I am a fortunate man. I may not have great looks, wealth or fame (or many of the other attributes that people associate with men of good fortune), but when I take the time to stop and look around, I know that I am blessed beyond what I deserve.
I consider myself fortunate for many reasons, such as the fact that not only are both my parents still alive, but they are still married and living together (in the very same house I grew up in). Although they bicker a bit and don’t seem to communicate with each other in a way that I fully understand, they go together like biscuit and gravy. It’s as if they always were…and always will be.
The relationship of child to parent is much different now than it was when I was growing up. My parents did not feel the need to entertain us or be our friend. I can’t remember ever being asked my opinion on where to go out to eat or where to go on vacation. Of course, I can count on two fingers the number of times we went out to eat as a family prior to my sixteenth birthday, and vacations usually consisted of visiting family in Indiana.
No, my parents didn’t read a book on how to raise a child. They didn’t get advice from Dr. Spock or a government study on child psychology. There weren’t people on the news every morning telling them what they were doing was wrong, and if there were, my parents would have been too busy to watch. They fed us, clothed us, took us to church and made sure we brushed our teeth. If we had homework, we were expected to do it, no excuses. We had chores. We didn’t get an allowance. We got clothes and a couple of toys from Santa Claus at Christmas and a new pair of jeans and a toy on our birthday. It was more than enough.
I never worried when I was a child…about anything…and that might have been my parent’s greatest gift. I lived under a dome of their protection. I somehow knew, despite it never being said or even thought about, that they would keep me safe and taken care of. I wasn’t smothered in hugs at home, nor told each day that I was loved, but there was never a doubt in my mind that either one of them would have died to keep me safe. I slept well in my parent’s house.
I don’t sleep as well anymore. Worry is strong caffeine. I have the weight of my own children’s well-being upon me. I worry that I can provide what they need and nurture their self-esteem. I worry about the choices they will make and what outside influences will affect those choices. I worry about the diminishing list of things I can control and the ever-expanding list of things I cannot.
I also worry for my parents. Age and health issues have gradually chipped away at them, as it will to all those fortunate enough to see time pass. Dad survived a bought with cancer ten years ago, and steps a little slower after the fight. Mom has suffered through heart surgery, poor vision, high blood pressure and back problems. They have their good days and their bad days.
I was able to spend most of Mother’s Day weekend with my parents in Kentucky. Each year I tell myself that I will make it a priority to go there more often, and each year I fail miserably. I had not been “home” since late December, hindered from returning sooner by many seemingly reasonable excuses. Like most things that keep us from doing what we should, each excuse made sense at the time.
Sunday morning, as Connie and the girls hurried to get dressed for church; I stood at the back door and watched my parents walk to the car on the way to Sunday school. Mom walked slowly…eyes down and watching the familiar sidewalk as she carefully took each step. She could not afford a fall. Her bones are too fragile now and her skin prone to tear. A broken hip could take her independence in a matter of seconds, and recovery would be difficult. I pray that her feet continue to land firmly and her balance stays true.
I worry too about my father driving. At 81 he’s still much sharper than I about many things, but when I see big SUV’s and trucks speeding through town and weaving through traffic, I worry about his reaction time. How much longer can he keep his focus on the road, and who will tell him to hand over his keys? Will I do the right thing when the time comes, and protect them like they have for so long protected me?
It’s very hard to live so far away from my Mom and Dad. It helps to know that my brothers are close by and willing to do anything necessary, but I feel guilt over that too. I want to do my share. Despite the fact that my parents have cared for me my entire life with no expectations and no interest charged, I owe them that.
I am fortunate that my children have gotten old enough to have good memories of my parents. They know the warmth of my parent’s home, and I know they feel comfortable there. They love their “Mamaw and Papaw,” and I know that they will carry that love and those memories for the rest of their lives.
I hope that for however long I am blessed to have my parents on this Earth, they know how much I love them and how much they mean to their family. I hope they can forgive me for the stupid things I’ve said and the stupid things I’ve done; those things were “in spite of” not “because of” anything they taught me. They’ve placed me in the frustrating position that when I do stumble, I don’t have the excuse of saying, “I didn’t know better.”
Because of their example, I have always known better.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
And on the seventh day...
I don’t remember it myself, but I’ve been told that I was first taken to church when I was two weeks old. Since it was my mother telling the story, I tend to believe it. From then until I got married, I didn’t miss a lot of Sundays, and very few Wednesday nights. Church was as much a part of our life as eating or breathing. I never knew anything else.
Our church was small, averaging sixty or seventy in the congregation each Sunday morning, and if you weren’t related to them in some way or another, then you at least knew their business. Most were hard working, God fearing folk. The men wore suits, with blue ink pens and a pack of camels in the pocket of their crisply ironed white shirts. The ladies wore dresses and shoes with low, sensible heels. Their hair was always perfect, held in place with enough bobby pins to shield them from a nuclear blast. When I got older and realized that half of the older ladies were wearing wigs, it was almost like learning that there was no Easter Bunny.
As a child, I remember going to the front of the church for “Children’s Choir” after Sunday school. It was not really a “choir” since we never rehearsed ahead of time. I’m still not sure of the point of what we were doing other than to show off our miniature suits and ruffled dresses, but it was always fun to sing the songs; “This Little Light of Mine,” “Zacchaeus,” “The B-I-B-L-E,” and my personal favorite, “The Happy Day Express.”
If it was just a “dog and pony” show of “see how cute they are,” then we were extremely willing participants. Besides, I can attest that forty years later I remember the words to every single song.
As kids we were never allowed to wear jeans to morning service. It was just not done. We were also expected to behave. No talking, laughing or cutting up was allowed. It was rare, but I did see a few young boys taken by the hand and solemnly led outside by their Daddy, only to return some time later with splotchy, tear streaked faces and a much more subdued attitude. That usually only had to happen once.
We were a small, independent church…full of independent people. We were “interdenominational,” which means we were not affiliated with any specific religious organization. We weren’t Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist, Catholic or Pentecostal. As I got older and more cynical, I sometimes joked that “interdenominational” meant that we didn’t know what we believed, but that was far from true.
In those days we used the King James Version of the Bible. Now most people say that it is too hard to understand, but even as a child, I didn’t have a problem grasping the central concepts. I think the fact that the language was different than the way we speak made us think about it more. It’s sort of like the way kids today are allowed use calculators in math class: if you make it too easy, people tend to miss the basics.
I always worry a little about some of the various translations of the Bible. I’m sure that they are all well intentioned, but how many different ways can you say the same thing without losing the original intent? Also (and here’s my cynical side coming out), what if a complete lunatic wrote a translation and people actually believed it? I might know that it would be a bad idea to do a Bible study using “Billy Jim Joe Bob’s Bible Translation,” but some people are always looking for what’s new and different, so I wouldn’t put it past them to take take every word as fact.
