I Believe in Yesterday
It is the threshold of the holiday season. It is expected to be a whirlwind of emotions at my camp. This morning I asked myself, "Last season was my last with Zach, but where was I the year before that?"
My parents came to Flagstaff to spend it with us in our new town home. We were nowhere near him. We had little reason to believe his outcome, and for that, this morning, I felt regret.
Last season we huddled together with clenched throats and wet cheeks of bittersweetness, sucking every drop of life with his every breathe. This season we will be reflecting, wondering why we did or didn't do things. We'll remember actions past and conversations spent. This is what I will be Thankful for this season. I will be thankful for the opportunity to know the time was limited, and I will begin to focus my gratefulness towards my children, my wife, and my family, even if they are seeming to very easily tramp on my nerves.
My holiday gift to others: if you have a brother or sister that you don't see eye to eye with, or a dearly important family member that you have had a disagreement with, please stop being so selfish. Appreciate the living now, and recognize the living because next season, they may only be a reflection.
11.23.2004
11.19.2004
And I Think To Myself
Yesterday was my first ever North American Feast. It was catered by the parents of the Flagstaff Montessori Pre-School and Kindergartners and held at Emma's school. I poke fun at the Politically Correct name, but on dissection of the title, it seems to make a hell of a lot more sense than "Thanksgiving." Or at least better resembles what we tend to really do on that particular Thursday every year.
*Side Note* I just read that Abe Lincoln declared Thanksgiving a holiday on October 8th, 1863. Exactly 140 years later Ellie Rae Grace Weien was born.
Back to the feast, it was a delightful way to spend lunch. Emma and all of the kids were ecstatic that their parents were crunched next to them on the doll-sized chairs with their knees pressed firmly against their shoulders. For Abbie and I it was the entertainment prior to the Feast that will forever be seared into our memories.
The dusty children washed their playground hands and were seated on bottoms and knees to the side of the giant classroom. The soft-spoken teacher, Ms. Maria began to introduce each of the songs that they had been learning the past few weeks. The first one would of dampened the eye of any hardened individual. "God Bless America" which came out more like,
"Gawd Bwess Amewica! Wand dat I nove!"
Priceless.
It was followed by enthusiastic corny turkey songs and even "Over the River and Through the Woods" with phrases I never knew existed. But those three to five year olds knew almost every last word.
I was waiting for my favorite song that Emma had been sharing with us:
"I'm a little acorn brown, fallen on the cold cold ground.
Somebody came and stepped on me, that is why I'm cracked you see...
I'm a nut! (knock twice on head with knocking sound) KNOCK! KNOCK!
I'm a nut! KNOCK! KNOCK!
I'm NUUUUUUTTY!"
It just kills me to watch her perform it. But instead Ms. Maria says, and our last song is one that the children have been working very hard on, it's "A Wonderful World" and they will hand sign the words as they sing.
My chin and shoulders dropped, and suddenly I felt angry with myself for standing in the front because I was going to lose it. Emma NEVER even hummed this one, it was a side-swiping surprise. Perfect tackling form.
Although there are countless songs that remind me of my brother, that tune was one of Zach's most favorite, as well as mine. We both first heard it and memorized it from a movie soundtrack. Ironically, that movie was, Platoon.
So, it is very special to me to begin with, then this soft-spoken gentle teacher has her class of adorable, little, innocent, loving, children sweetly serenading us with their high-pitched, angelic voices. And to top it all off, they are attempting to sign all of the words so just in case I could not hear the jarring memories, I could read them with gestures too!
"I see people shaking hands say, 'How do you do?'"
They're really saying, 'I love you'"
"Thanks for coming, enjoy the meal."
Yesterday was my first ever North American Feast. It was catered by the parents of the Flagstaff Montessori Pre-School and Kindergartners and held at Emma's school. I poke fun at the Politically Correct name, but on dissection of the title, it seems to make a hell of a lot more sense than "Thanksgiving." Or at least better resembles what we tend to really do on that particular Thursday every year.
*Side Note* I just read that Abe Lincoln declared Thanksgiving a holiday on October 8th, 1863. Exactly 140 years later Ellie Rae Grace Weien was born.
Back to the feast, it was a delightful way to spend lunch. Emma and all of the kids were ecstatic that their parents were crunched next to them on the doll-sized chairs with their knees pressed firmly against their shoulders. For Abbie and I it was the entertainment prior to the Feast that will forever be seared into our memories.
The dusty children washed their playground hands and were seated on bottoms and knees to the side of the giant classroom. The soft-spoken teacher, Ms. Maria began to introduce each of the songs that they had been learning the past few weeks. The first one would of dampened the eye of any hardened individual. "God Bless America" which came out more like,
"Gawd Bwess Amewica! Wand dat I nove!"
