As I get older, I find that my memory is not what it used to be. This irritates me, because once upon a time I had a very good memory. I say "very good," because over the years, I've realized that I only remembered things that I care about. If I didn't care about it, I probably didn't remember it. I've never cared about numbers and I have always had trouble remembering phone numbers. The only way that I've ever remembered a birthday or anniversary is by fighting my natural inclination to not care about them (and ever since they were invented, setting Outlook reminders).
However, every year when the NCAA men's basketball tournament starts, all of a sudden I realize that I can remember all sorts of college basketball things from years and years ago.
Starting lineup of the 1985 St. John's Redmen, my second favorite team ever? Check. (Mark Jackson, Willie Glass, Chris Mullin, Walter Berry, Bill Wennington...coached by Lou Carneseca.)
Starting lineup of the 1983 Houston Cougars, aka Phi Slamma Jamma, my favorite team ever? Check. (Reid Gettys, Alvin Franklin, Larry Micheaux, Clyde Drexler, Akeem Olajuwan...Michael Young off the bench...coached by Guy Lewis.)
Favorite name of a player? Memphis State's Baskerville Holmes, who played in the early 1980's with Keith Lee and Andre Turner.
Names of Rick Barry's sons? Sure...Scooter (Kansas), Jon (Georgia Tech), Brent (Oregon State) and Drew (Georgia Tech).
I can go on like this for awhile...but I usually don't because unless I'm around other people that know some of the same minutiae that I do, I've found that most people find it obnoxious. (Especially when I do stuff like insisting on spelling Hakeem Olajuwan's name the way that it was in '83 or referring to the University of Memphis by its former name.)
Most people point to the 1979 NCAA championship game that featured Magic Johnson and Larry Bird as the point that most people really began to pay attention to college basketball. I come from a basketball family, so I remember that, but in all honesty, it didn't stand out to me any more than famed Catholic Al McGuire and Marquette winning the title in 1977. We were, after all, an Irish-Catholic basketball family.
No, my defining moment with the tournament was the 1983 one...known famously to most people as the Jim Valvano year. That was because Valvano's North Carolina State team upset my beloved Houston Cougars -- who had just won the most entertaining basketball game ever by defeating Louisville in the semifinals -- and the coach ran all over the court trying to find someone to hug. It was already a big deal just because of the last second nature of the shot that won the game...but its taken on epic proportions since Valvano's untimely death from cancer.
To this day, I remember staying up on a Friday night early in that tournament and watching NC State come from behind and beat Jim Harrick's Pepperdine team. The game didn't get over until after midnight Eastern time and I didn't sleep for a while after that because I was annoyed at the outcome. From that point on, I watched every game of that tournament that was televised...which, let's face it, wasn't anywhere near what it would become years later.
So, there it is...not only do I watch the NCAA Tournament every year, I watch replays of old games on random cable channels.
This is the stuff that I can remember...but I have to set a reminder on my phone for my wedding anniversary and I start most conversations with business associates with, "Hey, how's it going?" so that I can buy time to remember their name.
God willing, I suppose, I'll be in the home someday babbling on about why Louisville's Rodney and Scooter McCray were a better sibling teammate tandem than Stanford's Robin and Brook Lopez...all the while calling everyone on the staff, "Hey you!"
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
St. Patrick's Day
If you're Irish like me, St. Patrick's Day is supposed to be a big deal. Not because its a venerable Holy Day, honoring the saint that legendarily banished snakes from the Emerald Isle (sure, if you talk to natural historians, there never were snakes in Ireland, but what Irishman would let some scientific malarkey stand in the way of a good story), but because we Irish-Americans have decided that it's "our" day.
Perhaps because I was named after a different Irish saint, I've never been as enamored of the day as others. Or, maybe its because the modern meaning of St. Patrick's Day involves the words "pub crawl" which isn't overly enticing to someone that doesn't drink very much. The one pub crawl I've been on in my life ended early when I decided it was better to go home than to start punching drunken idiots.
But, that's just me. Most of my Irish-Catholic brethren do not seem to share my apathy towards the day. In fact, every year recently, I'll get a text from my family on the East Coast from a bar...usually followed later by pictures as one group of my relatives runs into another group of my relatives.
I am actually proud of my heritage...at least most of it. Of course, that doesn't mean that I'm very effective when it comes to verbalizing that. Yesterday, as Marty and Casey were going to school to participate in their classes with the Irish-themed festivities -- which can get confusing around here thanks to freakin' Notre Dame -- I pointed out that they needed to represent since they are, themselves, Irish. They both looked at me quizzically and said, "We are?"
Last year, Marty came up with this game for St. Patrick's Day called, "Find The Leprechaun." He organized Casey and I to help him leave clues around the house to lead Amy to the spot where the Leprechaun was. On one of the clues, I put down something about Dublin. "What's that?," they both asked.
I could feel my father and my Uncle Jimmy both rolling over in their graves. When I was just a tyke, my father would send me over to my Uncle Jimmy to ask him if I were Irish. "As Irish as Paddy's pig!" he would reply.
The fact that this typically took place in a bar and that I still don't really know what that expression mean is irrelevant. I knew where I came from...something I've apparently failed thus far to impart on my offspring.
When I was growing up on the East Coast, it was a lot easier. Everyone knew their ethnicity, because no one was that far removed from a time when you lived with your own in the same neighborhood. To this day, you can tell what the population of a neighborhood used to be by what saint the local Catholic church is named after.