When I met Connie, I didn’t know quite what to expect. First, she was a Baptist. Second, she was a preacher’s kid. At the time I didn’t know much about Baptists, except that whenever a stray Baptist joined our little Interdenominational Church they tended to stir up trouble. But I had heard about “preacher’s kids,” and was told that they could go to extremes either way. Either they were “holier than thou” sticks in the mud, or rebellious hellions bent on a campaign to shock and awe.
Connie threw both my preconceptions out the window and was a perfect balance of a good hearted person who was also full of surprises. The only shock was how she filled me with awe and inspiration. We had a Baptist wedding in a Baptist Church presided over by her Baptist Preacher father. Whether I wanted to accept it or not, I was now “Baptist by marriage.”
When we moved to Tennessee in 1988, we weren’t in a hurry to join a church. We had spent most of our young lives attending church services, and although we both treasured those memories, we started to enjoy the freedoms of a church free Sunday. We slept late and took day trips. We communed with nature. There was always an excuse not to go. It was our rebellious period.
In early 1990, when we learned that Connie was pregnant with Shelby, we knew that it was time to settle down and return to church. We visited a few churches in the area and were almost afraid to keep looking when on three consecutive Sundays at three different worship services, the Pastors resigned. It made for an awkward visit. By the third resignation we began to joke that we might be some kind of jinx, but in the back of my mind I had to wonder if our mixed marriage of “interdenominational” and “Baptist,” along with our prolonged break from church-going, had somehow offended God. It was a little un-nerving.
We finally found a new church home at Robertsville Baptist Church, and they welcomed us with open arms. Connie and I joined the choir and became involved in Sunday school. We developed a close bond with a group of other young married couples and made some of the best friends of our lives.
As I tried to acquaint myself with “Baptist ways” I realized that there were many similarities with my old home church. Primarily, both churches shared a strong preoccupation with all things food. Whether it was a major event like Homecoming, Revival or Vacation Bible School, or just fact that it’s the second Wednesday night of the month, church people can always find a reason to have a meal.
At a certain point I realized that we were going to be raising our kids "Baptist," and I had to come to terms with that. Any qualms I had were quickly over-ruled by the fact that Connie had turned out pretty well, so between us (and a lot of prayers) we might end up with some well rounded Christian kids.
(...there's much more to this train of thought, and I might even write about it)
Our church was small, averaging sixty or seventy in the congregation each Sunday morning, and if you weren’t related to them in some way or another, then you at least knew their business. Most were hard working, God fearing folk. The men wore suits, with blue ink pens and a pack of camels in the pocket of their crisply ironed white shirts. The ladies wore dresses and shoes with low, sensible heels. Their hair was always perfect, held in place with enough bobby pins to shield them from a nuclear blast. When I got older and realized that half of the older ladies were wearing wigs, it was almost like learning that there was no Easter Bunny.
As a child, I remember going to the front of the church for “Children’s Choir” after Sunday school. It was not really a “choir” since we never rehearsed ahead of time. I’m still not sure of the point of what we were doing other than to show off our miniature suits and ruffled dresses, but it was always fun to sing the songs; “This Little Light of Mine,” “Zacchaeus,” “The B-I-B-L-E,” and my personal favorite, “The Happy Day Express.”
If it was just a “dog and pony” show of “see how cute they are,” then we were extremely willing participants. Besides, I can attest that forty years later I remember the words to every single song.
As kids we were never allowed to wear jeans to morning service. It was just not done. We were also expected to behave. No talking, laughing or cutting up was allowed. It was rare, but I did see a few young boys taken by the hand and solemnly led outside by their Daddy, only to return some time later with splotchy, tear streaked faces and a much more subdued attitude. That usually only had to happen once.
We were a small, independent church…full of independent people. We were “interdenominational,” which means we were not affiliated with any specific religious organization. We weren’t Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist, Catholic or Pentecostal. As I got older and more cynical, I sometimes joked that “interdenominational” meant that we didn’t know what we believed, but that was far from true.
In those days we used the King James Version of the Bible. Now most people say that it is too hard to understand, but even as a child, I didn’t have a problem grasping the central concepts. I think the fact that the language was different than the way we speak made us think about it more. It’s sort of like the way kids today are allowed use calculators in math class: if you make it too easy, people tend to miss the basics.
I always worry a little about some of the various translations of the Bible. I’m sure that they are all well intentioned, but how many different ways can you say the same thing without losing the original intent? Also (and here’s my cynical side coming out), what if a complete lunatic wrote a translation and people actually believed it? I might know that it would be a bad idea to do a Bible study using “Billy Jim Joe Bob’s Bible Translation,” but some people are always looking for what’s new and different, so I wouldn’t put it past them to take take every word as fact.
When I met Connie, I didn’t know quite what to expect. First, she was a Baptist. Second, she was a preacher’s kid. At the time I didn’t know much about Baptists, except that whenever a stray Baptist joined our little Interdenominational Church they tended to stir up trouble. But I had heard about “preacher’s kids,” and was told that they could go to extremes either way. Either they were “holier than thou” sticks in the mud, or rebellious hellions bent on a campaign to shock and awe.
Connie threw both my preconceptions out the window and was a perfect balance of a good hearted person who was also full of surprises. The only shock was how she filled me with awe and inspiration. We had a Baptist wedding in a Baptist Church presided over by her Baptist Preacher father. Whether I wanted to accept it or not, I was now “Baptist by marriage.”
When we moved to Tennessee in 1988, we weren’t in a hurry to join a church. We had spent most of our young lives attending church services, and although we both treasured those memories, we started to enjoy the freedoms of a church free Sunday. We slept late and took day trips. We communed with nature. There was always an excuse not to go. It was our rebellious period.
In early 1990, when we learned that Connie was pregnant with Shelby, we knew that it was time to settle down and return to church. We visited a few churches in the area and were almost afraid to keep looking when on three consecutive Sundays at three different worship services, the Pastors resigned. It made for an awkward visit. By the third resignation we began to joke that we might be some kind of jinx, but in the back of my mind I had to wonder if our mixed marriage of “interdenominational” and “Baptist,” along with our prolonged break from church-going, had somehow offended God. It was a little un-nerving.
We finally found a new church home at Robertsville Baptist Church, and they welcomed us with open arms. Connie and I joined the choir and became involved in Sunday school. We developed a close bond with a group of other young married couples and made some of the best friends of our lives.
As I tried to acquaint myself with “Baptist ways” I realized that there were many similarities with my old home church. Primarily, both churches shared a strong preoccupation with all things food. Whether it was a major event like Homecoming, Revival or Vacation Bible School, or just fact that it’s the second Wednesday night of the month, church people can always find a reason to have a meal.
At a certain point I realized that we were going to be raising our kids "Baptist," and I had to come to terms with that. Any qualms I had were quickly over-ruled by the fact that Connie had turned out pretty well, so between us (and a lot of prayers) we might end up with some well rounded Christian kids.
