Monday, December 12, 2011

The Marksman’s Tale


One kill.  That is the sniper’s creed.  Such a marksman neither of my children be.  How do I know this much to be the truth?  It is I who clean the toilets within our two prince court.  Like a fire hose without the fireman’s trained hand, I presume the scene to be something akin to the spray from an angry surf.  Only those of you that have raised young men will understand my pain.  Even though our toilets are foreign and don’t flush quite the same, the process is fairly simple, yet the urine still remains.  I wager that if they could control their manhood and the knob on the toilet with a play station controller, my life would be much less tragic.  Perhaps in the end I have struck on a potty training aid for the computer age.  Place the potty chair in front of a playstation move or xbox Kinect . . . well you get the picture.  Or maybe we could place pressure sensitive targets in the bottom of the toilet with a video screen on the back and turn the process into a first person shooter.  We could call it Call of Nature instead of Call of Duty.  Yellow Ops maybe?  Just brainstorming.  Of course you couldn’t register your high score online unless you pushed the “flush” button.  I believe this idea to be every bit as good as the pet rock.  “ You see, that is what you have to do . . . use your mind to come up with a really great idea like that “  “You think the pet rock was a great idea?”  “Sure, the guy made a million dollars”.  CLUTCH FILM.

And so it goes with my life . . . constant maintenance.  Maintaining the home while maintaining my sanity.  Both are a full time job.  In the past year I have seen my life transformed.  From attorney to nursemaid and somehow further still.  I have found my place in the world.  I have endeavored to become the person I promised myself to be.  A poet, a painter, a sinner and a saint.  I have contemplated the world and come to a rash conclusion or two.  I have seen things I would have never imagined and taken stock in the wonders of the world.  If I never manage to teach my children to flush the toilet, it will simply be a battle lost in a winning war.  I have shared with them my strengths and my weaknesses.  I have given them a window into my soul through which they can see their future.  A transparency that they may not appreciate now, but one that I hope will serve them well when they take their first awkward steps into manhood.   Be bold, be adventurous.  Live life without boundaries and never take stock in the words “I can’t”.  Look at the world from outside of the box and dream as though you will never wake.  Perhaps this is the prelude to my year in review.  A beginning to the end.  This has been my story and continues to be our adventure.  And when I look in the mirror in the morning, what is it that I see?  A man with a lot to learn and a story to tell.  The story I have told contains all that I have learned.  The story yet to come will be filled with those things I have yet to conquer.  I began writing this as a gift to my young sons to help remember a time that might not stand out so clearly in their minds once they are my age.  What I know now is that what I have given them is much more profound.  What I have given them is my wish for what they someday will become.  I fear I may be too old to finish the journey myself, but perhaps the start that I have given them will see them through to the end. 

In contemplating this wish I have for them, I am reminded of the words of Aristotle:

“Every systematic science, the humblest and the noblest alike, seems to admit of two distinct kinds of proficiency;  one of which may be properly called scientific knowledge of the subject, while the other is a kind of educational acquaintance with it.  For an educated man should be able to form a fair off-hand judgment as to the goodness or badness of the method used by a professor in his exposition.  To be educated is in fact to be able to do this; and even the man of universal education we deem to be such in virtue of his having this ability.  It will, however, of course, be understood that we only ascribe universal education to one who in his own individual person is thus critical in all or nearly all branches of knowledge, and not to the one who has a like ability merely in some special subject.  For it is possible for a man to have this competence in some one branch of knowledge without having it in all"
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 From:  On The Parts of Animals

It is this thrist for understanding and a never ending desire to be a truly Renaissance man that drives me, and I hope it is the one thing they (my sons) will remember me for . . . I think I will learn to play the guitar.  R.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Christmas wishes for Pere Noel and Christmas Witches for Father Time.


This evening has us wrapping up our holidays here in France.  The end of this coming week will see us return to our homeland in search of familiar holiday cheer.  We began our weekend with a trip to the city to do a bit of shopping in the madhouse that is the centre ville this time of the year.  The streets were filled to the brim like Times Square on New Year’s Eve.  It was dizzying and an interesting time to push the limits of our recent big boy pledge.  Our youngest would handle this tour of duty on foot.  We pushed the little fella to his max and what started out as a short afternoon shop ended up a 6 hour march through the streets and shops of what we know consider home.  It was yeoman’s work even for the heartiest of kids and he handled it like a champ.  Not even so much us a single outburst or complaint.  I guess he is a Big boy after all, and remember . . . BIG boys walk.  Perhaps I am not a BIG boy, for by the end of the evening, I would have gladly accepted a ride back to the garage to collect my car.  Having survived yesterday’s marathon of commerce, we arose this morning with renewed vigor for the day ahead.  


We are, at present, in the afterglow of my wife’s company Christmas party.  On the surface, it would appear that the French have once again got it right where we American’s continue to get it wrong.  Christmas is for the children.  The typical corporate Christmas affair in the US involves a very stuffy dinner party in a convention hall followed by a tedious speech or two about mission statements and the dawning of a new year.  ADULTS only.  By the end of the evening, too much alcohol is consumed by the gal in accounts receivable and everyone in the company has a story to mull over at the water cooler over the course of the following year.  For those of us that aren’t inclined to commit career suicide, it is an uncomfortable evening of small talk and clock watching, wondering what our children are doing at home and why we aren’t with them.  


No, this party would be different.  It was a stage production held in a local theater/community center.  It was an interactive affair that was focused on the children.  In fact, it wasn’t long before our eldest found his way on stage.  His command and comfort with the language is apparent when he volunteers to take the stage in an all French play in front of a few hundred folks.  As is his usual way, with the few words he spoke, he stole the show.  It was essentially a semi-professional stage production of various songs and dances relating to Christmas.  Great costuming (for the most part) and some interesting themes, but we will get to that.  In between holiday skits, the MC would haul children to the stage to participate in little games.  He would ask for volunteers and kids would rush to the front to be selected.  Much to my surprise, my eldest was one of those kids.  He was fleet of foot enough to be selected for one of these groups and was actually called to the stage twice.  The activity on stage was a simple competition.  Boys versus Girls.  The task was to take a loop of rope, step into it, and thread the needle before passing it on to the next kid.  The instructions were in French, but even I could follow along.  My boy was at the end of the line for the fellas.  The MC started by asking everyone their names.  After a long line of Philippes, Pierres and Jacques, my son announced his rather unusual and very American first name with a spot on French accent.  Immediately the MC made comment and the crowd chuckled at the endearing foreign child.  Soon the race was on.  They split two heats with a win a piece.  It was time to move on with the show, but it was announced that this group would be back to the stage after the next performance for a tie breaker.

