situations; I could resolve them myself.

This is not saying that my dad could do anything and everything (it just seemed so).  One of the more valuable lessons was recognizing when you need to reach out for help.  Sometimes the task is too big for just one person. 

My parents started taking vacations on their own while I was in college.  I was left to house-sit while they were gone.  One of the first times, my father went through the checklist with me, showing me the contact numbers for the AC repairman, the right man for complicated plumbing things, etc.  My dad also reminded me of which neighbors to go to for assistance.  Some of our neighbors were particularly handy, while others couldn’t differentiate between a flathead or Philips screwdriver. 

 

At this point, I realized a couple of things: one, not all dads are equally capable on the handyman front, and two, it is OK to ask for help.  Both of these things are completely OK.

Just a few years ago during a stateside visit, the electric stove shorted out when my father accidentally spilled water onto the starter.  After a little troubleshooting, he attempted to try to remove one of the burners.   This turned into a bit of a deal, as almost immediately one of the screws got stripped.  Neither my father nor myself was quite ready to give up (despite my mom saying every 10 minutes, “Sam, call somebody.”) but eventually we recognized that the task was beyond us.

A day later, the repairman came, and gave a thorough explanation of what happened, and interestingly enough, gave the reasons why we weren’t able to fix it ourselves.  Apparently the design was not the best and this type of problem had occurred countless times for other customers.  Both he and I learned quite a bit, and were rather glad that we had not continued the fruitless task of trying to fix it.  We only would have further damaged the thing and made the repair more expensive. 

A certain element of thrift does enter the picture.  Why pay someone to do something that you can do yourself?  There are a lot of arguments on both sides, but from my father I learned a lot about the economics of it.  To me, it was really helpful to understand the value of a service so that I could determine whether or not I would pay for it.

Changing the oil in my car, for example.  My dad certainly showed me how to do this automotive task when I was younger, as he changed the oil in the family cars.  My first car was a VW, and when it was time for the first oil change, my father helped guide me through doing it myself.  Very quickly, he realized that a VW engine is much smaller than the American engines he was more used to working on.  This basically meant that everything was more compact; our hands were too big to get to the oil filter.  Long story short, my first oil change on my first car took quite a bit longer as we methodically solved the problem together.  I did change the oil myself a few more times before eventually deciding that I was willing to go to the JiffyLube and pay someone.

 

But, I am really glad I know how to actually do the job myself.  Likewise, I know how to iron a shirt fairly proficiently, but choose to take my stuff to the dry cleaners. 

When it comes to economics, my father took the time to teach me his approach to financial matters.  It took me a little longer to learn this lesson, but during the experience (which continues, by the way) my father also allowed me to learn a few of life’s more difficult lessons, too.  In addition to receiving a small allowance each week, my father did give the opportunities to earn extra money doing jobs around the house.  This is where I started my little lawn mowing venture.  I liked having money, and was always eager to earn more.  True, money also burned a hole in my pocket, so I had to learn to value just what I wanted to spend my money on.

At a church fund-raiser many years ago, I placed a bid in a silent auction for a basketball.  A few minutes later, my father came and found me and took me back to the table where the ball was sitting.  He asked me to take a look at the written description of the ball, particularly the “suggested retail value,” which was about 12 dollars.  He then went on to ask me to take another look at the bid I had placed.  My bid was several dollars higher.  He finally said, “I just wanted to give you the opportunity to understand what you are about to do.”

Fortunately, I did learn that brief lesson, but made my share of financial mistakes over the next 15 years.  Interestingly enough, my father would allow me to make the mistakes up until a certain point, before finally stepping in and avoiding complete disaster.  For example, I got myself in some pretty hefty credit card debt during my 20s.  My father blew his top when he found out, but he also took the time to go through things with me, help me understand the impact of 21% interest rates, and helped get me on a payment plan.

Again, I still had a bit of problem with the hole I kept burning in my pocket.  My father admitted that when he was my age, he, too, spent every penny he was earning.  Finally, though, you come to your senses, learn from the mistake, and become a better person for it.  At the end of my 20s, I was debt free, and all the happier for it.  My father didn’t solve my problem for me.  Instead, he helped me understand how to solve my problem.  25 years later, I remain debt free and forever thankful for the lesson he taught me.

My dad is not what I consider to be over protective.  He made sure to help me understand when to use caution, but he also made sure (perhaps not always deliberately) that I be given an opportunity to learn things on my own.  That way, I would be sure to truly learn the lesson.

One time I was playing with a football in the backyard, punting the ball up in the air and catching it when it came down.  Contrary to darker colored attire most people see me wearing these days, I was wearing red jeans and a matching red jacket.  My father was sitting on the patio watching me play, and probably noticed that I was pretty close to some mud.  When I slipped and fell, I managed to get mud on just about every article of clothing I was wearing.  He didn’t say, “You should be more careful,” he simply let me find out for myself.  He did suggest that we remove my clothes before going back inside, so as to avoid trekking mud into the house.

Around that same time, my dad gave me a Swiss army knife as a souvenir from his recent trip to Europe with mom.  I had already been shown a little about how to whittle, but neither of us was expecting me to have the knife slip on the stick I was carving and cut the bejesus out of my finger.  I started bleeding profusely, which was very alarming.  My father promptly took me inside and ran cold water on my cut, all the time telling my distraught mother (and me, for that matter) that I was going to be OK.

 

Dad truly understood that accidents would be happening, but we would get through them.  This reassurance was most comforting to me.

 

Another time, we were splashing around in a swimming pool at choir camp, and things got a little out of hand.  My attempts to splash my father were nothing compared to the tidal waves he was sending my way.  I caught a mouthful of water, starting choking and panicking, and dad wisely got me to a more shallow area of the pool.  Everything was OK

.

As a child, I was very concerned about our house burning down.  My father put me to bed one night and we discussed this, and he pointed out that in the extremely unlikely event that our house caught on fire, the first thing he would be doing is running into my room and breaking the window so that I could get to safety.  His words were again so comforting.  It never even occurred to me that I might get cut on a shard of glass while jumping out of the window, but it would not have mattered.  Dad would be there, and everything would be OK

.

