The Facebook Lie We All Believe

What is your favorite parental duty? 

Maybe it’s teaching your child something important, like riding a bike.  Or fishing.  Or perhaps you relish the chance to impart wisdom about the world?  Serving others side-by-side with selfless abandon.

Me?

I like eating my kids’ leftovers at a restaurant. 

It’s a dad’s job.  Sheer bliss for a guy who loves kid food.  I once had corn dogs for every meal of the day.  At age 37.  My personal theology states that each time Audrey fails to finish her chicken finger basket, an angel gets its wings.  All in the spirit of teaching the kids that food is not to be wasted.

Unfortunately, there is an unwelcome corollary to this fatherly task.  And I’m not talking about the shameful feeling you get after eating your own Dairy Queen Blizzard and then downing the two Peanut Buster Parfaits that you forced your kids to order. 

It’s eating leftovers at home.

I have a slightly irrational fear of food gone bad, so anything sealed in Tupperware can be intimidating.  Even if it’s only been in there for a day or two.  On top of that, as a dad, I am often required to build a meal from random items to help make room for the next batch of food.

Case in point: Today’s lunch was a virtual tour of the world, consisting of two tablespoons of taco meat, some BBQ pork, Cajun potato salad, and a fortune cookie. 

You want fries with that?

I took my meal into my office.  There, I browsed Facebook while I stuffed my Facehole, praying for a peaceful resolution to the United Nations conflict erupting in my lower intestine.  As I scrolled through my newsfeed, I saw a beautiful photo of a recipe my friend was making for dinner.  Fresh salad, broiled chicken, baked apples, and a broccoli rice casserole that would make any church potluck jealous. 

The picture was perfect.  The chicken glistened like Fabio’s chest at a romance novel photo shoot.  Steamy and golden brown.  The salad looked like it had just been plucked from an exotic rainforest garden.  The casserole was cheesy and bubbling. And I’m convinced the apples had been photoshopped to resemble Beyonce’s backside.

I knew that no chef in the world could make food that looked so wonderful.  It was pure fantasy.  But that didn’t change this simple fact:

I now hated my lunch.

My potato salad was a bit bland.  The taco meat wasn’t “taco-ey” enough.  And my fortune cookie didn’t even contain a real fortune to guide my future.  It just said “you have a deep interest in all that is artistic.”

You don’t know me, Confucius!

But it didn’t stop there.  I scrolled through more posts.  People on vacations to exotic destinations.  Families dressed to the nines for a photo shoot.  A beautiful couple standing outside their new home.  Remodeled bathrooms and kitchens.

I looked at myself.  I was sitting in my messy office eating leftovers from a plastic plate.  My jeans were ripped. By accident.  I was sporting paint-splattered Crocs and dress socks.  I had a runny nose and a used Kleenex in my left shirt pocket. 

Then, I started to reflect on my relationships.  Gabby and I have hardly spoken in a week due to sheer busy-ness. I still haven’t read Audrey the horse book like I’ve promised for the last two days.   Jake was hungry last night, but I put him to bed without a snack because I was too lazy to unwrap a cheese stick. 

A cheese stick?!  Really?!  Who am I?

It’s in these moments where we move past hating our lunch straight into hating our lives.  We feel inadequate.  Staring at sanitized lives on our computer screens where no one is clicking my “like” button. 

And we’re not alone.

A number of recent studies have found that passive viewing of Facebook content can decrease life satisfaction and increase feelings of depression. Research suggests that the more time you spend browsing social media content, the more likely you are to fall victim to a phenomenon known as “social comparision.”  By itself, this wouldn’t be bad.  But the phenomenon is compounded by the fact that people tend to share information that shows them in the most positive light.

Guilty.

I checked my own timeline for a glimpse of my real life.  Sitting like a slug on the couch.  Feeling insecure about an upcoming business meeting.  Saying something stupid and hurtful to my wife.

Funny.  Didn’t post any of that.  Must have forgotten.

We share the joys of life.  I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.  Good news brings smiles to faces.  The problem comes when we start comparing everyone else’s highlight reel to the cutting room floor of our own lives. It doesn’t help that we tend to “friend” people who are very much like us, so we mistakenly believe that our comparison as a valid one.   

Newsflash: it’s not.    

Unfortunately, that highlight reel we see becomes the benchmark for our own expectations.  And these unrealistic expectations pervade every waking moment of our lives.  And when my life doesn’t look like the pictures, I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

But it’s not Mark Zuckerberg’s fault. 

It’s mine.

My overblown expectations create a voice in my head, and it screams at me.  Day in.  Day out.  And I judge my worth by whether or not my life measures up.

And it can’t.

Because dinners burn in the oven.  Kids get sick on vacation.  Stuff breaks.  Husbands and wives argue.  Junior loses the big game.  Mom loses the big job.  Dad loses his keys.  And his cool.    

It’s called life. And it happens to all of us.

But that voice in our head still screams.

       You’re flawed.

       You’re broken.

       You’re not enough.

Wanna’ know a secret?   

We’re all just fighting for something we already have.  Like looking for the pen that’s tucked behind my own ear.  I scan my page for “likes” in hopes of finding a sense of peace.  To drown out the voice in my head.  My voice. 

But I’m looking in the wrong place. 

The approval I seek already exists deep inside me.  It was put there by the one who made me from the dust of earth.  Created in His image.  Perfectly flawed.  Wonderfully wounded.  And, as inferior as I may feel on the outside, the Almighty loves me to the core.  The corn-dog-eating, cheese-stick-hoarding, Croc-wearing, snot-nosed, narcissistic child of God.

And there is nothing I can do to change that.  

But I can change something.

I can choose to be the voice that uplifts.  The God-voice for others, to help them see their own beauty within.  To drown out the voice of expectation and inferiority. 

And I can choose to listen.  To hear that voice.  His voice.  A faint whisper.  Ever-present.  Saying,

You are worthy.

       You are enough.

             You are loved. 

* Like this post?  Follow us on Facebook.  I know... dripping with irony ;-(

The Care and Feeding of Lent

*Writer's note:  Today marks the beginning of Lent.  Forgive me for posting this story again (for those who have read it), but it just fits. "I love you."

My wife's words pierced through the silence.  I looked over at Gabby in the passenger seat.  She was smiling and looking me in the eye.

“I love you, too!”

My mind had been racing.  Jumping from “What should we eat for dinner?” to “How should I redesign my company website?” to “Who wrote the 80’s classic ‘Safety Dance?’”  Gabby’s unsolicited, unexpected words of affection brought me back to reality. I smiled at her.

A few miles down the road, she said it again.

“I love you.”

I stared at her, keeping both hands on the wheel.

“I love you, too!”  I glanced up and corrected my steering, coming back into the passing lane.

“No.  I really love you,” she said.  With feeling.

I reached across the console and grabbed her hand.  We continued our drive to church, connected in silence.  I felt a deep sense of joy for our relationship.

And so it went for several weeks.  Three simple words, “I love you.” Spoken as frequently as one might say “put on your shoes” to a four-year-old prior to leaving the house.  It's not that we don't regularly communicate our appreciation for one another, but Gabby showered me with an avalanche of affectionate words, and I was happily buried.

Then came Easter.

On our way home from church, Gabby turned to me and asked,

“So, do you want to know what I gave up for Lent?”

“Huh?”

“I never told you what I gave up for Lent.  The past forty days.  Do you want to know what it was?”

“Sure.”

“Well,” she hesitated.

“You know how I always criticize your driving?”

“Yes.”  I muttered.

“Well.  For Lent, every time I wanted to comment about your speeding, or not signaling, or whatever else, I decided to say ‘I love you’ instead.”

I nearly rear-ended the Toyota immediately in front of us.

To this day, anytime Gabby says “I love you,” my first response is to scream,

“Driving on the shoulder is perfectly acceptable in 43 of the 50 states!”

And we don’t even have to be in the car.

Only kidding, of course.  It really has changed our relationship in the car.

As we enter another Lenten season, we church-goers are looking for something significant to give up for Lent. It’s our Christian ritual. Like marking our forehead with ashes to publicly signify our commitment to follow the path that Christ set before us.  Repentance and sacrifice.

So, what will you give up?  Sweets?  Reality TV shows?  Facebook?

Last year, I got a vasectomy.

Too drastic, you say?

Gabby had it right.  Lent is less about “what” you choose to sacrifice, and more about “why” you choose to sacrifice.  For my wife, she realized a simple behavior was getting in the way of genuinely connecting with someone important to her.  And in forty days, she built a lasting habit that is paying dividends to this day.

Too often, Lent becomes an exercise in delayed gratification.  We choose to deny ourselves of something we love so that we can truly appreciate it when we have it once again at Easter.  And, there is a certain spiritual truth in that.  On the Earth, we can get disconnected from all things God.  And one day, God willing, we’ll get to ride that grand escalator to the sky where we finally meet our Creator and feel the amazing embrace.

I’m sure it’ll feel just like having your first Pop Tart after going carb-free for six weeks.

But it’s so much more than delayed gratification.  Lent is a time of pruning.  Cutting away the shoots that have grown over time.  The ones that clutter, and choke, and prevent healthy growth here on Earth.

So we can feed and care for the branches that really matter.

* Like this post?  Follow us on Facebook!

Man Up: A Brief Instruction Manual

Not long ago, my wife escaped the confines of our house to enjoy what is known as a “girl’s weekend.”  If you have not heard of such a thing, I am not surprised.  Finding a “girl’s weekend” in its natural habitat is as rare as bumping into a cucumber sandwich at a monster truck rally. While Gabby enjoyed what I imagined to be endless Sex and the City reruns interrupted by the occasional pillow fight, I was left at home to care for the kids.  The prospect was both exciting and scary.  I love having one-on-one time to shape their character in ways only a dad can, but knowing I would have to keep track of homework and execute a legitimate pony tail gave me indigestion.

As soon as we woke up the next morning, Jake and Audrey excitedly asked,

“What are we doing today, Daddy?”

“Well, I need to run some errands.  Maybe start at Home Depot…”

The whining and screaming erupted before the words left my mouth.   You would think I had just told them I was kidnapping them, throwing them into the trunk, and driving them to the park where they would be forced to kick baby seals.

I offered an olive branch.

“How about this.  If you behave while were inside the store, we can go sit on the lawn tractors and pretend to race.”

This seemed to satisfy them.

Later that morning, as we wandered the aisles, the kids were needling each other.   No violent assault was imminent, but it was irritating nonetheless.   A middle-aged woman spotted us and commented,

“Out with daddy, huh?”

Audrey stomped on Jake’s foot.  He returned the favor.

The lady just laughed and said,

“So fun at this age.  And good for you for bringing them along.”

“Thanks.”

We continued through the store, collecting the remaining items.  A box of small screws and a drill bit.

“Can we go to the tractors now?” Audrey asked.

“Sure thing, honey.”

We found the Lawn and Garden section and each climbed aboard our chosen racer.  Everyone made rumbling motor noises and screeching brake sounds with their mouths.  Audrey changed tractors in hopes that she would get a faster one that might eke out a victory.  But I knew she never stood a chance.  In imaginary tractor races, Jake declares himself the winner.  Every.  Time.

Our fun lasted all of 90 seconds when another woman approached.  I thought she was going to usher us out of the store.  Instead, she looked our direction and a grin crept across her face.  I heard her comment under her breath,

“Such a good dad.”

At first, I soaked up the compliment.

I am a good dad!  The best dad ever!  I should get a medal for this.  A gold one, even.

But then it hit me.

I am a man.  Men have done some pretty amazing things throughout history.  We’ve harnessed the power of lightning and put it in an incandescent bulb.  We’ve captured sound itself and transmitted it over a wire.   We’ve poured fire into a rocket, strapped human beings aboard, sent them to the moon, and returned them safely home again.

So why are people so amazed when I successfully navigate the plumbing aisle with my son and daughter?

I’ll tell you why.  Most people think men are complete morons when it comes to taking care of kids.  The bar for being a “good dad” has been set so low, that anything short of selling my children to a drug cartel is seen as success.  It’s an odd double-standard.  I earn a wink and a smile for misbehaving kids, while Gabby gets the “stink eye.”

Does this bother anyone else?

Let me start by saying this:  There are awesome dads out there.  The neighbor down the street who is outside playing with his kids no matter the weather.  My brother-in-law who finds every opportunity to teach his children about the fascinating stuff in the world.  A friend of mine working two jobs to feed his kids while his wife goes to grad school.  And let’s not forget about the single dads out there.  I believe there is a special place in Heaven reserved for any single parent.

It has sound-proof walls and a La-Z-Boy with a wine dispenser hidden in the ottoman.

These folks are my heroes.  They’re the ones I thought of the day my firstborn came into the world.  I turned to Gabby and said,

“I want to be an equal partner with you as a parent.  Sharing everything 50/50.”

To which Gabby replied,

“OK.  I’m on input.  You’re on output.”

I hastily agreed, forgetting I am somewhat OCD when it comes to bodily fluids.  But believe me, it all came rushing back when the first “output” was a diaper filled with meconium, which is Latin for “Poo sauce of the Devil.”

I was terrified.

But here’s the thing with being a dad.  Fear is healthy.

Failure to try is not.

It's time to Man Up.

I know far too many guys who simply will not allow themselves to be left alone with their kids.  I’m not sure why, but I suspect it could be any one of a host of reasons. Maybe they’ve been bludgeoned to death by a mom who takes over the instant they see dad “doing it wrong.”  (Aside:  Ladies, you know who you are, and you’re teaching “learned helplessness.”)  Maybe their own dad wasn’t the best role model.   Or maybe it’s simply these low expectations I’ve experienced.

We see countless bumbling dads on TV.  They are usually funny, chubby guys married to very thin, much-too-attractive wives.  They shouldn’t be allowed to carry a sharp pencil, much less pack a sack lunch.  And so this carries over into our social conversations, where we see moms posting on Facebook, gushing gratitude for a “hottie” (HOTY Husband Of The Year) who bathes a child once every Leap Year. The positive reinforcement is helpful, to be sure.  Even if we dads don’t do it right, it’s still nice to be recognized.

But come on, fellas?

If you’re a dad who is fed up with the fact that every kid in little league gets a trophy, logic holds that you should also be embarrassed by such hollow praise.  The only way to reverse this trend is to dive into the deep end.  Spend some time with your kids.

Alone.

Why?

Because dads matter.

And it’s not just because we teach them how to change a tire or pick a buffalo wing clean to the bone.  Back in the 90’s, researchers in the U.S. and Europe studied kids and their relationship with their parents to see who has a bigger influence on their faith.  What they found was shocking.

In families where the mom regularly took kids to church, but the dad was only an occasional participant, only 3.4% followed a regular spiritual practice when they grew to adulthood.

However, in families where dad was the regular attendee and mom never went to church, nearly 45% of those kids were regular churchgoers in adulthood.  An even greater percentage than those whose parents were both spiritually involved.

That’s right.  Go back and re-read that last sentence.

I’m not saying that your job as a dad is to get kids to go to church.  What I am saying is there is something about alone time with dad that can hook a child’s soul.  It makes them want to latch on to something greater than themselves.  You’re the key to making that happen.

So, fellas, the time is now.  I implore you.  Start somewhere.  Go to the zoo.  Camp in the back yard.  Make a list and take ‘em grocery shopping.  Heck, grab a free cookie for yourself at the bakery if you must.

But please.

Literally.

For the love of God.

Man Up.

• For those interested, the statistical mash-up can be found on Wikipedia.  I know… not a place to cite statistics, but all of the studies are linked found at the bottom of this page.

The One Thing Christians Should Stop Saying

I was on the phone with a good friend the other day.  After covering important topics, like disparaging each other’s mothers and retelling semi-factual tales from our college days, our conversation turned to the mundane.

“So, how’s work going?” he asked.

For those of you who don’t know, I make money by teaching leadership skills and helping people learn to get along in corporate America.  My wife says it’s all a clever disguise so I can get up in front of large groups and tell stories.

I plead the fifth.

I answered my buddy’s question with,

“Definitely feeling blessed.  Last year was the best year yet for my business.  And it looks like this year will be just as busy.”

The words rolled off my tongue without a second thought.  Like reciting the Pledge of Allegiance or placing my usual lunch order at McDonald’s.

But it was a lie.

Now, before you start taking up a collection for the “Feed the Dannemillers” fund, allow me to explain.  Based on last year’s quest to go twelve months without buying anything, you may have the impression that our family is subsisting on Ramen noodles and free chips and salsa at the local Mexican restaurant.  Not to worry, we are not in dire straits.

Last year was the best year yet for my business.

Things are looking busy in 2014.

But that is not a blessing.

I’ve noticed a trend among Christians, myself included, and it troubles me. Our rote response to material windfalls is to call ourselves blessed.  Like the “amen” at the end of a prayer.

     “This new car is such a blessing.”

     “Finally closed on the house.  Feeling blessed.”

     “Just got back from a mission trip.  Realizing how blessed we are here in this country.”

On the surface, the phrase seems harmless.  Faithful even.  Why wouldn’t I want to give God the glory for everything I have?  Isn’t that the right thing to do?

No.

As I reflected on my “feeling blessed” comment, two thoughts came to mind.  I realize I’m splitting hairs here, creating an argument over semantics.  But bear with me, because I believe it is critically important.  It’s one of those things we can’t see because it’s so culturally engrained that it has become normal.

But it has to stop.  And here’s why.

