tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64646565462530781182024-02-19T08:32:22.073-05:00Ruddy BitsCort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-39155115762310885422021-08-16T17:26:00.000-04:002023-08-17T15:47:02.217-04:00Caterpillar in the tree... <p><span style="font-family: verdana;">And she's off. Ten hours away. Officially a Tar Heel. The hole in our home and our lives is palpable. And measurable. "How many plates?" The boy asked tonight, after we coaxed him to set the table. "Just five," I said. He left her spot empty, like a missing man formation. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">We know she's just embarked on a great adventure: College. What an amazing rite of passage we have. We’re excited for her. Truly. But it is hard for us. For 18 years we woke her and fed her and loved her as best we could. Which wasn’t always enough. Now, we’ve set her free. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Some worry whether their kid is ready for the world; I worry the world isn’t ready for ours. She is an unstoppable force. Of all the highfalutin jobs my wife and I have had over our years, raising her and her siblings was by far the most important, and challenging, and rewarding, and draining, and... well, you understand.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">They warn you it goes by fast. It does. Eighteen years in a flash. Now she’s ready to make her mark. And we’ll all be better for it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">For the most part, I held it together when we dropped her off. Just a few slight tears. A bit of a lump in the throat. But nothing embarrassing. Then we drove home, to the play list she’d put together for the trip down. (It’s like Gen Z’s version of the mixed tape). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Quite a few “Carolina” themed tunes, of which there are many. But then one played I knew was meant for me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Flap your wings now you can't stay. Take those dreams and make them all come true. Butterfly, fly away.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Man, that kid.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOtRBITPmuNRLHJdTYOrlrHbaL7LPlxBDNOOAUfY3ZTzui1JRPslQqx-GPSwbYClH0mGUVqMgN6TOTAq64x8MniVomLYz2h2_ZhKKevEr0V55uWZmQw0vSiU-2QOIW61saNbymZThyvaQ/s1024/70042800_080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOtRBITPmuNRLHJdTYOrlrHbaL7LPlxBDNOOAUfY3ZTzui1JRPslQqx-GPSwbYClH0mGUVqMgN6TOTAq64x8MniVomLYz2h2_ZhKKevEr0V55uWZmQw0vSiU-2QOIW61saNbymZThyvaQ/s320/70042800_080.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNrHOYZ_anpleMLeMb2lag4NtEccPyYMQmKAHvCy6M-ZYmpVxOzMQPjYkDbsEFQRUrKZLYWkuYT7IAc_77Qfus669YdbiAvLiADBkHNZOx_Id99NZj-7uUan27vbQeFrydt75PLIJG1s/s640/IMG_1247.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGeNmJp29aBZI90ZGrQr7_JkYH4tu2Nja9g4-V2V4nsY_KgQZ32zYnkNGOM660vHUHnShduWrl6LlJsUWZ0FLGWswxW5fcDaHdmGZ4PvOVL35DNKHWoW8AfY_v4o3W19hwPy9mj6Ng3no/s4032/IMG_6612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGeNmJp29aBZI90ZGrQr7_JkYH4tu2Nja9g4-V2V4nsY_KgQZ32zYnkNGOM660vHUHnShduWrl6LlJsUWZ0FLGWswxW5fcDaHdmGZ4PvOVL35DNKHWoW8AfY_v4o3W19hwPy9mj6Ng3no/s320/IMG_6612.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNI-KV0wlRMNS6wJpfplHT2_67VvaTlxAkus1PnGKwvGBXej_JKduSV5WLqUFNqAdLbTQMEGTzcVMX-lf4_sxYMFHNw9QaonB1PG4_QVQiQWgY2il7XfASMHAi_3hdbXH6QpG5RCwh8J0/s2048/IMG_9130.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNI-KV0wlRMNS6wJpfplHT2_67VvaTlxAkus1PnGKwvGBXej_JKduSV5WLqUFNqAdLbTQMEGTzcVMX-lf4_sxYMFHNw9QaonB1PG4_QVQiQWgY2il7XfASMHAi_3hdbXH6QpG5RCwh8J0/s320/IMG_9130.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-22766068043037357032021-03-04T10:56:00.004-05:002021-03-08T17:04:27.481-05:00I was on a podcast. Check that box. <p><span style="font-family: verdana;">When you’ve written a blog for as long as I have, there are
several crowning moments.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Like the time I passed a guy in a stairwell and he looked at
me and yelled, “RUDDYBITS!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Or when I was in the local grocery store, and a mom who was friends
with my sister came up and told me she enjoyed my blog. That was shortly after
I’d written about my child <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2013/05/clean-up-aisle-3-and-4-and-5-just.html#.YED7wGhKg2w" target="_blank">barfing in that same store</a>, so it caused mixed emotions.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Undoubtably, the top “accomplishments” that stand out for me
over the past 9 (holy crap) years are getting to write for the <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/2019/07/17/my-daughters-excited-start-driving-my-feelings-are-complicated/?fbclid=IwAR21-atWc-ZeRAHtJJPMc5LHkd406dthInIVuhvjxxORwfPj2N8IfFc4lsU" target="_blank">Washington Post</a>
and that <a href="http://www.adirondacklifemag.com/blogs/2016/12/01/snow-days/" target="_blank">ski trip to Gore</a> almost 5 years ago that a magazine actually paid me
to write. I’d be remised to not also mention how my blog introduced me to the
Dad 2.0 community and helped me make fatherhood friends from across the globe. That
led to being a <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2019/02/why-you-should-always-make-one-last-cast.html#.YEEFMmhKg2w" target="_blank">spotlight blogger at the 2019</a> conference and speaking in front a
few hundred people more talented than me, which was a blast. Those are the “best
ofs” from over the years, for sure. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But, a close second place – or third or fourth, but who’s
counting – is getting to talk about this entire blogging experience, and how it
ties into my fatherhood journey in general, on <a href="https://www.buzzsprout.com/1129916/8048505-episode-21-a-little-bit-ozzy-a-little-bit-harriet" target="_blank">a Podcast</a> launched by a couple
friends. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The <a href="https://www.buzzsprout.com/1129916/8048505-episode-21-a-little-bit-ozzy-a-little-bit-harriet" target="_blank">Men on Men Podcast</a> tackles many of the same issues I
always tried to, talking about things dads deal with in a humorous and
thoughtful way. And in the latest episode, I spoke with the men about my time
being the “frontline” parent and all the fun that ensued. I love this podcast and
these guys and certainly hope you will give it a listen. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9VGRmuXWoL7YnjnKWnzPh_aXTYZxegQzlzwp71JfXVdsMbYpkeek94z51lzHCbQw5ON5RQcVbMdYuZjDn6rG-QVN0TW2TL4So-jI3TTC6YxbNSLRVxBMkvwUnj-KE0v-nBEZhq3c1k3s/s926/MenOnMen.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="926" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9VGRmuXWoL7YnjnKWnzPh_aXTYZxegQzlzwp71JfXVdsMbYpkeek94z51lzHCbQw5ON5RQcVbMdYuZjDn6rG-QVN0TW2TL4So-jI3TTC6YxbNSLRVxBMkvwUnj-KE0v-nBEZhq3c1k3s/w320-h266/MenOnMen.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was a guest on this <a href="https://www.buzzsprout.com/1129916/8048505-episode-21-a-little-bit-ozzy-a-little-bit-harriet" target="_blank">podcast</a></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />I always joke that podcast are the new reading. Which they
kind of are. People used to start a smart sentence with, “I read recently…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now people say, “I heard on a Podcast
recently…”<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This was the first time I was a guest on a podcast, and I proved
my old self-deprecating adage that I write better than I speak. Still, it was
enjoyable. One less thing on the bucket list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But it got me to thinking how I really haven’t written much
lately. At least not here. It’s been a combination of busy at work, focused on <a href="https://twitter.com/dadbits" target="_blank">Twitter</a>,
and lack of motivation due to the pandemic. You know, I don’t have a lot of
regrets, but not writing more this past year is likely going to be one.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then again, maybe I’m just done. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Maybe appearing on this podcast was the final act. The pinnacle. Or the last gasp. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This blog has served an essential purpose, it has helped me
chronical the part of parenthood that turns into a total blur years later. And maybe
someday, I’ll be able to look back at old posts and be like, “Oh yeah, remember
when that happened,” about something I wouldn’t otherwise have remembered. (Actually,
I did that yesterday).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But, the truth is, writing here doesn’t help the way it used
to. I don’t hold out any hope that this is going to lead to a book contract. Or
that I’m going to go viral with one of my barf stories and end up on Good
Morning America, after which, of course, we’d be set for life. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And for some reason, self-publishing the intimated details of our daily adventure for free doesn’t give the endorphins it once did -- or provide the therapy I likely
need. It was always kind of like being an artist who paints pictures and then
hangs them down by the mailbox for passersby to glance at and say, that guy always
was a bit odd. Slightly talented. But odd.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Frankly, with three teens in the home, my life isn’t the
constant source of humor it once was. Now, it’s more like a slow-moving horror
movie. And if I wrote about that. Well. It would be like the biopic of the
suburban dad who descends into madness, but in blog form.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">There are things I wish I'd written about but didn't: like school musicals or my pride at my daughter's involvement in the High School Improv Club. I went to a High School that had one room for the cafeteria, the auditorium and the gym. We didn't have an Improv Club. Or a school musical. Or a track team for that matter. So, I wish I'd written about that stuff.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This is starting to feel like that Facebook post where someone
announces they’re signing off, while the rest of us just scroll by. Yeah, yeah.
Whatever. And all the poster is really doing is yelling into the void.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And, who knows, maybe something will change inside of me and
I’ll need this space again. It has been fun. And, if you do like it and are just
discovering these posts, there’s 152 more – just enter a key word in
the search bar on the right. You can start with a common term, like “poop.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I’ve even been thinking lately about using this space to share some of
the great recipes I’ve grown to depend on over my years in the family kitchen.
Kind of a “Dad Can Cook” thing. We’ll see. It starting to sound like my trip to madness
is complete. But why not. I’m no better a chef than I am a writer or a parent. And,
a general lack of expertise seems to be my most endearing quality.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And maybe I'll wake up tomorrow to a headline that says, "Blogger's Heartfelt Goodbye to His 3 Readers Goes Viral." <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So, I’ll keep this channel open in case I am so inspired.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But for now, thank
you for reading. And be well. It's not goodbye, but until I see you again.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">*Passes torch to <a href="https://www.buzzsprout.com/1129916/8048505-episode-21-a-little-bit-ozzy-a-little-bit-harriet" target="_blank">podcasting friends</a>* <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">RuddyBits out. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I repeat, For now. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">P.S. Follow me on <a href="https://twitter.com/dadbits" target="_blank">Twitter</a>.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-86725293928206089842021-03-01T14:02:00.006-05:002021-03-08T17:05:05.571-05:00One Last Time Up a Mountain<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The dad stood atop the tallest ski hill in the east, 4386
feet above sea level, looking out at the surrounding mountains and down a steep
slope of white. It’s one of those views that make you say, holy crap, I’m on a
mountain.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then he turned to his kids and lowered his goggles. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Alright, we’re gonna take our time, wait for each other, and stick
together,” he said. “We got this.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And off they went. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I turned to my kids and could see the concern in their eyes.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“What he said,” I muttered with a less cool lowering of my
goggles.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It was our only trip to the top of Whiteface Mountain. Accomplished
thanks to an intimidating chair lift that takes you into the clouds -- with
signs noting the famous mountains you‘re higher than along the way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“I think I’m scared,” my 17-year-old daughter said when we
passed the sign telling us we were higher than Vermont’s Jay Peak. And there
was good reason to be. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">After filling my kids with dread, the lift eventually deposited
us atop the Adirondacks. It was on us to get down in one piece.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDTfkcm6M-8M9I7Ralx3Vhqjoe6qMRQ47ojvqD-Mkq06nnfFoiF7aPHKCPyBBMsB9-9WTTpqZYrLP41PU7uKIWHqjPsI64xdX5JXWItXhxEREU-hTy6Nxw61MhdxKsvsmLHUGEb_eyrsQ/s2048/IMG_5988.JPEG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDTfkcm6M-8M9I7Ralx3Vhqjoe6qMRQ47ojvqD-Mkq06nnfFoiF7aPHKCPyBBMsB9-9WTTpqZYrLP41PU7uKIWHqjPsI64xdX5JXWItXhxEREU-hTy6Nxw61MhdxKsvsmLHUGEb_eyrsQ/w320-h240/IMG_5988.JPEG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />We’d decided to take the family skiing during Presidents Day
week due to a break from online school and the mental need to do something, anything.
It was a calculated risk. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Like most people, we’ve had very few adventures away from home
over the past year. Mostly local hikes here and there, and a few trips to a nearby
beach with no crowds. We’ve taken the pandemic health protocols seriously, and always
wear masks and social distance and make sure not to do all the things that can
spread the virus. But this ski trip felt needed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Before we planned the trip, we read up on the health
protocols at the mountain and on articles about the relative safety of skiing
as an activity during a pandemic. Masks required all the time. Limited lodge
access. No virus breakouts recorded. It was in the same state and would only
require a long car ride to get there. It all checked out. So, we weighed the
decision against our increasingly debilitating cabin fever and went for it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But there’s another reason we did this. And that’s because
it was likely the last time we could. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">A lot of people have given up things they love as we as a
society and a world try to fight this pandemic. With a daughter headed to
college next fall, most of what we’ve given up and what she’s given up are the
lasts. Her last school musical. Her last school dance. One last normal year
with all our kids living at home. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The last family ski trip wasn’t going to be another casualty.
Not if we could prevent it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I don’t want to give the impression that we spend a lot of
time, typically, galivanting around the country going skiing. We don’t. That’s
not who were are or who we can afford to be. Most winters we just ski at our
local little hills a few times. But, we’ve also taken trips to
bigger hills, once memorably to <a href="http://www.adirondacklifemag.com/blogs/2016/12/01/snow-days/" target="_blank">Gore Mountain</a> and more recently to <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2017/03/false-summits-and-frozen-tears.html#.YD04g2hKg2w" target="_blank">Smuggler’s Notch</a> in Vermont. These trips were the culmination of the many years we spent
teaching our brood to ski, which was <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/01/lessons-from-slog-at-tog.html#.YD04Y2hKg2w" target="_blank">no easy task</a>. Though, <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2017/01/bye-bye-bunny-hill-hello-headaches.html#.YD043WhKg2w" target="_blank">it got better</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvFpVdmzhv4UuaLPDnsQYZgQJYoa9DQkBY_ZGKwlTPpIEWvqKvGPvlNJpvMy7qX2qx8hOli7P58SsGJSnrZPjevCeWZ54xTc6FzkTd-VQo7IxGewVRfw8SHm9NsmHghB9jlnhJenu4_iE/s1999/IMG_6001.PNG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1999" data-original-width="1170" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvFpVdmzhv4UuaLPDnsQYZgQJYoa9DQkBY_ZGKwlTPpIEWvqKvGPvlNJpvMy7qX2qx8hOli7P58SsGJSnrZPjevCeWZ54xTc6FzkTd-VQo7IxGewVRfw8SHm9NsmHghB9jlnhJenu4_iE/w234-h400/IMG_6001.PNG" width="234" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />We’ve also learned over the years that special events, like family
ski trips, are the flowers in the garden of our memory. They’re the times that
stick with you, when the day to day fades into the background of your life
story. And who couldn’t use some flowers right now? <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I also don’t want to give the impression that we will never
take another family ski trip. We well might. Maybe our eldest daughter will
come back from college for a weekend, and we’ll be able to find time and money
enough to make it happen again. It just doesn’t seem likely. And when your kid
is quickly becoming an adult, those last family moments together are tangibly fleeting.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the fall she goes to school. Where, we’re not yet sure. Someplace
far away, she says. I’m trying not to take that personally. But going to a college
that’s cool and big and challenging is something she’s been focused on and
dreaming about since before high school. Like most parents, I’m proud that she
has a solid plan, and I slightly dread that it’s about to happen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I just hope that we’ve raised her with enough guidance and
support that she willfully decides to come home from time to time. And that she
desires to go on a family ski trip again, or something akin to it, because we’ve
given her a reason to want to spend time with us. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The truth is, I’m a little scared myself right now. I know
life always brings change. And, if the past year has taught us anything, it’s
that you won’t always see the changes coming. But sometimes you do. And that
can be hard too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRHFayIfyY92qKvu2M8ihI55bUsJHlRkN1blScjC-UCRcr4Yi8vbsGVHQS8KxiN5htzwoDwrNLqaAN1-K7IuK6cuH6Pzm8rB6qKNmw2fMYnx6u60L2WDkkcomu5ueFt0mdk98w7yg3DE/s2048/IMG_5979.JPEG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRHFayIfyY92qKvu2M8ihI55bUsJHlRkN1blScjC-UCRcr4Yi8vbsGVHQS8KxiN5htzwoDwrNLqaAN1-K7IuK6cuH6Pzm8rB6qKNmw2fMYnx6u60L2WDkkcomu5ueFt0mdk98w7yg3DE/s320/IMG_5979.JPEG" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Our family is about to change. The four kids under our roof
are about to become the three. We’re one step closer to being empty nesters.
And to grandchildren. Oh my god. I’m getting old. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I just want to stay at the summit of the mountain with my
kids and my wife nearby. Looking out at the world and the adventure ahead, with
all the fear and excitement you’d expect and ever want. But, things do change.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Not to spoil it, but we did make it down from the summit of Whiteface
Mountain in one piece. And it certainly was a day to remember for the ages.
Filled with gondola rides and ski fries. And even a few smiles. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And, between now and next fall, we’re going to do our best to
enjoy the lasts that remain. The last trip to <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2019/07/there-are-no-working-air-conditioners.html#.YD0592hKg2w" target="_blank">Hilton Head</a>. The last days at the
beach. The last campfires in the backyard. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Hopefully, no matter what the future holds, and where we all
end up after the pandemic is over and this family is separated by many miles, we’ll
always remember to take our time, wait for eachother, and stick together.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><em><span face=""Arial",sans-serif">Here's other articles you
may enjoy: </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2015/03/learning-lesson-from-little-boy.html#.Vstdbc8UXgw"><em><span face=""Arial",sans-serif">Learning Lessons from a Little Boy</span></em></a><em><span face=""Arial",sans-serif">, </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/09/one-smiling-moment-real-story-behind.html#.Vs3bM88UXgw"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif">One Smiling Moment -- The Truth Behind
an Okay Photo</span></i></a><em><span face=""Arial",sans-serif">, </span></em><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif">a<em>nd </em></span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/02/to-lost-little-girl-in-dc-watching-you.html#.Vs8sms8UVWw"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif">To
the Lost Little Girl in DC: Watching You Find Your Mom Made My Day</span></i></a><span class="MsoHyperlink"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif">.</span></i></span><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-82488483350969216352020-12-19T15:15:00.034-05:002021-03-08T17:06:41.140-05:00The Rink and the Not-So-Great Flood<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The PVC pipe rolled away, the tarp flattened, and a few
hundred gallons of water began flowing toward the boy and I, our hands drenched,
freezing, desperately trying to hold back the flood.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Fuck!” I cursed out loud. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Failure. The big, dumb project had failed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Have you ever had an idea that got stuck in your craw and
you just had to get it out? That’s exactly how I found myself trying to build a
backyard ice rink.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I’d thought about it for years, and would often Google cost for
kits that are sold to do such a thing, like E-Z Ice. But those kits are expensive
with mixed reviews. And we do not have extra cash for such a folly. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But this fall, with the second surge of the pandemic bearing
down and a few cold months being trapped in our house on the horizon, I decided
to make it happen. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">After a bit of research, I found there were basically two
approaches for the DIY rink: Wood boards and braces, or PVC pipe. The key being
that if you go for the PVC pipe, you better make sure you have a flat, level
area, because you only have a few inches to play with to get the thickness of
ice needed for safe skating.</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The first step, before deciding materials was finding the
right area. With the biggest tape measure I own, I went into the yard and found
a 20-foot by 30-foot rectangle that seemed fairly flat and level. PVC it was. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7oL1nH_M6PCsbyu9satJSiXk6mzCzs1FwFvZxu9hSCoAwVUIR0I1-UoAgsjIW9OISMszSpruE_imJFgqu2BPkPRFjm2-5GUxDrdcJqMBEWfgAu_Hx_OV74TUAAgaiu8ZzjlTjuifUYHo/s4032/Rink1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7oL1nH_M6PCsbyu9satJSiXk6mzCzs1FwFvZxu9hSCoAwVUIR0I1-UoAgsjIW9OISMszSpruE_imJFgqu2BPkPRFjm2-5GUxDrdcJqMBEWfgAu_Hx_OV74TUAAgaiu8ZzjlTjuifUYHo/s320/Rink1.jpg" width="320" /></a></span>I swung by Lowes and Home Depot to price out PVC parts,
figuring I’d need 10 sections of 10 foot 4-inch PVC pipe, along with 4 corners
and 6 other connectors. I’d also need a tarp. The pipe and connectors priced
out to be about $160. But neither store had the right tarp. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Thank goodness for the internet. A 24x36 tarp would set me back
$125. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So, I spoke to the wife, who kind of shrugged, and said go
for it. The next day, I dragged the boy (10) to the big-box stores and
purchased the pipe. (I got the PVC at Lowes and the corners at the Depot to save
a few bucks). The boy went happily, as this was for him after all -- (and his 12-yr-old
sister -- as a replacement for <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2019/03/watching-your-kids-fall-down.html" target="_blank">the hockey they’d played in recent non-covid years</a>. I also figure we’d all need a reason to get outside this winter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The tarp was ordered that afternoon, opting for white –
which was the right call – and 2-day delivery. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">When it arrived, we began the construction, and it was the easiest
darn thing I ever built. Of course, it still needed water. Which is important. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The temps we’re predicted to drop below freezing in the coming
days, so we got the hose and started filling. This would be the moment of truth.
