A Diary of Small Things

77 // via HTC Evo:

Time can just get away from you, can’t it? Just a moment ago, in all it’s self-refective paranoid glory, I was swept into my fourth decade. Just as suddenly, there it was, 41.

Have you ever seen “The Time Machine”? Not the 2002 version with Guy Ritchie, but the far superior 1960 movie. In that, the film’s central character, George, sits in the time machine he’s constructed in his basement, pulls the lever, and the world rips by him, day to night, night to day, faster and faster and faster.

My life feels a little like that as I get older. Days are very full, and at the speed they’re moving, things get swept into the past before you have a chance to notice they’re gone — stuff you used to like doing, but because of the pace, haven’t thought about in a while.

Reading, for instance.

I’ve forgotten the sheer pleasure of a good book, of learning new things and expanding my mind past the sometimes opaque barriers of suburban living.

There’s a wider world out there, and though life may not be offering me those romantic choices of sun-soaked travel and cocktail parties with sparkling people right now*, I have access to that and more through books — even more so with through the accessibility of a first generation Kindle donated by my beloved mother-in-law.**
Books are good for your soul*** and food for your brain.

* Not that I was ever interested in those things. I love to travel, more for the adventure than to sit broiling on a beach, although I will take that as an option if presented. As long as I have a good selection of reading material.
** I’m not fussy. I love both e-books and the real kind.
*** I’m not endorsing the reality of a soul here, however, I do like the concept.

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WHAT I’M READING RIGHT NOW:
Kindle: I have a selection of books I’m noodling through. Happily, I found out that Maryland libraries are now e-lending — a boon to those who can’t afford to pick up e-editions frequently because of the cost.

An actual book: “Maryland Politics and Political Communication, 1950-2005” by Theodore F. Sheckels. What can I say? I’m a huge Maryland politics geek.

76 // via HTC Evo: Small acts of love

I realized today, or rather, I was reminded today that it’s not the big, huge occasional things that add to our happiness. It is instead the small frequent acts that contribute most to our personal joy.

Yes, yes, Cliff. Of course. Isn’t that after all the whole premise of this blog? Seventy-six posts in and you still hadn’t got it? Honestly. Time waster. Months not blogging, and this is the crap he comes up with now. Well I never.

Fair enough criticism. I stand in the spotlight revealed in all my hypocrisy.

The thing is, it’s easy to confuse talking about the things that make you happy with the things that make you happy themselves. Or things can make you happy you just don’t feel like talking about. Or. plainly, you can just be unhappy, a state out of which nothing, big or small can move you.

I see it as a pendulum, on one end of the arc, a nihilistic void or meaninglessness, Hamlet’s “sterile promontory.” On the other, well … Charlie Sheen comes to mind. An unholy glut of meaning, divorced from all reality, of selfishness and self-absorption so deep, so all-consuming, nothing can penetrate it and which moves forward with the interminable destructiveness of the juggernaut.

I’m not sure what point I’m trying to make here.

OK, here’s my point, by way of anecdote. It’s that true love and compassion lie in the effectuation of small acts of love and compassion. Not the big ones. Not the grandiose. And those small acts, taken over a lifetime, are what is meaningful.

Like saying, “I love you,” and meaning it. And saying it every day.

The anecdote: Alex, my daughter gave me a note she’d made, the one pictured above. It was for no special occasion, nor was it particularly flamboyant. But it said something deeper than its simplicity. And it made me profoundly happy. In fact, it made us both happy. There’s something rather wonderful to be said about that.

75 // via HTC Evo: Never a crossword

This year I committed to doing the crossword nearly every day. It’s one of the upsides to working at a paper.

The theory is, and I read this somewhere once, so it’s on good authority, that doing crosswords keeps the mind sharp. (I’d do Sudoku too, except that may be a little too much for me because it involves numbers.)

I’ve found, much like driving, the crossword has taught me much about living as well:

74 // via HTC Evo

Kittens make me happy. This is Sylvester (so named by our Looney Tunes watching kids). We got him to provide some companionship for Bernie, whose brother Woodie died earlier this year.

After an initially tense standoff, Bernie and Sylvester are now good friends. However, Sylvester is still subject to my daughter’s “ministrations,” i.e., being wrapped in a blanket like a baby. Not that he seemed to mind.

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.

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.)

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.