First, when I say that my material fortune is the result of God’s blessing, it reduces The Almighty to some sort of sky-bound, wish-granting fairy who spends his days randomly bestowing cars and cash upon his followers.  I can’t help but draw parallels to how I handed out M&M’s to my own kids when they followed my directions and chose to poop in the toilet rather than in their pants.  Sure, God wants us to continually seek His will, and it’s for our own good.  But positive reinforcement?

God is not a behavioral psychologist.

Second, and more importantly, calling myself blessed because of material good fortune is just plain wrong.  For starters, it can be offensive to the hundreds of millions of Christians in the world who live on less than $10 per day.  You read that right.  Hundreds of millions who receive a single-digit dollar “blessing” per day.

During our year in Guatemala, Gabby and I witnessed first-hand the damage done by the theology of prosperity, where faithful people scraping by to feed their families were simply told they must not be faithful enough.  If they were, God would pull them out of their nightmare.  Just try harder, and God will show favor.

The problem?  Nowhere in scripture are we promised worldly ease in return for our pledge of faith.  In fact, the most devout saints from the Bible usually died penniless, receiving a one-way ticket to prison or death by torture.

I’ll take door number three, please.

If we’re looking for the definition of blessing, Jesus spells it out clearly.

     Now when he saw the crowds, he went up on a mountainside and sat down. His disciples came to Him, 2and He began to teach them, saying:

     3 Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

     4 Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

     5 Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

     6 Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled.

     7 Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.

     8 Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

     9 Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the sons of God.

    10 Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

     11 Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. 12 Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you. (Matt 5: 1-12)

I have a sneaking suspicion verses 12a 12b and 12c were omitted from the text.  That’s where the disciples responded by saying,

     12a Waitest thou for one second , Lord.  What about “blessed art thou comfortable”, or  12b “blessed art thou which havest good jobs, a modest house in the suburbs, and a yearly vacation to the Florida Gulf Coast?”

     12c And Jesus said unto them, “Apologies, my brothers, but those did not maketh the cut.”

So there it is.  Written in red.  Plain as day.  Even still, we ignore it all when we hijack the word “blessed” to make it fit neatly into our modern American ideals, creating a cosmic lottery where every sincere prayer buys us another scratch-off ticket.   In the process, we stand the risk of alienating those we are hoping to bring to the faith.

And we have to stop playing that game.

The truth is, I have no idea why I was born where I was or why I have the opportunity I have.  It's beyond comprehension.  But I certainly don't believe God has chosen me above others because of the veracity of my prayers or the depth of my faith. Still, if I take advantage of the opportunities set before me, a comfortable life may come my way.  It’s not guaranteed.  But if it does happen, I don't believe Jesus will call me blessed.

He will call me “burdened.”

He will ask,

“What will you do with it?”

“Will you use it for yourself?”

“Will you use it to help?”

“Will you hold it close for comfort?”

“Will you share it?”

So many hard choices.  So few easy answers.

So my prayer today is that I understand my true blessing.  It’s not my house. Or my job.  Or my standard of living.

No.

My blessing is this.  I know a God who gives hope to the hopeless.  I know a God who loves the unlovable.  I know a God who comforts the sorrowful.  And I know a God who has planted this same power within me.  Within all of us.

And for this blessing, may our response always be,

“Use me.”

* Writers note:  Since I had this conversation, my new response is simply, "I'm grateful."  Would love to hear your thoughts.

Did you like this post?  Follow us on Facebook!

The Year of No Yelling - "Side Effects"

Warning:  The Year of No Yelling has some pretty strong side effects.  Take Day One, for example.

Your read that right.  Day. One.

On January 1^st, we woke early to cash in our Christmas gift to the kids – a two day trip to see the sights of Gatlinburg,Tennessee in the Great Smokey Mountains.  It took us over two hours to pack our bags and snacks into the car. 

You read that right.  Two.  Hours. 

This is normal.  What is also normal is that such a long goodbye from our house would be met with constant, impatient yelling at the kids.  It might sound something like this:

“Get your coats!  No.  Not a jacket.  A COAT!... Why?! Oh, I don’t know… maybe because It’s JANUARY AND THE MOUNTAINS GET COLD!...  And for the fifth time, PLEASE put your shoes on!...  Now grab your pillow to take in the car!...  No.  I can’t dress your doll right now… can’t you see I have 135 pounds of luggage in my arms?!...  Wait.  WHY ARE YOUR SHOES OFF AGAIN!?...  What?!...  Your socks feel funny! … THEY ARE THE SAME (muffled expletive) SOCKS YOU HAVE WORK 100 TIMES BEFORE?!...  What?!  Well of course there is a bumpy at the end of your sock!  They have to sew it closed!  If they didn’t sew it, you would be wearing leg warmers like Irene Cara from Flashdance!... Huh?  What’s Flashdance?  It’s a movie.  No, you can’t watch it!  Just get in the car!... Why!?  Because it’s an adult film.  Because only mommy and daddy watch adult films!  Wait… Don’t tell anybody that mommy and daddy watch adult films!..  Audrey, stop repeating me!  STOP REPEATING ME!  I SAID… STOP REPEATING ME OR YOU WILL NEVER WATCH A MOVIE EVER AGAIN!”

For the past five years, we noticed that this yelling serves three main purposes.  One, it makes our kids talk louder.  Two, it makes our kids more defiant.  And three, it makes us all want to ride in separate cars.  

And we don’t have four cars.

So, for this departure, Gabby and I spoke to the kids like a nurse about to give them a shot.  Complete with soft tones.

“Now kids.  We’re going to be leaving soon.  You don’t want to miss out on any fun, so the faster we do this, the better …”

The kids were just as loopy as ever.  The doll.  The coat.  The shoes. 

Always the shoes. 

But something amazing happened.  It took the same amount of time as normal.  Maybe even less.  But by the time we all got into the car, we didn’t hate each other. 

Score one for no yelling.

Things were going well.  The kids happily watched a movie in the back seat as we cruised along I-40.  Gabby and I had a real-life conversation.  Listened to music.  Soon, it was time to stop for gas.

Gabby ran inside to grab some lunch for us, while I started the pump.  By the time I got back into the car, Jake and Audrey were fighting.  Jake had accidentally covered up Audrey’s doll with his coat.  In retaliation, Audrey smacked him with the business end of Toasty, her treasured blanket.  It caught him in the eye.  He yelled and threw a mock punch with venom.  He didn’t hit her, but he wanted to.  And now she was about to return the favor.

This kind of thing drives me nuts.  I wanted to yank them both out of their seats, and yell at the top of my lungs like an Army drill sergeant that that they were brother and sister and should treat each other with respect.

Wait.

Instead, with a calm exterior, I asked them to explain what was happening.  They continued arguing, each critiquing the “truthiness” of the other’s story.  Yelling at each other. It escalated quickly.   There was a molten rage bubbling just beneath my skin.  I wanted to scream louder than them to get their attention. 

But I bit my tongue.  I just said their names until I finally got their attention, and simply said, “If you both don’t get along, we will have to turn off the movie for the rest of the trip. So figure it out.”

They slowly calmed down.  Somehow, it worked.  It took as long (OK.  Maybe longer) than normal for them to finally get quiet, but there was no ugly aftermath.

With my frustration slowing to a simmer, I started the car and drove toward the convenience store to wait for Gabby to come out with the lunch.  

As I pulled away from the pump, I heard a thud.  Like I had clipped a concrete barrier or something. I opened the door to check the status of the vehicle, and noticed our car had grown a tail.  A tail that started at our fuel tank and ran off ten feet toward the rear. 

I had driven off with the gas pump still stuck in the tank.

I looked around to see if anyone noticed my idiot blunder.  Luckily, there were only about a thousand cars in the truck stop parking lot.  Each gaze drawn my direction by the bump and the clanking.  The guy at the pump right next to me just stood there staring with his mouth hanging open.  Though I suspect this may be his normal, everyday face.

I said something to him like,

“Oops.”

He was further rendered speechless by my clever oratory skills.

I wasn’t sure of the protocol in this situation.  The pump had an automatic shut-off valve, so there was no immediate danger.  Logic would insist that I place the torn-off pump back into the handle, but, for some reason, that seemed silly to me.  Instead, I gently draped it over the concrete barrier like I was tucking it in for bed, hoping it would somehow look less conspicuous.

I’m not good in a crisis.

* I was too embarrassed to get a photo at the time, but this little gem foreshadows what's to come.

We parked beside the building and entered the truck stop.  Not realizing we had crossed the threshold into “inside voice” territory, Audrey loudly asked, “Did my doll get hurt when you broke the gas pump?” 

“Not unless she was rotating my back tires at the time of the accident.”

I saw Gabby who was standing at the Subway sandwich counter on the other side of the building.  She missed Audrey’s announcement.  I walked toward her.  She spotted me and asked,

“What are you doing in here?  I thought you were going to stay in the car?”

“I broke the gas pump?”

“Huh?”

“I drove off while it was still attached to the car.”

“Are you kidding me?” 

I’m sure she wanted to yell something at me, but offered her Look of Mild Disapproval ^TM instead.  Message received.

Even though the clerks at the register must have seen or heard what had happened, when I approached the counter, the woman asked,

“How can I help you?”

In that moment, I would have preferred to be asking for a price check on adult diapers, but this woman was not going to let me off the hook.  I think it’s a requirement that they make idiots like me admit their mistakes.  Believe me, it leaves a lasting impression when you realize you are the absolute most boneheaded person in a place that regularly sells out of gallon-sized bags of fried pork rinds and T-shirts emblazoned with the words, “This Ain’t A Beer Belly.  It’s A Fuel Tank for A Sex Machine.”

For the record, I think it’s a Gandhi quote.

I confessed my sins to the cashier.  This sort of thing must happen all the time, because she reacted like I just told her the bathroom toilet was backed up.

We left as quickly as possible before she could snap a Polaroid of my face and plaster it on some Wall of Shame in the employee break room.  Once we were back in the car, Gabby refused to find the humor in the situation.  Had we been living in the 70’s, such a blunder might have killed us all.  Technological advancements of the past 30 years didn’t keep her from adding a periodic Head Shake of Frustration^TM to the Look of Mild Disapproval^TM  to accentuate her point.

But she didn’t yell.

Luckily, fifteen miles down the road a Tennessee state trooper was happy to help us change the subject.  Apparently, all of my Holiday weight gain had settled into my right foot, causing the car to travel 25 miles per hour faster than allowed by law.  I considered telling the officer we would be unable to pay the fine due to our Year Without A Purchase, but it was now January 1^st, and Trooper Tennessee McTrafficstop didn’t look like he was in the mood for a funny anecdote.  Taking a page from the cashier at the truck stop, he asked me a question which forced me to admit my mistake.

“Do you know why I stopped you sir?”

I confessed again, just like I did at the truck stop.  I was peeved by this, but didn’t yell.  And the officer rewarded me by reducing the recorded speed on my ticket to five miles over the limit, allowing me to salvage some dignity.  Gabby’s mood improved, too.  Not because the fine was reduced, but rather, because I am the worst driver of the two of us, yet, unlike her, have somehow managed to avoid a ticket for the past five years.

Thanks Officer!

We drove to our destination without further incident.  The evening was a blast.  We listened to live music, and watched a live rodeo dinner show at the Dixie Stampede while tearing into four whole roasted chickens and a pile of tater skins with our bare hands. 

Yes, it’s a vegan dream here in the south.

Back at the hotel, I realized blunder number three of the day.  In my haste to get packed to leave the house (and not yell), I had forgotten my prescription medication.  Something I take every day.  Something I take with me on EVERY business trip during the year.

And I forgot it.

And that’s when it hit me.  It had taken an incredible amount of energy to not lose my cool all day.  It distracted me beyond belief.  And I broke a gas pump, got a ticket, and forgotten something important. 

I am slowly realizing that this challenge is going to be tougher than the Year Without A Purchase.  By far.  It will require changing my attitude.  Changing the story in my head.  And changing my behavior.  But in the end, I know it will be worth it.  Because if my yelling distraction wreaks so much havoc when it’s bottled up inside me…

just imagine the damage it can do in the open air.

The Year of No Yelling - "Week 1: It Begins"

I’ve never been a yeller.  Sure, I talk loud.  And laugh loud.  In a high-pitched, feminine tone.  But, I’ve never been aggressive.   I‘ve always been known as the mild-mannered guy with the over-sized head who walks around with a perpetual smile on his face. 

Until I had kids.

And then those kids grew up to have opinions and agendas of their own.  This was not part of the original Dannemiller plan.  So, to right this unspeakable wrong, my subconscious decided to yell the aforementioned opinions and agendas right out of my kids’ bodies. 

Five years into this experiment, my conscious brain is starting to wonder if this plan isn’t working as well as I might have hoped. 

Remember, I never said I was a quick learner.  Just smiley.

In sharp contrast to yours truly, my wife Gabby comes from strong yelling stock.  If we trace back her lineage, we believe her great-great-great-great grandfather was the guy who made loud exploding noises before weapons actually made noises.  His son went on to fame as the first ever barker for Freak Show Carnivals.  And the barker’s son?  The world’s first megaphone was patterned after the unique conical shape of his mouth. 

It’s an impressive family tree. 

My wife’s natural yelling skills were honed growing up in a small house with four other women.  Think Real Housewives of New Jersey, only substitute big 80’s hair for plastic surgery.  But I don’t blame Gabby.   That much Aqua Net would make anybody cranky.

Today, both of us are fed up with the amount of yelling in our house.  If part of our family mission statement is to live lives of integrity and serve others, then yelling should not be on the menu.  If we say we are all about respecting others, then we should be modeling the behavior. 

And we’re not.

Thus begins our Year of No Yelling.  It promises to be much more difficult than 2013’s Year Without A Purchase. 

Here is our list of rules.  Subject to revision.  Even by my wife, who has not completely authorized these. We would love your feedback!

1. You can yell if your child’s safety is in immediate danger. 
   (Note:  Pain directly inflicted by the yeller or his/her accomplices does not constitute immediate danger.)
2. You cannot replace yelling with any form of speech that would scare a full-grown man.
   (i.e. creepy, menacing, evil whispers of pending torture)

Good luck, folks!  And stay tuned for our next post describing Day One.  It’s a doozy! 

Week Fifty-Two: What We Learned From Our Year Without A Purchase

Do you have a wall calendar?  You probably do.  It likely has pictures of kittens commemorating each month.  Or mountain scenes.  Or naked firefighters with well-placed hoses.

Ours is a Catholic Saints calendar, bought by a friend at a fundraiser who gave it to us out of pity as our Year Without A Purchase began.  And last week, we turned the final page.  The Year Without A Purchase has officially ended!  Thank Jesus, Mary and Joseph! (who, incidentally, were all beautifully depicted in color for the month of December) 

*Some things do not age well.  Case in point:  Scott's boxer briefs, with perfect eye holes, now make a better creepy Halloween mask than an undergarment.  (Photo credit:  Jake Dannemiller)

We weren’t perfect.  We bought new shoes for Jake.  We bought a vacuum cleaner.  We bought Audrey a pair of swim goggles when she passed her swim test.  A pure guilt purchase, because that’s what we did for Jake the year before and feared it would send her to a psychiatrist years later complaining that mom and dad always loved Jake best. 

And Christmas?  Santa broke the rules and brought three gifts for each kid.  Experience gifts, mostly.  But hey, if three gifts was good enough for Jesus, it’s enough for our little snot factories. 

And speaking of the kids.

Throughout the year, we never told them what we were doing.  Granted, that did not stop them from asking for stuff.  We had our standard replies.

“That’s too expensive.”

“You don’t need another stuffed animal.”

“Buy toys?  At Target?  No.  We’re not allowed to do that.  This is just a toy museum.  Only for looking.”

We were curious to see if they noticed anything different about the year.  Did they feel neglected?  Deprived?   So we scheduled a brief family meeting during lunch yesterday to survey our research subjects.

“So, guys.  Did you notice anything different about last year?”

Audrey chimed in first.  “It was 2013, and now it’s 2014.”

“Good answer.  How about you, Jake?”

Thinking for a moment, Jake went with, “We didn’t watch the BCS Championship game?”

Obviously, not buying stuff left a huge impression on them.

I probed a bit deeper.  “Anything different about our family last year, and what we chose to do? Like, for special occasions?”

“We decided to take a trip on everybody’s birthday.”

“Yes.  Did you notice that we did not buy any “things” the whole year?”

(Pause)

“No, I didn’t.  I mean… wait!” Correcting me now, my seven-year-old launched into a list. “You bought things!  You bought milk!  You bought…”

“You’re right.  We did buy things we need.  Like food, and milk and stuff we could use up.”

“Oh, you mean, like, we didn’t buy anything worthless.”

Worthless.

Wow.

Gabby asked for clarification.  “Were you sad that you didn’t get any things from us last year?”  Audrey was more than happy to share her answer.

“Well.  I think it’s good.  You know how I get a new stuffed animal, and I change my mind about all the other ones and I don’t play with them anymore?  So that’s kind of a thing that’s worthless that won’t really last a long time.”

We were floored.

Now don’t get me wrong.  The conversation bobbed and weaved, and eventually the kids started talking about things they want for their next birthdays.  They are still kids.  But there was a different tone to their talk.  It was less “I really, really, really want that hockey game for my next birthday!  I can’t live without it!” and more “That hockey game seems really cool.  That might be a fun thing to have in the house.”

It’s a subtle difference.  A huge subtle difference.

One begins with emptiness.  A feeling that something is missing from my life.  A hole that can be filled with $100 and a trip to Costco.

All consuming.