Would the pipes hold? Would the tarp leak? Would the area be level enough?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a worrier by nature, so of course, the
hours filling were spent pacing and tinkering. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQ6aG74hwaT_Og1zURUfae8e_VFFy6B8n4H1vGo0s_2xWmdtuRG1tBOhnK8VM84P3r-By9CDLoa4JcrlXa2pf-agFDdCqWQ0pdqshqb5jLTR0K3nvCxZkBNNck3GKM4KBDVc0CiYqtP0/s2532/rink3.PNG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2532" data-original-width="1170" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQ6aG74hwaT_Og1zURUfae8e_VFFy6B8n4H1vGo0s_2xWmdtuRG1tBOhnK8VM84P3r-By9CDLoa4JcrlXa2pf-agFDdCqWQ0pdqshqb5jLTR0K3nvCxZkBNNck3GKM4KBDVc0CiYqtP0/w152-h325/rink3.PNG" width="152" /></a>After a few hours of the hose running, we had four inches on
one end, and nary a drop in the other. Not knowing a darn thin about what the
future would hold, I was concerned that, if I decided to just let the shallow end
be thin and be avoided for the winter, we’d certainly see a skate go though it
and rip the tarp, spoiling the entire rink. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So, I decided to raise the pipe on the deep end, forcing the
water to cover the entire area. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The boy and I jammed a few pieces of chopped wood under the
corners – their shape creating a ramp that, with outward pressure on the pipes,
would push them higher. I figured that seemed smart. Then I got some extra
paving stones and went to put them under the long parts of the pipe, so the entire
side was even.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I lifted the pipe and tucked in the paver. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">That’s when the great breach happened.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The pressure from the building water had found a weak point
when I was adjusting the pipe height, and boom, leaving the boy and I befuddled
as the water rush past us, chilling our fingers instantly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I sat back on my knees and collected my thoughts. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Stay calm.” I instructed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And I grabbed the edge of the tarp and stood up straight. It
wasn’t as heavy as I expected. “Hold this,” I said. The boy dutifully took the
tarp’s edge. While I gathered the PVC pipe that had rolled away, and secured it
again with a rubber mallet, this time as an inch of water sopped my shoes and
the ground around us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6wVaF95IVd_IpuNzVViEFU18Ga1nQKGZ8J9lcAD9xXjnTUBtqoY6qFHUMHO4chZnC0nZ875a5Et9AVVJ_kb5qyT0flg-N3DCYTtBnoynMTs0cQoN6zTwyNmz-BdnQKGPKfadePHtTptw/s4032/rink2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6wVaF95IVd_IpuNzVViEFU18Ga1nQKGZ8J9lcAD9xXjnTUBtqoY6qFHUMHO4chZnC0nZ875a5Et9AVVJ_kb5qyT0flg-N3DCYTtBnoynMTs0cQoN6zTwyNmz-BdnQKGPKfadePHtTptw/s320/rink2.jpg" /></a></div>Pipe reattached, and securely placed on the pavers and wood,
he let the tarp go, and the water again rushed toward the high end. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This time, the PVC wall held. About half of the water had
spilled out into the yard. But, within minutes, it had absorbed into the thirsty
ground. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Knowing what failure looked like, I began cautiously filling
the rink again, while the boy worked to remove the leaves. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">By that evening, we had at least 3 inches of water throughout
the rink. The pipes held. That tarp didn’t leak. And, after a few cold nights, we
had skateable ice.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now, we spend time most days skating and playing
small hockey games.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The boy loves it. Though not nearly as much as my wife. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I also discovered a whole world of people who build rinks in
their yard each winter. The Backyard Ice Rinks group on Facebook has 23,000
members. Apparently, mine was not such a novel idea. And some of these rinks
are impressive – like full size hockey rinks.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ours is a little small. But we enjoy it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Though, next year, we’ll likely build a bigger one.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCNc9luO7SrvZZnkthxY_4xpT3VkZFsTBRgaMC9x4EtzncLP7dMmb4WH8T0FzhuRmBt2rScjOnu8dKMj6PFbWihxhnf62Z3KiRXu7vln7uryB3JvBuTUR7uKWW55nXbsP__bIk5dYOF1U/s2044/rink4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="2044" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCNc9luO7SrvZZnkthxY_4xpT3VkZFsTBRgaMC9x4EtzncLP7dMmb4WH8T0FzhuRmBt2rScjOnu8dKMj6PFbWihxhnf62Z3KiRXu7vln7uryB3JvBuTUR7uKWW55nXbsP__bIk5dYOF1U/w553-h310/rink4.jpg" width="553" /></a></div><p></p>
<br />Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-7529399352870904332020-02-21T22:05:00.001-05:002021-03-08T17:17:29.614-05:00The Many Ways I'm Not Superman<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There’s a theory out there that claims the side of the head
a man parts his hair on says all you need to know about his personality, his potential
in life, and his success. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I heard about this “hair part theory” recently on a podcast,
which is the new reading. It used to be that some schmo would have to write
something down so others could begin sentences with, “I
read recently that” blankety-blank. And then all the rest of us would automatically
give it credence because the schmo wrote it down. Now, all anyone needs to do
is say it out loud and everyone who hears them gets to begin
sentences with, “I heard on a podcast that…” and they sound like Einstein.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Anyway, this podcast claimed the most successful and
notable men always part their hair on the left side of their head. And that left-side-parters
emit some sort of cosmic vibe that communicates their awesomeness to the world.
</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This theory isn’t new, apparently. It’s been around for some
time. So long that the hairstylist for the movie Superman used this subtle
difference in hair part to distinguish between Clark Kent and his Superhero
alter ego.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp3lOqruprpQ_k1hnvAG2kAFvi463dKxuzA0w8eTXIug_vwrcm5OKLMmrB4-58rGpgSTIJPI0lYlYS2uqQvrtdmOJdCmvxgvs633GQgkxhGIEb9DouZsgq3wqg3JL8w_LxwUClHlN399M/s1600/SupermanKent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp3lOqruprpQ_k1hnvAG2kAFvi463dKxuzA0w8eTXIug_vwrcm5OKLMmrB4-58rGpgSTIJPI0lYlYS2uqQvrtdmOJdCmvxgvs633GQgkxhGIEb9DouZsgq3wqg3JL8w_LxwUClHlN399M/s400/SupermanKent.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Mr. Kent parted his hair on the right, and, when the big
switch would occur inside a phone booth somewhere, Superman would emerge with
his hair parted on the left. My own sub-theory is that, because Superman parted his
hair on the left all those years ago, it further reinforced this notion of a dominant side on which to part your hair. But, what do I know? I don’t even have a podcast. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It just so happens that in recent weeks, I started parting
my hair on the right side, like Clark Kent. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After years of parting on the left -- for no real reason
other than I’d done it that way since ending my Tom Petty, part-in-the-middle
phase in High School -- I finally gave in to the fact that certain cowlicks made
me more naturally a right-side-parter. What a weird word cowlick is, by the
way. I mean, how long did we have to share space with our bovine friends to
come up with that one? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Oddly enough, since I made the switch to a right-side part, people
have been complimenting my hair. Which is something that has never happened
before in my entire life. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">What it’s told me, however, is that – despite my visions
otherwise – I am much more of a Clark Kent than a Superman.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is the paragraph where I shift gears and head in a
different direction, seemingly. You see, as this hair-part realization occurred,
I unrelatedly but simultaneously came to the conclusion that the white whale I’ve
been chasing quietly for the past decade might never get caught. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That was way too opaque. Let me try again. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’ve got this affliction called writing. And I’ve got this dream
about getting my writing published. But not published in magazines or major
websites, as I’ve done that. But books. And not books like print them myself and
sell them out of my van, but like lit-agent, publishing house type books. New
York Times best-seller type stuff. Far-fetched, right? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Well, with this in mind, I’ve written books: memoirs, and literary novels, and an MG
realistic fiction. MG means middle grade, a genre I really liked reading these books to my kids. Heck, I even once wrote a picture book that I horribly illustrated
about a kid who loses her balloon and imagines that it went to the moon. Balloonie Went to the Moonie. It was
a metaphor for death and loss. It was cute. Way cuter than it just sounded.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">These books were like my lottery tickets. One of them was
going to be the answer to all our challenges. And the next one was going to change
everything. My life’s dreams lived in each of them. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">While everyone else has been waking up, or getting ready for
bed, or pursuing their own hobbies that border on afflictions, I’ve been writing,
and editing, and pitching literary agents. They call that querying. And the
process sucks as bad as the word.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">What querying means to most writers is random rejection. It’s
not random in that it comes from nowhere, because you essentially ask for it. It’s
just random in when it arrives. I’d be coaching a soccer practice and look down
at my phone to see an email that says something like, “Thank you for sending
your query. I read it with interest. Unfortunately, it’s not right for my list
right now. But don’t fret, publishing is a subjective industry. Another agent
might love it. Now, piss off.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I may have embellished a bit. But, like that, rejection would arrive randomly: in line at the grocery store, or on a lunch break, or on a Saturday evening.
Or on Christmas Eve. How cruel must you be to hit send at that point?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Anyway. The latest book I wrote was really going to be the
one. It's good. And quirky. I had a bunch of agents ask for the full manuscript, which is like getting
to first base in the publishing world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Yet, in recent weeks, those full request
have generated even more rejection. Deeper and more personal rejection. Quote, It didn’t
pull me in. Your main character failed to grab me. The execution wasn’t what I’d
need to see to champion this project going forward. Sprinkled in there were
compliments, too. There's a lot to admire here. Your scene setting was commendable. Each rejection felt like the “it’s not you it’s me” kind of
break up. And each makes you realize that you're not as good as you want to
be. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> So, just as I’ve come
to realize that my hair is of the Clark Kent variety, I’ve also begun to conclude
that publishing might just not be in my future. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Another gear shift. In other news, my daughter this week went
on her first college tour. She’s a junior, and ready to get out of Dodge and take over the
world. She’s looking at big name schools with the perfect programs for all her dreams.
I’m excited for her, but I can’t help but thinking about the cost. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s not just because I’m cheap, but rather, as my eldest
gets ready to head off to school, I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m still
paying my own student loans. And there’s no way, with four kids, even with two
decent jobs between us, that my wife and I will ever be able to pay for these
types of schools. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I never thought that would be the case. I always figured
something would break our way. Some big job would come along. Or some ship
would come in. Or some book would sell. And it just hasn’t.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She’s not worried. She’ll borrow to make it happen. Which
feels like defeat to me. Because, while I’ve rarely worried much about my own lifetime
of student debt, I lose sleep worrying about my inability to prevent my kids
from their own. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s been a strange couple of weeks, all things considered. Realizing
I’m not Superman, or publishable, or capable of paying for my kid’s college.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">First world problems, if ever there were any. I know. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Still, if you see me. Just tell me you like my hair. That it
suits me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’m trying to embrace the fact that I’m not Superman and
never will be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigFrzIp3mRqYC5VtFKDOmld_xAVXgdS0QnDDcFHnxXanDm7_jV1kCcjebhEJkQpmw4qigIG57Hf0L-SFZsj_N7mxTOO-NX0Y1Jr83OgeVlLcYHI9FwARUlA_TkRqBgyQJi1pQVV7vSDpU/s1600/IMG_3522.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1033" data-original-width="1600" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigFrzIp3mRqYC5VtFKDOmld_xAVXgdS0QnDDcFHnxXanDm7_jV1kCcjebhEJkQpmw4qigIG57Hf0L-SFZsj_N7mxTOO-NX0Y1Jr83OgeVlLcYHI9FwARUlA_TkRqBgyQJi1pQVV7vSDpU/s400/IMG_3522.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span>
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Like the article?
Here's others you may enjoy: </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2015/01/new-year-few-expactations.html#.VsteJM8UXgw"><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">New Year, Few Expectations</span></em></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">,
</span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2013/10/one-fish-two-fish-dead-fish-new-fish.html#.Vs8uBM8UVWw"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">One
Fish, Two Fish, Dead Fish, New Fish</span></i></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> and </span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/03/vegas-baby.html#.Vs3ias8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Kid Quotes from a Family Hike</span></i></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">,</span></em><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span></i><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-55373677069718997792020-01-15T18:15:00.000-05:002020-01-18T11:57:34.557-05:00 The Unstoppable Car Meets the Improbable Branch<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to be a cocktail
meatball, I think I know. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Let me start again.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My kids and I have a little game I call, “What are the chances
of that happening?” It’s not so much a game as a question I always ask after something random and highly unlikely happens. It’s a game because it has a set answer.
No matter the actual odds, we always say, “100 Percent.” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s a dad thing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Last weekend, however, something happened that was so unlikely
that…</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">One more try. I’ll just say what happened. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Here goes. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On Saturday morning, I was driving my daughter to get the bus
at the High School for an 8:00 am departure to the CNY Model United Nations event
at Syracuse University. Yes. She’s an MUN nerd. But let’s not get sidetracked.
We still love her. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So, we’re driving, and chatting, and I’m thinking about the
fact that I had no real plans for the day, in part because it was ridiculously
warm out for January in Upstate New York and all the usual things, like skiing,
sledding, skating, building snow forts, etc., were not possible. Apparently, I'm a large child during winter. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’d even just opened one of my cans of Diet Rite as I drove,
which is this no calorie, no sodium, no caffeine soda I drink – even in the
mornings – which is probably awful for me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Anyway, driving and chatting and sipping a crappy soda, and
BAM! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">An explosion! (It sounded like one, anyway). </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Suddenly there was glass dust everywhere, and my daughter
and I were just like, “Holy Crap!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“You okay?!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“I’m okay! You okay?!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Think so.”</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kI5fmcJYv1OF02RIshdTzZXKBIlTsdBwXs0cZpAczCYTtzh_RpiuVsQYwerc2RMtZ2ZyRucmgKYfv1QTfYWmmYB7WkJ8khSLzH1T5JaHNlfcEkU7L9fIHvSO90UODwKRqwPfcTPB1dc/s1600/Branch+IMG_3319.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kI5fmcJYv1OF02RIshdTzZXKBIlTsdBwXs0cZpAczCYTtzh_RpiuVsQYwerc2RMtZ2ZyRucmgKYfv1QTfYWmmYB7WkJ8khSLzH1T5JaHNlfcEkU7L9fIHvSO90UODwKRqwPfcTPB1dc/s400/Branch+IMG_3319.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We looked up at the now-fractured-into-a-thousand-pieces windshield
and saw a branch sticking straight into the glass a solid
ten inches. It poked through about halfway between us, just down from the rearview
mirror.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For some reason, I kept driving. Probably because she had to
be at school within minutes, and I calculated that she would miss the bus if we stopped -- One of the many things I thought about as my mind
raced and processed what had happened.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We’ve had a bad string of luck with our cars the last year and
a half or so. A bit less than a year ago, this same car got hit as it was
parked on our street. A neighbor in a much bigger vehicle slid on some ice and
took out the rear left corner. It probably should’ve been totaled. Instead, it spent
three months in the body shop while I drove a rental, racking up thousands of dollars for the other guy's insurance to cover. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That accident was on top of the general car troubles you tend to have with Jeeps of similar
age -- brakes, tires, ball-bearings, the transmission, even a battery that stopped working because some piece inside of it broke. Add to that four other incidents with the van in the same time frame. Those included my wife ending up in a snowy ditch; my wife hitting a curb
and blowing out a tire; my wife hitting an actual bear on the Pennsylvania Turnpike;
and my wife hitting a landscaping boulder at a mini-golf course. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I thought about this string of bad luck – and bit of bad
driving by my better half -- as we chugged up the hill toward the school, peering through a windshield
with a spiderweb of crack and a giant branch sticking out of it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As we drove, the branch, standing straight up in the air, began to lean in reaction to the wind and our momentum. As it did so, the shattered windshield creaked,
raising concern that it might fall in on us and cover the car and its passengers
with thousands of shards. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I grabbed the stick to stabilize it and kept going.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“That could’ve killed one of us,” I said, reflecting on the falling branch,
as my daughter agreed and laughed. The only proper reaction.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We were lucky, to be honest. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DnWOUS-QqBR7qKD6CgEs8VunV_tEj6XvQtz32ZBXUMyL6E6vYt6N7r-GyIk03PTUvC9oZFBegkitBbw_4N9FQED2BPcBrGppKmgaThseuupsOe2DylU5Xld7yAbT5Whni_UinR9a1_g/s1600/Branch+IMG_3320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DnWOUS-QqBR7qKD6CgEs8VunV_tEj6XvQtz32ZBXUMyL6E6vYt6N7r-GyIk03PTUvC9oZFBegkitBbw_4N9FQED2BPcBrGppKmgaThseuupsOe2DylU5Xld7yAbT5Whni_UinR9a1_g/s320/Branch+IMG_3320.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After we parked and she darted toward the waiting bus, texting
her friends about her brush with death, I got out and stared at this seven-foot-long
stick that had fallen into our lives, and thought about the unlikelihood of
what just happened.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Think about it. A car moving at 30 miles per hour, the wind blowing
just enough to knock a branch loose, the branch falling on the perfect angle
and with the right speed to spear the windshield of the moving car like an
expert hunter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If the branch had tilted a bit, it may have bounced off. Or if</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> we were 2 seconds sooner. Or two seconds later. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The math. The odds. The impossibility of it all.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">What were the chances? I thought to myself.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The a<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">nswer: I'm guessing 100
percent.</span></span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Like the article? Here's
others you may enjoy: </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2015/01/new-year-few-expactations.html#.VsteJM8UXgw"><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">New Year, Few Expectations</span></em></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">,
</span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2013/10/one-fish-two-fish-dead-fish-new-fish.html#.Vs8uBM8UVWw"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">One
Fish, Two Fish, Dead Fish, New Fish</span></i></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> and </span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/03/vegas-baby.html#.Vs3ias8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Kid Quotes from a Family Hike</span></i></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">,</span></em><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span></i><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-68510028594326789892019-07-10T12:07:00.000-04:002020-01-15T13:08:26.790-05:00There Are No Working Air Conditioners in Hell <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I have no evidence about the existence of an afterlife, but I can confirm that Hell is hot. Really hot. And sweaty. And there’s lots of grumpy, arguing people. All of whom I’m related to, apparently.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This past week, my family and I completed our annual pilgrimage to Hilton Head. The day after we got there, the air conditioning in our minivan went kaput.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It just so happened that this southern vacation destination that we’ve visited annually the past few years was also experiencing a warmer than usual stretch. The typical high temperature this time of year is about 90 degrees. Each day beat that average by between 5 and 8 degrees. When you factor in the humidity, the heat index was pushing 110.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And, apparently, the heat index is directly related to how often my children fight with eachother.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu2LiCni9a5cTXywqRuGZs98Zy-sFWREbttPefb7rLAr5EQSFTsXBDbRnPBL5rEmHp4fhcEePIncQLXhHMmVLH8yAbFpAu7beHkDm_masxiwrfzVGJfp5BkAF_WMgiLZJfVDIguPzOR0g/s1600/Hell+IMG_2311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu2LiCni9a5cTXywqRuGZs98Zy-sFWREbttPefb7rLAr5EQSFTsXBDbRnPBL5rEmHp4fhcEePIncQLXhHMmVLH8yAbFpAu7beHkDm_masxiwrfzVGJfp5BkAF_WMgiLZJfVDIguPzOR0g/s320/Hell+IMG_2311.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the only shady road in South Carolina.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Okay, so it wasn’t actual hell. It was South Carolina in the summer with no AC. Which is close enough. And it was vacation. So, right about now, you’re rightly thinking these are a first-world problems, and I should get a grip.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Clearly, you’ve never been in a van with my kids as hot are blew out the vents and hotter air blew in the windows. I actually cried while driving and listening to the bickering. It wasn’t so much that moment as the thought of the 934 mile drive home we would have to endure at the end of the week.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That looming trip home made me curl up in a fetal position with a bottle of rum and want to melt away. Which almost happened.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When I hit rock bottom and ran out of rum and sweat to give, I turned to my old friend Google and taught myself how to recharge the AC with coolant.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The back story is that we knew the AC was having problems before the trip. It started to struggle a few weeks before when my wife was out of town with the van, and she had to pay way too much money for some service station to recharge the AC. That fix lasted a few days before the air being spewed through the vents warmed up a gain. That told us we had a bigger problem. So, we took it to our trusty car guys and they charged us even more money to change some leaking tubes, giving us the false sense of security to drive south in the beast.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When the car AC stopped working in South Carolina, I knew that an expensive fix from a local service station would not last long enough to get us through the week or make it home. Also, we were running out of money, thanks to some sale my wife discovered on our second day there that caused her to blow our entire budget on gifts for the year ahead. But that's a story for another time. Or for never.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">About halfway through the sweltering week, I watched videos on how to recharge the car's AC unit myself. It was surprisingly easy. And not that expensive.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Over the final two days of the trip, I bought 4 cans of R-134a refrigerant. That cooled things down long enough for hope to grow that we could actually make it all the way home with this temporary fix. It’s only a 14 hour drive, after all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">However, in life, and in this particular experience, I’ve learned that sometimes hope is the enemy of acceptance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On departure day, I loaded up on cans of refrigerant at the Walmart in Hilton Head, and we turned our ship for home.</span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhheW4f9-Vn0wUcmgbIQhQJop_w1PZiiocMQYQwXsKX_jvg_47Do3ry1vTuFrhnPbHi3cm_YADIvXYZxe37rPLaNTipiJQ8OozinoJynR0lpXosAY_BhIOGeqyxBdEbRcnWG6N9431asC4/s1600/Hell++IMG_2383.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: left; color: #0066cc; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1165" data-original-width="1600" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhheW4f9-Vn0wUcmgbIQhQJop_w1PZiiocMQYQwXsKX_jvg_47Do3ry1vTuFrhnPbHi3cm_YADIvXYZxe37rPLaNTipiJQ8OozinoJynR0lpXosAY_BhIOGeqyxBdEbRcnWG6N9431asC4/s320/Hell++IMG_2383.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If we were smart, we would have biked the 934 miles home.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The first can lasted about an hour into the trip. The second only lasted 40 minutes. And the air coming out after the procedure first wasn’t even all that cool. By the third time we stopped the car along the side of the road so I could top off the AC with refrigerant, there was no discernable change in the hot air blowing through the vents.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Hope was lost. And heat was our reality. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">for the next 12 hours over two days of driving, the sweating was epic. The fights were legendary.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And I can confirm that Hell is hot. At least, my version of it.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Here's other articles you may enjoy: </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/03/vegas-baby.html#.Vs3ias8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Vegas,
Baby!</span></i></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">, </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/04/dog-responds-to-mystery-poo-false.html#.Vs3h9M8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dog
Responds to "Mystery Poo" False Accusations</span></i></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">, and </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2013/11/tip-of-hat-to-single-parents-and-thanks.html#.VstfHM8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tip of
the Hat to Single Parents, and Thanks to My Backup,</span></i></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></em><br />
