Easy as ABC and 123

As you can well imagine, scholastic pursuits are never too far from our dinner conversation.  With two children valiantly attempting to conquer a second language, we continually pour over dictionaries and school books in an effort to help them deal with the dismal truth that they are stuck with immigrant parents.  Until a certain age, all children believe that mom and dad know “everything” and trying not to burst their bubble with our ignorance is a full time job.  Our eldest’s intellect is frightening, and trying to keep up with the cornucopia of philosophical questions coming out of that kid’s mouth is beginning to give me heartburn.  It is hard to accept sometimes that he is but 9 years of age.  His personality grows by the day and his ability to call bullshit on an answer is truthfully painful.  Now, I am generally an absolute font of completely useless information and am able to hold my own with the best of them in a solid game of Trivial Pursuit.  I also pride myself on thinking quickly on my feet, so I am seldom stumbled by one of his brain teasers.  The wife however, was the unlucky recipient of one of his recent queries.  He wanted to know why the grading scale in school is A, B, C, D and F.  What about “E”?  The wife admitted defeat and advised him that she wasn’t sure.  She later asked me the question and I of course didn’t miss a beat.  F is a Freaking Failure.  D is Deplorable, C is Crappy, B is Better and A is Amazing.  So why not E?  It's simple, E isn’t used because of a lack of available negative adjectives to describe scholastic imperfection.  The only one I could come up with was Excrament.  Telling little Johnny that his school work is Shit seems a bit worse than a simple failure.  Now, I would of course never give my eldest this half-assed explanation as he would instantaneously see right through the charade.  It is a brilliant question, however,  and unfortunately  the best answer I could find seems ambiguous at best.  It would appear that some educational systems do in fact use the “E” standard for a conditional failure.  Some would seem to argue that the “F” is used only as a throw back to an antiquated pass/fail system, leaving “E” out in the cold.  I myself have always hated the term “failure” as it isn’t appropriate in all scholastic contexts.  My most recent scholastic endeavor, now years in the past, being my triumphant passage of the Bar Examination is a grand example of what I am talking about.  Graded on a pass/fail, it is a terrible blow to one’s self confidence to be called a failure when you fell just a point or two short of success.  The truth is, you don’t FAIL, you just don’t pass. Beating your psyche to a pulp over such an arbitrary label is ridiculous.   And so, I believe it is time to rise up against the establishment and shake off the traditional grading system for something that is a little less ethereal.

I believe we should get back to the county fair for an appropriate answer to this dilemma.  An “A” as we now know it should be listed as “First Prize”.  A “B” would then be called the “Runner Up”.  The average “C” rating could be a nice “Honorable Mention”.  A woeful “D” would get the “Participation” award.  And finally, “F” . . . a bit tougher, but perhaps a “Disqualified” would do nicely.  Ok, maybe this isn’t workable afterall.  It all sort of stinks of the softening of our culture that plays out in youth athletics these days.  Not everybody should get a ribbon or a trophy.  You know what second place is?  FIRST LOSER.  That right, lets quit sugar coating the world and get down to it.  There was an old saying in law school that “A” students became teachers, “B” students became judges, and “C” students became rich.  Perhaps not a lesson for the “real” world, but maybe there is something here we can hang our hats upon.  Maybe we can attach professions to the letters to give them some weight and provide some reasonable expectations for those receiving said marks.  How about  “A” for Anesthesiologist or Aerospace Engineer;  “B” Bartender or Bellhop   ;  “C” Cosmetologist or Cab Driver ; “D” for  Dancer (of the Exotic Variety) or Drug Dealer; and “F” for Fry cook.  No, that isn’t going to work either I am afraid.  True, the generous skew toward the top would certainly make many strive for top marks, but stereotyping strippers is unfair and I for one appreciate their hard work and dedication.  So, where does that leave us?  Drop the ABCs entirely and go for the truth.  E, A, S, D, I:  Exceptional, Average, Simpleton, Dullard, Idiot.  If you have a preference for dumbing it down and rating a “C” student as “Average” then we can modify this to E, C, A, D, I:  Exceptional, Competent, Average, Dullard and Idiot.  If anyone has any better ideas, I would be glad to hear them.  For now I guess we will continue on with the meaningless A,B,C s of achievement and skillfully dodge those questions from future generations with a swift “because” and leave it at that.  But dad, why is the sky blue?  “Because” son, now shut up and eat your vegetables.  That is all I have for today and God willing this will get the wife off of my back since my lack of recent activity has not gone unnoticed.  Pray for me.  R.

I’m a monger, he’s a monger, she’s a monger . . . wouldn’t you like to be a monger too?

Happy Armistice Day!  Don’t know what that is?  I can’t say as I am surprised.  For most of us, our high school history lessons fell short of the mark in more ways than one and that of course is presuming that you were paying attention to begin with.  Let me enlighten you if your memory is a bit fuzzy.  On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918, an armistice (cessation of hostilities), was declared between the Allied nations and Germany in the First World War.  So why don’t American’s care?  Why are you all working today when your fellow brother’s in arms are taking the day off?   That is a very good question.  One for which I think I have an answer.   Armistice Day actually became a federally recognized holiday in the United States in 1938.   So what happened to it?  Do we not care about the global impact of the First World War anymore?   Are all those that died no longer of national importance?  Sadly, the answer may be yes. 

The truth is, the United States is a country of “mongers”.  Don’t know what that is either?  Geez, were you paying attention in school at all?  A “monger” is a dealer in a specific commodity.  In the history of our great nation, short though it may be, that commodity has sadly been WAR.  Armistice Day was replaced by what we call Veteran’s Day in the aftermath of The Second World War and the Korean War in an effort to consolidate the recognition of those who have died for our country into a single day.  I guess the theory being that we have simply been in too many wars to recognize each on their own special day.   As such, we treat the young men and women in our armed forces like cannon fodder and lump their accomplishments and sacrifices into but a single day that hardly seems to do a single one of them the slightest justice.   In my humble opinion, if your ass presumes yourself to be a flag waving American patriot, you should know about Armistice Day and why we no longer recognize it.

I must admit that the remainder of this post hit the editing room floor at the request of my wife as I tend to lose control once I find myself atop my soapbox.  And yes, as you can also see, Jack is back for the foreseeable future by way of a not so subtle request from my lovely bride.  Truth is, we had a very nice hour long conversation on our way to tour a local castle (I know, weird way to spend your free time, but they don’t have a lot of castles where we come from).  From this conversation I came to a realization that I need the blog more than the blog needs me.  These days, I live my life in relative social solitude.  Long days spent alone in an empty house with very little contact with the outside world and a sizable language barrier to face when I leave my front door make for a feeling of relative isolation.  That being said, in a Chuck Noland epiphany, I feel perhaps I should once more endeavor to change the name of this project to Wilson 2.0.  It is Wilson who sees me through the loneliest hour and somehow keeps me sane when rough seas begin to close in on my deserted island abroad.   Perhaps you understand that metaphor and perhaps you don't.  Let's just say that I am thinking of taking a sharpy marker to the front of my laptop.  That is all I have for today.  If anyone would care to read my rather lengthy and somewhat raw outtakes from today’s episode, please leave a comment with your email address and I would be glad to send it along.  Take care for now.  Chuck Noland.