This feeling of security was always there.  One of my first childhood memories was lying in bed somewhere in Colorado on a family vacation.  Mom and Dad were tucking me, and my father brought out the squirrels, which were rolled up socks that he used to sort of tickle me with.  It was cozy and everything just seemed right in the world.

I never liked going upstairs on my own as a child, but if dad was there, everything was OK.

If my sister or I encountered a problem as a child, he would help find a solution.  One of the few times we had snow, we wanted to go outside and play and sled and stuff.  We did not have snow boots, but dad tied plastic bread sacks around our shoes in effort to protect our feet and shoes from the cold and wet.  This did not go as well as anyone would have liked, as both of us soaked our shoes as soon as the plastic sacks broke, which was almost immediate.

 

Sure, we played, then got cold and wet.  Upon returning home, dad took us upstairs to the heater that was the perfect size for us to warm our feet with.  Problem solved and order restored. 

 

Learning to ride a bike?  Easy when dad was involved.

 

Need to go to the gross bathroom(outhouse) on a camping trip in the middle of the night?  No problem, dad just had me stand on his boots while I pinkeled into the hole. 

 

Even if an activity had a certain element of danger associated with it, it seemed to be OK if dad was there.  I am not sure if today’s kids still play Mumblety-peg, and after consideration, they probably shouldn’t.  Still, I am glad my father taught me to play.  It was not just about throwing a knife at someone’s foot, it was how to do so carefully and without intending to harm someone.

 

Although I am not a fan of guns and do not really like hunting, I am still glad that my father taught me about gun safety and took me on a few hunts.  The time together was very meaningful, and I suspect that he wasn’t as disappointed with me not being interested in hunting as he was sorry that we just did not have that time in the outdoors together. 

 

We did a fair amount of stuff in the outdoors with Indian Guides, though I think it is called Y-Guides, now.  Additionally, we mostly camped during our family vacations.  Learning the finer points about doing things in the outdoors is again something I grew up thinking everyone else was experiencing, too.   Learning how to pitch a tent, start a campfire, and simply appreciate nature are things I don’t think I would have learned without the influence of my father. 

My appreciation for early morning comes from him, also.  While camping, we would regularly be the first ones up, as my mother and sister are not really early risers.  During our family trip to California, we stayed in motels, where dad and I would share one bed, my sister and mother the other.  I was wiggly and tended to kick, but in fairness, I think most 9 year olds tend to be like that. 

 

Still, my dad was patient and forgiving.  I really liked waking up early with him each morning to go out and scout things out.  We would find a place for us to eat breakfast, but really it was early morning time together just enjoying the moment.

We still enjoy our mornings together when I visit the states.  My first few days are spent getting over jetlag, but there is just something really enjoyable about sitting outside with a cup of coffee at 6am with my father, enjoying the warmth of the chiminea.

 

I always appreciate the extent that people share common interests.  When very young, we tend to mimic the behavior and likes/dislikes of our biggest influences, which typically are going to be family members.  As a four year old, my nephew came into the kitchen to find me preparing a coffee.  I was only wearing a towel around my waist, as I had just gotten out of the shower.  He promptly raced out of the room, took off all his clothes, then returned with the matching hand towel wrapped around his waist.

 

“Somos gemelos!” he exclaimed, proud that he was like his uncle.

 

True, I liked the SMU football team (and all the other sports) because my dad likes them.  But, more importantly, I learned to appreciate what it means to be a fan of a team.  We would go early to the games to watch the team warm up, and we would always stay to the end, even if our team was getting beaten. 

 

Sometimes the common interests are very straight forward.  We are all avid readers in the family, but dad, Lynne and I all still regularly trade mystery novels with each other.

 

Likewise, we all seem to enjoy playing chess from time to time.

 

My father taught me about weight-lifting as a pre-teen, and to this day, we both are still pretty enthused about throwing weights around in the gym. 

Of course, I understand that he gave me an opportunity to experience these things without any conditions of whether or not I would also like to do them.  After all, the key message was not that I needed to like doing it because HE likes to do those things.  I never quite got enthused about chopping wood, which is something he really enjoys.

I do like finding out when I share something in common with my father without consciously knowing about it.  Once, we were pumping gas into the car, and I commented that I quite liked the smell of gasoline.

“Me, too,” he replied. 

 

My father and I also share a similar appreciation for somewhat off-color humor.  For example, we both tend to chuckle when we see someone get racked in a movie or in a game on TV.  In fairness, I think just about all males react this way, simply because of personal experience.  The laughter is a way of saying, “thank goodness that did not happen to me.”

Interestingly enough, I don’t have so many childhood memories of him breaking out into hysterical laughter.  I hold a fair ability to say things around the dinner table which struck my mom and sister as being quite funny; with regularity either my sister or my mother (sometimes both) might laugh hard enough to make milk come out of their nose due to something I said.  Meanwhile, my father would continue eating calmly, waiting for the others to get themselves back under control.

I always wondered about this, so on the occasions when I did see my father break into uncontrollable laughter, I really found it neat to see.

I think my father would admit that he is not the most patient man in the world.  With impatience comes a certain amount of frustration and anger.  My sister and I, as siblings do, could regularly get into arguments with each other, which ultimately led to dad getting upset.  Once during a family trip to Mexico, we were standing waiting to be seated at a restaurant after having spent the day at the beach. We were all sunburned, particularly my father.  Lynne and I got to pressing each other’s buttons to a point where my dad became quite angry.  He turned a color of red that reminded me of what happens to cartoon characters when they get burned or eat something spicy; we realized just how angry he was.

It seemed that I had a knack for testing my father’s patience.  As a student in high school, out of boredom I started underperforming with my school work.  This inevitably led to a few phone calls from my teachers to my father to discuss matters.  These calls led to some heated discussions at home between my father and me, most of them simply because everyone (the teachers, my parents, myself) knew that I was more than capable of doing the work, and was actually just showing signs of rebellion.  Again, sometimes I thought I was in a cartoon, as my father tended to get pretty red in the face. 

I fortunately did not have to see his immediate reaction when I got my ear pierced.  I was driving out of the alley and he passed me coming the other way.  Apparently my mom had to go through quite some lengths to calm him down. 