Priceless.
It was followed by enthusiastic corny turkey songs and even "Over the River and Through the Woods" with phrases I never knew existed. But those three to five year olds knew almost every last word.
I was waiting for my favorite song that Emma had been sharing with us:
"I'm a little acorn brown, fallen on the cold cold ground.
Somebody came and stepped on me, that is why I'm cracked you see...
I'm a nut! (knock twice on head with knocking sound) KNOCK! KNOCK!
I'm a nut! KNOCK! KNOCK!
I'm NUUUUUUTTY!"
It just kills me to watch her perform it. But instead Ms. Maria says, and our last song is one that the children have been working very hard on, it's "A Wonderful World" and they will hand sign the words as they sing.
My chin and shoulders dropped, and suddenly I felt angry with myself for standing in the front because I was going to lose it. Emma NEVER even hummed this one, it was a side-swiping surprise. Perfect tackling form.
Although there are countless songs that remind me of my brother, that tune was one of Zach's most favorite, as well as mine. We both first heard it and memorized it from a movie soundtrack. Ironically, that movie was, Platoon.
So, it is very special to me to begin with, then this soft-spoken gentle teacher has her class of adorable, little, innocent, loving, children sweetly serenading us with their high-pitched, angelic voices. And to top it all off, they are attempting to sign all of the words so just in case I could not hear the jarring memories, I could read them with gestures too!
"I see people shaking hands say, 'How do you do?'"
They're really saying, 'I love you'"
"Thanks for coming, enjoy the meal."
11.09.2004
Wasting Away Again
Notes of a distraught airline passenger
I'm suppose to leave at 5:33.
Not 5:30. Not 5:35.
Fine.
Get to the airport. Never-mind the four hours I had to leave early to do it. And the flight has been delayed. It will now depart at 6:16.
Not 6:15. Not 6:20.
Fine.
Hell, its 3:45. I don't have to drive anywhere, so I go have a beer.
Isn't it funny how "they" make you come so early to the airport now? Who are "they" anyways? Miller, Smirnoff, Jose Cuervo, and Jack Daniels, that's who.
Anywho - So I have a beer and read my magazine in the obnoxious Fox Sports Bar, filled with recycled smoke air. It's 4:05 now. Done with that seis dolares cerveza that just made me more thirsty.
Beer #2, the Jumbo, for one buck more and twice as much fluid. - Wooo-Wee! It is 5:30 and I am thinking about how much I have been thinking I had spent on deciding when I should leave Flagstaff so that I will not miss my flight. Kind of like time spent on waiting for jolly Ole St. Nick to come down the false gas chimney.
In case I am some kind of unexplainable idiot, I finish my beer, pay my bill and scurry out of the bar with a tagging cloud of cigarette smoke. Conveniently, the bar is right next to my gate. The flashing running light sign says to my blurry, fogged eyes, "Boarding Time 6:46."
Not 6:45. Not 6:50.
NOT FINE!
Bored and lazy passengers wait like klondike sled dogs scattered around the boarding area. None are standing at the desk. The grey-haired, overweight, assistant in a red sweater stands alone at the desk. He is a pudgy Mr. Rogers with a few too many Jumbo beers from next door.
Concerned about my family waiting in Sacramento for me, I ask a simple question in my most polite tone with a casual manner since I just drank a pony keg in two glasses, "Why is the flight delayed?"
"Because it is not here." the angry man snaps. He must of smelled the tar-drenched clothes I presented to him.
I laugh, attempting to break the sudden aggressiveness.
"I can see that, but do you expect any other delays, because I have..."
"The plane hasn't left yet" he interrupts.
"Okay," I pause to re-approach with some sort of civility, remembering that I am in the eye of the heat-warped city of Phoenix, "When I got here it was delayed til 6:15, now it is going to be 6:45..."
The silverback swivels his round head to the red lighted sign, seeming confused by my statement.
"... Did you know that it was delayed to 6:45?" I ask.
I think to myself, "You should of said 6:46, you dummy, speak their language!"
"We know when they tell us!" he barks as his noggin swings back to me from the sign.
"Well, I have people meeting me there. For their convenience I would like to be able to call them to let them know when to pick me up."
The tense creature glares at me. I think I see a twitch in his blank stare."
Blink.
"When will you know when it will be here?" I quickly spit my question.
"Check back in 15 to 20 minutes." he loosens.
"Thanks! That what I needed to know."
I notice my blood pressure rising, my breathe quickening, my fists clenching as I back away from the #@$%ing desk. I feel victorious, although I know nothing new.