A Promise to My Wife

A PROMISE TO MY WIFE

But for you my bonnie lass


I would have quit, and this would have passed


In the greyest of light before the dawn


A line in the sand has near been drawn


From a pile of ash must the Phoenix yet rise


Else be cast aside without sweet reprise 

If not for you, the quiet would reign


Life’s canvas left empty of color’s pale stain


And so continue I will, without much lament


Hours of toil not yet eagerly spent


For in my life, the voice of one critic matters


It is for you my wife, that my silence thus shatters 

Forgive me this pause, for now I must rest


Tomorrow I shall work, but not at my best


And thus out of this retirement born


Words that were lost on pages once torn


This much I promise before the night


These words I have written will once more see light

                               - Jack Butler

Unbridled Enthusiasms: Secrets of a Contented Man

“A man becomes preeminent, he's expected to have enthusiasms. Enthusiasms, enthusiasms... What are mine? What draws my admiration? What is that which gives me joy?”. Without bludgeoning a henchman to death with a wooden baseball bat, let me tell you what I fancy. These days my eldest seems obsessed with “favorites”, constantly inquiring on a variety of topics as to what I believe to be my favorite things. The question always leaves me scratching my head. I have come to the realization over the past several months that this obsession with one’s favorites is truly the benchmark for contentment. For a well raised child, the world is good and it is safe. Unscathed by the rigors and realities of life, they can blissfully contemplate not just that which is good and makes them happy, but that which is “best” and makes them truly joyful.  Those of us that have been grinding it out in the cold, cold world realize that life isn’t always “good” and to contemplate the “best” seems a fools game. In fact, I would argue that if one finds themselves in such a place in life to allow them endeavor into such contemplation, they should stay put. It is the “you have arrived” moment that we are all seeking in life and is more precious than the Holy Grail. The ability to examine that which is best or “favored” is to acknowledge that “life is good”. That, in its simplest terms, is contentment. Knowing that I am unlikely to find true contentment in the near future, I am left to contend with the task of defining my favorite things in this world in an ever increasing effort to keep my kid off of my back whenever our conversations lead to the inevitable question, “Dad, what is your favorite . . . “.  Favoritism is a fickle beast and changes for many folks as often they change their socks. I have friends, in fact, that seemingly have a new favorite every other day. This is not the contentment of which I speak. Keeping that in mind, it is difficult for me to classify things as a “favorite”. For me, the concept must be time tested to make the list. Music, for example, is one that I dare not qualify in these terms. When the eldest inquires as to my “favorite” song, I honestly don’t have an answer. I love all types of music, so the best I can give him is that “right now” my favorite song is . . . As it does for most folks out there, my tastes and in turn favor for many things seems to change with the turning of the seasons. Some concepts are so fluid that I wouldn’t dare try to put them in such a box. After some thoughtful examination of my life, however, there are a few things that do stand the test of time and as such, I am very willing to call them my favorite things. The following is a short list of but 10 of those items. I favored them for as long as my memory serves and I see no reason for this to change in the foreseeable future. Perhaps one day I will sit down and create a more extensive list, but for now I am content in knowing that the journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step.


So, here is the short list in no particular order. Maybe you share in some of these passions and maybe you don’t. I don’t really give a damn either way . . . get your own blog.


1. Bacon


2. Naked Ladies


3. The last two hours of sleep in the morning or that feeling you get when you wake up thinking it is morning and you realize you still have several hours of sleep left.


4. Sneezing and Pooping (not at the same time)


5. The feeling of survival you get after you are done vomiting.


6. A good pair of shoes for my feet, a huge watch for my wrist and a hat for my bald head.


7. Hotel room service (closest thing I will ever get to having a Butler instead of being one)


8. Cold sheets at night when you first climb into bed and warm sheets in the morning when you don’t want to climb back out again.


9. Punching an opponent in the face without being punched back.  (fighting may be the greatest sport on earth)


10. Brown Gravy


Please don’t mistake this for a top ten list. I originally drafted a very poetic list containing items like Christmas Eve Snow and the smell of fresh cut grass, but it ended up sounding like the diary of a 13 year old girl, so I scrapped it in favor of this somewhat less artfully drafted version of the truth. In the end, I have determined that there are so few that actually read this anymore that the content matters very little. To that end, I have decided that the online version of this project has come to an end. I imagine I will continue writing, as it really IS one of my FAVORITE things, but I don’t necessarily need to share it with anyone to enjoy the process.  Perhaps I am contented after all.  It has been a good run, and I wish you all the best. Until our paths cross again on this continent or another. Jack Butler . . . over and OUT.

“I’m in trouble”: A case study in “HE said, SHE said”

Once again, I gladly take a back seat and let someone else do the driving. This time, the guest writer will receive credit for their contribution. We have joked about it from time to time, but now it is the wife’s turn to be heard, and here is what she has to say . . . Enjoy.

So it began as a normal day in my oh so boring life. Up at 7:00, out the door by 8:00 with two kids in tow breakfast round number two in hand. Dropped the kids off at school, successfully avoiding all the dog poo on the sidewalk, and then clocked in for another long day at the office. I didn’t have much of an exciting day planned- a few meetings and the to-do list that is too long to ever accomplish. Lunch was to be a nice trip to the local boulangerie with a few friends to practice my French. Other than the wrong choice of a sandwich for lunch, all was well.

Then, during a meeting with a woman from another department my phone started to ring. In an attempt not to be rude, I just let it go to voicemail. But after the third call in a row we decided I should probably answer it. I have always told my family that if you truly have an emergency then call me several times in a row in the event of such an occasion. So I answer, and immediately hear a panicked “I’m in trouble!” Now my husband is usually the calm one of the group so I knew this couldn’t be good. Like most of you, I immediately started thinking the worst- arrested by the Gendarmes and now in a jail cell I have no idea how to get him out of, lost the son’s dog, or worse. I just simply replied “What’s wrong?” knowing I most definitely had an audience. “I’m in a ditch,” he replies. Ok, simple enough this is something I can deal with. The next logical question is “where are you?” Never did I think I would hear the family navigator say “I don’t know.” What do you mean you don’t know!?! How the hell can a person not know where they are?

