Blink and You'll Miss It - Part 10

Easter 2011 (nine months old)

Easter 2012

Easter 2013

Easter 2014 (Just a little grumpy about going to church.)

Easter 2015 (Pretty happy about going to church.)

Easter 2016

Easter 2017 - It's irresponsible to take a child with a fever to church, but she can still hunt Easter eggs at home.

Easter 2018 (Hmmmm. That dress looks familiar.)

Easter 2019

Easter 2020 (you don't have to dress up for online church)

Insert the "time flies" cliché here.

Actually, it isn't a cliché; it's a law.

New Openings

This just came in the mail today.

Yea! This will be a better set of tools for future DIY haircuts.

Hmmmm. What's inside?

Yea! Double Big Mac, we finally meet. 

I'll wait for my hair to grow out more before we break out the WAHL, but the Double Mac was my first McDonald's lunch in three weeks, and I tore into it immediately. Messy, but delicious. 

Hair trims. Drive-thru. Packages in the mail... it's the little things. With the schools closed, this life feels like the The Endless Summer, but in a fish bowl. 

Spring Cleaning

I wanted to get a haircut before spring break, but I put it off thinking that I had all kinds of time. Then everything changed, and it was too late. My hair was starting to look like a grey bush.

I began watching DIY haircut videos on YouTube, and looking for a hair clippers set for men. Like toilet paper, I couldn't find anything locally. I guess I'm not the only guy who needs a haircut. I checked Amazon, but the clippers wouldn't ship until April 15 to May 5. The same went for eBay. That wasn't going to tame my mane. 

Then I eyed the beard trimmer that Daphne bought me last year.

The adjustable guard wouldn't extend as long as I would have liked, but the trimmer was the best option I had. With trepidation, Daphne agreed to give it a shot. I have to hand it to her for even trying to cut my hair. This was way out of her comfort zone, but she was willing to give it a shot to help me out.

Daphne kept warning me that it wouldn't look like a professional hair cut as she moved the trimmer around my noggin. I didn't care. I was just sick of walking around the house all day looking at a greying haystack on top of my head. 

She used the longest adjustment for my whole head, and then went with shorter settings on my sides and back.

Not bad at all! 

(I can't say, "Looking Good," because that would be egotistical.)

I think we pushed the trimmer beyond its purpose, but it soldiered on. Daphne eventually became more comfortable with the process, and she made mental notes on how to make the cut look better the next time.

Since new trimmer kits aren't available, I decided to shop "used." I bought the recommended WAHL Elite Pro Home kit this afternoon on eBay. It's missing the #1 comb, but I can live with that.

I love buying tools, but I didn't think I'd be excited about getting hair grooming products. I expect I'll now be looking at professional barber tools with envy and start searching for vintage, chrome, professional hair trimmers.

My world might change, but I won't change too much. 

Bored Games

Answers that Question

I blogged about the double burgers at Canadian McDonald's last week. I wondered why they weren't available here in the US? Well, according to cnn.com, the Double Big Mac is now here. 

I just checked our local McDonald's menu, and yep, there it is! Our Double Big Mac is even ten calories less than the Canadian version. 

Now what about that Cadbury Creme Egg McFlurry to go with my Double Mac? C'mon Ronald! We got to keep keeping up with our neighbors to the north!

Vacation Plans

I like good meals, but I also like fast food... wait, does that even make sense? Anyway, the nearest fast food restaurant was an hour away when I was a kid. Eating fast food was a real treat at that time, and I haven't been able to shake that notion.

Daphne does not enjoy fast food like I do, so when I have a whole day to myself, I sometimes stretch my lunch to include more than just one fast food stop. 

I took a personal day last October, and I started my afternoon at a McDonald's drive thru with a double burger. It's not as filling as a quarter pounder, but there's more meat than the regular burger.

 

I stopped by Ted's Coney Island for a coney dog an hour later. I tried to get artistic with the ketchup.

Dessert was at Tasty Tacos. I only ordered one original flour taco, and that's not as easy as it sounds.

We are currently planning our family trip in June. Once again, we're heading to another part Canada. This time we will be exploring New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. We've already made lists of restaurants that we want to visit, but I have been doing some research on the side.

I know from experience that I begin to crave something familiar after days of travel. Sometimes McDonald's just sounds really good.

