Day 185

Two Men Enter . . . Only One Man Leaves.

For those of you that truly know my wife and I, you should be well aware of our general distaste for the process of sorting and then folding socks.  I believe that is our aversion to this process stems from our deep need to avoid witnessing tragedy.  It is an occurrence that is as mysterious as the Great Pyramids of ancient Egypt.  It plays out all over the world in a gladiatoresque fashion.  Two men enter, but only one man leaves.  It is a riddle that has left me scratching my head for years, but I think I am on the verge of solving one of life’s greatest riddles.  Where do all the missing socks go?  They go in the wash a happy couple, but leave separated, wondering why they were paired up to start with and dreading the pending alimony payments.  The tragedy of loss is almost more than I can stand to witness on a daily basis.  Valiant soldiers, shot down in their prime.  Missing in action.  Gone, but not forgotten.  It seems an unfair reality, that it is always the best of them that are lost.  The quitters and the faded few always remain, while those that hold fast under the most rigorous abuse are always those that are plucked from us at their prime.  White, Grey, Blue or Black . . . it matters not their creed or color.  None are immune from this terrible fate.  For years now I have blind

ly placed the blame on the Mason’s, but I think I have finally uncovered the truth, or at least a clue that will lead me to the end.  I have my suspects, those that are likely the major players in this wicked little game.  I want to make you aware of them, so that you may do your part to thwart their evil scheme.  Like an FBI wanted poster, I will run through them one by one.  If any of you have any information leading to the capture of these criminals, I urge you to come forward and contact your local law enforcement agency.

Suspect # 1

Name:  The Fitted Sheet

Alias:  “The Unfoldable”

Description:  The scourge of the laundry basket, this shape shifting hellion can’t be captured by conventional means.  He gathers followers and victims in his 4 cornered grasp and won’t easily let go.  He is generally sloppy in his appearance, but when pushed and stretched can clean up quite nicely.  He is suspected of a variety of criminal endeavors and could be a “cover” man for his co-consirator Static Cling.

Suspect # 2

Name:  The Duvet Cover

Alias:  “The Sandman”

Description:  This lovable, but mischievious character will lull you to complacency with his charms, but be on guard because his voluptuous nature is all consuming and he is suspected to be the mass murder of the laundry room.  An entire load of laundry can go missing into his depths without a trace.

Suspect # 3

Name:  The Washing Machine

Alias: “The Cyclone”

Description:  The cold mechanical nature of his personality makes him a hard guy to like.  Standing at about 3 feet tall, he is heavy set, noisy and caucassian.  He fills his big mouth with filth and was last seen lurking along the wall in your basement.

Suspect # 4

Name:  The Dryer

Alias:  “The Heat”

Description:  This hot head will cut his victims down to size if left unchecked for too long.  With a similar build as his accomplice “The Cyclone”, they can easily be mistaken across a crowded room.  He can be found hanging around in the same dark recesses of your basement laundry, but smells like a flower and nothing but clean talk comes out of his mouth.  The born again criminal of this seedy underworld, he allows “The Cyclone” to do all of the dirty work.

Suspect # 5

Name:  Static Cling

Alias:  “The Iron Claw”

Description:  Many believe Mr. Cling to be the “Big Boss” in this organized crime family.  Always there.  Hiding out of sight and waiting for his next victim.  No one has ever seen him, and no one ever will.  Some lucky survivors have reported being ensnared in his trap only to witness a spark of light and then he is gone. 

This crime family is thought to be the source of countless missing persons reports.  Missing socks, shrunken shirts and drawstrings that won’t ever be the same.  Again, I beg of you, if you have any information as to their whereabouts, perhaps we can work together to rid ourselves of this plague.  That is all I have for today.  Take care.  R.

Day 183 and 184

Message Sent and Received

Well, I must apologize for the lack of musical selection, my scavenged internet connection is a bit too slow to upload video . . . maybe  next time, right?  At this rate, it seems as though our internet installation is going to be a surprise attack.  Let’s not dwell on the negative.  The last few days have been proud days in my life.  Though still hopelessly addicted to nicotine, I have kicked my caffeine habit for good.  One vice down, one to go.  I hope to be free of that by new year.  Keep your fingers crossed.  While this is a positive transformation in my life, it is somewhat overshadowed once again by the changes in my children.  There is no greater moment in parenting than when you appreciated that the lessons you have been teaching have been absorbed and duly noted.  With the first day of school only a week away, my eldest has shifted his focus back toward the academic.  He came to me yesterday and asked for the use of one of the computers in the house.  I gladly obliged without any questions as to why.  He indicated he wanted to write some things down.  Not wanting to pry further into his privacy, I let sleeping dogs . . . you know the rest.  I set him up in the office and he commenced with his work.  This is not a daily occurrence.  The only time he uses our home computer is when we require him to study his French.  Aside from this he only uses it on an occasion for window shopping various and none too kid friendly pieces of technology and of course weaponry.  I must admit that he is perhaps beyond his years in maturity.  I let him toil and he spent an hour or two without a peep.  Soon enough however, I heard my name from the next room over.  As it turns out, he needed some spelling advice.  “How do you spell “Engineer””, he asks.  He had it correct, but didn’t have a clue what the green underlining meant.  I explained the grammar correction feature of the program and he went back to his work.  I took the moment to take a quick peek over his shoulder without him noticing.  Not and invasion of privacy, simply a good parent making sure his child is not up to no good.  What I witnessed was so astounding that it rendered my speechless as I walked away.  My wife and I have ritualistically mapped out our lives by making a list of life goals.  We revamp this list every couple of years as we tend to keep up such a break neck pace that we eclipse most of our goals far before we have planned them to occur.  There was a time we broke them down into 5 year increments, but we found that it was meaningless when we revisited them years later.  Every two years or so seems to be sufficient to keep us moving forward.

What my son was so involved with was this very type of project.  We do not shield our children from the inner workings of our lives.  The administrative details are left in the open for them to understand and learn from.  Bills and balancing checkbooks is an open discussion as is the importance of education as it relates to future employment and life opportunities.  The contents of his list were incredible.  His little punch list began as follows:

Education:  MIT

Career: Engineer

Home State: California

Vehicles:  Rolls Royce Ghost and Audi R8

There were other items on the punch list, but I didn’t have enough time to absorb it all.  After a moment of reflection, it struck me . . . he wants to be Tony Stark.  Now, there is a part of me that thinks having Iron Man as my son would be pretty damned cool, but there is a deeper meaning to these writings and how intent he was to write these goals down for the future.  He DOESN’T want to be Iron Man . . . He wants to be Tony Stark.  The devil is in the details and knowing that this list is rooted in reality rather than superhero fantasy requires a knowledge of his daily life.  The similarities to Marvel’s man of metal are purely coincidental.  For a long time, he has desired to become an engineer.  He has yet to determine what type, but he has a thirst for science and math and wants more than anything to invent something that changes the world.  Whether it be mechanical contraption or chemical compound, he want so discover something that nobody else has.  He has his father’s treasure hunter like demeanor and discovery is his passion.  It explains his love for reading and learning new things.  He has an incredible memory and will remember the smallest details without being reminded.  I believe he knows well his strengths and is a contributing factor as to why he has little worry about attending school in a foreign language.  He has expressed his career goals with some frequency as of late and we have discussed institutions of higher education and during one of these talks MIT was mentioned as an option.  Yes, Tony Stark has a Rolls Royce, but he has a Phantom, not a Ghost.  My son became fascinated by these vehicles from a program we watched (in French of course) about the production of these hand crafted pieces of automotive perfection.  It led to a discussion of fine automobiles and an internet search of brilliant cars (one of my favorite activities).  He has seen them all and favors the RR Ghost and Audi R8.  I believe the Ghost is an independent desire, while his lust for and R8 may be rooted in my desire for an Audi myself.  California is an easy one.  It has been discussed that the weather on the western coast of France is similar in its mild fluctuations as that in California.  His desired location is based upon this weather pattern and that ability to be close to the Ocean.   He will miss it when we leave and the soulfulness of this connection makes me sad for the day that will inevitably come when I must pry him away from it for the dry flat lands of Eastern Kansas.

