Zoomers and Boomers

A few years have passed, but it is still as busy as ever. My wife Dessy got her Bachelors degree, double majors, and a minor, took care of kids and a dog, and still managed to graduate with high honors. She is now halfway through the coursework for her Masters degree. I have endured heart failure, and A-fib, which was exciting because they get to shock you with the paddles a couple of times to jumpstart you. Bought a jeep. Did some 4 wheeling. Blew up jeep. Quit being an HOA board member. Became a planning commissioner for our city. Even got to go on a couple of little vacation trips. Watched the boys go from elementary to middle and high schools. Time passing has become a blur. In the course of 3 years, both boys have grown to tower over their mother, who clocks in at about 4 foot 9. That will be relevant later on in the story.

The boys are both teens now, both have high GPA's, both love music, Jazz in particular, and play pretty well. The oldest plays electric and upright bass, is about to get his drivers license, and already he has plans to get a job and start dating. The younger one plays trumpet and is very involved with sports, plays football and basketball. 

We were headed back from a practice last night, and John mentioned that he was going to be playing the Niwot League on Saturday. (They are also named the Cougars, and I find it a bit conflicting at his games, as I am Niwot alumni. Have to make sure I am cheering for the right team, you know?)  John made the comment that the Niwot team was a a bunch of red-headed midgets, at which point got the attention of his mother, who in her normal high pitched voice said that the term "Red Headed Midgets" as a bit racist. I, being the social justice warrior of the family, spoke up  and said "Hold on now, do you mean to tell me that red headed midgets are a protected class of people, like do they have their own ethnicity now?" Dessy squeaked out that the kids should not say "Midget". One of the kids in back couldn't hear  and asked me  what she had said? In a falsetto voice, I blurted that she had said "Follow The Yellow Brick Road..." 

More to come.....

The Project - First Things First

I have had a problem all my life with not letting go of anything. I have learned that my family name actually translates from Belgian to " Incorrigible Pack Rat".  This project is not helping me overcome that. For about 30 years I have held on to tools like timing guns, dwell meters, distributor wrenches, essentially all the tools I have had since my teens. It has reinforced my proclivity to not part with any thing, as you just never know when it will come in handy. That being said, I still should get read of 98% of the junk I have held on to forever. Sentimentality is going to ruin me. But someday all this stuff will make someone a lot of money, when they get paid to haul it to the dump. 

We got Willhemina home, rolled it off the trailer and started to push it up the driveway into the garage. My kids, Dessy, the two friends with the trailer and me. We had it halfway up the drive, and of course my jeans decided to fall to my ankles. So as I pushed the Willys, I sort of cause the neighbors to get the willies. That joke works a lot better in my head than on paper. 

Now that it is home, I have to decide exactly where to start. I have a plan, discussed it with the kids. 

The very first thing to do was load all the spare parts from the donor vehicle into the cargo area of the new  one. We did that. Next was to remove the cup holders that looked like they came from a 1960's boat. John jumped right on that task. 

 Next, we changed the ignition key set and hooked up the wires and battery. Some lights work, horn did not, but to our great surprise, the engine turns over. Great to know it is not seized up, we may get it to run soon. We stopped for the evening, put the hood on and admired the old girl and daydreamed on what she can become. Maybe something like this someday.

Or this:

There is a value in being patient, and doing things methodically and correctly. I explained to the kids 
that first, we needed to empty the old oil, change the filter, add new oil. check the engine compression, replace points, cap rotor, condenser, coil, ignition wires, etc. Then and only then would we attempt to start it. Naturally, I threw caution to the wind, and showed the kids why hurrying is bad. I did not bother to see what the engine numbers were so we could match it to the proper parts. I just guessed and bought filter and plugs for a mid 1970's engine.  Crawled under to see multiple layers of farm dirt, oil and other detritus clinging to the undercarriage. 

Had my son watch as I emptied the oil. Showed him the right way to reinstall an oil filter. Filled up the oil, being careful not to spill or over fill. Things were going great, until I realized the spark plugs were the wrong size.  This should have been my first clue to stop and regroup. 

Nope. 

I just moved on to pouring gas in the carburetor and trying to start it. No go. It would not catch. Josh suddenly yelped that oil was pouring out onto the floor. I checked the oil filter and low and behold, rushing and guessing on the year caused me to install the wrong one. Fortunately I had a big bucket of kitty litter that I saved from about 8 years ago, (despite not owning or ever planning to own a cat.) I had josh spread kitty litter on the spill and said we would move on to checking other things for the time being. I slapped a couple of bucket seats in it, ones I got locally from an old Ford pick up for 10 bucks each. I climbed up in, immediately cracked my skull on the upper door jamb and sat down. Discovered another major problem.

10/13/2020
First time sitting in the Willys 

I knew the original factory steering wheel was large. It needed that because of the lack of power steering. So I am thinking that either the steering wheel or my belly needs to get smaller. The upside is, I can use my gut to drive straight while I do my make up in the rear view mirror. 

I am pretty happy with the progress so far, despite the initial mishaps. Next weekend, The boys and I will put in the right oil filter, squirt some oil in the cylinders and then try to see if we can fire it up. 

We will get pictures and keep you up to date. 