This is something that I found quite comforting with my parents; they were able to complement each other.  Mom’s quiet and calming nature was able to help soothe my father in such situations that required this balance. 

Of course, mom was always a worrier, so things could work in both ways.  Not long after graduating from college, a friend and I stayed all night without bothering to call mom at home (where were living) to inform her.  We strolled in sometime the following morning to find her distraught; she had not slept the entire night as she worried about where we were.  My father was on a business trip at the time, so we only (initially) spoke by telephone.  I was somewhat relieved at the time that he was out of town, because I could hear just how red he was in the face as he gave me an earful for upsetting my mother and disrespecting the rules we had at home. 

Despite the anger and impatience, there was never any physical anger displayed towards anyone.  One time dad was helping me pump up a basketball with a foot pump.  As he was still attaching the needle to the ball, I enthusiastically started stepping on the pump, managing to almost pinch his finger off.  True, this was not a deliberate act to hurt my father, but to deal with hurt and rage, he proceeded to kick the side of our house repeatedly.  Meanwhile, I looked on in dismay, realizing what I had unintentionally done. 

Another time, my father was driving the family on a coastal highway during our trip to California.  A large truck roared by and managed to make our car start hydroplaning all over the road.  The weather was rainy, the roads obviously wet, and my father really had to fight to regain control of the car.   Once he had control and the situation was over, he pulled us over to side of the road.  He had to, simply because it was such a holy shit moment where we thought we were going to go off the cliff. 

 

Sure, I learned a few new vocabulary words that day, and it was really several years later before I fully comprehended the severity of that incident.  At the time, I remember thinking, “Gosh, Dad got really angry and upset just now, yelled a lot, and still managed to keep under control.”

It was really a very heroic moment, and while I do not want to over-dramatize it, it still remains a very significant memory.  Years later, I still wonder just what emotions he was feeling on that day.

Emotions are funny.  My childhood recollections of how my parents behaved emotionally were sort of split.  If someone asked me which of my parents had an angry temper, I would say my father.  Likewise, it is my mother who comes to mind when asked which parent is “emotional.”  This really comes down to how emotions are expressed, and the perceptions I had as a child. 

I tend to get weepy just by watching a commercial about a little kid finding a puppy, and regularly cry during films.   This never really surprises me, because my mother was always like this.  The first time I ever saw my father actually cry was when he returned from putting our dog Sherlock to sleep.

 

This all comes down to perception of how people express their emotions, and as I have gotten older I recognize that I am pretty evenly a combination of my parents.  I am well aware that I have a temper, just like I know that I am a guy who wears his heart on his sleeve.  As an adult, I have a better understanding on how and when we express our emotions, and how people will always express their emotions differently.  Just because someone does not cry in their grief, this doesn’t mean that they are not sad.  Likewise, just because you don’t laugh until milk comes out of your nose does not mean that you didn’t think something was funny.  Most importantly, I believe this is totally OK.

 

Throughout my life, I am still amazed and proud to see how much I am like my father.  I liked playing tennis because my dad played it, too.  At church, as soon as I was old enough to be an usher with him in the balcony, I took great pride in doing so.  I had an interest in drafting and architecture, so was quite pleased when I got to use my dad’s drafting tools on my work table.  It comes as no surprise to me that, like him, when writing something by hand, I print rather than use cursive.

As much time as my father has spent volunteering and staying involved in service projects over the years, I am still proud and honored when I hear the compliments, both directly or indirectly.  One year, I was helping out at our church for a Christmas event for people in need. That particular year, my parents were not present because they were visiting my sister.  Meanwhile, the whole day I was helping at the event, people regularly came up to me to express their appreciation.  More than one of them went out of their way to mention that they were particularly reminded of how my father and mother were always giving the time for such an important event. 

Like many other children, I got to visit my dad a few times at his work.  Years later, my father and I have discussed our careers, our challenges, our successes, and the interaction with colleagues and customers.   Our experiences are remarkably similar. 

 

Although I still have many more working years before I will get to retire, I often think back to an earlier point in my career, just when things were starting to take off for me.  I was located in Massachusetts at the time, and my father was doing business in the area, so we made plans to meet up and go to dinner.  In the hotel bar, I was having an early beer waiting for him to come downstairs.  Two guys walked up to me and started chatting.  First, they pointed out that they recognized me as my father’s son, then pointed out that he was their boss.  Then, they went on to tell me just how great a manager and  man that he was.  Both guys were maybe 6-8 years older than me, old enough to have some experience under their belts.  It was one of the proudest moments in my life, hearing this kind of feedback.  I didn’t really have any direct reports at the time, but was still approaching my job in a similar fashion.  The positive feeling was:  I have a great role model and I am on the right track. 

For the longest time, I was slow to realize that as much as I am like my father, this meant he would be familiar with experiences of a guy (any guy, not just me).  This may seem rather naïve, but that’s the way it was.  Upon turning the legal age to drink alcohol, my sister announced one day that she would be headed off to a single’s bar.  My father promptly responded, “No you will not!”

My sister was still living at home during this time, but the crux of the matter was that my father was not ready to permit my sister to simply go out to a bar on the grounds that this suggested that she would be picked up.  At the time, I was not quite old enough to fully comprehend the significance of this, but once I was old enough to go into similar establishments, I totally understood why he said what he said. 

About the time I was realizing that he was once a single guy, also, it dawned on me that my father probably knew just about all the tricks I had been playing myself over the years.  Why? 

Because he had most likely done most of those tricks already, himself. 

We certainly share similar appreciation to the opposite sex.  During a visit to my folks a few years ago, we all watched a few episodes of a television series that involved an attractive Australian woman who was a private detective.  At the end of the show, my dad said, “Hey, that girl looks like Nadja,” and I almost laughed out loud, since I had been thinking the exact same thing. 

Another time, a friend of mine pointed out that he noticed that my father tended to smile a lot at women he found attractive.  It was my friend’s way of recognizing that my father showed a tendency to be intimidated by beauty, just like I am.  In fairness, this happens to a lot of guys in the world.  My buddy Bennett and I were once at my local in Dallas, along with his father.  The barmaid was really nice and friendly and beautiful.  Bennett got to a point where he almost had to hide under the barstool, the woman was so pretty.  I was kind of thankful that Bennett’s dad was there to joke about it with his son, since it deflected things from me.  You see, I was feeling almost exactly like Bennett was, too.  Come to think of it, I still have similar experiences at the local in my neighborhood. 

