Behold the Power of Stickers

In about three minutes my MacBook from work got a whole lot cooler.

I agree with my friend, Tim. He looks like a funky Bob Ross.

As seen here: http://www.etsy.com/listing/114264643/chap-10-fro-gotee-macbook-air-macbook?ref=v1_other_2

Really? Where are we hiding it?

Tonight I was trying to sing some Christmas songs to Charlotte, but sometimes when I'm really tired I switch the first letters of words around. "We've got some corn for popping" sounds pretty bad when the first letters of "corn" and "popping" are switched. Just a fyi.

Where were you in the Summer of '79?

I was in a ditch.

If I told you I really hate recycling, you might be quick to judge me, but I have my reasons.

The day before my tenth birthday, July 1, 1979,  the state of Iowa implemented the Beverage Container Deposit Law. In an effort to reduce litter, empty beer and soft drink containers could be returned to retail stores and/ or redemption centers for a  five cent refund. 

I had no idea how much trouble this new law was going to cause me.

I have already written about my love of rescuing old tools, and the joy I feel when I repurpose something that's been discarded. For example, when the "T" handle on my lawn mower's starter rope broke, I didn't run out to buy a new one. I found the old doorknob Daphne's grandpa was going to throw away, and I used that.

A doorknob on a mower might look a little goofy, but the original handle painfully dug into my fingers, and this knob is really comfortable to pull. Best of all, I now smile a little before I first start the mower. That's something I didn't do before. 

My dad would have approved of this repair because it saved me a couple of bucks. But that's not why this solution makes me happy. I had fun solving the problem, and I'm proud of the creativity I used. I'm also pleased I saved the doorknob from the landfill. That's one big difference between my dad and I. I like to save things. My dad liked to save money. 

And for Dad, the only thing better than saving money was finding money. Because of the '79 Bottle Bill,  my dad no longer saw old pop cans as trash. Instead, they transformed into big, shiny nickels right before his eyes. You'd think he had discovered alchemy. 

At first, Dad kept his obsession with free nickels behind closed doors. My family drank a lot of Coke, and it was hard for my sister and me to remember to keep the cans out of the garbage. He took every can thrown away as a personal slight. After a couple of weeks, Dad made it my job to dig through all the trash bags to make sure no empties had escaped. I don't know why it was my appointed task, but soon this responsibility extended beyond our home and to the gravel roads of Sioux county. 

Rather than driving the highway to Sioux Falls for our weekly shopping trip, Dad now drove the back roads mining for aluminum gold. As usual, I'd be in the back seat, lost in a book, and then I'd notice that the road noise had died. Dad would then yell from the front seat, "Cans!", and I was expected to jump out of our car to retrieve what ever road treasure was buried along the gravel.

I'd wade out into the thigh-high ditch grass and trip over dirt clods and into hidden gopher holes. As I worked my way along the fence line, the rusty barbed wire would catch my shirt, and my shoes would slip through camouflaged mud puddles. The cans would then spill backwash on me as I tried to bear hug them back to the car. Sometimes I'd be lucky enough to have a thick, brown rope of chewing tobacco spit spill down my chest. I'd dump the empties into our trunk and then crawl behind Dad's seat to get into the back. My sister would pinch her face together as she eyed my dirty clothes, push herself as far away as she could get, and disgustedly whisper, "You're so gross."

This went on for the rest of the summer and well into the fall's hunting season. Dad and I never came home with a deer, a duck, or even a pheasant, but we always returned heavy with cans. By December, there was too much snow to go stomping through the ditches, so all was quiet on the aluminum front for the rest of the winter.

Then spring arrived, and the gates of the Rock Valley Golf Course opened. As soon as the first golf cart buzzed by with a twelve pack of Bud Light in its basket, Dad again had nickels on the brain. He'd keep us on the practice green, pretending to be putting,  but we were actually waiting to follow a group of guys loaded with beers.

I had a stove pipe style golf bag that looked a little like this:

Back then I only carried five golf clubs, and by the time we had completed nine holes, all of my clubs would be in Dad's bag, and everyone else's beer cans would be in mine. Man, that golf bag reeked of beer. And it was pretty embarrassing during the golf unit at school when the gym teacher would stop me and check my bag for booze.

After years of cleaning up the backwoods of Northwest Iowa, I promised myself that when I moved out on my own, I would never return another aluminum can. In the trash they would go. And for some time, that's where they went. Sure, I was wasting the refund money, but I felt like I had earned that right.

