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.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
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
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Orlando part 2
.
We stopped a few times for bathroom breaks and at a cluster of fast food restaurants somewhere south of Atlanta for lunch. Just before the Florida line James stopped to refuel at an older, run-down TA truck stop and I’d venture to say that it was the first time most of the kids had ever been in a truck stop bathroom. Even some of the boys came out wide-eyed and holding their noses. It takes a lot to make a teenage boy notice a nasty smell (more on that later).
The closer we got to Orlando, the more excited we all got. I was once again stressed over James’ apparent lack of understanding of Toll Booths. He never seemed to know which lane to get in, never had the right change, and once drove through without paying, saying simply “I’ve already paid enough.” I’ll be curious how the charter service feels about that when they get the ticket.
I had noticed that although he was using a GPS, he didn’t seem to understand it well. At one point, after pushing buttons and not finding the answer he wanted, he took it off its cradle and laid it in his lap. Occasionally I could hear the muffled sound of a female voice telling him what lane to be in or where to turn, so I assumed that both it and he knew where we were going.
The GPS informed us that we had reached our destination at the bottom of a ramp in downtown Orlando next to a lovely, landscaped pond with sparkling fountains and a nice walking track around its perimeter. I had been to Orlando enough to know that we were still miles from our hotel, but James kept looking around as if the entrance was going to rise out of the water and a doorman would step out to tell him to park on the grass.
Our choir director and her mother were sitting in the seats across from Connie and me. They too realized that we were apparently lost and made some quick phone calls, getting directions which took us down roads most tourists never see. Disney, it was not.
We arrived at the Florida Mall Hotel and Convention Center around 6:30pm. Oddly, in the way that most things in Florida seem kind of odd and different from the rest of the nation, the Hotel was actually a part of the mall. After dropping our bags off in our perfectly sufficient sleeping rooms, we met in the lobby to go to dinner. The back of the lobby opened up into the expansive mall and we followed our tour guide past department stores, specialty stores and jewelry kiosks through what seemed like two or three Tennessee sized malls, until we reached one of my favorite fun places to eat: Buca di Beppo.
I first visited a Buca in Washington DC, and felt like I’d walked into a Dean Martin movie or one of the lighter episodes of The Sopranos. Their garlic bread is addictive, and the meatballs are the size of baby heads. In fact, I’ve tried to use that as the description enough that I hope to someday change the language of their menu. I can see it now: Spaghetti with a side of a “baby head meatballs.”
Between the atmosphere and the great service, the exhaustion of the long ride drifted away. Laughter and conversation filled the room. The food at Buca is served “family style,” so they kept bringing out bowls of bread, delicious salad, pasta and Chicken Parmesan. For dessert we were served cheesecake, and by then we weren’t sure we could walk back to our rooms.
Curfew was announced as 11pm, which gave the kids about two hours after we returned from dinner. This allowed the kids to mingle, but with certain specific restrictions. No one could go anywhere without a “buddy.” They could not leave the hotel. Kids found outside of their rooms alone would be punished with immediate curfew. Boys were allowed in girl’s rooms and vice versa, but the outer doors must be completely open. Any infraction of this rule would result in immediate curfew for all involved (and possible flogging if my daughter were in the room).
Unlike my usual and frequent stays in hotels, I realized that I could not simply come into my room and relax. I couldn’t kick off my shoes and lounge on the bed. As a chaperone, I had to be available. We had to leave our door open. We had to check the halls and make sure the rules were being adhered to. This was actually like work!
We were very lucky, however, since our trip fell during March Madness. The boys congregated in their rooms, cheering their teams (but not too loudly). A few of the girls ventured in, but the doors stayed open and nothing inappropriate was occurring. Finally, eleven o’clock arrived and we did our final room check. Connie and I were assigned four rooms with four boys in each. They were incredibly respectful, calling us “Mr. Warford” and “Mrs. Warford.” It was very strange, and although I still didn’t trust them with my daughters, I was beginning to like them. A little bit.
Connie and I had taken one look at our room and decided that we would each have our own bed. We have grown spoiled with a larger bed, and these rooms provided only full sized beds. We had basically cuddled all day on the cramped bus, so we were ready for some space to kick around and stretch. As we lay in our separate beds, watching the strangers on the Orlando local news, I felt like Rob and Laura Petrie from The Dick Van Dyke Show.
It struck me too that in each of the four rooms around us, there were two sets of high school boys trying to comfortably sleep in these small beds. I could only imagine how awkward that must have been. God forbid you wake up spooning. I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself as I stretched out and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
…to be continued
We stopped a few times for bathroom breaks and at a cluster of fast food restaurants somewhere south of Atlanta for lunch. Just before the Florida line James stopped to refuel at an older, run-down TA truck stop and I’d venture to say that it was the first time most of the kids had ever been in a truck stop bathroom. Even some of the boys came out wide-eyed and holding their noses. It takes a lot to make a teenage boy notice a nasty smell (more on that later).