Where my sons are growing up, being Irish means that you are a fan of the team that plays beneath the Golden Dome. Much like my lack of affinity for St. Patrick and drinking, I've never understood why so many Irish-Catholics like Notre Dame. It's not like it's the only Catholic university in the country. There are dozens. The fact that they call their sports teams the Fighting Irish and have a brawling Leprechaun as a mascot has never been anything that I thought should make me like them better. If I were just going to pick a Catholic university to root for without having any sort of actual attachment to them, I would've gone with Gonzaga...if only because it's fun to say.
So, I have to come up with some anti-Notre Dame way of teaching my children about their Irish heritage. You'd think it would be easier, since Casey already has displayed an overabundance of the gift of blarney.
I suppose I add it to my ancestors to get them proud of whence they came. Or, at least get them to acknowledge it. I don't need them to go nuts and try to learn Gaelic or anything. Maybe just get it to the point that they can actually point to the land of my forefathers on a map.
Probably my responsibility as a father or something...you know so that they don't have to repay the sins of the father or that kind of stuff. After all, "an nì chì na big, ‘s e nì na big." (What the little ones see, the little ones do.)
Perhaps because I was named after a different Irish saint, I've never been as enamored of the day as others. Or, maybe its because the modern meaning of St. Patrick's Day involves the words "pub crawl" which isn't overly enticing to someone that doesn't drink very much. The one pub crawl I've been on in my life ended early when I decided it was better to go home than to start punching drunken idiots.
But, that's just me. Most of my Irish-Catholic brethren do not seem to share my apathy towards the day. In fact, every year recently, I'll get a text from my family on the East Coast from a bar...usually followed later by pictures as one group of my relatives runs into another group of my relatives.
I am actually proud of my heritage...at least most of it. Of course, that doesn't mean that I'm very effective when it comes to verbalizing that. Yesterday, as Marty and Casey were going to school to participate in their classes with the Irish-themed festivities -- which can get confusing around here thanks to freakin' Notre Dame -- I pointed out that they needed to represent since they are, themselves, Irish. They both looked at me quizzically and said, "We are?"
Last year, Marty came up with this game for St. Patrick's Day called, "Find The Leprechaun." He organized Casey and I to help him leave clues around the house to lead Amy to the spot where the Leprechaun was. On one of the clues, I put down something about Dublin. "What's that?," they both asked.
I could feel my father and my Uncle Jimmy both rolling over in their graves. When I was just a tyke, my father would send me over to my Uncle Jimmy to ask him if I were Irish. "As Irish as Paddy's pig!" he would reply.
The fact that this typically took place in a bar and that I still don't really know what that expression mean is irrelevant. I knew where I came from...something I've apparently failed thus far to impart on my offspring.
When I was growing up on the East Coast, it was a lot easier. Everyone knew their ethnicity, because no one was that far removed from a time when you lived with your own in the same neighborhood. To this day, you can tell what the population of a neighborhood used to be by what saint the local Catholic church is named after.
Where my sons are growing up, being Irish means that you are a fan of the team that plays beneath the Golden Dome. Much like my lack of affinity for St. Patrick and drinking, I've never understood why so many Irish-Catholics like Notre Dame. It's not like it's the only Catholic university in the country. There are dozens. The fact that they call their sports teams the Fighting Irish and have a brawling Leprechaun as a mascot has never been anything that I thought should make me like them better. If I were just going to pick a Catholic university to root for without having any sort of actual attachment to them, I would've gone with Gonzaga...if only because it's fun to say.
So, I have to come up with some anti-Notre Dame way of teaching my children about their Irish heritage. You'd think it would be easier, since Casey already has displayed an overabundance of the gift of blarney.
I suppose I add it to my ancestors to get them proud of whence they came. Or, at least get them to acknowledge it. I don't need them to go nuts and try to learn Gaelic or anything. Maybe just get it to the point that they can actually point to the land of my forefathers on a map.
Probably my responsibility as a father or something...you know so that they don't have to repay the sins of the father or that kind of stuff. After all, "an nì chì na big, ‘s e nì na big." (What the little ones see, the little ones do.)
Friday, March 16, 2012
Friends
Marty and Casey were having a conversation that is painful for a parent to hear...especially one with a kid with Asperger's.
It started off as a simple argument. Marty, who believes in just about anything, holds out the possibility that there are unicorns. While that might sound like an odd thing for a 9-year-old boy to even mention, in his defense, the topic was related to an Annoying Orange YouTube video.
Casey, who is creative in his own right, but without the whimsy of his brother, feels that this is ridiculous.
While this discussion was going on, Marty tried to get Casey to give him a toy that he was holding. The younger brother refused.
Marty tried to point out to him that sharing is very important, and that it helps you win friends. Casey, in his interminably Irish way, said, "I don't need to share to have people be friends with me."
The arguing continued along this line, with Marty pointing out that he had become friends with someone by going out of his way to talk to the person. Casey, never one to switch a defense tactic if it's working, said, "I don't need to talk to someone to make friends."
Shortly thereafter, Marty became upset, feeling as though his little brother doesn't care about him. It was that point that I stepped in and stopped them. It could be argued -- probably rightfully -- that I should have stopped it before that, but my philosophy is that they're brothers and sometimes they just need to try to work through things themselves.
There's a whole team of people assigned to Marty to help him learn how to function socially. He goes to social interaction classes. They have meetings on his progress and discuss other ways to help him recognize social cues and try to fit in with his peers. They've even had talks with some of the children that are most friendly with Marty to try to help them understand better why he behaves the way that he does sometimes.