But McDonald's is the last place Daphne wants to go when we are on vacation, "Why would I eat there when there are so many other places we haven't tried?" It's a good argument. But seriously, she knows me, so if we even walk by a McDonald's, she'll actually speed up and pretend that it isn't there.

We were on Prince Edward Island four years ago when I spotted this sign advertising McLobsters. Daphne grudgingly agreed when I argued that this would be my only chance to try one. Honestly, the sandwich wasn't great, but it is fun to say that I've had a McLobster, and I got a regular burger, too.

Cargo pants - a dad's best friend.

This time I won't be able to use the McLobster defense, so I have to plan ahead if I want to get inside another  Canadian Mickey D's. What else do they have that I can't order here? Let's check their online menu.

I'm surprised that these double burgers aren't a thing in the US. That tower they call the Double Big Mac looks too big to comfortably bite into. 

Why isn't this a "Half Pounder with Cheese"? Call a tiger a tiger.

Given a choice, I'd go with the Double Pounder w/o cheese. I might feel slightly less guilty as I waddled out into the sunshine. 

Although you can't get those doubles in America (unless you combine two burgers yourself), I don't think they have the draw needed to get Daphne through the door.

She likes cake, and McDonald's doesn't sell it here, but she'd argue that there are already too many good bakeries to visit in Canada.

The power of the Cadbury Creme Egg would do it, and I'm sure Char would also be all in, but this is a limited-time item, and I don't think they will make it to June. (Why isn't this in America? It looks awesome!)

This will be the ace up my sleeve. 

I'll say, "I know for a fact you like their french fries, so we at least have to try their poutine." Then when I order, I'll just sneak in the Half Pounder w/o cheese.  

It might work...

PS. If we ever get to England, and I get sick of bangers for breakfast, I'm going to their Golden Arches. To quote Charlotte, "Mmmm... bacon."

I suppose I could make this at home. They did give away their secrete recipe. 

Wading in the Wood

I'd sit on his lap in that big old Buick and steer as we drove through town
He'd tousle my hair and say son take a good look around 
This is your hometown 
-  Bruce Springsteen "My Hometown"

Part 1:

My hometown is Inwood, Iowa. On a map, Inwood is a pinpoint of humanity surrounded by farmland, not forest. I suppose at one time the name Inwood was accurate, though. 

Inwood's population stood on its tiptoes to touch 550 when I was born. That seems like a petite sum now, but five hundred and fifty people is a towering number to a toddler. Inwood was my world. No other place existed. 

Children grow into their hometowns like plants in the spring. Fingernails sow the dirt with chubby, crawling fingers. The sunshine warms round, rolling torsos on blankets of grass. Vitalizing pools of well water are absorbed in to the skin. As a child shoots up, their roots dig deep. Unknowingly, they become part of the land.

Mobility only deepens this bond. First, the front house steps are conquered, and then the back yard. The surrounding sidewalks are traversed, as is the gravel alley that slices the block in two. When that square of homes has been escaped, the surrounding neighborhood is explored. Children will eventually discover, and then memorize, the whole town. The pathways, bike trials, and paved streets will be spun into them like double helices of DNA. 

If a person moves to that same small town, they will never have that connection. They may call it their home, but it cannot be their hometown. You have to be born to a place to share its pulse.

In Inwood I knew where all the best bike jumps were. I knew which trees had branches like ladder rungs. I knew where to look for lost change in the laundry mat. I knew which church door to sneak through to slake my summer thirst. I knew which nozzle in the pool's dressing room stung the least. I knew which house had the best Halloween candy. 

I knew Inwood by heart, and Inwood knew mine. A village does raise a child.

But the town was not my only friend. There were other boys in the wood. Even then I had no idea when all of us had met. Like my older sister, they had always been there. We did what was required of boys, which meant we crashed our bikes, threw rocks at passing railroad cars, and got kicked out of the pool for jumping in during rest break. Our kites were ensnared by telephone lines. Our new clothes returned home dirty and torn.

Describe Inwood in one sentence: The farm tractors were adorned with bunting for the 4th of July parade. 

Then my dad changed jobs. My parents bought a new house in a new town. Rock Valley was only 14 miles away, but that distance might as well be 14,000. When we left Inwood, we didn't look back.

My hometown tendrils had been severed. Untethered, I was floating over foreign soil. I had lost my home, my yard, my friends, and even my name. I was no longer Brent. I was "new kid."