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<br />Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-46752076085051811382019-03-15T22:17:00.002-04:002021-03-08T17:17:48.437-05:00Watching Your Kids Fall Down<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Down he fell again, this time landing on his back. I could practically feel the rock-hard ice reverberate through his little body. Pads or not, that one had to hurt.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He hesitated, worrying me that he was actually injured this time. Then he rolled over, scrambled to his feet, regained his balance, and skated on — certain to crash land again in the moments ahead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was a cool November morning during his first hockey practice when I realized my son didn’t know how to skate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We’d gone skating before as a family over the years, a few times at the outdoor rink downtown and once or twice on a pond near our house. But not often enough for my 3rd grader to feel truly comfortable on the ice. And it was showing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Thud.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He fell again, likely the 50th time he’d hit the ice in the first half hour. Each time, I watched him, waiting for the tears to come, for him to skate off the ice — or crawl or crash — and announce that he was done with hockey.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He’s wanted to play hockey for years, bugging me to let him each year when I get obsessed with how deep into the NHL playoffs my team will go. This past year, my team won it all, and we watched every game we could. After they hoisted the Stanley Cup, he made his mom and me promise we’d sign him up for hockey in the fall.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So, we did. We just forgot to teach him to skate first.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">One of the things I’ve always struggled with as a parent is watching my kids fail. What parent doesn’t want to protect them from some of the pain and disappointment life has for all of us?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I distinctly remember the feeling I had when I got cut from a travel soccer team in fourth grade. I was devastated. I don’t want my kids to go through that kind of rejection.</span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBTW6PfiHdmB5-R9lS3LXWPXQQuOBpIcMdpeyuo7T9a2PXRDtzyyUeZofCunue7NsLMMrG9-WmA6TlfEsjJ9-ZB9V637E5Qw-iVpBHkYeBtTCrwOm7LZKwj7lHGSAGzlc77hqtff-cPh4/s1600/Hockey1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBTW6PfiHdmB5-R9lS3LXWPXQQuOBpIcMdpeyuo7T9a2PXRDtzyyUeZofCunue7NsLMMrG9-WmA6TlfEsjJ9-ZB9V637E5Qw-iVpBHkYeBtTCrwOm7LZKwj7lHGSAGzlc77hqtff-cPh4/s400/Hockey1.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The boy, while not on his rear at hockey practice</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As a parent, I often prepare my kids for potential setbacks, saying things before soccer tryouts like, there are so many kids that I’m sure lots of good players are going to get cut. Or telling them before play auditions that even getting a call back is something to be proud of.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That’s how I prepared my high schooler for her audition for this year’s school musical. Last year, she didn’t make it – as most freshman don’t. So, this year I prepared her for any potential disappointment.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“There’s so many talented kids, dear.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“All you can do is give it your best.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Along with a few;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“No matter what happens, we love you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was surprised when she expressed frustration with my attitude on the matter. She liked that it was hard to make the musical and just wanted me to believe in her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I've begun to realize, I’ve been so worried about preparing my kids for failure, that I’ve been undermining their confidence.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It seems a strange thing to admit in an age when most parents do a disservice by filling their kids with too much confidence, convincing them they’re the best at everything, when they’re just average. And sending them out into a world that is going to level them with reality in the years ahead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That’s a mistake in itself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Parents can make that one even worse by further protecting their kids from that eventual leveling by stacking the deck in their favor. That’s become clear recently, as we’ve seen wealthy parents across the country who have been so concerned about protecting their offspring from life’s disappointment that they’ve spent thousands of dollars and resorted to cheating so they can get into the college of their choice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">What those parents did was wrong.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But I understand the instinct. Believe me, I do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That morning in November, I wanted to run out onto the ice – or skate, or something – and pick my son up and give him the biggest hug I could.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And, if I could’ve figured out a way, I probably would’ve made sure all the kids who tried out this year made the high school musical, just to spare them all, and most importantly my daughter, from the potential pain. But I didn’t.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I suffered as they struggled, and I worried as they worried.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In so doing, I’ve come to realize there is a balance to be had. Kids need confidence, for sure. But they also need to know the hard work it takes to get better at things, whether it’s hockey, or soccer, or singing, or school. And they need to know it’s going to take a lot of hard work on their part to reduce the number of disappointments in their future.</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If I didn't know this already, it became obvious watching my kids face their challenges.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the months before the musical auditions, my daughter put in the hard work. She worked on her singing, and she spent hours in dance classes improving her skills and even learning a whole new dance style.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And, guess what. She made the musical. She even had a speaking role and was a part of a few big dance scenes, including the tap dance number. Who knew she could tap? I was so proud of her. To top it off, the show was amazing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As for my son, after that first day of practice, the one where he fell countless times, he skated over to me waiting by the boards and exclaimed, “I love hockey!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then he looked at me, and said, "I got better. Didn't I, dad?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Boy, did he.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now he’s been playing a few months, and he’s improved so much. He rarely falls, and he's even been scoring goals.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’m the first one to admit I don’t have this parenting thing figured out. But, I’ve certainly arrived at the conclusion that a bit of failure and disappointment doesn’t hurt kids all that much.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the long run, it might even help.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Despite my instinct to protect them from even the smallest failures, I probably knew this all along.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">After I got cut from that soccer team, I tried again. The next time, I made the team. Then I continued to play the sport through high school.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">While I never forgot the pain of being cut that year, it made any success I had later that much better.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So, as hard as it is, let your kids fall down. And then watch them get back up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You'll both be better for it. </span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">Like the article? Here's others you may enjoy: </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2015/01/new-year-few-expactations.html#.VsteJM8UXgw"><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">New Year, Few Expectations</span></span></em></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">, </span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2013/10/one-fish-two-fish-dead-fish-new-fish.html#.Vs8uBM8UVWw"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">One Fish, Two Fish, Dead Fish, New Fish</span></span></i></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"> and </span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/03/vegas-baby.html#.Vs3ias8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">Kid Quotes from a Family Hike</span></span></i></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">,</span></em><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"> </span></i><br />
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-39255114282280111272019-02-26T23:07:00.003-05:002023-12-19T22:44:19.090-05:00The Long Way Home<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“License and credit card please?” asked the uninterested woman behind the rental car counter outside JFK International Airport.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">This was it. I was going to cover the final 250 miles of my quest in a rental. Four hours of driving rather than waiting two days for another flight? Fine by me. I love driving. In another life, I was probably a trucker. So, no problem.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Most importantly, I was going home.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">After four days away and serious doubts about getting back due to winter weather disrupting travel across the country, I finally had a plan that would get me to my wife and kids.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I opened my wallet to retrieve the identification necessary to rent a car and … nothing.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">My license was gone.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I rifled through other sections of the leather tri-fold holding the vital instruments for my livelihood. Nope. <span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 17.33px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I felt around in my pockets. Empty.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“I don’t have my license,” I replied to the woman, and to everyone, and to no one in particular.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">She blinked unsympathetically.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“I don’t have my license!” I repeated, patting myself down like a handsy TSA agent, my voice going up an octave and a few decibels, as panic welled up inside me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">My mind quickly flashed back to a real TSA agent and the last time I knew for certain I had my license, handing it to her at the security checkpoint in San Antonio, along with my boarding pass. She handed it back, and then I recall throwing it into a grey bin to be scanned, along with my wallet, my computer, computer bag, a tightly-packed carry-on, my belt, my shoes, and whatever loose items were in my pockets.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">That damn license must be in Texas.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I’d been in San Antonio since Thursday for the latest Dad 2.0 Summit, a yearly conference for social media dads <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">–</span> which is way cooler than it sounds.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">My quest to get home began on Saturday evening, the last night there. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Walking between bars with another dad, a simple text from American Airlines delivered the news that my flight Sunday morning had been canceled, and I’d been rebooked on a flight on Tuesday, two days later than planned.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">San Antonia was fun, but Tuesday? Really?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I just couldn’t do two more days in Texas, which would mean two more nights in a hotel room, two more days away from work, and two more days missing my wife and kids.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">At this point, some people might think, you’ve got four kids <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">–</span> four awesome, loud, quarreling, dish-dirtying kids. And someone just told you that, due to circumstances beyond anyone’s control, you had to spend two more days 1,700 miles away from them in a hotel. What’s the problem?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">But, believe it or not, I really missed them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">When you’re at a dad blogger conference, you actually spend a lot of time thinking about your kids, and you really want to see them again.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Reading that rebooking text, my immediate response was: Hell, no. That’s when the Mission Impossible music played, which turned out to be the ring tone of some guy I was standing next to on the street corner. But, still.</span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQxXqnSstCxXfrgJphlLgJJxC31b-HQUgjnvB9iEeC0LCrzcOtGmIRbEAM93HPlsiwAAIy0L2lOFzkRSioIoVcZw6kArYSOftK3WNebJAaRiAt2x3xOucMvLDxrTxdzo3COoTqjh5qBCQ/s1600/LongWayHome1b.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1111" data-original-width="1600" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQxXqnSstCxXfrgJphlLgJJxC31b-HQUgjnvB9iEeC0LCrzcOtGmIRbEAM93HPlsiwAAIy0L2lOFzkRSioIoVcZw6kArYSOftK3WNebJAaRiAt2x3xOucMvLDxrTxdzo3COoTqjh5qBCQ/s320/LongWayHome1b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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Flights were canceled from Chicago to Boston </div>
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due to severe winter weather.</div>
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</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Back in the hotel room, I began my own impossible mission. After two hours on hold and another hour of negotiations with American Airlines, I finally found a new flight home. Or, should I say flights.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I also learned from Google, while on hold, that it would take 27 hours to drive the 1700 miles.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">My new flight was a three-hopper – San Antonio to JFK; JFK to DC; and DC to Syracuse – leaving at 9:00 a.m. Sunday. That it didn’t get me back home until 11:40 p.m. didn’t matter. That it was a highly inefficient thing to fly to New York City then down to Washington then back up to Syracuse, didn’t matter. That one of the legs of the flight might yet be canceled didn’t matter. If I could get to New York City, that would put me 1,400 miles closer. I wanted to be home, after all. And that’s all that mattered.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">At 9:08 a.m. the next morning, it was wheels up.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">News of my second canceled flight came in another text, this one as the flight descended into JFK airspace. Probably karma because my phone wasn’t set to airplane mode.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">The cancellation was due to 60 mile per hour wind gusts in Syracuse, and the agent at the airline counter told me it was affecting all flights into Syracuse. From DC, JFK, Philly, and Boston, all were canceled. Worse yet, flights the next day were either canceled or booked solid with rerouted passengers.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“You can fly standby on Monday, or I can book you on a flight Tuesday,” she said. Dominica was her name, and she was kind. Which I needed her to be.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 10.66px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 17.33px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">It was then that it struck me how hotels in New York City are probably a lot more expensive than in San Antonio</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 10.66px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">After standing at her counter for a solid half hour, doing my best pouty face and talking more glowingly about my kids then they likely deserve, we both gave up on the thought of me flying to Syracuse.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">That’s when I decided my best option was to just rent a darn car.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I’d driven to NYC before, and even driven to JFK, so I felt certain I could get myself home. Online I went, booking a car with Budget <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">–</span> both the company name and the reason I chose them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">And that brings us back to where we began, with me, at the car rental counter a solid mile from the American Airlines terminal at JFK, realizing that my license was nowhere to be found.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said to the Budget rental car lady.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">She shrugged. “I could call you a cab.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">A cab. A cab!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“To Syracuse?!” I replied.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">She shrugged even less sympathetically.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I stepped away from the counter before I hurt someone – myself included <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">–</span> and thought about all the ways I could get home that would be less expensive than a cab: like simply buying my own car and filling it with premium gasoline.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Then I thought about waiting until Tuesday and flying home – which would be impossible to do because I couldn’t get back through security without my license.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">And that’s when the real desperation set it. Because, when you're in Jamaica, Queens, 250 miles from home, without the identification needed to rent a car, or to get back into the airport to board a flight in two days, certain things run through your head. Like, which bridge I was going to sleep under that night.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I felt like Jimmy Stewart running through Pottersville, except I was standing still and reality was moving around me. I stood there for a while. Frozen.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Then I started moving again. I called the San Antonio Airport lost and found, nothing, who patched me through to the TSA, nothing. My next move was to go back to the American Airlines counter, outside the security checkpoint, to see if I’d dropped it on the flight, maybe.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">As I walked that way, I turned to higher powers.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Now, I’m not an overly religious person. I’m a Catholic. But whenever I lose something important, I slip in a prayer to St. Anthony.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I also called my wife, who is my earthly version of the patron saint of lost things.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">As expected, she did her impersonation of tech support asking if the computer was plugged in, which is exactly what I would do to her.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“Did you check your pockets?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“I’ve been stranded outside JFK for 40 minutes looking for my license in every orifice I have, do you think I checked my pockets?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">She was unfazed and went back to the tech support manual.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“When is the last time you had it?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“San Antonio!” I replied, only slightly yelling, consciously trying not to let my frustration and hopelessness cause irreparable harm to my marriage. I also tried to channel the advice we give our kids when they’ve lost something and say things like, I already checked there. Our line is, “How can we find what’s lost if we don’t check in places we’ve already looked?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Still, being on the receiving end of the have-you-looked-here checklist can be very frustrating. So, I brought her up to speed on my status.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“I’ve checked my pockets. I checked both my bags. I already called the San Antonio Airport, I even spoke to a TSA agent there. He was very nice. And, I am so screwed!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“Where is the boarding pass that was with it?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“My pocket,” I replied, fishing it out and waving the practically translucent rectangle of paper in the air like a mad man. “No license!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">"And your computer bag?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“Yes,” I replied, opening the front of my computer bag again, where my two other, now useless, boarding passes for canceled flights were carefully stowed. “I’ve checked there.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Then I caught sight of a small pocket in the computer bag for business cards. And I vaguely remembered stuffing the cards I got during the conference, and the leftover “Ruddy Bits” business cards I didn’t distribute, into the pocket at some point during the past 8 hours.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I know what you’re thinking: What kind of dork has cards for their dumb blog? You’re right. But I realized after the first blogger conference I attended that cards were a useful thing to have. So, for ten bucks, I got 500 of them printed up. I’ve still got 450. I’ve also since learned that getting blog business cards is kind of like getting tattoos. You will have them forever.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I pulled out the cards belonging to myself and other bloggers I’d met and started shuffling through them like a one-handed black jack dealer.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">And, holy shit, there was my license.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“I found it!” I yelled to my wife, into the air, and to everyone else. “It’s here!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Relief poured over me like a model in a Sprite commercial.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I thanked my tech support, and told her I loved her, and that if all goes well, I’d be home tonight.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Then I went back to the Budget rental car counter to seal the deal on my ride home.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Yet, they had one more surprise left for me. They didn’t have any cars.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">A rather rude manager explained to me that all these flights were canceled, and I was the tenth person in the last hour to show up and try to get a car that was booked just moments before. What did people think, that they have cars just sitting around waiting for people.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“You’re a car rental company. So, yes,” I replied.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">She didn’t like my attitude either, and I wished I was talking to the uninterested counterperson again.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">That’s when I must've prayed to the patron saint of rental cars, because another counterperson, who wasn’t uninterested or rude, intervened and asked how comfortable I was driving a van.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“That’s what I drive,” I told him, squeezing in the fact that I have four kids, so nobody thought I was a pervert. “You know, like a minivan.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Not "like" a minivan, an actual minivan.</span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQNhMzEG1PGrHxFdezJleCEvCd_qMOM5bpTXJiTlw5dtoXeuHmq-i2RixcTzL8A9wUc0usWRNk9s_0Lx9_b3Ipxp-0N1MLbWf-mDSfGQeb2olV_E0A4PmvbuFi74_jmu4B5N_y2EgEUQ/s1600/LongWayHome2d.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1183" data-original-width="1600" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQNhMzEG1PGrHxFdezJleCEvCd_qMOM5bpTXJiTlw5dtoXeuHmq-i2RixcTzL8A9wUc0usWRNk9s_0Lx9_b3Ipxp-0N1MLbWf-mDSfGQeb2olV_E0A4PmvbuFi74_jmu4B5N_y2EgEUQ/s320/LongWayHome2d.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notice the step needed to get in. Not a minivan.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Within minutes, I signed a contract, refused extra insurance, and had the keys to a rental van – a ginormous 12-passenger, people moving, shuttle van. It looked like a European ambulance without the emergency lights. And I was about to drive this behemoth through New York City and 250 miles north.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">But I knew I could do it. I was born to do it. Not because I was a trucker in a former life. Because I was one of 8 kids. Not a typo. And, at one point in the 80s my parents bought a used, turtle-top, 15 passenger van with red and white stripes <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">to get us around</span>. The Ruddy Bus, as it came to be known, originally shuttled people from a Marriot hotel to a tarmac at some airport, and it had big black numbers on top <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">(</span>M-17) so the flight tower could identify it. That people-mover even had a bus door that went "PSHHH" when you pulled the lever. It's amazing what you can find on the secondary market if you know where to look.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">In any event, I was ready to drive this big rental van home. It was in my blood. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I spent the next hour snaking my way through Queens and across the Bronx, pondering the existential question “Am I a car or am I a truck?” each time a sign on a bridge read, “Passenger Vehicles Only – No Trucks.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Then, for the following three and a half hours, I chugged through New Jersey, Northeastern Pennsylvania, and into upstate New York driving the equivalent of a main sail in 60 mile per hour wind gusts, all so I could see my wife and kids.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Somewhere in New Jersey, I looked back and saw all the empty seats and wished I’d tried to find any other stranded Syracusans who needed a ride. That took care of my guilt quota for the remainder of the ride – Catholic, remember.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">And some 24 hours after my first flight was canceled and 14 hours after the plane lifted off from San Antonio, a shuttle bus carrying one passenger pulled into our driveway.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">A swarm of kids greeted me at the door. Mission complete.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Because, sometimes, you just want to go home.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">
<br />
</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 13.33px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><em><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">Here's other articles you may enjoy: </span></em><span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/03/vegas-baby.html#.Vs3ias8UXgw"><span style="color: blue;">Vegas,
Baby!</span></a></span></i></span><em><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">, </span></em><span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/04/dog-responds-to-mystery-poo-false.html#.Vs3h9M8UXgw"><span style="color: blue;">Dog
Responds to "Mystery Poo" False Accusations</span></a></span></i></span><em><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">, and </span></em><span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2013/11/tip-of-hat-to-single-parents-and-thanks.html#.VstfHM8UXgw"><span style="color: blue;">Tip
of the Hat to Single Parents, and Thanks to My Backup,</span></a></span></i></span><em><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"></span></em></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="color: blue;"></span></span></span></div>
Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-15457165187280794562019-02-20T19:08:00.004-05:002021-03-08T17:39:26.115-05:00Why You Should Always Make One Last Cast<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I was done, having had no luck all day. I’d changed flies, tried different techniques, added weight to sink the midge lower in the water, taken weight off to let another float along the top. I’d matched the hatch and turned to my trusty never fail. I’d thrown everything in the bag at them over several hours. And nothing.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br />
</span> <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">The kicker: it was a crystal-clear day on my favorite river, and I could see fish all around me. But they weren’t taking what I was serving.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br />
</span> <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Situations like this remind me of my favorite W.C. Fields quote: “If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There's no point in being a damn fool about it.”</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br />
</span> <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">So, I was calling it quits.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br />
</span> <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Walking out along the creek, I decided to throw one more cast in the direction of a big brown trout I could see nestled behind a rock. It was my most half-assed cast of the day. I literally flipped the rod over as I walked and let the fly plop down on the water with a thud no respectable fisherman would aspire to.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br />
</span> <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">And, WHAP. He took it.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br />
</span> <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Before I go any further, you should know now that this is not going to be a post about fly fishing. It’s about far a less interesting subject: the stage of success known as quitting.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br />
</span> <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Fisherman often claim that fishing imitates life. Just as golfers say it about golf, and knitters about knitting. But, in this case, it’s more about how life can imitate fishing.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br />
</span> <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">As some people know, I’ve been writing this blog for quite some time now. I used to write here quite regularly. Even posted weekly, for a while. And, over the years it has been a fun outlet for my creative side and a fine place to chronicle our family adventures – now of great use to my increasingly forgetful mind.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br />
</span> <span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">It’s also opened some interesting doors. Because of this dumb blog, I reconnected with some old friends, met some new ones, and, one time, I even got our family <a href="http://www.adirondacklifemag.com/blogs/2016/12/01/snow-days/" target="_blank">a free ski vacation</a>. One of the most interesting things to happen due to this whole blog thing has been my involvement with the Dadbloggers Facebook group and my attendance at the Dad 2.0 Summit – a yearly gathering of dad social media influencers and parenting writers.</span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span><br />
