Goofs in Autumn

Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, —
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground;
Another race the following spring supplies:
They fall successive, and successive rise.

The Illiad Alexander Pope translation


Monday after school my son and I took a walk in the woods. He had been up late the night before watching his beloved Ravens lose a lead and then snatch victory from the jaws of defeat – from the hated Steelers no less. But I hadn’t run that day and had to get outside. So he was game. We walked and talked. He told me about his day and school. He’s had a tough time with homework this year, but it is coming around. He likes math! He likes everything.

He liked the autumn leaves. Late in the day, the sun doesn’t blaze high above. It sits low, almost level with the trees, spraying the orange leaves with light. It was getting chilly, but the woods felt warm in all that bright.

We saw lots of deer. We saw a pair of bucks with substantial antlers. Later a group of deer snacked just off the trail. A warmly dressed man, walking his dog watched them. His tiny dog, ancient instincts alerted, strained at his leash to take them down.

The next day there was no school, so Carpool Buddy and 3C slept over. Everyone stayed up late and woke up early. The boys went to a laser-tag birthday. Everyone was tired, but I insisted on driving into the mountains to see the leaves. They complained and refused to get out of the car. We drove home.

I hadn’t seen enough. The colors were less then the day before but still vibrant. I dragged the kids back to the woods near our house – they complained.

Why I love my kids
Walking through the woods there was an island of green. It was a grove of bamboo. I had seen it many times, but the kids had never explored it. They were renewed, examining the shoots, looking for bamboo sticks for weapons, and speculating about pandas living in our woods (ok, that was my idea.)

As tired as they were, they were still capable of being amazed by something new.

Book Review: Percy Jackson holds up to Potter

We’ve been listening to the Percy Jackson series in the car. It is a series of kids books that relies heavily on Greek mythology. The Greek pantheon is real and Mt. Olympus is now on the 600th floor of the Empire State Building. The series is about a young man who never seems to quite fit in. He has a wonderful mom, but doesn’t know his father. It turns out that his father is a major deity. The sons of the denizens of Olympus are heroes who, like the figures of myth, have great capabilities and have adventures on behalf of the gods.

It would be easy enough to deride it as a Harry Potter knock-off. Obviously there are innumerable parallels to the world of Harry Potter – even down to the main characters. Young heroes train at a special camp, hidden from the world of mortals. In fact, much of the world of gods and heroes is hidden from mortals. The writing in Percy Jackson is not as strong – although some of that may be due to the fact that it is narrated in the first person by the main character. A teenage boy describing the world in rich, complex and neutral tones would be unlikely.

But while Percy Jackson suffers in direct comparison, it definitely has a charm (it can also be funny – although sometimes it tries to hard.) I keep recalling a literary critic comparing Dickens to one of his leading rivals. The rival could create planets, but Dickens created whole universes. But sometimes those mere planets were awfully compelling. By building upon an established mythology, the Percy Jackson series seems more limited then the universe of Potterdom. After all, Rowling’s work included a number of terms that have joined our vocabulary (although the only one springing to mind is “muggles.”) There were wonderful evocative names for people and things in Rowling's universe.

But the magic world was only partially connected to ours. In Percy Jackson the affairs of the Olympians are inextricably linked to those of mortals. There is a sense of something palpable at stake. Choosing to build on well-established archetypes helps teach children about them (plus it gives them at least a sense of Greek mythology). The Dumbledore-esque teacher of heroes (who – and I like this – is not nearly as formidable as Dumbledore) explains that Olympus dwells wherever the heart of western civilization dwells – and to find it, look at the architecture. Something at stake indeed!

Forget Terrible Twos, Think Ferocious Fives

A colleague at work has a new two year old. He was worried about “the terrible twos.” I told him it was a myth, anyone who talks about the terrible twos hasn’t met a three year old yet.

“Two is nice,” I continued, “Maybe worse then infanthood because they are mobile and surprisingly fast. But they are also learning new stuff almost every minute and talking in that cute mushed up way that is perfect for Twitter.”

“Three year olds are cute too, but they are a lot more energetic and capable. This continues through four year olds who develop and out and out death wish. Five is insane. Five year olds have incredible levels of hormones coursing through their systems. They are articulate, smart, willful, and – worst of all – easily bored. They are smart enough that the simple stuff that amused them only months ago for hours at a time won’t cut it anymore. But, they can’t entertain themselves yet. They are also enormously destructive - especially when they want to be helpful.”