I can tell you how. With too much time on his hands, and tired of making the same drive day after day my dear husband decided to let the British woman on Garmin show him a more scenic route to school. And scenic it was. In completely the opposite direction of where he wanted to go, Garmin was now trying to direct him onto the main highway leading to the town where the school is located. However she must have forgotten to take her “vit-a-mens” this morning, and her memory was lacking when she instructed him to turn right on a dirt road. It’s the rainy part of the year here in France, and we haven’t seen sunshine in over a week in a half. So the hubby quickly realized this was not a navigable path and would turn around in a grass driveway leading into a field. Good plan, if he hadn’t missed and backed the famous 206 into what he referred to as a “ditch.”

So now we have two problems, a lost husband with no means of transportation and the kids getting out of school in a short half hour when I usually have about 4 more hours of work left in my day. Since the hubby sincerely had no idea where he was, I decided maybe he should revert to the reason he got in this mess- the Garmin. With GPS coordinates in hand, I was confident all would be fine. So I brought up google maps to determine his location in order to formulate a rescue plan - but how the hell does a person find a place on the map with GPS coordinates while you have an angry husband on the phone and a French lady standing there waiting for you to finish so we can resume our discussion? Thankfully, a colleague who has helped us out on several occasions, came to the rescue. After determining his location, my colleague even offered to pull the hubby out of the ditch.

Great- plan formulated. I told the hubby I’d get the kids and then my colleague and I would be out to get him. It was at this point, that he says with all seriousness that he’s not sure he can be pulled out with another car. You see this “ditch” was more like a ravine. The 206 was sitting at a 45 degree angle. Oh boy. Well, we couldn’t send a tow truck to GPS coordinates so we had to stick with the plan. At school, the youngest was mad it was Mom picking him up and not Dad, but the eldest was grinning ear to ear when I told him we had to go rescue Dad.

A good 20 minute drive later, and we arrived to the place where we should have seen the hubby and the car. As I was calling to again determine his location, he calmly walks up a 30 foot embankment that supports an overpass. My first thought- you’ve got to be kidding me! Thankfully this was not the “ditch” that contained the 206. As we rounded the corner at the bottom of the embankment, there she sat. All you could see were the front bumper and the tires. The rest of the car melted off into the “ditch.” To be honest he was lucky the opposite bank was there to keep him from flipping over!

A few laughs later, and one good tug from our friend, and the 206 was freed from her resting spot. I guess I’ve just got the big kid to prepare me for the other two and the numerous “I’m in trouble” phone calls I’m sure to get in the future. Until the next time I get a heart stopping call…. The wife 

And now for the truth. While yes it is true, that this afternoon found me in a bit of a sticky situation with the trusty 206 somewhat perpendicular to terra firma on a back road in Western France, there are two sides to every story. I will skip with the pleasantries of the beginning of my day and get right to the meat and potatoes. Truth be told, I have on more than one occasion found myself fairly lost at the hands of our lady Garmin, but with an extra half hour or so of free time, I decided to let her do the thinking and deviated from my usual route to the neighboring town where the boys are to be collected from a long day at school. I knew ahead of time that she has a predisposition for the scenic route, so I thought it would be a nice way to see the sights and unwind after a day full of laundry and dirty toilettes. It all began innocently enough. Leaving the beaten path, I was initially quite pleased with my decision. She seemed to be leading me in the exact wrong direction, but the narrow winding back roads of French countryside made for an exhilarating drive. Coming up to a notable highway overpass, she demanded a right hand turn and I obliged. Almost immediately, she changed her mind and began to recalculate as I skidded onto an unpaved road leading to parts unknown. Inside of a quarter mile it was apparent that she wasn’t going to be able to get us out of this mess, so I called her a few names and began evasive maneuvers. In the end, perhaps too evasive indeed. In a hurry, and now certain that I would be late to gather the boys from school, I threw the old 206 in reverse for a nice batmobile turn about and promptly found myself teetering on the brink of disaster. The back tires sunk off into a bit of a ditch, so I quickly threw her back into 1st to power my way out of the undergrowth. Unfortunately, it was a little too little, a little too late.

In an excruciating battle of will, I punished the motor of my little 206, urging her to remember her rally car roots and forget the insurmountable force of gravity. It was a battle we were not winning and the moment I let off the throttle we began our unceremonious decent into hell. Upon later inspection, the wife indicated that it appeared that I slammed my beauty into the “ravine” at a breakneck pace. This could not be further from the truth. The process was slow and painful. Plenty of time for me to sit helpless in the driver seat and beg my little compact not to flip over backwards into to what was . . . well, ok, it WAS a bit of a ravine. She teetered for a moment and then the world became dark. With an unpleasant thud, I found myself facing skyward in what felt to be launch position. Ahead of me, gray skies. Behind me, darkness. It was time to bail, and bail I did. I threw open the door, grabbed the essentials from the car and in the end, found the bottom of the ravine to be filled will a mélange of water and what I believe to be open sewer. With one shoe, now very wet and uncomfortable and my legs torn to shreds from thorn bushes, I clambered my way back to the gravel road from which I came. 

 Gathering my senses, I called my only life line . . . the wife. “Pick up, Pick up, please Pick up” . . . shit . . . voicemail. Hang up and redial. Praying she was not away from her cell phone, I continued to redial. After three failed attempts, she finally answered. Could have been worse, I thought to myself. Not really knowing how to segue myself into this latest turn of events in my life, I thought the best approach was to be direct. “I am in trouble.” I commented. “Could you pick up the kids?”. “Ok, why?” she asked. And so began a short conversation as to how I Wiley Coyote’d my 206 into a ditch just outside of God knows where. She could have really made me pay.  She could have called me names, but she didn't.  The wife ALWAYS takes the highroad .  She simply asked my location, and yes, I was at a loss for words. I didn’t really know. Somewhere between here and there I thought to myself, but kept my big mouth shut. Believing that the stupid fucking Garmin might have a clue, I scrambled back down into the ravine to retrieve it from the dash. Almost immediately, the low battery indicator flashed and I did my best to describe the closest cross roads before the screen went dark. And so, I began walking. With my hands quite full of my phone, the GPS, a bottle of water (basic survival) and an IPad, I began to trek my way back toward civilization. Despite giving them the exact GPS coordinates, the wife and one of her collegues couldn’t seem to figure out where I was any more than I could. After walking a mile or so up the road I located a village sign and proudly advised them of what town I appeared to be in. Small problem . . . it didn’t appear on any of their maps. Finally I came across a mail box and street name so as to provide them with an exact address for the much needed rescue mission that they were about to embark on. Now, under normal circumstances and on my own, I would have simply walked up to the house and asked for assistance. Unfortunately, my French being what it is, I could hardly convey my circumstance in such a way as to not have them slam their door in my face. The fact that I was in the middle of nowhere and all the houses seemed equipped with a rather large German Shepard at the watch didn’t make this option any more viable.