The other begins with appreciation.  Acknowledgement that there are nice things in the world, and we are grateful to have them.

What remains to be seen is if Gabby and I learned the same lesson as our kids.  Sure, we learned a lot from the experience.  But I also learned a lot in studying for my chemistry test as a sophomore at Yukon High School.  And now I couldn’t tell you whether or not a covalent bond has something to do with the periodic table of elements, or something you buy to get out of jail. 

Have we been changed?

I would like to think so.  There were so many lessons.  But three seem to stand out the most.

1. We have more understanding of things that matter:  It’s all about motivation.  Purchases aren’t bad.  But are we buying things that will honestly make our lives less stressful and more meaningful, or are we buying things because, deep down, we think they will impress others?
2. We have more energy for things that matter:  Buying and acquiring stuff takes up a lot of time and energy we would rather spend on other people.
3. We have more money for things that matter:  We were able to invest in the two things research says matters most in creating lasting happiness – developing strong social bonds, and giving time and treasure to charity.

Thanks so much for following our journey and supporting us.  Some of you with kind words.  Others of you with generous loaners of clothes, backpacks, and suitcases.  Indeed, it takes a whole village, and we feel like our village has gotten a lot closer over the past year.  If you’re looking for the complete story, I plan on putting this all in a book, adding new material from the year, as well as revising some of the older blog posts.

In other news…

In 2014, we are kicking it up a notch.  The Year Without A Purchase, based on our rules, wasn’t an impossible task.  Far from it.  But this year, we’re going to try and further strengthen relationships by tackling the Year of No Yelling.  While we know we have too much stuff in our house, the place can overflow with loud voices spiced with a condescending tone.  And we don’t think it does anybody any good.  So, be on the lookout for rules and blog posts. 

Meanwhile, if you want to join us for this new challenge, feel free to sign up for our Facebook group.  The Year Of No Yelling.  We’d love to hear your thoughts and ideas!

Peace,
Scott, Gabby and the crazies

Week Forty-Nine: "Christmas Imperfection"

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Our house is no exception.  The day after Thanksgiving we climbed into the attic to retrieve our ghosts of Christmas past.  Now the Griswold outdoor light display is out in full force and it looks like a bunch of elves were doing keg stands with eggnog and puking up tinsel all over our living room.

Just the way we like it.

But there is one critical item we couldn’t retrieve from the attic.  I hesitate to mention it here, as I like to refrain from political-speak on this blog.  But circumstance warrants that I state my position clearly.

We are “real tree” people.

Putting up an artificial Christmas tree is akin to giving St Nicholas a wedgie.  No.  Make that an Atomic Wedgie.  In fact, the only Christmas sin worse than an artificial Christmas tree is replacing “Silent Night” with “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer” as the closing hymn at the candlelight Christmas Eve service.   If God had intended us to celebrate Our Savior’s Birth with a plastic icon in our living rooms, He would have sent Jesus Christ to Earth as a department store mannequin.

Trust me.  It’s in the Bible.

But God laughs when we get all high and mighty.  And somewhere, our Creator is having a good chuckle, because the Dannemillers forgot to factor the real tree into our Year Without A Purchase.

Each year, we normally stroll through the wooded majesty of the local Home Depot forest to select the perfect specimen for our home.  It’s a family tradition dating back centuries to the Dannemillers of old who also lacked basic skills in hunting, sawing, and shoe-tying.  But this year, we could not simply plunk down $29.99 for Christmas convenience.  Such a purchase would certainly be a violation of the rules.

Ignoring our neighborhood covenant restrictions, I walked out our back gate and took a short stroll through the thorny woods behind our house.  I spotted many potential Christmas branches and Christmas bushes.  Several cedar trees showed promise.  One in particular was about sixteen feet tall.  Since we have a twelve foot ceiling in the living room, I figured I could just chop it off at the four foot mark and haul it home.  Then I came to my senses.  First, the tree had very little greenery below five feet, leaving it with an appearance closer to a Christmas Coat Rack.  Second, this tree was not on our property, and, if caught, I would certainly get a NastyGram from the neighborhood association president.

But third, and most importantly, the land behind our house is an overgrown old cemetery, complete with a handful of slate headstones remaining intact.  No lie.  Not that I’m superstitious, but this tree was most likely planted in honor of someone buried there.  And if I were to chop it down and take it home, our Holiday would be plagued by the same sort of zombie magic that visited the Brady Bunch on their Hawaiian vacation when they removed the Tiki Idol from the ancient gravesite. (cue music)

That’s when a friend suggested we might be able to use the “experience” loophole.  We could go to a tree farm, support a local farmer, and cut down our own tree.  As soon as she mentioned it, I had visions of an idyllic family outing.  We could all get bundled up, trudge up and down the rolling hills of a Tennessee farm in the brisk winter air, select the perfect tree, cut it down together, drag it back to the farmer’s barn where his wife would have hot cocoa waiting.  We could all snuggle up next to a glowing yule log and talk about our favorite Christmas memories.

And thus begins an adventure of overblown expectations.

It started before we left the house.  Temperatures outside were hovering in the low 40’s, yet our son insisted on wearing less clothing than the average Hooter’s waitress.  Drives me insane.

When we loaded the car with the kids and their two cousins, Jack and Ava, the arm wrestling and poking began almost immediately.  So I began dishing out the unrealistic threats.

“If you can’t behave, we just won’t have a Christmas tree.  Santa will just have to put presents outside under the tree in our front yard.  And what if it rains?   Too bad.  They’ll all get wet.  And it will be a result of your poor choices.”

It worked as well as you might have imagined.

We finally made it to the tree farm where we were greeted by a cheerful guy wearing an orange apron, which reminded me of the same ones they wear at Home Depot, easing my transition.  He was incredibly friendly, saying, “Welcome back!”  This happens to me a lot.  People often think they know me, even though we have never met.  I chalk it up to the fact that I bear a striking resemblance to “The Safe One” in every boy band on planet Earth.  Or Steve, the host of Blue’s Clues.

* Hi Steve!  You and I were separated at birth.

* You were in 98 Degrees, right?  The smiley one?  What happened to your goatee?

*You were in Backstreet Boys, right?  The smiley one?  What happened to your awesome hairdo?

* You were in N'Sync, right?  The smiley one?  Yes, indeed.  I would definitely trust my daughter with you.

Our host was really helpful, showing us where we could find the “cut your own” trees, giving me a quick sawing lesson, and offering us hot chocolate.  Rather than diving into the treats right away, Gabby and I held them for ransom, like any good parent.

“If you behave while we are finding our tree, then we’ll have hot chocolate and candy canes afterward.”

The kids immediately took off running like wild banshees, grabbing and shaking every tree in the “cut your own” forest.  Even the fragile Charlie Brown-sized ones.

* Cousin Jack about to put Jake in a Figure Four Leg Lock.

As our guide explained, the trees came in several varieties.

First was the Norway Spruce.  A beautiful tree with firm branches for holding heavy ornaments.  But when Audrey stuck her hand in, it came out looking like she shook hands with a cheese grater.  I believe the needles of the Norway are commonly used for sewing buffalo hide and applying prison tattoos.

Too pokey.

Next was the White Pine.   This is a very fragrant tree with supple greenery.  Unfortunately, it’s freakishly long needles give it the appearance of Don King’s hairdo.

Too bushy.

Finally, we sampled the Leyland Cypress.  Though it doesn’t have needles, it has a perfect conical shape and a deep green color.  At least that’s what we told ourselves when we got tired of the kids acting like crazy people.

Just right.

We walked the rows of trees looking for just the right cypress.  But Jake would have none of it.

* Jake with his pick.  Chubby Tree.

“I want the chubby tree!”

“Which one?”

“The chubby one!  Right over here!”

Jake was standing by perhaps the most oddly-shaped Christmas tree in the history of trees.  It looked as if it had been fed a steady diet of simple carbs and unfiltered Camel cigarettes, stunting its growth.

“Buddy.  That’s tiny.  Besides, it’s one of the pokey trees.  Come look at this one over here.”

“But I want this tree.”

I looked at the price tag.  $30.

“Jake.  Look how short it is.”

“I know.  I like it!”

“We have a Christmas tree rule.  The tree has to be taller than mom and dad.”

“Huh?”

“Yep.  That’s the rule.  Just made it up, but it’s the rule.”

Jake complained while we scouted the cypress.  Audrey helped us find just the right one.  I fell to the ground and started sawing the tree.  Jake whimpered in the background.  My lack of lumberjack training led to a painfully long process.  My sweatshirt got muddy.  My shoulders burned.  My nose was running.  Jake’s sadness grew with every back-and-forth of the blade.  He was attached to the chubby tree.  Like it had saved his life in Vietnam or something.  By the time our cypress finally fell, he was crying.

And I was fresh out of compassion.

* I'm nursing a newly-acquired shoulder injury while Audrey helpfully points out a stain I just made while laying on Jake's jacket.

We dragged the tree, our kids, and their cousins back up to the barn.   Our cheery hosts pointed us toward the hot chocolate.  Audrey pulled the handle on the dispenser.

All out.

More weeping, which we tried to soothe with candy canes.  Jake commented,

“That’s a tiny stupid candy cane.  We have bigger ones at home.”

I maturely responded by grabbing the tiny cane from his hand and offering, “Well you can wait ‘til we get home then!”

Meanwhile, smoke from the yule log was blowing directly at us, giving me a mild asthma attack.  The kids started sneezing.

The fresh pot of hot chocolate arrived, and the kids immediately filled their cups and inserted stir sticks.  Although we had given the warning, Jake sipped through the straw and burned his mouth.  No tears this time.  Just anger.

“It’s too hot to drink!” he screamed.  If he could fight a Styrofoam cup, he would.

Meanwhile, Audrey comes running up to me.  In tears.  She had filled her cup and went over to the fire.  When she tried to sit down on the stump adjacent to the fire, she lost her grip and spilled cocoa all over her pants.  Maybe it’s all in my head, but I believe the resulting stain resembled the AntiChrist.

I felt her leg, which was still pretty warm.  The cocoa was hot enough to cause tears, but not hot enough for a lawsuit.

I patted her on the back.  “It’ll be fine, honey.”

“No it won’t!  My pants are ruined, and I don’t have any more cocoa!”

Gabby saw me struggling like a fallen wrestler in a WWF tag team cage match and came to my rescue.  She took Audrey to the car to look for a spare pair of pants.  I turned to see Jake spill cocoa all over his white shirt.

Audrey returned wearing a pair of mismatched sweatpants.  I handed her a cup of cocoa that I had been cooling while she was changing.  For some reason, she grabbed a plastic stir stick and jammed it into her mouth.

Tears.

“What happened, Audrey?”

“Part of my mouth came loose and is hanging down!”

Great.

Trying to be as patient as possible, I said, “Well honey.  That sometimes happens when you jam sticks into your mouth.”

It sounded better in my head than it did in the air in front of my face.  There was an unspeakable rage bubbling inside me, fueled by impatience.  It was so strong that I could see the remaining trees beginning to wilt.  Somewhere an elf was having an aneurysm.

“Let’s go!” I said, through gritted teeth.

Jake chimed in, “But I’m not done with my hot chocolate.”

“Well drink up, because we’re leaving.”

I turned and saw Gabby holding her camera toward me.

“Here.  Settle down, Dannemiller, and take a picture with me and my girls.”

She had somehow consoled Audrey, who was now playing with her cousin Ava.  I begrudgingly grabbed the camera and started snapping pics.  Ava and Audrey started climbing all over Gabby, giggling and having a grand old time.

I wanted to say, “What the hell do you think is so funny?!  Stop having fun!   This trip has been a royal pain in the ass, and you should behave accordingly!”

But thank the Baby Jesus I didn’t say it.  Instead, I just kept snapping.  Capturing  genuine smiles.  Joy.  Happiness.

* My girls with little Ava, smiling among the mismatched sweat pants and yule log smoke.

And this is the photo that would normally make it to Facebook.  The one that make life look perfect.  Because, frankly, when all the $#!% is hitting the fan, the last thing you feel like doing is taking a snapshot.

But we should.

Perfection is boring.

I ask you:  Which story is more likely to get told and retold, becoming a lasting family memory that brings laughter for future generations.  The one that begins with, “Remember when we went to the tree farm and cut down the perfect tree?”  Or the one that goes, “Remember when we went to the tree farm and Jake cried because we wouldn’t buy a midget Christmas tree, and daddy got a rotator cuff injury, and Audrey spilled cocoa all over her pants and got that scar on the roof of her mouth from the stir stick?”

I vote story #2.

This Christmas, I beg you to let go of perfection.  No one cares if the dinner plates all match, or if the cider isn’t warm enough, or if a strand of lights burns out.  Those accidents happen.  But it’s what we do with those accidents that make them extraordinary.  The spirit we bring.

Last time I checked, the Savior’s manger was not decorated by Pottery Barn.  It was one of the most chaotic, smelly, messy places in Bethlehem.  But we’re still telling the story.  Two thousand years later.

Joy-filled and grateful.

Week Forty-Four: "Lessons from Stinky McOdorstein"

Stinky McOdorstein:  Take One

I overheard her voice echoing in the galley.

“Let me see if I can find someone to trade seats with you.”

I looked behind me and saw the flight attendant trying to calm a flustered passenger.  It’s a pretty common sight nowadays, with airlines charging extra for extravagant perks such as checked bags, peanuts, and toilet paper in the lavatory.  This poor guy was the most recent victim.  He didn’t realize that his bargain fare only guaranteed middle seats on the plane for him and his three family members.  If his toddler wanted to sit next to daddy, he would have to pony up an extra $38 from his college fund.

I felt his pain, so I offered to switch seats.  The plane was packed, but the flight was short.  No big deal.  My generosity was met with gushing praise from the attendant, and a relieved thanks from the dad.

I am one hell of a guy, I thought.  If everyone were more like me, this world would be a much better place.

The plane was about to take off, so I quickly made my way from 22C to 8B.  The middle seat.  When I arrived, I motioned to 8C that I need the spot next to him.  My gesture was met with disdain.  I was crushing his dream of being the only guy on the plane with extra elbow room.

He must not realize how generous and awesome I am, I thought.  If he did, he wouldn’t be so grumpy about this.

He slowly got up and tolerated my presence.  The woman in 8D leaned around him and asked,

“Did you just trade seats with my husband?”

“If your husband is with a three-year-old, then yes I did.”

“Thank you so much!”

That’s more like it, I thought, smugly smiling at Grumpy Guy. 

She continued.  “My poor son was so sad that he might have to sit by himself!”

“No big deal,” I replied.

I’m kind of a big deal, I thought.

Meanwhile, Grumpy Guy was heavily sighing next to me, and edging me off the armrest.  I relinquished my real estate and folded my arms across my chest.

Grumpy Guy shifted in his seat, sighing even more.  The motion wafted air in my direction, and my nostrils detected a mildly unpleasant odor.  Like Grumpy Guy had been out all night and didn’t bother to change his wardrobe.

I give up my seat and this is the thanks I get? Trapped in a tin can with Stinky McOdorstein?

I reached up to adjust the air vent.  If I positioned it to blow straight on my face and down my neck, the smell dissipated.  After my little physics experiment, I only caught an occasional whiff of it, such as when I reclined my seat and the vent sent a current of air flowing from the space in front of me, up my chest, and directly into my sinuses.  Another quick adjustment fixed the problem.

The rest of the flight passed by without incident.  When we landed, the air vents were turned off, and the smell returned.  I counted the seconds until Grumpy Guy left.  It wasn’t a toe-curling smell, but enough to make you want to avoid breathing deeply.

When Grumpy guy got off, I stayed in my seat.  I had to wait for fourteen more rows of people to exit the plane so I could retrieve my bag back at 22C.  As I waited, I noticed that the smell lingered.

That’s a stubborn smell, I thought.  Opposite of awesome.

I looked around to see if Grumpy Guy was still around.  He was nowhere to be found.  I buried my face in my elbow in the hopes of masking the smell with that of my shirt.  I inhaled deeply.

Stopped.

Inhaled again.

What the…?

The smell got stronger.  And that’s when it hit me.

I’m Stinky McOdorstein!

The guy who forgot his deodorant.  The guy who is so inconsiderate that he positions his air vent to blow down his collar, past his shoulders, pushing air out of his shirt through the sleeves and into the atmosphere, creating a cloud of stink like Pig Pen.

As soon as I got off the plane, I dove into my overnight bag and liberally applied the Old Spice.  The smell was tamed, but the embarrassment lingered.  When I got to my hotel, I immediately chunked the undershirt to the floor and changed into my exercise gear to relax.  It was a cathartic moment for me.  Finally rid of Stinky McOdorstein’s clothing.

Stinky McOdorstein:  Take Two

I woke up before dawn the next morning and ran a few miles on the treadmill.  It was hard to drag my keester out of bed, but I was excited about the day.  I was going to deliver a really fun workshop for a new client.

After showering, my face was still red, and I was sweating a bit.  But this time, I would not forget deodorant.  I swabbed it on like three coats of paint, sure to avoid a repeat performance of my run-in with Grumpy Guy.

When I went to put on my clothes, I couldn’t find my undershirt.

I know it’s in here somewhere, I thought, as I rummaged through my suitcase.

But it wasn’t.  I forgot to pack one.  Ugh. 

For most guys, this is a minor inconvenience.  Just go without an undershirt, right?  No big deal! 