The show carried on and soon the kids were called back to the stage.  This time, the MC decided he was going to hype the competition a bit by letting each child show their athleticism by listing their favorite sport.  One by one, they listed Dance, Judo, Gymnastics, Rugby, Karate, etc . . .  and when they got to the strange boy on the end, he once again brought the crowd to cheers when he proudly announced . . . “ Futbol Americain”.  This time the girls won in a landslide and their reward was that the next skit in the production would be a rendition of Beauty and the Beast.  Not sure what would have happened had the boys pulled out the victory, but I presume that it would have been something equally “un-festive”.  That seemed to be the theme however.  It was “Christmassy” at times, but overall, I couldn’t figure out what in the hell we were watching.  A lot of cartoon characters seemed to be portrayed and there was even a dance that seemed to be for Halloween which involved witches and what I think was supposed to be Harry Potter.  It was bizarre but pleasing for the younger set.  And then it got just plain weird.  


The final number was sort of a Rockettes introduction of Pere Noel.  The main stage performers for the whole evening had been some very fit female dancers and they returned to stage for the final number in very short white satin nurse type outfits with sequined Christmas trees on them paired with white fishnet stockings and fairly high heels.  They danced and sang their final number as Pere Noel made his way on stage.  It seemed clear to me that while Pere Noel dresses like Santa, they are nothing alike.  Based upon the way the actor was carrying on, Pere Noel is VERY old and feeble.  There is no way this dude is going to shimmy down a chimney to deliver Christmas toys for all the little one’s Christmas joy.  He eventually tottered his way off stage as though he would soon die and led the children to another room to receive their gifts.  Yes, they received gifts.  It was ingenious.  We each went out a few weeks ago and got our children each and gift on the company dime.  These would be their presents from Pere Noel.  Unfortunately, the old geezer didn’t even stick around to hand them out or commune with the kids.  After he led them to the gift tables he disappeared.  Weird!  It was fun to see my children’s reactions, particularly my eldest who typically can see right through these things.  He knew there would be gifts at the end based upon conversations with the other children, but he vocally assumed that they would be stock presents and everyone would receive the same gift.  That was not the case and each got something that was on their list.  It was a lovely event and though it had an eccentric French flair, I think we all enjoyed it tremendously.

And now we look forward to the week ahead and a Friday that will likely be our Christmas Eve for the year.  An exciting day of anticipation and joy as we return home to see those we left behind and reunite with our American souls.  Despite the excitement I wonder how this will all feel.  Will it feel as foreign as France felt to me so many months ago?  I imagine it to feel familiar yet surreal.  We have become seasoned in our new environment and some of the sights and smells here that once seemed so strange now seem as comfortable as my favorite pair of jeans.  What I look forward to the most is being able to speak and be spoken to without embarrassment and confusion.  I will never take that for granted again, and I will never criticize an immigrant in my own lands for an inability to speak in English.  I feel for their plight and know that in many ways America is much less hospitable for them than France has been to me.  Everywhere I go, there is a fair chance that at some point I will run into someone that speaks a bit of English.  Perhaps I should come home and only speak in French.  How many folks do you think that I will find to help me out?  I know the answer to that question, do you?  At any rate, despite the trepidations about rekindling old friendships and being accepted back into my own culture, I am excited for the trip and know that this week will pass in the blink of an eye.  I must apologize in advance should there not be a post in the coming week, but I have a lot to tend to between now and then.  By then, however, if you feel a desire for an update . . . ask me in person . . . I’m coming HOME. 

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Santa wears white gloves


It is that time of year when being a fat man with a flowing white beard becomes fashionable again.  You see them everywhere it seems.  Some are pretenders.  Weak spirits that don’t have the fortitude to really take on the persona.  They stuff their coats with pillows and affix doll hair to their face in an effort to pull one over on the kids.  There are an intrepid few out there that actually take this shit VERY seriously.  Those that truly live the life.  Those that follow a strict dietary regime of pot pies and pork rinds while growing a bushy load of facial hair that would make ZZ Top green with envy.  Cover him from head to toe in red velvet and synthetic white fur and you indeed have a “sharp dressed man”.  Pere Noel we now call him.   Haven’t done the research yet, but internationally, “Father Christmas” seems a bit more popular than the “Santa Clause” moniker.  Funny how the little things still capture my imagination.  


We ran into one of the imposter types at a local toy store recently and he was handing out candy to the youngsters exclaiming “BO BO BO”.  I don’t know if that is a French thing or if this fucker was just drunk.  I was going to take issue with the mis-pronunciation, but I didn’t think my kids would take kindly to their father verbally abusing and ultimately kicking the shit out of Old Man Christmas.  I decided to keep my mouth shut.  We have been taking great joy in soaking up some of the differences in our cultures during this, the most joyous, time of year.  I have personally taken it upon myself to torment the other members of my family by screaming “BO BO BO, Joyeux Noel!” at completely inappropriate moments . . . like at the grocery store.  I am not even sure that Joyeux Noel is correct.  I have seen signage that reads Bonne Fetes and Joyeuses Fetes which I presume to be the French equivalent of Happy Holidays.  Literally translated it seems to me to read as Good Party or Happy Festival, but I am not going to split hairs.  I prefer to stick to my “Joyeux Noel” as it has a much bigger impact when I pair it with my best Michael Buffer impression.  


I really feel for Michael by the way.  Let’s be honest, becoming a ring announcer is an eclectic career choice.  He had to think that he had a lock on that corner of the market.  I mean, how many of them can there really be in the world?  Then to have your half-brother come in and make a mockery of the dedication you have given to your craft?  That just sucks.  Bruce can go to hell.  I know, I know . . . they are supposed to be partners and all, but I still bet there is some tension at family functions.  I imagine they are always trying to talk over each other at the dinner table.  When it comes time to say grace I wonder who gets to use their tag line?  “Thank you God for this meal and thank you for all the blessings you have given us on this day . . . now let’s get ready to rumble!”  This would surely be followed by half-brother’s “It’s Time!”  Then I like to think that the two of them jump up from the table and have it out pugilist style on the dining room carpet.  I imagine Michael to have better hands and a more traditional fighting stance while Bruce would be constantly looking to take the fight to the ground.  Sorry for the detour,  I have ADHD moments.

With Christmas looming on the horizon, even the usual homework assignments become a bit more festive.  The eldest brought home some art work depicting Santa on his sleigh.  As he finished his mural he asked a profound question for which I didn’t have a good answer.  “Dad, what color are Santa’s gloves”.  Now you can take this inquiry in one of two ways.  One is full of childish whimsy, while the other is actually quite pragmatic.  I know my son, and the latter was his tone.  You see, he dispensed with the mystery behind Santa just about as fast as Tyson dispensed with Holyfield’s ear (trying to stay topical).  In fact, he destroyed all childhood fantasies in one shot very early on.  I am not in the habit of lying to my children, so when he stated that he had a theory that there really wasn’t a Santa Clause and that it was I who place the presents under the tree, I simply told him that I didn’t care for the variety of cookies he had been placing by the fireplace.  He wasn’t sad or or even slightly disappointed.  He simply smiled as though he had unlocked one of life’s great secrets and said “there isn’t an easter bunny either is there?”  Oh well, so much for the joys of childhood.  That Christmas I gave him a necktie and briefcase and told him to go get a job.  They grow up fast.  