- Mark

The Project

 From an early age, I have enjoyed doing most of the repairs on my own cars. At one time, I was pretty good at it, but with time, and lack of practice, skill sets fade. My skills are about to be put to the test, because I recently came across a barn find of a vehicle I have dreamed of owning since I was 17. 

I have become the proud owner of a 1950's era Willy's Utility Wagon! My children are excited, I am stoked, and we plan to work on it over the next few years to return it to a daily driver that will take us everywhere we want or need to go. 

It all started out about 6 months ago, a dairy farmer friend offered me an old piece of farm equipment to work on with the kids, a Daihatsu Hijet, which is a tiny couched sized 4x4 pickup most often used in Asian countries for delivery. The boys and I went out to look at it in an old turkey barn, out in the middle of a pasture on the dairy. It was there that I saw this, and immediately fell in love. 

I asked the dairy owner when he obtained it, as I had been in that barn before a few years ago, and I would have noticed it sitting there. He replied how he had mistakenly got it for his boys, and they were not interested, but if I was, it was all ours! 

Josh, John and I looked it over, and it immediately felt like gear-head Christmas to me! It needs LOTS of work, but we immediately started making plans. (By "We" I mean, me, and I have not stopped looking at videos, pictures, articles since learning about the find.)

It is not an unlucky number. 

                                                                    

    

I am very excited over the whole idea. The project has lit a flame under me, I feel excited about something  for the first time in many years. 

To start the project, we determined that we were going to need some basic parts, like a hood, door handles, tires, etc. I was researching sources for those parts when a neighbor who loves restoration projects sent me an ad with this beauty, a 1952 wagon, frame and body complete with doors, hood, and many parts I could use, all for $400. 

It was too good to pass up, so soon it was in my garage, begging to be torn apart. Now, to be fair, I put this in the garage where my wife normally parks, so there was a lot of motivation to get it stripped and disposed of. Turning the garage into a chop shop briefly, I got out the WD-40, an angle grinder, and went to work. Got the parts I needed, including a section of firewall, and had it hauled off. 

Two weeks ago, I got some used tires to put on it, so we could roll it up on a trailer to haul it from the barn to the house. once I had the tires on it, I called a friend who came over with a trailer and  helped me get it home. 

I have decided to give it a name. The name of the dairy that I got it from was originally called Willhemina, so in honor of the dairyman, and the fact that it is a Willys, Willhemina it is.

Made it home finally!

This will be my first restoration project, and I am trying to do it as economically as possible. I will be doing a resto-mod, which for the layman translates to keeping a vintage look, but adding some modern parts and technology, so it is safe and as comfortable as cars are today. The plans change as often as I change my clothes it seems. I am going to try and get the existing engine running, put in bucket seats, upgrade brakes to modern standards, everything I can to make it a car the boys will be proud of long after I am gone. 

A friend, and fellow car enthusiast has asked that I blog about the progress, so I will start posting about our adventures in parallel to my stories of raising kids as a middle aged daddy. 

I hope you all will enjoy it. 

Till next time, 

- Mark, The Middle Aged Daddy

The Thanksgiving Poem

Holidays can be hard. Please take the time to breathe, to select your battles, Walk away from whatever is not healthy for you. Try to take care of yourselves this season. Don't try to have a storybook season, where everyone is standing around the tree, just being perfect. You cannot engineer what you see in the movies. It is alright if something you cook comes out poorly. If there is an individual or individuals you know push your buttons, it is perfectly acceptable to avoid them. Guilt feelings and angst are not valid reasons to punish yourself. Remember, it is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, so don't let that tiny voice that is pushing you into a bad situation influence you. You owe it to yourself to not do anything that is self destructive. DO enjoy that beauty. Enjoy all you can. Don't let anyone project their issues on you, as well as you should not project your issues on anyone else. Really think before you blurt. Make sure you are perceiving the situations accurately. You will be better for it at the end of the season.


For the first time in at least 8 years our family is not celebrating with a big dinner or guests. We are opting out this time, in order to avoid a lot of pain and suffering of the preparation, anxiety, and all that comes with trying to have a perfect holiday.

I encourage all of you to think about what you are grateful for this year. Gratefulness is healing. For me, a small oasis of peace, joy and reflection on all that is good in my life can erase a lot of the damage caused by life's continual challenges.

With that, please enjoy the poem I wrote several years ago, I wish you all a very warm and Happy Thanksgiving and holiday season.

      Ode To Thanksgiving

      'Twas the morning of Thanksgiving,

      And all through my house.

      You can hear lots of screaming from me and my spouse.

      From inside the kitchen with groceries to spare.

      We argued and fought over how to prepare.

      The guests will be coming,

      Expecting our best.

      The food won't be ready

      And our house is a mess.

      When on top of the stove, the yams made a splatter,

      And Dessy came running, to see what was the matter.

      The potatoes were flying, as I started to mash,

      then fell on the floor and into the trash.

      The bread won't be made, cause I messed up the dough

      and the stuffing is runny, why I don't know.

      When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

      But a miniature wife, and I shuddered in fear

      With a gleam in her eyes, and armed with a stick,

      I knew in a moment it's my butt she would kick.

      She drew in a deep breath, I quivered in shame,

      She shouted , and heckled, then bellowed my name!

      Get out of my kitchen, you're just in the way.