The “Tony Stark Connection” as I am now referring to it with my wife didn’t become apparent to my son himself until we (purposefully) re-watched it recently.  I was insistent on the movie selection for the evening to see if he would recognize the similarities.  I was certain that his desires were pure and not at all related to the cinema, but I wanted to put my theory to the test.  I could see his eyes get big when all the things he desired appeared on screen one at a time.  He commented “Hey, Tony Stark went to MIT!”.  I laughed and stated that Tony Stark was someone’s intellectual creation and to make him seem like an engineering genius, they show that he graduated from MIT.  The vehicles were a similar epiphany.  “Is that a Rolls Royce?”.  “Yes”, I confirmed.  “It’s different than the one I like”.  Duly noted.  So, will he be wearing a red and gold metallic suit to fight evil across the world?  Unlikely, but the intelligence, fame and fortune glorified by Tony Stark’s persona are well within his reach if that is what he so desires in life.  The barrage of questions that came after the closing credits of family movie night had me reveal my hand a bit and I asked him if these things were similar to those he had listed on his list of goals.  He smiled and answered in the affirmative.  I used the opportunity to once again pound home the lesson that his life has no limits and the reality based portion of the super heroes alter ego is completely doable with hard work, determination and a hell of an education.  He was as enthusiastic as ever and I am sure his dreams that night were filled with thoughts of flying and fanciful inventions that would change the world forever.  If I can continue to foster his enthusiasm, perhaps one day he will invent a mechanism that will keep his younger brother out of Prison.  For now, I am going to revel in the glow of my children’s achievements and my own.  If it were not for our decision to uproot them from the stasis they were lapsing into on our farm in Kansas, they might have never appreciated the fact that ANYTHING is possible.  I think his appreciation that he can live in California rather than Kansas says it all.  Not being bound by your current environment or reality, means that there is nothing holding you back from your dreams.

As I write this, he sits across from me enjoying a bowl of cereal as a grown man in a 9 year old body.  Wait, he just sneezed and the force banged his head into his bowl of frosted flakes.  Disregard all my prior comments . . . perhaps he is a simpleton after all.  Until tomorrow.  R.

Day 181 and 182

Lions and Vultures and Fathers Oh My!

In my continuing quest to roll back the sands of time and beat the unbeatable force of age and gravity, I have realized that as a devoted Husband and Father of two I have strayed from the evolutionary force that drives all us primates.  Hunting and gathering our food is the way we sustain life.  These days I have found my station more likened to that of a Vulture than a Lion.  I can scarcely say I lead my pride and my meals are scavenged from the scraps left behind.  That has its positives and negatives.  The reality of a busy life raising children is that you don’t have time to sit down much less prepare yourself a meal.  This statement is clearly in opposition to my prior post, but being busy isn’t always the same as being at work.  Yes, the domestic duties that fill my daily “to do” list keep me busy, but I can’t say that I find them so unpleasant as to call them “work”.  Funny thing.  It is my personality to equate work with the negative.  Should have followed my passions to find a career path rather than leaning on those things that come naturally to me.  It is those folks that make a career out of what they truly love that find “work” to be positive.  I have had this conversation with my wife on multiple occasions, and I have boiled mankind to three types of people . . . Those that live to work (my wife), Those that work to live (ME), and bums.  I by no means intend this to be a slight to those that make a living tending to their families.  It is a job, and a thankless one at that, but in my vocabulary I can’t call it work because I don’t affix this negative sentiment.  Perhaps that is because THIS is what I love to do?  Haven’t fully grasped the gravity of that statement, but I will figure it out in the end.  As my father recently pointed out, writing and painting are work as well.  Again, maybe I don’t feel it to be work as it is something I love to do.  Maybe in the end I am changing from the Work to Live type to the Live to Work category.

Back to the subject at hand . . . the dietary negatives of a relatively full dance card are simply an inconvenience that leads one to pick at the remaining scraps at the table while the plates are being cleared.  That is a scavenger at work by necessity.  The bigger failing in this way of life is that (and I am sure most Fathers can attest to this) my family treats me like a human garbage disposal.  Anything that isn’t finished, I am asked if I want it.  Often times we feel obligated to consume the scraps even after we have had our own meal out of a disgust for waste.  In this way, I am fighting back.  I have decided to adapt this Vulture mentality into my quest for fitness.  I actually no longer fix myself a plate.  I sit with the family and chat about our days and enjoy the meal time experience without actually eating.  When the meal is finished, I simply pick at the carcass as I begin clearing the table.  In the end, I get the nourishment I need in a smaller package without the belt busting consequences.  I don’t know why any fitness gurus haven’t figured this one out, but maybe I am destined for a second career competing with Richard Simmons without having to sweat to the oldies.  Yes, I am aware that this post is all over the board a bit, but I am tired and my head is bursting at the seams with random thoughts that I feel compelled to jot down without any reflection or editing.

My final rant for the evening will be a simple statement about French Television . . . it SUCKS.  We don’t watch a lot of television, but there is an occasion even in my life that I have a want to just sit for a moment and stare at meaningless entertainment with my mouth agape and Cheetoh stains on my t-shirt.  We don’t subscribe to any satellite programming anymore as we found that we didn’t watch enough television to warrant the cost and the quality of that programming even at the elevated price was less than spectacular.  That being said, we are now confined to the 18 channels that we get from the antenna on the house . . . Old School.  Most French programming is political in nature and the format makes it unbearable to watch.  It is usually just a couple of people sitting around chatting about current events.  That isn’t bad in short bursts and I like a good news program as much as the next guy, but sitting around for 4 hours (yeah, 4 freaking hours) rehashing the day’s events is a bit tedious to watch.  There are pockets of Anglo friendly programming that I tune to when times get desperate.  My favorites . . . what I call my “must see TV” are as follows:  Hannah Montana (version original), Friends (version original) and the Fresh Prince (dubbed in French, but a riot to listen to).  The other American offering that I have access to is South Park (dubbed in French).  I don’t care for it in English and watching in French makes me want to put a bullet in my head.  Dubbing over the voices absolutely kills the program.  I would rather see them with English audio and French subtitles.  That is an interesting thing you will notice in the states when you encounter a foreign film.  It will have original audio and subtitles in English.  The only dubbing you see is on Kung Fu Theatre and to be honest, despite my distaste for voice over, I wouldn’t have that any other way.  For a culture so clearly lacking in programming, I would think they would embrace more modern programming and take it as it comes adding French subtitles to make sense of it all.  After all, Hollywood pays these freaking actors a fortune to play these parts, and the sound of their voice is a big part of it.  Arnold saying “I’ll be back” wouldn’t be the same if it weren’t “Arnold” saying it.  That is the way I feel about the dubbed programs.  I understand enough of it these days to watch and understand, but listening to a French guy trying to do Will Smith (funny though it is) is still a little like nails on a chalk board.

Fortunately, the opposite is true for French music.  Their popular music has a liberal dose of American pop, but there is a great amount of really good stuff that is French in origin.  A lot of their music is very traditional and like the TV, a little difficult to absorb, but their more popular stuff is fantastic.  Obviously I have mentioned their Rap music before, which I LOVE since the language easily lends itself to a heavy bass line.  I supposed the lack in popular culture is the natural result when you pay so much homage to the past.  Our past is not that long in America, which is why our current is so brilliant in many ways.  That is all I have for now.  Take care and I will try to post a musical selection which I haven’t done in some time.  Enjoy.  R.   