Fortunately my father got over any shyness he might have had, going on to be happily married for over 50 years.  During that time, I got to see the romantic side of my father:  how he picked out special clothes for my mom that he thought would look nice on her, how he always called once a day while traveling on business, how he always looked forward to coming home to his family, both as a husband and as a parent. 

Sometimes I think about all the experiences of my childhood and realize that as much as I was appreciating the experiences, I was also taking things for granted.  When you grow up in a safe, loving environment, you assume that everything is always okay.  I had the impression that my dad always knows what to do, always knows the right thing to do.  This does not come without ups and downs, but as I grew older and became friends with my father, maturity helped me put things in better perspective.  My father took an active role in my upbringing, making sure to be there for me, not because he had to, but because he wanted to

. 

I am proud to be friends with my father, and very proud to be proud OF my father.

The other week I telephoned a family friend who was in hospital.  She has always been like a second mother to me, but we had not spoken together in quite some time.  During our conversation, she told me about a chat she had had with my father soon after he returned from visiting me this past May.  She told me that my dad had really expressed just what a great trip he had in Germany, particularly simply spending time with me.  I laughed out loud with my friend on the telephone. “That’s really cool,” I said to her. “For the next months after dad was here, I was telling everyone here how much I had simply enjoyed hanging out with him.”

It doesn’t get much better than that.  Who am I?  I am Sam’s son.  And I am so glad that he’s my dad.

Thanks, Dad.  I love you.

See you out there

Christmas 2018

Making and Taking the Time

"I've got a couple of busy weeks ahead of me."

This is what my father said to me at the start of Thanksgiving week.  He is already very active, but he was right; he did have a lot going on.

Since I knew that he would be traveling with my sister and her family over the holiday weekend, I wanted to make sure that he and I got our weekly chat in before they left town.  Furthermore, we needed to coordinate when we could have our Thanksgiving skype call as a family, particularly with my Grandmother present. 

My Grandmother recently moved into her new apartment in her living community, but due to space constraints, her computer was not set up, thus limiting our video contact with one another.  Her computer is probably a good 15 years old, and really used only for making greeting cards for her friends or for skyping with me or my sister (when she was still living abroad).  With Lynne stateside, I am the only person that Grandmommy would be skyping with. 

My sister, Dad, and I have all collectively explored solutions for how we best maintain regular video conferencing with Grandmommy, and we ultimately have elected (at least for the interim) to use whatsapp video.  This works OK, but not without a couple of hiccups.

The hiccups came to light almost 2 hours after my last post, when I was hanging out in the pub.  The family had gathered for a Thanksgiving dinner the day BEFORE Thanksgiving, due to the travel plans.  So, I stood outside the pub and chatted with my Grandmother and her technical support team: my sister, nephew, brother in law, and father.  The problem with using the mobile phone is that there is a bit of a lag in the audio.  Combine this with me standing outside on the street and the subsequent background noise, and it becomes rather difficult to hear.  Throw in a 102 year old Grandmother who is not hearing all that well at the best of the times and it got even more complicated.

"Can you hear me now?"

"Say something.  We can't hear you." 

"Who can't hear me?  You or Grandmommy?"

At one point, someone got out the external bluetooth speakers, which only slightly improved the opportunity for my Grandmother to hear, but unfortunately created further lag on the connection.  It was almost like a poorly dubbed movie. 

Of course, we pressed on through, and were able to exchange greetings and have a decent conversation.  As always, my Grandmother asked me what was on my Christmas list, and for whatever reason, I mentioned that I was interested in getting a new frying pan.  The obvious problem with this is that my Grandmother wants so much to have a present for me under the tree on Christmas morning, and I am 100% against getting a frying pan in the US only to schlep it back to Frankfurt when I return after holidays.  Even though I quickly tried to change the conversation topic, the idea was already planted in my Grandmother's mind.  More on this in a minute.

So, on Thanksgiving Day, everyone except Grandmommy headed off to do some my hiking in northern Oklahoma.  Meanwhile, I had a good weekend myself, just mucking around as always.  I looked forward to everyone's return from their weekend getaway, particularly since my dad had already posted a few photos of their trip while they were away.

I think it is absolutely fantastic that my Dad is a fan of social media.  He enjoys posting the photos, seeing the feedback, and staying connected with lots of different people.  I also think it is really cool how much my father likes taking pictures of squirrels and prairie dogs (and other small animals) in addition to the action/people shots.

This past week, I was waiting patiently for my father to check in with me, as he routinely does.  Since we have the time difference, it is common for him to give me a ring immediately upon his return from the early morning gym visit.  This is usually during my mid-afternoon, and has really worked out well for our time schedules.  It's not as if I am THAT busy, but my father and I have that relation where we don't have to set a scheduled time each week to chat.  We just do it whenever.  (This is a bit different from skype calls with my mother, as she wanted to set a certain time for when we could sit down and skype.  This actually became more inconvenient and frustrating.  I believe I have reported here once before that I inadvertently made the mistake of telling my mom I would be home in an hour to skype, then immediately got hammered and totally forgot about the call.  This resulted in Nadja getting a panicky call from my mother, etc.)

At any rate, by Wednesday, I was starting to wonder where my father was, and I certainly was missing the contact. 

On Thursday, I sent a text to my sister wishing her a happy birthday.  I have plans still to talk to her personally during the weekend, as is our usual routine.  Later Thursday afternoon, I was doing some meditating in the living room when my mobile rang, alerting me to a whatsapp video call from my Dad. 

He was at Grandmommy's and they were just checking in.  We spent about 10 minutes trying to figure out (better said, for THEM to figure out) how to work the video and speaker phone, but as I was sitting quietly in my living room, there was less background interference.  It was actually pretty funny (both haha and curious) that suddenly my Grandmother was able to hear and see me without too much problem.  She and I had a nice little chat for a few minutes, during which time she told me about how things were going with her.  She asked me some more questions about a frying pan (size? style?) and I did my best to dodge those questions.  She then related a quip about how she recently suggested that they offer tickets to the general public for when she took a shower each day.  Apparently there is a revolving group of attendants who assist her with her morning routine (including shower) and as one might imagine, this is not a quick jump in and out of the shower process for someone her age.

