Earlier this week I spent Monday and Tuesday night at a motel (not a hotel, but a motel with parking right in front of your door, which is a big deal if you have car) at he very entrance to Disneyland...in Anaheim. I'm not sure what level of mischief this should tell me about the guys I was interviewing with. This motel was built sometime in the 60's, was apparently bought by Best Western, and is living out it's existence as a home base for Disneyland pilgrims.
When I checked in, they assigned a room..109. When I tried the door, the key would not work. So I pulled my suitcase and backpack back to the lobby and told them the key was not working.
"Oh yes, 109, we can't seem to get it fixed. We will give you 209." They were disappointed that I did not exhibit the appreciation that was warranted by this decision.
So I thumped my suitcase up a flight of stairs, entered the room and was hit by a heatwave. After the last guest they decided to save a few coins and not turn on the air conditioner. So after several futile moments looking for the wall thermostat, I looked up and spied a window unit..stuck high in the wall above the microwave/vanity/coffee service. Okay, interesting, haven't used a window unit in a while. Turned the beast on and it sounded like a cat being forced through a meat grinder. I tried a slower speed..smaller cat. So I called the front desk,
"Hi, this is Don in room 209, would you send up the maintenance guy, this air conditioner sounds like an airplane taking off."
"No problem, just few minutes."
In 10 minutes the maintenance guy showed up, fiddled with the controls and turned to me and said, "No good." No kidding Sherlock. "We go find another room." He calls the front desk, has a non-English conversation for a few minutes, then motions me to follow him. So I thumped my suitcase back down the stairs back to room, yes, 109. He waited for the guy to bring him a key. I mentioned that this room was a problem, the keys don't work. He gave me that sly, smug, s***-eating grin and worked the key into the slot, pulled the door towards himself then shoved inward. Worked like a charm. He needs to inform the front desk about the code, but apparently this was a territorial battle that my conflict management skills weren't going to solve.
Got into the room, turned on the window unit and it sounded like someone mincing mice. I can live with this, maybe my snoring would muffle the A/C sound. Walked to dinner, had a nice little meal, walked back, dead on my feet, long day. Turned in around 9PM and just as I was dozing off heard what sounded like a small child being dumped out of a bed upstairs. You have got to be kidding me. Who brings their kids to Disneyland to slam them around in a hotel room? I got up, pulled on my slacks, shouldered my way into my sport shirt, opened the door and realized that the sounds were the fireworks display for Disneyland. Lots of folks on the catwalks oohing and ahhing over the fireworks. You have got to be kidding me. Good grief, I'm going to bed.
Next morning, up at 4AM, worked for a bit, then headed for the fitness center. 6AM on the nose..key wouldn't work, deep sigh, walked to the lobby. The security guy has to unlock, called him, 20 minutes later the door was open. I have no idea how long that fitness has been there, but it was pristine. The machines were brand new, it didn't even smell like a fitness center. I wondered if I was the first guy to use it.
On the way back to the room, I decided to detour through the breakfast area..mistake. It was like viewing feeding time at the day-care center. Cereal and milk flying everywhere, guys looking at the kids like they were trying to figure out what species they were, and how did they end up here. I was the only one in there with long pants. Sorry, I can't do this. I need a nice quiet cup of coffee, a well-toasted bagel, and a news paper. This was noisy and chaotic and messy, I'm out.
During the day I was reporting all this to my bride and she exclaimed in a very exasperated tone, "But you are at the Happiest Place On Earth! Go to Downtown Disney!"
So that evening I went to Downtown Disney, settled at small corner table at a restaurant and watched the fireworks display. While it did little to change my opinion about the "happiest" at least the fireworks were pretty, the people-watching was above standard, and it made me happy that I was going home the next day. The happiest place on earth for me is with my bride, not in the midst of the most frenetic, family violence inducing place in north America.
I have decided that business and vacation do not mix. When I travel with family I am good with noise and confusion and chaos. When I travel on business I like efficiency, quiet, and order. The happiest place for me is airline connections on time, customers that are reasonable, and good coffee. Goofy, and Mickey need to stay the heck away from me.
Oh, and the motel Internet service didn't work..great.
Godspeed, when I got home I was asked, once again, just how old was I?