(...there's much more to this train of thought, and I might even write about it)
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Through the looking glass...
Probably before the doctor spanked my bare, chubby newborn bottom someone had placed a pair of glasses over my visually impaired eyes. I can’t remember a time when I haven’t worn them; from the black plastic “kick me” glasses of elementary school and the massive face shield models of the late seventies to the smaller John Denver inspired wire rims I tend to wear today, they are the first thing I reach for in the morning and the last thing I take off at night (…sorry for any disturbing images that might have created).
My eyes have always had a weakness for distant viewing. Anything further than six or seven feet was slightly off clear and past fifteen or twenty feet was full on fuzzy. Fortunately, I had been able to see up close, and have been able to read with both my glasses on or off. Until now.
Last summer I got new glasses with the same basic prescription that I have had for years. For about three months everything was perfectly normal (or at least normal for me). Then one morning in September I woke up in a Bethesda, Maryland hotel and put on my glasses…and the world was different. I didn’t know it until I opened the door to my room and picked up my complimentary copy of USA Today, but as I brought it up to look at the headlines, I realized that there was something wrong.
After a few minutes of unscientific testing I came to the conclusion that I could no longer see clearly within a couple of feet of my face while wearing my glasses. Just outside that range and beyond my eyesight was still clear, but I could no longer read while optically enhanced.
When I returned home I made an appointment with my optometrist and was soon sitting in his office, demanding new glasses. I argued that obviously my prescription was wrong and the glasses were faulty. He humored me long enough to perform a quick exam, then kindly shook his head and explained that my eyes had “changed,” and that as we get older it is bound to happen. I told him that I understood and expected my eyesight to shift with age, but this “change” was not only fairly drastic, but had also occurred overnight. He put a hand on my shoulder and gave me his best Marcus Welby impression of concern. “It happens,” he said.
He went on to explain in more technical detail about the degeneration of my eyes and then suggested that I probably needed bi-focals. I told him that I could still read just fine without my glasses, so why would I want bi-focals. He said, “So you won’t have to take off your glasses to read.” I didn’t buy it. I made the decision right then that as long as I could read with or without my regular glasses, I would not get bi-focals. I had to make a stand somewhere, and that was where I drew the line.
Since that day I’ve become very accustomed to taking off my glasses. I was surprised to learn just how often throughout the day I actually read things that are not what I normally consider “reading.” It’s not just picking up a book or a magazine; there are menus, memos, business cards, package descriptions, pill bottles, instruction booklets, etc., etc., etc.
Aging is a funny thing. When I first open my eyes in the morning, I don’t feel all that different than I did in high school or college. My mind dances with dreams and possibilities. I feel alive with the promise of a new day. Then I start to move and the aches and pains I’ve accumulated tap me on the shoulder, back and knees. I remember quickly that I am no longer so young and have somehow jumped into a vehicle that seems to be racing downhill with no brakes.
It reminds me of a comedian I once heard talking about growing older. He said that when you’re a kid it seems like forever between special events. You’ve got Birthdays and Christmas, New Years and Valentine’s Day. Then there’s Easter, Memorial Day, July 4 and the long wait until Labor Day, Halloween and Thanksgiving. The year seemed long in a child’s eyes.
As you get older, they fly by in dog years. Pretty soon, the comedian said, the calendar turns so quickly that it’s “birthday, birthday, birthday…you’re gonna DIE!”
I thought his joke was funny when I heard it, but I was much younger then. Now I think about it and realize that despite its humor and supposed accuracy, it’s far too cynical a concept to let yourself fall into. Yes, the years might be spinning by a bit faster than I would wish…and my body might be slowing down or “changing,” but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up just yet.
I’ve decided that there can be a gracefulness and elegance in removing my glasses to read. (Occasionally, if no one is around, I whip them off with a dramatic flourish, just for the fun of it). I’m trying to look on the positive side, which has not always been my strong suit, but is something I will probably need to cultivate as I get older.
Because even with my bad eyes, I still want to see my daughters grow up and start their own families. I want to see the faces of my grandchildren. I want to watch many sunsets with my agelessly beautiful wife. I don’t want to do all these things with a frown of worry on my face. I want to enjoy each day for the amazing gift that it is…and I’m going to try very hard not to lose sight of that.
My eyes have always had a weakness for distant viewing. Anything further than six or seven feet was slightly off clear and past fifteen or twenty feet was full on fuzzy. Fortunately, I had been able to see up close, and have been able to read with both my glasses on or off. Until now.
Last summer I got new glasses with the same basic prescription that I have had for years. For about three months everything was perfectly normal (or at least normal for me). Then one morning in September I woke up in a Bethesda, Maryland hotel and put on my glasses…and the world was different. I didn’t know it until I opened the door to my room and picked up my complimentary copy of USA Today, but as I brought it up to look at the headlines, I realized that there was something wrong.
After a few minutes of unscientific testing I came to the conclusion that I could no longer see clearly within a couple of feet of my face while wearing my glasses. Just outside that range and beyond my eyesight was still clear, but I could no longer read while optically enhanced.
When I returned home I made an appointment with my optometrist and was soon sitting in his office, demanding new glasses. I argued that obviously my prescription was wrong and the glasses were faulty. He humored me long enough to perform a quick exam, then kindly shook his head and explained that my eyes had “changed,” and that as we get older it is bound to happen. I told him that I understood and expected my eyesight to shift with age, but this “change” was not only fairly drastic, but had also occurred overnight. He put a hand on my shoulder and gave me his best Marcus Welby impression of concern. “It happens,” he said.
He went on to explain in more technical detail about the degeneration of my eyes and then suggested that I probably needed bi-focals. I told him that I could still read just fine without my glasses, so why would I want bi-focals. He said, “So you won’t have to take off your glasses to read.” I didn’t buy it. I made the decision right then that as long as I could read with or without my regular glasses, I would not get bi-focals. I had to make a stand somewhere, and that was where I drew the line.
Since that day I’ve become very accustomed to taking off my glasses. I was surprised to learn just how often throughout the day I actually read things that are not what I normally consider “reading.” It’s not just picking up a book or a magazine; there are menus, memos, business cards, package descriptions, pill bottles, instruction booklets, etc., etc., etc.
Aging is a funny thing. When I first open my eyes in the morning, I don’t feel all that different than I did in high school or college. My mind dances with dreams and possibilities. I feel alive with the promise of a new day. Then I start to move and the aches and pains I’ve accumulated tap me on the shoulder, back and knees. I remember quickly that I am no longer so young and have somehow jumped into a vehicle that seems to be racing downhill with no brakes.
It reminds me of a comedian I once heard talking about growing older. He said that when you’re a kid it seems like forever between special events. You’ve got Birthdays and Christmas, New Years and Valentine’s Day. Then there’s Easter, Memorial Day, July 4 and the long wait until Labor Day, Halloween and Thanksgiving. The year seemed long in a child’s eyes.