The closer we got to Orlando, the more excited we all got. I was once again stressed over James’ apparent lack of understanding of Toll Booths. He never seemed to know which lane to get in, never had the right change, and once drove through without paying, saying simply “I’ve already paid enough.” I’ll be curious how the charter service feels about that when they get the ticket.
I had noticed that although he was using a GPS, he didn’t seem to understand it well. At one point, after pushing buttons and not finding the answer he wanted, he took it off its cradle and laid it in his lap. Occasionally I could hear the muffled sound of a female voice telling him what lane to be in or where to turn, so I assumed that both it and he knew where we were going.
The GPS informed us that we had reached our destination at the bottom of a ramp in downtown Orlando next to a lovely, landscaped pond with sparkling fountains and a nice walking track around its perimeter. I had been to Orlando enough to know that we were still miles from our hotel, but James kept looking around as if the entrance was going to rise out of the water and a doorman would step out to tell him to park on the grass.
Our choir director and her mother were sitting in the seats across from Connie and me. They too realized that we were apparently lost and made some quick phone calls, getting directions which took us down roads most tourists never see. Disney, it was not.
We arrived at the Florida Mall Hotel and Convention Center around 6:30pm. Oddly, in the way that most things in Florida seem kind of odd and different from the rest of the nation, the Hotel was actually a part of the mall. After dropping our bags off in our perfectly sufficient sleeping rooms, we met in the lobby to go to dinner. The back of the lobby opened up into the expansive mall and we followed our tour guide past department stores, specialty stores and jewelry kiosks through what seemed like two or three Tennessee sized malls, until we reached one of my favorite fun places to eat: Buca di Beppo.
I first visited a Buca in Washington DC, and felt like I’d walked into a Dean Martin movie or one of the lighter episodes of The Sopranos. Their garlic bread is addictive, and the meatballs are the size of baby heads. In fact, I’ve tried to use that as the description enough that I hope to someday change the language of their menu. I can see it now: Spaghetti with a side of a “baby head meatballs.”
Between the atmosphere and the great service, the exhaustion of the long ride drifted away. Laughter and conversation filled the room. The food at Buca is served “family style,” so they kept bringing out bowls of bread, delicious salad, pasta and Chicken Parmesan. For dessert we were served cheesecake, and by then we weren’t sure we could walk back to our rooms.
Curfew was announced as 11pm, which gave the kids about two hours after we returned from dinner. This allowed the kids to mingle, but with certain specific restrictions. No one could go anywhere without a “buddy.” They could not leave the hotel. Kids found outside of their rooms alone would be punished with immediate curfew. Boys were allowed in girl’s rooms and vice versa, but the outer doors must be completely open. Any infraction of this rule would result in immediate curfew for all involved (and possible flogging if my daughter were in the room).
Unlike my usual and frequent stays in hotels, I realized that I could not simply come into my room and relax. I couldn’t kick off my shoes and lounge on the bed. As a chaperone, I had to be available. We had to leave our door open. We had to check the halls and make sure the rules were being adhered to. This was actually like work!
We were very lucky, however, since our trip fell during March Madness. The boys congregated in their rooms, cheering their teams (but not too loudly). A few of the girls ventured in, but the doors stayed open and nothing inappropriate was occurring. Finally, eleven o’clock arrived and we did our final room check. Connie and I were assigned four rooms with four boys in each. They were incredibly respectful, calling us “Mr. Warford” and “Mrs. Warford.” It was very strange, and although I still didn’t trust them with my daughters, I was beginning to like them. A little bit.
Connie and I had taken one look at our room and decided that we would each have our own bed. We have grown spoiled with a larger bed, and these rooms provided only full sized beds. We had basically cuddled all day on the cramped bus, so we were ready for some space to kick around and stretch. As we lay in our separate beds, watching the strangers on the Orlando local news, I felt like Rob and Laura Petrie from The Dick Van Dyke Show.
It struck me too that in each of the four rooms around us, there were two sets of high school boys trying to comfortably sleep in these small beds. I could only imagine how awkward that must have been. God forbid you wake up spooning. I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself as I stretched out and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
…to be continued
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Orlando
With the exception of my own kids, I’ve never been good with teenagers. In fact, I’m not always that good with my own. It’s brutally obvious to most teens that I am not “cool.” They don’t get my humor and I get the overwhelming impression that they think I’m a dork. Generally, I try to stay of their way and hope that they stay out of mine.