Day 181 and 182

Lions and Vultures and Fathers Oh My!

In my continuing quest to roll back the sands of time and beat the unbeatable force of age and gravity, I have realized that as a devoted Husband and Father of two I have strayed from the evolutionary force that drives all us primates.  Hunting and gathering our food is the way we sustain life.  These days I have found my station more likened to that of a Vulture than a Lion.  I can scarcely say I lead my pride and my meals are scavenged from the scraps left behind.  That has its positives and negatives.  The reality of a busy life raising children is that you don’t have time to sit down much less prepare yourself a meal.  This statement is clearly in opposition to my prior post, but being busy isn’t always the same as being at work.  Yes, the domestic duties that fill my daily “to do” list keep me busy, but I can’t say that I find them so unpleasant as to call them “work”.  Funny thing.  It is my personality to equate work with the negative.  Should have followed my passions to find a career path rather than leaning on those things that come naturally to me.  It is those folks that make a career out of what they truly love that find “work” to be positive.  I have had this conversation with my wife on multiple occasions, and I have boiled mankind to three types of people . . . Those that live to work (my wife), Those that work to live (ME), and bums.  I by no means intend this to be a slight to those that make a living tending to their families.  It is a job, and a thankless one at that, but in my vocabulary I can’t call it work because I don’t affix this negative sentiment.  Perhaps that is because THIS is what I love to do?  Haven’t fully grasped the gravity of that statement, but I will figure it out in the end.  As my father recently pointed out, writing and painting are work as well.  Again, maybe I don’t feel it to be work as it is something I love to do.  Maybe in the end I am changing from the Work to Live type to the Live to Work category.

Back to the subject at hand . . . the dietary negatives of a relatively full dance card are simply an inconvenience that leads one to pick at the remaining scraps at the table while the plates are being cleared.  That is a scavenger at work by necessity.  The bigger failing in this way of life is that (and I am sure most Fathers can attest to this) my family treats me like a human garbage disposal.  Anything that isn’t finished, I am asked if I want it.  Often times we feel obligated to consume the scraps even after we have had our own meal out of a disgust for waste.  In this way, I am fighting back.  I have decided to adapt this Vulture mentality into my quest for fitness.  I actually no longer fix myself a plate.  I sit with the family and chat about our days and enjoy the meal time experience without actually eating.  When the meal is finished, I simply pick at the carcass as I begin clearing the table.  In the end, I get the nourishment I need in a smaller package without the belt busting consequences.  I don’t know why any fitness gurus haven’t figured this one out, but maybe I am destined for a second career competing with Richard Simmons without having to sweat to the oldies.  Yes, I am aware that this post is all over the board a bit, but I am tired and my head is bursting at the seams with random thoughts that I feel compelled to jot down without any reflection or editing.

My final rant for the evening will be a simple statement about French Television . . . it SUCKS.  We don’t watch a lot of television, but there is an occasion even in my life that I have a want to just sit for a moment and stare at meaningless entertainment with my mouth agape and Cheetoh stains on my t-shirt.  We don’t subscribe to any satellite programming anymore as we found that we didn’t watch enough television to warrant the cost and the quality of that programming even at the elevated price was less than spectacular.  That being said, we are now confined to the 18 channels that we get from the antenna on the house . . . Old School.  Most French programming is political in nature and the format makes it unbearable to watch.  It is usually just a couple of people sitting around chatting about current events.  That isn’t bad in short bursts and I like a good news program as much as the next guy, but sitting around for 4 hours (yeah, 4 freaking hours) rehashing the day’s events is a bit tedious to watch.  There are pockets of Anglo friendly programming that I tune to when times get desperate.  My favorites . . . what I call my “must see TV” are as follows:  Hannah Montana (version original), Friends (version original) and the Fresh Prince (dubbed in French, but a riot to listen to).  The other American offering that I have access to is South Park (dubbed in French).  I don’t care for it in English and watching in French makes me want to put a bullet in my head.  Dubbing over the voices absolutely kills the program.  I would rather see them with English audio and French subtitles.  That is an interesting thing you will notice in the states when you encounter a foreign film.  It will have original audio and subtitles in English.  The only dubbing you see is on Kung Fu Theatre and to be honest, despite my distaste for voice over, I wouldn’t have that any other way.  For a culture so clearly lacking in programming, I would think they would embrace more modern programming and take it as it comes adding French subtitles to make sense of it all.  After all, Hollywood pays these freaking actors a fortune to play these parts, and the sound of their voice is a big part of it.  Arnold saying “I’ll be back” wouldn’t be the same if it weren’t “Arnold” saying it.  That is the way I feel about the dubbed programs.  I understand enough of it these days to watch and understand, but listening to a French guy trying to do Will Smith (funny though it is) is still a little like nails on a chalk board.

Fortunately, the opposite is true for French music.  Their popular music has a liberal dose of American pop, but there is a great amount of really good stuff that is French in origin.  A lot of their music is very traditional and like the TV, a little difficult to absorb, but their more popular stuff is fantastic.  Obviously I have mentioned their Rap music before, which I LOVE since the language easily lends itself to a heavy bass line.  I supposed the lack in popular culture is the natural result when you pay so much homage to the past.  Our past is not that long in America, which is why our current is so brilliant in many ways.  That is all I have for now.  Take care and I will try to post a musical selection which I haven’t done in some time.  Enjoy.  R.   

Day 179 and 180

A depressing life of leisure.

It reverberates through my soul like an old forgotten hymn.  It is the beating of my heart and the sweet lullaby that rocks me to sleep at night.  It is there every morning and at the close of every day.  It is the symphony of labor.  These days I watch it from afar.  An outsider . . . a foreigner.  A accepted member of society, but not quite a member of the clan.  The distant hum of a tractor, the chattering laughter from the fields.  Though I don’t know the words, I know the language.  The discourse of toil.  I hear it in the still of night through my open window.  A familiar tone that is heavy with worry and exhaustion.  It all sounds romantic, even poetic, but the truth is somewhat less dramatic yet still dear to my heart.  The loss of this familiar friend in our lives has led my wife and I into a deep depression.  I think it also has to do with the dawning of a new school year.  It usually marks the ending of a productive summer of farm work, but this year something is missing.  Being in the middle of this working masterpiece of the wine making industry adds insult to injury.  I know that complaining about a lack of work is a strange sentiment, but my wife and I are often at our best when we are at work rather than at play.  I suppose it is one of our defining characteristics and how we have gotten where we have in our lives.  I guess when one doesn’t have anything else to complain about in life, you invent things . . . right?  That being said, we do feel the sadness of the ending of a season.

School will soon be back in full swing and once again I will face the beginning of the school year as a single parent.  This is something I have become well accustomed to since the beginning of the school year lands right in the middle of my wife’s busiest travel time of the year.  Ordinarily this isn’t of much consequence as the boys are well tended by their Father, but this year I feel a bit of trepidation as getting them settled into their new classrooms will be a foreign (literally) experience.  I seem to be more nervous than the lads are.  I suppose that is what it is to be a well adjusted kid with a maladjusted parent.  All else is well in our life abroad.  We are looking forward to the fall and a Christmas time visit back to the good ole USA.  With the coming of fall I am reminded that there are many of my favorite childhood memories that my kids will not get to experience this year.  Halloween is one of my personal favorites and I don’t think they do the door to door trick or treating here like we do back home.  In addition, we will be in France during Thanksgiving which will be good for our waistbands but hard on our hearts.  We have made the necessary arrangements however, to obtain all that is necessary to make our own feast.  These items can be obtained here, but it takes a bit of planning.  Christmas, however, promises to perhaps be one of the best we have had.  There will certainly be something about THIS Christmas that will live forever in our memories.  Our first return to the US since we left home so long ago and a chance to enjoy the holiday as it is meant to be spent . . . basking in the glow of family and friends.