Today I understand the moral obligation I have to recycle, and now that I have one of those big, blue recycling containers, I can fill it at will and not have any guilt or any problems.

At least, that's what I thought.

Someone in my neighborhood has figured out that I don't return my cans, and they sneak up our house and take them out of my recycling bin.  It doesn't matter when I put in my empties. If I drop in a 12 pack of Diet Pepsi at 10 at night, they are gone before I leave for work the next morning at 7. If I recycle in the morning, they're gone before I come home for lunch. It's creepy.

I suppose I could take the high road, and think Who cares if someone else is claiming your deposits? At least, the cans are being taken in, and you're not the one doing it. But I think raiding someone else's recycling is pretty ballsy, if not illegal. Until I put it out on our curb, the receptacle sits right next to our attached garage. If whoever is helping himself to my cans feels comfortable enough to get that close to our house, then what's next?

See? I hate the recycling program.

I'm not taking these cans to the store, but I don't want this goofball digging through our stuff, either. And I still want to do the right thing. So, the best thing I can do is render the cans worthless before dropping them into the recycling cart. I've seen the cans being removed from the inside of the can reception machines, and they're all crushed flat. So, maybe I can do that, too.

I couldn't find a can crusher in any of our local stores, so I looked online. Turns out it's illegal to sell one to me. Seriously? Yep, check the bottom of this online ad for a Harbor Freight can crusher:

Seriously, the recycling program sucks. I can string a bunch of cans together to make a prom dress or a duck blind, but I can't buy a crusher to mash them?

Looks like I might have to get creative...

PS. This isn't a movie from my garage.

Yet.

Stop! Thief!

So this is what is happening to the brightly colored tugs Maggie leaves around her backyard...

 Pretty impressive, really. Each tug is about 18 inches long.

What's the Most Wonderful Thing about Charlottes?



Oh, yes you are.

 

PS. We watch, read, and sing a lot of Winnie the Pooh stories, too.

With Great Respect, I Dissent

From looking at the pictures of Charlotte's room and crib, you might think Daphne and I just shower her with gifts, but that's not the case. Her parents have hardly purchased anything for Char. On Daphne's side of the family, Char's the first child to be born in about 20 years. There's a space about 14 years wide on my side. 

With that much time on your side, you tend to inherit a lot of toys that have been hiding in your cousins' basements and attics. Plus, many of Char's toys are leftovers from Daphne's and my own childhood. 

I'm not saying Charlotte doesn't have a gross amount of stuffed toys. If animal upholstery was money, I wouldn't be getting up for work tomorrow. I'm just pointing out that we haven't bought them for her. As odd as it might sound, Daphne and I aren't very practiced at shopping for our daughter.

So, Daphne's been surfing around trying to find popular toy ideas. Here's one she found on Amazon.

"Encourage active play and engage your child's imagination with Kid-O Bilibo. This durable, shock-resistant shell can be used as a rocking chair, helmet, shovel, water basin, and more. No matter whether your child's next adventure takes place at the beach, sledding hill, park, or your living room, Bilibo will add an extra element of fun. Bilibo was created, in collaboration with childhood development experts, to help stimulate creativity and improve hand-eye coordination in children aged two to seven."

Kid-O Bilibo Action Shots:

 

Here's the most helpful review I have read in awhile:

I think we'll pass on the Bilibo.

Hey, Neighbor

Movie Notes

The Flood of '93 thrust Des Moines into the national spotlight because the city and its surrounding suburbs did not have running water from July 11 to July 22. I had just finished my first year of teaching that July, and the flood sent me running back to Rock Valley to live with my parents until someone down here turned the faucets back on.

On the weekends, my four-year-old nephew Zachary would come to Rock Valley to stay with his "Gama" and "Papa". Often I would find myself trying to find things to entertain him. During one of the hottest Saturday mornings of that summer, I took Zach to the video store to rent a family movie.

Remember when Disney used those huge, clamshell cases to make their VHS products stand out on the store shelves, and then the other companies copied them?  Well, it looked like we weren't the only ones planning to hide indoors that day. There was only one "Disney sized" movie left on the shelf.

I showed Zach the box, and he wanted no part of My Neighbor Totoro. I can't say that I blamed him, there was't anybody in the artwork that looked like they were in The Lion King, and the movie's title was a bit off, too. No wonder it hadn't been rented. But beggars can't be choosers, so the movie went home with us. 

Once we had tucked ourselves into the cool of the basement, I pressed play on the remote and distracted Zach with previews for upcoming movie titles. By the time the movie was about to start, Zach asked, "What show is this?"