With a proper address, my wife felt certain that she could locate me and would do so as soon as she had collected the children. There is a little something to note here as an aside. The shortest days of the year arrive here in France much earlier than they do back home. We are a week earlier into daylight savings and it gets dark fast this time of year. Night was nearly upon us and I felt a long way from any assistance despite the assurances from the other side of the line that help was on the way. I decided while I waited, it might be best to get my bearings in the event I had to Bear Grylls my way out of this predicament. I walked a fair distance in all conceivable directions in an effort to determine which direction was home in the event I had to walk there. I was confident I could make the journey by daybreak the following morning if so required. Not wanting to be hasty, I returned to my stranded 206 in hopes of waiting for a more reasonable escape. Now, Bear would tell you that every moment counts and to get moving. This kept running through my head as the minutes ticked by. I even began visually scouting the neighboring woods for rotted trees from which I might be able forage a grub worm or two in the event my hunger got the better of me. Thankfully, my phone did eventually ring again and the wife indicated that the thought they were getting close. They couldn’t see me, but I could see them. I told them that they had arrived and that they needed to take the next left. With less effort than I had anticipated, we soon had the 206 freed from her semi-watery grave. With a bruised ego, bloody legs and the beginnings of jungle rot on my right foot, I drove back home to call this one a day. Note to self, fix busted tail light and re-affix the rear bumper . . . all’s well that ends well. R.

Life aboard the S.S. Minnow with First Mate Betty Crocker

Well, it would appear that my transformation is now complete.  I can proudly report that I am “officially” the “lady of the house”.  I remember a time not so long ago when I used to lust after such boyish things as fast cars and high end electronics, but these days all I can think about is getting my hands on a really good tart ring.  The truth is, the wife’s terribly demanding career and tremendously long working hours means that more often than not you will find me in the kitchen come dinner time.  I spend my evenings puttering around doing my dead level best not to set myself, the house, or any of the children on fire while pouring over recipes in our Better Homes and Gardens Cook Book.  I have come up with a poor result or two, but usually the meals are relatively edible.  I seem to shine the most when my disdain for grocery shopping has a hand in the menu.  In an effort to avoid going grocery shopping (also one of my frequent duties) I will find any way I can to mix household ingredients (some edible, some not so) into some coherent dish that the children won’t vomit at the first sight of.  So far, the mystery casseroles have been a big hit.  It always comes out a little breakfasty, but so far, nobody has complained.  Now, cooking does not at all come to me naturally.  I know some fellas out there that are geniuses in the kitchen, but I am not one of them.  I keep it simple so that not a lot of thinking is required.  In accepting this new post as House Chef, I have found myself very fond of baking and in all actuality I am not that bad at it.  For the past week, I have been doing my best Duff Goldman and churning out as much cake as the family can consume and some they can’t.  I have never been one to lend just half my ass to a project, so don’t be surprised if you received a cake for Christmas.  Baking makes more sense to me I guess.  The palate isn’t complicated and the flavors are easier to sort out.  Perhaps one day I will actually cook as good as I bake, but until then, the family is just going to have to eat a light meal and hope for a sizable helping of dessert.

Someone recently indicated that I seemed to be tiring of our life here in France.  To be honest, I think perhaps I am tiring of life as a whole.  No, I am not on the verge of pitching myself off of a bridge, but I do feel a need for change.  I have come to an acute understanding about myself over the past several months.  I would never make it on an assembly line.  Doing the same job, day in and day out is a killer.  Repetition bores the shit out of me.  I think that is the main reason I seem so discontented over the past several days.  I am doing what I can to switch things up on a daily basis, but a recent conversation took a fair bit of the wind out of my sails.  We received news that they are looking at extending our sentence to the 5 year mark.  Perhaps I shouldn’t cloak it in prison terms and say “tour of duty” instead, but that somehow makes this seem like war, which it clearly is not.  There are certain realities that come with your wife chasing down a career as an international woman of mystery.  There is ultimately a definite emphasis on term “international”.  Travel seems to beget more travel, and that reality is never too far out of our thoughts.  There has always been the possibility that another transfer to parts unknown would come our way at the end of our 2 years here in France, but we had mentally committed ourselves to a certain expectation as to the length of our stay nonetheless.  When you do so, you find it very difficult to come to terms with a change in plans.  Adaptability has sort of been our bread and butter throughout our life together, so the wife and I generally take things in stride.  I think for me, I have always hung my hat on the idea that no matter how difficult the challenges became, we could survive most anything for a short 2 years.  In fact, at this point, we will soon be reaching the half-way point in our adventure if in fact that is our reality.  We have taken great care in maintaining our life back in the US, for it is there that we feel we belong, all the while knowing that life has a way of leading you in a different direction than that which you intend.  Please refer back to Robert Frost’s masterpiece from a few posts back and you will get the point.  Still, the realities of uncertainty can be a tough pill to swallow, even for those of us that desire constant change and follow that road less travelled. 

With all of this on our minds, we still find it possible to rest easy at night.  Why?  It is simply because we have learned over the years never to look at life from inside the box.  There are always choices to make, always alternatives to the current charted course.  Some lead to calmer seas while others have you sharing a sketchy looking hut with the Skipper.  The three hour tour didn’t work out so well for Gilligan.  The knowledge that we have the ability, mad though it may be, to simply pack up our shit and head home keeps our life in perspective.  We stay because we choose to stay and for no other reason than that.  Will it be 2 or will it be 5?  Who knows.  One thing in for certain though, I will make it off of the damned island before my show is cancelled.  And if for some reason the screenplay that is our life comes to an abrupt halt, I pray to God that it has a Scooby Doo ending.  That is about all I have for today and I apologize for the profusely nautical theme, it just worked out that way.  We will check back with you again soon.  Cheers.  Jacqueline Butler.

Oh Captain, My Captain, there is Mutiny on the Bounty

It should be noted that I am a big fan of letting the lunatics run the asylum and that I am truly a man of my word.  Today I will be taking a much needed break and turning over the helm to a guest author.  As promised, all guest submissions will be honored provided they are relatively family friendly . . . at least as family friendly as I get these days.  As such, you really have a great deal of latitude here.  I welcome any and all submissions and promise that this is not going to turn into a completely open town hall.  I will be continuing my usual submissions, but if you have something you want to get off of your chest, by all means, speak up.  I will be happy to voice your feelings, opinions or just general nonsense on your behalf.  The submissions will remain anonymous unless the author wishes to be given their due credit.  To that end, here is our first guest entry.  Please note that the views and opinions posted in guest submissions are not the views and opinions of the Jack Butler Show.  In other words, if you don't like what you read, it ain't my fault.