</span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH73RREn0G9Ip6laP4uWPfw7VIH5DO5hCAZBPMBrOBTX8jyxlUJO7qXNMfSm5dC1xFwhdWJ10R9sPhGI2T3DJ9txuqgupIlc_VmKC6hoXgGTSEr8HBtmszFR7Xx_WB1CP1htQsjNwuLdQ/s1600/Spotlight.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH73RREn0G9Ip6laP4uWPfw7VIH5DO5hCAZBPMBrOBTX8jyxlUJO7qXNMfSm5dC1xFwhdWJ10R9sPhGI2T3DJ9txuqgupIlc_VmKC6hoXgGTSEr8HBtmszFR7Xx_WB1CP1htQsjNwuLdQ/s320/Spotlight.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">
One of the 2018 Spotlight Bloggers, Doug Zeigler,</span></div>
<div><span style="font-family: verdana;">
reading his blog post to the conference.</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I’ve gone twice: <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2016/02/how-to-make-virtual-friends-and-find.html#.XG3oO_ZFyIU" target="_blank">2016 in Washington</a>, D.C., and <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2018/02/making-good-on-promise-at-mardi-gras.html#.XG3og_ZFyIU" target="_blank">2018 in New Orleans</a>. Not that I’ve ever influenced anyone. Heck, my kids don’t even listen to me. But I’ve had some great experiences at these conferences, picked up a few writing tips, made those friends I mentioned, and had a lot of fun.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">As it happens, each year the organizers of the Dad 2.0 Summit recognize a few bloggers from across the country and have them share a post – as in read it – to the hundreds of people at the conference. It’s the Blogger Spotlight and it’s kind of a big deal.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">To become a Spotlighter, a post has to be nominated (most often by the author) and then get selected from a few hundred submissions. And, for the past four or five years, I’ve had posts nominated (most often by the author).</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I always wanted to get selected because I looked at it as validation from my peers that I wasn’t totally wasting my time. I also dreamed that it would be one more step on the way to other goals – like writing books, or early retirement.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Yet, it never happened.</span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"> </span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">And, I started to figure it never would. </span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Lately, I haven’t exactly been the most prolific writer, by any stretch. As time has marched on and sped up, the ideas just seem to come to me less often, and the opportunity to write passes before I have a chance to funnel my thoughts into a coherent thing worth putting into words.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">To be honest, I’ve thought lately about letting this old blog just fade away. I always say to myself when I’m preparing a post, maybe this will be the last one.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I wouldn’t stop creating, altogether. I’d focus on the dumb book I’m halfway finished writing. And <a href="https://twitter.com/DadBits" target="_blank">I’d tweet</a>, which has much more immediate returns than blogging, from the positive feedback side of the equation.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Maybe it was time, I thought, to quit RuddyBits.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Then, in January, I got a text. Actually, it was a Facebook message – which is now considered old school. It was from one of the Dad 2.0 Summit organizers asking if I’d like to read one of my post as a 2019 Spotlight Blogger.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">WHAP.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">It made me think again about how, sometimes, it's right when you are ready to walk away that your luck turns around. Some people call it persistence. But it might be something else. But, whatever it is, it can change your perspective.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">You know that time on the river, when my last cast of the day landed the fish? It ended up not being my last cast. I kept going.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">How can you walk away after something like that, am I right?</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">So, now I’m headed to San Antonio to read a <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2018/12/the-chaos-theory-and-parenting.html#.XG3vYvZFyIU" target="_blank">blog post on parenting</a>. And I imagine, at some point, this damn fool will probably want to write about it.</span></span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"></span>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-13828586227376466202018-12-11T22:00:00.000-05:002021-03-08T17:39:49.906-05:00The Chaos Theory of Parenting<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A butterfly flaps its wings in New Zealand, and I end up late for work.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Okay, maybe it wasn’t entirely the butterfly’s fault. It really started, one morning last week, with my eldest daughter and her talent for sleeping through an alarm clock. Literally, this is her super power. An alarm clock could be buzzing right next to her ear, and nothing. Which probably has something to do with her penchant for staying up late to finish homework. Which may or may not have been on abstract mathematics.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Our typical morning routine has a predictable linear structure<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">. </span>(I know it is redundant to call a routine typical, as that’s the nature of a routine, but this is Science not English). Child 1 ostensibly gets up at 6:15 a.m., to be on the bus at 6:52. Children 2 and 3 rise from their slumber when child 1 departs, and they get on their bus at 7:40. That’s when child 4 awakes, his bus arriving at 8:12, which he dutifully boards.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I call this predictable structure the Ordered Fa</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">mily model. And it works well on paper. In reality, it rarely occurs.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Here’s a sample of our reality through the lens of one particular day last week when my wife just happened to be away on business.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span> <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitoJV28MjRiK9l5r16Jeit5-fPAUy9ZpGIuJrjM20e2LJOerP_mXs1wG0vdSS4PNo7M-3YRo5AEA0q-MoUWBAMmQ0r41KSb403DX8lRryzbp8lBEqrVttLKiEdmUMbI0ZVl3IiDY9Fx84/s1600/ButterflyEffect2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1162" data-original-width="1600" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitoJV28MjRiK9l5r16Jeit5-fPAUy9ZpGIuJrjM20e2LJOerP_mXs1wG0vdSS4PNo7M-3YRo5AEA0q-MoUWBAMmQ0r41KSb403DX8lRryzbp8lBEqrVttLKiEdmUMbI0ZVl3IiDY9Fx84/s320/ButterflyEffect2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And this was the best time of all.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The alarm went off at 6:15 a.m. as planned. Our oldest child didn’t move, however. Unplanned. Then it went off again. And again. When she did finally move, she announced she needed a shower because “it had been a few days.” We have an unwritten rule that we never stop a kid from cleansing themselves. Still, the shower was unplanned. And it ate up precious seconds.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Long story short: she missed the bus. So, of course, I had to drive her. I woke the two younger ones, who are just barely old enough to be left home alone, and ordered them to get ready as I took the eldest to the High School.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When I got back, the house was still standing and everyone was alive, but nobody was ready for the middle school bus, now just moments way. So, I quickly threw together their lunches, prodded them to brush their teeth and get dressed, and then I watched as the bus pulled away while they sat at our counter nonchalantly eating breakfast. Bus missed.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">To take them to school, I had to wake the boy, as he cannot be left alone for everybody’s sake. Once his sisters were deposited at middle school. We went back home to get him out of his PJs and ready for his bus, which he missed. So, it was back in the car and to the third school of the day to drop off yet another child.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">By the time I got home, I had exactly zero minutes to get showered, dressed and off to work. Needless to say, I was late. Like, really late.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That’s when it occurred to me the similarities between math's Chaos Theory and the way my wife and I are as parents: the Chaos Theory of Parenting.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This theory is not so much a planned philosophy or a framework as an observational reality. And it’s one that can be witnessed by spending even a single morning at our house… or an afternoon… or any given Saturday.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In mathematics, Chaos theory is used to describe dynamic systems where minor variations in initial variables can cause wildly different outcomes. It’s been popularized by the analogy known as the Butterfly Effect: A butterfly flaps its wings and that results in a hurricane half a world away. A little farfetched, I know. But smarter people than I claim it works.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I find it easier to understand Chaos Theory by thinking about the game Plinko on the Price Is Right. That’s the one where the lucky contestant drops a round chip down the Plinko board and it bounces around rather unpredictably until it reaches the bottom. In reality, the reaction of the Plinko chip to its surroundings is quite predictable, scientifically speaking, if you know all the precise variables, which include the speed of the chip, the friction of the board, the angle it hits the first peg, and the second peg, etc. The Chaos comes in when even the slightest variation in any one of those variables dramatically changes the path of the Plinko chip. I like the Plinko analogy because I feel like a Plinko chip going down the board on a daily basis.</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span> <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkXboCTIUCAN6c3QQ5k_sdEsgvHW3vD5VQvkWUxzQNqbBmTYXwAyaxDyWBKixxHAE38zk3xQCHEsus36pB2ev_npoYoEqjLdEAQz-rgggiC2mb4miKVStdxU0chwodI_HL_Ak4ZzUUM9c/s1600/Plinko.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="694" data-original-width="709" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkXboCTIUCAN6c3QQ5k_sdEsgvHW3vD5VQvkWUxzQNqbBmTYXwAyaxDyWBKixxHAE38zk3xQCHEsus36pB2ev_npoYoEqjLdEAQz-rgggiC2mb4miKVStdxU0chwodI_HL_Ak4ZzUUM9c/s320/Plinko.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The Plinko Theory of Parenting isn't as catchy</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The difference is that in Plinko there are only five possible outcomes. While in life, and in parenting, there are infinite. Kid 3 could miss the bus. Kid 2 could leave without gloves and have to stay in for recess. Kid 4 could forget his homework, and his parents could get a call from the teacher. Dad could be late so often that he gets fired, and the whole family could have to move to another state. Anything could happen. All based on Kid 1 sleeping through her alarm and a host of other initial variables.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I tried to explain this to said kids in the car on the evening of the particular day in question.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Have any of you heard of the Butterfly Effect?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Yes,” replied the high schooler. “Isn’t that how a butterfly on one side of the world can cause a hurricane on the other?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Yes!” I responded, almost gleeful.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Wait,” said the 12-yr-old. “I learned in science that the weather is caused by high and low pressure in the atmosphere?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“It is,” I stated, trying to think how to marry the two thoughts. “This is before all that."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“What kind of butterfly?” asked the 10-yr-old.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“That doesn’t matter,” I replied.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“So, butterflies cause high pressure fronts?” asked the 12-yr-old, confused.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“I thought you told us once that hurricanes are caused by extreme low pressure,” said the high schooler.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“I did.” God save me. “I was just mentioning the Butterfly Effect to relate it to our mornings and making the bus.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“What do butterflies have to do with the bus?” asked the 10-yr-old.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Look, take our typical morning routine…”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Doesn’t the word routine imply that it’s typical?” pondered the high schooler, in a condescending way.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Ugh,” I grunted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The 10-yr-old recollected, "Remember when we went in the butterfly tent at the fair?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Yes. Look, it’s just that if one of you misses the bus, it can make me late for work.<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">”</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Um. I still don’t get what this has to do with the weather,” said the 12-yr-old.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“You know what, never mind.”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“I have to pee,” said the 8-yr-old.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So, rather than accurately describing Chaos Theory to my kids, I showed them an example of it in conversation form.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Not that they need to be shown. Because, the truth is, you can look at almost any aspect of our lives and find discernable examples of chaos.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You could be observing us on what seems like an otherwise quiet evening when an unexpected (but predictable) variable occurs, like someone yelling, “Oh My God! We forgot soccer practice!”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And then we suddenly find ourselves scrambling to get our tween to her indoor soccer practice, and the whole plan for dinner is out the window and half our kids are crying because they’re hungry and haven’t started their homework. All because one of us had to run to the store after work to get an ingredient for the dinner we now aren’t making and, in the frenzy, simply forgot it was a practice day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Come to think of it, the ingredient we were missing was chicken broth. And we were out of it because I'd made soup the day before. I made soup because it was raining. It was raining because of a big storm that had hit the whole coast. So, it may well have been the fault of a butterfly, after all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Clearly, I have only a rudimentary understanding of the real Chaos Theory, however I’ve found that with proper use of vagueness and big words, anyone can sound like they’re an expert on theoretical mathematics.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Parenting, on the other hand, is not quite so easy.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><em><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
</span></em></span></div><div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><em><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">Here's other articles you may enjoy: </span></em><span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/03/vegas-baby.html#.Vs3ias8UXgw"><span style="color: blue;">Vegas, Baby!</span></a></span></i></span><em><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">, </span></em><span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/04/dog-responds-to-mystery-poo-false.html#.Vs3h9M8UXgw"><span style="color: blue;">Dog Responds to "Mystery Poo" False Accusations</span></a></span></i></span><em><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">, and </span></em><span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2013/11/tip-of-hat-to-single-parents-and-thanks.html#.VstfHM8UXgw"><span style="color: blue;">Tip of the Hat to Single Parents, and Thanks to My Backup.</span></a></span></i></span></span></span></div><div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;"><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="color: blue;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></div>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-73111014160442479012018-11-27T19:01:00.002-05:002022-03-26T15:16:03.625-04:00Haggis, the High Road, and a Chat for the Ages<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“A Scot will give you the shirt off their back,” a new
friend explained, as a group of us discussed her people, her nation, and the
future of this rugged and resilient land, late into a cool, fall night outside a blowup pub in a yard in Scotland.</span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">It was only my third day on Scottish soil, yet I understood exactly
what she meant -- a lesson learned just moments after we arrived.</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">My wife and I landed in Edinburgh two days prior in the mid-morning,
tired and hungry from the overnight flight. In a rental car with the stick
shift and steering wheel in the wrong place, we anxiously set out for our
destination – a cousin’s home in Hamilton, southeast of Glasgow – hoping we’d
find some food along the way.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">We passed small houses, tightly-packed villages, and flat fields
shielded by morning mist as we navigated round-a-bouts and typed ‘breakfast
near us” into a smart phone. Google pointed us to a chain coffee shop in the
village of Chapelhall. Lack of parking and luck took us further down the block
to a spot in front of the Mallagh Family Butcher & Bakers, a small
storefront on a squat block of stores.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">The sign out front read, “Full Scottish Breakfast.” We
parked and entered awkwardly.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVl36inwM21yEMGh2adHAePPRnWAEhZC4zZExLJqqQnd0oOu-D5DtQTciM7nEQyNou-M0Fuwx5FhDq-KB73dG7yWvbVoseWSEzovumY97Q-7r4npq6XOtX1LK-ibYTDDgHTFgNw4xbCTI/s1600/IMG_0495.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVl36inwM21yEMGh2adHAePPRnWAEhZC4zZExLJqqQnd0oOu-D5DtQTciM7nEQyNou-M0Fuwx5FhDq-KB73dG7yWvbVoseWSEzovumY97Q-7r4npq6XOtX1LK-ibYTDDgHTFgNw4xbCTI/s320/IMG_0495.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Like a bounce house for adults, this blowup</span></div>
<div>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">pub served as the night-after party place.</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Inside the tiny butcher shop, we were confronted by a long case
of meats along one counter and a shorter one of pastries, rolls and steak pies on
the other. Behind the counter, men and women toiled in white aprons, serving
the small gaggle of customers barking greetings and orders faster than an
American could comprehend.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">When I say tiny, I mean it. The place was miniscule. Nowhere
to sit. No tables, no chairs, and barely room enough to change your mind.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“What would you like?” an older gentleman shot our way as we
looked blankly at the board behind him, trying to decipher the names and prices
of the various items listed. At least, that’s what I assume he asked. The Scottish
accent is notoriously hard to decipher for the untrained ear. Yet it took less
than a syllable out of my mouth for him to know we were lost and hungry
Americans.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">A few indecisive moments and misunderstood attempts to
communicate later, my wife and I decided to leave – a full retreat, so that we
could regroup, reconsider our options, and prepare for our next Scottish
encounter.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“Aye,” he said to us, holding up a finger to imply we should
stay put. “I have your sausage rolls coming.” He quickly followed that with a nod,
“On me.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Before we had a chance to refuse the offer, a younger,
taller butcher darted from the back with two wrapped sandwiches. The older
gentlemen handed them to us as we thanked him and said he shouldn’t have.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“You’ll be back,” he nodded again. A strange thing to say
to two Americans who might never set foot in Chapelhall again.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">But he was right. After devouring two soft rolls with square
sausage while sitting in the front seat of our rental, we went back in for a
bag of scones. And he filled our ears with small talk about where we were
headed, how it was near where he grew up, and what we thought of Scotland thus
far, at least that’s what we think he said.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">To have any hope of understanding the Scottish accent, you
have to listen closely. Not merely pay attention, but actually listen, focusing
and straining with every fiber to break down what’s being said and reassemble
it in your brain in way you can understand it. It’s not just the accent, but
the speed, the cadence, and their general penchant for colloquialisms that make
it so hard to follow.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCD2zXaSVcm88KGuDt21W8E9ZaIHRI5r2KfNUhiUJgxW5l4VwkGlYxwiZ9xzFZaNJUi8oogSLe4OQCe5g-OSB2pqEOsaKdByw-2upknBUdFixAlRwRf6aiBCNvtZQX6CuRkxWhpoPvSVw/s1600/IMG_0481.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCD2zXaSVcm88KGuDt21W8E9ZaIHRI5r2KfNUhiUJgxW5l4VwkGlYxwiZ9xzFZaNJUi8oogSLe4OQCe5g-OSB2pqEOsaKdByw-2upknBUdFixAlRwRf6aiBCNvtZQX6CuRkxWhpoPvSVw/s320/IMG_0481.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">If you haven't danced to The Proclaimers </span></div>
<div>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">and sung </span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Loch </span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Lomond, you haven't </span></div>
<div>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">been to a </span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">true Scottish wedding</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">My wife and I were in Scotland for a family wedding – her
cousins Brian and Mary were celebrating the marriage of their eldest daughter.
And, since they’d made the transatlantic trip to come to our nuptials years ago,
we wanted to return the honor. So we did. And for a total of five days and four
nights this fall, we ate, drank, danced, celebrated, and spent time with my
wife’s Scottish relatives.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">We had a blast, etching memories we’ll never forget, like
singing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H2Z1KnePLbE" target="_blank">Loch Lomond</a> while linked in arms with an entire wedding party. And our
hosts made us feel incredibly welcome, putting us up and feeding us well,
including a Full Scottish Breakfast with four types of sausage and breakfast haggis.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">In our time there, and after saying “what was that?” more
than I care to count, we also got better at understanding the wondrous Scottish
accent, to the point that we could not only order sausage sandwiches but hold
actual conversations.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">On our third night, the bride's parents hosted a party in an inflatable pub in their yard, and I engaged in a particularly enthralling chat
with a handful of new Scottish friends and a British gentleman from Portsmouth
in the south of England, if my memory serves me. Over beers and flavored gin, we
discussed the European Union and Brexit. We debated globalization and immigration;
news in the age of social media and the rise of Donald Trump -- which they were
most curious about. And, of most interest to me, we talked about the complex world
of Scottish politics.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">To ever hope to understand politics in Scotland, and the
Scottish people’s place in the world, you must not only listen closely, but you
also have to wrap your head around the region’s complicated history, which has
been shaped by economics and religion, proximity and pride.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">And, it’s a history that’s still unfolding.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">At the foot of any conversation about politics in Scotland these
days lay the remnants of two major public votes held in recent years. In September
of 2014, after months of persuasion, years of planning and centuries of debate,
Scotland held a referendum on its independence. On that day, 55% of Scotland
voted to remain part of the United Kingdom, and 45% voted to become its own
nation.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Then, not even two years later, in June of 2016, the entire
UK voted 51% to 49% in favor of Brexit, the referendum on leaving the European
Union. If it had been up to just Scotland, however, Brexit would have failed
miserably, with 62% opposing it and just 38% in favor.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">In Scotland, questions on these votes tug at the minds of
friends and neighbors alike, much the way the Trump election does with Americans:
How did you vote?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">And as the economic turmoil of Brexit begins to show on
Scotland’s main streets, a new question has arisen. Would you vote the same
today?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Because, ironically, one of the arguments used for voting
against independence was how it would hurt Scotland’s EU membership. Following the
loss of industrial jobs starting in the 1970s, and with the growth of a
service-based economy in recent years like financial services and tourism,
along with exports like whisky and oil, the Scottish economy has become deeply entwined
in that of larger Europe. And that’s been a good thing for much of Scotland. But,
will that continue? Will tourism, the financial services sector, and even,
whisky take a hit?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">It’s an uncertain time for Scotland and its economic future.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">A second vote on independence may yet occur. But in the
meantime, Scotland reels with the ramifications of exiting the EU.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb-VkbhDmkalhM-la83tGxlNyl8PMD_ytZYJ89oldzF4031tLoluwZjO7nlt-3jV2usWJZmVTs_a_GfdKl7rJqDWFr6iBOSCWoa27pwjeMp5y5obRj_10P873-_gFcAkbIhYRbbHLSouU/s1600/IMG_0451.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb-VkbhDmkalhM-la83tGxlNyl8PMD_ytZYJ89oldzF4031tLoluwZjO7nlt-3jV2usWJZmVTs_a_GfdKl7rJqDWFr6iBOSCWoa27pwjeMp5y5obRj_10P873-_gFcAkbIhYRbbHLSouU/s320/IMG_0451.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Hamilton, South Lanarkshire</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">We spent most of our time there in Hamilton, a quaint city twenty
minutes outside Glasgow, with old churches, new college buildings, and a well-known
walking and shopping district, where brick rowhouses line stone streets on the
slight incline of downtown. Hamilton had great bones, I thought. Though I was
surprised to see cell phone peddlers and pawn shops in storefronts where you’d expect to
see bakers and boutiques – and likely did, not too long ago.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“It’s a bit run down, these days,” one of the young people we
got to know said of Hamilton.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">When I prodded, the city’s challenges were attributed to
everything from the Brexit vote to ASDA, the UK-version of Walmart, that’s likewise
taking shoppers away from the city centers. Whatever the cause, the same uncertainty
that plagues all of Scotland was visible on the streets. A lesson on economics.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">The lesson on religion began at the wedding itself. My wife
and I are Catholic, as are her relatives in Scotland. So, we knew the structure
of the mass that accompanied the ceremony, even if the priest was hard to
follow at times. Yet, when we came to the part of the mass where you share a
sign of peace -- shake hands and say “peace be with you” to those around us -- I
turned around to a row of twenty-something Scots and extended my hand. They
looked at me confused, even like I was a leper. Then at communion, not a single
person from that row took part. And I realized they weren’t Catholic. Not that
it matted to me.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Catholics only make up 19 percent of the total population, with
most living in and around Glasgow. This population was boosted by Irish
immigration in the late 1900s. In Glasgow itself, there are several poor,
working class neighborhoods where Catholics dominate. And all the problems that
happen in poor, working class neighborhoods exist there, defining Catholics for
some Scots.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“There’s still a great deal of anti-Catholic bigotry,” another
cousin told me later.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">More Scots, if they’re religious at all, are members of the
Church of Scotland, a Presbyterian faith adhered to by about 25 percent of the population.
And, in Scotland, your religion matters. It can tell people where you live, dictate
where you go to school, and even influence which local soccer team you support.
(Celtic all the way for my wife’s family).</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Though, many young people may be starting to move away from
these old divisions. In fact, a census in 2011 found that 37 percent of Scots
claimed no religion at all. The looks I got during mass were likely the result
of the agnostic youth and not disdain for Catholics. And several of the Scots I
spoke with expressed their general concern for how religion often divides their
community, and that was a reason so many chose to be non-religious.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Still, the residue of religion can be felt in many places,
and it almost certainly affected how many voted on independence – though maybe indirectly.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">The results tell the story. Of the 32 local municipalities
Scotland divides itself into, only 4 voted in favor of independence. One was Glasgow.