Unfortunately for me, Stinky McOdorstein has a best friend.  His name is Sweats Von PitPools, and his address is 7714 Armpit Lane.  Even if it’s twelve below outside, you can steam vegetable stir fry under my left arm while your linguine boils to a perfect al dente under the right.  It defies the laws of physics.  I was about to spend the next eight hours gesturing wildly to a group of paying customers, and I didn’t want them distracted by a giant wet spot under my arms that resembles the face of the Virgin Mary.  I desperately needed an undershirt to act as an “armpit diaper” of sorts, locking in the wetness.

I ran through my list of options.

1)      Go buy an undershirt on the way to the office. 
          Not possible.   It’s our Year Without A Purchase, remember?

2)      Deliver the entire workshop with my elbows pinned to my ribs.
         Not possible.  I gesture far too much, and my clients would surely not bring me back for a follow-up engagement if I spent the
         day with flailing T-Rex arms.

I spotted Stinky McOdorstein’s used undershirt on the floor, perched upon a bed of dirty dress socks.  I picked it up, pressed it to my face, and inhaled.

Bad idea.

The smell took me right back to 8B.  But this time, I was without an air vent.  I considered quickly washing the shirt in the sink like I had done with my socks on a business trip earlier this year, but I only had 30 minutes before I had to leave the hotel.  There wouldn’t be enough time to dry the shirt.

I went to my overnight bag, pulled out the deodorant, and applied it directly to the armpits of the shirt, turning them a shade of blue not found in nature.  It helped, but after yesterday’s conditioning, my nose couldn’t be fooled.  It was like spraying air freshener after you use the bathroom.  After a while, the scents all mix together and you’re never the same.  Your brain now associates the smell of “Ocean Enchantment” with that of poo, and you end up throwing a half-used can of Glade in the trash.

Though the underarm scent was slightly masked now, the rest of the shirt still smelled a bit stale.  So, I unwrapped a fresh bar of hotel soap, neatly folded the T-shirt around said bar, and put the whole concoction in a tightly-wadded plastic bag and let it steep for ten minutes in a steamy bathroom.  I think the Native Americans used to use a similar technique for airing out buffalo hide.

After the shirt was “done”, I unwrapped it and gave it a sniff test.  What my brain encountered is best described as a complicated blend of Windex and cheap granny perfume, followed by the earthy undertones of an Asian street market in June.  The scent had somehow crossed over from mildly offensive to confusingly intriguing.

Satisfied with the transformation, I slipped into the t-shirt.  I grabbed the dry bar soap and rubbed it all over the fabric once more for good measure, careful to avoid the sleeves themselves lest I start foaming at the underarms and look as if I had contracted a rare form of “Armpit Rabies.” 

I stood in front of the heating vent in my hotel room and let the air blow across my body.  I breathed deeply once again, letting the air enter my sinuses.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Stinky McOdorstein has left the building!  Escorted by Sweats Von Pitpool!

The rest of the day went off without a hitch.  I kept my distance from the participants, and the workshop was a success. Upon careful reflection, this episode has taught me a number of things.

1)      Be humble, lest you be humbled.

2)      Be slow to judge and quick to forgive

3)      Make a packing list

As we come to the closing weeks of our Year Without A Purchase, I am still in awe of how much of my decision making is tailored toward affecting others' perceptions of me.  Sometimes it’s for the good, like not offending someone’s sense of smell.  Other times, it’s a charade.  Creating an image that falls short of reality.

Because here’s the truth.  Perfection is boring.  It’s the stinky parts of life that give our days their ups and downs.  We spend far too much time lamenting the fact that our lives don’t measure up to those of others we envy, comparing their highlight reels to our own cutting room floor and wondering why we feel so inadequate.

So today, embrace everything the Creator has given you.  The sumptuous and stinky.  The beauty and the mess. 

It’s all yours.  And it’s all wonderful.

Week Forty: "This Purchase Sucks"

Eight years ago I was searching for the perfect Christmas gift for Gabby.  It had been a year filled with milestones.  We were new parents, I was finally getting my business up-and-running, and we had purchased our first home together – a major fixer-upper, complete with foundation problems and a growing family of rats living in the roof. Finances were tight, but I knew I had to splurge.  I scoured the stores for days hours minutes looking for just the right thing.  Knowing my wife’s love for all things functional, practical, and fabulous, I bought her what I thought was the perfect symbol of my love and devotion.

A vacuum cleaner.

I know what you’re thinking.

Boy Scott, I wish my husband was as thoughtful as you.

Christmas morning came.  To add to the anticipation, I waited until all other gifts had been opened before presenting her with her new miracle of suction.  Her eyes lit up as she unwrapped the giant box.  Even though there was a picture of a cherry red vacuum right on the front, she excitedly asked,

“I wonder what’s inside?”

Oops.

Her smile faded as she tried to pry open the box and flexed her muscles against the factory-applied glue that tightly held the flaps closed.  She knows my half-assed wrapping style, and this was obviously a professional job.

“It’s a vacuum?!” she said with feigned excitement.

Nothing says, “I love your child bearing hips and strong skeletal structure” quite like a vacuum cleaner.  That Christmas, with one purchase, I single-handedly bludgeoned Cupid and Santa Clause with a telescoping wand and rotating brush attachment.  It’s quite a feat when you think about it.  I may as well have bought her a coupon book filled with soul-sucking chores.  To top it off, this was a manly vacuum.  It looked like a bright red hammerhead shark, with gadgets and doodads shooting off in every direction.  It was heavy.  And loud.  Conjuring visions of a tatted-up hotel maid firing up a Harley Davidson.

* Big Red.  Beware of her power.  But, she doesn't clean too well.

Gabby hated my gift but couldn’t bring herself to return it to the store.  Instead, every time she vacuumed the house, a little piece of her died inside.  It was painful to watch.  I would hear her let out a little sigh with every back-and-forth sweep of the carpet. It was the kind of sigh that tells you that tonight’s goodnight kiss will have no future.

And Gabby vacuums a lot.

Last week, as a show of marital solidarity, I pulled out the red beast and tackled the floors on my own.  I like to offer my wife this little olive branch any time the government is shut down or when Halley’s Comet is visible with the naked eye.  It keeps her guessing and spices things up a bit.

Midway through my domestic diversion, I smelled something odd.  A strange mix of singed pet hair, burnt rubber and an exploded bottle rocket.  I looked down and saw a curl of smoke coming from the front of the machine.  Soon after, a loud chattering erupted like a fistful of marbles thrown into a speeding blender. I cut the power and surveyed the damage.

The front housing of the vacuum was cracked. The plastic screw pieces that hold the rotating brush assembly to the main part of the cleaner were shorn off.  I tried for several minutes to re-adjust, re-align, and repair the damage.

It wasn’t happening.

I’m no conspiracy theorist, but the breaks in the screws and the housing looked clean.  Too clean.  And the grass trapped in the filter looked like it could have come from the grassy knoll.  But just when I started to channel Oliver Stone and look for dubious scratch marks or a second shooter, Gabby came in and offered what, in our house, amounts to a legitimate attempt at repair.

“Could we just duct tape it all together?”

I considered her proposal.  In theory, I could wrap the whole vacuum in silver tape.  This would likely give us a few extra weeks of use - maybe even enough to carry us through the end of December keeping our Year Without A Purchase vow intact.

However, while the magical tape does have amazing healing properties, I do not believe it can repair a broken marriage.  I had visions of Gabby sweeping the floors with our hack-job fix.  Dust bunnies and hair balls trapped in the unyielding hold of the adhesive. Her voice adding some choice expletives to the sighing.  Me sleeping in a tent in the back yard and having to eat roots and berries to survive.  Completely devoid of physical contact from my formerly loving and forgiving wife.

“No honey.  I think it’s dead.”

I can’t be certain about this, but I believe Gabby’s excitement caused the lights in the house to burn 10 watts brighter for a flash.  But she hid it well.

“Are you sure?” she offered, with only a hint of remorse.

“I’m sure.”

And so we broke the rules.  And it was all my fault.  There was no emailing or texting of friends asking for a spare vacuum.  There was no finding a used vacuum at Goodwill.  On our next trip to the store, we bought the Taj Mahal of vacuum cleaners.  It glides like a dream.  It’s petite, like my wife.  And quiet, like other people’s kids.  But it can still suck an almond off a bald guy’s head from fifty yards away.

As we loaded it into the back of the car, I looked at Gabby.

“Are you excited?”

“Yes”, she replied.  I could see eight years of animosity melt away in an instant.  As if all was forgotten.

“Do you want to test it out when we get home?”

“No.”  There was no hesitation.

“Why not?”

And then I saw her own conspiracy theory wash across her face.  As if breaking Big Red was part of my plan.

“You gotta’ finish the job, Dannemiller.”

And she’s right.  The Year Without A Purchase is almost over.  We’re in the home stretch.  And even though there are setbacks, we’re sticking with it.

Even though it sucks sometimes.

Week Thirty Eight: "Love The Monkey"

“I want him!” That’s all she said.  In a voice that could pierce your skull and lodge in your forehead like a ball of thumb tacks. I looked down at what looked like a stuffed monkey created by Walt Disney himself.  If Walt Disney had attended Woodstock and Jimi Hendrix slipped a mickey into his juice box.

*Note:  Not the actual monkey but equally creepy

Audrey was dangling the scary animal by his inordinately long, furry neon-pink arm.  We were standing near the checkout counter at a truck stop in the middle of Kentucky.  The whole place was filled with a distinctive scent - a delicate balance of petrified hot dogs and trucker sweat.  Audrey must have missed the memo that we were only here to use the bathroom.

“We’re not buying the monkey.”

“But I want him!”  Her enunciation was impeccable.  And her volume more than adequate for the space.

I was shocked.  This was a first for Audrey.  Ever since the kids were born, Gabby and I vowed never to buy them anything while they were shopping with us.  Target?  We called it “the toy museum.”   At the grocery store, if the kids said they wanted something, we made it a point not to buy it.  Even if it was something we desperately needed at the house.

This strategy afforded us years of bliss.  There was never any arguing or whining at the checkout.  The kids just knew we didn’t buy stuff.  But things had obviously changed.  I blame the education system.  Or Obama.  Or George Bush.

“Honey.  We’re not buying the monkey.”

Even if this wasn’t the Year Without A Purchase, I would never have this monkey in my house.  Or my neighborhood.  This monkey was so hideous it brings down property values.

“Well I’m not leaving without him!”

I tried intimidation.

“Audrey, it’s not happening.  You’re not getting the monkey.  We’re leaving, and you’re will be coming with me.  You don’t have a choice.  You weigh thirty-six pounds.  I will carry your little behind out of here.”  I rolled my sleeves to show off “the guns.”

My daughter failed to appreciate my capabilities.  She punctuated her “No!” with a foot stomp and crossed arms.  She held on to Scary Sammy like grim death.

I considered a tug-of war, but thought better of it.  We’d probably rip the thing in half, and I’d have to plunk down $9.99 for a post-mortem monkey whose stuffing my daughter would cherish until marriage just to spite me.  And I couldn’t let her win like that.  So, I tried option two.

Guilt-ridden manipulation.

“Honey, you’re acting like you can’t be happy without this monkey.”

Audrey looked at me, “I can’t!  I need him!”

She took the bait.  Too easy.

“Just think of all your stuffed animals back home.”  I added some names and paused for dramatic effect.  “Dumbo.  Piggy.  Gerald.  Elmer.  They love you.  And you’re saying they’re not enough for you.  They would be so upset to hear you say that.  Because they love you so much and love to play with you.  Now monkey would be your favorite, and they would be lonely and sad.”

Audrey’s empathy was hooked.  Her grip loosened.  Her face started to morph into sadness.  I glanced to my right at a woman who had been eavesdropping.  She wore a pathetic, sarcastic look that seemed to say, Nice job, Dad.  You better invest that ten bucks you just saved, because her future therapy bills will be outrageous!

Now feeling guilty myself, I changed my tactics.

“Audrey.  I appreciate that you want this monkey.  He’s wonderful!  But when you whine and beg for it, it just makes me angry because you have tons of stuffed animals you don’t play with. Animals you used to love.  And I think this monkey will end up just like that.  Unappreciated. And it’s sad.”

She stood silent.

“So.  When you see something you like, instead of saying ‘I want him’ and getting upset when we don’t buy him (which we won’t), try saying ‘I really like that monkey.  He’s cute.’  He stays special that way.  Even better, you can remember how great your animals are at home, too!  Think about how soft Dumbo is!  And how colorful Elmer is!  You should tell them.  And that way, when people hear you saying what you appreciate, they will know the kinds of things you like when special times do come around.”

Audrey walked away, put the radioactive monkey on the shelf, and came right back.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“I really like that monkey.  He’s cute.”

“That’s better honey.  He likes to hear that.”

Where did that lady go?  She needs to witness my parenting genius.

Audrey interrupted my gloat-fest.

“Can I have him now?”

Never mind.

“No honey.  But you should tell Nana all about him.”

Audrey relented and we were soon on our way.  One hundred miles later we pulled into the driveway and the monkey was forgotten.  When it was time for bed, Audrey grabbed some of her favorite friends.  Some who hadn’t seen the light of day in a while.  Piggie and Horny, the poorly-named unicorn.  She hugged them tightly and kissed their heads.  I was happy to see her appreciate what she had.

Gabby went into the office to take care of some bill paying and I curled up on the couch.  In a proud display of manhood, I flipped channels for a full fifteen minutes before finally locking in on a show on the DIY network.

I Hate My Bath.

I had never seen this show before, but it seemed oddly like a replay of my own life.  I Hate My Bath is a rapid-fire home remodeling program where people transform a humdrum room into a beautiful space in a matter of hours. On the show, the homeowners have been plucked from the Rolodex of a psychologist who specializes in treating people who have been physically abused by 80’s patterned wallpaper sometime in their childhood.

As they spoke, it sounded just like a conversation Gabby and I had, describing the horrors of shiny brass drawer pulls and Formica counter tops.  We had already lived this show last year, remodeling a perfectly good bathroom that already had flushing toilets and hot water showers.  The only difference between our life and the show was that the host on the DIY channel looks like a male underwear model that they kidnapped from a photo shoot and sequestered at nearby vo-tech in a plumbing class until he learned the requisite skills.  Our bath, on the other hand, was redone by my dad and a guy we affectionately call “Mr. Gary”, both of whom are required to be fully clothed at all times while on the premises.  Luckily, they were able to exorcise the demon that is linoleum flooring.

I Hate My Bath was followed by another show called I Hate My Kitchen.  Second verse.  Same as the first.  As I watched, I started to hate my own fully-functional kitchen which couldn’t measure up to the shiny new one coming from my TV screen.

Good thing we have Mr. Gary on speed dial.

Tired of the programs, I turned to the computer to vegetate of Facebook.  As I scrolled through the highlight reel of updates from people I hardly knew and compared them to the cutting room floor of my own life, I began to feel like something was missing.  Forget the kitchen and bathroom.

I need a new wardrobe.

I need to help humanity.

I need a better vacation.

As I finally reached one of my own updates, a Just for Men hair color commercial came on TV and momentarily caught my attention.  I turned back to my laptop and saw a tagged photo of me and my college buddies twenty years removed from graduation.  And there before me was another sense of loss.  I could see the youth escaping my body.  Starting at the temples and working its way northward.

I was frustrated.  It was time for bed.  I turned off the TV and wandered toward the bedroom.  My knee popped.  My feet hurt.  My joints ached from arthritis and life.  They just don’t make ‘em like they used to, I thought.

Finally in the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror.  An older gentleman stared back at me. The lines on his face and grey in his hairline lamented the things left undone.  The book unwritten.  The world unsaved.

And so we silently looked at each other.

Both unflinching.

Finally, someone spoke up.  It was a still small voice.  A blend of a little girl and a little God.  It was right in my head, but I could barely make it out.  I had to strain.  I focused on the man in the mirror.

Reflecting.

And then I heard it.  Clear as day.  When eyes met eyes.  The voice.  Finally.  Saying.

“I like that monkey.  He’s cute.”

And the monkey smiled.

Week Thirty-Five: "Meeting Mom"

This is my mom.

She is an absolutely beautiful woman, inside and out. Five-foot-two and full of spunk. Just over forty years ago she was a much larger version of herself, all on account of yours truly.  You see, she gained so much weight carrying me that the doctor was afraid it might make for a troublesome delivery.  He would constantly caution her against consuming too much unhealthy food.  My mother would always listen closely to his advice.  Then, upon exiting the office, she would promptly hit the A&W drive-in for a burger, fries and a large chocolate milkshake.

Prenatal prevention of post-partum depression, I guess.

I was born at 3:53 pm on June 8^th, 1973.  Dad wasn’t around.  He was busy moving the car to avoid paying a parking ticket when his time was to expire at 4pm.  Mom, however, was present during the entire ordeal.  When I finally came bursting forth into this world, I weighed a whopping 9 pounds and 4 ounces.  Upon seeing my chubby, angelic face for the first time, my mother’s loving response was,

“See doc, I told you I wasn’t a lard ass!”

She had me at “lard ass.”

I have loved this woman my entire life.  While dad has taught me the value of a job well done and the gift of storytelling, mom has taught me all about the twin joys of spontaneity and compassion.  I will never be able to repay her for all she has given me.

But once a year, I try.

They call it Mother’s Day.  Back in May, I was wracking my brain, trying to decide what to get the woman who gave me life.  In the Year Without A Purchase, “stuff” gifts are off the table.  No small kitchen appliances or home décor.  I do have a stash of makeshift science experiment kits - Mentos and 2-liter bottles of Diet Coke - that we’ve been giving as gifts to the kid’s friends for birthday parties.  But mom has been there and done that.

