A Diary of Small Things

Mar 15

73 // via Samsung Instinct M800:

So, we thought, in our naiveté, that Rosy was just getting fat. We had pulled the two new guinea pigs, Rosie and Mousey, out of their cages for cuddles.

These were our replacements for Oreo, who had died suddenly and without explanation — the way he had lived most of his life.

“Rosie’s got a fat butt,” my son said, emphasizing the “butt.”

My daughter giggled. “Rosie’s got a fat butt,” she chimed in.

Poor Rosie had, indeed, a fat butt. As politically incorrect as it seemed to say that, it bore the ring of truth. She looked a bit like a furry lollipop. Thin head, thin chest, then POW! All junk in the trunk. Just an eater, I guessed, and left it at that.

The next day I had come home from work and my wife asked me to feed the pigs.

Something small, hairy and very, very fast shot across the cage. Then another. Then another. Rosie came out too, looking thinner.

She’d had babies.

I should assert here that the gestation time for baby guinea pigs is 63 days. That put conception around the time we bought Rosie (the SLUT!) and Mousey.

So, after three weeks, which is about the time it takes guinea pigs to mature, I hoisted Rosie, her babies, and Mousey off to the vets to be sexed. We’d already made the decision to keep the baby cavies.

My wife and I had a friendly bet. I had money on Mousey being a boy. She thought Rosie (HARLOT!) had … aherm … done the deed before we got the animals home.

So, here’s a shot before the defining moment, with Mousey sequestered, just in case.

We now have two boys (resident in my son’s room) and three girls (in my daughter’s room).

By the way, I lost the bet.

Mar 10

72 // via Nikon Coolpix L12: First tooth

“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” Corinthians 13:11

I held her when she had gums, and I held her when she was teething. And I held her Monday when she showed me that she’d lost one of those teeth for the first time.

I didn’t think I’d get so emotional about it. Oh, I don’t mean crying and gushing and all that. That’s just not me. Stoic British genes.

But I’ve gotten a little nostalgic at every milestone for her and my son. The first smile, the first step, the first haircut.

I should be clear, though — all these events are about their rite of passage, for sure, not about me. That’s as it should be.

I’ll never let on about the slight halo of sadness. Each mile is a mile closer to the time when she won’t need me, or at least, not not in the way she does now.

There will be the first time she drives the car without me. There will be a time when she graduates, and moves away. And there will be a time when I say goodbye with finality.

And in part, that’s what these milestones are moving me toward, and why I must keep the sadness of them to myself, while holding the joy closer. And it is why I am so happy about the loss of her first tooth.

This is what I am meant to do. This is the role of a father.

“For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.” Corinthians 13:12

72 // via Nikon Coolpix L12: Signs on the doors

Oh gosh, another struggling headline.

My daughter has reached that wonderful age that I remember so well — a desire to put keep out signs on her door.

It’s pretty cool. I think I was 8 or 9 before I made my first “Keep Out” notice, which had a sliding paper panel designating me “in” or “out,” depending on my mood. (Not that my parents had any intention of heeding it. So much for our primal instinct to mark territory.)

Alex’s is directed at her 3-year-old brother. Next to a self portrait, it says, “No Liam. Ulle rockstars.” (No Liam. Only rockstars.)

Mar 8

71 // via Nikon Coolpix L12: Signs on the cars

I know, I know. That headline was a stretch. I was going for a play on “Signs in the stars,” which isn’t even really relevant.

Anyway, moving on.

My daughter has taken to drawing little love hearts on my car in the noxious chemical waste left over from the most recent snowstorm.

Because of that, I had to tell her to stop doing it. (I am, deep down, a sort of responsible parent.)

But it was dreadfully cute, especially when she told me she was doing it because she wanted to show me she loved me.

It may be the one, the only thing I enjoyed about that snow.

Mar 1

70 // via Samsung Instinct M800: Kisses

When it’s cold the kids and I wait in the car, and such it was a few weeks ago before the blizzard. That’s when they started attacking me in a pretty unique way. The video, commissioned by my daughter, tells the story.

Feb 24

69 // via Strange Neural Pathways: More Poetry

Part of being a journalist is the realization that you will never truly have another holiday off like the rest of the normal world. It’s OK, it comes with the job. Well, OK sometimes. This year, in return for not having to work Christmas Day, I took New Year’s Day.

I got to the newsroom earlyish, and there was no one there. It was peaceful, quiet. Being on your own in a newsroom, normally a place of noise and activity, with nothing but a buzzing scanner for company, is almost a spiritual experience

I think this poem came out of that reverie. It’s a reflection on the night before, spent welcoming in the New Year with my wife at a bar called Firestone’s. I occasionally like to play with rhyming, which you can see here:

New Year’s Day 2010

I can see the mountains as I leave my house out along Shifferstadt Drive
Like they’ve always been there, those lumbering bastards
Speckled
with
snow
and
half dead trees

And here I am, on my way to work along roads that on busier days are more alive
As sleeping revelers from the night before slough off revelry, those slumbering bastards
A flash
party pop
and
dead drunk girl

At the bar, sleepy-eyed from too much booze, I could sense inside her, in this upscale dive,
Date-hatred that has shackled her to this bar-rail boyfriend, that encumbering bastard
Crush
people
roaring
and

Globe
descending
ticking off the year
That numbering bastard.