Our weather remains phenomenal and I am beginning to understand the lure of the California life style.  We have had 4, count them, 4 hot days this summer that I would say have been somewhat uncomfortable.  The remainder has been a constant 70 to 80 degrees.  The weather was so favorable on this the 25^th day of August that the boys and I went for a 12 mile bike ride after lunch.  That sounds like a lot, but on the very gentle bike trail, 20 km rolls by in a hurry.  The eldest has become a fairly accomplished rider and will require an upgrade to a geared bike, while the youngest is content with short outings on his gator themed and fully training wheeled bmx and long trips in his perch on the back of Dad’s bike.  I wish I had more to report, but our life has become regrettably bland and pleasant in a trip to the mall kind of way.  It will shake up again as it always does, but for now Mom and Dad sing the blues.  Perhaps this need to move a million miles an hour with our hair on fire is an illness, but I wouldn’t have my life any other way.  Oh, by the way . . . still no internet.  I hope one day that I will be afforded the luxury of getting back to my daily posts as this intermittent posting is starting to seriously bring me down.  Until we talk again.  R.  

Day 177 and 178

The beach in my backyard and my life as a Calico Cat

Living mere kilometers from the Atlantic Ocean is perhaps one of the novelties of living here that may never wear off.  Our life is VERY uncomplicated these days which makes for ample recreational opportunities.  That being said, there is one piece of fiber in our American beings that we can’t seem to rid ourselves of and has caused us a stumble or two along the way.  We (Americans) tend to be a spontaneous lot, and the concept of an impulse vacation is not at all unheard of.  No planning, no preparation, just get in the car and go.  In fact, most weekend getaways in the States are based upon this sense of freedom and spontanaity. That is not the case here.  You plan your vacation, intensively.  Plans are made a year in advance and hotel bookings seem very scarce on short notice.  What’s more, hotels are not all that plentiful except in the largest cities and there seems to be a preference for the mobile home and holiday gite.  We have been victims of this before, but surely an afternoon trip to the Ocean won’t cause a problem.  Unfortunately, the entire country goes on vacation in the month of August and on this day, it seems that most of them were heading to the beach.  We got approximately half way there, and the road to our destination turned into a parking lot.  Not wanting to spend a perfectly good Saturday in the car, we decided to head home and make alternate arrangements.  They day turned out to be one of the warmest of the summer, and the troops were disappointed in not getting a chance to cool off in the surf.  My recommendation to save the day was a timeless activity we all know from childhood.  No scorching summer afternoon can stand up to the refreshing enjoyment of a garden hose and sprinkler head.  A quick stop by the closest supermarket and we were back in business.  We arrived home and I unpackaged our newly acquired recreational equipment and found, much to my surprise that the hose was just that.  A hose with cut ends.  No way to attach it to the hydrant.  Peculiar.  No longer surprised by any of the oddities that life overseas entails, I sent my wife after a replacement.  She returned to the store and advised them that in her mind the hose was broken and she needed another.  As it turns out, all hoses are simply lengths of tube without fittings.  Fittings are sold separately as it would seem they like the snap on plug and play adapters at the end of their hoses.  She found a man in the hose section that took mercy on her and lead her to the correct fittings.  When she returned I commenced to putting this erector set together.  Soon enough, the kids were splashing and playing to their hearts content, the same way I had in my youth.  Some things are time tested and never go out of style.

To go along with our backyard festival, I decided to fire up the grill and cook some steaks.  Since I recently ran into a slight connectivity issue with my American gas grille and the European bottles, I opted to purchase some charcoal at the store and grill the steaks over the coals.  Another learning experience.  Not surprisingly, there is no such thing as Match Light here.  “Charcoal” is sold in a similar bag as in the states, but the contents are quite dissimilar.  No synthetic, uniformly manufactured brickettes here.  The bag, as it turned out, contained diced up chunks of charred wood that you would find after a campfire had run its course.  Upon some postmortem research, lighting these babies is a multistep process that requires additional supplies.  Here is the 411.  You start with paper or a gel substance you can buy at the store.  Atop this you start a kindling fire.  Bundles of kindling are also available at the market.  Atop the kindling fire you place your irregular chunks of charred wood.  I attempted my fire in virtually reverse order given that originally I had hoped that the coal chunks had some magical properties and would burn on their own as ours do in the States.  The lackluster burn that I got out of this mélange of coal, dried grape vine, sticks from the yard and printer paper meant that three steaks that started cooking at 6 were ready at 9.  They were cooked almost to perfection, but the nature of the beef here made for a demanding dining experience.  Tough as the bottom of a boot, we chewed and chewed.  Don’t know why we thought that we could do it better than the restaurants where we had had similar experiences with steak.  You live, you learn . . . and sometimes it takes twice for the message to sink in.  The highlight of the evening was the acquisition of our new feline companion.  She is a lovely cat which we have named ete (accent on each e, but I can’t seem to make that happen with my American born computer) which translates to Summer.  She is tiger stripped in a combination of colors as if the bastard child of a purely grey tiger striped cat, and that with a purely orange and white stripe.  The markings are striking, but unusual.  Unfortunately by the end of the following day, we would be a matched pair.

Our backyard waterpark did not entirely satiate the crew of their thirst for the Atlantic, so it was agreed that we would rise early on Sunday morning to see if we could beat the traffic.  I am pleased to note that our plan was a success and we spent the meaty part of the Sunday on the beach enjoying an afternoon of bodyboarding.  Even the youngest has become fairly adept at the practice, and what I had anticipated being a waste of money (the purchase of bodyboards) appears to be a lasting passion for the entire family that will likely require upgrading our gear at some point.  We have already gotten our money’s worth out of the entry level rides.  The surf was perfect, calm with tall rolling waves that make for an endless session of good times.  The afternoon lingered on and by the car ride home, I was well versed in the error of my ways.  I have the darkest complexion of my crew and as such do not require a liberal dose of mayonnaise before going into the sun.  Age, and life experience however have taught me that a wicked case of skin cancer on the top of my balding head is an inevitability if I do not take the proper precautions.  That being said, I perhaps paid a little too much attention to getting a good coating of sunblock on my dome and not enough on other parts of my body.  I usually only require an SPF of about 8 on most of my extremities to prevent a burn, so my wife slathered some on my back and I took care of the rest.  Both she and I appear to have been in too big of a rush as a majority of my body is perfectly fine, but noticeably hand sized splotches of blistered skin appeared by night fall.  I would like to blame the wife, but my coating on the top of my chest was as poor if not poorer than her attempt to shield my back.  So, now I too have striking and unusual markings much like my new feline companion.  That about sums up the weekend and we are still without internet connection, although the promise is that this will be the big week that we FINALLY get hooked up.  At this point, I am not holding my breath. Oh well, C’est la vie!  Until tomorrow or the next day . . . R. 

Day 176

The life of The Gambler and knowing when to wait for a better hand.