Don
Friday, July 23, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I'm Back
What a week it was last week. Our oldest daughter and her two kids came to visit. Our youngest and her 9-month-old were here to mix in and our son's newest arrival was visited as he completed his second week in the family. We water-parked, ate, zooed, ate, swam, ate, napped, ate, and we had some really good meals. I fixed breakfast most mornings, we "sandwiched" for lunch most days, and had some really fine shrimp and pasta, peasant pasta, leftover pasta..my eldest really likes pasta.
But here is my favorite part. At one time or another I had good alone time with each grandkid. Each is in a different stage and brings out different feelings wrapped around different activities.
Eli is just fun to be around. He is not a little boy anymore. He is action and movement. We love to play golf together. He brought his sticks and even though it was rainy all week, we managed to get in one good afternoon at the local middle school and play a 9-hole, par-3 course in north Dallas. We do not keep score. It isn't that he can't hit the green on his tee shot, he does. In fact, we have a little side game where if he hits the green on his tee shot I give him a dollar. It usually costs me about $2 per 9 holes. But he insists on putting out...11 strokes later. I'm not sure I would have the patience for that at a younger age. But at this age, we just laugh about all the strokes and I praise him to high heaven for the shots getting there. But he loves carrying his clubs, and cleaning the club after every shot, EVERY SHOT. It slows the game just a little. His mind begins to wander after 7 or 8 holes, so 9 holes is perfect. I have found that everything is negotiated. He has developed a little habit of wanting to hit additional shots off the tee, to "see if he can get it on the green" then we have a negotiating conference all the way to the green regarding whether the second shot counted (he says it does, I say it doesn't) I usually negotiate him down from a $1 to a Sonic drink..which then turns into a negotiation about whether it is soft drink or a chocolate milk shake. He never realizes that my job, my career is negotiating, he has no chance, none, I've been trained and tested in the business world...until he says, "Please Grandaddy" Sigh. I lose every time.
Phoebe is the dancer, the singer, a mop of curls and grins, and a little spitfire personality. But here is where this old grandaddy's heart gets captured every time. When she wakes up from sleeping, nap or night, it makes no difference. She may be the most tender, warmest human being on earth. She comes in with those reddish curls all atangle, blanket in tow and climbs up in my lap and snuggles in close. The world goes away. It is our cocoon of love and safety and heart bonding. I cannot get enough of it. She will watch from our sanctuary as the day livens up and for a few short moments is content to sit with her grandaddy. It will break my heart when she decides she is too old for this moment.
Our 9-month-old Lincoln has turned from what I thought was a serious little NICU baby into quite a charmer. He has the most infectious smile I have ever seen. Occasionally I look around a room of adults all trapped in exercise of trying to get him to smile. It is not hard, it is simply addictive. His favorite joke is my daughter trying to get him to ask for "more" ( fingers made into a cone, then touching the tips of the fingers on the opposing hands together) He laughs, which makes all of us laugh, then bangs the highchair tray with the flat of his hand. His daddy thinks it is hilarious, we all laugh, his momma gets that funny laugh that means she is trying to teach him something and finds the rest of us no help at all. I'm telling you that boy is going to be a handful when he gets older.
The new addition we don't know quite as well yet. But there is something about holding him while he sleeps that tends to bond us. I love watching him, wondering who he will trun out to be. He is creating a bit of angst with his non-feeding habits, and wearing his parents out with his lack of schedule, but he is loved by all, prayed over by all, and will figure it out. My son and I have had several conversations about how to adapt to all this. The most prevalent parenting philosophy is "trial and error" more error right now than anything else. What I have gently tried to convey is the slate gets wiped clean with the second one and most of the knowledge gets tossed because the second will be different. What you get to keep is the knowledge that it will work out. As parents we all live with the guilt of our ignorance. I can't wait to hold him again.
What does the future hold? I have no idea. If these are the only ones..I'm good. If there are more, I'm good. I can't wait to take Eli, Lincoln, Isaac to play golf. Of course, I will have to recruit their non-golfing daddies as wranglers. Then there is the three-fold negotiations..they won't all be as good at it as Eli will they?
Godspeed. This grandaddy is stunned that these blessings are so available. Who would'a thunk it?