      I can't stand your face for even one more day.

      Cut carrots,

      Chop Celery,

      Slice onion,  and ham.

      Make Gravy,

      Do it your way,

      I don't give a damn.

      As the yelling subsided, I wished I could die,

      My little boy shuddered and started to cry.

      Then mommy took over, I ran in fear,

      I hid in the basement and sipped on a beer.

      And then, in a twinkling, I heard a crash on the floor,

      Then wailing and crying and a slamming front door.

      I went to the kitchen to find no one there,

      The mess that had happened was too much to bear

      I laughed when I saw it, the food on the shelf!

      We're out of time, I said to myself.

      I thought for a moment, "This isn't so bad,

      Let's go have dinner with my mom and my dad

      We drove to their house, and told them the deal,

      and begged them to let us come in for a meal.

      Mom spoke not a word, Dad had a big smirk,

      And said to my face that I was a big jerk.

      He then thumbed his nose and slammed the door shut,

      I looked at Josh and Dessy and said "Now what?"

      She suddenly smiled, and said "I know a way!"

      And away we all went to the Country Buffet.

      We all ate our fill, for $ seven ninety nine,

      Then went back to the house for a cheap glass of wine.

      As we fell asleep on the sofa, a voice yelled out in the night,

      "Happy Thanksgiving to all to all, and to all a big fight!

Johnnie said WHAT????

I am pretty sure by now, that most people who know me have the understanding that I am a bit "high strung". Some of you have had the distinct displeasure of watching me blurt inappropriately snide commentary on the events that are going on around me. I am not saying that it is a congenital defect however, lately when I meet someone new, I feel compelled to recite a boiler-plate disclaimer as we shake hands. I could be wrong on this, but I think there is a big difference with what I do, and blatant lying. I could be wrong. But probably not. Until now, I had thought it was learned behavior, but l am beginning to wonder if it is a heritable condition. Much like the theories spouted by early geneticists, it seems that if you wear a hat long enough, your child will be born with the same hat.

Many of my little stories include the whole family or both boys, but my youngest child Johnnie, a second grader, has exhibited behavior that warrants his own chapter. First off, let me clearly state that I love my little boy. He is bright, talented and very loving. He is a straight A student, plays soccer, is learning both piano and ukulele. Frequently I get complimented on how well behaved he seems to be. On the other hand, he tends to like slapstick humor and often laughs a little too hard when he sees a video of someone running into a wall, getting hit in the fly with a soccer ball, crashing a bike, etc.  I like to tell myself that he is really a good-hearted child, but then I remember that many career criminals started out as adorable children too.  

Last week Johnnie got sent home with a note to sign from the teacher. He waited a day and then presented a cunningly folded up document that had only the signature line exposed and told his mother that the teacher needed her to endorse it, and that it was not necessary to read it, it was just a formality. Dessy unfolded it to find a disciplinary action form where John had written a statement saying he was aware that lying was wrong and that he was sorry for stealing candy and that he promised to never do it again. When I asked Johnnie about it, he first told me that another student had dared him to do it, and then he revised the story to it was simply a case of forgetting that he had already gotten his treat from the teacher.  I immediately wrote to his teacher requesting a face to face conference on the next school day.

Johnnie spent the weekend being extra good. He remembered to do chores without being asked. He practiced his piano and ukulele on his own. He voluntarily helped with doing the dishes. He remembered to put his dirty clothes in the hamper. He even ate all his veggies. I was skeptical, but then he sat around singing and playing “Somewhere, Over the Rainbow” in such a high wispy voice that was both cute and adorable, yet patently obvious that he was playing us to the hilt. I steeled my self for the coming bad news, but I was not prepared for what he had told his teacher.

Monday afternoon, I clocked out from work and drove to the school. Dessy and I went to the teacher’s room approached the conference table. The table was low, and the chairs were the size that was suitable for a normal second grader. I sat in the little blue plastic chair, and you could hear the creaks of protest all the way down the hall. The chair made some funny noises too. Johnnies teacher, who is a very nice young woman who clearly loves teaching, and truly cares for her students, started out by telling how wonderful our son is in class. He is well liked by his peers, he gets good grades. She said that usually he is a real role model. “Usually” being the operative word here.

Johnnies teacher told us how she witnessed Johnnie saunter over to the candy box (meant to reward the children for good performance) slowly look around and when the time was right snatched an extra piece of candy and slunk back to his desk.  She pulled Johnnie aside and confronted him on the action. We discussed Johnnies side of the story, what he had told us his parents, and what he had told the teacher, none of which incidentally, aligned with each other.

Then came the bombshell. The teacher asked us about Johnnie’s head injury from childhood. I relied; “Uhm, WHAT head injury?” His teacher went on to explain that John had told her how at age 4, a neighbor child had hit him in the head so hard with a bicycle helmet, that now he had memory issues, and had no clear recollection of stealing the said candy. My wife, who had been sitting silently up to this point, boldly announced that this trait was most decidedly not from the Indonesian gene pool, so it had to be my fault.  I on the other hand sat there with a dropped jaw and silently mouthing “The hell you say?” It was at that moment that I knew that although he looked like an Indonesian on the outside, he had taken all my teasing and stories to heart and reshaped them into a vehicle to escape the scene of his crimes.