As you get older, they fly by in dog years. Pretty soon, the comedian said, the calendar turns so quickly that it’s “birthday, birthday, birthday…you’re gonna DIE!”
I thought his joke was funny when I heard it, but I was much younger then. Now I think about it and realize that despite its humor and supposed accuracy, it’s far too cynical a concept to let yourself fall into. Yes, the years might be spinning by a bit faster than I would wish…and my body might be slowing down or “changing,” but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up just yet.
I’ve decided that there can be a gracefulness and elegance in removing my glasses to read. (Occasionally, if no one is around, I whip them off with a dramatic flourish, just for the fun of it). I’m trying to look on the positive side, which has not always been my strong suit, but is something I will probably need to cultivate as I get older.
Because even with my bad eyes, I still want to see my daughters grow up and start their own families. I want to see the faces of my grandchildren. I want to watch many sunsets with my agelessly beautiful wife. I don’t want to do all these things with a frown of worry on my face. I want to enjoy each day for the amazing gift that it is…and I’m going to try very hard not to lose sight of that.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
...it will last longer
It’s no surprise to my daughter Ashlyn that I am preparing a slideshow for her upcoming 16th birthday party. In fact, she reminded me not long ago that she was expecting one. She didn’t need to worry. I have been planning it in my mind for quite some time, and was already gathering pictures when she mentioned it.
I did my first slideshow on video for our tenth anniversary. Back then I had to set our big, clunky camcorder on a tripod and then carefully zoom in and film individual photos as I counted “1001, 1002, 1003.” After the video was complete, I had to copy it to another video tape, feeding in a separate audio line to give it a soundtrack. It was quite the complicated procedure, and I’m very glad that I can now do it on a computer with software that makes me look much smarter than I am.
Three years ago I did a slideshow for Shelby’s 16th birthday. As I’ve learned throughout the growth of my three girls, anything I do special for one is required to be done for the others. Some things I do grudgingly, despite the equality of love for them all, but the slideshows are not like that. It is with a great, gleeful and selfish pleasure that I make them.
In the last several weeks I have sifted through several thousand photographs from the last 16 years. The early photos were stored in boxes and albums, hidden in closets and drawers. Every time I thought I was done, I’d find more. Those had to be scanned, rotated, cropped and cleaned up for the pc. It took a while.
We got our first digital camera in 1998; a cheap little Wal-Mart Polaroid that I thought was the greatest thing ever. Throughout the years our photo quality improved with our camera upgrades (Polaroid to Kodak; Kodak to Fuji; Fuji to better Fuji; then a couple of Canon’s and a Nikon). As I searched through the yearly backups of digital photos, I eventually got to the obnoxious 2008 and 2009 sections where there were folders called:
-Bruce’s Fuji March
-Connie’s Canon Spring
-Shelby’s Canon
-Shelby’s Nikon
-Ashlyn Camera
-Taylor’s Camera
In the last couple of years, we have stored thousands of photos of virtually the same subject, which are practically identical except taken from five slightly different vantage points. We take our responsibility to document our lives very seriously. However, as I opened folder after folder, year after year of visual memories, I wished we had taken even more.
We’re encouraged not to live in the past. We are reminded to “look to the future” and “live in the now,” but there’s an incredible comfort in visiting the warmth of days gone by. My mind was flooded with memories as I perused the pictures of Ashlyn’s life, and I willingly, blissfully drowned myself in them.
I beat myself up sometimes (quite often, in fact) for my failings as a father. My travel schedule keeps me away from home too much, and I’ve missed things that I’ll never get back. Worse than that, I sometimes return home a stranger; too many nights alone in a DC hotel room can makes me anti-social and chilly, even to the welcoming smiles and hugs of my family. Sometimes I thaw out quickly, but other times I can be the Snow Miser for days, and the women in my home have sadly learned that I am best left alone.
I’m a loner by nature; most comfortable in my own sullen company where I don’t have anyone to disappoint or bother except myself. Comfort, however, does not necessarily equate to happiness, and in looking through those sometimes awkward, crazy family moments that we’ve captured through years of photographs, I quickly realized that there has been no greater joy in my life.
The weight of responsibility that parents feel to provide for the needs of our children can sometimes pull us down, growing so heavy that we can’t even lift our heads to look around and see what it is we’re working for. I love doing these slideshows because they are a hammer to my head and a jolt to my system. They wake me up and remind me of just how blessed I am.
Photos are moments frozen in time, capturing birthdays, Christmas’s, vacations, camping trips, or just silly moments around the house. Each image jogs my memory and takes me to that place; hearing voices and laughter, smelling campfires or fresh baked cookies.
While I finished Ashlyn’s slideshow this week, sitting in my quiet hotel room, I was overwhelmed by the beauty and spirit of my four ladies. It’s not that I don’t love them all the time, but as I watched their faces flow across the screen, it almost seemed that a window had opened and a fresh breeze blew through me. Like the Grinch, I felt my heart grow three sizes that day. I hope it stays all swelled up with the love I feel right now. It’s a fantastic feeling.
I did my first slideshow on video for our tenth anniversary. Back then I had to set our big, clunky camcorder on a tripod and then carefully zoom in and film individual photos as I counted “1001, 1002, 1003.” After the video was complete, I had to copy it to another video tape, feeding in a separate audio line to give it a soundtrack. It was quite the complicated procedure, and I’m very glad that I can now do it on a computer with software that makes me look much smarter than I am.
Three years ago I did a slideshow for Shelby’s 16th birthday. As I’ve learned throughout the growth of my three girls, anything I do special for one is required to be done for the others. Some things I do grudgingly, despite the equality of love for them all, but the slideshows are not like that. It is with a great, gleeful and selfish pleasure that I make them.
In the last several weeks I have sifted through several thousand photographs from the last 16 years. The early photos were stored in boxes and albums, hidden in closets and drawers. Every time I thought I was done, I’d find more. Those had to be scanned, rotated, cropped and cleaned up for the pc. It took a while.
We got our first digital camera in 1998; a cheap little Wal-Mart Polaroid that I thought was the greatest thing ever. Throughout the years our photo quality improved with our camera upgrades (Polaroid to Kodak; Kodak to Fuji; Fuji to better Fuji; then a couple of Canon’s and a Nikon). As I searched through the yearly backups of digital photos, I eventually got to the obnoxious 2008 and 2009 sections where there were folders called:
-Bruce’s Fuji March
-Connie’s Canon Spring
-Shelby’s Canon
-Shelby’s Nikon
-Ashlyn Camera
-Taylor’s Camera
In the last couple of years, we have stored thousands of photos of virtually the same subject, which are practically identical except taken from five slightly different vantage points. We take our responsibility to document our lives very seriously. However, as I opened folder after folder, year after year of visual memories, I wished we had taken even more.