"I already told you," I picked up the case to re-read the strange title, "Ummmm, it's called My Neighbor Totoro."

"Nooooo! I don't want to watch the Toto! Stop it! Stop it!" As he yelled, he arched his little body in protest.

"Okay, okay. Jeeze, calm down! We'll find something else to watch." As I rapidly slid my hands over the couch's cushions, trying to find the remote, the opening titles for Totoro came on.

By the time I found the remote, it was too late. The peppy music had sucked Zach in. He had plopped himself directly in front of the TV, and he was pointing out the animals and insects as they were popping up from the bottom of the screen. Immediately I could tell this wasn't an American movie, and the subtitles confirmed that. Thankfully, the rest of the film was dubbed into English.

The movie's plot concerns a father and his two young daughters, Satsuki and Mei, moving into a new house near a Japanese forest. The locals warn them that their new home is haunted, but the family stays. It's a good decision, as the forest is inhabited with totoros, wilderness spirits, that take the girls on magical adventures. Sounds simple enough, but it's quite different from any other cartoon I had seen.

In his book, The Great Movies 2, Roger Ebert wrote, "Here is a children's film made for the world we should live in, rather than the one we occupy. A film with no villains. No fight scenes. No evil adults. No fighting between the two kids. No scary monsters. No darkness before the dawn. A world that is benign. A world where if you meet a strange towering creature in the forest, you curl up on its tummy and have a nap." 

 My Neighbor Totoro sure impressed my nephew. Zach watched it again that afternoon, and it was the first thing he wanted to see on Sunday morning. Eventually my mom bought a copy, and Grandma spent many hours watching the film with Zach and my other nephew Josh and my niece Meghan when they were old enough.

In July of 2000, I took a trip to Japan to visit my buddy Ryan Dughman. I tried hard to find gifts I could afford to bring back to the States, and I bought a couple of Totoro dolls for Josh and Meghan. But when I showed the pair to my Mom, she asked if she could keep them for herself. Apparently the Totoro magic had also worked on her.

Okay, fast forward to Thanksgiving week 2012. A feverish Char was home sick with Dad on Monday, and home again with Mom on Tuesday. By Tuesday evening, her collection of library books and Care Bear videos weren't cutting it anymore, so I decided to play my Totoro card. I was guessing Char was old enough to at least enjoy the opening song.

Char's at the age where she says "No," before she even thinks, so I wasn't shocked when I showed her my DVD of My Neighbor Totoro, and she pushed the case away. Undeterred, I started the movie and skipped through the previews while Charlotte rolled around the floor quietly sobbing, "I don't want to watch Toro! Care Bears! Care Bears!"

I had seen this act 19 years ago, and I had faith in the totoros. Although the opening song is now sung in English, the music quickly caught Char off guard, and she got off the floor to see what was going on. Unlike Zach, she wasn't immediately smitten with the movie. It took about 90 more seconds for her to become enchanted. Like Zach, Totoro was the first thing she wanted to talk about the next morning.

I called my mom to tell her about Char's new favorite movie, and when she came to visit for Thanksgiving, Mom brought the dolls along as a gift. They were accepted:

So what makes this movie so different? For one thing, the girls' mother is sick in the hospital, but no one makes a big deal about that. The kids just take her condition as a fact of life. Letters to mom are written, and visits are scheduled when possible. As Mr. Ebert asked in his review, "...does illness exist in American animation?"

Another difference is its pace. MNT isn't a slow film, there's plenty of action, but it takes the time to slow down and let the Mei gaze into a puddle and curiously poke a finger into a cloud of tadpoles - exactly the kind of thing a child would stop to do.

To compare cartoons to music, most programs on TV today are like harsh carnival music. Totoro is closer in design to a smooth jazz tune that makes unexpected turns. MNT hits all the right notes, but just not where you expect them to be played.

For example, I sure didn't see this Cat Bus coming.

Speaking of the unexpected, there is a bath scene that's pretty jarring. There's nothing inappropriate about the girls bathing with their dad, but you'll know what I'm taking about it when you see it.

As a father of a girl, I also like that the two main protagonists are female. They don't rely on any males to help them on their journey, except their Dad, of course, and that's cool with me. But this isn't a movie targeted at a female audience, it's a movie which just happens to have female leads. 

Ebert sums it up, "It is a little sad, a little scary, a little surprising and a little informative, just like life itself."

It's also a little wonderful. Just like raising a child.