I drifted in and out of the assigned Summer Recreational programs alone. I might have made friends if I was a gifted athlete, but in that regard, I had arrived empty handed. The kids in Rock Valley didn't need or want me there. Why would they? I had nothing of value to offer. They already had each other and their hometown roots were still attached.

I was about to enter 4th grade, but I was already nine years behind the rest of the class.

Part 2: 

This is just a variation on a theme. I've written about my days in Inwood and Rock Valley many times before. This time I was inspired by the introduction in The Best American Travel Writing 2019 - a gift from Daphne. In it, editor Alexandra Fuller writes of her home country, Zimbabwe, and how it is, "...like the home of a few of the writers in this piece, no longer the place I knew as a child..."

I began to wonder what I would find if I was to walk the streets of Rock Valley today, and then I corrected myself. I graduated from Rock Valley High School, but Rock Valley isn't my hometown. 

That a title belongs to Inwood. 

But why? I lived in both towns for nine years, and I wasn't even conscious of my environment for the first few years in Inwood. Doesn't that tip the hometown scales towards Rock Valley? No. It doesn't. I wasn't born in two places - only one. 

I wrote the Part 1 to this post as a way to explore how a hometown could possibly become so important to someone. I don't know if I was successful in that endeavor, but it was fun imagining how a town can become one with a child. 

While considering the importance of birthplaces, I have come to believe that there are three facts to accept: you can't choose your family, and you can't choose your birthplace, but both have an influence on who you are. I'll always sound like my dad when I swear, and the smell of burning leaves will whisk me back to a crisp, fall day when I was five. That can't be helped, and it is nothing to be ashamed of. 

Birthplace matters. But for some, it matters too much.

Years ago, I attended a wedding in northeast Iowa. While standing in line to use the bathroom, I overheard two men discussing the groom. One said to the other, "He's a decent enough guy, I guess. And he treats her right, but he's from Cedar Rapids."
The other sniffed loudly and said, "Yeah... well, you ain't shit if you ain't from the corner." They both nodded in agreement.

If you're like me, and not from the corner, then they were talking about us, too.

There's no doubt that I had fun in Rock Valley. I made some good friends, and I have a lot of fond memories. But there always seemed to be an unspoken agreement that I was only at the party because they let me be there. After nine years, I was still just a guest. 

In the movie Jaws, Sherriff Brody's wife Ellen asks her friend, "I just want to know one simple thing. When do I get to become an islander?"
"Ellen, never. Never. You're not born here, you're not an islander. That's it."

Here is fact number four: Your family and your birthplace do not define you. Sorry wedding guest #2 (cwidt), I am not from your parochial corner, and you are not better than me because of that. Sorry Mom, I do swear like Dad, but I promise I won't make the same decisions that he made.

So, I'm back to my initial question. What would I find if I walked the streets of Inwood today? With the help of Google Maps, I can take a virtual tour of the bustling main street.

I pointed and clicked my way past the ball field, the park, and the pool. I also passed the two houses we lived in. Even from this electronic distance, I could see that they are all much smaller than I remembered. No surprise there.

I've got nothing against the town, but I don't think I'll put "Visit Inwood Again" on my bucket list. There isn't anything there for me now.

Thousands of years ago Heraclitus said it better than I can today, "No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man." 

Ironically, The Best American Travel Writing 2019 has inspired me to not travel this time. But only not down a path to a past that has faded away.

None of the boys I knew would still be in Inwood. They've grown up, too. If I met one of those men, what would we have to say to each other?  Nothing. We wouldn't know the other, and it wouldn't matter if we did.

Another boy from the wood grew up and moved to Des Moines like I did. He's also a high school teacher. With a shared past and a similar present, you might think we have all kinds of things to talk about. We don't. The last time we saw each other, we pretended we didn't and kept walking. That was Inwood. Those days are gone.

It's important to know your roots. They tell you where you come from. But your growth above ground is where you are going.

I believe I'll stop here and read some of the essays in The Best American Travel Writing 2019. Perhaps I'll be inspired to visit a place that actually exists. 

Personal Record

I bought this can of shaving cream for our trip to the Black Hills last summer. I wanted something cheap that I wouldn't miss if it got left behind in a hotel room. That was on June 8.