We’re encouraged not to live in the past. We are reminded to “look to the future” and “live in the now,” but there’s an incredible comfort in visiting the warmth of days gone by. My mind was flooded with memories as I perused the pictures of Ashlyn’s life, and I willingly, blissfully drowned myself in them.
I beat myself up sometimes (quite often, in fact) for my failings as a father. My travel schedule keeps me away from home too much, and I’ve missed things that I’ll never get back. Worse than that, I sometimes return home a stranger; too many nights alone in a DC hotel room can makes me anti-social and chilly, even to the welcoming smiles and hugs of my family. Sometimes I thaw out quickly, but other times I can be the Snow Miser for days, and the women in my home have sadly learned that I am best left alone.
I’m a loner by nature; most comfortable in my own sullen company where I don’t have anyone to disappoint or bother except myself. Comfort, however, does not necessarily equate to happiness, and in looking through those sometimes awkward, crazy family moments that we’ve captured through years of photographs, I quickly realized that there has been no greater joy in my life.
The weight of responsibility that parents feel to provide for the needs of our children can sometimes pull us down, growing so heavy that we can’t even lift our heads to look around and see what it is we’re working for. I love doing these slideshows because they are a hammer to my head and a jolt to my system. They wake me up and remind me of just how blessed I am.
Photos are moments frozen in time, capturing birthdays, Christmas’s, vacations, camping trips, or just silly moments around the house. Each image jogs my memory and takes me to that place; hearing voices and laughter, smelling campfires or fresh baked cookies.
While I finished Ashlyn’s slideshow this week, sitting in my quiet hotel room, I was overwhelmed by the beauty and spirit of my four ladies. It’s not that I don’t love them all the time, but as I watched their faces flow across the screen, it almost seemed that a window had opened and a fresh breeze blew through me. Like the Grinch, I felt my heart grow three sizes that day. I hope it stays all swelled up with the love I feel right now. It’s a fantastic feeling.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Orlando...epilogue
One of my strongest memories of the Orlando trip is the overpowering smell that emanated from the boys rooms which surrounded ours. Each morning and evening Connie or I had to do rooms check to make sure that they were where they were supposed to be. Even that very first morning the rooms had taken on the epic smell of a locker room, and each time the door swung open we were blasted with the stale, sweaty smell of teenage boys mixed with a fog of Axe body spray and Right Guard.
After one morning’s check, Connie came back to our room laughing, explaining that as she checked the room next door one of the boys quickly closed the bathroom door. He said, “Sorry, Mrs. Warford, we’ve been trying to see how long we could go without flushing.” Then he added, “Lots of Testosterone in here!”
Living with four women, it was my first time around that many males in a long time. I didn’t know what to expect, but considering that teenage boys are the sworn enemy of a father of three girls, I was fully prepared to hate them all. That didn’t happen. I was actually surprised by a few of them.
At the theme park on Friday, Connie and I noticed some of our boys standing off to the side of a ride when a group of inappropriately dressed young women (not a part of our school) walked by. Although our rules were fairly explicit about the type of clothes that were allowed and not allowed on this trip, it was obvious that many other groups and families did not care. For most teenage boys (and a lot of adult men) it could have been like being in a candy store. As a Dad, I was always shocked, and very glad that my girls prefer baggy t-shirts and long, loose shorts. Of course, I would not allow them to dress the way many of these other girls were dressing.
As these scantily clad girls walked by, we overheard one of our boys say “LD” to the others. I understood that this was some kind of “guy code” to alert the others of the presence of the young women. It was a “code,” but not in the way I thought. The boys dropped their heads and did not do the typical ogling. “LD” meant to “Look Down.”
I heard some of the boys talking later about church and their girlfriends who were not on the trip. It gave me hope. Every father wants the best for his daughters. They want her to date a young man who will respect her and treat her right. I had almost given up on the possibility of that happening. Now I realize that there just might be some boys out there who have good intentions and honorable hearts.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t be watching them like a hawk.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Orlando...part four
The morning of the competition we had an even better breakfast that the day before, highlighted by some of the most perfect bacon I have ever had. Crisp and flavorful, I was tempted to pack up some for later, and if I’d have had access to some fresh tomatoes and soft bread, I’d have done just that. A nice BLT (without the L for me, I prefer my salad in a bowl, not on a sandwich) would have made a great lunch or dinner. I ate bacon until I was embarrassed to get more and then sadly left for the bus, looking back one last, wistful time at the chafing dish which was still nearly full.
Connie, meanwhile, was having a tougher trip than I. She had strained her back a few days before we left, so she was either drugged or in pain for the drive down and the first day at the park. I had suggested that she might feel better not going at all, but she would have none of that. She had looked forward to this trip for quite a while, and was determined to go. I guess she figured that if she could put up with me for over twenty-three years, she could deal with some pain for a couple of days.
Her back was much better that Saturday morning, but the medicine had upset her stomach. Unbeknownst to me, sleeping soundly in my separate bed, she had been up sick a few times in the night and had no interest in food that morning. I felt really bad for her, especially considering how amazing the hotel bacon had been, but she ate nothing and insisted that she wanted to go to the competition. I definitely married a trooper.
The competition was being held at Apopka High School, in the small town of Apopka, about twenty miles from Orlando. The school was beautiful and newly renovated, with an exceptionally nice auditorium where the competition would be held. We were early and went inside to watch some of the other groups perform.
The other groups performed fine, but I wasn’t overly impressed. The music they had chosen was much simpler than what our choirs normally perform, and even then I didn’t think they did them particularly well. One school from some place I can’t remember had two choirs and a group of Handbell performers. I chuckled to myself when I read about the Handbell choir in my program. That’s even lower on the “gonna get a date” scale than tuba players. (No offense meant to either “handbell” performers or “tuba” players. I’m just stating a fact. I can do this because I was a charter member of the AV and Chess clubs, so of these things I know only too well).
I sat there like those parents who sit on the sidelines of kid’s softball and baseball games, ready to root my team on to victory. It was a competition after all. Then, as our confidence swelled, someone read the program notes detailing the biographies of our judges. None of the three were choral judges. They were all “band directors.” What the heck?
We were fairly stunned. We had no idea how this would impact their decisions. Only half the participants in the festival were bands, the other half were choral. It seemed incredibly unrealistic to expect these judges to fairly score our half of the competition.
The Women’s Choir performed first, singing better than I’ve heard them all year. The Ensemble Choir, whose membership included my beautiful and talented daughter, sang thirty minutes later, and the difficulty of their music put them in an entirely different category from the other choirs competing. At 1pm the Men’s Choir finished our section of the competition and maintained a superb level of performance. There was little doubt in my mind that all three choirs had represented Oak Ridge well enough to win the overall school prize. (Not that I was prejudiced).