"Believe it or not, I am an American through and through.  I say this because I am so profoundly disappointed in my country that it’s hard for me to speak in her defense.  Because of Jack’s experience, I have been forced to see the other side.  I no longer see myself, or my country, as exceptional in any way other than it’s exceptional opportunity to miss an opportunity.  We have the resources, yet we have no national high-speed rail system, no alternative power system, only limited fresh-food markets, and certainly no sense of respect for civil institutions, or sense of cooperation to meet common goals.  In my town the store-fronts are vacant, but in France the store-fronts are full of small merchants. Our farmers markets are struggling, while France has one in every hamlet. I thought France was full of “socialists.”  What gives?

Here is my diagnosis.  When I was young I was taught that the common good is the highest good.  France seems to still understand this.  In our self indulgence, we have obviously forgotten what made us who we are.  “E Pluribus Unum,” yet just today, our elected “representives,” instead of addressing the common good, spent the day debating whether “In God We Trust” should be given higher station.  Is it not obvious what is wrong with us?  Do we not understand that there is more income inequality than there has been since the “Gilded Age.”  Are we so self absorbed that we have learned nothing from the French Revolution.  Are we, the sons of liberty, to “eat cake.”

France does not understand initiative and America does not understand cooperation.  Must it be one, or the other?  Have we so lost respect for history that we are no longer looking for the “golden mean.”  If we do not come again to respect education and intellect, then I wish to join you, Jack, in the world of the sane."

“Ated” and Abetted

Ask me how I am doing today . . . go ahead, ask.  I dare you.  Truth is that day “whichever the fuck” finds old Jack Butler a bit “ated”.  I realize that it has been days since my last post, but my give- a-damn is busted and today I am not one to be trifled with.  So what has me so “ated” you ask?  Or maybe you are scratching your head wondering what in the hell “ated” means.  You aren’t likely to find an official definition, even in Webster’s newest dictionary.  Yes, to some degree it is a commonly used suffix, but I personally use it to describe a state of being.  Today I feel agitated, frustrated, aggravated, irritated, exasperated, infuriated and yes, perhaps even a bit constipated.  With every moment that passes, I find my condition exacerbated.  I am sure you are thinking to yourself that this is all being completely exaggerated.  Before jumping to such a conclusion, listen to what I have to say, if for no other reason than to see me finally placated.  I am sure my explanation will soon find my feelings vindicated.  So what is the reason I feel so “ated” . . . well, it’s complicated.  It is upon this topic that this post will entirely be predicated.  I suppose I feel a bit suffocated by the confines of my home as the days begin to shorten and the weather begins to turn.  Being isolated from the world and alienated from my peers by nature of a rather large language barrier isn’t helping either.  And perhaps to a lesser degree, the inability to become satiated by a very limited diet is a contributing factor.  I just can’t seem to get motivated.   For that reason alone, I am going to leave this post somewhat truncated.  Abbreviated though it may be, I still feel I have a message to be communicated.  The problem is, I can’t find the proper words for it to be articulated.  As is my usual way, I will use this forum to cleanse my soul and once I have said my piece, I hope to be emancipated from the confines of my current condition.   I have decided that the only way out of this funk is to find a way for my creativity to be stimulated.  I have decided that the best approach is one that is somewhat bifurcated.   So, here is the plan I have formulated . . .

Today I will simply rest and allow myself the opportunity to become fully recuperated.  Tomorrow I will wake early and mend those things in my life that I have let become deteriorated.  I will not simply swallow my life, I will take my time to savor the flavor until every piece has been masticated.  I will go for a run or I will go for a ride.  It is in these activities that I become truly liberated.  And on my way out the door, I will remember to duck my head so that I don’t become decapitated or in some other way incapacitated.  It will be in this way that I become exonerated and from Dr. Jeckyl, Mr. Hyde will finally be amputated.  Please do wish me the best of luck, for if by nightfall my current mood isn’t obliterated, it could well see my glorious matrimony woefully separated.  And so, from this point on, to a new life I will be truly dedicated.  Another day like today will never be imitated.  Making the most of even the darkest days when the good cannot so easily be delineated.  And so my writing has done its job, for the weight upon my shoulders has now been alleviated. So this post ends just as it initiated, with little achieved but a great deal contemplated.  I know that by now you are neither entertained nor fascinated, but this is how my life these days can best be illustrated.  With a garden of thoughts fully irrigated, I will post again soon, undeterred and seldom intimidated. 

On a side note, if anyone can figure out a place to use the term “masturbated” in a tasteful manner, I will give you all the editorial credits.  Until next time.  R.

She’s got Bette Davis eyes . . . and I have Telly Savalas Hair. The art of getting “olderish”

It’s hell getting old.  In fact, I refuse to admit it in the slightest.  Instead I have coined the phrase “olderish” as an apt description of my current condition.  Life is funny that way.  You spend your youth dreaming of the day you will be “old enough”.  Old enough to drive, old enough to vote, old enough to tell mom and dad to go to hell.  Our young lives are spent striving for these milestones of adulthood and our adult lives are spent regretting that these days went by so fast.  At some point, the milestones are lost and the grind begins.  A slow steady trudge toward the grave.  It is a hard thing to adjust to for many of us.  Living life in 15 week intervals is addictive and the constant change it provides makes life less tedious than it otherwise would be.  When you are eventually thrown out into the real world with a fresh face and moist ears you quickly find yourself up to your ass in mortgage payments, car loans, income taxes and all those other delights that you never thought about in your youthful dreams of how great it would be to be an adult.  

And then, as if this all isn’t insulting enough, your body begins to betray you.  Your hairline begins to recede and the lack of chia growth atop your crown is soon replaced by unwanted hair in other locations . . . the ears, the nose and the back, just to name a few.  Joint pain is a daily reminder of the battles fought and lost and the inability to remember your atm pin number is an inconvenience you could do without.  Sneeze and you look like a party favor, jump to your feet too quickly and you sound like the crackling on the fourth of July.  These realities are ever present in my daily routine.  A tweeze here and some icy hot there makes for a realization that you have in fact become as old as you thought your parents were when you were a child.  If age is the prospector, then marriage solidifies its claim.

All the courtesies of courtship slip away and you are left one morning wondering why the hell you ever married someone that farts in their sleep and snors like a locomotive.  Car doors are no longer opened in a gentlemanly fashion and this sentiment is replaced with a “get the fuck in the car or I will leave you in the damned parking lot”.  The wife and I love each other all the same.  Perhaps the blindness of lust has fallen away and been replaced by the all too keen observation that the slob you live with has left you with an empty roll of toilet paper in the bathroom, but it is our ability to see these faults and still find love that makes this sweeter still.  When the sun shines so brightly across my naked scalp she doesn’t say a word but simply pulls on her prescription sunglasses.  And when her flatulence clears a crowded room, I pretend I don’t smell a thing and blame the dog in her defense.  That is love for the aging.