I contemplated creating some original artwork or handicraft for her, but my skills have scarcely improved since the last time I fashioned her a macaroni necklace back in the third grade.  And today, I’m afraid mom would rather cook such an item as wear it. In fact, I suspect that’s what happened with the original.

Then I remembered that our YWAP rules permit us to give “experience” gifts.  So I thought, “How about a nice lunch date with Mom?”

To be a suitable experience gift, we would have to go to one of Mom’s favorite places.  That meant no Buffalo Wild Wings or any other establishment featuring large screens showing sports.

So, last week, I met mom at the Cottage Café.

The Cottage Café is not exactly my style.  Sure, I may not be the most manly guy on the planet.  My love of televised sports and mastery in the art of flatulence is far outweighed by my ability to joyously demonstrate “Jazz Hands” and my intimate knowledge of color palettes.

I’m an autumn, for those scoring at home.

But the Cottage Café may be the girliest restaurant on the face of the earth.  The place makes me look like a professional wrestler.  It’s covered in lace doilies and filled with scented candles and household knick-nacks.  At the door, they do a quick blood screen.  Those measuring high in testosterone are given a fanny pack shaped like a uterus.  All the animals on the menu are given a complete facial and pedicure before becoming a key ingredient in my tiny, girl-portion-sized sandwich.  Those caught talking about football are strapped to a chair Clockwork-Orange-style and forced to watch the Lifetime channel.

I’m telling you.  It’s that girly.  But the food is amazing and Mom loves it.

On the day of our date, I met her in the parking lot.  She gave me a hug and we walked together into the restaurant.  We gave our name to the hostess and waited for a table.  The place was packed!  I glanced around and noticed two other guys in the restaurant, but I was the only male under the age of 65.  I suspect the other fellas were former electricians slowly losing their hearing.  When their wives said “Cottage Café,” they heard “Wattage Delay” and came running.  Now they were draped in gingham napkins eating pimento cheese crackers and wondering why no one’s asking them to fix the wiring.

But the Cottage Café’s pimento cheese will do that to a guy. They bring you a plate of it as a complimentary appetizer.  It’s so good it’ll make you forget anything you were worried about before.

Kinda’ like Mom.

Once we were seated, time just stopped.  You see, it had been a while since I had talked to my Mom.  Sure, we get to spend time together now and again.  But usually we’re surrounded by lots of other people.  Or kids.  Or meals to prepare.  So four hours at a family party becomes only five minutes of actual contact time.  The rest is spent mopping spills, filling plates, cutting food, and cleaning up.

But this was different.

It was an honest-to-goodness talk.  No distractions.  No agendas.  Uninterrupted conversation as beautiful and sublime as uninterrupted sleep.  The depth of it leaves you feeling so refreshed that you feel like you can tackle all of the world’s problems with a smile on your face.

We ate crackers while reminiscing about childhood.  I picked from her salad while we discussed the issues of the day.  We contemplated dessert as mom shared with me her thoughts on her future with my Dad.  Where they might live.  Where they might go.

And two hours passed.

I never noticed that tables turned several times as we savored our time together. People coming and going while we sat still.  In some ways, it was like we were getting reacquainted.  She was getting to know the man that grew from the little boy that cluttered her house for nearly twenty years.  And I was getting to know the genuine, flesh-and-blood woman that lives underneath the SuperMom cape she wore during my youth.

And I think we like each other.

People say it’s hard to make new friends later in life.  I say that’s a bunch of bunk.  New friends are right around the corner, just waiting to be rediscovered.

So, next time you’re stressing about what to buy the woman who has everything, take her to lunch instead.

You never know who you might meet.

Week Twenty-Eight: "An Open Letter to Our Kids on Their First Day Of School"

How do you translate a heavy-duty family mission statement so it makes sense to a couple of kids who are just starting to lose their front teeth?  Here’s our attempt.  (family mission statement at the end of the letter) Hey there kids.  It’s your dad.  Your mother and I would like to take a moment to tell you how proud we are of you.  Today marks the first day since you were born where both of you will be spending seven hours per day in a taxpayer-funded paradise we call public school.  Granted, you really didn’t have to do anything to make it to this point.  Every kid gets to go, so long as they can fog a mirror and their parents fill out the requisite paperwork.  But, it’s a milestone for your mom and me. Between the hours of 8am and 3pm, neither of us will have to wipe a hiney or cut up someone’s food so long as we can avoid being involved in an unfortunate accident involving rogue farm equipment.

But before we send you out into the world with only a backpack and an insulated Thermos, we wanted to give you a few tips to help guide you through the treacherous waters of Harpeth Valley Elementary School.  So listen up.  This stuff is important.

* We've waited so long for this moment!

Do Your Best On your first day of school, your teachers will introduce you to something new.  It’s called judgment and evaluation.  When things are going good for you, it will show up in the form of scratch-and-sniff stickers and smiley faces.  When things aren’t going so well, it might look like a sad face or a recess spent writing 100 pointless sentences into a notebook while your friends play dodge ball on the playground.  Take it from me, the latter does not improve your penmanship.  Not at all.  Just ask anyone who has ever tried to decipher one of my thank you notes or grocery lists.  Ever.

But here’s something to remember.  A smiley face doesn’t necessarily make you a good person, and a sad face doesn’t make you evil.  Your mom and I have a big pile of both of them to prove it.

More important than faces, and stickers and sentences is something called “effort.”  Effort is a bit tricky, because it’s harder to see than those other things.  But you can sure feel it.  When you try your best and work as hard as you possibly can, it leaves you with a good feeling no matter what face Ms. Carrico gives you.  That’s called “integrity.”  “Integrity” feels like one, never-ending, last bite of your favorite cookie.

And, when you don’t give it everything you have, it leaves you with a feeling called “regret.”  This feeling is a bit like a tiny grain of sand in your shoe.  It doesn’t sound like much, but if you add a grain of sand every day or two, it starts to feel like a pebble.  And it is really hard to shake.  I still have a few rolling around in my shoes all these years later.  Trust me.  You can ignore them all you want, but they’ll always make you walk kinda’ funny.

So, given the choice, go for the cookie feeling.  Every time.

Own What You Have You guys may not have figured this out yet, but your mom and I have decided we are not buying any “stuff” this year.  We call it the “Year Without A Purchase.”  Even if that wasn’t the case, we promise that you will never have the coolest lunchbox, the most fashionable wardrobe, or the best bike among your friends.

This probably isn’t the message you want to hear.  And don’t get us wrong.  We totally understand the appeal of being the envy of the school.  It’s fun!

But here’s the problem with all that.

Envy is based on comparisons.  And comparing yourself to others is the fastest way to start feeling unhappy about your life.  Because someone will always have a better lunchbox.  Or car.  Or job.  (Once you start caring about those).  And somewhere along the line we start equating “best” to “happiest”.  And it’s a big lie.  Like Bigfoot.  And monsters under your bed.  And Fat Free Ice Cream that tastes like the real thing.

So instead, your mom and I can promise you this.  You will always have lunch in your lunchbox, clothes on your back, and an “I love you” ringing in your ear.  All a gift from God.

And it is enough.

Be Yourself In know you’re both still young, and neither of you has been around a long time on this planet, but one thing your mom and I love about you are your big personalities.  You are both such happy, boisterous, confident kids.  Some teachers will love this about you.  Others might be, shall we say, less than impressed. Either way, it’s OK.

But there will be some kids who don’t like the same things you do.  They may even go as far as to make fun of the things you like.  Knocking your love for mismatched pattern clothing, broccoli, or the way your teeth grow out of your gums.  And I’m not gonna’ lie to you.  When this happens, it’ll feel like you just got punched in the hoo-zee-whats-its.

That’s when you’ll see an easy way out.  You’ll be tempted to start liking things that other people like and doing things that other people do.  Even if it adds another pebble in your shoe.

But before you drop that sand behind your heel, take one last look in the mirror.  Don’t look at the clothes your wearing, or the color of your skin, or the straightness of your smile.  Instead, look into the eyes.  Deep within.  And if you don’t recognize the kid staring back at you, then I recommend giving yourself a time out.  Drown an Oreo in a glass of milk, sing “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” at the top of your lungs, and hug someone who has known you since you were born.  Then, and only then, will the kid in the mirror start to look more familiar.  The one that God made.  The one that God loves unconditionally.  And the surest way to honor God is to be true to yourself.

Stick up For The Little Guy Finally, somewhere along the line you’re going to run into a bully.  A bully is someone who makes other people feel bad so they can feel better.  The good news is, they are easy to spot because they usually introduce themselves to you on the first day of class.  The bad news is, they do this by taking the best thing in your lunchbox, pushing you out of your chair, or delivering a textbook-perfect Atomic Wedgie.

Your mom and I know you guys are strong.  Even if that bully takes your mandarin oranges, we are certain he can’t take your pride.

But sometimes that bully will pick on someone who may not feel so strong.  In fact, the kid getting pushed around may actually feel like he deserves to be bullied.

And worse yet?

The bully might be your friend.

So what do you do?

We know it’s hard to believe, but there is actually something stronger than friendship.  It’s called brotherhood.  And it’s a tie that binds us all together.  The strong and the weak.  The helpful and the helpless.  Like we’re all sharing one heart with the same blood pumping through our veins.  And this brotherhood is what calls us to something greater.

In the moment, brotherhood feels a lot like fear.  And it will tell you to stand by and not say anything.  Because you feel so connected to that other person that you can feel what it would be like to sit in their desk or walk in their shoes. And no one wants to feel like that.

But here’s a little secret.  Hiding under all that fear is a joy the likes of which few people ever get to experience.  All it takes to unlock that joy is to say the magic word:

“Stop.”

We want that joy for you, kids.  The joy that flows from a generous, courageous heart.  So learn the magic word and use it.

Well. That’s it.  We’ve given you a lot to remember.  But there’s just one last thing.  And it’s the most important.

Jake, we need you to read this letter out loud to your sister.  We know, it’s a bit of a pain.  But Audrey will learn to read soon enough, just like you.  That’s the beauty of kindergarten.  But for now, she may need some help.

And once you’re finished reading, we want both of you to sign it.  In big bold crayon.  With backward letters.  Then fold it up, and give it back to us.

Don’t worry.  It’s not that we need proof that you read it. That’s not it at all.  Because you both already know these things. They live in you.

No.  We want you to give it back because your mother and I need to be reminded of these truths born in the heart and soul of every child.  Truths that we’ve forgotten somewhere along the way.  And we are filled to overflowing knowing you will be there for the next twelve years.

Always.

Every day.

With arms outstretched.

Guiding us back home.

Love,

Mom and Dad

Our Mission:   To tirelessly seek God's will by living lives of integrity, owning what we have, growing together in faith, and serving others to build a world without need.

Week Twenty-Seven: "Gala People"

Late last year, a friend invited us to a fundraising gala to benefit a local charity. 

We are not gala people.

Gala people wear fancy clothes.  Gala people know which fork to use.  Gala people start foundations and have their names on university buildings and hospitals.

Gabby and I tell loud, somewhat inappropriate stories.  We snort when we laugh.  We use our pinky fingernail to pick food out of our teeth.  At the table. 

No.  We are not gala people.

But there we were, browsing the tables laden with offerings for the silent auction.  Artwork.  Box seats to NFL football games.   Gift baskets overflowing with wines and restaurant gift cards.  Money raised from all of this stuff would go to provide support services for kids in foster care, or those who have aged out of the program.

“Should we bid on something?  We don’t really have a lot of money.” Gabby asked.

“I don’t know.  It is for a good cause.”

“That’s true.”

I wondered aloud, whispering “This could be our tithe.  We still haven’t written our latest giving check.  Maybe we could just tithe to the auction?”

“Does that count?” Gabby asked skeptically.  In addition to diagnosing car problems and performing triage in medical emergencies, my wife is the de facto moral compass in our relationship.  And her compass was telling her that tithing at the charity auction is like putting money in the church offering plate and then asking the pastor to make you a meatball sub with the communion loaf. 

“Sure!  It’s giving!”  I started placing bids before Gabby could ask any more questions.

I told you.  We’re not gala people.

Caught up in the frenzy of gifts financed by Our Lord and Savior, we kept adding our name to the bid lists.  We upped the ante by a dollar or two each time we were outbid on something.  The whole affair was drenched in euphoria.  Excitement at the thought of winning.  And by winning, I mean in the same way eighty-year-old billionaires “win” trophy wives half their age.  By the end of the evening we had “won” a dinner for two at an Italian restaurant and weekend lodging at a Tennessee lake house for a small army. 

And Jesus wept.  A little.

In an effort to put a pretty face on our ill-gotten gains, we decided to share the lake house with our family as a Christmas present.  After all, nothing says “let’s celebrate the birth of Christ” more than cramming eighteen people into one house for three days in a no-holds-barred test of will to see who will emerge unscathed.  They make reality shows about stuff like that.  Only on reality television, the house mates don’t ever have to see each other again.  In the Dannemiller version of the show, there are some long-term ramifications to the togetherness.  Stealing the “big bedroom” at the lake house could come back to haunt you one day when you are in desperate need of a blood-relative match for a kidney.

Gabby and I would be lying if we said we weren’t anxious about the whole thing.  For one, even though we weren’t technically buying any “stuff”, a big lake house seemed like an extravagance considering our Year Without A Purchase.  Second, my family loves to be in nature so long as it is air conditioned and bug-free.  The lake has things like algae.  And spiders.  And hair-crushing humidity.

But most of my personal anxiety was due to an unexpected turn of events.  At a family gathering this past spring, my sixteen-year-old niece Mia tapped me on the shoulder to ask a question. 

“Hey Uncle Scott.  I was wondering if you would baptize me and Julianna when we all go to the lake this summer.”

* Mia and Julianna.  Crazy beautiful, inside and out.

I had to get five stitches in my chin from my jaw dropping to the kitchen floor.  First, most teenagers only speak to adults in a special language of angst-ridden grunts and clicks.  And here were both my nieces, mature beyond their years, speaking to me about something of deep personal significance. 

Second, last time I checked, I am not a pastor.  I have no formal training in baptism.  My only qualifications are a summer of swim lessons when I was five years old and having a slight OCD tendency toward personal cleanliness that requires 2-3 showers per day.

My brain told me to launch into an explanation of how I am not certified for this sort of thing.  How I love to speak in front of large groups so long as they are complete strangers.  How there are whole books in my Bible that still have that new book smell (ever read Amos?  Anyone?).  But my impulsive heart said,

“Sure.”

God definitely has a sense of humor.

When I got home, I immediately launched into some research, recalling passages in the Bible of ordinary people baptizing others.  None of these folks had seminary degrees or had been ordained in a church.  So, I technically had a leg up on all of them, since I have spent a year as a missionary and received an ordination through the First International Church of the Web. For $25 and a 250-word statement of faith, they send you a really nice certificate and a laminated card to place in your dash that reads “Clergy”, giving you some choice parking spots at the hospital.

But, even with these extra credentials, I wanted to make sure things were on the up and up.  So I chose to consult a higher authority.

Google.

I went to my computer and typed in “Am I allowed to baptize somebody?”  A long list of links appeared.  Some were official church websites.  Others were blogs from pastors.  Essentially, they all said the same thing, which was, “Jesus says it’s OK.”  Citing Matthew 28:  16-20:

¹⁶ Then the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain where Jesus had told them to go. ¹⁷ When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. ¹⁸ Then Jesus came to them and said, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. ¹⁹ Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, ²⁰ and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” 

Knowing that I had been given the green light by the Savior of the World himself, I was feeling better about things.  I started to build a baptism service using a format that our church would approve.  I stressed over the details, wanting to make sure all of the prayers were just right.  Making sure I used some official sounding language.  But I kept coming back to what Jesus said. 

It’s not about the water.

No.  The water is the easy part.  Like taking a shower.  The hard part is what comes after the baptism.  The “…teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you” part.  That’s where the real work is.  The baptism is a symbol.  But commitment is what we do afterwards.  Both the wet ones and the dry ones.

Our lake weekend was filled with a lot of fun.  Fishing.  Swimming.  Boating.  Bouncing around on inner tubes.  Birthday celebrations with chocolate fondue.  There were bumps and bruises.  Laughs and stories all around. 

*Audrey and Cori on the tube

* Cori, Uncle Jeff, and his biceps with the catch of the day

* Jake and cousin Jack

* Ava, Jake, Jack and Audrey enjoyin' the sun

* Gabby's art photography shoot.  Title:  Pasty man on noodles

And then came the baptism.

On Sunday morning, our entire family gathered on the top deck of a two-story boat dock.  Eighteen in all.  We came together to celebrate the lives of two sixteen-year-old girls.  Mia and Julianna.  All they have meant to our family, and all of the promise of their futures.  Mia, with a personality to match her fiery red hair.  Filled with relentless determination, drive and discipline.  And her twin sister, Julianna.  With a heart so big it can hardly fit inside her chest, overflowing with compassion and confidence. 

And I just got out of the way.

For several minutes, people shared thoughts about each of the girls.  Not surface stories of embarrassing moments or trophies won.  They were tearful, meaningful stories of shared history.  Of admiration.  Of unconditional love.  A large family, stopping for a moment to thank God for the lives of two young women, and, in turn, giving thanks for the beauty of family.  A family that loves abundantly.  A family bound together by commitment.  Teaching one another, each and every day.