On the drive home, I pulled over to discuss the issue. He had several excuses ranging from the head injury to being goaded into it by some imaginary 5^th grader, who by the way was nameless and was the brother of a 1^st grader who coincidentally had no name either.   About ten minutes into the conversation it was apparent that my son may be needing some intensive therapy, and by ‘therapy’ I mean he has an appointment to pull up a couple thousand weeds from the front and back yards.

International Relations

The holiday season is approaching  upon us!
It is no secret that this season is my favorite, and I have very defined ideas of how
to make it successful. I start out with specific times that things can start, such as,
no holiday music prior to Thanksgiving day, and the tree goes up the morning of Black Friday, no sooner, no later. That night we take the students to see The Greeley Griswolds Christmas light display.

I have a list of movies we have to watch throughout the season, starting with "Black Adder's Christmas Carol", then "National Lampoons Christmas Vacation", followed by "The Christmas Story", "Santa Clause Is Comin' To Town", "Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer, and "It's A Wonderful Life."

The first Christmas songs I listen too are actually not Christmassy at all, "The Thanksgiving Song" by Adam Sandler, then his "Time For Hanukkah." After that we get rolling with "Run DMC's Christmas In Hollis." Once that is all done, my family is free to celebrate in the manner they see fit. It is not that I am a Yule-tide tyrant per se, it is just that they do not know what is best for them.

This year, we planned out our normal Thanksgiving menu, invited all our students, bought the food, had it all worked out. We always cook a turkey, roast a ham, have the normal veggies, some unusual but delicious side dishes, and top it off with one of my home made pumpkin cheesecakes. Seems pretty straight forward, and then I had to throw a wrench into the works.

I invited a Muslim refugee to celebrate with us. On the surface these seems pretty simple, but then I realized that I had to make sure we had foods the guy could eat. Scratch the ham. Hide the wine. Substitute with roast beef and sparkling cherry juice. Check. Read up on dietary law to be sure nothing we served had hidden non- Halal ingredients. Check. Back on track. One of my friends at church who knows my friend Mo, told me I should get some dates to serve to our guest as it was one of his favorites. They told me where to look, and make sure it was authentic an authentic Middle Eastern product, complete with Arabic writing on the package. No problem, I live near Greeley, which is like the freakin' cultural center of the universe, right?

It took some searching but I finally found a little African store stuck behind some of
the seediest real estate that can be seen for miles. The parking lot was actually a
field of potholes that were stitched together with barbwire, and watered down with
storm drainage to presumably help with the whole feng shui of the operation. I walk
into the front door of the tiny shop and get shocked stares from the three Somalian
store clerks. Apparently I was the first white guy who had ever crossed the threshold
and they assumed I was either too drunk to find my way into the bar entrance of the
bowling alley 100 feet away, or that I was there because I was up to no good.

Now, let me make it clear, I too am a little nervous as this is my first time entering
into an African store, if was an Asian store, I know how to act, but this was new
territory. I look at the guys, and blurt; "I am looking for dates! The first reaction was that they looked at each other in a rather frightened manner, and there was a short hushed exchange between them, then the guy closest to me stammered; "B-b-b-but we are men!?" I blurt "OK, whatever, but where can I find dates?" Stunned Silence. Store Clerk: "But Sir, there are no women here!" Me: " I don't care who brings it, I just want buy dates!" Horrified Silence. Store Clerk: We do not sell that here!
Me: "Look, I invited this guy Mohammed to my house for Thanksgiving, and my pastor said to offer him dates as a gift."

KAAABOOOOM!


You would have thought I just driven a train through a nitro-glycerine factory. The front man stammered  "Whaaaat????  I repeated it, My friend Mo, from the refugee center, He is coming to visit me and He likes to eat dates. Suddenly we had a meeting of the minds. The store clerk led me over to a long shelf with a huge selection of dates. (It might be interesting to know, that if I had just looked three feet in front of me, I would have seen this shelf!)

I picked out a nice box, then the clerk timidly asked if there was anything else and
proceeded to show me around. I walked up to the counter with the dates, some rice, East African bottled juices, and a huge sense of relief. The guys behind the counter were then a little more at ease, and started questioning me about the reason I was there. I explained that I was making friends with Mo, and wanted to make him feel welcome in my home. "Your HOME?" they asked. They had to hear it a couple of times, because they could not believe their ears. The owner then shook my hand and asked me to come again. Mission accomplished.


Thanksgiving week turned out to be a success, nothing burned, no major wars in the kitchen with me and Dessy, everyone got fed, had some nice conversations and a few students came by the next day for leftovers and putting up the Christmas tree.

(Over the week we had students and guests visit from Mexico, Norway, China, France Djbouti, and Thailand.)



So on to the next phase of the Holidays, dealing with my kids and Christmas presents.

Till next time, I leave you with my Thanksgiving poem.

Ode To Thanksgiving

      'Twas the morning of Thanksgiving,
      And all through my house.
      You can hear lots of screaming from me and my spouse.
      From inside the kitchen with groceries to spare.
      We argued and fought over how to prepare.

      The guests will be coming,
      Expecting our best.
      The food won't be ready
      And our house is a mess.


