Day Zha Voo (doo?)

The first vehicle I ever owned was a blue Datsun pickup with a white cap on the back.

I got my brother to drive me down to Manchester to pick it up. On the way I asked him if he could kind of give me a quick lesson on how to drive a stick shift. He looked at me and asked if that meant that I actually planned to buy a car I did not know how to drive. Well...yeah.

After administering the obligatory brotherly dope slap, he spent about 4 minutes explaining the interplay of clutch, brake and accelerator. Once he made sure I had paid and received my title and paperwork, he drove off and left me. Some people look at me a little goggle eyed when I tell them this, but I always just shrug and remind them that he is my brother, not my sister.

For those of you that know Manchester, picture turning left on Elm street out of Doble's Chevrolet during rush hour -- the first time you ever drove a manual transmission. It was exciting, I tell you.

Now it's 28 years later. A long string of cars has come and gone, mostly Ford Escorts and Subarus of various types. Now I find myself, rather accidentally, driving a blue pickup with a white cap.

Deja vu baby.

It's still a manual tranny, but this time it's a Chevy. At least my brother won't dope slap me for that.

Growing Up Fatherless

My father died when I was 5 years old. I have only a few memories of him, but a rather sharp picture of him in my mind and in my heart. For this I thank my mother, who spoke of him often to me, and told me stories that gave me a strong sense of his character. She was always careful to build him up, and I think that was not a hard task as I know that she love him deeply and admired him greatly. I'm aware of some of his defects, which I have come to understand more through deduction of what I know of his life, rather than through direct experience or testimony. Those flaws don't seem to matter much though. It is his strengths, his better side that I see and know and try to be at all times.

• He worked hard, even though he failed often and saw hard times.
• He was competent and skilled at his labor.
• He loved me and my brothers and my mother and sacrificed much for our good.

I stumbled upon an article called 6 Lessons I Learned about Being a Man from Growing Up Fatherless. My case is not the same as this young man's (my father did not abandon us, nor was he an addict, or abuser of people ) but I appreciate what he has written here and would echo it. I learned many of the same lessons, but not in reaction to my father, rather in admiration for my father.

So here's to you Ernest Octave Denis. May I be half the man you were.

Pride and Joy

(I wrote this several months ago, and it got lost in my files. I discovered it and decided it might be worth putting up here)

I suspect that there is no way to predict with certainty the outcome of raising a child. Just look around you. There are untold examples of children of decent parents with lousy kids. It is the stuff of proverbs. Of course there are proverbs that say differently - that parents shape children, either intentionally or unintentionally.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

A chip off the old block.

Yet, if you look around you, the truth of these other proverbs is also apparent. You can look at a child and every once in a while, the veil falls away and you can see the parent -- in a gesture, in a turn of phrase, in an approach to a problem. Of course, this cuts both ways. Bad apples fall as close to the tree as good ones. 

The outcome of child rearing is not predictable but I am pretty sure that that how a child is raised has some effect. The interplay between nature and nurture is complex, and very far from being a straight line thing. It isn't so much an simple expression ( 2+2 = 4) as a complex equation with many variables.

Much (perhaps even a majority) of the influence is unintentional and below consciousness. I'm not sure how it works, but it is really something to watch. Every once in a while I see something in my girls that just amazes me.

Today, my Bride took our youngest to her Girl Scout meeting. This included a trip to the library -- a big treat. I was home when they arrived. After kissing everyone hello, I noticed that Little Bright Eyes was not in the house. "Where is she?" I asked. "In the car reading some of her new books from the library" I was told. I looked out the door and sure enough, she's still sitting in the car, happy as a clam in the sand, looking through her new stack of nice fresh books. I watched her for a second, thinking, "That's my girl! Brought her up RIGHT. Yes I did." 

You see, I love books. Books are among the greatest joys of my life. I was truly excited to see that joy transferred to her. It was a little moment of pride.

But I fear such pride is misplaced. Really. There must be thousands of examples of parents who read and read to their kids, and yet the kids grow up to hate reading. And just as many examples of brave and prolific readers who rise out of families who don't even own books. The transfer of such things from one generation to the next is neither sure or predictable. I believe that I did influence my girls' love of books, but my influence alone is insufficient as to be thought of as a primary cause. It's all just too complex to be reduced to any kind of "just that" or "merely this."

So I can't take pride in it really. But I can take joy in it.

Breaking the Code

My youngest daughter just waltzed herself downstairs and read me a story.
I am just astounded at the alchemy that occurs when one looks at black scratches on a sheet of baked wood pulp and derives from them some sort of meaning. I know that the experience of learning to read has been a profoundly lifechanging event that continues for me even today. I am constantly shaped and reshaped by what I read. When I think of the worlds that will open up for my daughter from this, I feel a deep and abiding satisfaction, amazement and pleasure.
Here's what especially funny. Her choice of reading for fun? Calvin & Hobbes. When she is done with her "school" books, she goes straight for C&H. Not an easy primer for someone who is just learning the ropes. She needs a little coaching through a lot of the bigger words. And much of the intended humor goes over her head. Nevertheless, she enjoys it so much that I take immense plesure in just watching her laugh for the pure joy of reading.
Reading is good.

The Loss of a World

I spent some time with my Mom tonight. She is disappearing. Or, it might be more correct to say that her world is disappearing. I suppose when it comes down to it, they are both the same thing.
Here are some examples from our conversation.

Mom: Help me out. Where am I now?
Me: You are at Havenwood Mom.
Mom: Really. oh. What city?
Me: Concord. You are in Concord.
Mom: (completely astonished) Really!?! Really?!? Ohhh. I thought I was in
some other state somewhere way off. I'm in Concord? (pause) That makes me feel better. (pause) Where in Concord?
Me: In Havenwood.
Mom: I know that. Where is it though?
Me: On the Heights near Loudon Road?
Mom: Where?
Me: Near East Side Drive.
Mom: Ohhhhhh. Good. Okay. How did I get here?
Me: You turn off Loudon road by the Pizza Hut and Burger King.
Mom: Ohhhhh. Okay. I can't picture how I got in this building though. All I
really remember is this room. And how to get to dinner.
Me: I know.

And so it would go. At various times I would recount the brothers and which one of us have been to visit when recently. On my last visit, after counting off who had been to visit, she said, "Then there is David. He hasn't been here for ages." It took her about 10 seconds to realize that I was sitting in front of her.
I could list off several other examples of how her world is shrinking, both in time and space. For all this, she seems relatively good humored about it. Frustrated certainly, but lately more bewildered, wondering where it all went, not sure why it's happening. She is aware that there is a bigger world, and that she once dwelt in it. Aware that the world she inhabits now is severely circumscribed, shrunk, falling inward upon itself daily. She is unaware of which parts are falling away, and how rapidly.
I sit with her and we talk in loops. When reminded of something, someone, someplace, sometime, she often is able to recall it - for a short while. A few minutes later we loop back around to it again.
I sit with her, and I wonder...how long will this go on. I think of the woman who hugged me when I got stung by wasps, who told me to go out and play, who fed me for years. I think of the woman who was frustrated to tears when I would not clean up my room, and who cried when I left the house at 18. I think of her reading to me, and teaching me to read, and watching me play, and I watch her now. She is the same person, and she is much changed. She is certainly all of herself and much less at the same time. I'm not sure what to make of it.
I'm not sure what to make of it.