Don
But here is my favorite part. At one time or another I had good alone time with each grandkid. Each is in a different stage and brings out different feelings wrapped around different activities.
Eli is just fun to be around. He is not a little boy anymore. He is action and movement. We love to play golf together. He brought his sticks and even though it was rainy all week, we managed to get in one good afternoon at the local middle school and play a 9-hole, par-3 course in north Dallas. We do not keep score. It isn't that he can't hit the green on his tee shot, he does. In fact, we have a little side game where if he hits the green on his tee shot I give him a dollar. It usually costs me about $2 per 9 holes. But he insists on putting out...11 strokes later. I'm not sure I would have the patience for that at a younger age. But at this age, we just laugh about all the strokes and I praise him to high heaven for the shots getting there. But he loves carrying his clubs, and cleaning the club after every shot, EVERY SHOT. It slows the game just a little. His mind begins to wander after 7 or 8 holes, so 9 holes is perfect. I have found that everything is negotiated. He has developed a little habit of wanting to hit additional shots off the tee, to "see if he can get it on the green" then we have a negotiating conference all the way to the green regarding whether the second shot counted (he says it does, I say it doesn't) I usually negotiate him down from a $1 to a Sonic drink..which then turns into a negotiation about whether it is soft drink or a chocolate milk shake. He never realizes that my job, my career is negotiating, he has no chance, none, I've been trained and tested in the business world...until he says, "Please Grandaddy" Sigh. I lose every time.
Phoebe is the dancer, the singer, a mop of curls and grins, and a little spitfire personality. But here is where this old grandaddy's heart gets captured every time. When she wakes up from sleeping, nap or night, it makes no difference. She may be the most tender, warmest human being on earth. She comes in with those reddish curls all atangle, blanket in tow and climbs up in my lap and snuggles in close. The world goes away. It is our cocoon of love and safety and heart bonding. I cannot get enough of it. She will watch from our sanctuary as the day livens up and for a few short moments is content to sit with her grandaddy. It will break my heart when she decides she is too old for this moment.
Our 9-month-old Lincoln has turned from what I thought was a serious little NICU baby into quite a charmer. He has the most infectious smile I have ever seen. Occasionally I look around a room of adults all trapped in exercise of trying to get him to smile. It is not hard, it is simply addictive. His favorite joke is my daughter trying to get him to ask for "more" ( fingers made into a cone, then touching the tips of the fingers on the opposing hands together) He laughs, which makes all of us laugh, then bangs the highchair tray with the flat of his hand. His daddy thinks it is hilarious, we all laugh, his momma gets that funny laugh that means she is trying to teach him something and finds the rest of us no help at all. I'm telling you that boy is going to be a handful when he gets older.
The new addition we don't know quite as well yet. But there is something about holding him while he sleeps that tends to bond us. I love watching him, wondering who he will trun out to be. He is creating a bit of angst with his non-feeding habits, and wearing his parents out with his lack of schedule, but he is loved by all, prayed over by all, and will figure it out. My son and I have had several conversations about how to adapt to all this. The most prevalent parenting philosophy is "trial and error" more error right now than anything else. What I have gently tried to convey is the slate gets wiped clean with the second one and most of the knowledge gets tossed because the second will be different. What you get to keep is the knowledge that it will work out. As parents we all live with the guilt of our ignorance. I can't wait to hold him again.
What does the future hold? I have no idea. If these are the only ones..I'm good. If there are more, I'm good. I can't wait to take Eli, Lincoln, Isaac to play golf. Of course, I will have to recruit their non-golfing daddies as wranglers. Then there is the three-fold negotiations..they won't all be as good at it as Eli will they?
Godspeed. This grandaddy is stunned that these blessings are so available. Who would'a thunk it?
Don
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Quiet Time
Saturday mornings may be the quietest moment in the week. No school buses on the street. No one headed for work. Dogs are let out late. Calm, quiet, still. It has become my favorite moment.
This morning I awoke at 5:45 and just listened to nothing. The only sounds were the house ticking and clicking, birds just beginning to stir, bride's soft breathing as she sleeps, and the thoughts tumbling around in my head. I used to hate these moments. For some reason they made me edgy, anxious about getting going.