3 …
2 …
1 …

Feb 12

68 // via Nikon Coolpix L12: Weatherman

I’m so very tired. But in a good way. Wednesday night, me and a few others were snowed into where I work, The Frederick News-Post. This required sleeping on the floor, but hey, we’re a newspaper, and if we’re not going to bring you news, who will?

Anyhow, once a bulk of work was done, I went out to get my bag. The wind and blizzard were astounding. I grabbed a camera and headed back to do an impromptu bit of in-the-heart-of-the-storm reporting. You can’t hear most of what I say (like the bits about the plowing and my car), but a picture is worth a thousand words, as they say.

You can find some pictures from the night posted by me to Flickr here.

Feb 8

67 // via Samsung Instinct M800: Radio Gaga

I confess. I am a fan of the radio. Not the whining, all-you-can-repeat music radio that’s homogenized the airwaves. Erg. No thanks.

I mean National Public Radio radio. Well, at least, I listen to that when I’m in the car because it’ll tide me over ‘til I can get home and listen to the real heavy stuff.

Oh yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. My favorite, absolute favorite thing to do is to listen via the Interwebs to BBC Radio 4.

Radio 4 sprawls across topics like an aging society dame on an Ottoman and the discussions inevitably fall on the intellectually weighty side. (For example, a rousing discussion of the morals behind one of the week’s big issues, or on the development of the lesbian novel.)

I like listening to the programs (programmes?) if only to feel bright for a while, even though I know I don’t get half of what’s being talked about.

Feb 5

66 // via Strange Neural Pathways: Bucketlist

I recently confessed on local radio (WFMD) during a discussion about New Year’s resolutions that I had entered my 40th year.

This is somewhat astounding to me. I’ve done a lot, and achieved some things, and even incrementally grown as a person. I have a full life. Really, if I get taken tomorrow, I can’t complain (not that I’m advocating that. Universe, are you listening?).

But four decades, whether I like it or not, as forced some self evaluation, some stark reflection, some philosophical macromicrointrospection. In short, as good as life has been to me, I have a couple of to dos. OK, more than a couple.

A few months ago I started writing a bucket list, that is, a list of all the things I’d like to do before I kick the water pail. And this year, damn it, I’m going to tick two of those off that list. And the next year, and the next year. These are things that I want to do for me. They won’t supersede the important stuff, like family. But I will elbow aside a few of the more minor things to make time.

So, when the radio show host asked me what was on my New Year’s resolution list, I had a ready answer.

I’m going to write and draw a comic. That’s the first one. None of your super hero stuff; I’ll leave that to the experts. But it will be a story that has meaning for me, that I’ve wanted to write for some time.

And come Dec. 31, I want to have accumulated a book’s worth of poetry. I know. Poetry. If you know me, you probably won’t believe I’m a poetry appreciator. But there you have it. I may not be deep, but I am broad. Never mind the quality. Feel the width.

I don’t ever mean to publish the book. I just want to have it. In that regard, I’d like to share an entry now and again, if I may, and if you’ll indulge me. This is called … Ah. I got stuck here. Nerves. Performance anxiety. Which one, which one? Now I intend to reveal one to the world, none of them seem good enough. My poetry, like the human condition, is a work in progress.

Take a breath.

All right. No one’s reading this anyway.

Speaking of depth, this poem is called “I am not deep.” It’s among the first I wrote, but still a favorite.

I am not deep.

Depth takes time

I do not have

For attendant thought, reflection,

or a period of calm,

To consider, to contemplate,

To move and swell in the tides of consciousness.

Instead I chart slate waves,

Tack crashing water

That threatens to sink my boat,

drown my sails and

show my keel to the stars.

Maybe one day

The sea will calm at sunset,

revealing the world’s curve.

Then I will scupper my vessel

and sew myself

into my white sail.

(The formatting is a bit off, but it’s supposed to have three line stanzas.)

Nov 23

65 // via Samsung Instinct M800: Inside leg

I’ve realized what’s better than shopping for new pants when you’ve lost weight. It’s finding old ones that you threw out three or four months ago because you’d given up on ever wearing them again, because you’d given up on losing that couple of extra inches, because you’d given up on yourself.

Sorry Goodwill. I’m keeping these.

A Diary of Small Things

69 // via Strange Neural Pathways: More Poetry

66 // via Strange Neural Pathways: Bucketlist

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