And, his little brother takes about 15 minutes to wipe all of that out.
Casey does mostly understand the challenges that Marty faces, but he's also one of the people that has to live with it...and he's the one that feels as though attention is diverted from him while everyone deals with his brother. I don't know that jealousy is the right word, but Casey makes it clear that he doesn't have the patience for Marty's quirks that most others do.
The fact is that Casey is just naturally adept at being social. He's made friends easily since before he could even talk. More than any blood relative of mine that I can think of, he has a personality that people gravitate to. If anything, he's more in line with his godparents -- both of whom have rarely been in situations where they aren't well liked -- than with anyone in my family.
Meanwhile, Marty lives in his own world that sometimes intersects with reality and sometimes doesn't. He's always been comfortable playing on his own...usually more so than with another person and definitely more so than with a group of people. For years now, he's desperately wanted a best friend and has no idea how that's supposed to work.
As a father, the whole thing is a killer to try and watch and understand. I keep trying to relate it back to when I was a kid, but in my memory anyway, it seems like I was kind of in between them...and all that really does is paralyze me when it comes time to try to give advice.
One the one hand, from the time that I was 4-years-old on, I always had at least one really close friend...and that person changed depending on circumstances. In the apartment complex I lived when I was really young, I had my friend Jeff. At the Catholic grade school, that I went to I had my friend Billy. And, when I moved to a different neighborhood and different school for junior high, I had my friend Mark. In high school, I had a circle of friends that has continued on for the rest of my life, even with everyone going to different colleges and me moving all over the country. Heck, I'm still at least in touch with both Mark and Billy, despite being geographically nowhere near them, and have tried for years to figure out where Jeff is now.
All that said, outside of those friends, most people don't remember me. If they do, the word that they'll use to describe me is "quiet." I was never popular...my friends were. What I had was I was always funny in my odd, usually sarcastic way. I always had just enough fans of my brand of humor to keep anyone from bothering me too much...or more accurately, to make it worth the people that didn't like me to have to deal with the people that did.
However, in watching my sons, it's become apparent that what works for one person doesn't work for someone else. As much as I might like Marty to be able to use the coping mechanisms that I did when I was a child, in actuality, he can't. He has to figure out his own way of doing it...and the more he struggles, the more I have to try to stop myself from using his little brother as an example. Or from trying to tell him what to do.
I've told Amy that I always come away feeling as though our job is to just try to get Marty through his teens. If we can get him safely to college, then the creative urges that takes over his day-to-day life on a regular basis can stop being a hindrance and instead become an asset. Hopefully by then he'll have learned how to focus and move his projects from start to finish, while working with others.
Hopefully. As long as he gets to a certain point, the world will start working for him instead of against him.
But, as his father, getting him from point A to point B -- while simultaneously not braining his brother for just being himself -- is a bit more of a challenge than I would have ever have thought.
I'm pretty sure that Marty is up for the challenge. I just wish I was more sure about myself.
It started off as a simple argument. Marty, who believes in just about anything, holds out the possibility that there are unicorns. While that might sound like an odd thing for a 9-year-old boy to even mention, in his defense, the topic was related to an Annoying Orange YouTube video.
Casey, who is creative in his own right, but without the whimsy of his brother, feels that this is ridiculous.
While this discussion was going on, Marty tried to get Casey to give him a toy that he was holding. The younger brother refused.
Marty tried to point out to him that sharing is very important, and that it helps you win friends. Casey, in his interminably Irish way, said, "I don't need to share to have people be friends with me."
The arguing continued along this line, with Marty pointing out that he had become friends with someone by going out of his way to talk to the person. Casey, never one to switch a defense tactic if it's working, said, "I don't need to talk to someone to make friends."
Shortly thereafter, Marty became upset, feeling as though his little brother doesn't care about him. It was that point that I stepped in and stopped them. It could be argued -- probably rightfully -- that I should have stopped it before that, but my philosophy is that they're brothers and sometimes they just need to try to work through things themselves.
There's a whole team of people assigned to Marty to help him learn how to function socially. He goes to social interaction classes. They have meetings on his progress and discuss other ways to help him recognize social cues and try to fit in with his peers. They've even had talks with some of the children that are most friendly with Marty to try to help them understand better why he behaves the way that he does sometimes.
And, his little brother takes about 15 minutes to wipe all of that out.
Casey does mostly understand the challenges that Marty faces, but he's also one of the people that has to live with it...and he's the one that feels as though attention is diverted from him while everyone deals with his brother. I don't know that jealousy is the right word, but Casey makes it clear that he doesn't have the patience for Marty's quirks that most others do.
The fact is that Casey is just naturally adept at being social. He's made friends easily since before he could even talk. More than any blood relative of mine that I can think of, he has a personality that people gravitate to. If anything, he's more in line with his godparents -- both of whom have rarely been in situations where they aren't well liked -- than with anyone in my family.
Meanwhile, Marty lives in his own world that sometimes intersects with reality and sometimes doesn't. He's always been comfortable playing on his own...usually more so than with another person and definitely more so than with a group of people. For years now, he's desperately wanted a best friend and has no idea how that's supposed to work.
As a father, the whole thing is a killer to try and watch and understand. I keep trying to relate it back to when I was a kid, but in my memory anyway, it seems like I was kind of in between them...and all that really does is paralyze me when it comes time to try to give advice.