PS. Here's Roger Ebert's full review:

http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20011223/REVIEWS08/112230301/1023

Thanksgiving Break Was a Little Tough This Year

When you have a head cold, a fever, and a molar coming in, no amount of stuffed animals, dolls, or blankets can soothe you.

Nope, that's when you need your Mommy.

A Song for the Season

I don't know any really good songs for Thanksgiving, so here's a generic "Holiday'" song that I think is cool.

The harmonies are so tight.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKd3HbQXy9E

Things I Still Own - part 1

On Wednesday night I had Charlotte to myself for a couple of hours, and I was trying hard to keep our dog inside the house. The neighbor behind us was working in his back yard, and Maggie hates that guy. I don't know why, but every time Mags sees his bald head, she sprints back and forth across our backyard barking and kicking up dirt.

By the time she relents and agrees to come inside, her paws are caked with mud. Char makes a big enough mess for me to clean up. I didn't need mud all over, too.

To keep Mags quiet and happy while I was playing with Char, I tried to sneak up stairs to make Magie's favorite treat: a rubber Kong filled to the brim with peanut butter.

"What are you doing, Daddy?"

"Getting Maggie's Kong ready."

"Can I help give it to hur?" Charlotte's at an age where she wants to help do things for Maggie, and she thinks it's fun to throw treats at her dog.

"Sure you can help," I replied while I walked downstairs, "Here, just put this by Maggie's feet." I handed the Kong to Char and pointed to a spot on the floor about a foot from us. Char swung her arm towards Mags, but instead of tossing the chew toy forward, she released it on the back swing. The Kong flew from her hard and somersaulted down the stairs leading to the basement. With every bounce, the toy spurted globs of peanut butter on the walls, the carpet, and the basement's ceiling. 

Char wailed, "Oh, nooooo! Maggie's treatnut budder went downstairs!",  and I mentally said a lot of words ending in "ing".

Actually, I shouldn't have been surprised.

Charlotte's my daughter, and I have the athletic ability of a brick wall. Throw me a ball, and the only way you'll get it back is if the ball hits me squarely in the chest and bounces back in your direction. Sure, I participated in high school sports, but the only thing I ever caught was crap from my friends for missing another pass. Like Char, I can't throw with any accuracy, either.

So, it may come as a surprise that I have a basketball championship trophy. Here it is on top of my bookshelf:

Let's look closer.

I was in 6th grade in 1981. Against my protests, my parents signed me up for a winter basketball camp. Practices were held Saturday mornings in our elementary gym. If you've seen the first half of the movie Hoosiers, then you have seen that gym. After six weekends of tripping over painted lines, dribbling the ball off my foot, and being stymied by the mystery that is the five man fast break, I found myself on a team entered in the YMCA Tri-State Basketball Tournament. Oh great, instead of embarrassing myself in front of my friends, I could do it in front of strangers.

The first game was on a Friday night, and I don't remember anything except being secretly disappointed that we won. Once again, I'd have to get up early and suck at basketball on another Saturday morning.

The second game was in Brandon, South Dakota. Since there was a chance we might make it to the third and final round, there was more pressure on the coaches to use their good players. That counted me and about four other guys out. I know I saw some game time, but I was on the bench when Jon Neff, who normally sat out the game next to me, wrestled the ball away from an opposing player and then missed a layup into the other team's basket. Our good players hung their heads in disgust, but the bench riders pointed and laughed because it wasn't us out there.

The final game was at the Sioux Falls YMCA, and I can mentally see the photo taken after our "team" victory. We were each given a trophy and then told to line ourselves up in front of the wall mat. The five guys in the middle of the group were drenched in sweat, and as you visually worked your way outward the pit stains on the shirts grew smaller and smaller. I was on the far left and dry as a bone.

So why do I still have a trophy for a victory I had no part of? I found it while cleaning out my mom's storage unit this past summer, and holding it again put a big smile on my face. It's fun remembering what a disaster I was, and Jon running the ball the wrong way is still funny, but that's not why I keep it.

In my home town, guys had to play sports to be socially accepted. It was a rite of passage.

So for me, this isn't a trophy for winning a basketball tournament. This is a trophy for surviving junior high and high school sports. It's my "been there, done that, and never gonna do it again" trophy.

Thank God those days are over.

PS. http://aol.sportingnews.com/sport/story/2012-11-16/wrong-basket-video-belgian-basketball?icid=maing-grid7|netscape|dl2|sec1_lnk3%26pLid%3D235607