Writing and painting have taught me a lot about life.  Sometimes you have to know when to fold a losing hand and start again.  Kenney Rogers probably said it best before he became a roasted chicken mogul . . . “You gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away, and know when to run.  After meeting with three early successes, my fourth artistic endeavor at a much grander scale fell flat on its face and forced me to paint the entire canvas black and start again.  A former version of myself would have been heartbroken, but an older and wiser man has taken that man’s place and I am taking it in stride.  As with most things in my life these days, I have used this experience as a philosophical talking point with my children.  It is too cheesy to say “If first we don’t succeed . . .”, but I live my life with a hold fast attitude and have never given in at the first sign of adversity.  When we get knocked down, the true measure of what makes us strong men is how quickly we pull ourselves back to our feet.  I finished the painting yesterday and faded the entire thing to black first thing when I got home this evening.  I teach my lads that having to start over isn’t necessarily a failure and it is not acceptable to simply quit when the going gets rough.  I am fighting the urge to add the Billie Ocean “the tough get going”.  Too many clichés out there dealing with this subject make a serious conversation about it rather difficult.  That being said, there is a lesson to be taught, and I never miss the opportunity to preach the truth to my young sons.  This lesson will be particularly important for my eldest son in the coming weeks.  His lack of discernable skills with the French language means that school is going to be difficult . . . VERY difficult.  He will be knocked down and it is going to be difficult to get back up.  I wish I could walk this road for him, but the best I can offer is my wisdom and a shoulder to cry on.  He sits before me this particular evening a very humble lad indeed.  This is a young man that has polished off four 300+ page books over the course of the summer and is deep into his fifth.  With a reading comprehension level hovering somewhere at the 8^th grade level, struggling to get through just two pages of a book of not more than 30 pages is a bitter pill to swallow.  He doesn’t know it now, but this is the gift we have given him.  If he can struggle through the first few months, he will be able to read and comprehend advanced literature in two languages.  Not a bad start at the youthful age of 9.  I would wager that by the time summer rolls back around in the coming year, he will be reading those same 300+ page books in French instead of English.  Looking up every other word in a French to English dictionary make reading an unenjoyable endeavor and he now knows what it is to start again.  He will not give up, for I know the content of his character.  I have not worked out the exact means by which I will accomplish this, but I plan on setting myself an equally difficult goal to attain along side his efforts to show him that I am willing to match his effort and understand his plight.  I will keep you posted as to what I come up with.

On a completely unrelated and less than philosophical note, my wife came to me the other day and asked if I wanted a little pussy.  Who would say no to that?  Unfortunately, she was not at all in the mood for my witty comeback and it turns out she was actually referring to obtaining a kitten for the house.  While the cat we left in the states actually belonged to one of our dogs . . . long story . . . don’t ask, I was for all intents and purposes the most attached to the animal.  The wife grew to love her as well, but I think part of that was out of guilt for sucking her tail off with a Dirt Devil handvac.  A long story that is full of chuckles, but I will save that for another day.  While making the proposition seem as though this purchase was being done to provide me with a companion, she had ulterior motives.  As with all homes in the country, particularly those that date back to the 13^th Century or so, it is susceptible to intruders of the beady eyed variety.  Despite her status as an “All Creatures Great and Small” type, she is absolutely terrified of mice.  It is funny as hell to me that a grown ass woman that is willing to stare a 1000 pound bull in the eyes without a flinch screams and runs at the sight of few ounces of harmless fur with a naked tail.  I decided to play along and said that I would love to have a cat around the house again, and so we are to take possession of the new member of our family inside of a week from today.  I foresee this being a complete disaster when the cat decides to pluck the bulging eyes out of my son’s dog’s skull, but it should make for some good stories.

Due to the upcoming first day of school, additional animal companionship and the need to make my youngest’s stay here in France “legal” we had to run to the city for the day to pick up some school clothes, more notebooks, a litter box and one immigration card.  The most important of these obviously being the documentation necessary to keep the 3 year old from being deported.  The adventure was a complete success and we are now finished with school supplies, the lads have euro school rags, the new cat will have a place to shit and it looks like the 3 year old will get to stay in the country for another month or two.  And so, I will begin tomorrow fresh and new.  A blank canvas and a positive attitude bring hope for better times to come.  For now I will keep watch over my flock and speak with you all again soon.  R.  

Day 173 through 175

The Morning After Pill

In keeping with the contraceptive theme I have going from my prior post . . .there is no better cure that I know of for a regrettable evening of driving and an uncomfortable stay in the “Good” Western than two days in the High Pyrenees.  Despite having a reasonable internet connection for most of the trip, I could not seem to find the kind of break from activity necessary to put my thoughts into coherent sentences.  We quickly traded the “Good” Western for a Holiday Gite at the foot of the Col De Tourmalet.  A great find at a great price.  Nestled into a quaint albeit touristy burg deep in the mountains, we quickly forgot the long drive and lack luster accomodations of the night prior.  The first full day of our trip was spent in transit from one location to the next.  I was absolutely determined to drive over the Col De Tourmalet on our way, so we arranged the days events accordingly.  Despite our recent and somewhat disappointing caving expedition, it was decided that we would have another go at subterranean exploration.  This one was much more spectacular than the last and was one of the highlights of the trip.  The cavern was small but picturesque and the tour was informative even though it was in French.  I picked up a word or two and found myself feeling rather at home with the language.  I still don’t understand most of what I hear, but it is now coming in bits and pieces.  The best part of the tour was that a good portion of it was given aboard a flat bottom boat that our guide pushed through narrow channels by way of handrails that had been affixed to the wall.  I have walked caves and even ridden in trains through them, but this was my first time by boat.  As is my usual way, I couldn’t help picture what this must have been like for those first intrepid few to have discovered this natural wonder.  Incredible indeed.  After the surprisingly pleasant tour, we loaded back in the car and headed over the Col.  It was a neat experience to drive the unbelievably steep roads that the true heroes of professional cycling make look so easy to conquer.  Easy it is not, for I witnessed many mere mortals astride their steads trying to capture their own piece of Tour glory and it looked all too painful to endure.  Most seemed to be struggling tremendously in the foothills.  I thought to myself that it will be a rude awakening when they actually get to the climb.

The most amazing thing to witness that is not shown on the televised portion of the Tour is the coordination between man and free roaming cattle.  I can’t imagine that the ranchers and shepherds have any way of controlling their animals migratory patterns during this grand event, and the collision between car and cow or sheep is fretful enough to imagine, let alone the collision between bicycle and bovine.  The livestock is everywhere and lives quite harmoniously with the visiting tourists.  Cars slow to a crawl to snap pictures as the herds cross back and forth over the narrow winding roadways.  The most entertaining of the lot by far were the mules, who seem to have the run of most of the High Mountain villages.  They hang out in front of local hotspots, soaking up the adoration of all the multinationals visiting this illustrious locale.  I couldn’t tell if they were wild or if they were simply the mules they use for mountain tours that are not corralled, but set free in town when not in use.  Either way, it was an enjoyable sight to behold.  We ended the evening by checking into our Gite.  Fortunately at this point, our French is strong enough to handle this type of transaction and the lady also spoke fluent Spanish.  This would be requirement I would suppose in this southern reaches of the mountains given its proximity to the neighboring nation.  We got along just fine in a mélange of French and Spanish.  I was pleased to see that my comprehension of Spanish still trumps my skills in French, however, it is obvious my French skills are gaining ground.  I was happy, however, to contribute to the experience with a moderate proficiency in two additional languages.  Even more interesting is that fact that you are so far south that most folks greet each other with a “Bon Jour” followed by a hearty “Hola or Buenos Dias” being respectful of the likelihood of encountering both nationalities in equal part.