      When on top of the stove, the yams made a splatter,
      And my wife came a running, to see what was the matter.
      The potatoes were flying, as I started to mash,
      and fell on the floor, then tossed in the trash.

      The bread won't be made, cause I messed up the dough
      and the stuffing is runny, why I don't know.
      When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
      But a miniature wife, and I shuddered in fear


      With a gleam in her eyes, and armed with a stick,
      I knew in a moment it's my butt she would kick.
      She drew in a deep breath, I quivered in shame,
      She shouted , and heckled, then bellowed my name!

      Get out of my kitchen, you're just in the way.
      I can't stand your face for even one more day.
      Cut carrots,
      Chop Celery,
      Slice onion,  and ham.
      Make Gravy,
      Do it your way,
      I don't give a damn.


      As the yelling subsided, I wished I could die,
      My little boy shuddered and started to cry.
      Then mommy took over, I ran in fear,
      I hid in the basement and sipped on a beer.

      And then, in a twinkling, I heard a crash on the floor,
      Then wailing and crying and a slamming front door.
      I went to the kitchen to find no one there,
      The mess that had happened was too much to bear.


      I laughed when I saw it, the food on the shelf!
      We're out of time, I said to myself.
      I thought for a moment, "This isn't so bad,
      Let's go have dinner with my mom and my dad.


      We drove to their house, and told them the deal,
      and begged them to let us come in for a meal.
      Mom spoke not a word, Dad had a big smirk,
      And said to my face that I was a big jerk.

      He then thumbed his nose and slammed the door shut,
      I looked at Josh and Dessy and said "Now what?"
      She suddenly smiled, and said "I know a way!"
      And away we all went to the Country Buffet.

      We all ate our fill, for $ seven ninety nine,
      Then went back to the house for a cheap glass of wine.
      As we fell asleep on the sofa, a voice yelled out in the night,
     
      "Happy Thanksgiving to all to all, and to all a big fight!

A Different Take on Life

I want to tell a little bit about something that is close to my heart. I have always been a bit insecure, and down on myself. I  have almost always dealt with depression. I have never felt like I am a good catch, a good provider or a good father. I do not feel worthy of success, or the excitement that it could bring. I have preferred to stay in the background, opting to serve, rather than lead. I put up a wall of humor to mask the insecurities, and when that fails me I escalate to sarcasm or even anger at times, all to try and avoid letting my sensitivity drag me further into internal pain. I can be, and often am a real butthole. But the fact is, I do really care about what is going on around me both locally and globally.

Some of you may know that I have gotten involved with reaching out to the local university and am involved with a program called "Friendship Family". It is an offering to the international students, where a typical local family can be a sort of surrogate family to a young student, while they attend the University for the duration of their studies here. It has been a great experience for us. We hope that our students get as much out of it as we do. I fear they do not, as we really seem to be getting the better end of the deal. We have had students from China, Thailand, South Korea, United Kingdom, France, Czech Republic, Italy, Malaysia, and Mexico. It has been very rewarding. It is not just because college students are young and vibrant, full of hope, vibrant and attractive, (although that does not hurt.) They bring an exchange of ideas and culture to the table. Sometimes they make really good food for us too. We feel that we have some relationships that have transcended a casual friendship that will fade in time, to actually feeling like we have extended our family beyond our borders.

We also have had the privilege of getting to know other international families, some by virtue of me having and Indonesian National for a spouse, but others through the course of my life, where I had the chance to meet various residents from all over the Europe, Asia, South America etc. Even Canadians for crying out loud. For the most part, most of these interactions were casual, and never really developed into lasting friendships. (not talking about you, JØrgen)

The landscape around me is changing. What once was a town that only had either White or Hispanic people living here, has evolved into a city where over 12 languages are spoken. I found this graph for Greeley, Colorado, but it is actually unofficially estimated that there are over 30 distinct languages spoken here now.

So where am I going with all this? Surprisingly it is not about embracing diversity per se. It is not about preaching inclusion, or being a good ambassador for the sake of anything or anyone. It is not about stopping racism or evangelism or any of that. I cannot control that on a high level. I do not even really want to. I am focusing on what my heart is telling me right now.

For several years, I have wondered about the immigrants coming to the USA. I have had coworkers who were labeled as "Boat People" or Eastern Bloc escapees. It seemed easy to talk to them when there was common frames of reference, like our work environment. I often wonder about the people I see in the stores, individual who are very different than the locals. Obvious foreigners.
People who despite the wearing of western clothes, living in western homes, driving the same kinds of cars that the rest of us drive, BUT still stick out like sore thumbs. It is easy to understand the concept of sticking out. When I go to Indonesia, I am about a foot taller than everyone else, at least twice their body weight, and make enough social faux pas that I end up saying sorry, more than I would like.

Here in my homeland when crossing paths with someone that obviously is not from this continent, I have tried to be cordial and offer a smile, only to be glared at, or ignored. Initially it seemed best to just overlook it. Over and over again, then one day, I got a little indignant. While driving by a group of Somali kids who were playing in the street, I slowed down so as not to hit anyone with the car, and then smiled and waved. They all glared at me like I was the white devil. I stopped and rolled down the window and asked what was the reason for the looks, when my intention was to be sure they did not get run over. The oldest kid, maybe 15 looked at me with confusion and it was soon very clear that the looks were more of fear and apprehension. Their countenances changed when they realized that this big fat white guy was not angry with them, did not hate them and was doing something they had not seen here before which was treating them with some common courtesy. It was heart breaking to me. These kids have been treated like untouchables the entire time they have lived here. They are not accepted by the general population because they are "those damned job taking refugees, who are unfriendly, and want their religion to take over the world." As I drove off, a few of the kids even waved back.