Connie has a theory (which she loves to share with others) that the reason I don’t relate to teenagers is because I was never a “teenager.” She jokes that I’ve been an adult, using adult logic, since I was ten years old. If that were true, it would explain a lot, but I don’t think I was some freaky Kentucky version of Star Trek’s Spock. At least, I hope not.
This past weekend, Connie and I chaperoned forty-six high school choral students on a trip to Orlando, Florida. I’m not exactly sure why I agreed to do this, other than the fact that my middle daughter Ashlyn was going and Connie planned to go whether I did or not. It was many months ago when I was asked and agreed, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.
I admit to some apprehension as we neared our Thursday morning departure. I hadn’t been on a bus since High School, and I had never ridden on a charter bus. I didn’t know what to expect. The concept of eleven hours in a confined space with that many teenagers seemed as foreign and uncomfortable to me as spending the night in a cave full of grizzly bears.
I shouldn’t have worried about the kids. We arrived Thursday morning at 6:30am and began loading our bags into the underbelly of the bus. Although there was a current of excitement flowing through the crowd over the prospect of the trip, in general we all still looked half asleep. Once we loaded the bus, pillows and blankets sent the kids into peaceful slumber. For the first several hours of the trip, all I heard was an occasional snore, cough or snort. It should have been a pleasant drive.
I have to stop here for a moment and explain my twisted history with “charter buses.” Although I had never been on one, I had seen a Dateline NBC story about a tragic bus accident in Atlanta in which several college baseball students were killed when they were thrown out of the massive windows of their bus during an accident. I was shocked to learn that seatbelts are not required on buses, and retrofitting them is considered “too expensive.”
The story made a considerable impression on me, and with the knowledge that my kids were soon travelling to the beach for a church youth trip and would be riding in one of these death machines, I vowed to do something. Searching the Internet, I was able to procure two portable seatbelts, capable of slipping over the back of the bus seat and securing the rider in place. Although I was thrilled with my purchase, my kids were not happy…at all.
Using my “parent card” (which I rarely resort to), I told them that they would use them on the trip or they would not be allowed to go on further trips. I also told them I would ask the chaperones to check on them to make sure they were wearing them. Connie tried to reason with me, but I used my “Head of the household card” (which I frankly didn’t know I even had), and she solemnly and begrudgingly took my side.
I didn’t actually ask their youth leaders to check on their seatbelt usage, because I was pretty sure they wouldn’t enforce it anyway. They had a lot of kids to watch out for, and satisfying the psychosis of one over-protective Dad would not be high on their “to-do” list.
That was a few years back, and I still pull out those belts when the kids go on trips. Each and every time they look at me like I’m crazy, and maybe I am. I don’t know if they actually use them, since I can’t be there to make sure, but I feel better knowing that I’ve tried. I hope that they know why I do it, and maybe they understand that although I don’t want them to look weird around the other kids or be uncomfortable; my top priority is to try to keep them safe. That’s what Dad’s do.
Which brings me back to Thursday morning: I’m sure that Ashlyn thought that I had forgotten, but she didn’t look terribly surprised when I pulled out the belts just before we left the house for the school. Connie, on the other hand, did look surprised when I handed her the second belt. She gave me a look that said, “You don’t expect me to wear this, do you?” I gave her a look that said, “Yes, I certainly do.”
It was brought up that there was not a belt for me, and I told them that if I had a third belt, I would wear it, but since I did not, I would bear the risk and leave the belts to them. I was prepared for a longer argument, and had planned to say that I had been too busy to think about the fact that I would need a belt. If pushed, I could also resort to the ugly implication that if they cared for me as much as I cared for them they would have ordered me one in advance. Fortunately, it did not come to that, and I’m sure that if it had, I would have found myself riding with the luggage under the bus.
We left the Oak Ridge High School parking lot a few minutes before 7am. Connie and I had prime seats, right in front, on the side opposite the driver. I had a clear view of the driver, speedometer, gauges and GPS. Before we reached the Interstate, I realized that this was not a good thing.
Our driver, James, was a very nice, soft-spoken older gentleman with a kind spirit and easy-going manner. He also scared me to death for most of the trip. Several times early in our drive he pulled out a small notebook and pen to make notes, apparently about our timing, gas usage or bird species we were passing along the way. Much as I have an issue of texting, putting on make-up or playing Jenga while driving, I am not crazy about people using both hands to write while they precariously guide the steering wheel with their knees.
After pointing this out to Connie, she became aware of my growing tension and grabbed my arm whenever James pulled out his pad and pen in an effort to keep me from yanking him out of the driver’s seat. Finally, somewhere past Chattanooga, I decided that I should simply let the man do his job and go to sleep. This was the first of many attempts over the next few days to let go of my controlling tendencies and try to relax. Sad to say, few of those attempts actually worked.