And with hands outstretched, this same family prayed over the water as two amazing girls took the plunge.  Both with courage and confidence.  One choosing to jump from the second story, diving twenty feet into the world’s largest baptismal font.  The other, deciding to hang from the ladder and fall backward into the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

* Leap of faith

No.  It’s not about the water.  It’s about stripping away the day-to-day and reminding ourselves of the things that really matter in this life.  It’s about celebrating grace and our shared commitment to each other. 

I looked up the definition of “gala” today.  And Webster defines it as “a festive celebration of a special occasion.”

So…  Maybe we are gala people after all?

Week Twenty-Six: "The Last Minute"

“You’ll have to excuse me, but I need a moment.” My heart was racing.  Eyes wide open.  Lump firmly planted in my throat.  Shaken.  I knew this would be a unique experience for me.  I just hadn’t planned on this reaction.

Eric paused and looked at me.  Silent for just a moment, his face transformed from stoic presenter to that of a compassionate friend.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I’ve seen this so many times, I forget how it makes you feel the first time you come face-to-face with it.”

We were standing alone in the hangar at the training facility for the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB).  Each year, there are roughly 2,000 accidents and incidents involving aircraft. Some are minor mishaps of little consequence.  Others are major crashes involving loss of life.  The folks at the NTSB are the detectives responsible for finding out what happened so it doesn’t happen again.  I had come here to teach a two-day problem solving workshop to an assorted group of corporate and government leaders.

Now I was the one being educated.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” my guide prompted.  “We have about ten minutes before security will need to shut the building down, but take your time.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled.

“OK.  Ready.”

We approached the craft with reverence.  Thirty steps and we were standing beneath the wing of a Boeing 747 wide-body jet.  Or what would have been the wing.  I was in awe of its enormity.  Like looking up at a football field worth of Astroturf rolled into the shape of a giant burrito.

Eric shifted back to presenter mode.

“So this is TWA Flight 800.  Scheduled to fly from JFK to Paris.  It went down off the coast of Long Island on July 17, 1996 with 230 passengers aboard.  There were no survivors.”

He paused.

“The NTSB was responsible for determining the cause of the accident.  It was the longest, most extensive investigation in the history of the agency.  Four years.  We were able to recover over 95% of the plane and piece together what happened. ”

His tone didn’t fit the situation.  It was so matter-of-fact.  Yet here I stood, looking up at the most incredible, tragic puzzle I had ever seen.  An enormous wire frame had been constructed in the shape of a 230-foot-long jet.  Then, piece-by-piece, the engineers had combed through the wreckage, identifying each item, and lashing it to the frame with strands of wire.  Three hundred tons of plexiglass, plastic parts and metal.  Some pieces as small as your fist.  Others the size of a Ford pickup.

Right where they were supposed to be.

* The investigation in progress.  I couldn't take any photos, but this gives you the idea.

The wings were reconstructed and set off to the side of the plane, detached.  Some pieces were missing, but in their place were swaths of heavy paper cut to the proper shape with notes like, “See part B347”

Eric explained how the investigation was conducted.  Engineers started with a list of potential causes and ruled them out one-by-one.  For instance, witnesses to the tragedy report seeing a streak of white through the sky, like a missile, prior to the plane going down.  So, investigators looked for evidence that might support the claim that the flight was downed by terrorists.  Blast effects.  Metal bent inward instead of outward.

They found little to support the conclusion, and a whole lot to refute it.

Ultimately, it was determined that the cause of the accident was most likely an explosion in the center wing fuel tank caused by short in an electrical wire that ignited the fumes.  I stood near the location where the blast likely occurred and saw some of the smallest pieces of wreckage, and bundles of wires hanging haphazardly.

I spent a few minutes asking questions as we viewed the plane from a variety of angles.  It was fascinating.  The meticulous detail.  The effort and expense to solve the mystery.  One is left with a profound sense of respect for the men and women responsible for bringing closure to the event, the victims, and their families.

As we walked around the aircraft to the other side.  I followed Eric up two flights of black metal stairs.  At the top, I turned to the right and froze.

We were standing on the passenger level.  The view was familiar.  Nearly every week, I barrel down the center aisle on a plane bound for my latest business destination.  Denver.  Seattle.  New York.  I walk past rows of seats, trying my best not to bang a knee with my rolling purple suitcase, or smack a noggin with my backpack.  Some passengers look up and smile.  Others have their noses buried in books.

But this plane was empty.

There were ten seats in each row.  Three on both the right and left sides, and four in the middle.  They were upholstered in fabric of red, blue or gold.  Some were upright.  Others were reclined.  Many more were contorted into unrecognizable shapes.  Ceasing to be seats, and now just twisted metal and cushion, looking like an unmade bed.

I stared.  It wasn’t until Eric spoke again that I realized I had been holding my breath.

He explained how there were three debris fields off the coast.  One field was the wreckage that first fell from the sky.  Pieces from the plane that were nearest the center fuel tank.  The nose of the plane was found further along the flight path in a second field area.  Eric continued, looking out over the seats.

“The third field was where they found the majority of the wreckage.  The back two-thirds of the aircraft.  When the explosion happened, the wings were still attached to this back section of the plane.  At the speed the plane was traveling, investigators estimate that the craft still had lift.  Climbing another two to three thousand feet before descending and crashing into the water.”

He paused and turned to face me.  My expression must have displayed sheer horror, as Eric looked me directly in the eye.  The corners of his mouth curled under.  He broke eye contact, looked at his shoes, and simply said,

“I know.”

* The NTSB Graphic.  The red field is the area by the center fuel tank.  The yellow is the nose.  The green is the aft portion.

I glanced over my left shoulder toward the front of the plane.  The nose was reconstructed in another area of the hangar, so the forward cabin was just a 20-foot diameter hole opening to a cinder block wall.  I looked back toward the seats.

Now the plane was full.

I saw 230 people in the seats.  Eyes wide open.  Their last minute.  Staring out the front of the plane into a blue sky.  A French hockey player.  An American composer.  Sixteen members of a high school French club from Pennsylvania.  Mothers.  Fathers.  Sons and daughters.

They all packed their bags for the journey of a lifetime.  Suitcases filled with the items to sustain them on their trip.  Suitcases recovered and returned to family members who will never see their loved ones again.   People who would trade all of their own possessions for just one more minute.  One more chat.  One more laugh.  One more embrace.

Eric and I stood alone.  He left me in my silence.  I asked no questions.  But voices surrounded me, asking questions of their own.

“Is it worth it?”

“Do you love them?”

“Do they know it?”

“Why are you waiting?”

I silently descended the steps.  It was time to leave.  After all, the building was closing and I had a flight of my own to catch.  But the voices lingered.

Seven hours later I pulled into my driveway.  Arriving home well past midnight, I was weary from travel.  I entered the quiet house, pacing down the hall.  Even in the dark, I could navigate without stubbing a toe.

I stopped first at Audrey’s room.  She was sound asleep.  Her favorite blanket named “Toasty” tucked under her chin, and her lips puckered in a permanent kiss.  Tiny nose on a tiny face.

I leaned forward and smelled her hair.

Then into Jake’s room, where he lay sprawled upside down.  Head where his feet should be.  Not a blanket in sight.  The legs of his pajama pants pulled up as if they were shorts.  It’s a loveable, funny quirk of his.  Along with the puddle of drool on the sheet.

I rubbed his back and he mumbled in his sleep.

Finally, into the bedroom.  I turned out the light on Gabby’s night stand.  She fell asleep while reading.  Such a lover of books that she fights for every word before her eyelids win the battle.

I slipped between the sheets, kissed her on the cheek, and ran my fingers through her hair.  She sighed a deep, heavy sigh of contentment and nuzzled closer.  I stopped for a moment when I realized that I had left a bag out in the car.  For a moment - one fleeting moment -I contemplated retrieving it.  But then I heard those familiar voices.

Don’t worry about the bag.

The last minute starts now.

And everything is right where it should be.

Week Twenty-Five: "The Rescue"

In forty years on the planet, I have learned something about myself. I am a coward.

If you’re looking for me when the chips are down and lives are on the line, know that you can find me running around in circles, jazz hands flailing, screaming “we are all going to die!”

It’s who I am.

My tendency toward panic makes for some really good stories.  Like the time the corn tortillas caught fire in the toaster oven and I tried in vain to blow them out with hyperventilating breaths, only adding more oxygen to the fire and engulfing the oven in flames.

Or the time I got so distracted trying to keep photos dry while running from my car to the porch during a thunderstorm that I accidentally left my car door open, allowing my frightened, filthy dog to take shelter inside until the rain subsided and the seats were drenched in matted hair and mud.

Or anytime I’ve walked through a spider web.

Ever.

Unfortunately, this little quirk of personality is not something you can hide.  Like a love of show tunes or an obsession with the number seven.  When emergencies happen, all senses are heightened and folks tend to notice the irrational man-child making matters worse.  But over the years I’ve found you can cover up the embarrassment with a blanket of self-deprecating humor.

I often see news reports of people coming to the aid of someone in distress.  You know the kind of thing I’m talking about.  Could be a car on fire.  An assault in broad daylight.  A hole in the ice.  I have always feared that I may someday be caught in the same situation and I’ll freeze.  Or worse yet, it will happen while my kids are around, and they will remember their dad as the guy who sat by and whimpered while other Good Samaritans did their civic duty.

Last week I wrote about my magical surprise birthday week with friends and family on the Florida Gulf Coast.  It was an acceptable expense in our Year Without A Purchase, because it was all about building connections with others through shared experiences.  Setting aside our stuff and really talking.

So, let’s really talk.  Since I’m airing my own personal dirty laundry and embarrassing traits, it’s high time I mention the most significant experience of the week for me.  Perhaps I’m reading too much into this, but it may just be the reason God put me on that trip in the first place.

It happened on our first day at the beach.  As we walked down the wooden steps to the sand, I heard a sunburned tourist mention it was a “red-and-purple-flag day.”  As the words exited his mouth, I glanced at the sign at the foot of the steps and saw the red flag indicated “High Surf/Strong Currents” and the purple flag warned of “Dangerous Marine Life.”

I have been stung by a jellyfish before.  I was eleven.  I was lying face down on an inflatable raft when two of them washed up onto the backs of my legs.   I immediately began kicking and screaming, which repeatedly launched the creatures and their poisoned tentacles into the air and back down onto other parts of my anatomy.  When the fireworks were over, I had total of seven stings on various parts of my body, and zero chance that any of the cute girls on the beach would ever turn into a legitimate love interest.  The mere thought of Dangerous Marine Life took me to a whole new level of anxiety, conjuring visions of late night Japanimation movies where scores of people run along the beach to escape the wrath of The Sea Monster covered in seaweed, until Godzilla comes to the rescue.

Cue panic.

* Godzilla?  He's no coward. 

We pitched our tent and I cautiously entered the water.  I quickly learned that marine life would be the least of my problems.  The crashing waves made it difficult to stand and the undertow was strong.  Gabby and I wrapped the kids in the safety of their life vests and kept them close to shore.  After two minutes and a belly full of sea water, Jake declared at 150 decibels to the entire assembled crowd,

“I hate the beach!”

Gabby took him out of the water for a sand castle break, and I remained in the surf with my brother-in-law, Victor, and his daughters, Mia and Julianna.  We were chatting about the strength of the currents when we heard a high pitched scream coming from deeper water. Almost cartoonish.   At first, I thought it was Jake.  But he was on the beach.

I asked Victor, “Was that someone screaming?”

He gave me a puzzled look and said, “I think so.”

“Sounds like they are joking around.”

“It does.”

Again, we heard the voice.  This time, it was clearer.  A woman’s voice, over-emphasized.  Like a stage play.

“Help!”  “Help!”

I turned to the girls and chided,

“She really needs to stop that, or someone might really think she needs help.”

They agreed.

I looked out toward the deeper water and saw nothing.  A large wave was blocking my view.  It broke just above my head and came crashing down.  When I came out of the surf, I wiped the salt water from my eyes and focused.  Thirty yards away, in deep water, was a blonde woman in her mid-forties.  She was waving her arms above her head.  A round-faced, bald headed man was ten yards to her right.

She shouted, “My husband needs help!”

I froze.

What do I do?

I scanned the water for others who were closer to the couple.  A half-dozen swimmers were nearer than I was, but there were noises all around, and they were distracted.  And for good reason.  They were surfing the waves or laser-focused on the safety of their own children.  And that’s when it happened.

I started swimming.

I managed to close the gap by ten yards in no time.  I swam past two men standing in the surf.  A young guy in a yellow shirt and another in a hat.  I pointed toward the bald head bobbing at the surface and yelled, “That guy needs help!  Maybe his wife, too!”  I saw them look toward the couple in distress and I continued swimming.

What started as Michael Phelps ended as Michael Moore.  By the time I reached the man, I was spent and struggling.  I tried to touch my feet to the sea floor.  No luck.  Too deep.  The man was now floating on his back.  His face was the color of dishwater.  He was gasping for air, but the waves would wash over him and cause him to swallow mouthful after mouthful of water.  I asked if he was in trouble.  His eyes got wide and he nodded his head.  It was then that I realized something.

I have no clue what to do.

The man weighed over 250 pounds.  I weigh a buck seventy-five with shoes on.  My only official lifeguard training consists of watching old episodes of Baywatch.  I look down and note that my swimsuit is the wrong color for this operation.  David Hasselhoff always wore red.  What’s more, those lifeguards always brought some sort of floatation device with them.  The men had the red foam lifeguard baton.   The women had their breast implants.

I had neither.  And I was terrified.

* I looked just like the fella' in the middle.  Only whiter, more frightened, and less muscular.

So I went with my instincts.  I grabbed the man under his arms and started pulling him toward the shore, nearly ripping out the poor guy’s underarm hair.  He simply had no strength left.  I was underneath the man now, and it felt as if I was hauling a sleeping bag full of wet dough toward the beach.  I had heard that you never try to swim directly in toward the shore to fight a rip current, but I tried anyway.  After a few strokes, I noticed we were making progress, so I stuck with it.

“It’s OK!” I shouted.  “We’ll be where you can touch soon!”

He pointed laterally, as if he wanted to go down the beach.  But I assured him we were OK and kept pulling him.

“We’re moving.  No worries!”

After thirty seconds more of swimming, I stopped to check the depth and noticed I could touch when the crest of a wave passed by.

“You can touch here!” I said.  “Try to stand!”

He refused.  Just kept kept pointing sideways.

“Try to stand!”  I screamed.  “You can touch here!  I promise!”

At that moment, the man in the yellow shirt swam up and offered the voice of comfort that I was lacking in the moment.  He grabbed underneath the man’s left arm and spoke in a calm, soothing voice.

“You’re OK, buddy.  It’s going to be OK.”  He must have repeated that phrase four or five times as we pulled the man toward the beach.

He replied, “Get my wife.”

I looked toward the man’s wife.  The man with the hat and two others were now standing with her in the surf.  She was crying.  Sobbing.

Soon, the water was shallow enough.  The man tried to stand, but his knees gave way.  He kneeled in the surf for a moment, took a deep breath and said, “I’m fine now.  I just want to sit for a minute.”

His wife and a friend came up to meet him and helped him to the shore.  They said a simple thank you and found a spot in the sand for him to sit down and collect himself.  He looked straight out toward the water and said, “I was fine, and then I just couldn’t catch my breath anymore, and my body was too tired to swim.”  He sat slumped in a ball for another ten minutes, staring blankly out to sea.

The next day we learned that four people had drowned that week.  Victims of vicious rip currents.  Two men, plus a girl and her grandfather.  He swam out to save her and both perished.  A tragedy.

That’s when it hit me like an anvil to the head.  I had been in danger, too.  That guy could have panicked and pulled me under.  The current could have carried me out to sea.  I could have died.

But I didn’t.

The following day at the beach I saw what the man had been pointing at.  There was a shallow sand bar not ten yards from where I caught up with him.  He knew it was his refuge.  And it would have made the rescue much easier.  Instead, the poor guy is probably cursing my name.  Embarrassed by the lack of hair on his right underarm.  Suffering through physical therapy to nurse a rotator cuff injury I gave him when I started yanking him toward shore.  I’ll never know if it was truly a heroic act or simply a very stupid decision.  But one thing is certain.

I’m not a coward.

And neither are you.

So consider those stories in your head. The lies you have told yourself since childhood.  Since college.  Since your last corporate downsizing.  The ones that drown out the voice of God, spoken so often they are memorized, like a script to an awful, hurtful play that graces the stage of your memory.  And realize.

They are only stories.

Week Twenty-Four: "Photographic Memories"

I love looking through old photo albums.  We have some fantastic specimens from the mid-70’s.  Giant puffy volumes covered in padded fabric that may have been harvested from a couch in Burt Reynold’s bachelor pad.  They smell like an old librarian’s purse seasoned with a splash of Aqua Velva. Vintage.

But there’s something missing from the albums.  Namely, photos of my childhood birthday parties.

My first thought is to blame birth order.  My sister came first.  There are so many baby pictures of her, you can put them in a stack, hold them tightly, flick through them with your thumb, and relive the first three years of her life as if it were a home movie.

Next came my brother.  He was the first boy.  ‘Nuff said.

I was the baby.  Tucked away deep inside the album is a picture of me in a onesie, and one of my high school graduation.  Nothing in between.  With three kids, my parents were just too exhausted to advance the film on their old Vivitar camera.

Alright.  Maybe I’m exaggerating.  But not much. The real reason there aren’t any photos of my grade school birthday parties is because I had only one.  That’s right.  Just one official party where I sent real invitations.