But I was still concerned about those band judges…
The kids changed clothes quickly and we got back on the bus for the return to Universal. Today we would go to the Movie Studio theme park, my favorite of any of the parks in Orlando. It was nearly 3pm by the time we got to the park, through the gates, retrieved everyone’s tickets and made the plan for dinner.
If I needed a reminder to NEVER go to Orlando during Spring Break season (which I did not), it was loud and clear in the park that day. There was a roiling ocean of people flowing through the wide streets and walkways. Flashing signs warned that lines for the new Rock-It roller coaster was over two hours long, and other big rides had a wait of nearly ninety minutes. The kids were going to have a long afternoon.
The six chaperones watched as the last of the kids disappeared and then agreed that since we had skipped lunch we needed to find some food. We waded into the crowds and found our way to the New York section of the park and Finnegan’s Irish Pub, where we hoped we might find something bland for Connie’s sensitive stomach other than the burgers and hot dogs vended at most of the other shops. Like everything else, there was a wait for a table, but that gave me time to watch the Blues Brothers show taking place in the street outside. I got a few stares when I joined in on singing “Rawhide,” but I didn’t care.
Connie got some potato soup and crackers, which made her feel much better, and I had some delicious Irish Beef Stew. When we finished eating, we looked at our watches and realized that in slightly over an hour we would be meeting the kids to go to Bubba Gump’s for dinner. Our timing was impeccable.
We got in line for the “Twister” experience, which is not a ride, but designed to put you into a scene from the movie. Since it is one of the older attractions in the park, the line was only fifteen minutes, leaving us plenty of time to meet the kids. If you like the movie, don’t mind a little breeze and want to see a cow fly, I highly recommend it.
I thought most of the kids would have eaten something, but they had much more self-control than the adults did and they were ready for Bubba Gump’s. Still stuffed with stew, I wasn’t hungry at all, and neither were the other chaperones. Unfortunately, our meal vouchers would go to waste if they weren’t used, so we all ordered shrimp platters and handed them into the next booth full of teenage boys who were just finishing their own meals. The shrimp and fries were vacuumed up in minutes flat.
Back in the park, we laughed through the Shrek 4D show and rode a bike with ET, the Extraterrestrial. After dark, we got on my favorite movie ride in the park: Jaws! It’s probably the oldest ride in the park, and some of the kids called it “cheesy,” but they are young and therefore prone to moments of complete stupidity. I love Jaws, however, and could easily do it twice in one day. In fact, I have.
At 9pm we gathered to watch the Mardi-Gras parade that runs through the park. The floats are beautiful and elaborate, with costumed workers who throw out a constant hail of beads. I caught quite a few sets of beads and shared them with some of the height challenged kids around me. When I asked one of the workers if I’d get more beads by removing my shirt, he told me that he’d give me a case full if I wouldn’t. I think I’ll try to sell them on EBay.
After the parade, all of the festival participants gathered in a nearby amphitheater for the results of the judging. As each group was introduced, screams and cheers erupted, and the anticipation was rising. Each choir received a “participation” trophy as their score was announced, and we were thrilled when all three of our choirs achieved “superior” ratings.
The overall school award was announced last, and I’m sure that each school felt that they were deserving of the honor. For some it was a form of positive reinforcement. For others, it was merely delusion.
I was more than a little concerned when the announcer said that the difference between the first and second place schools was only 4/10’s of a percentage point. I didn’t think anyone of the groups I had heard was anywhere near that close to our school. Then I remembered who had made the decision: band judges.
Surely, I thought, even these three odd acting, older men who had probably lost most of their hearing over thirty years of deafening blasts from trumpets and the thumping of bass drums could appreciate the difference in quality that should be obvious to even the most tone deaf listener. (Not that I was prejudiced).
The crowd hushed and the festival chairperson opened the envelope with a dramatic flair. The seconds crawled by like hours and after an interminably long clearing of the throat, the overall winner was announced.
It was a long trip back home to Oak Ridge. Orlando was fun and I love the theme parks, but we had all tasted the bitter pill of injustice, and we didn’t like it.
Stupid handbells.
Stupid “band judges.”
Connie, meanwhile, was having a tougher trip than I. She had strained her back a few days before we left, so she was either drugged or in pain for the drive down and the first day at the park. I had suggested that she might feel better not going at all, but she would have none of that. She had looked forward to this trip for quite a while, and was determined to go. I guess she figured that if she could put up with me for over twenty-three years, she could deal with some pain for a couple of days.
Her back was much better that Saturday morning, but the medicine had upset her stomach. Unbeknownst to me, sleeping soundly in my separate bed, she had been up sick a few times in the night and had no interest in food that morning. I felt really bad for her, especially considering how amazing the hotel bacon had been, but she ate nothing and insisted that she wanted to go to the competition. I definitely married a trooper.
The competition was being held at Apopka High School, in the small town of Apopka, about twenty miles from Orlando. The school was beautiful and newly renovated, with an exceptionally nice auditorium where the competition would be held. We were early and went inside to watch some of the other groups perform.
The other groups performed fine, but I wasn’t overly impressed. The music they had chosen was much simpler than what our choirs normally perform, and even then I didn’t think they did them particularly well. One school from some place I can’t remember had two choirs and a group of Handbell performers. I chuckled to myself when I read about the Handbell choir in my program. That’s even lower on the “gonna get a date” scale than tuba players. (No offense meant to either “handbell” performers or “tuba” players. I’m just stating a fact. I can do this because I was a charter member of the AV and Chess clubs, so of these things I know only too well).
I sat there like those parents who sit on the sidelines of kid’s softball and baseball games, ready to root my team on to victory. It was a competition after all. Then, as our confidence swelled, someone read the program notes detailing the biographies of our judges. None of the three were choral judges. They were all “band directors.” What the heck?
We were fairly stunned. We had no idea how this would impact their decisions. Only half the participants in the festival were bands, the other half were choral. It seemed incredibly unrealistic to expect these judges to fairly score our half of the competition.
The Women’s Choir performed first, singing better than I’ve heard them all year. The Ensemble Choir, whose membership included my beautiful and talented daughter, sang thirty minutes later, and the difficulty of their music put them in an entirely different category from the other choirs competing. At 1pm the Men’s Choir finished our section of the competition and maintained a superb level of performance. There was little doubt in my mind that all three choirs had represented Oak Ridge well enough to win the overall school prize. (Not that I was prejudiced).
But I was still concerned about those band judges…
The kids changed clothes quickly and we got back on the bus for the return to Universal. Today we would go to the Movie Studio theme park, my favorite of any of the parks in Orlando. It was nearly 3pm by the time we got to the park, through the gates, retrieved everyone’s tickets and made the plan for dinner.