Polling also showed that people in their late 20s and 30s, the working class, and
those living in “deprived” areas were more likely to support independence. Many
of those areas are Catholic.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Clearly, there were many reasons for and against independence
beyond religion, from the economic to the political. And most of those reasons speak
directly to the historically knotty relationship between Scotland and the Brits
to the south.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Looking for an outing the day after the wedding, we stumbled
upon a vestige of that relationship. It’s hard not to stumble upon history when
you’re in a place like Scotland. We found ours by asking Google for “Castles
near me.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">A short drive later, my wife, father-in-law and I arrived at
Bothwell Castle, a thickly built stone stronghold originally constructed in the
13<sup>th</sup> century. And one with quite the history.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSut5RdCujvsYeYB0OmtYpayIiprig4cMKX2gZdaT6yjZZC9ZxM7dfvz3eZfkyyk97jaaU95yOjkzC996N51XFJNV5K6lz56UM1b35Xau3J5q1TpHCVH-ZBsxhWhxLxG4ZFoWfC-y7ZCo/s1600/IMG_0486.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><img border="0" data-original-height="1203" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSut5RdCujvsYeYB0OmtYpayIiprig4cMKX2gZdaT6yjZZC9ZxM7dfvz3eZfkyyk97jaaU95yOjkzC996N51XFJNV5K6lz56UM1b35Xau3J5q1TpHCVH-ZBsxhWhxLxG4ZFoWfC-y7ZCo/s320/IMG_0486.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Bothwell: Good luck storming this castle. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">During the First War for Scottish Independence, Bothwell fell
into the hands of King Edward 1’s forces. In the year 1298, it was then laid siege
for 14 months by the Scots, before falling into their hands. Edward’s forces
retook the castle a few years later and held it until it was surrendered to the
Scots in 1314, following Robert the Bruce's victory at Bannockburn. The Scots then
razed Bothwell so their British foes couldn’t use it against them again.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“Spite is a powerful emotion,” a new friend joked when I
relayed that part of the story.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">A few years later, Bothwell was rebuilt and was famously
occupied by Archibald Douglas, known as Archibald the Grim, the son of James
"the Black" Douglas, a close ally of the Bruce and a character in
Netflix new “Outlaw King” movie.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Over the next 500 years, Bothwell was expanded, ravaged and
rebuilt many times, finally laying in ruin in the 18<sup>th</sup> century. But,
for a couple of Americans with little sense of Scottish history, beyond watching
Braveheart, it was a tangible and awesome reminder of the history of the
region. A history of conflict and conquest. One that resulted in two people joining
together for mutual benefit, and the tensions that continue to pull at the
seams.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">****</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“And there it is,” exclaimed one of the Scots in our chat dramatically, almost comically. “There’s the patronizing arrogance we’ve come
to expect.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">He was responding to the sole Englishman who braved our
conversation and had wondered to the group how Scotland could possibly support
itself if they did vote for independence. He qualified it by emphasizing that
there are only 5 million residents, after all. Then he dug a deeper hole by mentioning
that the Scots get great benefits from their inclusion in the UK, including free
college.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“You think we wouldn’t do the same if we were independent?”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">One of the misnomers of the debate is that Scotland is dependent
on the UK for benefits. In reality, the Center for Economics and Business
Research found that Scotland contributes slightly more to the UK economy than
it receives. It was also pointed out in our chat that the free college program and
free care for the elderly, which don’t exist in the rest of the UK, were enacted
by the Scottish parliament and not as a way for the UK to prop up Scotland or to
address its high mortality rate, which the group joked had as much to do with
gin and sausage as anything else. And, yes, many Scottish do prefer gin over
whisky. By my count, almost all of them.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Clearly, five days and a few conversations, though
enlightening, are hardly more than a scratch at an understanding of Scotland and
its people.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">As for what the future holds, it is certainly uncertain. But
I have faith in Scotland.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">“We are a proud people,” she said. “And we are a generous people."</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I concur.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
</div>
<em><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="margin: 0px;">Here's other articles you
may enjoy: <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2018/09/going-to-carolina.html#.W_28TvZFxPY" target="_blank">Going to Carolina</a>; </span></em><span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="margin: 0px;"><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/09/one-smiling-moment-real-story-behind.html#.Vs3bM88UXgw"><span style="color: blue;">One
Smiling Moment -- The Truth Behind an Okay Photo</span><span style="color: #b00000;">;</span></a></span></i></span><em><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="margin: 0px;"> </span></em><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="margin: 0px;">a<em><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="margin: 0px;">nd <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2018/02/people-and-pearls-in-crescent-city.html#.W_28hfZFxPY" target="_blank">Real People and Pearls in the Crescent City</a>.</span></em></span></i><br />
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Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-14142386106952874962018-09-13T00:18:00.001-04:002019-02-25T23:32:10.664-05:00Going to Carolina<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Someplace warm: that was the goal.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A minivan on a mission, filled with four kids on their April break and two delirious parents.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was the most spontaneous thing we’d done since we had kids. And, possibly ever. Certainly, the most unplanned trip since weekends in grad school, when we’d depart for Canada on a whim. Or that time we went to Sackets Harbor in December, almost two decades ago, because my parents had a gift certificate for a hotel that was going to expire. That story was actually a ruse – one that ended in a proposal.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This time, there was no plan, by either of us. We just headed south. With no place to stay. Not even a certain destination. Other than "someplace warm."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That’s what my wife kept mumbling after a Winter that wouldn’t relent, even as the Spring months ostensibly took charge of the calendar. She wanted to be warm. So, on we drove. Southward.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We left midweek. Wednesday, if memory serves. A few days away from work was all I could muster without more notice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“My wife can’t take it anymore,” I told my boss. He understood. Everyone understood. Though, I’m not sure I did.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“I think your mom has lost it,” I told our eldest, as we cruised south.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Just go with it,” she advised, with all of 15 years of wisdom under her wings.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So, I did.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And with each mile and each degree, the light returned to our eyes. Several hours into our journey to warmth, we picked a place out on a map: Carolina Beach.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We’d been there once before, briefly, for the wedding of a friend. I remembered liking it and hoping to return.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHoAZl6DSkbQCblC8w5b0NuWAbGdgpGAHxzjzG4PRVkH4fYTAtU_7KpkJV5xySrJnwbhlb3goTDm25sacfnRSQdZov25Zcs-7Lhso__TSbLB64dB2CniqH5tYMDLON4hClwjM3FWYFvSU/s1600/IMG_7085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHoAZl6DSkbQCblC8w5b0NuWAbGdgpGAHxzjzG4PRVkH4fYTAtU_7KpkJV5xySrJnwbhlb3goTDm25sacfnRSQdZov25Zcs-7Lhso__TSbLB64dB2CniqH5tYMDLON4hClwjM3FWYFvSU/s400/IMG_7085.JPG" width="300" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My wife had hoped to go further south to some island off Georgia, where it was going to be in the 80s. But that would take another six hours. Besides, I knew that come late June we’d make our annual trek to Hilton Head. And that would be spoiled if we went so close to it just two months prior. So, we settled on the mid-70s.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As I drove, and the kids slept and fought and complained about being hungry, my wife found a place on HomeAway that was available for the rest of the week. A small place, a few blocks from the ocean, with enough beds and good reviews.</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She called the owner, and emailed her, and texted her as we hurtled down I-95, not sure where we’d end up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">No answer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We started looking online at other places. Then at hotels in the area. Then cheaper hotels. Then motels.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then the phone rang.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The place we wanted was available. And we could rent it for the rest of the week, into the weekend. The owner was a fellow New Yorker. She’d gone to the North Carolina coast and fallen in love with it. Bought a place and fixed it up. My wife liked that last part.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She said we’d love it. So, we booked it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Suddenly, we had a destination. And a place to stay for that night and a few more. It was just south of Carolina Beach, in the small coastal community of Kure Beach, North Carolina.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">To say the entire Carolina Coast holds a special place in our hearts would be an understatement. My wife did her undergrad at UNC Chapel Hill and took many trips to the coast throughout her college years. Before that, she was introduced to the region when her parents started going to Hilton Head, South Carolina, when she was a kid. Quite a hike from Pennsylvania, but they loved it so much they bought a timeshare. And, it was that timeshare that has drawn us to Hilton Head each summer since we started having kids, even though it's an even longer hike from Upstate New York. The truth is, our children have grown up going to the beaches of South Carolina.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But North Carolina was new to most of our family. And Kure beach, during that miserable Spring, seemed downright exotic.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The moment we arrived, we knew we’d chosen well. The towns of Carolina and Kure Beach crowd several blocks deep up against the ocean dunes, connected by a single road -- two places inseparable to the untrained eye. With the ocean on one side and cape fear on the other, the peninsula that’s also an island reaches down to the southern tip of what is called the Outer Banks. Though, this bank is much closer to the mainland than some of its northern brethren and is only an island because of an almost imperceptible cut in the land under a bridge on the north side of town.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></span><br />
<div>
<span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg404Zi34_CeKqf6oHLM8QwsqnFOzWhfTZ-2qPqPGGw_aScecyCauiz1bC4YPGmofE2iM7kzzw13zopULo7vpNU0Io2LI0eBLnkdniKQfXFj0FczU3-pKmpdjrYNxLcSwX86lVG9Voj0t8/s400/IMG_7051.JPG" width="300" /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"></span><br />
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Along the ocean’s edge of the peninsula, pastel homes on stilts and brown condos stand shoulder to shoulder, broken up occasionally by stout older homes that have yet to be torn down and replaced. As you drive south from Carolina Beach to Kure, the stouter homes become more common.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You know you’re in the center of Kure Beach when you arrive at the stoplight, with the fishing pier one block to the east, and small beach houses in rows and alleys to the right.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We found our place on 6<sup>th</sup> street, surrounded by other one-story brick homes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And inside, we found what we’d come for. A comfortable, cozy, perfect little beach house.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And in the time that followed, we had a Spring Break for the ages. We ate well at Jack Mackerels Island Grill and Kure Beach Diner; A&G’s Barbeque and the Shuckin’ Shack. We explored to the state park with Venus Flytraps and to the coastal village of Southport. And we found the best donuts in the world at Britts, and we devoured them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We walked along boardwalks, beaches covered with shells, and on the pier that reached into the ocean.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For a few days this April, Carolina and Kure beach were our refuge. Our Spring salvation. Our warmth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Today, I’m thinking of these places and the people that call them home. Like the waitress at Jack Mackerels, who was originally from Ithaca. She moved south <span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">a decade before</span>, like so many did, to Wilmington – just inland from Kure Beach. Then, she decided she wanted to see the sunrise each day and feel the ocean breeze on her skin.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She was the first person we met there, the one who put up with our stir-crazy kids as we relaxed at our first meal, and drank drinks made for island dwellers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For a moment, I was jealous of her life. Thinking, maybe I belonged there. That we belonged there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My wife had often talked about convincing me to move to the Carolinas. When she did that, I always thought of places like Raleigh and Chapel Hill. Nice places, no doubt, but not places I longed to be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If she had taken me to Kure Beach, she might have won that debate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It felt like a place that could be home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I think of that today. And I also think of all the things these days that divide us as a nation, in our minds and in our hearts. The North and South. The Red and Blue. The who did you vote for, and what news do you watch. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As a storm for the ages bears down on this place that is special to me, a friend on Facebook joked that these people voted for that orange guy, they don’t believe in Global Warming, so they reap what they sow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That’s no way to think. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I know these places and the people. And they are as diverse in their thought as the neighbors on my street, and in my state. They come in all creeds and colors and beliefs. And they have no more culpability in what mother nature brings, than any of us. Not that it would matter much if they did.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And I know that they are good.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>And that we owe them one -- my family does.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So, now, I think of this place. And its people. And the pier, reaching out into the ocean. And I hope that what makes it special remains so, and recovers from whatever the days ahead hold.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And I pray for them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For strength. For safety. And for warmth.</span></div>
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Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-65570035200484833422018-02-07T19:07:00.000-05:002018-02-07T19:34:01.317-05:00Real People and Pearls in the Crescent City<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He reached into his pocket between spoons of etouffee and
leaned over to us, showing the picture on his phone of the fish he’d caught
that morning. What kind of fish is that, I asked, knowing a thing or two about
the practice and the appropriate questions.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“That there is a redfish,” he said in low tone muddled with
an accent, nodding and grinning in one motion. He was young and thin and had a stiff-capped
baseball hat, turned to one side.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On the phone the fish was splayed out on the ground next to
his boot – footwear included for scale, I assume. Then he wiped his finger on a
napkin and swiped his screen, revealing an even bigger redfish next to the same
boot. It was at least twice the length of the shoe, it’s white belly bulging a
bit and the rest of it emitting a rusty hue beneath its long dorsal fin.</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">What did you catch it on, I asked. A rod he said. And I said,
no, I mean what lure. So much for me knowing the right questions.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Just a shad,” I think he said, pulling his phone back and
picking up the utensil again with his free hand and digging back into his first
course as we waited for ours to arrive.</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCqmkaZDUvu_YLjas9Rq5m8u6BOSghQB2VLUMn9U_NtoLEfEZfkWGBOkNiCW85pgE0WZgHrtdgzhnr-VqO8Ter46KL14T3AiJgDzFK6jav6Gf6xNPrObvtiSRlh8GF0KgIGGxYzneZYqY/s1600/ACME_Michael.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1575" data-original-width="1600" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCqmkaZDUvu_YLjas9Rq5m8u6BOSghQB2VLUMn9U_NtoLEfEZfkWGBOkNiCW85pgE0WZgHrtdgzhnr-VqO8Ter46KL14T3AiJgDzFK6jav6Gf6xNPrObvtiSRlh8GF0KgIGGxYzneZYqY/s400/ACME_Michael.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was loud and crowded in the restaurant, a dark space with neon lit
signs on the walls and costumed customers at each table, and a long line out
front of people waiting to get inside -- a line we skipped for the most part by
having a small party and opting to sit at the bar.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And it was unlike any bar we’re used to. Instead of the
makings of drinks and liquor bottles behind it, this bar was perched over sinks
packed with unopened oysters where three men in black shirts and red aprons, donning gloves and wielding
blunt blades, stood and shucked all night long.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The oyster shucker in front of us, named Michael, was
also our waiter and our wisecracking host. He saw the exchange about the
redfish between my wife and I and the other customer, and he put his knife down for a second, “You catch something today, Dee.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The way they addressed
each other breathed of familiarity, with knowing nods and grins preceding the
words.</span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Shore did,” Dee boasted with the subtle pride of a decent fisherman, turning the screen in
Michael’s direction. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He bent over the sinks for a better view, the light from
the screen illuminating his face for a moment. His brown eyes widening at the
image on the phone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Wow-wee,” Michael exclaimed.</span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“You put a plate under dat and it’ll cost you twenty-two dollars,” Dee
said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Or more than that,” Michael laughed, flashing the big bright smile we
saw quite often during our brief time at the Acme Oyster House. Then, he was
back to shucking.</span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He grabbed another black, stone-like lump from the pile in
the sink, placed one angle of it down momentarily in a small, warn metal vice. Then his knife hand prodded and pried at the up-facing edge, almost instantly he
popped off the top half of the shell, discarding it down a waste hole in the countertop, revealing the pale silky flesh of one of the most sought after culinary
treats in the world. He then slid the knife underneath the meat, to make sure
it was free from the bottom shell and placed both oyster and shell on a metal tray. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then he did it again. And again. And again, all while taking orders, fetching drinks, and greeting
customers as they came in with jokes and wise comments. When one purple, green, and gold festooned woman upset
about waiting in line with her party of ten came in asking for the manager,
Michael flashed his smile again and said, “I’m the manager.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He wasn’t the manager, he confided in us after she went back
outside slightly appeased that her impatience was acknowledged. We figured
he wasn’t, because of his youth and the mountain of shells before him. But,
based on his skill and ease, he could’ve been.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In our brief time at the counter, eating oysters, raw and
chargrilled, and crawfish ettoufee and bread, and having a few drinks, Michael
shucked more oysters than we could count, several trays full and a few plates,
too, as needed for those wanting to eat them raw, for which the place has been renowned for more than 100 years. The others were bound for the grill or the fryer or some other concoction. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He told us
he shucked close to 1500 a night, as he grabbed another giant mesh bags of the unopened
shells from a crate below the counter and dumped it into the sinks, a new pile
to be worked. And he’d been doing this job for four years.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The math on the number of oysters tumbled through my head,
and I got lost in it for a moment. That’s a lot of years of prying and plating
and playing jokes on the customers of this little restaurant with a big
reputation. And, I imagine he was smiling the whole time.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As we ate and drank and watched him work, while next to us Dee
ate his main course, Michael’s smile infected us. I wondered about his story
and his life, and how long one could shuck oysters for a living.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We certainly enjoyed our first night out in the Big
Easy, and our oyster shucker had another treat for us.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Well, lookee here,” Michael exclaimed, after his hands and
knife had worked over another, prying and gliding without pause. He tipped the opened oyster on it's side and a small pearl fell onto his hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He reached across the divide between us and handed it to my wife. It
was small and dark, not like a pearl you see on a necklace.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Does that happen often, my wife asked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“About once every few weeks,” Michael smiled, as he grabbed another
oyster to start again.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“That’s pretty cool,” nodded Dee, just finishing a plate of
twelve chargrilled.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We nodded back, as the math tumbled around in my head some
more. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Pretty cool, indeed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"><br /></span>
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<em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">Here's other articles you
may enjoy: </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2015/03/learning-lesson-from-little-boy.html#.Vstdbc8UXgw"><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">Learning Lessons from a Little Boy</span></span></em></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">, </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/09/one-smiling-moment-real-story-behind.html#.Vs3bM88UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">One Smiling Moment -- The Truth Behind
an Okay Photo</span></span></i></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">, </span></em><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">a<em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">nd </span></em></span></i><span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/02/to-lost-little-girl-in-dc-watching-you.html#.Vs8sms8UVWw"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">To
the Lost Little Girl in DC: Watching You Find Your Mom Made My Day</span></i></a><span style="margin: 0px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><u>.</u></span></i></span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"></span></i><br />
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Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-16056877462156486952018-02-01T15:13:00.001-05:002018-02-07T11:50:58.422-05:00Making Good on a Promise at Mardi Gras<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It only took 13 years for me to keep up my end of the bargain,
but a promise is a promise.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Back in 2005, when my wife and I first moved from Washington,
D.C, to Upstate New York, she made me promise that we’d go someplace warm in
February as a way to deal with the long, cold, snowy, unrelenting winters.
Unrelenting is her word.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She likely meant every February. But it didn’t work out
that way. We had just one young daughter at the time, and I took a job for a state
legislator, and it just so happened that January through June is the natural busy
season for the legislature.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then we started having more kids. And those kids started going
to school. And the one week each February they had off from said school – a thing in
New York known as the winter break – just happens to be the busiest and most
expensive time of year to travel away from Syracuse in a mode of transportation
that could get your and your kids someplace warm fast without losing your
sanity.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So, every February since then, we’ve hunkered down in Syracuse
and worked while waiting for winter to pass. Luckily for me, my wife has a good
memory when it comes to things like promises. And every February, she reminds
me of the fateful day that I shook my head yes and accepted her one request on
the great move north.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s not like we never go anyplace warm, ever. We just have
always waited until the end of the school year. A few times, we have piled
in the car and made it as far as Washington, D.C., in February to visit my wife’s sister, her husband and
the growing troupe of cousins there. But Washington in winter doesn’t count
as someplace warm. Trust me. I’ve tried to make the case and lost. It’s warmer,
but not actually warm. </span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi48Tbh4iDkPWuZM-yOYeR-tZM2ngyYlfvmZhmXkzqw-n7gqVKw9R_fnMlfHeyOHDOZyWad3NMY-XpRYqfDDoenvpWRDcS3cLBK7onMd8oDxLgj-BD2jHw4Qa1-LYdxj43nU8gIXtteyUE/s1600/Nola2018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi48Tbh4iDkPWuZM-yOYeR-tZM2ngyYlfvmZhmXkzqw-n7gqVKw9R_fnMlfHeyOHDOZyWad3NMY-XpRYqfDDoenvpWRDcS3cLBK7onMd8oDxLgj-BD2jHw4Qa1-LYdxj43nU8gIXtteyUE/s320/Nola2018.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was over 70 degrees in NOLA today. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We did go to Florida with the kids once, but that was in
November after an election and before the depths and true depression of an
upstate New York winter take hold, turning everyone into Jack Nicholson in the
Shining. The November trip didn’t count. And as much as I’d hoped we’d make that
a regular thing, and get our warm trip in slightly outside the set parameters of winter,
we have yet to go back. We want to, but the whole kids/time/money grid never
quite aligns properly to make Florida a regular thing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In any event, between 2005 and 2017, we never took a trip to
someplace warm in February. I was 0 for 12.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This year, that has changed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And to top it off, we’re doing it without the kids. (Sorry,
offspring. I promise to take you next time -- whatever that is worth).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This morning, we got on a plane in the wee hours of the
morning and we lifted off toward the south and away from all the snow, with our
final destination in the much warmer climate of New Orleans. It’s not exactly the
Caribbean, but I hear it’s a fine place to be – especially in February. Something to do with an approaching religious holiday.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There is a catch, of course. And here it is.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2UDs1TKhLQuZ66t0aGxYaxyk3hnarT9m60rXYp5sGPDfYBAVADuAcsUVb2O-LPKRHWKm4hFVScU_QBBASVs_sESOGk277oEBhMmcYYK1Kg3IZfEH6n53MKa4YI90x0mdINGXDc26bhtM/s1600/IMG_6503.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2UDs1TKhLQuZ66t0aGxYaxyk3hnarT9m60rXYp5sGPDfYBAVADuAcsUVb2O-LPKRHWKm4hFVScU_QBBASVs_sESOGk277oEBhMmcYYK1Kg3IZfEH6n53MKa4YI90x0mdINGXDc26bhtM/s400/IMG_6503.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We are going to New Orleans not out of the goodness of my
heart, nor because I’m turning over a new leaf in the promise-keeping category
(I do happen to keep most promises), nor even to just thaw out. We are going because
the annual dad blogger conference, the internationally-acclaimed Dad 2.0 Summit,
is being held there this year.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You might remember the Dad 2.0 Summit from a past post, <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2016/02/how-to-make-virtual-friends-and-find.html#.WnNyaExFxPY" target="_blank">How to Make Virtual Friends and Find Your Tribe</a>. Though it’s more likely you didn’t read that one – based on google
analytics and this math thing called probability.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But, either way, it’s a conference I’ve gone to in the past and
enjoyed immensely. And, if you did happen to read that other post you’d also know this conference
brings together a strong community of writers and friends of which I’m proud to
be a member.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Of course, you may also have noticed that I’m really not much
of a blogger these days. I haven’t posted since November, and that was one of
only a handful from all of last year. I’m also not vane enough to think anyone
notices when I don’t write. Though I did have one guy see me and say, relieved,
“You haven’t posted lately, and I was worried something happened to you.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Like if I croaked, the only way people would know is that
this blog went dark. Kind of a back-handed compliment, but I’ll take it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The truth is, I was never much of a blogger to begin with. I
learned that joining this community of dad bloggers and meeting guys who have
thousands, tens of thousands, and even hundreds of thousands of followers. If
you look at the nifty, little Facebook plugin on the right side of this post,
you’ll see I’ve got about 500, most of which are there because they are
related to me or were pressured into liking my page by yours truly. Some are
there for both reasons -- thanks, mom.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But, my insignificance in the blogging world doesn’t matter.