Over the past several years, though, I have developed quite a love for them. I think the application of spiritual disciplines of silence and solitude have taught me that God's quiet voice is best heard when the rest of the world can be shut out for a moment. When asked by my bride or my kids what I'm doing in these moments, the best I can come up with is "thinking." But that really doesn't catch all the flavor of what is going on. I'm thinking, but I'm listening as well, introspecting (Is this a real word?) taking inventory, letting my mind settle for a moment.
I catch myself doing this in a lot of places. Driving gives me great time to sit and ponder the quirks of my world. My bride doesn't care much for it when she is in the car. Sitting in silence with no radio or conversation is not her idea of togetherness. So I have to remind myself that when with others I need to be aware of their comfort zones. My kids don't really get it either. So if everyone in the world around you doesn't enjoy it, it is best to realize they aren't the odd ones.
But this morning is great. So many things/events/ people to think about. New grandson, new opportunities in the career world, shifting spiritual insights are all floating around and giving me a real joy over the quiet time. My nature will not let this sit for long, but for this moment the journey is quiet and calm and restful.
Godspeed, take a moment, let God talk for a while, but He speaks softly.
Don
This morning I awoke at 5:45 and just listened to nothing. The only sounds were the house ticking and clicking, birds just beginning to stir, bride's soft breathing as she sleeps, and the thoughts tumbling around in my head. I used to hate these moments. For some reason they made me edgy, anxious about getting going.
Over the past several years, though, I have developed quite a love for them. I think the application of spiritual disciplines of silence and solitude have taught me that God's quiet voice is best heard when the rest of the world can be shut out for a moment. When asked by my bride or my kids what I'm doing in these moments, the best I can come up with is "thinking." But that really doesn't catch all the flavor of what is going on. I'm thinking, but I'm listening as well, introspecting (Is this a real word?) taking inventory, letting my mind settle for a moment.
I catch myself doing this in a lot of places. Driving gives me great time to sit and ponder the quirks of my world. My bride doesn't care much for it when she is in the car. Sitting in silence with no radio or conversation is not her idea of togetherness. So I have to remind myself that when with others I need to be aware of their comfort zones. My kids don't really get it either. So if everyone in the world around you doesn't enjoy it, it is best to realize they aren't the odd ones.
But this morning is great. So many things/events/ people to think about. New grandson, new opportunities in the career world, shifting spiritual insights are all floating around and giving me a real joy over the quiet time. My nature will not let this sit for long, but for this moment the journey is quiet and calm and restful.
Godspeed, take a moment, let God talk for a while, but He speaks softly.
Don
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Mowing the Lawn
This past Monday I mowed my son's yard. Not a big deal. In fact, the yard is pretty small compared to some that I have mowed in the past. This is not the norm. He takes good care of his own yard. But he and my D-i-L had our fourth grandchild on Saturday and had just brought the boy home. They were worn out, and needed as much rest as possible. Besides, I am next to useless when it comes to new babies, new moms, and new grandmoms. They use a different language from lactation coaches to transition to colostrum (sp.) No idea, nada. So what can I do to help? I KNOW how to mow a yard, I love to run errands, so I find things to do to help.
It was beginning to cloud up, so I got busy as quickly as I could. Halfway through mowing a very vivid memory jumped into my head. When this same son was born to me, we were living in Dallas, I was working for Westinghouse Credit. Those were the days when big corporations tended to pay very little. It was also the summer ('80) when we had 100+ days of 100 degrees. It was also that summer that I took on a number of yards to help make ends meet. Nearly every evening I would stop on the way home, mow a yard, pack up, then head to the house, $20-25 richer. I would also mow a couple of yards on Saturday. I was very tan, and in pretty good shape for a guy who analyzed data all day for the branch locations in the south/southwest. I was a little younger than my son is now.
So here is the memory. When Ben was born on June 4, I moved a couple of those yards aside to be in the delivery room. Back then we were called "coaches" which is a little of a misnomer. First of all, most coaches have played the game...not these coaches, we not only never played, we never even suited up..and never will. Secondly, the event was going to play out with us or without us. Telling your bride, who is going through incredible to pain and anxiety, to "breath" is a sure way to get into a conversation that you are not only going to lose, but likely will not survive. I have the distinct impression that the entire delivery staff is covertly rolling their eyes as we dad's try to coach. Really? They are huffing and puffing, straining and hurting, and the best we can come up with is...breath. "You breath, you sorry @#$%^&, you're the one that got me into this!!"