If I needed a reminder to NEVER go to Orlando during Spring Break season (which I did not), it was loud and clear in the park that day. There was a roiling ocean of people flowing through the wide streets and walkways. Flashing signs warned that lines for the new Rock-It roller coaster was over two hours long, and other big rides had a wait of nearly ninety minutes. The kids were going to have a long afternoon.
The six chaperones watched as the last of the kids disappeared and then agreed that since we had skipped lunch we needed to find some food. We waded into the crowds and found our way to the New York section of the park and Finnegan’s Irish Pub, where we hoped we might find something bland for Connie’s sensitive stomach other than the burgers and hot dogs vended at most of the other shops. Like everything else, there was a wait for a table, but that gave me time to watch the Blues Brothers show taking place in the street outside. I got a few stares when I joined in on singing “Rawhide,” but I didn’t care.
Connie got some potato soup and crackers, which made her feel much better, and I had some delicious Irish Beef Stew. When we finished eating, we looked at our watches and realized that in slightly over an hour we would be meeting the kids to go to Bubba Gump’s for dinner. Our timing was impeccable.
We got in line for the “Twister” experience, which is not a ride, but designed to put you into a scene from the movie. Since it is one of the older attractions in the park, the line was only fifteen minutes, leaving us plenty of time to meet the kids. If you like the movie, don’t mind a little breeze and want to see a cow fly, I highly recommend it.
I thought most of the kids would have eaten something, but they had much more self-control than the adults did and they were ready for Bubba Gump’s. Still stuffed with stew, I wasn’t hungry at all, and neither were the other chaperones. Unfortunately, our meal vouchers would go to waste if they weren’t used, so we all ordered shrimp platters and handed them into the next booth full of teenage boys who were just finishing their own meals. The shrimp and fries were vacuumed up in minutes flat.
Back in the park, we laughed through the Shrek 4D show and rode a bike with ET, the Extraterrestrial. After dark, we got on my favorite movie ride in the park: Jaws! It’s probably the oldest ride in the park, and some of the kids called it “cheesy,” but they are young and therefore prone to moments of complete stupidity. I love Jaws, however, and could easily do it twice in one day. In fact, I have.
At 9pm we gathered to watch the Mardi-Gras parade that runs through the park. The floats are beautiful and elaborate, with costumed workers who throw out a constant hail of beads. I caught quite a few sets of beads and shared them with some of the height challenged kids around me. When I asked one of the workers if I’d get more beads by removing my shirt, he told me that he’d give me a case full if I wouldn’t. I think I’ll try to sell them on EBay.
After the parade, all of the festival participants gathered in a nearby amphitheater for the results of the judging. As each group was introduced, screams and cheers erupted, and the anticipation was rising. Each choir received a “participation” trophy as their score was announced, and we were thrilled when all three of our choirs achieved “superior” ratings.
The overall school award was announced last, and I’m sure that each school felt that they were deserving of the honor. For some it was a form of positive reinforcement. For others, it was merely delusion.
I was more than a little concerned when the announcer said that the difference between the first and second place schools was only 4/10’s of a percentage point. I didn’t think anyone of the groups I had heard was anywhere near that close to our school. Then I remembered who had made the decision: band judges.
Surely, I thought, even these three odd acting, older men who had probably lost most of their hearing over thirty years of deafening blasts from trumpets and the thumping of bass drums could appreciate the difference in quality that should be obvious to even the most tone deaf listener. (Not that I was prejudiced).
The crowd hushed and the festival chairperson opened the envelope with a dramatic flair. The seconds crawled by like hours and after an interminably long clearing of the throat, the overall winner was announced.
It was a long trip back home to Oak Ridge. Orlando was fun and I love the theme parks, but we had all tasted the bitter pill of injustice, and we didn’t like it.
Stupid handbells.
Stupid “band judges.”
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Orlando…part three
.
Friday morning we gathered for breakfast in a banquet room of the hotel. After a surprisingly nice meal of scrambled eggs, sausage, fruit and coffee, we got back on our charter bus for the short drive to Universal Islands of Adventure theme park.
Part of our trip package included a two day pass to the park and a meal voucher to provide one semi-sustaining meal per day. It was decided by the choral director that once inside the park, tickets should be taken from the kids. This was logical for multiple reasons. One, they couldn’t lose their ticket and endanger their entry on the second day, and two, they couldn’t leave the park without our knowledge since they knew they couldn’t get back inside.
After entering the gates and retrieving all of their tickets, the students were informed that they had three hours to roam free (with their required buddy), until our mid-day check-in. Once released, they scattered like roaches when the kitchen light turns on. Connie and I grabbed our cameras and tried to follow, hoping to document the adventure for posterity, but they were too fast for us. They were soon lost in the maze of rollercoaster’s and spring break crowds. I snapped a few pictures of the fast moving Hulk ride and said, “There are probably some of them on that one.”
With my proclivity for motion sickness, I don’t do rides that drop, spin or swoop. That pretty much eliminates all the rides at Islands of Adventure. Fortunately, Connie has lost interest in those rides as well. Marriage, kids and life in general is usually enough of a rollercoaster that we don’t need a manufactured thrill ride. She’d much rather go on a hike.
For those of you who can’t read between the lines, I’ll spell it out: we’re getting old.
Still, I love the look and feel of the Orlando theme parks. Although I hate the crowds (and I can’t emphasis enough how much I hate the crowds), I’m absolutely fascinated by the detail and quality that Universal and Disney put into their parks. I love walking around, overwhelmed by the colors and sounds, intrigued by the shops and tantalized by the aroma of the multiple food vendors. Also, despite the fact that I don’t partake of the thrill rides, I love to watch them.
My girls love the rollercoaster’s, and I’m glad. They don’t have any of my physical issues or mental phobias. They don’t mind getting dizzy; it goes away with giggles and screams. They don’t mind when their stomach is forced into their upper chest, because it always settles back into place. They don’t mind the ridiculous speed as they are launched into a triple loop and tossed toward the sky only to plummet dangerously back toward the concrete below. They have complete faith that everything will be okay. God bless them for that.
Ashlyn had been hoping that the World of Harry Potter section of the park would be open when we got there, but we learned on the way down that it would not open until mid-June. Still, we could see the towering spires and impressive scale of Hogwarts Castle and the torturously teasing snow covered roofs of Hogsmeade. She is already planning a return trip when it is open.
Connie and I made our way through the jungles of Jurassic Park, past the dinosaur adventure ride that I was coerced into riding a few years back. My kids still laugh at the memory of my face grimacing as we dropped 85 feet from the jaws of a T-Rex into the pool of certain death at the bottom. I did it once to prove to my kids that I wasn’t scared. Then I threw up and swore I’d never do it again.
Eventually we found ourselves in the Doctor Seuss area of the park, which proved more my speed. Our first official ride in Islands of Adventure was the “High in the Sky Seuss Trolley,” which was actually not as humiliating as you would think. Of course, the bar of my personal humiliation scale is set pretty high. It helped considerably that there were as many adults on the ride as there were kids (and some of those adults didn’t have kids with them).