…to be continued
Connie has a theory (which she loves to share with others) that the reason I don’t relate to teenagers is because I was never a “teenager.” She jokes that I’ve been an adult, using adult logic, since I was ten years old. If that were true, it would explain a lot, but I don’t think I was some freaky Kentucky version of Star Trek’s Spock. At least, I hope not.
This past weekend, Connie and I chaperoned forty-six high school choral students on a trip to Orlando, Florida. I’m not exactly sure why I agreed to do this, other than the fact that my middle daughter Ashlyn was going and Connie planned to go whether I did or not. It was many months ago when I was asked and agreed, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.
I admit to some apprehension as we neared our Thursday morning departure. I hadn’t been on a bus since High School, and I had never ridden on a charter bus. I didn’t know what to expect. The concept of eleven hours in a confined space with that many teenagers seemed as foreign and uncomfortable to me as spending the night in a cave full of grizzly bears.
I shouldn’t have worried about the kids. We arrived Thursday morning at 6:30am and began loading our bags into the underbelly of the bus. Although there was a current of excitement flowing through the crowd over the prospect of the trip, in general we all still looked half asleep. Once we loaded the bus, pillows and blankets sent the kids into peaceful slumber. For the first several hours of the trip, all I heard was an occasional snore, cough or snort. It should have been a pleasant drive.
I have to stop here for a moment and explain my twisted history with “charter buses.” Although I had never been on one, I had seen a Dateline NBC story about a tragic bus accident in Atlanta in which several college baseball students were killed when they were thrown out of the massive windows of their bus during an accident. I was shocked to learn that seatbelts are not required on buses, and retrofitting them is considered “too expensive.”
The story made a considerable impression on me, and with the knowledge that my kids were soon travelling to the beach for a church youth trip and would be riding in one of these death machines, I vowed to do something. Searching the Internet, I was able to procure two portable seatbelts, capable of slipping over the back of the bus seat and securing the rider in place. Although I was thrilled with my purchase, my kids were not happy…at all.
Using my “parent card” (which I rarely resort to), I told them that they would use them on the trip or they would not be allowed to go on further trips. I also told them I would ask the chaperones to check on them to make sure they were wearing them. Connie tried to reason with me, but I used my “Head of the household card” (which I frankly didn’t know I even had), and she solemnly and begrudgingly took my side.
I didn’t actually ask their youth leaders to check on their seatbelt usage, because I was pretty sure they wouldn’t enforce it anyway. They had a lot of kids to watch out for, and satisfying the psychosis of one over-protective Dad would not be high on their “to-do” list.
That was a few years back, and I still pull out those belts when the kids go on trips. Each and every time they look at me like I’m crazy, and maybe I am. I don’t know if they actually use them, since I can’t be there to make sure, but I feel better knowing that I’ve tried. I hope that they know why I do it, and maybe they understand that although I don’t want them to look weird around the other kids or be uncomfortable; my top priority is to try to keep them safe. That’s what Dad’s do.
Which brings me back to Thursday morning: I’m sure that Ashlyn thought that I had forgotten, but she didn’t look terribly surprised when I pulled out the belts just before we left the house for the school. Connie, on the other hand, did look surprised when I handed her the second belt. She gave me a look that said, “You don’t expect me to wear this, do you?” I gave her a look that said, “Yes, I certainly do.”
It was brought up that there was not a belt for me, and I told them that if I had a third belt, I would wear it, but since I did not, I would bear the risk and leave the belts to them. I was prepared for a longer argument, and had planned to say that I had been too busy to think about the fact that I would need a belt. If pushed, I could also resort to the ugly implication that if they cared for me as much as I cared for them they would have ordered me one in advance. Fortunately, it did not come to that, and I’m sure that if it had, I would have found myself riding with the luggage under the bus.
We left the Oak Ridge High School parking lot a few minutes before 7am. Connie and I had prime seats, right in front, on the side opposite the driver. I had a clear view of the driver, speedometer, gauges and GPS. Before we reached the Interstate, I realized that this was not a good thing.
Our driver, James, was a very nice, soft-spoken older gentleman with a kind spirit and easy-going manner. He also scared me to death for most of the trip. Several times early in our drive he pulled out a small notebook and pen to make notes, apparently about our timing, gas usage or bird species we were passing along the way. Much as I have an issue of texting, putting on make-up or playing Jenga while driving, I am not crazy about people using both hands to write while they precariously guide the steering wheel with their knees.
After pointing this out to Connie, she became aware of my growing tension and grabbed my arm whenever James pulled out his pad and pen in an effort to keep me from yanking him out of the driver’s seat. Finally, somewhere past Chattanooga, I decided that I should simply let the man do his job and go to sleep. This was the first of many attempts over the next few days to let go of my controlling tendencies and try to relax. Sad to say, few of those attempts actually worked.
…to be continued
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