So, I have seen the regular version. And I have seen the sing-along version. And I have seen the dance-along version. And if there was a smell-along or a 3-D interactive video game with hip-degrading properties, I’d probably have seen that, too. I have the songs stuck in my head. I have talked about my favorite characters. Hair styles. Outfits. Surfers vs. bikers. How makeup could stay on perfectly in summer humidity.
Listening to wisdom from a babbling mountain stream
There’s a little mountain stream outside of Blowing Rock, N.C. It’s down a winding road with a grade so steep it will rip the gears out of a transmission. When you drive that winding road, your vehicle groans and curses and threatens to leave you stranded. This stream runs beside a cabin. If your transmission holds out, you can make it there. You can sit on its porches beside the stream and listen to the water. It talks to you. You should do this. A Carolina mountain stream has much to say. But you have to take the time to sit and listen. To take in its wisdom. To hear what it’s trying to tell you.
Making sense of Sea Monkeys
It was an incredible amount of pressure. I was home alone for the night. My wife and child were in Orlando with friends. I was ready to kick back on the sofa and wait for my mother to call and suggest PBS shows I should watch: “Brian, the 12-toed Australian sea sloth is on at 9. You should really watch it!” The phone did ring. It wasn’t my mother, though. It was my wife and child. They had something important they needed me to do. My evening was shattered. No relaxation. I was on … Sea-Monkey duty!
Father’s Day … and my face on a clay pen cup
“See, dad?” she said. “It’s your stubble. See? It looks just like you.” “Yeah, alright,” I said. “Look at that. Just like me.” It didn’t look like me. It didn’t look ANYTHING like me. Actually, I wish I looked like it. This clay pen holder my daughter made me. A friend down the street … well, her mother has a kiln and some clay. How cool is that? They made Father’s Day presents. Clay cups with faces on them. To hold pens. You’ve never officially been a kid until you’ve made your dad a clay cup with his face on it. The first recorded Father’s Day cup with a face on it dates back to 10,000 B.C. There was also a figure made out of macaroni and a drawing of a race car that read, “Dad drive fast,” with a police car chasing him.
School’s out: That means no more high-pressure lunch-making
If you’re like me, you’re wondering what to do with this gift. It’s like coming across a crumpled $20 bill on the sidewalk. Think of the possibilities! I’m rich! I can go buy some gold! Only this isn’t money. It’s time. Found time! I’m rich! Mine — and maybe yours — comes courtesy of elementary school letting out for summer. One of my major parental responsibilities — I was removed from math homework when we started getting notes like this: “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, your daughter’s math work has taken a turn for the worse. For instance, 8+8 is not B” — one of my big parental duties was packing my daughter’s lunch each morning.
May that little kid voice last forever
Boy, I hope that voice never changes. I was sitting in the rocking chair in my daughter’s room. It was night. She was doing pre-bed reading. She’ll go all night if her absent-minded parents drift off to sleep before she does. And her absent-minded parents often do! I tried to keep my eyes from growing heavy and tipping shut. They were fluffing the pillows and turning in for the night. (No! Don’t do it! She’ll read ‘til 3 a.m. if we let her!)
Slipped disks and surviving elementary school playgrounds
My daughter was telling me about the games she plays in first grade gym class. Let’s see. There was one called Tiger Tails. What I understand is someone runs around and steals tiger tails from other kids. “Does anyone get horribly maimed like a real tiger attack!?!” I asked expectantly. It was typical dinner table conversation with me. “Um, no,” she said. Then she went on with her story.
Goodbye pillow fights, hello concussion
There is absolutely nothing funny about this column. I am legally obligated to state this right up front. In fact, I’m legally obligated to believe it. I’m legally obligated to promote it, preach it, scream it from the hills. I am also legally obligated to say that pillow fights are bad. That they can lead to serious injuries, and should never be performed with actual pillows. Air pillows — the imaginary kind — are the only kind that should be used in a pillow fight. I am legally obligated to say that if you do use real pillows, bad things can happen. Horrible things. Major injuries may ensue. Society might collapse. You will spend the rest of your days starting sentences with, “I am legally obligated to …”
Building the (almost) perfect Leprechaun trap
The letter from my daughter’s first grade teacher said: “We will be celebrating St. Patrick’s Day with a special project. Each student will be asked to build a ‘Leprechaun Trap!’” A Leprechaun Trap! Hot diggidy dog! It’s supposed to encourage her imagination and ability to write about a sequence of steps. But I don’t know why it kept talking about her. I GET TO BUILD A LEPRECHAUN TRAP!!! WOOHOO!
BDE: Getting in touch with my ‘Best Day Ever’
There’s something post-apocalyptic about January. Maybe it’s because Christmas is over. Maybe it’s because a new year is always a little bit scary. It stretches out toward the horizon, long and endless, full of unpredictable twists. Maybe it’s because summer and vacations and swimming pools seem so far away. The weather is miserable. Usually. And when the weather is great — it’s been pretty great! — something still comes along to ruin it. Does any other state get pollen blizzards in January? Not like Florida. Gesundheit!