One the one hand, from the time that I was 4-years-old on, I always had at least one really close friend...and that person changed depending on circumstances. In the apartment complex I lived when I was really young, I had my friend Jeff. At the Catholic grade school, that I went to I had my friend Billy. And, when I moved to a different neighborhood and different school for junior high, I had my friend Mark. In high school, I had a circle of friends that has continued on for the rest of my life, even with everyone going to different colleges and me moving all over the country. Heck, I'm still at least in touch with both Mark and Billy, despite being geographically nowhere near them, and have tried for years to figure out where Jeff is now.
All that said, outside of those friends, most people don't remember me. If they do, the word that they'll use to describe me is "quiet." I was never popular...my friends were. What I had was I was always funny in my odd, usually sarcastic way. I always had just enough fans of my brand of humor to keep anyone from bothering me too much...or more accurately, to make it worth the people that didn't like me to have to deal with the people that did.
However, in watching my sons, it's become apparent that what works for one person doesn't work for someone else. As much as I might like Marty to be able to use the coping mechanisms that I did when I was a child, in actuality, he can't. He has to figure out his own way of doing it...and the more he struggles, the more I have to try to stop myself from using his little brother as an example. Or from trying to tell him what to do.
I've told Amy that I always come away feeling as though our job is to just try to get Marty through his teens. If we can get him safely to college, then the creative urges that takes over his day-to-day life on a regular basis can stop being a hindrance and instead become an asset. Hopefully by then he'll have learned how to focus and move his projects from start to finish, while working with others.
Hopefully. As long as he gets to a certain point, the world will start working for him instead of against him.
But, as his father, getting him from point A to point B -- while simultaneously not braining his brother for just being himself -- is a bit more of a challenge than I would have ever have thought.
I'm pretty sure that Marty is up for the challenge. I just wish I was more sure about myself.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Dance Fights and Other Things
The other day, I was watching the film version of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." While they were eating lunch, Marty and Casey joined in watching the movie.
With that opening, I'm 99-percent certain that I'm describing a situation that was only happening in my household at that moment -- a father and two sons watching "Seven Brides" -- any place in the country...if not the world.
It becomes 100-percent when you add on the part of the father -- me -- providing commentary on the fact that you usually don't see the guy that plays Benjamin (Jeff Richards) dancing is because he was really a former baseball player that is only in the movie because he was under contract to MGM. Or, that similarly, while Howard Keel was a tremendous singer, he wasn't a dancer. Or, that while a number of the other brothers came from a ballet background, Russ Tamblyn's background was really in gymnastics. Or, that the barn raising scenes involve some of the most difficult dancing ever committed to film.
The boys didn't watch the entire movie, but the fact that the hung out watching a significant chunk of it says something about the household in which they are being raised.
It's not quite to the level of what I was exposed to. When I was a kid, CBS's annual showing of "West Side Story" was treated as a holiday in my family. I knew the Romeo and Juliet plot and cried for the first time over the demise of Tony before I could even form full sentences. My father and sister took me to a showing of "The Sound of Music" when I was about 4-years-old...and the movie is over 2 1/2 hours long. I saw "Jesus Christ Superstar" on stage for the first time when I was six. I honestly don't remember a time when there wasn't a movie soundtrack or Broadway cast recording not played on a regular basis in my childhood home. When I lived in Los Angeles, if I had occasion to meet an actor from one of those musicals (Dick Van Dyke, Buddy Hackett, Shirley Jones, etc.), there was always a certain charge that I got, like being a kid again...and I made it a point to go to every showing of those films that American Cinematheque put on, as well as things like the sing-a-long "Sound of Music" at the Hollywood Bowl.
To this day, I do things like watch "Superstar" around Easter every year (yes, the Norman Jewison film version of Rotten Tomatoes/Golden Turkeys fame). I watch "1776" on Fourth of July weekend and "White Christmas" multiple times over the Christmas season. I have two different versions of "West Side Story" on DVD...as well as copies of pretty much every major musical dating back to the 1950's. I have both the Todd-AO and Cinemascope versions of "Oklahoma." What I'm saying is that this has been my way of life.
While I'm sure that there are other households where stuff like this happens, I'm not sure how many of them are in the Midwest and have no daughters living in them.
My kids aren't as schooled in this stuff as I was, but they still are growing up to not think twice about people breaking out into song. With the "High School Musical" trend in tween entertainment -- something that seems to still continue as far as I can tell with the shows that the boys sometimes watch -- they're able to tie back to the origin of some of what they're seeing. When a recent Nickelodeon show (Big Time Rush) included a number of references to The Beatles, it didn't take them much to get it.
So, when they do things like try to ape Donald O'Connor's "Make 'Em Laugh" moves from "Singin' In the Rain" or when Casey sat through three performances of "Godspell" last summer, I always feel a pang of pride that a family tradition is being carried on.
It might make things easier if either of them could sing or dance, but that's the problem with real life...no Marnie Nixon track to overdub you.
With that opening, I'm 99-percent certain that I'm describing a situation that was only happening in my household at that moment -- a father and two sons watching "Seven Brides" -- any place in the country...if not the world.
It becomes 100-percent when you add on the part of the father -- me -- providing commentary on the fact that you usually don't see the guy that plays Benjamin (Jeff Richards) dancing is because he was really a former baseball player that is only in the movie because he was under contract to MGM. Or, that similarly, while Howard Keel was a tremendous singer, he wasn't a dancer. Or, that while a number of the other brothers came from a ballet background, Russ Tamblyn's background was really in gymnastics. Or, that the barn raising scenes involve some of the most difficult dancing ever committed to film.
The boys didn't watch the entire movie, but the fact that the hung out watching a significant chunk of it says something about the household in which they are being raised.