Let me pause here for a moment and make the statement:  if ever someone needed a reason to appreciate life, let them use this anecdote.

Here is a 102 year old woman, ever so graceful, who understands her increasing physical limitations.  Yet, she can immediately find the humor in the situation.  I am not asking for someone to post a video of this on youtube, but I can actually hear my grandmother saying "Hey, you all ought to sell tickets to this," as she was being helped out of her dressing gown to get in the shower.  Classic stuff.

We spoke a few more minutes before she handed the mobile back to my father.  They were headed to a routine doctor's appointment, so we did not have much time.  I really just wanted to coordinate when he and I would next be able to skype from home, where we could speak for longer and more privately. 

"I've been busy," said my dad.  This explained why he was out of pocket the past few days. 

But, as his birthday was yesterday, I wanted to be sure to speak with him.  He indicated that his morning routine was going to be a bit different as he would be going to breakfast with my sister, and furthermore, I had a mid-afternoon appointment during our normal time slot.

We ended our Thursday call agreeing to get something sorted out for Friday.

I watched the Arsenal on Thursday evening, then woke up yesterday morning ready for another day and the upcoming weekend.

As I got my Friday morning started, I had an ear open for the house doorbell.  Our utilities company had posted a notice that they would be around to read the Gas and Electric meters at some point during the day.  This is an annual thing, and as I work from home, I now just let them come in and do their thing as opposed to several years ago when I was regularly out of town on business.  Back then I would do my own meter readings and submit them online.

The first time the doorbell rang, it was the trash man.

The second time the doorbell rang, it was the cable company guy. 

Finally, the person from Mainova showed up.  This was the first time I had seen a female meter reader.  She was pleasant enough, and I quick explained that I unfortunately did not have the key to the cellar (where one of the meters was), but she could come on in and read the meter in my flat. 

I did notice rather quickly that she was not particularly tall.  So, I was a little curious to see her approach to getting the reading off of the meter which hangs very high in the front hallway of my apartment. 

We both looked at the meter for a couple of seconds, and she asked me, "Can you read it?"

Not without help was my response.  I ran to the kitchen to grab a chair and brought it back for her to stand on and get closer to the meter. 

She logged the result in her book, thanked me, and went on to the next flat.

Now, I will wait a week or two for the notice to come from the utilities company informing me of what my rates for next year will be. 

I went on with my Friday, finished work, headed for my appointment, then stopped in at the pub on the way home.  Although I don't tend to stay out too late on Fridays, I did remind myself to keep my wits about me as I still wanted to skype with Dad to wish him a happy birthday later on that evening when I got home.

A couple of hours later, I paid my tab and came home and called Pop.  We ended up having a nice little visit, catching up on all the recent events.  I commented on all the photos that he had taken and posted, then he asked me what I thought of the Thanksgiving dinner pictures. 

"As soon as you post them, I will see them!" I responded. 

Later on, he would be having a few folks over to help decorate the Christmas tree, as is part of the standard end of November tradition.  A couple of weeks ago, he paid someone to put up the outside Christmas lights on the house, but I requested that he not send me any pictures until after Thanksgiving, preferably late late late November (or even better, early December).

I like enjoying the seasons for the brief moments that we have them, but I am very much averse to rushing things.  Unfortunately, we now live in a society where everything is set to fast-forward:  about the time that Halloween comes around, Christmas decorations are hitting the stores.  Thanksgiving hardly gets a mention, and at the rate we are going, mid-December will bring the Valentines's decorations out, and about the 8th of January, we will see our first Easter decorations.

Thus, I wanted to experience the Thanksgiving photos before seeing any Christmas decorations. 
Here in Germany, the stores have had their decorations out for a few weeks already, and just a couple of days ago, the Christmas markets have opened up.  It is still a little bit rushed, but here it is the first of December, and tomorrow is Advent Sunday.  Now, I am ready for it. 

Fortunately, my dad posted the Thanksgiving pics last evening; I saw them first thing this morning.  There's even a cool action shot of my grandmother and sister talking to me (quite visible) on video.

Later today, I am sure I will see the photos of the tree decorating party, and that will be yet another warm fuzzy for me; my opportunity to participate vicariously.

In a couple of weeks I will head over for the holidays myself.  My grandmother is already counting the days until I arrive.

Me, too.

see you out there
bryan

Thinking and Thanking

Ah, Thanksgiving Eve.  I always get a little envious of my friends and family in the states at this time of year, since Thanksgiving tends to be special.  My last stateside Thanksgiving must have been about 13 years ago.  Rather than try and replicate a dinner or something here in Germany, I tend to spend extra time reflecting on family and friends instead.  Of course, I already reflect on them quite a bit already, and I certainly don't exclude the friends I have made outside of the US.  I may be one of the few people in the world that has a German friend who has actually been to the Macy's parade.  Boop.

At any rate, the month of October turned out to be rather challenging for me on a personal front.  As I have worked through these challenges, I have spent rather a lot of time reflecting and contemplating.  Although I have always done this, I think a notable difference this time round was the fact that I had some new resources and materials with which I could use for support.

I recently read a book all about TMS, and have explored some aspects of EFT over the past weeks, as well.  Today, I am not quite prepared to write out all the thoughts and emotions in this post, partially because it is very much on a personal level.  Despite this guy being one who wears his heart on his sleeve, even I have my limits of how much I will share. 

That being said, there are a few recent experiences that have been particularly thought-provoking. 

About a month ago, my grandmother moved into the "assisted living" wing of her community.  This effectively meant that she moved about 20 meters further down the hall into a new, smaller apartment.  Here, she will get more direct care and assistance.  A few months ago, I wrote about how moves can suck.  For my grandmother, she took it in stride, but I could tell that she was a little tense about things.  I have received regular reports on how she settled, and for the most part, things are going ok.  Sure, there are some differences from her more independent lifestyle.  Part of this is how she is adapting to the change, in both herself and her environment.   My grandmother has always been super positive, which is a wonderful character trait.  She has almost never really complained about anything, as it were.  Recently, she has shown brief glimpses of becoming crotchety, but only ever so slightly.  I wonder about his, and look forward to some one on one time with next month where I can ask her about her feelings. 