These are lessons difficult to teach and one can only sit back and watch as our fledglings make their own way down the path we have already traveled.  We smile and nod when they say they will never be like us, all the while knowing that they too will one day look in their mirror and see our wrinkled faces staring back at them.  That is the justice of parenthood . . . to eventually give as good as you get.  At this particular age however, my boys still believe their parents to be superheroes and the parent hating angst of the middle teens seems a long way on the horizon.  They still desire to be old enough to cast off the constraints of being ruled by a King and a Queen, but they show much less spite in their display.  My eldest wears deodorant and my youngest, well . . . we will just call him the Samurai’s Apprentice, for it is his recent birth into manhood that is in large part the inspiration of this entry.  He has grown in leaps and bounds in just the first few days of his fifth year of life.  He knows well that he is far from being old enough to drive a car, or vote in a mayoral election, but maybe . . . just maybe he is old enough to wield the Wilkinson Sword?

These days, my children run around the house with a fair bit of autonomy. I don’t feel the need to be in the same room with them at all times and I have long since dispensed with any “baby proofing” procedures in favor of the “you live, you learn” model of parenting.  They are both old enough to know better than to stick a coin in a light socket or play with the steak knives, so how much trouble can they get into?  Right?  We have always treated their bedrooms with a great deal of respect and if they so choose to be left alone we give them their space and a respectful knock before entering.  The youngest will in fact go to his own room when he throws a decent tantrum or finds himself in dutch with the old man in an effort to “heal himself” as he once referred to it.  A sign of genius or a concerning mental condition, I haven’t figured out which yet.  He usually comes out of his room in just a minute or two with dried tears and a heartfelt apology when warranted.  It is also not uncommon for either of my two lads, being independent minded children, to simply slip off to their respective rooms to play for a bit by themselves.  I continue about my day in the kitchen or laundry room and will only occasionally make my way upstairs to check on them in the event things have gotten a little too quiet.  Silence usually means trouble making from my experience . . . not as a parent, but as a child myself.

This day was not an exception to that rule and as I helped assist the eldest in an endeavor, his younger brother became bored with the goings on downstairs and made a break for his room.  Within moments, he began to descend the stairs in a cautious manner and calmly announced . . . “I’m bleeding”.  Now I was a kid once too and boys are prone to injury.  I always had a scab or two about my body as my two young men do and I too liked to pick at them.  This calm proclamation about the production of blood was not unfamiliar territory.  I made my way to the stairs to admonish him for picking at a scab and lead him back upstairs for a Sponge Bob bandaid, only to find his face covered in blood.  It looked as though he had turned vampire or cannibal and feasted on the flesh of another.  He had smeared the blood to such a degree that his arms and hands were covered as well.  The amount of blood was astonishing and alarming to the point of panic.  Being a seasoned parent, I kept my cool and threw him up on the counter for an inspection.  He had a paper thin cut on his upper lip and after a quick wash up, it appeared to be his only wound.  


At first blush I would have thought that he had gotten devil may care with licking an envelope and couldn’t for the life of me figure out how he had injured himself.  Keeping pressure on the tiny wound prevented him from talking, not that he was going to anyway, for I could tell something was afoot.  When the bleeding finally subsided the inquisition began.  All he would tell me was that he was in MY bathroom “making sure it was clean” and somehow injured his lip.  Clearly something doesn’t add up.  For one thing, he rarely goes in my bedroom and adjacent bath without invitation . . . remember the rule about respecting someone else’s bedroom?  Second of all, I know for sure that this kid wasn’t up there with housekeeping on his mind.  Now, here is a good tip for all you parents out there.  If you really want to get inside the mind of your child, make their sibling do the dirty work.  When I am playing Sherlock, my eldest is my able Watson.  At the age of 9, he can conceive of childish thoughts that would evade my aging intellect, things that I would dismiss as preposterous or inconceivable.

It should read "Free Your Skin . . . From Your Face"

I sent the eldest upstairs to CSI the master bath and he came down with a preliminary report.  “Dad, I think he cut himself with your razor.”  Elementary my dear Watson!  In his description of the events that lead to the blood bath the youngest mentioned two colors . . . white and green.  Any guess on the color of the Wilkinson Sword?  The stinging misery of a shaving wound is harsh enough, I wasn’t about to add any further discipline to the mix.  I simply gave him a well thought out lecture as to the dangers of household items and reminded him that anything that is in my room is off limits.  I am sure that the thoughtful words went in one ear and out the other, but the buzzsaw that is the Wilkinson Sword will remind him of the error of his ways every time he eats something even slightly acidic over the next several days.  

"Who Loves Ya Baby?"

Ultimately I am to blame.  I thoughtlessly left my razor on the sink where little hands could reach and for that I owe him an apology.  It is not in my standard operating procedure to leave it in this location and it is a heartwarming no-brainer that he would be enamored with this item.  What little boy hasn’t watched his father shave in envy and amazement?  Both of my boys have witnessed this with me and you can see the curiosity in their eyes as they watch each stroke wipe away the stubble from Superman’s aging cheeks.   They still want to be just like dad and unfortunately, with a face that looks like it was attacked by an ally cat thanks to the kind folks at Wilkinson, the youngest already is.  That is all I have for today. R

Joyeaux Anniversaire Part 3

Today we celebrate 4 crazy years of love and survival.  The whirl wind that we call our youngest son has officially turned one year older.  Based upon his outlook on life, I suspect he is attempting to live his life out in dog years, so perhaps it more apropos to place 28 candles on his cake this year.  Unlike the eldest boy (Even Steven), my youngest embodies both the Ying and the Yang.  Without dark you cannot appreciate the light, right?  It has been 4 years of trial and error and I dare say we still don’t have the formula quite right.  Either way, he is the ever vibrant pulse that beats throughout our home, and I can’t imagine our life without him.  To that end, we have celebrated his birthday Hannakua style.  Since we can’t have the traditional party as we would have back home, we have protracted the event into a weekend long celebration.  I only wonder what the fallout will be when the daily gift giving ends.  In preparation for his big day, it occurred to me that if our current travel schedule holds, the wife will never celebrate her birthday here in France.  Don’t know why that dawned upon me or even if it matters all that much, but it was one of my revelations for the day.  The marking of the youngest’s birthday also marks the beginning of the holiday season for us.  The children are on break for the next two weeks and over the course of the next few months, it would seem that they are on vacation a fair bit more than they are in school.  I believe this a blessing as their presence in the house will lessen some of the sadness inherent in the passing of this time of the year.  I myself am very fond of the winter months.  For me, life as a child was a blur during these joyous winter months.  From my birthday on, life was a delicious dance from one holiday to the next.  Halloween comes next and unfortunately it doesn’t seem that they trick or treat as they do in the West.  As this is perhaps one of my favorite holidays, missing it this year does bring with it an element of sadness.  Thereafter comes Thanksgiving . . . an American holiday which is obviously of no importance here.  Another milestone of loss and homesick sentimentality.  We have done Thanksgiving alone in the past however, so we will make the most of it . . . just the four of us.  The upside is that there will be ample left overs with fewer vultures at the dining table.  And then homeward bound once more to rekindle old friendships and lick our emotional wounds before the next installment of our adventure.