I call and leave a message for my mom declaring that I know why Mr. Rodgers feels so comfortable treating me and others with his demeaning manner: they know that we don't have any sort of weapon to use on them. Foul beast.
I think I'll go have a beer now.
Notes of a distraught airline passenger
I'm suppose to leave at 5:33.
Not 5:30. Not 5:35.
Fine.
Get to the airport. Never-mind the four hours I had to leave early to do it. And the flight has been delayed. It will now depart at 6:16.
Not 6:15. Not 6:20.
Fine.
Hell, its 3:45. I don't have to drive anywhere, so I go have a beer.
Isn't it funny how "they" make you come so early to the airport now? Who are "they" anyways? Miller, Smirnoff, Jose Cuervo, and Jack Daniels, that's who.
Anywho - So I have a beer and read my magazine in the obnoxious Fox Sports Bar, filled with recycled smoke air. It's 4:05 now. Done with that seis dolares cerveza that just made me more thirsty.
Beer #2, the Jumbo, for one buck more and twice as much fluid. - Wooo-Wee! It is 5:30 and I am thinking about how much I have been thinking I had spent on deciding when I should leave Flagstaff so that I will not miss my flight. Kind of like time spent on waiting for jolly Ole St. Nick to come down the false gas chimney.
In case I am some kind of unexplainable idiot, I finish my beer, pay my bill and scurry out of the bar with a tagging cloud of cigarette smoke. Conveniently, the bar is right next to my gate. The flashing running light sign says to my blurry, fogged eyes, "Boarding Time 6:46."
Not 6:45. Not 6:50.
NOT FINE!
Bored and lazy passengers wait like klondike sled dogs scattered around the boarding area. None are standing at the desk. The grey-haired, overweight, assistant in a red sweater stands alone at the desk. He is a pudgy Mr. Rogers with a few too many Jumbo beers from next door.
Concerned about my family waiting in Sacramento for me, I ask a simple question in my most polite tone with a casual manner since I just drank a pony keg in two glasses, "Why is the flight delayed?"
"Because it is not here." the angry man snaps. He must of smelled the tar-drenched clothes I presented to him.
I laugh, attempting to break the sudden aggressiveness.
"I can see that, but do you expect any other delays, because I have..."
"The plane hasn't left yet" he interrupts.
"Okay," I pause to re-approach with some sort of civility, remembering that I am in the eye of the heat-warped city of Phoenix, "When I got here it was delayed til 6:15, now it is going to be 6:45..."
The silverback swivels his round head to the red lighted sign, seeming confused by my statement.
"... Did you know that it was delayed to 6:45?" I ask.
I think to myself, "You should of said 6:46, you dummy, speak their language!"
"We know when they tell us!" he barks as his noggin swings back to me from the sign.
"Well, I have people meeting me there. For their convenience I would like to be able to call them to let them know when to pick me up."
The tense creature glares at me. I think I see a twitch in his blank stare."
Blink.
"When will you know when it will be here?" I quickly spit my question.
"Check back in 15 to 20 minutes." he loosens.
"Thanks! That what I needed to know."
I notice my blood pressure rising, my breathe quickening, my fists clenching as I back away from the #@$%ing desk. I feel victorious, although I know nothing new.
I call and leave a message for my mom declaring that I know why Mr. Rodgers feels so comfortable treating me and others with his demeaning manner: they know that we don't have any sort of weapon to use on them. Foul beast.
I think I'll go have a beer now.
Honorable Mention
There was a foul stench in the air.
No dairy farm or Spreckles Sugar beet factory that notoriously gave my home town of Manteca the nickname of "Man-Stinka" is still existing. The processing plant was blown-up, the dairy bulldozed and replaced with countless chain department stores and restaurants in their place. Yet it still reeked.
The stench was a fine mixture of slightly digested milk and leftover pizza from the belly of my 11 month old nephew, Caleb.
We were participating in the beginning celebration of a family friend's (Leslie Due's) wedding rehearsal party. This consisted of drinks and snacks at the bride's parents' home.
Poor Caleb had been fussy all day because of the constant interruptions from his common routine of sleep and meals. We fed him in preparation of the rehearsal party. He ate like a starving tiger cub.
He was crawling all over the home on their new carpet as time simply caught up with him, so we thought. His mother, Kristi, chose to hold him to calm him down before he would finally pass out. Guests wanted to hold him, but Kristi declined their advances.
Standing next to Kristi and Caleb, I suddenly heard an all too familiar sound of a small body spitting up. As I turned towards them, I got to witness the completion of the first eruption of chunky food on my sister-in-law's arm. Before I could complete the clearing of a path by moving the footstool and children's playthings in front of their chair, the boy regurgitated violently three enormous spews of his warm dinner.