No, the question about Santa’s gloves wasn’t filled with wonder and awe, it was simply a nod to his attention for detail in an effort to be as accurate as possible in his portrayal of the fictitious reindeer jockey.  Without pause I responded that his gloves are white.  The eldest immediately took issue with my response.  He was certain that they were green.  I told him he was full of shit and to never question his father.  We laughed and then went to the interweb in search of the answer.  I said white because all the Santas at the mall are wearing white gloves.  Come to think of it, that is exactly how ALL kids should know that these guys are imposters.  Really, how the hell does a guy shimmy down a chimney without soiling a pair of white gloves?  A darker color would certainly be more practical.  After a bit of pictorial reference, it would appear that Santa comes with white gloves, red gloves, black gloves, and yes . . . even green gloves.  “Huh, how about that” was about all I could remark to my young apprentice.  I then went back to being an artist at heart and told him to paint them whatever color he felt like.  I indicated that contrast is always nice and let him get back to his efforts.  Frankly I was just pleased that he was staying traditional and Santa wasn’t being portrayed with a semi-automatic firearm and battle fatigues.  Maybe next year.  On that bomb shell, I bid you all a good eve and will see you real soon.  R.     

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

A Retirement Party for an Old Friend: Saying goodbye to our Coleman Lantern


I would like to begin today’s post by apologizing for my last.  It was posted in haste and the grammatical errors made it virtually unreadable.  I have fixed them now, and it should make a bit more sense.  Now, on with the show. . .

There are but a few material possessions that stand the test of time.  Those that never cause you regret for the dollar spent.  The tricky part is knowing what they are.  The best are the easiest to spot.  They are those things that haven’t changed for as long as your memory serves.  They haven’t changed because it CAN’T be done better.  There may be tweaks and added features along the way, but the essence of the item always remains the same.  Too often, we are caught in this breakneck race to improve everything from one generation to the next.  Adding space aged polymers where we can, and completely re-writing the script when faced with declining sales.  I picked the Coleman Lantern because it exemplifies this time tested traditionalist sentiment at its best.  Sure, you can go out and purchase a battery powered plastic piece of shit that will last you one camping trip at a fraction of the cost, danger, and headache, but there isn’t a better way to light your campsite than the old standard with a gas bottle and dual mantle.  I have one myself that has been passed down a generation or two and it will likely see adult service by my young tribe.  The design hasn’t changed much in decades and you can get the same lantern and its component parts to this very day.  Having a hectic lifestyle and fairly young children has seen to it that my camping equipment lay woefully dormant for some time now, collecting more dust than hours of service.  Both boys are now old enough to enjoy a camping experience, so such activities are on our Spring “to-do” list.  That being said, this isn’t the intended focus of our discussion here today.  I have one other item in my possession that seems destined to be as timeless as my trusty Coleman Lantern.  While it is a fair bit younger in age, it has served my family well.  It has in fact become a crutch that has held us up from collapsing into a demoralized heap on more than one occasion.  So what is it that has me so smitten?  It is a tattered and worn umbrella stroller that has seen both my boys on many a voyage down dirt path and city street.  Metropolitan life in France is lived on foot.  If one choses to live close to the center of the village, you wouldn’t have a need for motorized transport at all.  EVERYTHING is in walking distance.  That is one of the truly attractive features of that lifestyle.  Everything . . . sorry . . . EVERYTHING is within your grasp.  That being said, the French are quite used to this bipedal lifestyle and to expect one’s children to march for miles without complaint is understandable.  They have done so since birth.  While I would argue that my 4 year old is from as hearty a stock as there is, miles of distance run will have him worn slick and our outings cut short.  The truth of the matter is, mom and I find the thing damned convenient and have used it as a playground, handtruck, and on rare occasion  . . . battering ram.  This thing has done it all.  Alas, I feel that my youngest has outgrown it and despite the inevitable need to carry him on my shoulders after several hours on foot, we have officially retired our old friend.  We are sad to see it go as it has seen us through many adventures.  With its passing comes a recognition that we no longer have babies in our home.  “Big boys walk” says the youngest.  And so they do, all the way to college and beyond.  Perhaps this is why we have held onto it for so long now.  Or maybe, bidding it a farewell is the same as saying goodbye to the life we once knew.

Regardless of the weepy sentiment, this thing is a juggernaut.  We have beaten and abused it like it was a piece of Samsonite hard shell luggage (another classic example of design perfection).  I think it was originally grey in color, but the dust and dirt has permanently stained it a muted tone of mother earth.  Despite routine cleaning, the original color has never returned.  To be completely honest, I am not even sure of the brand anymore.  I am going to have to sort that out, for I believe I owe that company a hearty thanks, a testimonial and an offer to pitch their product on national television.  I could Billy Mays the hell out of this thing.  Like ole Phil Dunfee once said . . . “I wouldn’t sell anything I don’t believe in . . . and when “ I” believe, “You” believe.  I could sell a fur coat to an Eskimo”.  As a side note, if you don’t know that show, you should tune in.  The writing is brilliant.  And so now we embark on a new chapter in our life.  We have “officially” gotten out of the baby business.  No more diapers, no more formula, no more strollers, no more happiness . . . we have big boys now, and big boys walk.  Perhaps one of the hardest things to do as a parent is to let your children transition from one cycle of life to another.  I believe I have mentioned this in prior posts, but we seem cling to our children’s youth in an unnatural way and somehow always seem to picture them as they were at age 2.  Perhaps it is the reality that one day I will stand face to face and shoulder to shoulder with a grown ass man, only to look him in the eye and say “there was a time in your life when I used to wipe your ass”.  I think that has a way of changing the way you perceive someone.  It’s just easier to picture them as they once were . . . always your shadow and always wanting if not needing your attention.  One day they will want and need it not . . . it is then that we must let go.   R.

Letters from the Infirmary

Well, the stomach virus has given way to a secondary ailment that may be worse yet.  Just about the time I kicked the shits, the youngest came down with a raging cold that he felt he needed to share with his Daddy.  Convincing a four year old to cough into the crook of his arm is an uphill battle.  He is actually very good about covering his mouth when he coughs, yet he always waits until he is right in my face to forget his manners and eventually let loose of a vaporous spray of the plague that has once again crippled my immune system.  I pray we get past all of this before mid-month or our trip back home is going to be less joyous than I had hoped.  We have a lot on the books for the coming year.  We have many adventures to look forward to, and this trip back “home” will serve as a nice prelude to "part two" of our French adventure.  Still, we can’t help be bogged down with job stress and the daily grind that all too often clouds our perception of what a privileged life we lead.  If I can keep my sinus headache and sore throat from doing me in, I am somehow going to grab the holiday spirit by the horns and wrestle that son of a bitch to the ground over the next several weeks.  We have just a small bit of shopping to finish and then we will be off.  Following Christmas, we have scheduled a week long ski trip in the Pyrenees.  By mid-summer we will be taking our lads on a cruise from Italy to Greece and ultimately Croatia.  My plan then is a birthday bash in Vegas to round out a year of travel and adventure.  My hope is to be able to wedge a trip to the UK in there somewhere given the enormous amount of vacation time we are afforded per year.  We have traveled a fair bit within France and now feel comfortable to spread our wings a bit more.  This is one of the treats of transplanting yourself across the ocean and we are looking to take full advantage of this in the New Year.