It's not quite to the level of what I was exposed to. When I was a kid, CBS's annual showing of "West Side Story" was treated as a holiday in my family. I knew the Romeo and Juliet plot and cried for the first time over the demise of Tony before I could even form full sentences. My father and sister took me to a showing of "The Sound of Music" when I was about 4-years-old...and the movie is over 2 1/2 hours long. I saw "Jesus Christ Superstar" on stage for the first time when I was six. I honestly don't remember a time when there wasn't a movie soundtrack or Broadway cast recording not played on a regular basis in my childhood home. When I lived in Los Angeles, if I had occasion to meet an actor from one of those musicals (Dick Van Dyke, Buddy Hackett, Shirley Jones, etc.), there was always a certain charge that I got, like being a kid again...and I made it a point to go to every showing of those films that American Cinematheque put on, as well as things like the sing-a-long "Sound of Music" at the Hollywood Bowl.
To this day, I do things like watch "Superstar" around Easter every year (yes, the Norman Jewison film version of Rotten Tomatoes/Golden Turkeys fame). I watch "1776" on Fourth of July weekend and "White Christmas" multiple times over the Christmas season. I have two different versions of "West Side Story" on DVD...as well as copies of pretty much every major musical dating back to the 1950's. I have both the Todd-AO and Cinemascope versions of "Oklahoma." What I'm saying is that this has been my way of life.
While I'm sure that there are other households where stuff like this happens, I'm not sure how many of them are in the Midwest and have no daughters living in them.
My kids aren't as schooled in this stuff as I was, but they still are growing up to not think twice about people breaking out into song. With the "High School Musical" trend in tween entertainment -- something that seems to still continue as far as I can tell with the shows that the boys sometimes watch -- they're able to tie back to the origin of some of what they're seeing. When a recent Nickelodeon show (Big Time Rush) included a number of references to The Beatles, it didn't take them much to get it.
So, when they do things like try to ape Donald O'Connor's "Make 'Em Laugh" moves from "Singin' In the Rain" or when Casey sat through three performances of "Godspell" last summer, I always feel a pang of pride that a family tradition is being carried on.
It might make things easier if either of them could sing or dance, but that's the problem with real life...no Marnie Nixon track to overdub you.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
The Village
There's been a couple of things that have come up recently that have caused me to remember that perhaps my youth wasn't quite the same as many people. Not in a bad way -- and not really even in an overly interesting way --but maybe just a touch different. Of course, a lot of that probably just had to do with the fact that I might have been just a little bit odd...or maybe the right word is geeky. Or, at least geekier than the son of a bookie is probably supposed to be.
During the course of a conversation with Amy, it came up that when I was a teenager, I subscribed to Ellery Queen Magazine...which publishes detective/mystery short stories. Had I been a teenager in the 1940's through the middle of the 1960's, there probably wouldn't have been anything unusual about this. However, this was in the mid-80's and let's just say that it wasn't what most of my peers were doing. Of course, one of my best friends -- Marty and Casey's godmother -- was getting Architectural Digest at the time. Then again, we both did fun things like went to academic summer camps and bandied about ideas for future novels. We met similar contemporaries in college, but we were living in the middle of nowhere at the time that all of this started. Back then, I used to frequently read three newspapers a day and would specifically take a route that would allow me to stop at the appropriate stores to get them since they weren't all available in one place.
Of course, Amy, the one that raised an eyebrow at my magazine subscription, used to read her local newspaper, pointing out every grammatical error along the way.
The other part about my younger days is that I'm actually a pretty good example of the "it takes a village to raise a child" thing. I'm at least enough of an example that you would think that Hillary Clinton would want to meet me, instead of slapping me with a restraining order.
When Amy was filling out a form for the kids' upcoming visit to the eye doctor and had to ask me when I first started wearing eye glasses. In actually, I started wearing glasses because my friend's mother made me. Marie, the AD reading friend from above, is about six months younger than me so initially I was a frequent chauffeur for her. She mentioned to her mother that I was having trouble reading street signs. Her mother -- who along with many of my other friend's mothers -- was one of the main reasons that I ate a regular dinner in high school. She was also a little overprotective of her daughter. Let's just say that I am still fairly well versed in what the proper procedures are in emergency situations because of her. She never made me take a CPR class, but that's only because she didn't think of it.
At the point that it was known that I was having trouble seeing, it immediately became an unacceptable situation. Marie's mother made the eye doctor appointment for me and then came to school to pick me to ensure that I went to it.
Having read plenty of Sports Illustrated stories, I know that this kind of thing isn't unusual. However, as I hinted at, her mother was only one of a group of people that would've done that for me. When I was younger, there was always at least one family of a friend that would keep tabs on me and try to make sure that I was staying on a straight path. I still remember in junior high when my English teacher told me with a touch of surprise that he had been someplace and when it came up where he taught at, one of my friend's mothers had started quizzing him on me.
When I was in high school, in a completely different part of the country, that number wasn't just one or two...it was at least five families. I ate dinner so often at friend's houses so often that usually the people that lived there stopped even noticing if I was there. Everyone made sure that I was taken care of. I was told by others that weren't part of those families that they were fiercely protective of me out in the small community in which we lived. By the time that my mother officially moved back to the East Coast and I moved in with the family that Marty and Casey consider their family, most people thought that I already did live there. Here's the thing though, when it became known that my mother had told me that she was not returning from her "visit" the group of families that watched over me all let me know that I was not in danger of having nowhere to go.