At our mid-day check-in meeting, it was decided that we would use our meal vouchers to have dinner together at the Hard Rock Café which sits on the boardwalk outside of Islands of Adventure. Since someone needed to get reservations for our group, Connie and I volunteered to take one for the team.
In truth, we were happy to step outside the park. We were ready for lunch and the Margaritaville restaurant in the CityWalk area had been calling our name. There’s nothing like a “Cheeseburger in Paradise” when you’re in Paradise. With Jimmy Buffett music still drifting through our minds, the rest of the day was a pleasant blur of sun and breeze and the roar of distant coasters.
As we gathered at our meeting place late in the afternoon, the kids slowly returned from their day of long lines and death defying acts. Most of them had not been to Universal before, so I was curious what they thought. I remember my first time at Disney, and my first time at Universal, both as an adult, and how I walked around with my jaw hanging open most of the time. These teens were much more jaded than I. They didn’t seem overly impressed. I overheard one say that it was “a little boring” and I couldn’t believe it. I was a little saddened for them. What would it take to surprise them? What would it take to make them happy?
Then I saw the beaming face of Ashlyn, bouncing like Tigger with a huge smile on her face. She was having a great time and it was obvious. She ran up to me and hugged me like she hadn’t seen me in weeks, not caring a bit that she was surrounded by her peers. I love my girls. All three of them still have the wonder of childhood in their hearts. They see the world with fresh, clear eyes, not through the dark screen of sullenness surrounding most of today’s youth. They give me hope.
On the ride back to the hotel after dinner, the Choir Director reminded us that there would be a rehearsal that evening in preparation for the festival competition the next morning. It took me a moment to remember that there was another purpose for being in Orlando besides the Universal Theme park. Tomorrow the kids would earn their keep.
...to be continued
Friday morning we gathered for breakfast in a banquet room of the hotel. After a surprisingly nice meal of scrambled eggs, sausage, fruit and coffee, we got back on our charter bus for the short drive to Universal Islands of Adventure theme park.
Part of our trip package included a two day pass to the park and a meal voucher to provide one semi-sustaining meal per day. It was decided by the choral director that once inside the park, tickets should be taken from the kids. This was logical for multiple reasons. One, they couldn’t lose their ticket and endanger their entry on the second day, and two, they couldn’t leave the park without our knowledge since they knew they couldn’t get back inside.
After entering the gates and retrieving all of their tickets, the students were informed that they had three hours to roam free (with their required buddy), until our mid-day check-in. Once released, they scattered like roaches when the kitchen light turns on. Connie and I grabbed our cameras and tried to follow, hoping to document the adventure for posterity, but they were too fast for us. They were soon lost in the maze of rollercoaster’s and spring break crowds. I snapped a few pictures of the fast moving Hulk ride and said, “There are probably some of them on that one.”
With my proclivity for motion sickness, I don’t do rides that drop, spin or swoop. That pretty much eliminates all the rides at Islands of Adventure. Fortunately, Connie has lost interest in those rides as well. Marriage, kids and life in general is usually enough of a rollercoaster that we don’t need a manufactured thrill ride. She’d much rather go on a hike.
For those of you who can’t read between the lines, I’ll spell it out: we’re getting old.
Still, I love the look and feel of the Orlando theme parks. Although I hate the crowds (and I can’t emphasis enough how much I hate the crowds), I’m absolutely fascinated by the detail and quality that Universal and Disney put into their parks. I love walking around, overwhelmed by the colors and sounds, intrigued by the shops and tantalized by the aroma of the multiple food vendors. Also, despite the fact that I don’t partake of the thrill rides, I love to watch them.
My girls love the rollercoaster’s, and I’m glad. They don’t have any of my physical issues or mental phobias. They don’t mind getting dizzy; it goes away with giggles and screams. They don’t mind when their stomach is forced into their upper chest, because it always settles back into place. They don’t mind the ridiculous speed as they are launched into a triple loop and tossed toward the sky only to plummet dangerously back toward the concrete below. They have complete faith that everything will be okay. God bless them for that.
Ashlyn had been hoping that the World of Harry Potter section of the park would be open when we got there, but we learned on the way down that it would not open until mid-June. Still, we could see the towering spires and impressive scale of Hogwarts Castle and the torturously teasing snow covered roofs of Hogsmeade. She is already planning a return trip when it is open.
Connie and I made our way through the jungles of Jurassic Park, past the dinosaur adventure ride that I was coerced into riding a few years back. My kids still laugh at the memory of my face grimacing as we dropped 85 feet from the jaws of a T-Rex into the pool of certain death at the bottom. I did it once to prove to my kids that I wasn’t scared. Then I threw up and swore I’d never do it again.
Eventually we found ourselves in the Doctor Seuss area of the park, which proved more my speed. Our first official ride in Islands of Adventure was the “High in the Sky Seuss Trolley,” which was actually not as humiliating as you would think. Of course, the bar of my personal humiliation scale is set pretty high. It helped considerably that there were as many adults on the ride as there were kids (and some of those adults didn’t have kids with them).
At our mid-day check-in meeting, it was decided that we would use our meal vouchers to have dinner together at the Hard Rock Café which sits on the boardwalk outside of Islands of Adventure. Since someone needed to get reservations for our group, Connie and I volunteered to take one for the team.
In truth, we were happy to step outside the park. We were ready for lunch and the Margaritaville restaurant in the CityWalk area had been calling our name. There’s nothing like a “Cheeseburger in Paradise” when you’re in Paradise. With Jimmy Buffett music still drifting through our minds, the rest of the day was a pleasant blur of sun and breeze and the roar of distant coasters.
As we gathered at our meeting place late in the afternoon, the kids slowly returned from their day of long lines and death defying acts. Most of them had not been to Universal before, so I was curious what they thought. I remember my first time at Disney, and my first time at Universal, both as an adult, and how I walked around with my jaw hanging open most of the time. These teens were much more jaded than I. They didn’t seem overly impressed. I overheard one say that it was “a little boring” and I couldn’t believe it. I was a little saddened for them. What would it take to surprise them? What would it take to make them happy?
Then I saw the beaming face of Ashlyn, bouncing like Tigger with a huge smile on her face. She was having a great time and it was obvious. She ran up to me and hugged me like she hadn’t seen me in weeks, not caring a bit that she was surrounded by her peers. I love my girls. All three of them still have the wonder of childhood in their hearts. They see the world with fresh, clear eyes, not through the dark screen of sullenness surrounding most of today’s youth. They give me hope.
On the ride back to the hotel after dinner, the Choir Director reminded us that there would be a rehearsal that evening in preparation for the festival competition the next morning. It took me a moment to remember that there was another purpose for being in Orlando besides the Universal Theme park. Tomorrow the kids would earn their keep.
...to be continued
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