As our first year here draws to a close it is hard not to get lost in reflection.  At some point I will endeavor to cement my thoughts in a summary post and don’t want to spoil that here, but I do have a few recent memories to share.  In writing this, I am reminded of some of my more poetic experiences over the last few months.  I would like to share them with you before I forget them.   They are just simple little moments, pauses if you will.  They are the things that will live in my memory when I recall this period of my life.  I suppose that in some ways, these simple things are the best way to sum up my French experience.  As I drove the winding road through the vinyards on my way to collect the boys from school, I was treated to some amazing scenery that a photo wouldn’t do justice.  I don’t presume that my humble command of the English language will give them their due either, but for now it is all I have.  Driving along, I noted movement along the road side and soon watched as a beautiful Great Pyrenees dog came into view out of a field to my right.  With great bounding strides he overtook the 206 and crossed in front of my car, passing from one field to the next.  His gait was smooth and graceful.  The animation of his body showed the power of youth and seemed as though it was being captured in slow motion.  Up over a rise he ran, never breaking stride.  I rounded another corner and looked back at the ridge to my left.  On the horizon atop a hill of fresh green winter wheat he ran as though late for dinner at the golden stone chateau sitting atop that same ridgeline.  Perhaps it is because we lost a member of our family this year of that very same breed or perhaps it was just the simple beauty of the event, either way, it will be engrained in my mind’s eye forever more.  Not two days after this experience and not a mile or two down this same road I crept through a neighboring town sure to obey the posted 30 km/h speed limit.  In doing so, I had plenty of time to really take note of the ancient architecture along the narrow streets, most notable of which is the ancient gothic style church that sits unnaturally close to the road and nearly eclipses the sun's brilliant shine.  It was grey that day, and the Gotham flavor the town captivated my senses and captured my imagination.  It felt old and grey.  Mysterious and marvelous.  As I wound my way through town, the city streets gave way suddenly to an open countryside on the verge of a long winter.  As I stared across the river in front of me and down the rows of vines I noticed a sparkle of white in the steel grey skies.  The contrast of color was magnificent.  With clouds tinted in the grey blue of a coming storm, the appearance of powder white coastal gulls made for a dramatic landscape that I doubt I could capture with paint and and artist's brush.

Finally, with the sun now low in our skies, our sunsets are brief at best.  Blink and the sun has dipped beyond the horizon.  I am usually too busy to catch it on any given day, but yesterday I decided that I wanted to watch the sun both rise and set.  And so I did.  If you haven’t ever done something so simple, I encourage you to see the sun both break and fall in a single day.  Take 15 minutes and watch the symphony that is the turning of a day.  It will change how you look at your life, I promise.  The birth of the day is slow and dreamy.  The dark reluctantly loosening its grasp as the sweet warmth of the sun approaches the horizon.  The sun seems fresh and new.  A brilliant light yellow reflecting on the wet grass.  As she rises, so too does life.  Those that aren’t nocturnal by nature begin to awaken from slumber and sing their day alive.  Those that are, recoil into the shadows to await the coyote’s call and the falling of night.  As the sun rises in the sky, she does her best to erase all traces of the night.  Drying the dampened grass and burning away the chill in the air.  And as the hours pass, her mood seems to change.  From expectant and brilliant to languid and romantic.  On this particular day, the brilliance of bright yellow melted into a pool of dark orange, just above our horizon to the west . . . home.  In a sultry dance, she eased into a sliver, eventually becoming seemingly violent in her battle with the night as she clawed and grasped for one last breath of life.  It was a joy to behold.


I myself have learned to love the greyest of days.  Those when the sun has met its match.  When light and dark find their equal.  The days of Heroes and Villains.  Days that are met with a hesitant eye and slumber is not easily forgotten.  Days when the nocturnal stay for the after party.  If one can find their best in these days, they know what it is to appreciate life’s gifts.  Those days that are darker still, seem to excite the senses and thrill the imagination.  When the battle between dark and light becomes audible and the brilliance of lightening’s strike is followed by a growl from an angry foe, I am reminded of my mortality.  Days when a folded newspaper is wielded like a Spartan shield and thanks is given for a dry home and fire’s light.  Let today be such a day and we will seek out our fellow man.  We will huddle together in each other’s shadow . . . safe and warm.

As the seasons change, so too does my appreciation for each day and the bounty that it has to offer.  I will do my best to pay homage to each season and the best I know of the Holiday’s in a coming post.  Until then, I bid you all a farewell . . . for now.  R.

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Uphill both ways.

It never pays to be the nursemaid.  As typically happens with all parents of young and fairly ill children, the stress of constant care eventually depletes the immune system and you soon find yourself bedridden just about the time the kids have fully recovered and want to return to their life of play and leisure.  It would seem that this rather vile stomach ailment has a firm grip on my colon and hasn’t let go for the better part of two days now.  Don’t get me wrong, it is a smashing good way to lose a few vanity pounds, but I could think of better ways of going about it.  At this point, however, my slimming midsection is the only bright spot in my day, so we will just go with it.  This does bring up a very valid point that my wife and I discussed recently that may shed additional light on the French paradox that I have mention so many times in the past.  I believe one of the banner reasons that the French are so thin is that losing weight when measured in kilos is an excrutiating uphill grind that you would never mentally overcome.  Eat healthy, exercise your ass off and the needle on the scale moves just a fraction of an inch.  However, when the kilos do start to melt away, the conversion is a bit scary to consider.  At the rate I am going, I should actually disappear by Christmas.  That’s ok though, because I have a serious culinary binge planned upon my return to our homeland and coming in at fighting weight will do quite nicely.  Being bound to my boudoir as it has the closest toilet in the house has given me plenty of time to mull over the finer points of life and I am sort of stuck with thoughts of my youth.  Perhaps it is the remembrance of childhood illness that has me so reflective.  As my wife will surely attest, I am kind of a baby when it comes to being ill.  She knows by now that I complain very little about sniffles and aches, so when I start vocalizing discomfort things have gone terribly wrong.