The following day would bear witness to this novelty as we passed folks on the trail.  Sunday would be our day of backcountry exploration that started out with a bang and ended in a wimper (of pain).  Armed with backpacks, snacks, water and a comfortable pair of shoes, we set out for a day of adventure.  Unfortunately, locating our planned hike was a bit of a challenge.  Even after a translation into English, the guide book was of little help in locating the trail.  In a Three Stooges like cat and mouse game of parking the car, walking and then realizing we were on the wrong path, only to hike back to the car and drive further on we finally reached what appeared to be our trail marker.  We only had to return to the car three or four times before we were confident we had gone as far down the rocky road as the Renault would carry us, so we set out on what appeared to be a well marked albeit somewhat rustic trail.  After an hour or so of rather strenuous treking we came to the realization that we had stumbled away from our “easy” hike and right into the mother of all trails.  Now, I have hiked what some consider to be the most difficult hiking trail in North America and this son of a bitch made that thing look like a moonlight stroll on the beach.  I was somewhat handicapped as I was attempting the French equivalent of the Nose route on El Cap with a 3 year old in one arm.  The going got too tough for him to manage, so old pops relinquished the pack to mom in favor of bearing the weight of my tired offspring.  I have managed some pretty rough terrain with 70 pounds or so on my back, but clambering up scree slopes and over rocky and exposed traverses with a curtain climber attached to my chest and only one free arm was a physical feat that I was ill prepared for.  At the roughly ¾ mark, I left the crew on a rocky, yet somewhat less exposed outcrop to scout ahead to see if our summit attempt would be remotely possible for my little clan.  Without the extra weight, I made short work of it and found, much to my heartbreak that this wasn’t going to be doable for the fam.  I returned with the bad news and we began our decent to the car.  From my vantage point, however, I was able to finally spot our intended trail and determined that it was accessible by Renault.  We made our way back to the car with enough energy left to drive further down the road to our intended destination.  This was a very well beaten path through a boulder field that was covered in sheep and adjacent to a very cold and blue mountain lake.  It was doable without packs, so we left them in the car and went for an enjoyable walk through the rocks and boulders.  There promised to be a waterfall at the end of our journey, but weather was setting in and the kids seemed to be enjoying the rock hopping enough that we didn’t venture to the back of the canyon.  We strolled along, listening to the call of the sheep and the steady clang from the bells around their necks.  It was quite mystical in many ways, and I enjoyed walking along and snapping photos of my fellas enjoying their afternoon.

Despite all the warning signs being in place, I chose to ignore them and stayed about 5 minutes too long.  I have spent a fair amount of my life in the outdoors and have been well taught by the men before me to keep close watch on the horizon and pay even closer attention to the warnings that nature presents when shit is about to hit the fan.  The cattle were bedding down and the sheep were returning to the valley from the upper reaches of the canyon.  I knew this could mean but one thing.  The increased breeze was but the most obvious clue.  Soon enough, the gray skies turned black and I finally advised my crew that it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.  With a grumble or two about not getting to stay longer, they followed and what was a pleasant walk through the boulder field on the way in ended in a crazy ass sprint over rough terrain with a very unhappy and ill clothed 3 year old in my arms.  I must say though that the quick work I made of the trail in nothing more than shorts and a pair of track shoes made the North Face clad ubber hikers look like a bunch of pussies as I sprinted passed.  They were peeling off their packs and going for rain coats as they leaned on their trekking poles to catch their breath.  I shot by them like a Kenyan in the New York City marathon without even so much as a sigh.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t fleet of foot enough under the additional weight of the youngster I was carrying in my arms, and the last five minutes of our journey was spent in a steady rain.  While much of the day was spent on an ill advised hike over some pretty tough terrain, we all had a blast and no one got injured.  Wet, but not injured.  What was supposed to be a leisurely family stroll through the mountains ended up a baton death march over the Eiger, but we did it all with smiles on our faces.  I for one felt right at home, as this was the kind of trip my father before me and his father before him would have required their family to endure.  We have some great memories and fantastic photos to remember our time here in France, even if this whole adventure ended tomorrow.

So, I sit here at the kitchen table back at the Chateau, slowly sipping a Dirty VirJeanUh as I affectionately refer to it (Old Virginia Bourbon Whiskey and Jean’s Cola) . . . don’t ask . . . and I realize how lucky I am for all the blessings in my life.  Before I get all sentimental on you, I want to close with one last piece of social commentary.  As you may or may not know, the rest of the world is a fair bit more socially liberated than the good old USA and in the past week or so, has become a talking point with my eldest child.  As I was working in the kitchen the other day, I had the television on to a public channel to watch my “stories” and my eldest noticed that during several of the scenes in this soap opera of sorts, women appeared without their tops.  Something he is now accustomed to given our many visits to the coast, but it drew his gaze nonetheless.  I giggled and used the opportunity to drive home a lesson that I preach to my kids.  Open mindedness.  If they can talk with my comfortably about such subjects at such a young age, they will be able to talk with me about anything.  My eldest is a case study in this method of parenting and there isn’t a subject in the world that you could address with him that would cause him to pause or become uncomfortable.  He is truly enlightened at the tender age of 9.  I often times think it would be a more worthwhile read if it were he rather than I that kept this little journal of sorts.  His observations astound me daily and he continues to be living proof that what we have done here is nothing less than parental brilliance.  That being said, even I have to draw the line somewhere.  As the rest of the family slumbered at the “Good” Western, I restlessly laid in my bunk and channel surfed the 18 some odd channels available for my viewing enjoyment.  The clock struck 12 and one of the “public” channels (like NBC or CBS) turned decidedly hardcore.  I don’t mean Skinamax, I mean the full enchilada.  Thank God they were all asleep.  I am not ready for a conversation about anal sex and golden showers.  I will wait till he is at least 10 for that one.  On that bomb shell, I will bid you a good night.  R.

Day 170 through 172

Square dancing through the French countryside and a cultural fall from grace.

The sad truth is that I now rate the habitability of a hotel based solely on the availability of a free WiFi connection.  I am currently "plugged in" at a Good Western in Lourdes, France.  While perhaps not the "Best" Western, it will do.  We find ourselves on the eve of a long holiday weekend and having favored the coast over the past several, we decided it was time to revisit the Midi-Pyrenees.  We have visited this area on one prior occasion, but it was really just as a whistle stop on our way back home from a long trip along the southwestern coast.  We were met with heart break on our last adventure here as the sole reason for the side trip was to cross over the Pyrenees on a route made famous, in my mind, by the Tour de France.  We were here a bit early in the season and the pass was closed due to the remaining snow of late spring.

The mountains are the focus of our trip this go round and we are here to do a little backcountry hiking with the little ones.  I imagine this will lead to my physical collapse when I have to carry our youngest down the mountain, but we will give it our best all the same.  We let our lady Garmin set our route which is usually a mistake.  She somehow finds a way to turn the shortest of trips into a 3 hour tour.  That being said, we had nowhere to be and found her meandering route quite pleasing to the eye.  Winding our way through the French countryside, we quickly shed ourselves of endless vineyards in favor of rolling hills of produce.  The most notable passage was the winding road leading through Condom, France.  With tears rolling down my face, I was insistent on my wife taking my photo humping the sign for Condom, but we never found the opportunity.  And yes, I am that juvenile.  I couldn't contain my laughter when I realized that one of the main crops being grown in the area are melons.  There are so many fruit stands that I imagine you can find yourself a nice set of melons almost anywhere in Condom.  I ended my stand up comedy hour by telling my wife that I was going to change my name to Richard Nathan Butz and move to Condom.  She seemed less than impressed with my crude sense of humor.