Not this weekend. Because, this group of dads and writers and content producers
are my friends. Some of them are a big deal in the “social media influencer”
world. And some are just struggling writers like me with enough savvy to set up a
blogger account. (That takes zero tech savvy, by the way). And some of them
even read this dumb little blog of mine.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As an added bonus, this blog and this conference have helped
me finally make good on that promise I made 13 years ago.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Our plan is simple: I'm going to attend most conference events. And she and I will hang out together around those events and in the days before and after the summit. When I’m not around, she’ll just bask in the warmth.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So, let the record state that over the next few days, my
wife and I will be enjoying someplace warm in February, finally. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">(Don’t tell her, but the forecast for Saturday says it’ll be
in the 50s. Yikes. I hope she packed a jacket). </span><span style="font-family: "verdana";"><br /></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">Like the article?
Here's others you may enjoy: </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2015/01/new-year-few-expactations.html#.VsteJM8UXgw"><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">New Year, Few Expectations</span></span></em></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">,
</span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2013/10/one-fish-two-fish-dead-fish-new-fish.html#.Vs8uBM8UVWw"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">One
Fish, Two Fish, Dead Fish, New Fish</span></span></i></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"> and </span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/03/vegas-baby.html#.Vs3ias8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">Kid Quotes from a Family Hike.</span></span></i></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"> </span></i><br />
</span><br />
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<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-86849935816467728472017-11-27T22:49:00.002-05:002017-12-19T14:34:11.072-05:00Dashing Dreams in the Drop-Off Line<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It began with an innocuous radio ad on a trip to the
middle school at 7:50 a.m.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My daughter had missed the bus. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As always, she changed the station before I had the car in
drive, from NPR to Top 40. Our fingers fought over the presets, calling a truce
on the light rock one playing holiday music for the coming weeks. It’s a game we
play.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then the song ended, and some auto ad said something about “financing
available.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“What’s financing?” She asked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I turned the dial down. I relish conversations like this,
held in cold cars on grey mornings with kids who’ve missed the bus.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“It’s when you take time to pay for something,” I replied,
conjuring up a good way to describe this complicated aspect of life as an adult.
“Say you want to buy something for $1000, but you don’t have $1000. You can arrange
to pay $100 a month.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Oh,” she nodded, as our familiar path took us down a side
street, past our church, and toward the big school with the white columns.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“But the catch is that, you don’t pay for 10 months, you pay
it for like 12. So, you end up paying $1200 dollars for a thing that cost
$1000.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“What?!” she exclaimed. “And people do that on purpose?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Yes.” Though I’m impressed she finds the concept off-putting.
“It’s called paying interest, and it’s why it’s important that you study math
in school.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“That’s just adding and multiplying,” she began, laying the
ground for a question all kids ask at some point. “Why does anybody need to
learn algebra?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She’s good at math, by all accounts. So, I wondered where
this came from on this particular morning commute. I explain that Algebra
teaches problem solving; It teaches logic. I tell her that if she wants to be an
engineer or a scientist, a doctor or a nurse, she’s going to need to know lots
of math, and it starts with algebra.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">With thoughts of life beyond school in the air, our car
makes the turn into the parking lot and begins the dreadfully slow crawl
that is the morning drop-off line.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She seizes the moment we’ve created.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“That’s why I want to be a professional soccer player.” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s a dream she’s held for some time, recently turning it into
her standard answer for what she wants to be when she grows up. I love it about
her. But I also know it’s not terribly realistic. I say that not based on her
skill, or her drive, or her work-ethic, but just based on, well, math.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Very few kids grow up to be professional soccer players.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’ve wondered for a while when she was going to grow out of
this dream, not wanting to rush it but also not want it to hurt too bad when it
happens. This wasn’t the time I’d imagined. But, on this morning, my filter
failed to function, and the truth stumbled out of my mouth.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“You should probably have a backup plan,” I say, too easily for the
daggers it contained. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“What?” she shrieked, aghast at my bluntness and lack of faith.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Well, it’s just not many people play professional soccer.” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She stared straight ahead, and I saw the look on a kid’s
face when her dad heartlessly dashes her dreams in the drop-off line at middle
school. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In defense, it wasn’t heartless. It hurt me to say it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I tried to backpedal, telling her that if she wants to be a
professional soccer player, she should start playing soccer every day in the
yard rather than hanging in her room on her cell phone. I wasn’t saying I wanted
her to do that – though I’d prefer it -- I was saying, if she wants to that’s
what she needs to do. It was my version of tough love. And it felt cruel.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDF0afmDOYN050rGwUWW_PQaFsbAUl7ggqBVE3uKihLLNgDTFxz0fp14FTMgY8mPARacF7YQ0lZtkF7xOcT5rJVvn9Z_-H9lKAZ1VJ-ntRiX3sSXZUzoPdzpm_gubNNiWxqN8XXrj6itA/s1600/IMG_5826.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDF0afmDOYN050rGwUWW_PQaFsbAUl7ggqBVE3uKihLLNgDTFxz0fp14FTMgY8mPARacF7YQ0lZtkF7xOcT5rJVvn9Z_-H9lKAZ1VJ-ntRiX3sSXZUzoPdzpm_gubNNiWxqN8XXrj6itA/s400/IMG_5826.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My middle-schooler, atop a medium-sized mountain. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But the subject touched on something I’ve struggle with of
late:<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>the parental desire to balance the
myth we tell our kids from the time they are born – that they can be anything
they want – with the reality of life.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’ve wondered of late about the usefulness of reasonable expectations,
and whether a dose of realism early on could contribute to long-term happiness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We say we all want our kids to dream big. And that’s what we
train them all to do. And for some, those dreams come true. A very few. For most,
the dreams don’t happen – at least not the way they expect. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I often wonder if the bigness of our kids’ dreams isn’t creating
adults who fail to find contentment in their decidedly mediocre lives.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I don’t mean mediocre as in bad. I mean mediocre as in
normal – no excessive fame, no ridiculous wealth, no millions of followers on Instagram.
Just a happy, normal, mediocre life.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Maybe we should encourage our kids to dream medium.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It doesn’t sound as catchy, it won't sell a ton of inspirational cat posters, and it sure wouldn't make for a particularly
compelling moral to a new Disney movie, but it might make more sense.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">These thoughts all tumbled through my mind as we crept along
in the middle school parking lot waiting our turn to disperse into our day, her
to school and I to work.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She sat quietly. Staring at the car ahead and refusing to
get out until we were closer to the door, despite the sign saying student drop-off
started three car-lengths back.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I didn’t want her to go. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I also don’t want her to let go of her dream.
Not yet.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“I’m sorry,” I said, as she finally opened the door and
pulled at her backpack.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She shrugged. “It’s okay.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then she departed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I hate math.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Don’t get me wrong. I do want my kids to dream big and to want
to do great things. I hope all their dreams come true. But, more than anything,
I want them to be happy. Content. Satisfied. I don’t need any of them to be professional
soccer players, or Astronauts, or YouTube stars. I just want them to feel gratified
in the life they live.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That’s my big, medium parental dream. And there’s nothing mediocre
about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana";">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2016/02/how-to-make-virtual-friends-and-find.html"></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #4a4a4a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 9pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></i><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">Here's other articles you may enjoy:</span></em><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">
</span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/10/5-signs-your-child-has-become-tweener_19.html#.Vs8rj88UVWw"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">5
Signs Your Child Has Become a “Tweener”</span></span></i></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">, </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2013/11/my-kid-wants-phone-and-i-dont-know-what.html#.Vs8ulM8UVWw"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">My
Kid Wants and iPhone, and I Don’t Know What To Do,</span></span></i></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"> </span></em><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">a<em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">nd </span></em></span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2015/03/learning-lesson-from-little-boy.html#.Vstdbc8UXgw"><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">Learning Lessons from a Little Boy</span></span></em></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; margin: 0px;">.</span></em><br />
</span>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-91643467392670268482017-11-16T11:30:00.000-05:002019-02-08T12:26:38.490-05:00Who In Their Right Mind Plays Basketball at Five in the Morning? Answer: Dads do. <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Dad, I hope I never get to the point where the only time I can
hang out with my friends is at 5:45 in the morning.”</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My daughter said that to me recently. And there’s a reason.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We were discussing the fact that, for the better part of the past year, a group
of dads and I -- all in our mid-30s to mid-40s – have been meeting at the local
YMCA at 5:45 a.m. one day a week to play basketball. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That’s right. I said 5:45 a.m. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That’s the official tip-off time. We play for about 45
minutes (exactly 45 minutes, according to the official dad-timekeeper’s watch,
to be precise), finishing and parting ways by 6:30 a.m.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZXZCSn6bVRbjMQDmaWBOHlYRNCSYF896els4iiwz6mwUnlV-ES1XKjiWEsQ-5KRBduJ57naypKC7PeDXwG-d-jTNb72d4HQXUAgjg9rdZW7J4SYj3GpJLxnMBTmB80cAPad9daP-iy0Q/s1600/Basketball.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZXZCSn6bVRbjMQDmaWBOHlYRNCSYF896els4iiwz6mwUnlV-ES1XKjiWEsQ-5KRBduJ57naypKC7PeDXwG-d-jTNb72d4HQXUAgjg9rdZW7J4SYj3GpJLxnMBTmB80cAPad9daP-iy0Q/s400/Basketball.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
I wish I was a little bit taller, </div>
<div>
I wish I was a baller...</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For the record, basketball is not my sport. Soccer, yes.
Lacrosse, maybe. But when it comes to basketball, I kind of suck. I’m short,
relatively speaking. And even if I’m taller than some people, I can’t jump very
high. Oh, and I have no aim. In fact, while some people shoot 30 percent from
behind the arc, and that’s considered a good thing, I shoot about 30 percent
from underneath the basket. Layups. That’s not considered a good thing. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If you’re old enough, you likely remember those commercials
for the U.S. Army: “We do more before 9 a.m. than most people do all day.” We
could have similar commercials, though they’d be more like: “We miss more
layups by 7 a.m. than most people miss all year.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I say that in jest, because not all of us are bad at
basketball. In fact, a few of us are quite good -- one of us, in particular. (Let me stress: I am not that person).</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But, in a weird way, it doesn’t really matter. Every
Thursday, whether we’re going to make all our shots or none of our shots, we
gather at this ungodly hour under the baskets at the local YMCA, when our kids, wives and most normal people are deep in their dreams or hitting the snooze, and we break
up into teams, and we play. Because, that’s when we can. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Since we started playing, I’ve heard lots of stories about
other groups like ours who gather in other gyms on other mornings and play
before the sun comes up. I’d bet that, across the country, at any early morning
moment, there is likely a group of almost middle aged men playing morning
basketball in most towns. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And there’s a reason for that, too. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Anyone who has a kid or two or five knows the challenge most parents
face when it comes to both having a social life and staying in shape. The challenge being,
when exactly do we have time for either? </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Despite the Instagram post of some within our cohort showing
both six-pack abs and well-adjusted kids, most parents with children in the home
suffer from friend-time/workout-time/space-time constraints.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There is no time for much of anything outside of what we must do. Between work and parenting, making meals and driving kids
around, and, of course, sleeping, what is left, really? Heck, my wife and I
are pleased with ourselves to even shower each day.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For many years, I just suffered through this lack of
personal time.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then, a couple of years back, I was told by some doctor that
if I intended to suffer through as many years as I wanted to, I had to start
working out more regularly. And, soon after, I discovered that the only time I
had to do that – or anything other than work – was between 5:00 and 6:45 a.m. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So that’s what I did. I started waking up a few days a week and getting in a workout before the rest of the world awoke. It began as personal workout time, and still mostly is: running on the treadmill, riding the stationary bike, or wandering around the
weight room trying to look like I belong there. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now, some mornings it involves a team sport I’m not all that good at.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Despite the ridiculous hour, we always have enough willing
participants to make a game of it. Most often we play 4 v. 4, pulling from a
pool of about 10 dads.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Some days we play
3 v. 3. Occasionally, we play uneven teams, like 3 v. 4,
with that one really good guy on the lesser-numbered team. And that team
usually wins, anyway. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But again, it kind of doesn’t matter. Because, it’s 5:45 in
the morning, we’re getting in a workout, there are no kids around, and we’re among friends. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And, by the way, it’s often the most fun 45 minutes I have
all week. That’s not meant as an insult to the other 10,035 minutes in the
week. But it is fun, despite the significant scars to the ego caused by so many missed
layups. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So fun that I often leave wishing we played every day. Not
that I’m suggesting we do. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Because I also like to sleep. And 5:45 a.m. is pretty
stinking early.</span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-46520098440991998662017-11-01T23:28:00.001-04:002017-11-10T21:38:23.336-05:00A high schooler. Let that sink in.<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s been two months, so the reality of the situation has
taken hold, and I finally have the strength to write these words without feeling like I’m in a
bad dream: We have a high school student living in our house.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And she’s our daughter.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our wee first child, who I remember being born and a thousand other
little kid things since. That precocious little blonde who could count to 16
before she was two, and said “actually” so clearly and so often as a toddler
that we knew we were in trouble early: she’s officially a freshman.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Which makes me officially old. It makes all my old friends
officially old too, and some of them are taking it harder than I am.</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiumhhAyQdRAJqGvfVDFf8i05tGtjnlHDB0dGz0gfWRp0BHi8T9V3HTF66rrs7WNhMmgKib0byxQbrcgUX0h939EFf5lmnJKoudZxgM2RvlD-YLyKJ_oIeJpyO7hle21kaTykYclzMqd8/s1600/IMG_5398.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiumhhAyQdRAJqGvfVDFf8i05tGtjnlHDB0dGz0gfWRp0BHi8T9V3HTF66rrs7WNhMmgKib0byxQbrcgUX0h939EFf5lmnJKoudZxgM2RvlD-YLyKJ_oIeJpyO7hle21kaTykYclzMqd8/s320/IMG_5398.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I almost accidentally kicked this sign. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">But I didn't.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It really hit me when she went to her first homecoming game
under the lights at the high school football stadium. The rest of us attended,
too, though we promised not to acknowledge her. It hit me then because, while I don’t
recall much about my freshman year, I remember my first homecoming game. It
was rainy and cool and smelled of popcorn. We were under the lights of our much smaller stadium with all the new
friends I’ve lost touch with in the decades since. It was a blast. At least, I
thought it was at the time.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And i<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">t</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">really wasn’t that long ago. Honestly.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The weird thing is that, as she begins this adventurous time
in every young person’s life, all I can think about is the next looming
milestone: college. That’s what gets me. Oh my god. She’s going to be in
college soon. Like sooner than how long ago she was in elementary school, which
wasn’t that long ago.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">College, like leaving the nest, and moving out, and getting away
from this whole family of ours. And that makes me want to put my head in my
hands and wail. I miss her already.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And how are we going to afford that, anyway? A thought that
makes me stop wanting to cry and start wanting to hyperventilate.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">WTF is she doing to us, growing up and causing all this
pain, self-reflection and general regret that all these years have slipped
through our fingers forever.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But she doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. She’s
having the time of her life, attending high school football games, taking honors
courses I would certainly fail, and going to things like Improv Club.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Improv Club? Really. We didn’t have clubs like that at my
school. God I wish we did.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I also had a lunch break. Which she doesn’t, and for the
life of me I can’t figure that one out.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Maybe it’s because she goes to a school that has way too many
Type A parents, or something, but most kids at her school don’t take a lunch.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>And that’s not a typo. They don’t have a
lunch break in their daily schedule. They grab and go, eating in art, or study hall,
or some other elective that’s supposed to make them more desirable to some
college admissions officer.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">No lunch?! Whoever heard of such a thing? And w</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">hy exactly are they doing this? Preparing
these kids for a life of eating at their desk and working through dinner? Besides,
if they are never in the school cafeteria, when is the big musical number supposed
to happen? When are they going to stand up to the big school bully and dump his
(or her) tray of food all over their letterman sweater?</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Seriously. I couldn’t have survived without a lunch. Still can't. Nor would I
want to.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I have half a mind to pull her out of that darn school and
start teaching her myself. I remember algebra, a little. I’m sure we could
figure it out together. ("Dad, algebra was 8th grade. I'm taking geometry now"). </span></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Fine. I’ll just have to quit my job and brush up on a few
other subjects. And then we could also have lunch together. And we could keep
her here and protect our wee little girl from all those mean people in the world
who don’t even want her to eat.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That could work.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">.<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">.. Or maybe it couldn’t.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Maybe this is all part of the parenting gig. This bitter
sweet job that you wish away half the time, and yet never get enough of. Maybe letting go is part of the art
form.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m just not ready.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I guess I’m fine with high school. Sort of. But not college.
Not yet.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t even want to think about that.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><em><span style="margin: 0px;">Here's other articles you
may enjoy:</span></em><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/10/5-signs-your-child-has-become-tweener_19.html#.Vs8rj88UVWw"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">5
Signs Your Child Has Become a “Tweener”</span></span></i></a><em><span style="margin: 0px;">, </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2013/11/my-kid-wants-phone-and-i-dont-know-what.html#.Vs8ulM8UVWw"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">My
Kid Wants and iPhone, and I Don’t Know What To Do,</span></span></i></a><em><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></em><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;">a<em><span style="margin: 0px;">nd </span></em></span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2015/03/learning-lesson-from-little-boy.html#.Vstdbc8UXgw"><em><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;">Learning Lessons from a Little Boy</span></span></em></a><em><span style="margin: 0px;">.</span></em></span></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /></span></div>
Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-1930217288319244772017-05-22T08:17:00.003-04:002018-11-30T16:47:16.710-05:00A Brief Rant, Because I Can't Take It Any S'more!<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">With campfire season upon us, it’s time we had a straight-forward
talk about something that’s been bugging me more and more in recent years. I’m
talking about s’mores, specifically the frequency with which these traditional campfire
treats are concocted for our increasingly spoiled children. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It used to be that you had a campfire to have a campfire. That
was the reason. Occasionally, once the initial excitement of starting the fire
and the pure awe of the fire itself had begun to wane, some well-organized
parent would announce that they’d brought the various ingredients for s’mores. People
would cheer and then search for appropriately long and thin sticks. This was
not an every fire thing, but only at the special occasion campfire.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It doesn’t work like that anymore.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now, s’mores have become a seemingly necessary part of every
darn fire, ever. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If there is burning
wood in a pile with people sitting around it and children in the vicinity, the
kids expect there to be some s’mores. If not, they will be downright disappointed.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">S’mores are not special anymore, but required.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s gotten so bad that we even have fires for the sole
purpose of making the s’mores.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">
</span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFYtgjz-ETx25QEYdAa2doZMUE9Wd5ZGWAQRUGcfLb_3hbwizyBW33vaTFH3YSsIN8oSi6zJQ9hl48Hz3sJV54FCkGRphDGluXSB-SAmM_Y9RYEYClGxJPOxQI3YJbpUVc_b0cAK9Els/s1600/IMG_0847.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFYtgjz-ETx25QEYdAa2doZMUE9Wd5ZGWAQRUGcfLb_3hbwizyBW33vaTFH3YSsIN8oSi6zJQ9hl48Hz3sJV54FCkGRphDGluXSB-SAmM_Y9RYEYClGxJPOxQI3YJbpUVc_b0cAK9Els/s400/IMG_0847.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">And what's with the spelling? "S" Apostrophe? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">It's just annoying.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">BTW, that marshmallow is done. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Two parties I’ve attended in recent weeks ended the exact
same way. At some point as the evening wore on, the host announced that they’d
bought the ingredients for s’mores. There was no campfire when they announced
this. The kids all got excited, of course, and I’m looking around saying, but
there’s no fire?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Let that sink in. Rather than busting out the s’more
ingredients at an existing campfire, they busted out the ingredients and said it
lets go make a fire so we can cook these ingredients.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">This is just wrong.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">What’s worse, these were the first two campfires of the long
spring and summer campfire season, and already my kids have had s’mores twice. TWICE!
</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Thinking back, we were lucky if we had s’mores
twice a summer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">I blame the parents, as always.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">You see, us parents fondly remember that time we had s’mores a few
decades ago at that one fire, and now we try to give our kids that same
experience every gosh darn time. I add it to all the other ways parents these
days go way overboard to the detriment of everything decent, including our sanity.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">But here’s the other
problem. S’mores kind of suck. And most people don’t even like them that much.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Think about it. You’ve got three ingredients. First you've got the marshmallows, which
are quite disgusting both in form and in substance. Do you know what they are
made from? Sugar, water and … gelatin. Look that one up. It’s a made from a
substance found in animal bones. Puffy, white mashed-up animal bones.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Then you’ve got graham crackers, which are pretty much
toddler food. Sure, they’re good crushed and turned into a crust under cheesecake.