So back to present day, and an experience I had this weekend. The family and I went to an International Cultural event, to see some of our students perform. While there I was looking at some of the vendor booths and there was one with a guy giving information about the Immigration and Refugee center, so I stopped to ask a couple of questions.The guy talked for about 20 minutes of the problems that many refugee immigrants have with trust and fear of violence, etc. He also mentioned how many people go to work, and and then go straight back home, only to repeat the routine daily, and he wondered out loud why anyone would really want to come here and face the lonely lifestyle. So at the end of the conversation, I asked if we could get coffee sometime, and gave him my email.

I got a message that night asking if we could get together for a cup of coffee the next day. We met. We talked for nearly 4 hours. We covered subjects that spanned perception of life, politics, religion, tragedy, fear and the human condition. But what really stood was the fact that he was lonely. He said so many refugees are afraid of what will happen to them here. it dawned on me that the sullen looks I had been seeing all this time were perceived with the mind of someone who had not been oppressed. I have no experience where my uncle may have gotten gunned down in the street by some dictators henchmen. Nor would I understand being so desperate that I had to leave my family behind, leave all I know and understand, just to find a place to maybe live in peace, perhaps even just TO LIVE at all.

So why am I telling this to you all? Maybe it is just a plea to think a little differently about those who live amongst us, who we think are so different than us. With very few exceptions, every last one of us are descendants if immigrants. My family emigrated from Belgium, Italy, Ireland and most recently, Indonesia. Hopefully we can all think beyond our comfort zones and reach out a little more. It is uncomfortable for sure. We risk rejection. but please, if this means anything at all to you, try. Try again. Keep trying until you succeed. Even if you never have talked to anyone different, you can. Think a little how a new kid feels in school. They are scared, and shy. Make friends with the new family in the neighborhood. Make them welcome. Sometimes it is a real leap of faith to be that bold. Sometimes it is just as simple as saying hi and introducing yourself and talking about nothing in particular at all. It may not seem like much, but it might make all the difference to a hurting heart.

Better yet, you might make a difference in your own heart.  

You just never know.

A story I like to tell from time to time involves a sort of serendipity if you will. In 2013, I was a victim of a resource action at the big tech company I was contracted to. It was not my performance, it was a business decision and about a thousand others got the axe that day as well.

I was not too worried at first, but the economy was bad and after 2 years, I was still looking for sustainable work. It was a terrible time for our family. We came so close to losing the house, and my 6 year old at the time was starting to have a lot of anxiety over whether or not we would be homeless.

One day in early fall, we attended a safety fair. It had trinkets for the kids, demonstrations of firemen putting out fires, huge military vehicles etc. My son and I were looking at the booths and I saw a woman giving out brochures for mental health services. My boy went over to see what free stuff was to be had and I asked about children's counseling. The woman explained available services, then stopped short and asked me how I was doing. She said I looked a really down. I explained my situation and how sad I was that my little boy was bearing the burden or fear, because I was not finding work. The woman then handed me a small stone.

It had a business logo on one side, and the word "HOPE" engraved on the other. She encouraged me to look at that stone, and not lose hope that things could and even would change.  I thanked her and when I got home, put it on my night stand. I would look at it each night and think about hanging on a little bit more.

A few more weeks  pass and each day I am literally hurling resumes out on the internet. I was too the point where I was no longer keeping track of who it was sent to, I just would tailor the resume and send it. I even joined a site where you could apply for several jobs at once.

I get a call, and was asked to interview. I went in thinking it was going to be another day of disappointment, but kept my chin up for the interview. I was shocked to get hired on the spot. I was sent over to H.R. the next day to file paperwork and get a badge. I went home, still not quite believing I had a job. I looked at the badge and realized the logo was the same as the emblem on the stone on my night stand. I trembled a little, because it was not something I engineered, it was just... I do not know, coincidence, divine intervention? I was not sure how to feel, but I took it.

Fast forward 2 more years.

I was in the headquarters building of the company, helping a director by fixing her computer issue. I looked at her and asked if she was the woman who was manning the booth, then told her the story of the stone. I thanked her for the hope she helped instill in me. She got a little teary eyed, and gave me a hug.

I got a letter from her today. She had been thinking a lot about what I said. I had caught her on a day where she had been struggling with a decision to retire,  because she had grown weary of having to solve issues that were not hers to own. She told me that I reminded her that everyone does what they can, and even a small statement can make a difference in someone's life. She ended saying that she was glad that I was here to help make that difference, every day.

She is still here. She has not resigned yet. She is still helping to run a business that helps so many people escape the terrible grip of depression, and addiction.

It humbles me. I did not say anything profound. I just thanked her for saying something to me, that despite being small, made a life changing difference to me.

You just never know.