Anyhoo, the next day I had a couple of yards to catch up on, but I desperately wanted to be with my bride and our new son. My folks had come in to see their newest grandbaby, and I mentioned to my dad that I was feeling torn about where I needed to be. Back in those days my dad always traveled with his "work clothes" a set of coveralls. So he said he would help. We showed up at the first house and he mowed while I edged. My memory of him in those light green coveralls, cap on his head, marching along behind that mower at high speed is still a strong memory for me. We knocked out those yards in no time and were back in the hospital in only a couple of hours. Over the next few days he would install a window unit in our little rent house, fix a commode that wasn't flushing quite right, and yes, run numerous errands.
Remember that this guy was a doctor, an optometrist. I'm sure he never even considered that the folks whose yards he was mowing were at least equals in social standing. He didn't care about his standing or theirs, he cared about his son and his grandson. He simply wanted to help and did so in the way he knew best. They call me "little Grady" I think because we look similar. But some of it is our nature. I hope so. I stopped mowing for a moment and realized that my dad had taught me well. He never lectured, he never "expected" anything. He simply stepped in to help, with good humor, and a mild touch. The lessons we learn are more caught than taught, but they run deep in our souls and nature.
The words to the hits from my youth, " teach your children well" We all do, one way or the other.
Godspeed to all out there who are reaping the rewards of parenthood...grandkids.
Don
It was beginning to cloud up, so I got busy as quickly as I could. Halfway through mowing a very vivid memory jumped into my head. When this same son was born to me, we were living in Dallas, I was working for Westinghouse Credit. Those were the days when big corporations tended to pay very little. It was also the summer ('80) when we had 100+ days of 100 degrees. It was also that summer that I took on a number of yards to help make ends meet. Nearly every evening I would stop on the way home, mow a yard, pack up, then head to the house, $20-25 richer. I would also mow a couple of yards on Saturday. I was very tan, and in pretty good shape for a guy who analyzed data all day for the branch locations in the south/southwest. I was a little younger than my son is now.
So here is the memory. When Ben was born on June 4, I moved a couple of those yards aside to be in the delivery room. Back then we were called "coaches" which is a little of a misnomer. First of all, most coaches have played the game...not these coaches, we not only never played, we never even suited up..and never will. Secondly, the event was going to play out with us or without us. Telling your bride, who is going through incredible to pain and anxiety, to "breath" is a sure way to get into a conversation that you are not only going to lose, but likely will not survive. I have the distinct impression that the entire delivery staff is covertly rolling their eyes as we dad's try to coach. Really? They are huffing and puffing, straining and hurting, and the best we can come up with is...breath. "You breath, you sorry @#$%^&, you're the one that got me into this!!"
Anyhoo, the next day I had a couple of yards to catch up on, but I desperately wanted to be with my bride and our new son. My folks had come in to see their newest grandbaby, and I mentioned to my dad that I was feeling torn about where I needed to be. Back in those days my dad always traveled with his "work clothes" a set of coveralls. So he said he would help. We showed up at the first house and he mowed while I edged. My memory of him in those light green coveralls, cap on his head, marching along behind that mower at high speed is still a strong memory for me. We knocked out those yards in no time and were back in the hospital in only a couple of hours. Over the next few days he would install a window unit in our little rent house, fix a commode that wasn't flushing quite right, and yes, run numerous errands.
Remember that this guy was a doctor, an optometrist. I'm sure he never even considered that the folks whose yards he was mowing were at least equals in social standing. He didn't care about his standing or theirs, he cared about his son and his grandson. He simply wanted to help and did so in the way he knew best. They call me "little Grady" I think because we look similar. But some of it is our nature. I hope so. I stopped mowing for a moment and realized that my dad had taught me well. He never lectured, he never "expected" anything. He simply stepped in to help, with good humor, and a mild touch. The lessons we learn are more caught than taught, but they run deep in our souls and nature.
The words to the hits from my youth, " teach your children well" We all do, one way or the other.
Godspeed to all out there who are reaping the rewards of parenthood...grandkids.
Don
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