But when’s the last time you saw someone eating a graham cracker who wasn’t teething.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">And, of course, you’ve got the chocolate. Everybody loves
chocolate. But if you think about it even more, the least tasty way to indulge in
chocolate is probably within a s’more.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">It just so happens that at both of these parties – and at
most campfire parties that I attend – the s’more supervision parental duties got
left to me. That’s because I’m a bit of a safety freak, and for some reason I
get nervous when twenty kids between the age of 2 and 14 gather around an open
pit brandishing sticks that often turn into marshmallow torches, always to the
shock of everyone involved.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">“OMG! Your marshmallow is on fire!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">No crap. They were sticking it in the flame for the last
three minutes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">And of course, in every bunch there’s at least one little
pyro who tells you how much they like the burnt ones. It’s a lie. They just
like burning stuff and pay the price of eating a burnt marshmallow for the rush.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">As always, once the s’mores making frenzy is underway all
chance of me relaxing to hypnotic dance of flames is extinguished. In its place,
there’s left a few fights over the best stick, mild corrections for kids who cook
too close to the flame or too far above it, and, of course, don’t
forget the warm, gummy bizarre animal byproduct that covers everything from your fingers to your chair to your beer can to your daughter's hair.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Most of the kids don’t even eat the darn s'mores. They take a
bite or two, and then purposely drop it in the dirt and demand another one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">A kid at one of the parties who’d half eaten three of the
concoctions before conveniently dropping them, came up to me and asked for
another.</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">I told her, rather than make another
s’more, how about you just burn a marshmallow on a stick and eat some of this
here rapidly softening chocolate. She agreed to the plan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Because that’s really the only good part about s’mores, isn’t
it? Eating chocolate and burning stuff.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">I know I’m outnumbered. But I vote to eliminate this whole s’mores
thing and get back to having a fire for the fire’s sake.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">If you want to bring some chocolate, fine. But
let’s dial back the s’mores. Okay, people?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Here's other articles you may enjoy: </span></em><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/03/vegas-baby.html#.Vs3ias8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Vegas,
Baby!</span></i></a></span><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">, </span></em><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/04/dog-responds-to-mystery-poo-false.html#.Vs3h9M8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dog
Responds to "Mystery Poo" False Accusations</span></i></a></span><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">, and </span></em><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2013/11/tip-of-hat-to-single-parents-and-thanks.html#.VstfHM8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tip
of the Hat to Single Parents, and Thanks to My Backup,</span></i></a></span></span>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-36799985106514899262017-04-07T01:56:00.003-04:002019-03-27T13:38:47.703-04:00Overcoming Dad-Solation, One Sketch at a Time<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In a little
less than twenty-four hours, the lights will dim, the curtains will rise, and a
bunch of full-grown men with school-aged children will don various costumes, caveman
outfits, star wars regalia, and women’s dresses to take the stage for an hour-and-a-half long sketch comedy show.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s known around
these parts simply as Dad’s Night. And it’s become something of a tradition at
our local elementary school.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Frankly, it is awesome.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Weird; but awesome.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A lot of ink
has been spilt recently about the plight of middle-aged dads in America. This
is not always a group that warrants the most public empathy. But everyone has
their struggle.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For many dads it
includes the trouble we face balancing work and parenting and friendships. The
last of this series is often the one that loses out. That’s because, in the
modern hierarchy, it’s the least important. We need our jobs, for sure. And our
families matter more than anything. So our friends become expendable.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpdoZZYT60oWZ9SABU5UsAwQzLumFntEkcORlj0spP-WTKm9nyzlFOAGeUzmiN_dBmEjJijZjO_A_pRSEluMllQ8IYNcuk7u8WrpVr5tt23JNoqfX1K7CKE4NJIdxfRBnx5EpBxOjuN8E/s1600/dadsnight.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpdoZZYT60oWZ9SABU5UsAwQzLumFntEkcORlj0spP-WTKm9nyzlFOAGeUzmiN_dBmEjJijZjO_A_pRSEluMllQ8IYNcuk7u8WrpVr5tt23JNoqfX1K7CKE4NJIdxfRBnx5EpBxOjuN8E/s400/dadsnight.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Five dad's in dresses.<br />
It's for the children.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Nobody tells
you this before you have kids, but many men who are dads have few actual friends.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We don’t choose
to disregard our friendships, necessarily. It just happens. Between jumping on conference
calls, attending soccer practices, and needing to sleep every damn day, our time
for friends simply disappears.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.bostonglobe.com/magazine/2017/03/09/the-biggest-threat-facing-middle-age-men-isn-smoking-obesity-loneliness/k6saC9FnnHQCUbf5mJ8okL/story.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">An article in the Boston Globe</span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> by Billy Baker summed this subject up well when
he wrote:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“When people with children
become overscheduled, they don’t shortchange their children, they shortchange
their friendships.” </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s true.
Parenting can cause a distinct kind of loneliness. Even if you truly love and
enjoy the company of your spouse, you can still be lonely together. I’ve
written about this subject before (</span><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2016/02/how-to-make-virtual-friends-and-find.html#.WOcJgmegvXg" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">here</span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
and </span><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2015/05/facing-fears-and-gaining-friends-in.html#.WOcJo2egvXi" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">here</span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">),
though not as eloquently as Mr. Baker.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And yet, we
also know that friends are important.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The reality
is that we are social beings. We like being around other people. We need
friends and friend groups. Without them, the trials and challenges of life and parenting
can wear on us, mentally and physically.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Women face
similar challenges as men, no doubt. But if you’ve ever watched the group of
parents picking up kids at an after school event, you’ll notice that the moms talk
like they know each other well, and the dads all just nod and move on.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I so related
to Billy Baker’s article that I dropped him a note. As a one-time columnist, I
know how rarely people who agree with you send such notes. Mostly, it’s the people
who hate your guts because of the opinions you’ve shared that write. So I wrote
Billy, and he wrote back.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I won’t share
what he wrote, because I was never that kind of columnist. But he was impressed
by the bond created through a sketch comedy show at an elementary school.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And it is
kind of profound when you think about it.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Because here’s
the other interesting thing about this subject: It’s not only dads who struggle
with their relationships with dads. Schools struggle with that relationship,
too.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Involving
fathers in the education of kids benefits everyone. Yet, it is elusive. The
same stresses that pull dads from friends, also pull them away from the daily
educational routine. That’s not to say it’s true of all dads, by any means. There
are many dads who serve as the primary parent, or who truly share daily parenting
responsibilities.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I used to be
one of them when I worked at home and did most of the pickups and drop-offs.
Since I returned to the office, my wife does that more often. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But even
when I was the front-line parent – taking kids to dance class after school and
attending all the in-school events I could – I felt the dearth of dads. And, it
was lonesome.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For me, all
that changed when I joined the group of dads who do this once-a-year sketch
comedy show.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And, to be
sure, it’s not just one show. We hold writers meetings starting in the fall. We
practice through the winter. We have dress rehearsals in the spring. Then the
intensity of the actual performance – especially for a group of dads who don't
do that sort of thing typically – creates a unique bond.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We do all of
this for the kids, of course. The running gag being that our involvement with Dad’s
Night often pulls us away from home more than not, and likely drives our wives crazy.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But it is
time well spent. Our kids see and enjoy the fruits of our work. We certainly
fill that critical friend void. And we connect with our kids' school in ways that we usually don't.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now,
everywhere I go in town I see dads I know. We laugh and joke and no longer just
nod hellos at each other. It has changed my world.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’m in my
third year of Dad’s Night. And in less than twenty-four hours, the lights will
dim, the curtains will rise, and my friends and I will don costumes, <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">outfits,
and dresses for a sketch comedy show for our kids.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Every school should do something like this.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It is awesome.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Weird; but awesome.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">Here's other articles you
may enjoy: </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2015/03/learning-lesson-from-little-boy.html#.Vstdbc8UXgw" target="_blank"><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><span style="color: blue;">Learning Lessons from a Little Boy</span></span></em></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">, </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/09/one-smiling-moment-real-story-behind.html#.Vs3bM88UXgw" target="_blank"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><span style="color: blue;">One Smiling Moment -- The Truth Behind an Okay Photo</span></span></i></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">,
</span></em><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">a<em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">nd </span></em></span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/02/to-lost-little-girl-in-dc-watching-you.html#.Vs8sms8UVWw" target="_blank"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><span style="color: blue;">To the Lost Little Girl in DC: Watching You Find Your Mom Made My Day</span></span></i></a><u><span style="color: blue;"><span class="MsoHyperlink"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">.</span></i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></u>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-26079899172544073292017-03-12T01:30:00.001-05:002017-11-19T18:08:07.190-05:00False Summits and Frozen Tears in the Green Mountains<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A thick wire. A pulley.
A row of 40-foot-tall metal posts aligned in the direction of the sky, all hoisting
their load on steep angles up a mountain. And, a bench for two.</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Ski lifts are precarious things.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As I sat in that bench, being levitated up the steepest
incline I’ve ever been on in my decades of going up and down the snow, sitting
next to a 9-year-old who has a fear of heights, I took solace knowing that this
particular ski lift had been around for longer than I had. It was born in 1963.
And it had worked reliably every winter since, taking skiers to the top of the
3,640 foot Madonna Mountain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Longevity in such endeavors brings some level of solace.
Though I also feared that, maybe, the lift's age would betray us on that day.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzy8BKN6WPx79qt19WX36RdSYDLJhZ6mHVxuDkSTuxz5TmejCpZsQ7vHsUIQq5hE99iAGdrRTQQ5dUWdMT9mGx-z-eBzE289DtRxu-OZ6TgCr11V5y_M1UffnX2bxefFR1F5Y4sOtjhBI/s1600/IMG_3811.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzy8BKN6WPx79qt19WX36RdSYDLJhZ6mHVxuDkSTuxz5TmejCpZsQ7vHsUIQq5hE99iAGdrRTQQ5dUWdMT9mGx-z-eBzE289DtRxu-OZ6TgCr11V5y_M1UffnX2bxefFR1F5Y4sOtjhBI/s400/IMG_3811.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This shot gives a sense of the view, <br />
and the steep incline of the Madonna 1 double chair.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I am not exaggerating in saying that the most notable ski
lift at Smugglers' Notch – the Madonna 1 double chair – is also the scariest and most
breathtaking ski lift I’ve ever been on.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We’d long talked about taking the family to this mountain, which
is often cited as one of the best family ski destinations in the east. It's also more affordable than some other Vermont resorts, with a focus on skiing and teaching, and less so on high-speed gondolas and unnecessary amenities. Smuggs
seemed a good fit for us. And not just for the skiing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My sister Amy lives in the shadow of the
peaks that are home to this and other famous ski hills, like Stowe and Jay. From her yard, she can literally see the trails at Smuggs cutting down the north side of the central spine of the Green Mountains. She
has urged us and our other siblings to come visit during the winter season for
many years.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We always wanted to, but weren’t ready to do so as a skiing family –
as evidenced <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/01/lessons-from-slog-at-tog.html#.WMTP_vLXvfc">here</a>.</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> In the past two ski seasons, that changed. As evidenced <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2017/01/bye-bye-bunny-hill-hello-headaches.html#.WMTQV_LXvfc">here</a>,
and <a href="http://www.adirondacklifemag.com/blogs/2016/12/01/snow-days/">here</a>.
(Gosh, you’d think I’m a ski blogger. But I’m not, I swear).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This year, we finally did it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My other sister and my mother organized the trip as a way
for all of us to celebrate Amy’s birthday milestone. I’m not saying what
milestone because she is my younger sister. And its mere mention will likely
make everyone involved feel old.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In all, five of us Ruddy siblings, our spouses, our
offspring, and our parents gathered in a few well-appointed suites near the slopes
of Smuggler’s Notch for a long weekend of skiing, eating, and being together.
Like the age thing, I’m not saying exactly the number of people in the suites,
because we were likely over the fire code, which is typical most places we go. But it was
plenty of room. And it was <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>loads of fun.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was also really freaking cold.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So cold, in fact, that the planned day of skiing – the Saturday
of our weekend visit – didn’t happen because the temperatures were quite low,
and this mythical thing known as the “wind-chill” claimed it was close to zero
Kelvin.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On that day, we found an indoor pool for the kids, went antiquing, met a local artist, took a
fun shopping jaunt to Stowe, and then enjoyed some adult beverages … and did a puzzle
(Don’t ask).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The next day we skied. And despite warnings about the “wind-chill”
again, the sun shone brightly and everyone who wanted to ski did so to their
heart's content, or there about.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Most of our time was spent on the lower, tamer Morse Mountain,
a more manageable array of lifts and slopes that has helped make Smuggs so
well-known as a family place. It’s mostly winding Greens and wide
groomers, and it held our interest until it didn’t.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As we skied Morse as a family – our kids, a few cousins, an aunt
and uncle included – there was another thing drawing our attention: the looming
peak of Madonna Mountain that was never far from our sight.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At the tail end of a good day, we all set out for the lifts
that would take us to the summit of Madonna.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would prove to be the summit of our trip as
well.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As we hurtled our way toward the sky, up and up on Madonna 1,
I convinced my whimpering daughter to just look sideways at the trees. That’s because
every other direction you could turn your eye – down, up, or behind us at the
shrinking landscape of Vermont – could give you instant heart palpitations.</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She chose, instead, to simply close her eyes. Also a smart choice.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Because there was something else about the Madonna 1 lift. Despite
several false peaks that convinced the frightened passengers that the end was
near (in a good way), it kept going, and going, and going.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2rSJ-w3Ruw2ssdAXDzxYM864UEpL4xxYfxF-ePnIjXrQg-4BEqLkiHmXazO76p6GjbvqMc4LuhQCUBQG60rEvX1Mpu7OaEgAdQmZhoYKpLJo1rQ7tbHcNskl5v_9M5Mk9GzoxGXOSwFw/s1600/IMG_3814.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2rSJ-w3Ruw2ssdAXDzxYM864UEpL4xxYfxF-ePnIjXrQg-4BEqLkiHmXazO76p6GjbvqMc4LuhQCUBQG60rEvX1Mpu7OaEgAdQmZhoYKpLJo1rQ7tbHcNskl5v_9M5Mk9GzoxGXOSwFw/s320/IMG_3814.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The last of many false summits before <br />
the actual summit of Madonna Mountain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Shielding her eyes, however, didn’t stop her from hearing
the exclamations from the people in the chair in front of us as they arrived at every false summit, yelling “Oh My God!” when they reached the top of the latest precipice and saw that many hundreds of feet of ascension still waited ahead.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Have I mentioned yet that my daughter inherited her fear of
heights from her father?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On the lift that day I may have told her that crying was no use, because her tears would freeze before they hit the ground. It was the phobia talking. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I always say that I’m not really afraid of heights. I’m
just afraid of falling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
an admittedly bad cliché of a joke I’ve told far too often. It’s also a fear I’ve
faced on many occasions: zip-lining in Estes Park, rock climbing in the
Adirondacks, every time I go up a building more than ten stories.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Well, suffice it to say, I faced my fear again that day. My
daughter faced her fear as well. And, as indicated by the typing of these words,
we both survived. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When we finally reached the summit, part of me wanted to
kiss the snowy ground. But it was one of those wind-blown, fairly exposed
summits that never lets you forget exactly how high up in the sky you are.
Kissing was not in order. Skiing down was.</span><br />
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdRMue2mCGG1AkNm3TNK_u3_Bt-M84CWl-CtKNcK98-xPV1tRvyUoFMv6h458-IyKpx5yY2lxlngVVreXxaAGpsg1LPXdackd8VpMkxvk8sGwBT7LPcH1FttfvelmXf6sivUoHbRKqGec/s1600/IMG_3821cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdRMue2mCGG1AkNm3TNK_u3_Bt-M84CWl-CtKNcK98-xPV1tRvyUoFMv6h458-IyKpx5yY2lxlngVVreXxaAGpsg1LPXdackd8VpMkxvk8sGwBT7LPcH1FttfvelmXf6sivUoHbRKqGec/s400/IMG_3821cropped.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's my "Oh crap, how are we ever going to get down" face.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So that’s what we did: my frightened daughter, my wife, my
other kids and me – after an obligatory family photo, of course </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">– made our way down the entire 2000 feet vertical drop</span>. And it was one
of the best runs we have ever skied together.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Safely going up and then getting down Madonna Mountain was
certainly a highlight of our first annual ski vacation to Smugglers Notch. One
of many highlights, in fact.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And, yes, I know that “first annual” isn’t actually a thing
according to the rules of grammar.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But I
think it’s safe to say we are going to hit the repeat button on this
winter trip to Vermont as annually as we can.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">Here's
other articles you may enjoy</span></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;">: </span></em></span></span><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/03/vegas-baby.html#.Vs3ias8UXgw"><i><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Vegas,
Baby!</span></span></i></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><em><span style="line-height: 115%;">, </span></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2016/08/are-your-kids-spoiled-oui-oui-weekend.html#.WMTuqmeQxto"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: blue;">Are Your Kids Spoiled? "Oui, Oui"
- A Weekend in Quebec,</span></i></a> and <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/11/lessons-from-boston-something-bold.html#.WMTuN2eQxto"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: blue;">Lessons from Boston: Something Bold,
Something New</span></i></a></span></em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
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<![endif]-->Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-31631504796091176362017-01-25T01:26:00.001-05:002017-02-11T16:18:50.352-05:00Bye, Bye Bunny Hill; Hello Headaches<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">For the parent who skis, there are few things more liberating
than having your youngest child – just 6 years old – get comfortable enough on
skis to finally get off the darn bunny hill.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">For the parent who skis, there are few things more
frightening than having your young children hurtling down a mountain as you chase
after them yelling, “Slow down! TURN! TURN!”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We’ve been skiing as a family quite often in recent years. Some
of the adventures were <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/01/lessons-from-slog-at-tog.html#.WIg4J32RaDk">blogworthy</a>.
One was even <a href="http://www.adirondacklifemag.com/blogs/2016/12/01/snow-days/">publishable</a>.
Yet, for all that time, we’ve always been tethered to the bunny hill by at
least one of the kids – a fact that can put a real damper on a family day on
the slopes.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was mostly our fault. Scratch that. It was entirely our
fault. We only went skiing a few times a year since our youngest was born, and
we often went to places where the leap from the bunny to the big hill was too
much for a novice, pre-school skier to handle.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’d always look wistfully at parents who could take all
their kids up the mountain together and think, someday that will be us.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Slowly, we made progress.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A few years back, our oldest daughter joined us on the big
hill -- as did our second oldest two years ago, quite famously. Our third
daughter made the jump at age 7, at the tail end of last season. As we entered
this winter’s ski season, our hope was to get the boy up the chairlift and onto
the big hill.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It seemed quite the goal. On previous trips, he’d earned himself
the nickname jelly legs, because he appeared to enjoy falling, and was perfectly
content to snowplow through his lesson and then drink hot cocoa will the rest
of us tag-teamed babysitting duties between runs. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yes. We had to get him off the bunny hill. For our own
skiing sanity.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And, just one day into our ski season, it happened.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Hooray!” The crowd cheered.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Something clicked with the boy. He’s no longer called jelly
legs.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now I just call him the blur.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It might well have been the most horrifying day I’ve ever
spent on a mountain.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Before we get too worked up, please know that everyone is
fine. Nobody got hurt, other than typical falls and one strawberry on my eldest
daughter’s chin from her wandering too far into the terrain park. That worked out as a good thing, since she got
to tell friends nonchalantly that she got injured on a jump in the terrain
park, letting them fill in the gaps imagining her doing a backscratcher or 360
or some other oddly-named heroics. Maybe it was more like a face plant – but I’ll
never say anything. The important thing
is that we all walked away from our day skiing.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But, for a spell, I wasn’t so sure.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrmlZuakgdW4aqJSu_7GOULTIJo21OjpzmMZDJufLKkqWNMcFuIMW7AeF3Lhx6P6Vyv9jwjt5xXskb6MUX7TxkSNUGhB76Vsq3lF-QVZfRVYZzi-44qT1MsiKR4R9oeFLOHjnBkP4NkBk/s1600/IMG_3590.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrmlZuakgdW4aqJSu_7GOULTIJo21OjpzmMZDJufLKkqWNMcFuIMW7AeF3Lhx6P6Vyv9jwjt5xXskb6MUX7TxkSNUGhB76Vsq3lF-QVZfRVYZzi-44qT1MsiKR4R9oeFLOHjnBkP4NkBk/s320/IMG_3590.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The world's least photogenic family (most of them) on top <br />
of a mountain. For the record, the sun was in our eyes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The first indication of trouble occurred when I was filling out
the boy’s paperwork for his lesson. We decided that day to go to <a href="https://www.skicny.com/labrador/">Labrador Mountain</a>, one of four ski
hills within 30 minutes of our house. We chose Lab because of a good day there
at the end of last season, with our older kids and their friends all enjoying
free reign of the park’s manageable blues, and even testing their abilities on a
few black diamonds.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Like most hills near us, Lab offers a decent lesson package
for younger kids, with a combined two hour lesson and lift ticket for less than
the price many hills charge for the lift ticket alone.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I should have known from the moment I filled out the
paperwork for the lesson that he was going to push the envelope that
day. He stood next to me as I read the form’s questions out loud.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Name? … He answered the question as I wrote.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Address? … He
answered.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Parent’s Cell Phone? … He stared blankly as I filled it in.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Number to call in case of an emergency? … “9-1-1” he replied.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“No, buddy,” I
corrected through a smirk. “They mean like Nana, or another cell phone.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He shrugged. Let’s hope no one has to call 9-1-1 today, I
thought.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">With the form was complete and him registered for the next lesson, we had some time to kill. So we went
out to warm up on the bunny hill. After about two minutes, it became painfully
obvious to me and the guy running the tow rope up the slight incline of a
beginner hill that my boy was ready for more of a challenge. Even before the
lesson, my wife – who had taken a few runs with the girls already -- decided he
was ready, and bravely took him up the lift herself. I didn’t agree. But who am I to stand in
the way of progress.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Not that I was vindicated or anything, but they struggled
mightily to make it back down the mountain. She said he fell more than thirty
times. They almost missed the damn lesson. Luckily, they didn’t.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I, for one, was glad he was back in the hands of
professionals. And, as lessons always
do, his time in ski school gave me and my wife a chance to actually ski
together.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As we tackled the more challenging trials with the girls, the
boy’s instructor decided, too, that he was ready to go up the lift.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">With that, the cork was popped. He was officially off the
little hill. After the lesson, he never looked back – not even to see me trying
to catch him.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As the day wore on, our whole family went up and down the
mountain many times. And I began to envy the moms and dads who had kids stuck
on the bunny hill. Because, despite our son’s willingness and ability to handle
the harder parts of the hill, he still had a problem with control. And with
speed. And with stopping.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He’s pretty much like that old cartoon of the Tasmanian Devil,
except on skis – a whirling dervish of down jacket and snow. His only way to
slow down is to crash. And every time he speeds down the mountain, over a bend
and out of sight, we know we’ll find him in a heap, bouncing up as we near to
gather his skis and go some more.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9HDoDVutizCZ777GedSFCmWzx6PM8Ei1_IIK9hjOvbvWC0brLePRaTPdlIPaqs_fN4Va6s8NaGpp0ZVSBKzYmzHcCV7nk1ecqu1o4BMAXZEZu9JxgFsD03-JOMGOXscTCQyACyd_3FzU/s1600/20170116_154733.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9HDoDVutizCZ777GedSFCmWzx6PM8Ei1_IIK9hjOvbvWC0brLePRaTPdlIPaqs_fN4Va6s8NaGpp0ZVSBKzYmzHcCV7nk1ecqu1o4BMAXZEZu9JxgFsD03-JOMGOXscTCQyACyd_3FzU/s400/20170116_154733.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank goodness for helmets.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s a bit much for a worrisome dad to take. Let's just say that I’m a much more
reserved skier than my son. At one point, I even told my wife I had to take a
break because my nerves couldn’t handle watching him barreling down the hill like
a pint-sized, out-of-control snow plow.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But then, the most harrowing thing I saw involved another
child of mine. The girls can never let the baby of the family have all the
attention.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In a mental lapse brought on by a day of exertion, I decided
to take my daughters down one particularly steep black diamond – one they both
swore they’d been down the year before.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">They were mistaken. As was I.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">About a third of the way down, the incline became too much
for them to handle, so much so that our 8 year-old gave up on the notion of
turns and slowing down altogether. She shot down the hill dangerously fast,
passing expert slalom skiers and the local downhill team in training.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I stopped and stood helplessly, yelling “Slow down! Slow
Down.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She didn’t. She went even faster.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I looked away. I actually averted my eyes. Then I consciously
decided that wasn’t the responsible thing to do. So a trained my eyes on the
disappearing dot that was my daughter.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">To say I was terrified would be an understatement. I was sure it was going to end poorly. Her
life actually flashed before my eyes.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Within seconds – which felt like years – she was at the
bottom of the hill. I was sure she was going to shoot out across the parking
lot and into the hills in the distance. But she didn’t. She slowed. She
regained control. And then she stopped.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’ve never been so delighted to so a child of mine not in
motion.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";">When my other daughter and I finally made it to the bottom of the hill, I hugged her and asked her how it felt to go that fast. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";">She said, "It was terrifying." </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Needless to say, between the boy and his sister, by the end
of our day skiing, I was ready for a glass of wine. And a therapist.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In hindsight, it was a perfect day on the mountain. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The boy
made it off the bunny hill. Which means freedom.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then again, the boy made it off the bunny hill. </span></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And that might just be more than I can take.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Here's other articles you may enjoy: </span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/03/vegas-baby.html#.Vs3ias8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Vegas,
Baby!</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">, </span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/04/dog-responds-to-mystery-poo-false.html#.Vs3h9M8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Dog
Responds to "Mystery Poo" False Accusations</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">, and
</span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2013/11/tip-of-hat-to-single-parents-and-thanks.html#.VstfHM8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Tip
of the Hat to Single Parents, and Thanks to My Backup,</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
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Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-79971116466740355332016-12-22T22:38:00.001-05:002016-12-24T00:06:35.554-05:00A dog, and the family who loved her<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A lump formed in my throat as I stood in the darkened
hallway outside my office, a phone to my ear, listening to a comforting veterinarian
walk me through the options my wife and I had left. It was a dishearteningly short
list. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“I’m sorry you have to deal with this, and so close to the
holidays,” she offered kindly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Yep,” was all I could muster without a torrent of tears
being released. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’m not one to wish days away, but like many, I just want
this year to end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Days. What a strange unit of measure. All equal in duration,
but different in size, content, even in light and darkness. Passing like pages
in a book. Some remembered well, others forgotten. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYDNlQSaxQ09ZMwGkQZ44zSTWca8CORWzn8IBcio_sokUV-bDnvLnAhyphenhyphendYeFUiIIcxhLkLiaN_NvYgL9JHWjo6k2H9Rl4lKa0110WzAfNp57jjiiJGE-tzx9SRni0Mc95nW5DsZLqgmmI/s1600/syd25_na+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYDNlQSaxQ09ZMwGkQZ44zSTWca8CORWzn8IBcio_sokUV-bDnvLnAhyphenhyphendYeFUiIIcxhLkLiaN_NvYgL9JHWjo6k2H9Rl4lKa0110WzAfNp57jjiiJGE-tzx9SRni0Mc95nW5DsZLqgmmI/s320/syd25_na+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I remember the day 14 years ago when we went to a little
house in Northern Virginia to pick up our puppy. Feels like yesterday. It was
the first time we met her. A white mutt with black spots, billed as an
Aussie Sheppard mix, rescued from West Virginia, where they had more dogs than
people willing to raise them, and brought to Washington, D.C., where young couples
waited to adopt pets as a toe in the water before having kids.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She was the first addition to our new family. And, as I said
to friends at the time, she filled holes in my heart I didn’t know I had. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I remember, in the first days having her in our home, laying
on the floor with her on my chest, playing and smiling as she nibbled my hands, nipped at my face,
and licked everything in sight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Man, she was a licker. Some dog whisperer theorized it was due to losing her mother too young. For us, it was just who she was. We trained her eventually, though
that too was a bit of a fiasco. Sit. Heel. Stay. We even broke her of the habit of
jumping up on visitors. But she never stopped licking people. She could control
the urge with us. But the second someone else came in the house with shorts on,
she’d lick their legs like it was her religion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Sydney, Stop!” Visitors would yell. I’d laugh, wondering
when people would learn to wear pants when they came over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I remember well those puppy training classes my wife and I took her
to in her first year. She was young for canine school, and just so darned
excited to be around other dogs; she could hardly contain herself. As
graduation day neared, we were certain she was going to be held back. Whether
there would be a diploma for Sydney was the source of much anxiety. On the day of
the final exam, my wife led her around the little obedience course, as the
other dogs and owners watched. Our distractible little puppy didn’t earn bonus
points for staying focused, as she wiggled and wagged around the room while my
wife pleaded, “C’mon girl.” But she did graduate. Diploma and all. Yippie, we
said. We were proud. She was a good girl. Of course, the class was as much
about training us as it was about training her, the instructor mentioned as we
left, deflating our pride just a hair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUXOqSVgxDppULdclCkUccPGzA1DcDvQjuEESu6Vr0Or_DP5CtTp9ezOWuAqJIIY_tW5YV_eoSQpoguXqixZLaXyfLBf6j0SfcqmQ6oRG96fpOGY6dgJYZpkVzLui28kJk48gKpn9JaAA/s1600/Roll1DX-12+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUXOqSVgxDppULdclCkUccPGzA1DcDvQjuEESu6Vr0Or_DP5CtTp9ezOWuAqJIIY_tW5YV_eoSQpoguXqixZLaXyfLBf6j0SfcqmQ6oRG96fpOGY6dgJYZpkVzLui28kJk48gKpn9JaAA/s320/Roll1DX-12+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But she was trained and ready to become a friend to our first child. And
she did, such that our daughter’s first word wasn’t “mama” or “dada,” but “puppy.”