It seems these days that I too often resurrect the time honored tradition of reciting to my children all those things that they are blessed with that I simply didn’t have in the “olden” days.  We all know the list.  It changes from generation to generation, but the sentiment is the same.  We somehow turn a blind eye to the fact that our children have more than we did by our own doing.  That is the hope of all parents I think.  For our children to have all the advantages, some material and some not so much, that we suffered without in our youth.  It is different for everyone, but I hold my list very near and dear to my heart.  Unfortunately, our move overseas has removed some of the bullets from my gun so to speak.  It becomes harder and harder these days for me to draw parallels between my youth and theirs.  After all, my parents didn’t uproot me from my pleasant Midwestern life and throw me into a world completely foreign to my own and expect me to somehow make due.  Much to my surprise they are making due, and in fact prospering as we had hoped they would.  That being said, I think my list is worth reciting just for shits (topical) and giggles.  At the very least, it will give my readers a fair insight into my psyche.  Perhaps this will make sense of why I am the way I am and answer my wife’s continual question of “how do you come up with this shit (there’s that word again)”.  Looking back, I would say I had a fairly Ozzy and Harriet rearing.  A product of the traditional American “nuclear family”.  My father an attorney and my mother a full time stay at home parent.  Funny enough, I have managed in my lifetime to follow in both their career footsteps and I can tell you which one is harder.  That is actually the only reason I maintain my license to practice law.  Someday I hope to retire from my domestic duties in favor of a life of leisure as a practicing attorney.  It is a known fact, that in the past, attorney’s made a fine living and I wouldn’t argue that I did without in the slightest.  While perhaps not fed with a golden spoon, it could have been silver indeed.  That being said, however, the lessons taught by the generation before theirs certainly stayed the course with my parents and I was raised with a certain “Northside” flavor.  “Southsiders” were the wealthy in the town where I grew up.  One of the lasting features of a “Northside” raising was a strong sense of individualism.  Fads are passing fancies and are not worth the dollar spent.  That was sort of the name of the game.  It wasn’t that we couldn’t afford what others had, it was that such consumables are of no real value and do not last the test of time.  Still, there wasn’t anything I wanted more.

There is a notable scene in one of my favorite sitcoms from back home during which a man is consoling a young boy because children had made fun of him for being “different”.  The adult character remarks that as kids we spend our whole lives trying to fit in and not be different in anyway.  And then, suddenly, as if overnight we grow into adults and do everything within our power to be “different”.  There is probably a backlash there we could write a college thesis on, but I will resist the temptation and push forward.  Well, despite my desires, I was guided into adulthood at an earlier age.  From early on, I was taught (or forced) to be “different” and to find acceptance in myself outside of material possessions.  This list I kept was a watershed in my life and likely the single reason I have prospered as I have.  I live my life outside the box and on the “road less traveled by” (thanks again Robert Frost) and that truly has made all the difference in the world.  Still, a few of these luxuries would have been nice.  My wife had them, and to this day it is a matter of contention between us.  

So, without further adue . . . The list.  I wouldn’t say that my parents eased me into self-assurance by occasionally throwing me a bone or two.  Instead, they began from the outset turning me into an outsider so that I could teach myself to understand who I am and what is really important in life.  In addition, any acceptance won would be at my own hands for who I was inside rather than what I had.  Tough lesson to learn in Kindergarten.  Sounds familiar though, did I tell you I thew my kids into a sachool where they don’t speak their language?  History has a strange way of repeating itself.  Perhaps my children are participating on a somewhat different playing field, but the lessons to be learned are the same.  More difficult for my children, yes, but the same nonetheless.  Many of you will recall a time from your own youth when it was expected that the youngest school goers would require a mid-day nap.  They seem to have done away with this to a certain degree, but I remember it well.  You see, when it came time to purchase school supplies, most retailers would stock their shelves to the brim with conventional supplies and items would be diligently checked off the list as the first days of school arrived.  For the youngters, one of those supplies was a heavily padded red and blue mat that would fold nicely into a rectangle to be stored in the back of the class room when not in use.  At nap time, we all collected our mats and laid in the aisle next to our desk.  The padding was nice I thought as it added a barrier between you and the hard black and white checked flooring.  I thought . . . I didn’t know.  You see, my parents sort of skipped that part of the school supply aisle and instead outfitted me with a braided cloth rug of the variety show below.  I suppose perhaps the housewares isle was much less busy than the school supply aisles.  I routinely had the shortest nap of the class, as my little tattered rug was always somehow bunched up in a ball at the back of the closet underneath the red and blue mats (also pictured below).

No matter though, after a quick and restless nap it would soon be time for a spot of coloring . . . one of my favorites.  Digging through our charming olden time wooden school desks, we would retrieve our pencil boxes and get to work.  Almost all children would retrieve their little yellow school box with the school bus sticker on top and commence to their artistic endeavors.  That’s right, I said “ALMOST” all children.  You see, I didn’t have that same little plastic art box.  Instead, my supplies were kept in an Antonio and Cleopatra Cigar Box that still smelled of a humidor and had traces of loose tobacco wedged into its corners.  And I wonder why I  have a raging nicotine habit as an adult.  


At the end of the day, there isn’t a better way to return home with your art projects and various worksheets than in a Trapper Keeper.  Well, that’s what I thought anyway.  It was a brilliant multi-foldered affair with a cool Velcro closure that would keep your papers organized in style and comfort.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t so lucky or organized.  Instead, I jammed my papers into the loose binding of a glue bound notebook of paper that had a cartoon cowboy on the front and the script “I’d rather chew than boogie”.  I am beginning to think that my parents may  have owned stock in RJ Reynolds.  I am frankly surprised my backpack didn’t have Joe Camel on the back of it.  


That’s ok, the day of a Kindergartener isn’t all that long.  By lunch time, the teasing would cease and I could seek solice at home to lick my stinging wounds.    Eventually, however, half days give into whole and a new set of challenges arise that I would love to forget.  I was not forced to suffer the woefull menu that was the school lunch when I was a child, but instead, I was treated to a culinary experience that had the school lunchers asking for second helpings.  Next to the trapper keeper, the metal lunch box with pop top thermos was the true object of my affection growing up.  The one pictured below was one of my favorites.  Luke Duke is still my hero.  

What I had to transport my lunch to, and ultimately from, school was a bit less reliable.  My folks outfitted me with a lovely brown Styrofoam number.  It was pretty much shapped like its metal counterparts, but a bit less sturdy in the end.  Styrofoam has a way of losing structural integrity after a few weeks of childish abuse.  By the end of the year, the side of my lunchbox had disentigrated and the contents of my lunch kept falling out before I got to school.  By the time lunch rolled around, I was lucky to find anything at all inside the broken shell.  Really, though, the box wasn’t the most insulting part of this ordeal.  It was the contents that left my cheeks flushed and my belly wanting for a change.  See, most kids had a lovely peanut butter and jelly on white bread, with a grab bag of chips and perhaps a nice fruit rollup for desert.  In the alternative, they would have a Hostess cake that would make my mouth water in envy.  I tell you no lie my friends, I didn’t have the slightest clue what white bread even tasted like until I was an adult.  Instead, I had a ham sandwich (thickly sliced), without condiments because they would spoil , on Roman Meal whole wheat bread.  Instead of chips I would have carrot or celery sticks and a fantastic sliced apple or on special occasions apple sauce for desert.  To wash all of that down, I was not so lucky as to garner a capri-sun, but rather a glass bottle of V8 juice.  Try trading deserts with that lot in your basket.  I know what you are all thinking . . . that lunch doesn’t sound too bad.  Yeah, well you’re all adults.  Try to get your kids to eat that shit and see what their reaction is. 