The Christmas Blessing

Every year, the holiday season comes and goes, bringing joy, laughter, happiness and goodwill.
Just kidding, as Clark Griswald so aptly stated, "We are at the threshold of Hell!"
This year had to be different. I had to make sure that we broke with the striving to have a memorable season, and try and simplify so that we avoided the stress and disappointment of it all.
I wanted to have this:

NOT this:

Every year, I have a plan in my head, one that involves picture perfect moments in front of the tree, swigging homemade eggnog by a roaring fire while listening to the kids sweetly sing Christmas carols while our perfectly decorated home twinkles magically with the warm glow of beautiful, yet environmentally friendly, low carbon footprint, LED lights, (which we bought at 90% off the last couple of years at the department stores!) Yet every year, there is discord, and disagreement over what goes where, which decorations to use this time around, and of course the glorious decision on how much debt to start the New Year with.

So this year was to be different. I would make a less labor intensive plan to execute what would be our best season ever. I planned smaller, cheaper, with less workload. I did not overthink it all. I involved the kids more in the set up. I just about had it dialed in and perfect. ALMOST.

Things got off to a good start. I did not argue over the menu for the Thanksgiving meal. I let my wife dictate how much we really needed. I memorized the public service flyer in the crapper at work on how to manage holiday stress.

We, as a family planned simple, inexpensive and meaningful activities that would warm our cold, icy hearts and fill our heads with good memories for years to come. I talked to the kids about the real meaning of the season. Neither of them believes in Santa anymore, so I was straight with them over perceptions or misguided expectations for this Christmas. Josh went as far as to announce one day, that he did not care if he got any presents, because Jesus was the reason for the season. I could not have been more proud of my son at that point. It was a beautiful sentiment to me, and you should remember this part, as it is important later in this story.

Just a day after Thanksgiving, we had some of our students from China over to help put up the tree and decorate it. We explained to them the meaning of the nativity, and how some of the decorations we put up are really not related to our chosen faith, and are actually rooted in more pagan tradition. I am sure this was a great selling point in convincing them of the true meaning of Christmas, atheist's as they are. The kids began to practice their songs for their Christmas pageant at church, the outdoor lights on timers so they would be less bother, the front yard decorated conservatively, and  the backyard with pretty much every other string of lights, and illuminated plastic statue that we had.
The kids loved it, but the wife, meh, not so much.

I ordered simple, educational, yet meaningful presents for the kids. Amazon was helping take all the stress out of everything. I was avoiding the greed and avarice one experiences in the horrible bustle and rush of Black Friday at the mall.

Everything I did from Thanksgiving onward, I did with careful deliberation. I created scenarios on paper, ran statistical analysis on past Christmas's, did projections, you name it. I was not going to allow myself to do anything that would ruin it all at the last minute. I had a good plan. It was solid, it was smart, it was simple. If I had a whim to add something to the mix I could, at my leisure. We put the old Lionel train under the tree. The kids were loving it. I was happy. I thought it was perfect until...

T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the house...

We went to our church for our traditional finger food pot luck, then a candlelight service. It was beautiful. Afterwards we took our Thai and Chinese students around town to see the special Christmas light displays. I was living the dream. I had the quiet elation of one who had won the battle for sanity in a season of potential chaos. It felt so good.

Early Christmas morning, my kids woke me up asking if they could open the presents.
We watched them scamper around and they were so great. They loved the simple presents. We started preparing the big dinner for all our students and family who would spend the day with us.
My oldest child came up and reiterated how he was so glad that Christmas was about God, and not all about toys and Santa. I think I felt a hot tear run down my cheek and I gave him a hug. It was the best Christmas ever. But then, the doorbell rang.

In walks one of our students with a large box. The kids started dancing around and begging to see what was in it. As they unwrapped it with careful anticipation, I saw the lettering, it was a video game console, an Xbox One! I was floored. I told the student that it was too much and thanked him for such a thoughtful gesture. He smiled and them my oldest son, the one who was all about the baby Jesus and loving the simple things in life blurted; "Daddy, We knew a month ago we were getting this, and we had to keep the secret!"

BOOOM! 

The illusion of my wonderful meaningful Christmas exploded like a dynamite cigar. My moth dropped open at the realization that my kid, my precious understanding son, had totally played me.  I almost uttered the words in my still shocked brain, but I managed to keep my composure and smile at him. After all, I was trying to make it a good memory for all, right? I calmly walked back to the kitchen looking for the egg nog. I poured a large cup and lifted it to toast our happy family. I said some kind words to all and let them know how much they meant to me.

Now I want you to look at this final scene, and reframe this image of Christmas joy. Replace the words calmly walked with "stomped", egg nog with "bourbon" and kind words with "Josh you are a lying a-hole!" That was what was going through my head, anyway.

I understand now that I may be asking too much of my kids to get the whole true meaning thing. I know they did their best. They did make me proud as they performed their songs at church.
We enjoyed the time together, the students were happy to experience a holiday with an American family for the first time. But I guess what they say is true, if you fly too close to the fire, you might singe your wings.

Summer Vacation

When I was a young student, it seemed that there was nothing better in the world than summer vacation. Summers seemed forever back then. Endless days of playing barefoot outside, the sweet smell of afternoon rain on fresh cut grass, adventures that never seemed to end. It was a cascade of fun memories that live with me still, albeit the memories are grey and dusty at times. I remember the innocence of youth, the scrapes and bumps, the cuts and bruises. The trips to Disneyland, and DC. Visiting relatives and places with what my father thought we should become well acquainted.
Salt water taffy, and Philly cheese steaks to new Orleans beignets. Battleships to Mesa Verde.