“I remember my son at that age regularly demanding, “’Daddy! Play with me!’”

“That’s another thing,” I explained, “Children are like dictators, they cannot be appeased. I’d play with the kids for forty-five minutes and then need to attend to grown-up stuff – like blogging about my kids. They would whine and cry, ‘You never play with us.’ I would take them out from morning till afternoon to the zoo, on hikes and all sorts of adventures. We’d get home and they would look at me and ask, ‘What are we going to do now?’”

My colleague gulped, “Does it get better?”

“At five, it plateaus. They don’t get more energetic and they start to entertain themselves. Around seven they mature and become really nice. My son is ten and my daughter is seven. It really is a golden age.”

“So five bad years, then smooth sailing,” my colleague summarized.

“Not exactly, because then they turn into teenagers. I try not to think about it."

Box Tales

We had a new refrigerator delivered recently.

After the workmen put took it down to the basement I realized something was missing. The box! I wanted to play in it.

I asked the delivery-men and they said it was in the truck, I could have it if I wanted it.

MamaGoof did not care for this plan. In a last ditch effort, I tried to get the deliverymen on my side, employing my idiot Spanish, "Para los ninos!

Bad move, MamaGoof actually speaks Spanish, plus she is commanding in any language.

"No! Es basura!"

It was clear to the delivery-men who was in charge, and they drove off, no doubt taking the box home to their children.

Too bad, the little Goofs love to play with boxes. But I am a good husband and I haven't said a word about how their mother deprived them of such an awesome adventure.

I'm just biding my time, until I really mess up.

Silent Lunch Hijinks

The teachers at GoofBoy's school have initiated a new policy.  Every Friday is silent lunch.  The kids sit quietly - sounds good so far!  But, the teachers have groups of them get up and try to make everyone else laugh through "physical comedy."

GoofBoy's group got big laughs by pulling their pants up high (aiming for their belts to straddle their nipples).  Other groups ran into walls and fell down, butted heads, and did kicklines. It sounds like a boy dominated activity - it wasn't clear what laugh strategies the girls pursued.

I have to say, this is brilliant.  I remember once in school getting caught making faces at another kid.  The two of us were given detention.  But not just detention, we were required to make faces at each other for 40 minutes.  Worse, the teacher (who tended to be a figure of fun for wearing his pants up around his nipples) brought other teachers and administrators into the room to watch us make faces at each other.

We weren't allowed to repeat faces either - but there are only so many ways those muscles move. (I was saved, I can puff up my cheeks like a blowfish - or Dizzy Gillespie - also back in the day I could turn my face purple at will.)

When it was all done, I was mortally embarrassed and my face hurt.

But what GoofBoy's teachers are doing is pre-emptive embarrassment. It also wears them out a bit, so they aren't on a sugar high all afternoon.  Best of all, there are cameras all over the school.  This stuff is going to be on YouTube soon enough. That might be illegal. But at least they could share the videos with the parents.

Dreaming of Dogfish Head (beer)

I am a fan of Dogfish Head Craft Brewed Ales. I love their beer. Even their beers that aren’t good – like a recent mint stout – are spectacular failures. They do amazing things, like resurrect beer recipes from thousands of years ago or make an IPA with more hops then anyone has ever attempted before.

Sometimes, as I sip (nay, gulp) Raison d’Etre I want to weep with joy.

I also follow Dogfish Head on Facebook, and every once in a while they are hiring. Could I change my life completely – MamaGoof and I abandoning our professional training in order to become stockboys at the Dogfish Head warehouse.

I broach the topic with the Little Goofs:

“What if we moved to Rehobeth so mommy and I could work at Dogfish Head?”

“Daddy, you are obsessed!” GoofGirl scolds.

“Dad, is this like the time you listened to that book about cod and all you could talk about was buying a boat and working the sea?” GoofBoy asked.

“I think you’d like there. We’d have to live in a smaller house, but it would be near the beach.”

“What’s the catch?” GoofBoy asked, he knows me.

“Mommy and I would drink beer all the time, so you would be raised by seagulls.”

“Caw, caw!” he answered.