Eventually you get enough age behind you that your appearance begins to matter and what you wear is noted by your peers.  When I was a kid, there were two notable items that any self respecting kid wouldn’t be caught dead without.  During the winter months, that was a killer pair of moon boots.  A friend of mine had a pair that were solid white until you went out in the cold, at which point a picture of a space ship would magically appear.  Now, I doubt that they kept your feet very warm or dry, but they were cool and at a certain age, that is all that matters.  I was outfitted with a pair of green rubber boots similar to the ones shown below except that mine had a nylon upper with a yellow thinsulate lining poking out the top.  I matched my green rubber booties with a smashing multipocketed London Fog Jacket because my parents thought that it was an acceptable substitute for the Michael Jackson jacket that my friends were wearing.



During the summer months, the humiliation was a bit more severe.  Jams were the name of the game.  They were a long board short affair with wild fluorescent patterns.  Sort of Hawaiian shirt meets Bermuda short.  What I had, were corduroy in finish and just short enough to show the bottom of your ass cheeks when you bent down on the playground to pick up a soccer ball.  My parents believed that a keen match to this would be a madras long sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up.  How I wasn’t beating the chicks off of me with a stick I will never know.


This trend of humiliation continued for most of my youth until the age came at which a line must be drawn in the sand.  By High School, my vocal disapproval of my outcast status was heard and I was set free to go my own way.  By this time, however, the damage had been done and the lessons well taught.  While the kid in me wishes things had been different, the truth is that as an adult, I appreciate the self-assurance that these trials provided.  I am comfortable in my skin and don’t give a damn what others think of my appearance.  You will accept me as I am or you can go to hell for all I care.  This is indeed a trait I hope to pass on to my kids, however, I don’t think I will subject them to booty shorts and V8 juice to get them there.  That is my cross to bear.  I hope this has been informative and has given new insight why I am the way I am.  At the very least, I hope it is a lesson to all you parents out there . . . Your children will forgive, they just won’t EVER forget.  Take care.  R

Monday, November 28, 2011

Post Party Depression

In the waining hours of my eve, I find my mind drifting into reflection.  Or perhaps these are the “waxing” hours.  Either be the case, I can’t help but feel a strange melange of sadness, confusion and elation.  A chapter feels as though it is coming to an end and with it a bit more of my former identity.  On this day we hosted a “thanksgiving” dinner for those that really defy proper description.  My hosting got the better of me and a sentiment that I wanted to convey got lost.  As the sands slipped through our hour glass, I found myself clinging to our last few guests.  I can honestly say, I care little for the pleasantries of Thanksgiving.  The moment when the conversation turns to the sentimental and we are each in turn expected to recite that which we are thankful for gives me heartburn.  “Thank you for my friends, thank you for my family, thank you for this meal . . . etc, etc, etc.  This year, however, I think perhaps the word “thankful” means more than it ever has in the Butler household.  This year we find ourselves truly blessed with what I believe to be our “family of friends”.  My intent was to propose a toast to those that gathered with us on this day, for it has been their loyalty to us over the past year that has made our lives in this new home possible.  They have been there in good times and bad.  They have been our shoulder to cry on and an extended hand to help pick us back up whenever we have fallen.  They did so, not because they felt a duty born of blood kinship, but because they wanted to.   For this I owe a debt I can never repay.  And so I spent the afternoon memorizing their faces and praying the clock would stop for just a moment or two so that we could take stock of where we are, where we have been and where we are going.  As we grow older, the latter of these seems less fixed than in our youth.  Expectations change and living with uncertainty carries with it less of a burden.  Instead, a clarity is given to the past and sense is made of the present.  As the moments of our celebration slipped away and our home once more grew empty and still, I was reminded of all those thoughts and even speculations that had heretofore consumed my soul.  Soon we will return to the land from which we came and in doing so I wonder how they will find me.  Will they recognize the man standing before them?  Will I recognize them?  For the first time in this adventure that we know as our new life, I find myself torn between two “homes”.  In returning to a place once called “home” a dear  friend of ours who is a brilliant author in his own right and a fellow ex-patriot once wrote, “Everything feels familiar, like putting on an old shoe, formed to one’s foot from the years of service, instant comfort and a receptacle for my dry socks”.  There have been many restless nights over the past year when I have longed for that feeling.  And soon it will come to pass.  Yet tonight I find myself restless for a different reason.  The hardest fought battle for those that do as we have done is to find that sense of belonging that we leave behind when we board the plane for parts unknown.  It wasn’t until this day, day 278 (give or take) that I realized this battle had been won.

As I looked across the table at each of our guests, a feeling of insignificance washed over me like a bucket of cold water.  Had we never made landfall on that grey February day, now months removed, they would have never been the wiser.  Their lives would have gone on as they had before and their extraordinary character would have remained untarnished by our needfulness.  We, on the other hand, would have lost as much as we now gain for having known them.  It is for this that I give “thanks” this year.  And so I know, many months from now, when and if I again return to my home on the western side of the Atlantic I will be just as sad to say goodbye to my family of friends as I was to say farewell to the friends in my family back when this journey first began.  This changes not the ache that remains from the loss we have already endured, but is a reminder that your home is not your house.  Within your house you hang your hat, within your home you hang your heart.  It is my great fortune that my ‘home” stretches an ocean wide without bias for cultural heritage or national origin . . . and that is worth being thankful for.  R.

Friday, November 25, 2011

My Thanksgiving Apology

I must begin this post with a hearty apology to all.  My intent from my last entry was a multi-part post that unfortunately never made it to print in favor of a very ill 9 year old in our home.  It seems the lad picked up a stomach virus that has kept him homebound for most of the week.  Playing nursemaid has not allowed time for much else.  Those that have children will understand my absence.  He is home again this morning but seems to be on the mend.  It is Thanksgiving day, and though we are not festive today, the weekend promises different.  Not willing to let it go uncelebrated, the wife decided it would be a keen idea to host 20 or so multinationals for a traditional Thanksgiving meal.  With special order turkey (2 to be exact) and a care package from home, we are able to construct the traditional meal for all our guests to share.  Wish us luck.  I could cop out and spend the remainder of this post reciting all those things I am thankful for, but the list is too numerous to count.  And so I will treat this as any other day and share some random thoughts.  Perhaps I will in turn make up for the lack of content from my prior post and clear the jumble within my head.  With the holidays at hand and a child’s needs dominating my days, I am put in mind of all things past and a novelty or two from today.  Since underpants seem a recurrent topic in my world, I think it worth a comment relating to the youngest in our home.  A need arose not so long ago on an outing into town which called for a purchase of some new underpants for my 4 year old.  In desperate need and with few options, we sprang for a pack with a Spiderman theme without really reading the label.  Once opened, they turned out to be a set of three very racy bikini briefs that unfortunately are his favorites.  He is so proud of them in fact, that it doesn’t take him long at home to shed himself of his jeans and parade around in just his unmentionables.  Now, this is cute enough when they are your kids are little, but these things would make Ron Jeremy blush.  As a side note, if you know who the “Hedgehog” is . . . shame on you . . . pervert.