Last week, I was having a chat with a couple of people in the pub, when Alexi, a young guy from France, asked me about the number of states in the US.

"52, right?"

"No," I laughed.  "There are only 50."  I wasn't meaning to accost him, but I have always been really impressed with the number of people I have met around the world who seem to have so much knowledge about my home country.  It is unfortunate that this phenomenon seems only to flow in one direction.

Maria responded to my joking comments by stating that one of the reasons that Americans can be unpopular around the world is the fact that they make a lot of assumptions about how much people know how about the US; it is almost as if they expect everyone to know such facts (like how many states there are in the union).

To further illustrate her point, she asked me how many provinces there are in Argentina, where she comes from.

"Erm,..."

I certainly was put in my place, and I spent the next several thinking about this on various levels.  Sure, I like information, and typically I will go off and research a topic after a discussion with someone.  (That night, I went home and read up on the wonderful country of Argentina.  23, if you are wondering.)

It was not so much that we do not know certain facts, but rather that we might expect someone to know such facts.  How can that be a realistic expectation?  How do those perceptions come about?

A couple of days ago, I spoke further with Maria about the incident.  We both had thought about it for several days, wondering if the conversation had gotten too aggressive (it was lively) or that if one of us had felt insulted.  That was not the case at all; both of us have an ability to exchange such thoughts with each other because of our respect and admiration for one another. 

Similarly, my Macy's parade attending friend Nadja is also really adept at helping to remind me of my place in society and the world.  I consider myself to be empathetic, but what do I know about what it is like to be a refugee, or religiously oppressed, or to be a woman in the workplace? 

Awareness, knowledge, understanding. These things help a lot.  The reflection that I have done in recent weeks is helping me greatly, and for this I am very thankful. 

Increasing my awareness and my understanding about myself, this is particularly significant.  Fortunately, this is an ongoing process that I relish doing.  After all, it is for me.

I am me, and I am okay. 

see you out there
bryan

At Home in the House of Bluish-Gray or Grayish-Blue

This past week I was delighted to see that the workmen were nearing completion of the renovation of our house's facade.  After the midweek public holiday, the guys returned Thursday morning and started taking down the scaffolding.  I could finally open my living room shutters again and enjoy natural light.  Furthermore, I was curious to see how they disassemble the scaffolding; it's a little like watching people play with life-sized legos. 

One shutter came up without any problem, but I struggled with the second window.  As I turned the handle, nothing happened except for a little noise that sounded like something was catching on the mechanism that raises the shutter.  I tried multiple times, then decided to try and get the attention of the guy clambering around on the planks of the scaffolding.  He was loading each piece onto a pulley-deal and lowering it to the street below. 

I figured that all I needed was a little boost from outside the window, where someone could sort of help raise the shutter, allow the mechanism to catch, then allow me to use the crank to continue raising the shutter. Of course, I had to get on a conference call for a few minutes (ah, the joys of home office) and when I returned to stick my head out the window, I discovered that the speedy workman had already finished dismantling the scaffolding on my floor.  Dang.

For the next several hours, I was feeling a bit frustrated and contemplated what it would be like to simply keep one shutter open in the living room.  Not only would there be less light coming into the room, it would also give the impression of a face with only one eye open.  This, of course, is only if you look at windows in such a way.  Since I do look at windows in such a way...well, there you go.

During a break from work, I went off to the grocery store to pick up a few things, and upon my return, admired the fresh paint job on the front of the house.  The workmen did a really nice job, and what was a bit aggravating is the fact that my closed shutter really stood out.  So, I went back upstairs intent on opening the shutter.  I tried for another five minutes without any luck, and finally decided to try turning the handle in the opposite direction.  Thirty seconds later, light started peeking in the cracks of the shutter and then continued to flood in as the shutter opened!

Yes, I am a complete dolt.

For those readers who aren't so familiar with European style rolling shutters, allow me to briefly explain how they work.  Indeed, it is a very simple concept.  For the manual shutters, which is what most people have, there is a little metal rod that hangs down from the top of the window where the shutter is housed when it is completely rolled up.  The rod sort of hangs there like the little pulley-thing does for the drapes.  Or, if you are more familiar with Venetian blinds, it's that string that you pull on.  Only, with this rod, the last little bit is a handle, and you turn it to raise (or lower) the shade.

I subscribe to the righty-tighty lefty-loosey school of thought, and I always say "righty-tighty lefty-loosey" under my breath when using a screwdriver or while performing any similar activity.  (note - I actually enjoy saying it almost more than the actual task I am doing)  In the case of my shutters, I switched my statement to "righty-raise lefty-lower."  The problem is, only one of my shutters actually functions with this logic, hence the ease with which I got the first shutter open earlier in the afternoon.  The second shutter, however, operated in reverse. 

The fact that it took me so long to figure this out is due partly to the frequency for which I raise and lower my shutters; the last time I did this was about 7 years ago.  Since I live on the first floor, I see no need to make this a daily task.  The only people who could see into my living are the people who live in the building across the street, and most of the time, their shutters are closed anyway.  Not only that, the few times that I danced naked in the apartment was done with the lights out, so there was nothing for anyone to see. 

The other reason that it took awhile for me to figure out how to work one of the shutters is that, when fully closed (or open, for that matter), one has to turn the handle for almost thirty seconds before anything really happens.  With all my previous attempts to open the shutters earlier in the day, I had not turned the handle long enough.  Subconsciously, I think this is where the righty-tighty process is not completely suitable for shutter opening purposes.  Normally when you operate a screwdriver or wrench, you recognize almost immediately if you are going the wrong way. 

At any rate, I still consider myself a dolt, but at least my living room shutters are open.

That evening at the pub, I elected to skip the story about my shutters, but I did ask a few friends what they thought of the completed renovation.  I was telling Mono about my surprise that the new house color was blue instead of the sort of pinkish-peach color that the house was previously.  A few years ago, the rear of our house was re-done and painted in the same pinkish-peach color; I assumed that they would do the front in the same way.