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Our pup was patient and curious, kind and gentle; no matter how often she had
her tail pulled or was climbed upon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And, the years and the kids kept piling on. Through it all, she remained our excitable pup. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I remember when, after one of the later kids came
along, I decided to start running each morning to get rid of my sympathy
weight. Sydney ran with me. She loved it, and it helped keep her nails trimmed.
Those were good days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I remember so many times playing with her in the yard, how
she’d run full sprint, and her back legs would hop as she slowed down. And in
the snow, and on the beach, and taking her with us on our family walks around
the neighborhood. The truth is, I was a crappy owner and didn’t do those things
enough, always too busy with the hectic demands of everyday life. My wife was
far better, always doting on her, and thinking of her, and including her in our
plans. She came to be my wife’s constant companion, the two of them sharing
the home office day after day. Those days meld together more than we wish they
did now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There were bad days, too. Like the first time she got
sprayed by a skunk. I found myself at the store at 1 a.m. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">buying a conveyer belt full of tomato juice and douche. “Gonna
clean up Gotham,” was the bad joke in my head as I slunk through the checkout
line. That was one of several late night washings, which always seemed to
happen when the air was cold and the water stung my hands. I can only imagine
how she felt. She hated baths. Especially cold ones in the middle of the night.
We’d both sooner forget those.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then there was the time we <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/04/dog-responds-to-mystery-poo-false.html#.WFyR7meQwbM" target="_blank">falsely accused her of pooping on the bed</a>. The cat did it, we later learned. And then in more recent days, when
she hobbled instead of galloped, when she stopped going up the stairs to avoid falling
down them, when we started carrying her places – to her bed, to go outside, to
the vet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim3OMfZjwgIWWzOxOSzFrTLfoLki7s_F96Om0zcFsHWnmmS5djKZoedNh_KPkP7-E4ezpAT45xltOLhU6d8MY8k8OtAbUu9XkQXwe6F4T5F8Osy79GdDfTt7IU9o7-iNrzNwQ5Yg2FAFY/s1600/IMG_3309+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim3OMfZjwgIWWzOxOSzFrTLfoLki7s_F96Om0zcFsHWnmmS5djKZoedNh_KPkP7-E4ezpAT45xltOLhU6d8MY8k8OtAbUu9XkQXwe6F4T5F8Osy79GdDfTt7IU9o7-iNrzNwQ5Yg2FAFY/s320/IMG_3309+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When I think of the days with her, I’ll likely remember
today, too, though I wish I didn’t. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’d rather remember her curled up at my
feet as I wrote a dumb blog post, or graded papers, with her head draped on my foot,
and her warmth and love constantly within reach. Or how she sprawled out on the floor, like super dog, with her hind legs straight behind and her front legs reaching forward. Or how excited she'd get when anyone said "wanna go for a walk" and grabbed her leash, or when we'd grill steak and she knew I'd slip some trimmings in her bowl.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s hard to lose a dog. It’s hard because, except for the rare vacations where we’d board her in the kennel, she was there for it all, waiting at the door as new babies came home, sharing the floor as they started to crawl, running behind them as they learned to ride bikes, eating their snowballs out of the air. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For fourteen years, she was a part of us. My kids don’t know a world without her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sydney was such a good girl. She was a good dog. She was a part of our
family. Now, just days before Christmas, she’s gone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And we’re gonna miss her. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Every day, for always.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span> </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZLe-Tf9tR_JalTQ1fPsE-ye9sVE-s9PhA6L6qvRCrHloYRH69C2sWC-Dk4kFQzytSZpLJMt1PnIQ400XYUd2SfgGW5Dhyphenhyphenv3yCFpUpilbIQ4N-KfDWXumRrkTfh1OxXD0UkmXmGbbMy6Y/s1600/IMG_2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZLe-Tf9tR_JalTQ1fPsE-ye9sVE-s9PhA6L6qvRCrHloYRH69C2sWC-Dk4kFQzytSZpLJMt1PnIQ400XYUd2SfgGW5Dhyphenhyphenv3yCFpUpilbIQ4N-KfDWXumRrkTfh1OxXD0UkmXmGbbMy6Y/s640/IMG_2529.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h2>
Sydney</h2>
<h2>
1/26/2002 - 12/22/2016</h2>
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-18674184665702689482016-11-10T18:13:00.001-05:002016-11-10T23:44:14.434-05:00My Obligatory Post-Election Letter To My Kids<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Apparently, you’re not allowed to have a dad blog if you don’t
write a letter to your kids about the election of Donald Trump.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So here goes.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My Dearest children;</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">(I actually never call them “dearest,” like there are less
dear offspring somewhere else).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Starting over.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Dear kids;</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Dear is such a weird word and so formal sounding. This is hard.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Third time’s the charm.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Hey Kids;</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Ah hem.” </span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sorry.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Let’s just start with how sorry I am.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’m sorry that our country just did what it did, electing a
man to the presidency of the United States of America who bullies, belittles
and threatens people. All the rules banning those sorts of things still apply
in our house, and everywhere else. So knock it off, in advance.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’m sorry that our country just put in the highest office a man
who has treated women poorly his entire life, focusing only on their physical
attributes, bragging about kissing and grabbing them without permission, and
habitually trading his wives in for younger versions every few years. Other Americans
accepting this behavior does not mean you ever should. Ever, from anybody. As
importantly, all those things I told you about how smart, important and
capable you are still hold true. And, despite this one election, you can all still
aspire to be president. Though I don’t know if our family could handle that
level of scrutiny, if you know what I mean. You can also be scientists, or
teachers, or economists, or parents of great kids, or lawyers. You should know, however, there are more people in law school right now than there are lawyers. That's something people warn you before you plunk down a hundred K to become one. No one knows if it's true. Either way, please, don’t hesitate
to dream big and do big things. I know you all can and will.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’m sorry, too, that there’s a good chance all the good
things we’ve done as a country in recent years -- like expanding access to
healthcare, granting basic rights to the LGBTQ community, standing up for marginalized people, and protecting the environment
– are about to be undone. Sorry that you’ll have to do these things all over
again.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On the environment: I’m very sorry about that. All that
stuff you’ve heard people say at school about protecting the planet, it’s still
the goal in this house. Yes, we still have to recycle and turn the lights off
when we leave the room. And we shouldn’t run the water when brushing our teeth.
And yes, we still have to brush our teeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was never even on the table. Despite what you see and hear over the next few years, it is
still up to all of us to protect the planet. Period.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Oh, and I’m sorry about the Electoral College, though that’s
not even my generation’s fault. It was Alexander Hamilton’s generation. In what
can now be considered a great bit of irony, he saw the Electoral College as a
protection against the people electing someone who was unfit and unqualified
for the job. Funny, right? I’ve been telling you, A. Ham wasn’t nearly as great
as Hamilton the Musical (or “Play dot Ham”) makes him seem. Maybe now you’ll
believe me. As one of you said to me and mom the morning after, “Why do we even
have the Electoral College? Why can’t we just leave it up to the people?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amen to that.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Also sorry for the random dad joke about Hamilton I squeezed into
the last paragraph. I have an affliction.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Finally, I’m sorry that these results made you all so sad. I
can tell you that the saddest part for me was seeing how sad it made you. Mom
and I believed in the other candidate and thought that our country would make
us proud by electing her. We were wrong about that. But we were not wrong to believe.
And while I know this hurts, you always have to be willing to believe.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And now, dearest children, I am going to tell you why I am
hopeful.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Yes, hopeful.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I am hopeful because of you. All of you are funny, and
talented, and so darn insightful. All of you know how important it is to be
nice to each other – even if you’re not always nice to each other, at least you
know you’re supposed to be. All of you are capable of making this world a better, more inclusive, more loving place.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’m also hopeful because I know your friends, and they are
nice too, and smart, and compassionate. I saw how they reacted when that awful
tragedy happened in Orlando. And, on that darkest of days, you’re friends' actions
made my heart sing, and believe, and hope again.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></em><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIOhzQrVfRonG9fJeujWnLiQPi6G9KvWtah-QMkQ7iGFxbBg23_tbOP1Rn_4z8q4VJOYTErW1z1WtQT-0NTA0egZQoYJNxmulraaVX6NgovUs_Z6siBXVflUj1qK5J7fy7y_LNIJhceLA/s1600/OrlandoReaction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIOhzQrVfRonG9fJeujWnLiQPi6G9KvWtah-QMkQ7iGFxbBg23_tbOP1Rn_4z8q4VJOYTErW1z1WtQT-0NTA0egZQoYJNxmulraaVX6NgovUs_Z6siBXVflUj1qK5J7fy7y_LNIJhceLA/s320/OrlandoReaction.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A gesture by my daughter and her friends<br />
that gave me faith and hope after Orlando</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You and all your friends know there will be a woman
president in your lifetimes, and they also know – I sense -- that this particular
man should never have been. And I take solace knowing that he would not have
been if this election had been left up to people under the age of 30, or even
just middle schoolers. If kids could have voted, the outcome would have been
different, because they know a bully when they see one, and they know what to
do with bullies. So there is hope in the future and the people who will shape
it.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I am also hopeful and proud, and you should be too, that we
live in a town that voted for her and not him; in a county that voted for her
and not him; and in a state that voted for her and not him. We didn’t vote for
him. Nor did the people around us.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But it will be up to us to fix it. So you're not getting off the hook that easily.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Finally, I am hopeful because we have to be. Your mom and I
have dealt with a lot of stuff in our lives, as have your grandparents. And no
matter what, we all keep moving forward together. We keep hoping that tomorrow
will be better than today. Some days it won’t be. But we will still hope. And I
know you will to.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sincerely,</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Your dearest father</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">a.k.a. Dad</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So there it is: My official letter to my kids, which I am apparently
sharing with the world – or at least the 27 people who will visit this blog.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For those who don’t appreciate that fact that I tried to
make my kids smile a bit while writing this, I realize it's "too soon" for many. But you should know that I come from a
long line of people who try to use humor to deal with life’s great disappointments.
Emphasis on try.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I also come from a long line of people who often fail when trying to
make people laugh at inopportune times.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And this, if nothing else, is an inopportune time.</span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Here's other articles you may enjoy: </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/03/vegas-baby.html#.Vs3ias8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: blue;">Vegas,
Baby!</span></span></i></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">, </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/04/dog-responds-to-mystery-poo-false.html#.Vs3h9M8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: blue;">Dog
Responds to "Mystery Poo" False Accusations</span></span></i></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">, and
</span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2013/11/tip-of-hat-to-single-parents-and-thanks.html#.VstfHM8UXgw"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: blue;">Tip
of the Hat to Single Parents, and Thanks to My Backup,</span></span></i></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6464656546253078118.post-86767519163423235882016-09-14T02:14:00.001-04:002016-09-27T20:17:14.019-04:00How We've Ruined Sports and Other Joyful Things<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The air was still.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Along a sidewalk and a row of ornamental trees separating a
parking lot from an expanse of green fields, parents stood and squatted against trees
and paced, waiting.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After three days of tryouts, cut day had arrived.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">They say having a child is like having your heart walk
around outside your body. For these
parents, their hearts sat a hundred yards away in a circle of tween and teen girls,
adorned in shin guards and Under Armour tees, all awaiting news of their fate.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KHbcS4Qm-xA2EUkiEDFOUGWSktlQBSb6gsUQU_jEyXJdESKbj876AMXVXGOznh-i_kEopXoD2WUaqy8AzsAtDBqMqXYlX1jwuv6-jCeI_LkEWK-oawmRw0GesPA-Ni31AXCFH92NmOA/s1600/SoccerBallGoal_IMG_2851.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KHbcS4Qm-xA2EUkiEDFOUGWSktlQBSb6gsUQU_jEyXJdESKbj876AMXVXGOznh-i_kEopXoD2WUaqy8AzsAtDBqMqXYlX1jwuv6-jCeI_LkEWK-oawmRw0GesPA-Ni31AXCFH92NmOA/s320/SoccerBallGoal_IMG_2851.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Moments before, these girls had been playing the beautiful
game, running, passing and kicking. Then the play stopped, and they were told
to get their bags and gather at the far goal.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A precocious one who was not my daughter, but was bursting
with spunk and spirit, found her dad from half-a-field away among the anxious gathering crowd as
she jogged to her bag on the sideline and yelled, for everyone to hear, “They’re
going to tell us if we made it now!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For a moment, her innocent admission broke the tension, and
some parents smiled.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then, reality set in again. And over a thirty minute stretch
that felt like a year, these girls who’d played soccer since kindergarten were called
one-by-one and walked with trepidation toward a bench at midfield where a coach
with a spreadsheet waited. There they were either handed a slip of paper detailing
the upcoming practice dates, or they had their little girl dreams of soccer
greatness extinguished.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Depending on the news, the young ladies either floated and
skipped the remaining fifty yards to the awaiting arms of a jubilant parent, or
sulked paperless in a long, meandering walk looking for a comforting face, some
bursting into tears when they found one, others just wandering into the parking
lot stunned.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Let me just say at the onset that cuts suck. Especially for
middle schoolers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As I sat there, leaning against a tree, looking for my
daughter’s distant profile among the gaggle of girls, I actually said a prayer that
when her name was called, I’d see a slip of paper in her hand. An actual prayer.
Like there’s a patron saint of modified soccer teams, or something.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I know there are some who praise the virtue of cuts and of
cut-throat-competition. This is the fire that can forge greatness. Michael
Jordan was cut once, you know. And, kids are tough.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I get it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">One wise friend put it differently, saying that the sooner
young people can be disabused of their athletic prowess the better for the
development of other actual skills.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I get that even more.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But I come at it from another angle. I know the potential
positive impact of sports on a young person. I also know how many young women
leave sports behind in the tween and early teen years. And I know that, at
least statistically, not having the influence of sports or other extra-curricular
activities can hurt their odds of making it through the minefield that is
adolescents.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Maybe I’m an idealistic fool, but I think every middle
school girl who wants to play soccer should be able to.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sitting there against
the tree, as I watched too many young girls and their parents bawl, I got a little angry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The anger wasn’t for the coaches. They have to field a team.
And they are told how many they can have on that team. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It certainly wasn’t for the
kids. They just want to play. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Nor was it even for the school, necessarily. It’s
a good school and a lot of families move here to attend it. Some years that
means more kids trying out for the middle school soccer team than can
reasonably fit on the field or be kept on the sideline.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">No. The anger was for parents. Not the parents waiting for news,
but for parents in general.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Parents are ruining sports.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Dreams of success, and scholarships, and unfathomable
greatness have driven parents to do ridiculous things.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Ask any high school athletic director or college coach what
a young person should do to improve their athletic abilities and they will say,
play multiple sports. If they’re truly honest, they might tell you not to
bother. That the raw ability needed to succeed at a higher level is more rare than
most believe. And that full-ride scholarships are even harder to come by.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The truth is, the odds are stacked against all of our kids
when it comes to athletic greatness. One exceptional kid in the school district
in a given sport might get a partial scholarship to a little known college. Or they
might not.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And the chances of making the Olympics are almost non-existent. No decent parent would wish that life on
their kid, anyway.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">All we should reasonably expect from sports is a positive
experience that instructs about teamwork and hard work and overcoming obstacles.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But that doesn’t stop parents. Despite the facts, and the
odds, and the best advice, the well-meaning parents of athletically mediocre kids
train them year-round in a given sport, from kindergarten on, for that one-in-million chance at
greatness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">They do it in every sport, not just soccer, or baseball, or gymnastics. And not just your
typical sports. They do it in dance, and theatre, and swimming. These days, all
kids train like they are Olympians. And their parents fork out big bucks on
training sessions, travel teams, special programs and camps. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It is making it impossible to have a healthy and sensible approach to any activity. Because, t</span>o have a chance, you have to do the same. You have to, or else you simply cannot play.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then, one day, too many of these over-trained, overinflated kids end up on the same middle school soccer
field vying for fewer positions than there are young people hoping for the honor. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And, bam. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Dreams are dashed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s the parents fault. Not the parents on that field
on cut day. But all parents. Even me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That day, I saw too many kids cry. It angered me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That precocious girl who was not my daughter who yelled out to
her dad: She got cut. She cried. Her dad held her and walked her to the car, dumfounded.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then my daughter’s name was called.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The air was still.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">They say having a child is like having your heart walk
around outside your body. It is true.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">Here's other articles you
may enjoy: </span></em><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2015/03/learning-lesson-from-little-boy.html#.Vstdbc8UXgw"><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><span style="color: blue;">Learning Lessons from a Little Boy</span></span></em></a><em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">; <a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/09/6-tips-to-help-parents-enjoy-soccer.html#.V-sLMc-QLtQ" target="_blank">6 Tips to Help Parents Enjoy Soccer Again</a>; </span></em><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">a<em><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">nd </span></em></span></i><a href="http://www.ruddybits.com/2014/02/to-lost-little-girl-in-dc-watching-you.html#.Vs8sms8UVWw"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><span style="color: blue;">To
the Lost Little Girl in DC: Watching You Find Your Mom Made My Day</span></span></i></a><u><span style="color: blue;"><span class="MsoHyperlink"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">.</span></i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></u>Cort Ruddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01165987836738117668noreply@blogger.com1