I am far too tired at the end of a long week for a witty segue from one topic to the next, so we are going to be all over the map on this one.  In one of my last entries I alluded to my disdain for awarding medals for mediocrity and at that time I was not obliged to do much more than scratch the surface.  My eldest is . . . well . . . a jock.  He is a poet saint, don’t get me wrong, but athletics are a big part of what makes him tick.  As such, I have been to more than my share of matches and games in an effort to cheer him on while my fat ass consumes some real estate on a sub-arctic metal bleacher.  I was an athlete once too, and I remember the sting of defeat.  I remember the sorrow of watching another team take a trophy that I was certain I deserved.  In the end, however, one side must win and one side must lose.  That is the way of competition.  Or at least it used to be.  What are we doing to our kids these days?  I can tell you we aren’t preparing them for the world ahead of them.  It seems that we are far too concerned with hurting Timmy’s precious feelings rather than teaching him that even on his best day, there might be someone better still.  Any gambling man will tell you, no matter how skilled a player you are or how much luck you have in your favor, the house will eventually take a hand or two.  But “losing” might make Timmy cry!  GOOD.  The little fruit cake needs a dose of reality.  So what is the current answer to the tournament of life?  Give everyone a fucking metal.  Not only does this make little Timmy apathetic to the concept of real accomplishment, it devalues the pursuit and achievement of excellence by those so inclined to pursue it.  I for one demand excellence from my young brood.  I am as unforgiving as they come when the work is not put in to be the best.  Not fair you say?  Well, let me explain.  I don’t expect my children to be the “best” at everything, but I am tied to them at the hip and know their potential.  I set the bar just out of reach so that the next endeavor will have them reaching higher still.  The key to guiding your children is to make sure they know that anything less than their maximum effort is a shameful disgrace.  Not to me, but to them.  Pride in yourself and what you have accomplished will heal any wound that might be inflicted when that day comes that someone does it better.  No apologies are necessary when you give it all you have and still come up short.  What cannot be forgiven is to fold your hand when the chips are down and the deck seems stacked against you.  Little Timmy doesn’t care about that though, he knows he will get a trophy anyway.

Having found myself once again upon my soapbox, I think perhaps another change in direction will bring things back down to earth.  There is something that weighs heavily on my mind these days.  It seems a likely occurrence sooner rather than later, and I look forward to it not in the slightest.  While my wife assures me that all is well, I am skeptical.  You see, we have been here awhile now and it seems that somewhere along the way we are supposed to relinquish our American driver’s license in favor a French one.  Not really a big deal.  We are, after all, fairly lucky in our plight.  The French don’t recognize the licensure from all the States in the Union, but we are fortunate to hail from one that they do in fact provide reciprocity for.  According to the wife, we have a year grace period during which we need not make application for the French license and that our bigger problem is that we haven’t yet changed our home address on our vehicle titles.  Truth is, when coupled with my lack of linguistic perfection, both are likely to land me in the slammer.  As I have mentioned before, law enforcement doesn’t really have a “patrolling” presence like we are used to in the states, so you are unlikely to speed past a cop on the motorway and find yourself in a hot pursuit.  What they do have however, is the impromptu traffic checkpoint which is a sight to behold.  Basically, the police line up at a known area for speeding (20 or so of them) and use a handheld speed gun to catch offenders.  Once you finally reach them, they simply wave you over and you are obliged to stop.  They also do this on occasion for simple spot checks for identification and the like.  I have passed these checkpoints at a growing frequency and am certain I am due to be the one flagged down.  I received some humorous advice from a friend who recommended using my foreign status to my advantage and simply pretend I don’t understand any French.  If the traffic cop doesn’t speak any English, it seems they too are obliged in their duties.  They are obliged to drag you down to the station to locate someone that does speak your language.  This is obviously a pain in the ass and the theory is that they will simply let you pass to avoid the headache.  I don’t know that either is true and being a relatively law abiding lad, don’t really want to test the waters.  Still, the bureaucratic ass whipping that is usually involved with matters of the DMV don’t have me jumping to action just yet.  I don’t think there is anyone in the world that enjoys red tape, and for a culture that is really expeditious with their healthcare you might presume that a trip to the DMV, or their form there of, would be a cinch.  Unfortunately, that part of life here doesn’t differ all that much from home and it would seem that the fine ladies that man these counters are cut from the same cloth all over the globe.  Now I could write a book on how this plays out in my mother tongue and most of my readers know what of I speak.  It would be a relatively humorous little jag about going from one office to another, only to be told that you must return to where you started . . . no closer to an answer than you were 8 hours ago when you walked through the doors of this governmental wasteland.  What is perhaps more humorous still is this same scenario playing out when only every other word is understood and you end every conversation with an angry “what the fuck did you just call me?”

So, in the end, I found a way to regain the content that I lost a week or so back and feel I can move forward with a clean slate.  Sometimes these are just a way to clear the cobwebs and rejuvenate the creative process.  Sometimes the random stuff floating around my grey matter blocks efforts at my best work.  Sorry you have to live through this housecleaning, but if you don’t like it, take it up with our complaint department . . . you are customer 9,325.  “Calling customer number 327 . . . NEXT!”

Monday, November 21, 2011

Red Tape, Holiday Cheer and learning to live with Second Place a three part series.

Part 1

As often happens in my life, way leads on to way and the screw or two I have loose upstairs keeps me moving from one topic to the next.  And so, after my last post, I found myself lost in reminiscence.   From this sleepy daydream I extracted a bit of the old and will endeavor to rehash it as something new for all you crazy kids out there.  I was reminded of a pair of presentations I gave while at the University and given recent events in my life I think they are due for a re-release.  In addition, I am going to add a short discussion on a topic I mentioned briefly in my last post.   It appears that we have a lot of ground to cover, so let’s get started.

It is that time of year again, a time for family and friends to gather in celebration of thanks.  Thanks to those that made our lives possible in the colonies and thanks to the one who gave his own life for our collective sins.  There is a certain gluttony, however, to this time of year.  An ugly dark undertone to the festive surface of candycanes and mistletoe.  I personally like to lump Halloween in and consider the three to be what I like to call the “Holiday Hat-trick”.   Somewhere in late October each year, we decide that it is time to lose our sense of self-control and begin a long journey of waist line expansion the likes of which I shudder to contemplate.  As Halloween approaches, the leaves begin to fall and a crisp freshness takes to the air.  Homes are decorated with the dead and kids gleefully banter about the goulish nature of their garb for their upcoming pilgrimage.  Streets are soon lined with the sweet smell of gooey caramel and the soft warm glow of candlelit faces adorning every porch.  In the distance, the howel of children laughing is a reminder that this night feels safer than the rest.  The romance of my childhood rest firmly on this particular eve.  Perhaps it is as they say . . . “the night belongs to the poets and the madmen”.  I could write pages of semi-eloquent prose about this particular holiday, but that isn’t why we are here.  It is the nights before and after this joyful evening that I want to focus on.  You know the one.  The moment when you realize that you are going to have to go back to the store before Halloween to re-stock your candy supply because you thoughtlessly consumed all the mini-snickers while watching Family Feud.  We begin our siege on the hoidays, dessert first.  We in fact consume so much that in the end, all we have to give the children are those crappy ass orange and black peanut butter things that have been recycled year after year to those who don’t have the will power to leave a bag of candy unmolested before Halloween.  Like fruit cake at Christmas, there must be a warehouse full of these peanut butter beauties simply awaiting the opportunity to disappoint a neighborhood full of children.  I am a firm believer that these items are no longer manufactured, but rather are warehoused in a mountainside bunker somewhere inside a no fly zone.  I am not certain that they are even from this planet as it would seem that their shelf life is infinite.  That being said, with teeth full of cavities, we bid Halloween fairwell and focus on the next stop in the Triple Crown of Holidays . . . Thanksgiving.