So, while there are undoubtedly things from my childhood that were not ideal -- I come from a crazy Irish family and that kind of goes with the territory -- there were other ways where my youth was unique in a positive way. I learned firsthand that there are good people in the world that will go out of their way to help someone. I don't know that you can underestimate how important a lesson that is to learn when you're a kid.
Knowing that people care about you no matter what when you're a kid gives you the freedom to be yourself...even if that just gives you the opportunity to be a geek.
During the course of a conversation with Amy, it came up that when I was a teenager, I subscribed to Ellery Queen Magazine...which publishes detective/mystery short stories. Had I been a teenager in the 1940's through the middle of the 1960's, there probably wouldn't have been anything unusual about this. However, this was in the mid-80's and let's just say that it wasn't what most of my peers were doing. Of course, one of my best friends -- Marty and Casey's godmother -- was getting Architectural Digest at the time. Then again, we both did fun things like went to academic summer camps and bandied about ideas for future novels. We met similar contemporaries in college, but we were living in the middle of nowhere at the time that all of this started. Back then, I used to frequently read three newspapers a day and would specifically take a route that would allow me to stop at the appropriate stores to get them since they weren't all available in one place.
Of course, Amy, the one that raised an eyebrow at my magazine subscription, used to read her local newspaper, pointing out every grammatical error along the way.
The other part about my younger days is that I'm actually a pretty good example of the "it takes a village to raise a child" thing. I'm at least enough of an example that you would think that Hillary Clinton would want to meet me, instead of slapping me with a restraining order.
When Amy was filling out a form for the kids' upcoming visit to the eye doctor and had to ask me when I first started wearing eye glasses. In actually, I started wearing glasses because my friend's mother made me. Marie, the AD reading friend from above, is about six months younger than me so initially I was a frequent chauffeur for her. She mentioned to her mother that I was having trouble reading street signs. Her mother -- who along with many of my other friend's mothers -- was one of the main reasons that I ate a regular dinner in high school. She was also a little overprotective of her daughter. Let's just say that I am still fairly well versed in what the proper procedures are in emergency situations because of her. She never made me take a CPR class, but that's only because she didn't think of it.
At the point that it was known that I was having trouble seeing, it immediately became an unacceptable situation. Marie's mother made the eye doctor appointment for me and then came to school to pick me to ensure that I went to it.
Having read plenty of Sports Illustrated stories, I know that this kind of thing isn't unusual. However, as I hinted at, her mother was only one of a group of people that would've done that for me. When I was younger, there was always at least one family of a friend that would keep tabs on me and try to make sure that I was staying on a straight path. I still remember in junior high when my English teacher told me with a touch of surprise that he had been someplace and when it came up where he taught at, one of my friend's mothers had started quizzing him on me.
When I was in high school, in a completely different part of the country, that number wasn't just one or two...it was at least five families. I ate dinner so often at friend's houses so often that usually the people that lived there stopped even noticing if I was there. Everyone made sure that I was taken care of. I was told by others that weren't part of those families that they were fiercely protective of me out in the small community in which we lived. By the time that my mother officially moved back to the East Coast and I moved in with the family that Marty and Casey consider their family, most people thought that I already did live there. Here's the thing though, when it became known that my mother had told me that she was not returning from her "visit" the group of families that watched over me all let me know that I was not in danger of having nowhere to go.
So, while there are undoubtedly things from my childhood that were not ideal -- I come from a crazy Irish family and that kind of goes with the territory -- there were other ways where my youth was unique in a positive way. I learned firsthand that there are good people in the world that will go out of their way to help someone. I don't know that you can underestimate how important a lesson that is to learn when you're a kid.
Knowing that people care about you no matter what when you're a kid gives you the freedom to be yourself...even if that just gives you the opportunity to be a geek.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
How are you remembered?
This morning as I was pouring myself a cup of coffee I looked down at my mug. For years now -- at least 12 -- I've drank my coffee at home in a mug with the face of a classic Warner Bros. cartoon character on it. Most of the time it's the Tasmanian Devil, but sometimes it's Sylvester the cat. There's more than one mug, so I just kind of rotate them.
As I was looking at the mug, I was struck by the thought that perhaps this is something that Marty and Casey are going to remember about me. Then again, maybe they've never once noticed that I always use the same mugs every morning.
That's the thing about how you remember people...you don't really know how people will remember you and its hard to tell how you'll remember someone else. I'm not sure that most people care about it, but its one of those things I've been conscious of for probably too long.
When my father died when I was seven, I tried hard to keep whatever memories that I could of him. I don't remember anyone telling me that I should try to do that, but maybe someone did. However, most of my memories are just of small things...like remembering being in a car with him or random moments at the racetrack. I remember him looking at Playboy or listening to the soundtrack of "The Sound of Music" (or, in memories that probably lead to some behaviors in me that cause a lot of confusion for Amy, doing both of those at the same time). Oddly, I remember him being upset when people like Jim Croce, Bruce Lee and Moe Howard died -- Lee, in particular, because he had a young son named Brandon, which seemed to be the part that had caught my father's attention. To this day, I sit quietly in a movie theater because that's what he ordered me to do as a tot. And, ever since that final goodbye, the smell of too many flowers is something that I can't stand because it brings back a memory that I really don't like.
But, were something to happen to me, I don't really know how my children would remember me. I'd like to think that there's been enough things that would allow them to have good things that they could latch onto...however, it's the kind of thing that actually concerns me. Conversely, it's also not the kind of thing that you can do very much about.