The sun soon set on our picturesque drive and the last hour or so ended up being a terrifying blur of hairpin turns in pitch blackness.  The rally driver blood running through my veins loved the first half hour or so, but in the end, the increased concentration required to keep our Renault starship between the ditches pushed me to the edge of exhaustion.  We are finally nestled into our bunks at the Good Western and I look forward to a weekend of outdoor adventure.  I will make the most of the extended period of internet access, so look for several other posts in the coming days.  The promise is that I should have a dedicated internet connection at home by the 23rd of this month.  Keep your fingers crossed.  Speak again soon.  R.

Day 169

Decapitation by the Wilkinson Sword

The day was a lazy summer day with weather that could not have been scripted even in a storybook.  The sun was shining between scattered clouds with temperatures that I would guestimate to be in the upper 70s or low 80s.  With a cool breeze in your face, it was hard to not spend the entire day in the sun.  I was particularly thankful for the breeze as it took a bit of the sting out of my skin.  My day had not started with the greatest of ease.  Having spent the weekend in a leisurely fashion, I had not tended to my manscaping for three days, and I was truly due for a shave.  I lathered up and realized it was time for a new razor.  Having now exhausted my imported variety, I opened the package of disposable razors I picked up at the market a few days back.  They look identical to those I have always used back home right down to the packaging.  They do, however, carry a different name.  Back home the brand name is Schick, I believe.  The new razor has a bit more bravado.  I will now be tending to my beard with a Wilkinson Sword.  The name still makes me snort with laughter.  It is not true what they say . . . a dull razor is not near as likely to cleave your jugular as one fresh from the package.  Within moments, Excalibur had torn my face to shreds like a cat attacking a newspaper.  There was blood everywhere.  I was certain that this would be the day I that would die due to severe blood loss.  Like something out of The Highlander, I sliced and diced my way through my morning ritual until there was virtually nothing left of the face I used to recognize.  “There can be only one!”  After the blood letting, I decided that regardless of what their current add campaign may be, the kind folks at Wilkinson need some help in their marketing department.  If the use of the product is going to cause this much bodily harm, the commercial has to be so exceptional as to cause the consumer to forget that they will likely need reconstructive surgery.  I have a couple of great ideas that I would like to share with you now.

The first option is a little bit James Bond and a little bit Shaft.  I am thinking of the actor who played John Coffey in the Green Mile.  I also know him from Armageddon, but we won’t mention that theatrical tragedy.  I picture him in a three piece suit with a gigantic cigar in his hand and his arms wrapped around 4 or 5 extraordinarily hot women.  I think I would have them walking out of a casino in Vegas.  As the group stops to get into their limo, the ladies can’t keep their hands off of his freshly shaven face.  Old John Coffey then looks directly into the camera and says “There’s lots of ways to get your shave on, but the ladies prefer the Wilkinson Sword”.  At this point he smiles and give a pronounce wink.  As his eye closes, I believe there should be a well timed *Bing*.  Then queue the 70’s porn music as the limo drives off into the night.  The second idea is a bit more “Knights of the Round Table”.  I see a heavily armored knight walking into the great hall of a medieval castle to bow before the king.  His armor is bent and rusted from the ravages of war.  He kneels and removes his helmet to reveal a dirty and heavily bearded face.  The king would then pull out an oversized version of the razor and anoint the warrior on each shoulder.  After doing so, with a magical *poof*, the knight would be transformed into a Sir Lancelot type with shining armor, flowing blonde hair and a clean shaven face.  Just then the knight looks over at the camera and gives that same pronounced wink with the accompanying chime while the maidens in the background swoon and give a big sigh as they fan themselves and bat their eyes.  Then, the announcer would come on and say: “From the battlefield to the boardroom, nothing beats a Wilkinson Sword”.

I described my ideas to my lovely wife who is in marketing herself and she seemed unimpressed.  Perhaps it was to snorting laughter and the tears running down my face that failed to catch her fancy.  Either way, I think I am going to package these ideas in story board format and send them to the good people and Wilkinson.  I have some other ideas, but they tend toward the violent and allude to the actual function of the product.  I have some other catchy albeit gruesome tag lines as well, but I will share those with you at a later date.  Right now, I am going to call it a night and hope that the cookie I ate will keep me from feeling light headed and that they gauze bandaging around my neck holds till morning.  Take care.  R.

Day 168

Kish me Goodnight.  Making SENSE of the world around us.

The day began for me at a somewhat non-traditional clip.  Now believing in the omens that present themselves to us daily, I took note of the fact that once again I find myself a bit out of balance.  Running my hand across the braille label on our cereal box this morning caused me a moment of reflection.  I am a very visual creature.  In fact, most of my world revolves around my ability to see.  This brief moment of thought over a bowl of Frosted Flakes would likely not be a highlight of my day, however, something compelled me to begin leafing through an old magazine I have had laying around the house for months.  I flipped open the pages and there before me was an article I had nearly forgotten about Daniel Kish.  Never heard of him?  He is a blind man that taught himself how to see.  Impossible you say?  Not in Mr. Kish’s vocabulary.  You see, he has developed a keen eye on his world through the use of echolocation.  I believe he refers to it at Flash Sonar, but the principals are the same.  A click from his tongue and the resulting echo produced from objects in his environment allow him to “see” the world with amazing clarity.  Believing that I was meant to re-read this article, I went ahead and took time out of my day to immerse myself in his story.  I won’t bore you with the details, but this seeming coincidence changed my outlook on the day.  Of our four senses, the honest truth of the matter is that our sight is the least important and perhaps the least powerful.  The human’s ability to hear so far outweighs its ability to see, it seems a pitty to me that what we “see” often gets in the way of what we “hear”.  Our ability to see is limited to but a single spectrum of light, appropriately called the “visual” spectrum.  UV and Infrared just to name a couple are completely undetectable by the human eye.  Our ability to hear however is not so limited.  Drawing a rough comparison, our ability to hear is not limited to a single octave, but something on the order of 8 to 10 depending how keen your ears are and what statistics you believe.  In addition, while I tell my children that I have eyes in the back of my head, this couldn’t be further from the truth.  I lack the ability to see anything directly to my rear without the aid of a mirror.  Our ability to hear, however, has no “blind” spot.  We hear in all directions and the milliseconds that a sound wave hits one ear before the next allows us to know where a given sound is coming from with virtually infallible accuracy.

Still don’t believe me that our other senses trump our ability to see, and our vision is often what blinds us to our world?  Answer me this . . . when you are really enjoying a piece of music, what is the first thing you do?  Close your eyes right?  It allows you to focus on what you hear without being distracted by the overbearing visual receptors in your brain.  The same can be said when we are enjoying something that has a truly fantastic taste.  Once again, you close your eyes.  And smell?  You guessed it.  Ever watch someone smell a bouquet of flowers with their eyes open?  Didn’t think so.  The realization that I was letting my vision blind me from some of the greatest and most subtle experiences of my life made me the brunt of some ugly jokes around my house this morning.  I flipped my magazine closed and ran upstairs for a shower.  From the moment I hit my bedroom door I closed my eyes and didn’t open them again until the completion of my morning beauty ritual (trophy husband, remember?).  Completing the simplest task with my eyes pinned shut was a humbling experience.  Humbling though it was, it seems that my visual memory made this much less tragic than it could have been.  In addition, the lack of a blindfold meant that I could sense subtle changes in light and shadow that a person born without sight would not be fortunate enough to make use of.  So, being a bit handicapped in the handicapped department lead to an even greater eye opening experience.  That being said, even though not completely enveloped in darkness and relying heavily on my visual memory of my environment this experiment put me much more in tune with the world than I realized.