Kristi almost captured every morsel between her chest and his small body. The two rushed to the bathroom. Her immediacy was not faster than the baby's gag-reflex, however. Kristi's sweater sponged most of the absorbent material immediately, leaving a scattered and horrific sifting of raunchy particles.
My mom and I took the emergent roles for clean-up of Kristi and Caleb, as well as the trail of fallen debris from the living room (new carpet), to the kitchen, to the hallway (new carpet), and into the bathroom. I did very well, only nearly losing control the one time Kristi pointed her head to the side and held her heaving head as if her tummy wanted to participate too. She choked it back, allowing me to cough out exhausted air instead of something else.
For this brave and speedy action taken on by my mother and me, and the extreme test of intestinal fortitude by Kristi, I would like to give us all Honorable Mentions for the 2004 flu season awards. Being that the cause of this outing most likely was caused by gobs of rich food, we couldn't honestly take the grand award. Pa Gene is still champion there.
The best part of it all was to have my sister-in-law dress like a clown from loaned clothing from a woman twice her height; allowing her to wear this cool little ensemble...
...with a smile as her badge of courage.
There was a foul stench in the air.
No dairy farm or Spreckles Sugar beet factory that notoriously gave my home town of Manteca the nickname of "Man-Stinka" is still existing. The processing plant was blown-up, the dairy bulldozed and replaced with countless chain department stores and restaurants in their place. Yet it still reeked.
The stench was a fine mixture of slightly digested milk and leftover pizza from the belly of my 11 month old nephew, Caleb.
We were participating in the beginning celebration of a family friend's (Leslie Due's) wedding rehearsal party. This consisted of drinks and snacks at the bride's parents' home.
Poor Caleb had been fussy all day because of the constant interruptions from his common routine of sleep and meals. We fed him in preparation of the rehearsal party. He ate like a starving tiger cub.
He was crawling all over the home on their new carpet as time simply caught up with him, so we thought. His mother, Kristi, chose to hold him to calm him down before he would finally pass out. Guests wanted to hold him, but Kristi declined their advances.
Standing next to Kristi and Caleb, I suddenly heard an all too familiar sound of a small body spitting up. As I turned towards them, I got to witness the completion of the first eruption of chunky food on my sister-in-law's arm. Before I could complete the clearing of a path by moving the footstool and children's playthings in front of their chair, the boy regurgitated violently three enormous spews of his warm dinner.
Kristi almost captured every morsel between her chest and his small body. The two rushed to the bathroom. Her immediacy was not faster than the baby's gag-reflex, however. Kristi's sweater sponged most of the absorbent material immediately, leaving a scattered and horrific sifting of raunchy particles.
My mom and I took the emergent roles for clean-up of Kristi and Caleb, as well as the trail of fallen debris from the living room (new carpet), to the kitchen, to the hallway (new carpet), and into the bathroom. I did very well, only nearly losing control the one time Kristi pointed her head to the side and held her heaving head as if her tummy wanted to participate too. She choked it back, allowing me to cough out exhausted air instead of something else.
For this brave and speedy action taken on by my mother and me, and the extreme test of intestinal fortitude by Kristi, I would like to give us all Honorable Mentions for the 2004 flu season awards. Being that the cause of this outing most likely was caused by gobs of rich food, we couldn't honestly take the grand award. Pa Gene is still champion there.
The best part of it all was to have my sister-in-law dress like a clown from loaned clothing from a woman twice her height; allowing her to wear this cool little ensemble...
...with a smile as her badge of courage.
News Flash
In fear of having terrorists poisoning the pulse of the American junk food supply, the Oakdale Hershey's Chocolate Factory no longer offers public tours of it's facilities.
The only reason anyone ever visited the cow-poke town is now flushed down the fear-mongering toilet. It is a sad day when commoners can't partake of watching unhealthy addictive treats being made for free. Sounds like a great reason for a company to cut a burdening expense to me. I wonder if the paranoia ever entered Anheiser-Busch's or Coor's mind?
Gawd, I hope not. I think that is one of the seven signs of the Apocalypse.
In fear of having terrorists poisoning the pulse of the American junk food supply, the Oakdale Hershey's Chocolate Factory no longer offers public tours of it's facilities.
The only reason anyone ever visited the cow-poke town is now flushed down the fear-mongering toilet. It is a sad day when commoners can't partake of watching unhealthy addictive treats being made for free. Sounds like a great reason for a company to cut a burdening expense to me. I wonder if the paranoia ever entered Anheiser-Busch's or Coor's mind?
Gawd, I hope not. I think that is one of the seven signs of the Apocalypse.
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