Around the holidays, I went to an Indianapolis Colts game when we were staying at Amy's sister's house. My brother-in-law and their 11-year-old daughter went with me when I ended up with a couple of extra tickets (I had the tickets initially because of work). It was a nice time...the game was good and the weather was nice. As we were walking back to the car after the game, I just happened to catch a glimpse of my niece beaming up at her father in the winter sunlight. It was a week before Christmas and all I could think was, "She's making a memory of her father...she's picking this moment to try to hold onto."
Hopefully, even now, Marty and Casey have at least a couple of those moments to keep with them...but I'll keep trying to give them the opportunity to make the ones that they want.
As I was looking at the mug, I was struck by the thought that perhaps this is something that Marty and Casey are going to remember about me. Then again, maybe they've never once noticed that I always use the same mugs every morning.
That's the thing about how you remember people...you don't really know how people will remember you and its hard to tell how you'll remember someone else. I'm not sure that most people care about it, but its one of those things I've been conscious of for probably too long.
When my father died when I was seven, I tried hard to keep whatever memories that I could of him. I don't remember anyone telling me that I should try to do that, but maybe someone did. However, most of my memories are just of small things...like remembering being in a car with him or random moments at the racetrack. I remember him looking at Playboy or listening to the soundtrack of "The Sound of Music" (or, in memories that probably lead to some behaviors in me that cause a lot of confusion for Amy, doing both of those at the same time). Oddly, I remember him being upset when people like Jim Croce, Bruce Lee and Moe Howard died -- Lee, in particular, because he had a young son named Brandon, which seemed to be the part that had caught my father's attention. To this day, I sit quietly in a movie theater because that's what he ordered me to do as a tot. And, ever since that final goodbye, the smell of too many flowers is something that I can't stand because it brings back a memory that I really don't like.
But, were something to happen to me, I don't really know how my children would remember me. I'd like to think that there's been enough things that would allow them to have good things that they could latch onto...however, it's the kind of thing that actually concerns me. Conversely, it's also not the kind of thing that you can do very much about.
Around the holidays, I went to an Indianapolis Colts game when we were staying at Amy's sister's house. My brother-in-law and their 11-year-old daughter went with me when I ended up with a couple of extra tickets (I had the tickets initially because of work). It was a nice time...the game was good and the weather was nice. As we were walking back to the car after the game, I just happened to catch a glimpse of my niece beaming up at her father in the winter sunlight. It was a week before Christmas and all I could think was, "She's making a memory of her father...she's picking this moment to try to hold onto."
Hopefully, even now, Marty and Casey have at least a couple of those moments to keep with them...but I'll keep trying to give them the opportunity to make the ones that they want.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Saturday Mornings
I recently acquired one of those compilation DVDs of cartoons from the 1970s, and Marty and Casey have been watching them. This morning, it was hard not to be a little confused as "Funky Phantom" was on our television... I was simultaneously having flashbacks to being a 4-year-old and having to fight the urge to put on polyester clothing and light a Kool while enjoying a glass of Tang. I suppose the urges were just a byproduct of the memories. As I closed my eyes, I could very nearly smell the mix of menthol smoke and orange powder.
Its nice to have kids that are willing to watch older cartoons. Thanks to Boomerang, I realize that a lot of kids have continued to be exposed to everything from The Flintstones to Yogi Bear to Jabberjaw. My kids, particularly Marty, don't have a problem taking it a step further. He'll watch animation from the '30s and '40s... which, thanks to me, he has access to. They will also go on YouTube and watch obscure stuff.
So, its funny when they start talking about stuff that I would've talked about when I was 10, like figuring out the relationships between the different Hanna-Barbera characters on "Laff-Olympics."
See, it turns out -- and I was reminded of this earlier in the week with the passing of The Monkees' Davy Jones -- I watched a lot of television when I was a kid. I remember doing a lot of other stuff, but I don't know where I found the time considering the amount of things that I remember from TV shows from the 1960s and '70s. Last week, I was watching an ESPN Classic replay of a "Battle of the Network Stars" from somewhere in the neighborhood of 1980. Amy found it troubling that I was able to match-up the actors with their respective shows before either Howard Cosell or the chyron display did. I found it disturbing that there was a show that I didn't remember. (It was a NBC show called "Games People Play"...which was the launching pad for Mr. T, a story that I remember but the show itself escapes me.)
Back when I was a kid, all three networks (that's right... three) used to run a prime time special to introduce that season's Saturday morning cartoon lineup. I was the target audience for those shows and watched them religiously. I would probably be better off if I could forget some of that useless knowledge -- it's probably not critical that I be able to identify all of the characters on "Yogi's Gang" by sight for my sons -- but so far, I'm stuck with it.
I'm the annoying person that corrects someone with a "No, that wasn't 'Bewitched,' that was 'I Dream of Jeanie'" during conversations that I'm not even involved in. Or, calls up radio stations to point out that it was Stephen Stills that was originally considered for "The Monkees," not David Crosby.
It makes me wonder what I'm imparting to the kids... what kind of obscure references they'll confuse people with in 20 years. Some fathers pass along a trade to their children...I offer them knowledge that will be helpful with the retro release of Trivial Pursuit's 50th anniversary.
Hey, at least it's something.
Its nice to have kids that are willing to watch older cartoons. Thanks to Boomerang, I realize that a lot of kids have continued to be exposed to everything from The Flintstones to Yogi Bear to Jabberjaw. My kids, particularly Marty, don't have a problem taking it a step further. He'll watch animation from the '30s and '40s... which, thanks to me, he has access to. They will also go on YouTube and watch obscure stuff.