I began with a shower.  I paced my way into the bathroom, cautiously fumbling for the door jamb and noticing the echo my breathing made in the resonating chamber that most bathrooms tend to be.  Disrobing . . . not a problem.  Gotten undressed in complete darkness plenty of times.  Using my hands to locate the shower door and eventually the faucet handles caused no major problems either.  Once again, my visual memory helped me along.  Same held true with regard to the location of the body wash and poof (that’s right body wash . . . trophy husband, remember?)  While the body wash was located on a shelf with many other products used by my wife, I was easily able to differentiate it by its tactile feel.  A fair bit of marketing has gone into these bottles to make them pleasing for the marketed gender.  The women’s product is soft and delicate, with gentle curvy lines.  The man’s product has traction and a more pistol grip feel.  The fragrance is final nail in the coffin.  Once again, my mind wanders to those television commercials with a dude in the shower smelling the suds created my his Irish Spring . . . EYES CLOSED!  I commenced to scrubbing the sleep from my body and realized that the open window over the shower lets in a tremendous amount of noise.  This isn’t something I had ever experienced before.  Ordinarily, the sound of the pouring water and the awe inspiring view from my shower window drown out the rest of the ambient noise.  I could now hear the birds, the wind in the trees and distant voices of cyclists as they traveled down the bike path near our home.  I could hear the life within our home as well.  The kids arguing downstairs and the wife shuffling papers and moving dishes.  Despite the rushing water, I felt as though I could hear a pin drop.  Overwhelmed by the sounds, I quickly finished my shower and went in search of a towel.  Knew where it was hanging, so reaching for it was without drama.  Things soon took a turn for the worse.  I exited the bathroom in search of my clothing and promptly broke three of my toes when they unexpectedly ran into a wooden rocking chair in the corner of the bedroom.  I stumbled forward and dove for where I believed the bed to be.  One inch or so short and I would have hit the floor.  The ungraceful pirouette caused my towel to give way and I lay there naked, half on and half off of the bed, clutching my throbbing toes.

I soon realized that it was taking all of my mental faculties, NOT to open my eyes.  The instinct to look at my injury was overwhelming.  I stayed strong and eventually the pain subsided.  I believe the force with which I smashed my toes and the fact that my lack of sight heightened my other senses caused the pain to linger for longer than it ordinarily would have.  Eventually I pulled myself together and searched around on the floor for my missing towel.  I soon regained my bearings and felt my way around the room to the dresser.  Another obstacle.  Finding matching clothes was going to be a bitch.  Fortunately, my wardrobe is not that diverse and my memory once again saved the day.  I pulled on a pair of cargo pants that I knew by feel and a t-shirt that I was certain would match.  How could I be so certain the t-shirt would be an appropriate color?  I am anal retentive.  I stack my t-shirts by color in my closet, so all I had to do was find the right pile.  I have three stacks, and the gray ones are straight up main street.  Done.  Again, like taking off the clothes, putting them on wouldn’t be a cause for concern.  Soon I would have to make my way back across the room and back into the bathroom for deodorant.  I would take this trip with much more caution than the last and kept my aching toes curled to prevent further injury.  Again, feel and smell would win out and my pits were soon as fragrant as the mountain air.  At least so says the packaging.  I decided to opt for some fragrance as well (trophy husband, remember?).  Located the bottle by feel and smell as I had with the deodorant, however, directing the spray in the right direction proved more challenging.  I couldn’t feel the small hole on she spray top with my fingers, so I had to use my sense of smell.  I put the top to my nose and amazingly, was able to locate the opening by the strength of the fragrance that seemed more concentrated where it exits the bottle.  Voila.  Mission complete.  I had three more tasks I wanted to complete before I opened my eyes.  Q-tip.  Check.  Tooth brush . . . shit.  It resides in a cup with the rest of the toothbrushes in the house.  Easy to differentiate between mine and the kids, but not so easy between mine and the wife’s because we use the exact same kind of tooth brush in two different colors.  Smell was of no help.  Both seemed fairly minty with just a hint of morning breath.  I would resort to touch on this one.  From prior conversations, I knew that I brush harder than my wife and destroy the head of my toothbrush to a level that she cannot match.  I felt around and found the one that had bristles that seemed to have been used to clean a toilet and assumed it was mine.  Found the paste and attempt to apply it sparingly to the head of my toothbrush.  While brushing my teeth with what turned out to be a mouthful of paste, I notice that my t-shirt didn’t feel right.  The wife was surely going to get an ear full if she was the one responsible for shrinking my shirt.  After I brushed my teeth I laid the toothbrush to the side so I could see if I had gotten it right when I re-opened my eyes.

Finally, with a fair bit of relief, I reached my last task.  The steam of the shower always makes my nose run, so I routinely blow my nose in the mornings.  Gross I know, but gotta clear the bats from the bell tower.  Ordinarily this is done in front of a mirror so as not to leave a man in the window, but I was going to have to take this one on faith.  Finally, finished.  Time to open my eyes and survey the damage other than my broken toes.  There I stood with shirt on backwards, a sink full of toothpaste and a booger hanging from my nose.  Thank God, I hadn’t tried to pee or we would be mopping up for days.  The upside?  I had in fact selected the correct toothbrush.  By the way, don’t tell my wife I fondled the top of her toothbrush, don’t think she would be too jazzed even though my hands were fresh from the shower.  I corrected all of the missteps and was ready to conquer the world.  Never again would I allow my sight to get in my way.  The world now seemed clearer than it had ever been.  Even with sight restored I could hear smell and taste everything to a level I never had before.  I rejoined the rest of my family in the kitchen after attempting one last feat without sight.  Somewhat less confident, but determined to end on a high note, I negotiated the narrow winding staircase with eyes wide shut.  Fortunately I didn’t break my neck, but it produced a lot of questions from the family.  Mostly “what the hell is wrong with you”.  They should know better than to ask by now.  Even though I felt as though I had lived an entire day already, our work was not nearly finished.  It was time to gather the troops and go buy some school supplies.  I was going to need all of my faculties for this project, so I decided it would be best to keep my eyes open for the remainder of the day.

After a few laughter filled minutes in the school supply isle, it dawned on me that I may as well have my eyes shut for this portion of the day as well, because deciphering the French shopping list was next to impossible even with my unfettered sight.  We fumbled around from isle to isle loading our cart down with enough paste and pencils to see both of our children through Graduate School and began to realize why tuition was so cheap.  We may well have to take out a second mortgage on our home in order to afford the 17 multi-colored notebooks required for the upcoming first day of school.  With his backpack this loaded down with supplies, I pray he doesn’t trip and turn turtle because he will likely perish on the sidewalk before he is ever able to right himself again.  As our patience was beginning to run thin, the youngest announced his need for a bathroom break and requested that mom provide the escort.  This left the eldest and myself to continue the purchasing.  Staring hopelessly at my list I moved to the next isle in search of some scissors.  The bustling crowd in the isle suddenly parted like the Red Sea and a ray of light sent down from heaven began to shine upon a familiar face.  Our very dear friend and colleague of my wife happened to be in the same store on the same day, purchasing school supplies for her eldest daughter.  I ran to her like Bo Derek ran to Dudley Moore and begged for guidance.  By the time my wife returned with the youngest, we were well on our way to filling the cart with the correct supplies.  My wife took back over and while I tended to the youngsters, she and our friend sorted out the difficult items on the list.  Another omen I thought to myself.  If I had my eyes shut, I wouldn’t have seen her in this crowded store.  Strange how life works.

That about does it for the day.  Hope you have enjoyed the more robust offering this evening.  It is time for this guy to get some well deserved rest.  In parting, I will ask you to indulge just one request.  As you yourself get in bed tonight, close your eyes, but don’t go to sleep.  Take a moment and lay there in the darkness.  Listen to your home, your heart and the world around you.  You will be amazed at what you can see when you open your eyes again come morning.