The fact that our first year here in France is drawing to an end brings with it a certain sense of accomplishment and a want for reflection.  The time spent has at moments seemed to stand still while the truth of the matter is, our first year here has flown by in the blink of an eye.  In mountaineering terms, it would seem that we have reach the false summit.  The steepest part of the climb seems to be over, but what would have appeared to be the top from our vantage point at the start was but a fraction of the total distance run.  In its simplest terms, we have survived and that in and of itself is worth celebration.  While perhaps not riding it into the ground like breaking a wild bucking bronc, we have managed to tame this beast a bit and are no longer afraid to get into the holding pen for fear our lives will likely meet with a most untimely end.  Baby steps they call it.  I don’t know that we will ever lay siege to our new lands like the Viking hoards as time is not on our side, but that is OK.  We have already grown from this experience on levels I would never have imagined and the initial goal of fully bilingual children seems attainable in the not so distant future.  Having recently resurrected the poetic words of Robert Frost, I am reminded once more of the sentiment in The Road Not Taken (La Route Non Prise):

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

                   -Robert Frost

The third little pig wore mukluks . . . paying homage to the Mayan Empire.

Well, in an effort to make this an accurate account of our daily life I decided it was time to rectify the calendar.  After a few hurried calculations,  it would appear that those times without internet connectivity skewed my dates a bit.  We now find ourselves on day 243 and a solid half of a month of activity seems to be MIA.  Truth be told, I feel it a fair accomplishment.  I wouldn’t have guessed at the start that this would have lasted for much longer than a week.  Further, the fact that there are a few that have not been insulted or alienated to the point of no longer following along is more amazing still.  If you are still out there hammering away the days with ole Jack Butler, your patronage is much appreciated.  At this point I could have churned out a solid college thesis or written the next great American novel.  I have done neither but given myself carpel tunnel syndrome and perhaps given my children something to remember me by.  I have meticulously kept this journal in soft copy on my laptop and have calculated the following interesting statistics.  In single spaced 10 point Arial font I have churned out roughly 52 8 ½ x 11 pages and when converted into a traditional 6x9 soft back that equates to roughly 331 pages so far.  Take that J.K. Rawlings.  I could break that into a word count, but it dizzies the mind to even think in such terms.  No, I will go ahead and do so.  My research indicates that the average first time novel ranges between 70,000 and 100,000 words.  Word says I am at 146,660.  I suppose I will continue to rattle away over the remaining days of our time here in hopes that perhaps someday it will be in some way noteworthy and I can sell it to some sucker in an effort to fund my children’s college education.  Lofty dream I know, but without some concrete goal in mind I feel like this is becoming a complete waste of time.  The odds of actually getting a book published is something akin to the odds of being struck by lightning.  It does happen on occasion, but it is rare.  To that end, if anyone out there knows a good publisher let me know and I will disgrace their desk with a hard copy of this turd.  While I await a response I will stand outside in a thunderstorm with a golf club in hand and see which is the more likely.

Having dispensed with the housekeeping as you know I like to call it, let’s get on with the show.  Like the smartest of the three little pigs, I live in a house made of stone.  The big bad wolf, nor any other force of nature is likely to make her crumble in the foreseeable future.  There is one thing that the third little pig failed to mention . . . It’s freaking COLD in here.  We seem to be fairly ensconced into fall type weather and the thermometer currently seems to prefer a day time high of around 15 degrees or so.  That is roughly 60 degrees Fahrenheit for those that don’t want to do the math.  We have been averaging in the 60s or so for about a week now, and even at this relatively mild daytime temperature, the house gets somewhat refrigerated when the overnight low creeps down to the 37 degree mark.  Radiant heat seems to do little to stave off but the harshest of the chill and we are left puttering about the house like Eskimos.  The key to a comfortable life is a good scarf.  I would wager one could run around naked in the cold of night so long as the neck was covered.  It is much more than fashion for folks here.  It is an essential piece of wardrobe that makes a profound difference on one’s comfort level.  The other day the wife remarked that she in fact witnessed a woman jogging while wearing a scarf.  Wearing traditional fitness attire from head to toe except that the outfit was set off by a jaunty scarf was enough to cause my wife a bit of a chuckle.  This she laughs at, but none of my jokes make it through.  What am I doing wrong?   Anyway, I have determined that I will purchase as many scarfs as I can afford and wear them all at once like the dance of the seven veils.  As the day warms up, I will simply peel one away and bat my eyes.  Brilliant!

And finally, the beginning of the weekend is a reminder that once again our little adventure is paying a bit of a toll.  Today marks the beginning of a marriage.  Unable to make my step-sister’s ceremony brings with it a bit of sadness as we truly wish her a wonderful life with her husband and would have liked to have been present to witness this joyous event.  That being said, I am sure she will forgive our absence as so many in our lives have forgiven it over the past 9 months or so.  I sent her a simple message of congratulations and shared a few words from the great Robert Frost.  Not being able to remember it all by heart, I ran to the Web to find the text I was looking for.  In doing so, I became a bit sidetracked as can often be the case in my life.  In my reading, I ran across another literary masterpiece on marriage that I would like to share with you now.  This sentiment is the reason my wife and I have lasted as we have and I trust my own bride feels the same about me as I feel about her.  We owe each other a lot.  I wish this new marriage the kind of joy we have created in our 11 years together.  Cheers.  R.

My debt to you, Beloved

Is one I cannot pay

In any coin of any realm

On any reckoning day;

For where is he shall figure

The debt, when all is said,

To one who makes you dream again

When all the dreams were dead?

Or where is the appraiser

Who shall the claim compute,

Of one who makes you sing again

When all the songs were mute?