So, its funny when they start talking about stuff that I would've talked about when I was 10, like figuring out the relationships between the different Hanna-Barbera characters on "Laff-Olympics."
See, it turns out -- and I was reminded of this earlier in the week with the passing of The Monkees' Davy Jones -- I watched a lot of television when I was a kid. I remember doing a lot of other stuff, but I don't know where I found the time considering the amount of things that I remember from TV shows from the 1960s and '70s. Last week, I was watching an ESPN Classic replay of a "Battle of the Network Stars" from somewhere in the neighborhood of 1980. Amy found it troubling that I was able to match-up the actors with their respective shows before either Howard Cosell or the chyron display did. I found it disturbing that there was a show that I didn't remember. (It was a NBC show called "Games People Play"...which was the launching pad for Mr. T, a story that I remember but the show itself escapes me.)
Back when I was a kid, all three networks (that's right... three) used to run a prime time special to introduce that season's Saturday morning cartoon lineup. I was the target audience for those shows and watched them religiously. I would probably be better off if I could forget some of that useless knowledge -- it's probably not critical that I be able to identify all of the characters on "Yogi's Gang" by sight for my sons -- but so far, I'm stuck with it.
I'm the annoying person that corrects someone with a "No, that wasn't 'Bewitched,' that was 'I Dream of Jeanie'" during conversations that I'm not even involved in. Or, calls up radio stations to point out that it was Stephen Stills that was originally considered for "The Monkees," not David Crosby.
It makes me wonder what I'm imparting to the kids... what kind of obscure references they'll confuse people with in 20 years. Some fathers pass along a trade to their children...I offer them knowledge that will be helpful with the retro release of Trivial Pursuit's 50th anniversary.
Hey, at least it's something.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Weird
The other day, Marty asked me, "Is our family too weird?"
How do you respond to that? I pointed out that since I'm a writer and a former member of the Hollywood establishment, that we're allowed to be a little bit weird.
Amy said that I should've just said that all families are weird and let it go at that. It turns out that Marty's concern was really that he felt that he had gotten the kids in his class to accept him and he was worried that the weirdness of the rest of his family might blow that for him. Considering that Marty's Asperger's related peculiarities are known by a decent amount of peers, beyond just his class -- and really the population of the town we live in as a whole -- it was kind of endearing to have him worrying about the strangeness of the rest of us.
It also seems that his query was driven by the interactions of his little brother Casey and myself. Marty believes that when Casey and I are intentionally being obnoxious, making statements to each other that we know aren't true or singing badly at the top of our lungs, that its weird. Most people use the word "stupid" along with the obvious "obnoxious" designation. Of course, our behavior is also fairly consistent with adolescent boys. According to Amy, that's fine for Casey but less ok for his 4o-ish father.
So, what I suppose it boils down to is that I'm weird and that's a concern for Marty. I find it amusing that some of the normal behaviors of boys his age are what he finds weird. I'm sure that opinion is not without merit, but I don't that its members of the class itself that typically express it.
Lost in all of this is Amy, who doesn't believe that Marty's concerns are in any way directed to her. She might be right, but all I know is that for years she used to flip her shoes in her hands, like a juggler, before putting them on her feet. I don't believe that repressing your idiosyncrasies keeps them from being picked up on by your children.
I doubt that our family really is any weirder than others -- although I did wonder the time that Marty and Casey began arguing over who is more "creative." We might do a little less to hide it than some others, but that just keeps us honest.
Notice that I said "family"...there's a decent chance that I'm a complete lunatic, but why should that drag all the others down with me. For safety's sake, though, I might lock myself in my room until Marty's out of high school.
How do you respond to that? I pointed out that since I'm a writer and a former member of the Hollywood establishment, that we're allowed to be a little bit weird.
Amy said that I should've just said that all families are weird and let it go at that. It turns out that Marty's concern was really that he felt that he had gotten the kids in his class to accept him and he was worried that the weirdness of the rest of his family might blow that for him. Considering that Marty's Asperger's related peculiarities are known by a decent amount of peers, beyond just his class -- and really the population of the town we live in as a whole -- it was kind of endearing to have him worrying about the strangeness of the rest of us.
It also seems that his query was driven by the interactions of his little brother Casey and myself. Marty believes that when Casey and I are intentionally being obnoxious, making statements to each other that we know aren't true or singing badly at the top of our lungs, that its weird. Most people use the word "stupid" along with the obvious "obnoxious" designation. Of course, our behavior is also fairly consistent with adolescent boys. According to Amy, that's fine for Casey but less ok for his 4o-ish father.
So, what I suppose it boils down to is that I'm weird and that's a concern for Marty. I find it amusing that some of the normal behaviors of boys his age are what he finds weird. I'm sure that opinion is not without merit, but I don't that its members of the class itself that typically express it.
Lost in all of this is Amy, who doesn't believe that Marty's concerns are in any way directed to her. She might be right, but all I know is that for years she used to flip her shoes in her hands, like a juggler, before putting them on her feet. I don't believe that repressing your idiosyncrasies keeps them from being picked up on by your children.
I doubt that our family really is any weirder than others -- although I did wonder the time that Marty and Casey began arguing over who is more "creative." We might do a little less to hide it than some others, but that just keeps us honest.
Notice that I said "family"...there's a decent chance that I'm a complete lunatic, but why should that drag all the others down with me. For safety's sake, though, I might lock myself in my room until Marty's out of high school.
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