I was four years old.  Even though it was long ago, my memories of this party are vivid.  I wore my favorite outfit – a tan jumpsuit/overalls combo that my mom made for me with a pattern she bought from Montgomery Ward’s.  It was covered in little cars.  I had a yellow cake with chocolate icing.  I blew out the giant candle shaped like a "4".  We played red-rover and I busted through the line.  I got to hold Amy Clifton’s hand during said Red Rover game.

Note to self:  wear more jumpsuits.

But I never had another birthday party.  Sure, I invited a friend or two over and we went swimming, or saw a movie, or blew a bucket of tokens at an arcade, but nothing official.  It’s not like my parents banned parties as “the devil’s handiwork” or anything.  In fact, my mom encouraged them.  Every year she would ask, and every year I would decline.

You want to know a secret?

I didn’t want to have another birthday party because I was afraid two things might happen.  I was afraid no one would show up, and I was afraid everyone would show up.  If no one showed up, that would tell me my friends weren’t really my friends.  And that’s not something I wanted to know.

And if everyone showed up?  Well, all eyes would be on me, and that’s just too much pressure.  I know it’s surprising to think that a guy who publishes a weekly blog about himself would shy away from attention. But it’s true.  A me-centered party seemed kinda’ overindulgent for someone who hasn’t done anything special beyond surviving the not-so-mean streets of a suburban Oklahoma City subdivision for another year.

And yes, I can hear you saying, “This guy needs a therapist.”

Fast forward 35 years.  In preparation for my 40^th birthday, I told my wife I didn’t want anything special.  No parties.  I just wanted to relax with my family and have some cake and ice cream.  And, with our “Year Without A Purchase” in full swing, I knew that Gabby would have to work wonders to throw a major fiesta.  After all, she’s into decorations.  I kept my eyes on our supply of toilet paper Ziploc baggies just to make sure she wasn’t pilfering from the stash to make streamers and homemade balloons.

The morning of my birthday came early.  Call it neuroses, paranoia, or simply a healthy lifestyle, but I wanted to give myself the gift of accomplishment by running farther than I ever have before.  So I woke up at 6:00, strapped on my running shoes, and gave father time a one-finger wave as I walked out the door.  Gabby, face down in her pillow on her side of the bed, mustered a muffled “Happy Birthday” before I set out.

Perfect.

My Dannemarathon lasted just over an hour.  When I arrived home, I was greeted by the smell of Gabby’s famous chocolate chip pancakes and two very loud, overly-excited children.  According to my calculations, these two small people were burning the caloric equivalent of a surprise party of 40 full-grown adults.  And it was exactly what I wanted.

I peered over toward my seat at the table and spotted a couple of envelopes and a CD case.  Gabby instructed me to open one of them.   Inside the first envelope was a homemade card that read simply “The Grey Owl flies at midnight.”  Nothing more.  The reverse side was printed with the date, “August, 2013."  I smiled a mile wide, as I knew this to be the secret code of my college buddies signaling a get-together was imminent.  Some of these guys I haven’t seen in years, and a surprise trip to see them is one of the best gifts I could have received.

Next up was the CD case.  On the front was a beautiful photo of Gabby and the kids, each holding a guitar.  I asked where she had the picture done, and she told me that our friend Mari Wilkes, a professional photographer, was happy to donate her services to the cause.

Inside the case were three CD’s and a thick booklet.  As I leafed through the pages, I saw a list of songs, submitted by friends, that reminded them of me, along with a story of why the memory was stirred.  It’s over fifty tunes ranging from “Never Gonna’ Give You Up” by Rick Astley, submitted by my brother because “Scott and Rick Astley have never been seen in the same place at the same time” – to “Play That Funky Music White Boy”.

Submitted twice.  I’m not sure whether to be flattered or offended.

Every single song told a story, and conjured a wonderful memory.  When I put the CDs in the player, the first song on the playlist wasn’t a song at all.  Apparently, Gabby had coordinated with my family who own and work at World Music Nashville to commandeer their studio for an evening and capture my kids’ voices on tape.  First up is a priceless interview with Jake.  Gabby asks him all sorts of questions about me, and he answers in his tiny, toothlethhh voithhhh.

Next up brought me to my knees.  It was Audrey’s song to me.   Every night she asks me to sing her to sleep with “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.”  As a gift to me, Gabby had her sing along to a version of the song recorded by a children’s choir from Newtown, Connecticut.  Instant waterworks.  In four weeks of CD ownership I have played it almost as much as my old Michael Jackson’s Thriller cassette.  It’s a treasure.

That night, a makeshift party erupted at the house.  My mom and dad stopped by.  And my sister and her family picked up my favorite cake from the grocery store.  I had made a giant pot of spaghetti sauce that afternoon, so we all shared a meal crammed in our tiny house.  I couldn’t help but think, “It doesn’t get much better.” Especially because we were scheduled to start our summer vacation the next day.  A drive to the Florida Gulf coast to meet up with my family (sister, brother and parents for a week of beach fun.  A perfect “experience gift.”

The next day, we filled the car with gas and enough highly processed snack foods to send the entire state of Montana into a diabetic coma.   I was looking forward to the drive to Florida for two reasons.  First, the kids are allowed to eat whatever they want and partake of our vehicle’s DVD system on long trips.  It’s a small Dannemiller family policy shift that creates harmony in the car.  Second, the snacks and entertainment lull the kids into a rare, trance-like state allowing Gabby and me to have uninterrupted adult conversation for hours on end.

I popped one of my new CD’s into the car stereo and kicked off the Gab-fest.

“So, what do you see yourself doing once Audrey starts kindergarten?  It’ll be the first time we’ve had both kids in school.”

I waited for a meaningful response.  Instead, I heard,

“Huh?”

“Audrey.  Starting Kindergarten.  Are you excited?”

I glanced over at Gabby and caught her texting.

“Oh.  Yeah.  Sorry.  Just trying to see where your sister is.”

“Why does it matter?  We’re not in any big rush.  We’ll all get there today.”

“Yeah.  I know.”

But the texting continued for the whole drive.  We’d be talking and then Gabby would take a break to send more messages.

“Don’t you just want to listen to your CD?” she would ask.

Irritating.  I didn’t realize I was such a crappy conversationalist.

The drive lasted eight hours.  After that much time at the wheel, I was ready to sit on the couch and have a cold drink.  According to the GPS, we were less than a  minute away.  I started to look for the others’ cars, as Gabby had told me they arrived before us.

And that's when I saw her.  A woman.  The spitting image of Carla, an old friend from Austin whom I haven’t seen in years.  She was standing next to my dad on the porch of a beach house.  She looked scared.  I thought to myself, “What a coincidence!  That woman looks like Carla.”

Then I looked closer.  “Wait… I think it is Carla!  What a coincidence that she happens to be in the Florida at the same beach house at the same time as us?! “  I turned toward Gabby to say, “Can you believe it?!”, when I noticed she had a huge smile on her face and tears in her eyes.

I looked back at the porch and saw a flood of people come out of the house.  More old friends.  Gabby’s dear family.  Other kids.  Twenty-seven people in all.  All making a surprise trip to Florida to celebrate a week-long birthday party.

For me.

Gabby had been planning it for 18 months.  How everyone kept the secret, I’ll never know.

I was absolutely floored.  It took me several days for the surprise to sink in.  The week is a beautiful blur of time with people I love. Sharing meals.   Riding bikes.  Swimming.  Playing in the sand with nieces, nephews and other kids.  An honest-to-goodness heart-to-heart talk with my old pal David.  Sitting on the porch drinking beer, telling stories for hours on end with family and friends, old and new.

* my huge, crazy family

*Love them Taylors!  David and Carla.  And no, I'm not pressing charges.

*Me and my wonderful wife.  I'm almost as tan as her.  Almost.

* The whole Brand clan

* Boys memories being made

* The big kids

* Jen and John on the beach

It’s the best gift I could have received.  Far greater than anything item Gabby could have purchased from a store.

And the best part?

I have photographic proof.  My very own, official birthday party.  With real invitations.  Vivid pictures on paper and in my memory.  Just perfect for an album.

And the only thing missing is the Aqua Velva.

Week Twenty-Two: "Family Prom"

A couple of weeks ago, Gabby and I were discussing what to get our niece, Abby, for her high school graduation.

Since we can’t buy anything, I was running through a list of options.  We could make her some dorm bedding out of old T-shirts and two month’s worth of dryer lint?  Gabby and I could orchestrate the world’s smallest flash mob?  Maybe sculpt a likeness of her pet cat out of mashed potatoes?

Then Gabby got to thinking.

Our niece attended an online high school.   Your read that right.  On the internet.   Five hours per day.    Doing lessons and homework.  It’s called Ohio Connections Academy.  I think it is interesting to use the word “connections” to describe an academic experience where you never really meet anyone face-to-face, but the program is pretty progressive.  If I had this option when I was her age, I would have made the most of this kind of “connection” by posting photos of GAP models as my profile pic and listing my hobbies as weight lifting, money counting, and kitten rescue.  Luckily, Abby and her classmates are much more mature than I was, so they simply got their work done and were productive members of society.

Gabby noted that Abby’s online high school experience, while functional, lacked one important teenage rite of passage.  Namely, a large, uncomfortable, expensive function complete with cringe-worthy, acne-riddled party pics to induce laughter and/or embarrassment twenty years later.  Thus was born her brilliant idea.

“Family Prom.”

I know what you’re thinking.  The last thing a high school girl would want to do is get dressed up with her lame extended family, go out to a dinner with other adults and small children, and come back to a dimly lit room to dance the YMCA and Billy Idol’s “Mony, Mony” with her parents.

And to you I say, you greatly underestimate the “cool” factor of the Dannemiller Family Prom Planning Committee (DFPPC).

Gabby, doubting my grasp of hip lingo, made it our first order of business to text Abby’s boyfriend Spencer to find out if kids today still use the word “cool” to describe things besides temperature.  After all, if the newly-formed DFPPC was ever going to be part of the popular crowd, we needed to know appropriate slang.

Gabby: We are planning a prom for Abby so start thinking about how you will ask her...  Family Prom…  You guys are a shoe-in for Prom King and Queen.

Spencer:  Oh.  OK.  That’s cool!

Scott 1 – Gabby 0

Next up was the prom theme.  The DFPPC (Gabby and I) had a difference of opinion on this one.    I wanted something sentimental, reflecting the mood of my own Senior Prom.  Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young.”  I can still feel the rhythm-less swaying and smell the overpowering hint of Drakkar Noir anytime I hear that tune.

But Gabby wanted something “cool.”

I offered Phillip Phillips’ “Home” as a possible idea.  Gabby laughed and called it “cheesy.”  I countered by saying I didn’t think kids today used the word “cheesy” to describe anything other than curdled milk.  She countered.

“Believe me, honey.  They would call it “cheesy.”

“Fine!  Do you have a better idea?

“Yeah.  Not ‘Home.’”

“Be serious.”

“OK.  I don’t know.  Maybe Michael Bublé or something?”

“Michael Bublé!?  Abby would not think Michael Bublé was cool.  She’d just ask ‘Who in the hell is Michael Bubble?  Sounds like a guy who sells shampoo!’”

Things continued to get more heated until we woke up and realized that we were a full-grown, forty-year-old married couple, driving down the highway, fighting over the theme to a fake Senior Prom.

Cooler heads prevailed.

We texted Abby to tell her we were throwing her a Family Prom and she had to come.  We also told her she had to pick a theme.

She texted back,

“How about “Thrift Shop”?”

An obscure choice.  I had heard of the song, but Gabby hadn’t, so she Googled it on her phone.  She gave me the play-by-play.

“It’s by some guys named Macklemore and Ryan Lewis.  It has an ‘E’ next to it.  Does that mean it’s for ‘everyone?’”

She played a snippit of the song on speakerphone.  Thirty-eight seconds in, we learned that “E” does mean “everyone.”  As in, “Everyone in our car, preschoolers included, will now know slang terms for copulation and genetalia.”

Perhaps Abby is mocking our idea.

Now that we had the theme settled, we assigned responsibilities.  Gabby nominated herself president of the DFPPC.  I seconded the nomination because I would like to stay married.  Brother-in-Law Owen was put on transportation and sound amplification. Sister Kerri was assigned dress acquisition and downloading non-explicit music.  I took charge of the venue and emcee duties.

As a nod to the prom theme, and deference to our Year Without A Purchase, all attire had to be something you already own and/or purchased from an actual thrift shop. Gabby was going to recycle an old bridesmaid’s dress, but my mom heard of our fantastic prom theme and loaned one to Gabby that she had bought from a secondhand store for $3.99 some months before.  We borrowed Jake’s suit and used a handmade dress from a dear friend’s mom – thank you Margaret Lewis!  Kerri was able to outfit her entire family, smokin’ hot dressed included, for the cost of a Super-Sized McDonald’s Value Meal #7.

I’m not kidding.

* Gabby's dress (big reveal to come)

* The kids and their dates.  Cousin Jack and Audrey.  Cousin  Ava and Jake.

Meanwhile, I was in charge of the venue.  Bowling alley?  Skating rink?  No.  This had to be special.  Even though Thrift Shop was the theme, this was a real fake prom.  A graduating teenage girl only gets one shot at this.

We had already used some of my frequent traveler points to secure a hotel room I downtown Columbus.  On a whim, I called the Marriott to talk to someone in charge.  I didn’t hold out much hope, but my mom taught me that it never hurts to ask for anything you want.

They transferred me to the hotel’s sales director.  She wasn’t there so I left a message.

“Hi.  We’re going to be staying at your hotel this weekend and I have an odd request.  Our niece is graduating from an online high school and didn’t get to have a prom.  So, we’re throwing her a Family Prom.  Little five-year-old cousins are taking each other as dates.  The whole nine yards.  Anyway, the problem is, we need a venue.  Maybe a ballroom?  A conference room? Just for a couple of hours.  If there is anything you can do, I’d love to chat with you.” 

My phone rang exactly fifteen minutes later.  I expected a big, fat “no.”  Or, at the very least, a chokeable, non-thrift-shop-style price tag.

“Hi Scott.  This is Lindsey, the sales director at the Renaissance Marriott.  I received your voice mail and must admit...”

My anxiety was growing.  Like I had asked Lindsey to be my date to the prom and was waiting to find out if she would accept my invitation, or crush my dreams like many girls throughout high school, sending me into a downward spiral of despair filled with ice cream binging and over-coiffing my hair with Aqua Net.

“…your idea is the coolest thing I have ever heard.  I want to make this the best prom ever, and I can’t wait to plan it for you!!!”

* Me in high school with some buddies.  Trust me, we were totally rad, and my hair is coated in a sheen of toxic chemicals.  Apologies to Mike and Brian for the embarrassing photo.

Score!  I didn’t have the heart to tell Lindsey that the DFPPC already had a president.  So I did the next best thing.

“Great!  Then you can be the president of our prom planning committee!  Our theme is Thrift Shop.”

She reacted as if she had just won a dream date with a wealthy GAP model who works out and rescues kittens.

“That is so awesome!  I am totally calling my girlfriends to discuss decorations.”

Judging from Gabby’s level of excitement, and now Lindsey’s desire to stage a coup d’ etat of the DFPPC, I believe every grown woman wishes they could plan their own prom.  Maybe because it’s kinda’ like planning a wedding, only without the pressure and lifelong commitment.

What followed was a barrage of enthusiastic emails from Lindsay.  She gave us the largest and best conference room they had.  Complete with giant, two-story pillars and huge glass windows. She gave us free valet parking.  She even shopped for decorations on her off hours, paying for them out of her own pocket,  and made a prom queen sash with her own two hands.  Total cost?

$35

*Lindsey, Co-President of the DFPPC and over-achiever

Meanwhile, the DFPPC debate raged on.  Gabby was quick to remind me of prom etiquette.

“You know you have to get me a corsage, right?”

“But honey, I’m not allowed to buy anything.”

“Then you had better figure out how to grow some flowers really fast, or make one from scratch.”

I contemplated ripping a rosebud out of someone’s garden, but figured that would only bring about some bad prom mojo.  So I Googled “How to make fake flowers” and stumbled upon a Martha Stewart crafting website.

I clicked the link.  I was amazed at the beautiful array of flowers I could create by hand.  Tulips.  Peonies.  Gerber daisies.  They were absolutely stunning.

* Samples from Martha's site.  How hard can it be?

Martha wrote, “Crepe-paper flowers capture the essence of flowers without all the botanical details. Their whimsy makes them not only a pleasure to behold, but also an enjoyable project to undertake.”

Damn skippy!

I looked over the directions.  It takes 17 steps to make the stamen alone.  And a lot more to make the actual flower part.  The materials required included light, medium and heavy crepe paper in varying shades, 18-guage fabric wrapped floral wire, something called “floral tape”, and other doodads.  I glanced at the raw materials at my disposal.

• ½  roll of wrinkled crepe paper left over from Jake’s birthday party (Red).
• 34 old pipe cleaners that Audrey had fashioned into bracelets and collars for her stuffed animals (Assorted colors)
• ¼  roll of 3M masking tape (yellow)
• A healthy fear of the DFPPC (Co-)President’s wrath if she doesn’t have a corsage for prom

These items, paired with my gumption, proved worthy.  If the project was to be “enjoyable” as Martha promised, I had to make some adjustments.  I pared Martha’s dozens of steps down to three.  Cut, fold, tape.