I actually really like the new blue color, but Mono, who also said the house looked good, said that the color was gray.  I conceded that there was a bit of gray in the blue, but held firm that it was a blue house.  He argued that it was a gray house, with a hint of blue.  When someone else walked up to where we were standing, I asked them what color they thought my house was.  That person said blue. Two minutes later, someone else walked up, and they said gray.

I decided to change the conversation topic, and also made mental note to never ask whether people call an item a belly bag or a fanny pack....

As the workweek came to a close, I enjoyed my Friday spending as much time in the living room as possible.  As always, most of my breaks from work involve playing a few pieces on the piano.  I had noticed during the past month that the absence of natural light really highlighted just how poor the lighting is in my living room.  The overhead light is inadequate, as is the lamp next to my sofa.  To compensate, I had ordered a small desk lamp through amazon, hoping that I could use it for a piano light. 

I had placed my order on Monday for several items (including the lamp), and on Friday most of the packages arrived.  Unfortunately, they were all delivered and signed for by my upstairs neighbor. The irony here, was that I, too, had accepted and signed for several packages.  For him. 

This meant that we had to trade packages several times Friday evening and again on Saturday.  We both sort of laughed each time we did our exchange, and we both agreed that the delivery driver was a dolt. 

A couple of final points for today.   I have recently started learning a few new piano pieces.  One is particularly challenging, but I refuse to give up trying, and am not about to refer to myself as a dolt.  I know I can learn this piece, despite it's complexity.  I was actually encouraged (and relieved) when I did a little research on the music score.  Initially, I got the impression that there a few too many notes on the staves, almost to the point where it looked like the piece was written for four hands.  This is not how music notation really works, but for the better part of the week, I was trying to figure out my fingering, the whole time I was wondering how (where) the additional needed hand or two would come into play. 

My research brought me to a website where I discovered that the composer had actually recorded multiple tracks on the piece.  Someone had then transcribed the music recording into notation, which resulted in the clutter of notes on the sheet music.  I had sort of suspected this, but was really glad to see the composer's confirmation.  My technical abilities on piano are not nearly as poor as I had briefly thought. 

Fired up by this, I actually took a break from the piano and did some quick research on colors.  I discovered that the color blue-gray is also known as livid.  However, the color gray-blue is known as cool gray. 

With that, I have changed my mind.  My house is cool gray. 

see you out there
bryan

Cooler Temperatures Are Here - Time for Jeans Again

When I saw the weather forecast last week, I started to get a bit excited.  Finally, the temperatures would start to get a bit cooler.  In a post from a few weeks ago, I did mention that we had really had a rather warm summer, to the point of being unpleasant.  The month of September has really been pretty OK, but still on the warm side.

Before I sound like I really am complaining, let me clarify:  I actually have enjoyed wearing shorts for the past 4 months.  But, I do like that moment when the temperature breaks, and the season starts to change.  Furthermore, because we did not have much rain in the summer, we never got any brief periods of relief from the heat, which I missed.

Last Wednesday, I wore shorts to my dentist appointment, and when my Zahnärztin greeted me, she exclaimed how happy she was that the summer had been long.  She is very sporty and likes to ride bikes, swim, and hike; just about anything outdoors suits her fine.  I agreed that I had kind of enjoyed the time myself, though I did sort of realize just how little physical activity I do in comparison to what she does.

The weather reports were all keying in on the fact that it would actually be the first day of autumn when we would really see a difference in temps.  However, last Friday evening, the evening became a little brisk, which wasn't really a big deal, except I had still elected to wear shorts.  My mom probably would have described it as "delightfully cool," and I would tend to agree, but by the time I was getting ready to go home from the pub, I was kind of wishing I was wearing longer pants.

Yesterday, the first day of autumn, was chilly.  And I loved it.  And I still wore short pants, thinking that I would press my luck one last time (or two) before making the change back to pants and jeans.
It rained for most of the day, which made for an enjoyable time to sit out on the balcony with a cup of coffee and just celebrate the change of season.  Fall and winter are my favorites, and that first crisp (albeit soggy) day is always particularly great. 

I did not do anything special, I simply enjoyed the day for what it was.  I got some piano time in, also some mediation, then went over to the pub to watch the Arsenal.  During halftime, I went outside for a ciggy and ran into my neighbor who was on the way home from walking the dog.  He, too, was wearing shorts and we both joked that we were still wearing summer attire....probably for the last time this year.  Said neighbor Jens and I had already discussed the abusive heat of the summer and our anticipation of the weather changes.

So, today I put on jeans for the first time.  As I write this, my legs are still getting used to having something on them.  I mean, really, I cannot remember ever having gone so many months without wearing long pants.  This is when things will be interesting around the neighborhood for the next few weeks. On the street, I am quite sure that I will see a lot of people suddenly wearing scarves and coats (even though the temperature is only "delightfully cool," and not cold)  Likewise, there will still be a few people who will continue to do their shorts and flip-flops routine for the next little while.  This will likely be a topic of conversation tonight at the kiosk.  Monday nights at the Kiosk are always great for checking out the fashions.

I am not saying that we always make comments about what people are wearing, but we regularly see things which cause us to have a giggle or at least raise an eyebrow.  Last week, for example, three guys walked up to buy something at the Kiosk.  All were wearing denim shorts (rather form fitting, as they tend to be) and t-shirts that accentuated their large bellies.  True, everyone in our Monday evening group is about the same age, and we are a good 20 years older than these guys were.  Someone remarked that they didn't wear tight clothes when they were that age, which is true.  20 years ago, we tended to wear baggier clothing.  Part of that has to do with the fashions at the time, and part of it has to do with the fact that none of us particularly likes such form fitting clothing.  No one said fat bastard or anything like that.  I did make a small comment that I have no intentions of starting to carry a man-purse, but again, that is simply my personal choice. 