Summer was such fun back then. I think mostly because our entertainment directors were so much better at it. My parents carefully planned out every detail, had a list of scheduled activities which we followed as best as we could.  One of the things I hoped for when I grew up was that I could give my kids the same enriching experiences. Alas, hopes are not always realized, let me explain...

Since the day we got married in 2006, I had kept promising my wife that we would be sure to visit her home country but life always seemed to get in the way. Finally, after 10 years we caught a break and started planning. Got passports for the kids, made reservations for hotels, flights and immunization shots. We made a plan, I would fly over with them, stay a week, then leave them there for 3 more weeks so the boys could really get to know their heritage and more importantly, their relatives.

As the day of our departure approached, I prepared a list of things to take. I sure was not going to make the mistakes I had made in the past, over packing, because I assumed that I could not buy anything but trinkets and diphtheria in a backward third world country. (Note to all of you; never get travel advice from anyone born in the depression era, or any company that sells travel accessories.) I was going minimalist, dressing for comfort, and the only thing I was taking beside some clothing were American smokes to give out to the locals, because I knew that would curry great favor and give me access to paths most tourists never get to see. I KNEW that.

The great day arrives, time for us to go. I was all excited that I was about to live the dream, see the sights as a seasoned visitor. I get up, load the van, put the kids in the car and calmly drive to the airport with time to spare. Because I am of course a seasoned traveler. I had mentioned that, right?

I wake up early to find my suitcase torn open, and my wife repacking it with gifts, kids stuff, and clothing. "HEY!" I calmly screamed at Dessy, "I had that packed and ready!"  Apparently, the kids had to have 50 changes of clothes each. Then at the last minute I decide to gift Indonesia with one of my famous home made cheesecakes, because it totally makes sense to fly a frozen cheesecake halfway around the world, right?

We finally board the plane and take off, first layover is in Tokyo. I tell Dessy, that we just HAD to try real sushi. We found a place and ordered a modest 2 caterpillar rolls and sodas and a beer. It was so exciting, but not because of the quality. It was the bill got my heart racing. I did the conversions and $100 USD!!! I later was told that the airport was the worst place other than a gas station in Kansas to buy sushi.

We re-boarded the plane and took off for Jakarta. Smooth flight, but just as the plane touched down a crosswind got us and we landed poorly. I looked at Dessy and her wide eyes and said; 'Well, at least you still get to be buried in Indonesia!" We made it to the gate and had a reunion with her family. It was so nice seeing the kids great their Opung mama for the first time. Dessy was tired but excited. Her family was mildly concerned over the cheesecake, as it was no longer frozen, a bit malformed and had an odd after taste of jet exhaust.

Now, it is important to understand that in some cultures, you follow certain rules, and one of those is to properly protect yourself from ingesting harmful bacteria. I knew how to do this because I am a seasoned traveler. I had mentioned that, right? WELL. I managed to spend the remaining 7 days doing the Bogor Bathroom tour. I could not go anywhere farther than five minutes away from a western toilet. It was awesome. I got to expose my bum to squatty potty's, and 30 other bathrooms ranging in luxuriousness from abandoned condemned septic tank to 5 star heated toilet seat with auto bidet. So there was that delightfulness. That, and how everyone seemed to know about the condition, because my wife FACEBOOKED IT!!! Initially I thought people must have known I was from Colorado, because no matter where I went, someone would invariably ask me "How's your Aspen?" Of course I may have understood the accent.

Dessy and the kids fared a little bit better. The kids decided to refuse any food that did not come in a McDonalds, Burger King, or Pizza Hut wrapper. At home they love to eat most Indonesian foods, but heck no, not at the source. They were spoiled terribly by relatives. They got to ride with auntie on a scooter (no helmets), and had so much fun that my youngest informed me on a call that he did not miss me, and wanted to stay and live with his grandmother and aunties. I won that battle though. I said, "Fine, I will give all your toys to the neighbor kids." He must have mulled that over, because a week later he said he might want to come home again someday.

We did get to see a couple of sights, the traditional markets, and some relatives. I tried to give out the cigarettes and found that in the ten years I had been gone, hardly anyone smoked anymore. Everyone wanted to be healthy. Figures. I had nothing to offer at that point.

One last note, I am eternally grateful to cousin Erina, her husband Arief and their son Owen, for watching over the family to make sure they were safe and sound. I hope that we get to go back in a couple of years, and hopefully will have learned some good lessons for the next trip.

Because, you know, WE are seasoned travelers.

The Hiatus

Today I realized that it has been nearly 2 years since I have posted. Please allow me to explain, while offering an apology to those of you who were interested in my stories.
The 2.5 year period that I was unemployed took the joy right out of life for me, and as a result, I just did not have the heart to continue fabricating the gross embellishments that I used to describe daily events. I feared that my words would become too dark, disturbing, or offensive. I elected to stop writing until I was on some happier ground. Sarcasm for me ceases to be funny, when I become embittered. Soon, you will start to see my musings again, and I hope you will enjoy them.

- Mark