From a digestive standpoint, Thanksgiving is perhaps the King of this Royal Court.  The entire basis of this holiday is the feast and unfortunately our consumption knows no bounds in more ways than one.  Yes, these days, we try to rationalize and sugar coat the irony of the holiday by “giving thanks” for everything in our lives, but the truth is somewhat less attractive.  The origins of the holiday are innocent enough.  Giving thanks to God for allowing the pilgrims to survive their first year and the bounty of their harvest.  A harvest that was made possible with a little (no a lot) of help from their Indian friends.  We will turn a blind eye to the fact that we later captured and enslaved them as a follow up to the “thanks” we gave.  We consumed their corn, their land, and their souls.  Peachy, ain’t it?  Kind of makes you all warm and fuzzy inside.   


These days we lose sight of it all in favor of gravy laden “everything” and a massive nod to the god’s of commerce.  In truth, we seem to collectively consume and in the end waste enough food to feed the starving nations of the world for the coming year and then follow that up with a trip to the mall.  Black Friday, oh how I love thee.  It is on this day that we consummate our neverending downward spiral.  The name is appropriate enough, however, there is some conjecture as to its origins.  These days, it seems to commonly have an economic flair and refer to the day in which sufficient gains are made by retailers by which they transition from operating in the “red”, to actually making a profit.  That alone is a troublesome commentary on our economic strength, but you add to that the underlying commentary on our social order and it makes for an uncertain future.  The beginning of the Christmas shopping season is really the inspiration for this entry.  Over the weekend the wife and I gathered the kids to run to the city to make a few purchases of our own and we encountered the all too common theme one experiences in the days leading up to Christmas.  I will focus on how this plays out back home as I don’t have enough personal history here in France to make an educated assumption, however, it would appear that we have much in common.

If you are brave enough . . . no scratch that . . . dumb enough to remove yourself from your home at the crack of dawn to join the teaming masses waiting in line outside your local retailer here is how it will go.  You wake early and splash some cold water on your face to clear the cobwebs for you will need all of your mental faculties about you in order to get that “good deal” that is waiting for you on those store shelves.  Perhaps a cup of coffee and a warm scarf before you hit the road.  Its early.  You remark to yourself that you haven’t been up this early in ages.  The streets seem busier than you remember for this time of day.  As you make your way toward the MegaMart, you realize you should have left earlier.  The parking lot is full to the brim and people are circling like vultures looking to swoop in on the first available spot in sight.  Oooo, there’s one, and it’s close to the door . . . damn . . . handicapped.  As you pass it by, a minivan pulls into the spot and you watch in horror as the “handicapped” person waddles their way toward the door.  They appear to be terribly afflicted with the most common of American handicaps . . . obesity.  These days, most parking lots are equipped with so much blue zoned parking that it staggers the mind.  Sit in a parking lot on any given day and see how many of the patrons that utilize these spots are actually in wheelchairs due to a malady that wasn’t self-imposed by pounding down years of French Toaster sticks in a single setting.  You won’t be surprised to note that most of the residents of these spots are simply fat, NOT handicapped.  I believe there should be some beige (the color of pork fat) spots reserved for these folks at the back of the lot, for it appears they are the ones that could use the exercise.  And I bet ya they would use them too, if it entitled them to a coupon for a free scoop of Cherry Garcia.  Anyway, if you are persistent enough, perhaps you will be lucky enough to find a parking spot in the same postal code and begin the long march through the parking lot to wade into the mass of fat bodies waiting at the commercial feeding pen.  By now, you are already questioning your sanity and every car you pass that has opted for a make believe parking arrangement seems like a good candidate for a “keying”.  Keeping your lady like demeanor, you opt for the highroad as this is the season of giving and the sacrifices you make here will certainly pay dividends when you hand that perfect (read as reasonably priced or discounted) gift for that special someone in your life on Christmas day.

And so you wait patiently in line and slowly begin to become comfortable with the pork bellies around you, only to be trampled in a stampede the moment the doors open.  You would be amazed how quickly a fat person can move when there appears to be a bargain to be had on that deep fat fryer they have had their eye on.  Picking yourself up off the ground and clutching to the remaining scraps of the garments that have been torn from your body, you make your way inside.  Once inside you realize to your horror, that an even fatter set of people were sent a flyer letting them know that if they arrived at midnight on the night prior, they would get first dibs on all merchandise at twice the discount.  The shelves are empty.  That perfume you wanted to by your wife?  Gone.  All that is left is a gift box of Jovan Musk that has already been opened and fixed back together with duck tape.  A tear falls from your cheek.  All hope is lost and the holidays ruined.  With your tail tucked between your legs you return to your car, to find the paint thoroughly removed from the driver side door because they were all out of handicapped spots and someone was too fat to exit their vehicle without pressing their car door against yours and squeezing themselves through the narrow gap to the sound of a popping cork.  You are beyond being angry.  You simply shrug your shoulders and sink into your driver’s seat hoping against all hopes that maybe you will find what you are looking for at the store down the street.  This drama plays out for days on end, all the way to the night before Christmas when all through the house, not a creature is stirring . . . not even a mouse.  Oh well, all is well that ends well.  As it turns out, your wife didn’t get to the store any earlier than you did to pick up that thoughtful gift she had been planning and what you open on Christmas morning is a beautiful Real Tree Snuggie embossed with the words “I’d rather be fishin”.

So it goes with the holidays.  The meaning seems lost and the romance I once had for each seems to be waning.  I will always remember the smell of that beautiful spruce tree, covered in lights;  the warmth of the fire and the smell of fresh pumpkin pie; staying up past your bedtime to sort your sack of candy and the discomfort of that Pilgrim costume worn at the school play.  All punctuated by the hours spent listening for pattering reindeer hooves overhead.  In the end, that is what I want my holidays to be.  As my gift to you all this year, I will endeavor to put together an entry of what I remember these holidays to be and what I hope to share with my children before their father’s cynicism steals their childhood.  Part 2 will be along soon so stay tuned.