So much for “whimsy.”Forty-five minutes and several failed attempts into the project, I had this:

* How hard could it be?  Try "five months in Federal prison" hard.

It took another half hour to finally complete the project.  Here is the finished product, greatly enhanced by my date’s hotness while waiting on dinner at Buca Di Beppo, the restaurant sponsor of Family Prom 2013.

I realize it looks as if a dinner guest just chewed up a bunch of party decorations doused in marinara and spit ‘em out on Gabby’s wrist.  But her smile proves that it’s the thought that counts.  Or maybe it just proves she enjoyed the house chardonnay.  Either way, I win.

But Family Prom was not about me and my date.  The night was about spending quality time with family we love and showing Abby what a special girl she is.

We got dressed up.

We chatted over giant plates of Italian food.

* Abby's congratulations sundae.  Don't mind a slightly psycho Jack in the background.  The kid is Jonesing for some dessert.

We squished 11 family members into a big conversion van and rode together to the prom.  We laughed.  Popped balloons.  We danced to Prom standards like “Shout”, “YMCA,”  “The Chicken Dance.”  My seven-year-old son taught me the Harlem Shake.  We broke our backs doing the limbo.  We did the Hokey Pokey.  And, finally, Abby and Spencer were crowned Prom King and Queen in a landslide vote.  As it should be.

* Spencer and Abby.  Family Prom 2013 king and queen.

* Me teaching Audrey how to "drop it like it's hot" while dancing to "Play That Funky Music."

* Beautiful mom Kerri with her girls, Ava and Abby.

* Me and the wife, trying on the crowns for size.

* Methinks it's getting late.

It was a fabulous night to commemorate a fabulous girl’s first 18 years on the planet.  She starts college in the fall. It’s an exciting time for her.  Breaking out on her own for the first time.   That likely means less time at home.  Fewer conversations.  Absences at the most mundane daily events of life.  Her little brother’s soccer games.  Her little sister’s spontaneous dance recitals.  She will be missed.

And at the same time, we can all feel blessed to have placed a big bow around all of the memories she’s given over the years.  Making new memories in the process.

So congrats to the Family Prom Queen.  You deserve all of the blessings the crown will bring.

Week Twenty-One: "Fixing What's Broken"

It’s a sad time at the Dannemiller house.  A wonderful man passed away a couple of weeks ago.  He was 97.  So I’ll beg your forgiveness in advance if I reminisce a bit on the man I knew as Grandpa Charlie.

* 2006:  From L-R  My brother, Jeff, Me and Jake, Grandpa, and my dad.

Charlie Dannemiller and his wife Bernetta had twelve children.  You read that right.  Twelve.  Enough to fill an entire football team with one left over to serve as water boy.  As the father of two kids, I have no idea why someone would do that to himself.  There isn’t a single thing my children do that I believe would be better when multiplied by a factor of six. 

You could blame such fertility excess on reality television, but back in Charlie’s day, reality TV was simply “reality.”  The Catholic church was his muse.  Every child is a blessing, and you tend to get a lot of them when you’re using the Pope-endorsed “Rhythm Method” for contraception.  In fact, that’s how I got here.

“Yeah, I think we had the radio on when you were conceived,” my father used to say.

Genius.

My dad was the third of Charlie’s dozen.  He grew up in a crowded house.  To this day, he has never had a room to himself.  Everything was shared, including food, beds, clothes, sporting goods, and of course, chores.

There weren’t shelves overflowing with toys to be picked up, but there was plenty of mess.  In order to keep a lid on things, Charlie and Bernetta had some pretty strict cleaning requirements.  Beds had to be made every day.  Floors washed and waxed by hand every single weekend.   Laundry was non-stop.

Bernetta kept the house humming, enlisting the help of any children who had mastered their opposable thumbs.  From what I understand, the girls took the brunt of the work.   Meanwhile, Charlie worked three or more jobs, so he wasn’t around much.  He would start his day before dawn working at the post office, then work a series of odd jobs.  Maybe drive a bus, fix cars, paint houses, sew canvas aprons, or do some basic janitorial work.  He might come home for a fifteen minute nap and dinner somewhere in between.

He wasn’t the playful, teddy bear father.  Charlie didn’t entertain his kids.  He never attended their sporting events or music concerts.  He showed his love by waking up before the sun, working like a madman, providing for his family, and collapsing shortly before midnight.  It was a no frills existence.  There was barely enough money for food, much less anything else.   My dad often sums up his childhood in a single sentence.   

“You knew it was getting close to payday when you found a baked bean sandwich in your lunchbox.” 

When Charlie would have a day off, it was spent taking care of other duties around the house.  Cutting the grass.  Keeping cars running.  Fixing squeaky doors and broken latches.  There wasn’t any extra money to pay people to take care of honey-do’s and other projects. Luckily, Charlie was a highly intelligent guy and could fix anything, usually with one of his sons at his side.  Though I didn’t know him very well as a kid, I witnessed his brilliance first-hand when he came to visit one summer.

I had started a lawn care business with my friend Cory Schroeder when I was twelve.  The neighborhood was pretty big, so Cory would “borrow” his dad’s beat up old golf cart to get us from job-to-job.  We would tie my dad’s beat-up TG&Y mower to the back, and drag the rattling mass of metal all the way to our destination.  One day, the cart pooped out not long after we left my house.  We pushed it back to my driveway. 

Sweating from the heat, we walked inside.  Charlie asked, “What seems to be the problem?”

“The golf cart won’t run.  Looks like we’re going to have to push the mower almost a mile to our next job.”

Charlie looked at us and said, “You’re giving up already?”

He walked outside to where the cart was parked and lifted up the seat.  Inside the dark belly of the machine was a battery so corroded that it looked like it was covered in stalactites.  Charlie quickly diagnosed the patient and blurted, “Gimme a minute,” and turned toward the house. 

We helped him by eating popsicles.

A few minutes later, Charlie erupted from the garage holding a screwdriver, a wire hanger, and some pliers.  Undistracted by our sixth-grade snacks, he immediately went to work.  Even though there were only three items in the tool inventory, he had me keep track of each one and pass him what he needed.   As he toiled under the seat, he held a complete conversation with himself using his personal language soup.  It was a delicate mix of muttering and heavy sighing, with a dash of English sentence fragments.   

Before we knew it, he was dropping the seat back into place.  The screwdriver wore signs of green and white corrosion.  The wire hanger had disappeared.  So confident in his ability to fix what was broken, he didn’t test the work himself.  Instead, he motioned to Cory and commanded,

“Hop in there and see if she drives!” 

Cory gripped the key with his sticky fingers, turned it in the ignition, and stepped on the gas.  The cart sprung to life!  We didn’t know how he fixed it, and didn’t ask a lot of questions.  I’m sure that his repair job would not have passed safety inspection, but S&C Lawn Care wasn’t bringing in the kind of revenues that might trigger such an audit, so we kept our mouths shut. 

I didn’t see a lot of Grandpa Charlie after that.  My grandmother was in poor health, so they rarely made any more trips outside of Ohio.  I would see him at family gatherings, which, given the sheer size, looked more like a benefit concert than a reunion.   As you might imagine, there isn’t a lot of quality time to be had when you’re competing for attention with twelve kids plus a hundred more grandkids and other assorted relatives. 

All that changed when Bernetta passed away. 

My grandmother had heart trouble.  There were numerous times they gave her only months to live.  Bolstered by faith and force of will, she hung on to life for years and years.  Grandpa Charlie took care of her until her body finally gave out.  I am convinced that had the doctors chosen to perform an autopsy when she left this world, they would have found strands of wire, coat hangers and other homemade parts that Charlie had used to hold her together.  She was a wonderful woman who had raised twelve kids without raising her voice.  A beautiful life, well-lived and well-loved. 

All of the sudden, Grandpa Charlie had all the time in the world.  He had long since retired, and no longer had anyone to care for.  My dad, accustomed to calling home every Sunday to check in, now found himself talking with his father. 

Alone.

In conversations, their talk drifted to the familiar. 

“Kenny.  I bought myself a car.”

“No kidding, Dad.  What did you buy?” 

They talked about the value of American-made automobiles.  Horsepower.  Reliability.  Transmissions and trim packages.  Tools.  Storm doors.  Vinyl siding. It was all safe territory.  That is, until Grandpa Charlie decided to go off script.

“I am planning on taking my new car on the road.  I’m going to visit every one of my kids.  From California to North Carolina.”

“Really?”  Dad said, followed by silence.

“Yeah.  I figure I should make up for lost time.  I plan on spending a few weeks with each one of you.”

A few weeks?

This was exciting news to my father.  The kind of excitement you might feel upon being told that you possess the largest, most intricately cut diamond on earth. 

In your bladder. 

You see, my dad didn’t really know Charlie.  Sure, he had learned a lot from Charlie growing up.  He knew how to fix things.  He understood the value of self-sufficiency and helping the less fortunate.  He developed a strong German work ethic.  But he didn’t learn much about Charlie the man.  So this visit was going to be a treasure, but the thought of extracting the value made my dad a bit nervous.

So Charlie came to Oklahoma.  My dad was just starting his own home repair and remodeling business.  They spent a lot of time in the garage working on projects together.  They talked for hours about carpentry and electricity.  They bonded over belt sanders and biscuit joints.  On the surface, these are hardly the kinds of conversations that form lasting emotional bonds.  But you gotta’ start somewhere.

Over the next twenty-plus years, through regular weekend phone calls and periodic pop-ins, my dad slowly came to know his father.  And it made him happy.  But it wasn’t everything.

A couple of years ago, my dad and I were alone in my car together.  He was in the passenger seat.  I asked him about his recent visit to see Grandpa Charlie. As was the norm for our discussions, Dad talked about Charlie’s health.  He relayed the story about how, on this most recent trip, a lot of his brothers and sisters had gathered at my Aunt Rose’s house for a get-together.  It went a little something like this:

Grandpa was getting tired.  But he’s 95.  What do you expect?  Cartwheels?

So I offered to take him back to his apartment.  Your Grandpa agreed on the condition he could be the navigator.  You know how his mind is still sharp and he loves to test it.

So, we walked out to the car.  I carried a box of peanut brittle that someone had given him as a gift and set it in the back seat.  Your grandpa rode shotgun.

Once we were on the road, Grandpa began to navigate.  He nailed the first couple of turns, but a few miles and some minutes later, I could tell we weren’t going the right way.  So I said,

“Are you sure this is the right way, Dad?”

“Yeah, Kenny.  Keep going.  We’ll see the next turn in a minute.”

So we drove on for quite a while longer.  Fifteen or twenty minutes.  Talking about a lot of nonsense.  I didn’t ask him about the directions again.  They he says, 

 “Hey Kenny?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

“I think we may be lost.” 

The words came out of his mouth more like resignation than conversation.  Tough for him to admit he wasn’t the same guy he used to be.  So I tried my best to make light of the situation.

“That’s OK.  Happens to me all the time.”

I called to get directions and got back on track.  A trip which should have lasted 25 minutes ran over an hour.  When we pulled into the lot at the assisted living center, I told him I was glad we had a bit of extra time together.  So we both get out of the car…

There was a pause in the story.  I looked to my right and my dad was staring straight ahead.  Silent.  What was he looking at?  Did I make a wrong turn? 

Just when I was about to ask a question, my dad’s broken voice came out.  Barely holding it together.

“And he said he was proud of me.  My dad said he was proud of me.  I’m sixty-seven years old, and it’s the first time I have ever heard those words come out of his mouth.”

That’s right.  Sixty-seven years.  Let me play them back for you.  Solid food.  First steps.  Learning to ride a bike.  Acting in school plays.  Playing sports.  Working your way through Catholic school.  Graduating.  Getting a job.  Buying your first car.  Getting married.  Owning a home.  Promotions.  Having kids.  Coaching little league.  Being a dad.  Starting a business.  Selling it.  Building your dream home with your own two hands.  Finding a life’s work that drives your passion.  All the while.  Wondering…

Did he notice?

And there they were.  Four little words. 

“I’m proud of you.”

 Imprisoned in the heart of a father, finally set free 67 years later.  Fixing what was broken.

It’s true.  Charlie isn’t the same guy he used to be. 

And neither am I.  And neither are you.  We are all shaped by our experience.  We grow.  We learn.  We choose.  And we are all patching together a life with duct tape and bare wire.

It’s an imperfect artform.  Not a month goes by when I don’t hear my own father say the words, “I’m proud of you.” Now those words mean more to me than ever before.  It’s preventive maintenance.  Putting into words what had only been said in silent, selfless sacrifice by his own father.  Because sometimes daily toil doesn’t speak clearly enough. The words we say become the gift we give and the legacy we leave.  Made real through action and love.

* Mom n dad's legacy.  I love these people!

This is our life’s work.  We must commit to holding together the things we hold most dear. And we do it by building upon the beautifully flawed legacy that has been passed own to us. Learning from our own mistakes, yet allowing our own children to make their own.  Taking the best we have and making it stronger for those who come next.

Continuously.

Lovingly.

Faithfully.

Fixing what was broken.

Week Twenty: "It's In Our Nature"

I don’t feel like being funny today. I know.  Funny is in my nature.  My default response.

But not today.  Today I feel like crying.

Because my nature is Okie.  I spent 26 of my formative years in the state.  Oklahoma City is my home.  It’s where I learned to ride a bike, kiss a girl, and properly eat a lamb fry (don’t ask).  It’s also the place where I learned to look a man in the eye when shaking hands, to leave things better than you found them, and to offer help to strangers.

Don’t let the Okies fool you.  You might mistake the slow, easy drawl in their voices for a lack of intellect.  But remember, humility is a requirement for Oklahomans, so they develop their accents accordingly.   It’s there to mask the wisdom that lies beneath.  Anything else would be too preachy.

This week, I was scheduled to teach a workshop in The Power of Positive Influence to a group of safety professionals at OG&E, the electric utility based out of Oklahoma City.  I arrived on Sunday and was greeted by tornado sirens in the parking lot of my hotel.  But I wasn’t scared.  Growing up, the sirens in my neighborhood were tested every Wednesday at noon.  Like clockwork.   So, for me, the sound generates the same feelings of nostalgia that seagulls and crashing waves might bring to someone who grew up near the beach.

But the sirens weren't a test.  On Monday morning, a couple of the workshop participants were no-shows.  They had been called to the town of Shawnee that had been hit by a tornado the night before.  Their job was to keep the community safe from downed power lines and restore service.

On Monday afternoon, the tornado sirens sounded again.  The remaining participants – all safety guys – made sure we knew where to go in the event we were directly in the storm’s path.  Luckily, we were over ten miles away.

By 3:30, they had all heard of the destruction in Moore, and requested an early stop to our class.  On the way out the door, they were thanking me for my time, and apologizing in advance.

“We might be up all night helping get the downed lines out of the way for rescue vehicles and such.  So, no offense if we look a little sleepy tomorrow, or come in late.  We promise it’s nothing personal.”

Guys like this already have a Master’s degree in positive influence.  We cancelled the rest of the week’s classes.

By now, you all know what happened.  The town of Moore, Oklahoma is devastated. The rest of us watch and weep.  We cry for the families who lost their homes.  We ache for the parents who lost children.  And we look for ways to help (here are some).  It would be criminal to do nothing.  Like sitting next to a guy having a heart attack at Applebee’s and asking him if he was going to eat the rest of his chicken fingers.

And I’m still here on the red dirt soil of Oklahoma for a few more hours, just a stone’s throw away.  But my hands are tied.  It appear that Oklahomans are too good at helping.  Local news stations are begging people to stay away from the area.  They have been inundated with volunteers.  So the volunteers bring supplies.  With lines stretching out on the highway past midnight.  Cars loaded with shovels and gloves.  Pickup trucks filled with diapers and stuffed animals.

This kind of generosity breeds strength and character.  Like my grade school buddy Trevor, now a state trooper for the Oklahoma Highway Patrol, who logged a 19-hour shift.  All he asks in return for his service is that the next time you see a cop or a firefighter, you give ‘em a hug.

Done.

And then there’s Jay, a high school classmate, who just last week posted a photo of his fun new landscape lighting project.

And now finds a whole new landscape.

* Jay's house yesterday afternoon

Hard to believe.  The strength required to come back from this is more than I can imagine.  But I know he will.  He’s an Okie after all.  I only hope that when I bumped into Jay and Trevor walking through the halls of Yukon High School, that some of their strength rubbed off on me.  It’s one thing to go through a year and not buy any stuff.  It’s an altogether different thing to save a life or rebuild one.

Humility can humble you like that.

At times like these we think of the important things in life.  Friends.  Faith.  Family.  We tell people we love them.  We hold our wives a bit closer.  We hug our kids a little more often.  It’s good for the soul and it deepens relationship.

At the same time, it can be sad.  I blush at how many times I have used tragedies like a metaphorical Post-It note.  An outward reminder to focus on what’s important.  Part of a to-do list.  And the problem is this: that Post-It note is not a part of me.  It’s not my default response.  It’s something I keep on a shelf until the next tragedy comes along.

And it’s sad.

So today, my prayer is for Oklahoma.  May wounds be healed and hope restored.  May those who have been affected see God in the face of strangers and helpers.

And my prayer is also for all of us.  May we all look to make our lives a constant reminder of what’s important.  To sift through the rubble of the day-to-day and find that shining point of light that sustains us all.

Because, whether Okie or not…

It’s in our nature.

(image below courtesy of Nancy Dodd Poole whose niece and nephew assisted with yesterday’s clean up efforts.  It reads, "The most important things in life aren't things.")