In August I was surprised to notice that I was still using the same can of Barbasol, and I wondered how long it was going to last.

This morning the can ran out... 265 days after I bought it. I only lather once a shave, and I try not to be wasteful, but c'mon, I had no idea one can was going to last almost nine months.

Consider me a Barbasol guy from now on.

"People Who Enjoy Meetings Should Not Be in Charge of Anything." - Thomas Sowell

As seen in the living room this morning...

I think one of Charlotte's Squishmallows is having too much fun.

Tools by Any Other Name - An Update

I've been carrying this Leatherman multi-tool with me for years. It is incredibly handy. 

In 2013, I wrote about using it to cut Char' straws down to size when we are at restaurants. 

I wanted a Leatherman Juice S2 because I knew someone else who owned one. I was surprised by the $60 price tag, so I turned to my friends on eBay. I bought my Juice S2 for half that from a recently retired Leatherman employee. The seller stated that they were given the tool with their name engraved on one side, but their name wasn't stated anywhere in the listing. It was a mystery. 

Here's the seller's name.

Daphne and I have jokingly called the S2 "LaVerta" so often, the name has stuck. If we are out and about and something needs to be cut or tightened, Daphne will ask me, "Do you have LaVerta with you?" Without thinking, I'll fish her out of my pocket.

Charlotte has grown up with this, and she asks for it by name without a hint of humor, "Dad, where's LaVerta? I need to cut this string."

LaVerta has a nice patina from years of service, but she's as sharp as ever.

I received my first pocketknife when I was about Charlotte's age. I thought about buying another S2 for her, but Leatherman retired that model. I looked for a suitable replacement and settled on the Squirt PS4. It's smaller than the S2, but has shares some of the same tools. It should fit Char's hands nicely.

I noticed that the Leatherman site offers engraving for a small fee.

Hmm... why not? 

The real LaVerta lived in Oregon when I bought her Leatherman. I hope she doesn't mind that there is a family in Iowa that uses her name on a weekly basis. 

The next time Charlotte asks me for my LaVerta, I can say, "You know, I think it's about time you had your own." 

Family traditions... you never know how they are going to start. 

Update: 2/18/2020

I decided to give Charlotte her LaVerta for Valentine's Day. It's red and white, and that seemed appropriate. Char was so excited when she opened the Leatherman box and found her LaVerta inside. She pumped her fist in the air and hollered, " YESSS!" This was followed by, "I can't believe you got me a pocketknife! What made you think of it?" She explored the available tools, and when she opened the knife blade, she pointed it at invisible foes and threatened, "Die fiends!" She then folded the blade into the tool, stood up, and walked over to give me a hug, "I love it, Dad."

I was probably more excited about that gift than she was. I talked to several people at work about how thrilled she was with her multi-tool.

The next day Daphne was gone for a jazz competition, so I had Char to myself. In the morning I thought it would be a good idea for Char to use her LaVerta to open the gift box for Valentine's day that Grandma Betty had sent her. 

We discussed knife safety like cutting in the direction that is away from her body, but I apparently wasn't thorough enough. She was bleeding two seconds later. I tried to calm her down and assure her that she had not cut off her thumb. We went upstairs to get a Band-Aid, and while wiping her tears away, I talked her into getting back on her horse and trying again. 

Char attempted to get the blade under the cardboard flap, but she shoved it into the corrugated edge instead. Before I could stop her, Charlotte attempted to cut through the corrugation, which she couldn’t do. When she increased pressure, the blade jumped free and cut her palm. 

**“Owwww!” Tears flow, again. Paper towel pressure applied, again. Tissues for tears, again. Upstairs for a Band-Aid, again.**

I couldn’t make myself hand her the LaVerta, again, so I opened the package, and she consoled herself by eating a few marshmallow Unicorn Horns. Neither injury amounted to more than a papercut, but I felt disappointed, angry, and guilty. Who wants to give their kid something that will hurt them? 

This was all my fault. I had essentially been bragging to my friends how I had found a “great” gift for Charlotte, and looked what happened. That's what you get for bragging... 

Who pays for the sins of the parents? The children do, of course. 

Daphne was practical about it when I told her what happened. She said, "Well, I guess she learned to be more respectful of sharp knives."

I suppose it is true that she will be around sharp edges for the rest of her life. But I still felt that this time the tool's name was Dad.