-      Jesse Rittenhouse

A “potpourri” of musings

This post has been two days in the making and since nobody offered to handle the authoring for me, it shall be an eclectic mix of ramblings that will neither thrill the senses or rattle the nerves.  Forgive the hodgepodge of topics, but occasionally it doesn’t all go together as planned.  This place we live in is quite a two-wheeled culture indeed.  From bicycles to motor scooters, from motorcycles to mopeds, they can only be rivaled by those in the Far East who seem to use their two wheeled conveyances as anything from a family van to a moving truck.  That being said, I am a bit uncomfortable with the all too familiar “two up” configuration when it involves a pair of blokes (been watching a program about Australian lifeguards on the Teli).  Not sure on the spelling of either. Could be bloaks or Telly for all I know, but you get the point.  That’s UK television for you . . . suspect programming, but brilliant ad work.  To be honest, I watch it exclusively for the commercials, but I digress.  Back on point, if there is one . . . the juxtaposition of genitals to ass crack when two men are astride a Vespa is alarming enough, but where the second rider places his hands seems to be a matter of greater concern.  The fact is, in the motorcycle community back home, the second rider is often unflatteringly referred to as “riding bitch”.  This sexist terminology is a cast off from the outlaw biker days when a salty bearded fellow could be found terrorizing the interstate with his vile wench clinging to him off the back of his illegal tuned “chopper”.  Back then the two up seat was referred to the King and Queen seat and the bar holding the misses from falling off the back and skidding down the black top was the sissy bar.  None of these terms that have been forever burned into my mental imagery do any favors for the two MAN configuration I mentioned above.  To combat the obviously homosexual nature of this form of transportation, men seem to do everything they can to distance themselves from the man at the controls.  The difficulty seems to be how one keeps himself from falling off the damned thing without snuggling up and wrapping your manly arms around the driver’s midsection.  I have seen this done in a number of manners, some dangerous and some . . . well, some just down right uncomfortable.  Many scoots are equipped with tie down bars that one could use to tie a small parcel to the back of the scooter or in this case for holding yourself from pitching into certain death on a bend by holding onto them tightly behind your back.  It is a balancing act, but does provide the requisite space between genties and cheeks.  The most disturbing attempt at not hugging the man in front of you still has me scratching my head a bit.  The man on back seemed to believe it was preferable to simply smother his face between the shoulder blades of the driver there by keeping his ass well back into the second seat and in turn placing his hands on the back of the gas tank.  Now, if you are trying to maintain even the slightest masculinity about you when “riding bitch” as it were, I don’t think placing your hands in such proximity to another man’s genitals is going to do the trick.  One abrupt stop and you will be cupping the front man’s testicles in an unfortunate jail house scenario from which I don’t think any straight man can recover.  I think it far better to just swallow your pride and give the man a tight hug and hope to god the full face helmet you are wearing protects your identity.  I am not being homophobic in the slightest, just making random observations.

The second point for the day comes out of Brown Africa . . . I think.  While it would seem that much of what the French gather from our television programming make us (Americans) look like cross burning hillbillies, the truth is that they seem to be a fair bit more racist than they care to admit.  On more than one occasion I have heard the differentiation made between “Brown Africa” and “Black Africa”.  Essentially the North and the South for the uninitiated.  This, in and of itself, is of little interest to me as I am not racist in the slightest, but it bears witness to the strange things you learn along the way and leads to a more meaningful discussion on the importation of produce.  The real question is, where do your bananas come from?  You see, we are now far enough into our adventure here that any element of “culture shock” has worn away.  It is the little observations during the day that continue to fascinate and remind us that we are far from what we call “home”.  To be honest, bananas and their origin never really crossed my mind in my former life.  If asked, I would have told you that bananas come from the grocery store.  That is perhaps an over simplification as they are clearly not a native crop in the US, but knowing that they are imported from Central and South America was a long way out of my daily “need to know” list.  Bananas are different here than they are back home . . . shocker I know, but I find this very interesting.  Peeling one of these beauties is like wrestling an alligator and I would say around 90 percent of the time I half to throw 25 percent of the banana away as my 3 year old refuses to eat the part that I have mangled in an attempt to free the fruit from its peel.  At first I thought old age was catching up to me and felt certain I would wake one morning with James Coburn’s paws.  Fortunately, I am still the only member of the family capable of freeing the lid from a mason jar, so it must be something else, Right?  The peel seems as thick as boot leather and won’t go down without a fight.  I would gauge them to be roughly twice as thick as those I would encounter in the states and the difference warranted some further investigation.  Fortunately I didn’t have to look far.  The last batch purchased was adorned with a label that read “Ghana”.  Still not sure why I found the fact that the banana came from West Africa so fascinating.  Another “duh” moment for old Jack.  Clearly bananas aren’t indigenous to France either and the importation from Central America makes no sense at all when you can get perfectly acceptable bananas from right next door.  I preach to my children daily that this experience has done nothing but shrink the world for them and shape their perspective on where they fit in, but maybe it was I who needed the lesson.  I will clearly be the last to shed my “American” way of thinking.

From sexism to racism, I suppose I have covered the gambit so far.  Between gender bending scooter rides and “Mississippi Burning” bananas I seem to have lost my mind.  Let’s go out on a high note for you Seinfeld fans and bring things back down to earth.  As a parent, you have an intense desire to never see your children grow up.  We instinctively cling to their youth and in the deepest and darkest part of our hearts always see them as what they were around the age of two.  Time with them is so fleeting that it seems a bitter shame to let it pass without a fight.  This sentiment alone fuels an entire industry.  The home video camera makes its sales numbers exclusively from those of us that have the misguided belief that someday we will play back through them all to “remember when”.  It is also the reason I have terabytes of memory committed to the storage of digital stills never to be printed or catalogued.  For my part, it is just as well as I have never been that sentimental and failed to create a “baby book” for either of my children.  These antiquated home movies and unprinted pics are what we will have to look back upon many years from now . . . that is of course if I can find the technology to play them.  Anyone still have an 8 track they can successfully play in their car?  This is a very protracted way of saying that in reality, the best mode of storage for these moments is in our memories.  Sure you won’t remember the way you little one looked at the second pitch of the second inning of the second season of their baseball career, but you will remember the really important stuff.  There is a daily ritual in my life that will be one of those memories and to be honest neither video nor still camera either one would ever do it justice.  Mom drops off and I pick up.  That is the way we handle school transport these days.  One is certainly more stressful than the other and I certainly get the better of the two.  My youngest has taken to the idea of seeing life on foot.  To that end, as I turn into the long gravel drive a small voice from the back seat asks the same question every afternoon.  “When we get a little closer, can I get out?”  Of course his request is granted and at approximately the same place every day I stop the car and he gets out.  The race is on.  Can he manage a shortcut on foot before I can bring the 206 to a rest in the drive next to the house?  Try as I might, he always seems to win.  Go figure.  On occasion his elder brother has a go as well and it is a three man race.  I will never forget the view out of the side window of my French subcompact as my two little boys (I know one is 9, but he is still little to me) huck across the lawn as fast as their little legs will carry them.  I know at age 83 (if I make it that far) I will close my eyes and see it as vividly as I do today.  Now that is the “good stuff” . . . better than any 8x10 could ever be.

That about wraps up my thoughts for the day and despite wanting an early bedtime, this finds me a little further into the wee hours of the morning than I would like.  Speak to you all again soon.

Oh, and there is a prize for anyone who can tell my how many phrases I put in parentheses or quotation marks.  Don’t count them, just give a guess.  Kind of like counting gumballs in a dish for a raffle prize.  Have fun.  R.