After all, I do enough things in my routine life that give people reason to chuckle.  Just a couple of weeks ago, I was standing outside the pub.  This alone is no reason to laugh.  Furthermore, wearing baggy shorts gives no real opportunity to make a comment, despite the size of my legs.  However, I had just bought a fresh pack of cigarettes, and as I do, I started packing them before I opened the box.  This is a common thing among American smokers...at least from where I come from.

Unfortunately, I did not notice the busker who was just about to start playing his guitar.  During the summer months, it is normal for someone to come by and play for a few minutes, then walk around and pass the hat for a few euro.  This particular man had played countless times over the years, and he plays very well.  But, there is no quiet way to pack a box of cigarettes.  You slap the top of the box against the palm of your hand, and it sounds exactly like you are clapping.  This is what I did for a good 15 seconds before I realized that EVERYONE, including the guitar player (who hadn't even played a chord yet) was looking in my direction.  Crowded patio at the pub on a warm summer's evening.  One guy "clapping" even though no music had (or was being) played...

I realized how silly it looked and checked my pockets for coins.  Although I normally give the guy the odd euro from time to time anyway, this time around I was certainly on the hook.

The man played his brief set, and I smiled sheepishly as I put a few coins in the hat when he came round.  He probably thinks I am now a big fan.  Jeez. 

Well, like the song goes, "When you're happy and you know it..."

see you out there
bryan

Darkness and Enlightenment - So That's How the Shutters Work!

The other week, I was awakened by the sound of some jerk using a jack hammer outside of my apartment building.  It was around 7am, which is when my alarm clock goes off, so technically, I was needing to get up anyway.  However, I would argue that no one really finds the jarring sound of a jack hammer particularly pleasant at such an early hour. 

I got on with my morning routine of the workday, and was enjoying a coffee when my doorbell rang.  I opened the door to find a young guy asking if he could test my intercom system, which took all of five seconds.  Then, a few minutes later, he came back and gave me a new key for my mailbox.

The penny dropped, and I realized that the guys had spent the morning replacing our bank of mailboxes on the front of the house, as well the doorbell buttons. 

I went downstairs to inspect their work, and took a moment to joke with the guys about how much fun they might have had running power tools early in the morning.  As we spoke, they confirmed that they had enjoyed it, then went on to say that in a few more days, they would start redoing the stucco on the front of our house. 

Now, this is a bit of a production to redo the exterior walls on the front of the building.  First, they raise the scaffolding, which they did last week.  Then, the guys start scraping all the stuff off the walls, which they have been doing for the past few days.  Estimated completion time?  They say 2 to 3 weeks, so I will reckon on 4 to 5 weeks.  That's just how these things seem to go. 

This past Monday afternoon, the workman put up a little sign requesting that we close our rolling shutters on our windows so that they could get everything cleaned.  Like a good tenant, I complied first thing Tuesday morning; I lowered the shutter in my bedroom, then did the same in the living room. 

Normally, I leave the shutters raised all year round, especially in the living room, so as to allow for as much light as possible.  I do keep the bedroom shutters mostly lowered, but only about halfway.  I like to have a little bit of natural light, even when sleeping.

That Tuesday night as I went to bed, I realized just how much darker it was in my bedroom.  I am not afraid of the dark (despite Nadja's comment), but it was a little spooky, and certainly different.  I slept pretty well, and the following morning thought, "Hey, maybe I should always sleep with the shutters completely closed." 

That next night, I did have to get up for a toilet break (I drink a lot of water these days), and as I walked back to my bed in the darkness, I was more than a little surprised when I overshot my bedroom door by 6 inches, which meant that I collided with the wall and subsequently startled myself fully awake.  Clearly sleeping in complete darkness had changed my spatial awareness just a wee bit. 

Fortunately, I did not really hurt myself.  The experience was more along the lines of inadvertently walking into a freshly cleaned glass door, which creates more surprise and bemusement as opposed to stubbing one's toe on an unfortunately placed dumbbell in the middle of one's floor.  (This latter incident simply sucks.)

Yes, I have found many ways to amuse (or is it abuse) myself in my lifetime.  However, I shall leave those stories of wearing brand new leather soled shoes on a slick floor or how to be eight years old and lie down on the ground right on top of dog poo for another time...

At any rate, I continue to keep my shutters closed for the moment to allow the workman to get on with their job of redoing the building's facade.  Perhaps at the weekend I will open the living room shutters again.  Interestingly enough, napping in the living room has been more enjoyable these past days.  The absence of natural light (as well as the reduced noise from the front of house) seems to be helping me to focus more on the music that I have playing in the background. 

Lately I have been listening to a lot of classical music, and my "napping in the dark" escapades are bring new focus to the music.  I am hearing the tempos and melodies much more vividly, and this is having a positive influence on my piano playing.  Talk about an epiphany. 

That alone is enough to make it a really good week.  But, no need to stop there...

Yesterday, I took my weekly peek at my high school class's 30 year reunion social media page.  Someone posted a little montage of some songs that are turning 30 this year.  I could not resist checking to see what was on the list, and I should have not been surprised to see the usual mainstream artists from that era.  All of it was mainstream, and with a few exceptions, it was a far cry from what I was listening to at that time.  Most of it was that pop-metal stuff (Whitesnake, Aerosmith, etc) mixed with a few Michael Jackson songs.  I had forgotten that by 1988, Belinda Carlisle was singing solo.  True, she is rather attractive, but I was never really a fan, despite the fact that I did (and always have) "have the beat." 

So no, I was not surprised at the listing of songs, but I was a little disappointed.  Then again, my listening tastes were all over the map back then (like they still are), so I can appreciate that most mainstream hoopty doo class reunion "hits of yesterday"  lists are not going to include the likes of the Mission, Sisters of Mercy, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Robtiko Rejekto, Bigod 20, and Front 242, even if all of those bands also had songs that turn 30 this year.  Hell, I think the Exploited also put out an album that year, too.  (I did say my listening was quite diverse).

Still, I did not get discouraged, and spent nap time listening to a few of those bands, then went a little more local, and had a pleasant afternoon listening to my favorite bands from the Dallas scene.  That took me back....

How many shows did I see of Three on a Hill, Shallow Reign, or Ten Hands?` As my grandmother might say, "a zillion."

Indeed, Chris, say the word.  The big one is coming....

see you out there
bryan