Throw Those Ones Back

It's early August, the height of summer holidays.  It's the time when families venture off to their favourite places to soak up the sunlight that is fading more with each passing day and to bask in the glow of what it means to be loved.  Or maybe these trips are exercises to keep the kids from killing each other (or from you killing them) because you've all spent more "quality time" together in the the last six weeks than you did from September to June.  A trip may be just the thing to get the family over that last hurdle before that elusive finish line, often referred to as the start of the new school year.

Here are a few thoughts that are swirling around this stay-at-home dad's head.   I hope this collection brightens your day - sort of like an ice pack on a twisted ankle or perhaps something more preventative, such as applying a band-aid to cover your nipples before setting off on a marathon-like run or that brisk walk with your neighbour and chatting partner.

The Summer Olympics are presently taking place in London.  Lots of great athletes, all of whom are dedicated beyond belief.  To be at the Games requires talent, skill, some luck, but mostly it requires a Herculean commitment.  I admire all of these people for that.  Have you ever noticed that with every victory or defeat each athlete has someone close by who shares in the glory or the tears.  So many people seem to go unnoticed and they all seem okay with that.  Road bikers have entourages following them through the streets in cars packed with replacement parts; those inside bikers, who go around the roller derby looking track, have coaches who push them to the starting line and hold them up so they don't fall over because their feet are welded to the pedals; weight lifters always seem to be escorted to the platform by five or six people, as if their presence will somehow help get that 500 pounds high into the air.

I recently volunteered at my daughter's swim meet that was held in Halifax.  Part of my role as a chaperon was to help provide healthy snacks for the swimmers.  Often, before the athletes woke up or after lights out at night, my fellow chaperones and I worked diligently behind the scenes cutting up fruit and vegetables to ensure that the swimmers would be nourished and on top of their games.  It wasn't the Olympics, but it gave me a taste of the amount of effort and dedication that is required by so many before any serious athlete is even able to compete.  My hat is off to all of you and thanks for the gold medal performances.

The recreational cod fishery is on the go and I've been out jiggin' like an Olympian.  Brother Bill has a nicely outfitted boat for such an adventure and doesn't mind that I borrow it often.  His 3 year old son, James, seems to have a different take on my taking.  Whenever I arrive with my truck and hook up the boat that sits in Bill's driveway, James shouts to anyone within a square kilometre that "Uncle Jim is taking daddy's ship again!"  The fish are plentiful, the weather has been unbelievable, the humpback whales entertaining and the views spectacular.  Young James is just going have to get used to the idea that I'm going to continue to steal his daddy's boat - over and over again.

One more note on ocean fishing.  At the bottom lurks a devilish looking fish known as a Sculpin.  Perhaps it more resembles a dragon that a devil, but you get the picture.  Sometimes it will swallow our hook and take the long ride from the darkness of the sea bottom to the deck of the boat.  These things are certainly not "keepers" and readily find there way back into the water once someone gathers the nerve to grab their thorny bodies to remove the hook.  I've taken my kids and several of their friends out this week.  It has been pure joy to watch their faces as they reel in a cod that can be almost half their size.  It's even more fun to watch them whenever they come eye to eye with the nefarious Sculpin.  Cod and whales must be deaf because the screams from boys and girls alike have been simply world class.  Thankfully, they haven't been scared off.

My sister arrives later today from her home in Ontario. She lives in Milton, which is where I worked for several years.  She moved to Ontario from Alberta just a few months after I moved back to Newfoundland.  I'm still wondering about that one!  Her two girls are similar in age to my kids and they all get along wonderfully.  I'm sure my sister, Margaret Ann, is looking forward to visiting old friends and reacquainting herself with Newfoundland.  She'll take my car and my family will entertain her kids for the next few weeks.  It'll be great, but I'm guessing I'll have to remind her to take her kids with her when she's leaving to go back to Ontario.  It's not that she doesn't love them tremendously, it's just that she's a teacher and they've spent each and every day together since school got out in June.  After that much time together, even our own precious kids kind of start looking a little sculpin-ish.

Enjoy the rest of the summer.

The Story About Nothing

Today I will write about car ownership.  Before I get too revved up about those pieces of steel on wheels I'd like to clarify something regarding my writing style.  The fact that I have chosen to write about life's everyday happenings may seem trivial and predictable to some.  This is understandable when one considers the real journalists who risk it all in the war zones of the world and the intrepid beat reporters who take on Big Brother in order to uncover the latest shocking examples of government corruption.

The advantage I have over my professional colleagues, other than not having to wear a flak jacket when typing or worrying that I may stumble across another Watergate, is that my stories are begging to be told.  They are right there for all to see.  Every day life happens everywhere, every day and it's interesting.  Often,  it is also hilarious, disturbing, head-scratchingly curious or even just plain stupid.

I'm not bound by political leanings of my editors, nor by having to bang out 5000 words before a deadline so that I can get paid.  In a sense, my stories are the Seinfeld of the blogging world.  They are mostly about nothing in particular, yet they serve to tell us a little, or a lot, about who we are and how we choose to go about our day-to-day lives.  Unlike Seinfeld, my stories are about real people and events.  Anyone I know , or even not know, can be cast in a starring role.  Life is my studio and you are my actors.  I have no choice but to use you, the last I heard, Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer were in jail.

Now, here's my car story.  I'm off in a few minutes to buy my mom a car.  Ain't I a wonderful son?  (That is meant to be rhetorical for any of you smart-asses who insisted on answering.)  Well, as truth would have it, my generosity is really not as it seems.  Yes, I will be giving the car salesman my very own money and mom will drive away with her very own brand new 2012 car.  My actual generosity begins and ends with the drive I will be giving her to the dealership.  You see, mom is also gifting her 2007 Subaru Forester to me.  It's probably an equitable exchange - her car for me buying her the new car.  It's amazing how semantics can change the entire meaning of a story.

Perhaps I am getting the better of the deal and in doing so I've managed to inadvertently rip off my own mother.  Suddenly, this whole idea of the Nixon vehicle swap is sounding more and more like a Seinfeld episode.  Let's role play for a moment.  We'll cast mom in the role of the crazy and eccentric Mrs. Costanza and have her rip my head off for being such a conniving son.  That would mean that I would be George, who just happens to be the biggest loser on prime time television.  I guess it could be worse,  I could be cast as Jerry and that would be just be way too funny.

They May be Small Shoes, But Hard Shoes to Fill

A year ago I wrote about a man for who I have the utmost respect.

http://notsoprivatei.blogspot.ca/2011/06/sun-shines-on-mr-rumsey.html

I still feel that way and, if possible, that respect has grown.  Mr. Gerard Rumsey is the principal of the school where my kids have learned, laughed, cried, cheered and blossomed during the last seven years.  More importantly, under the leadership of Mr. Rumsey, the school has been a place that will forever be one of the building blocks for young lives that have limitless possibilities.  St. Francis of Assisi has been a home to my kids and the adults, who report to work there from September to June, have been more like family than public servants.

At the time I wrote my story, rumours were rampant that Mr. Rumsey may retire after one more year of tireless and selfless dedication to a profession that certainly does not get its just rewards.  In a world where even modestly talented professional athletes easily earn fifty to one hundred times more annually than our teachers, I question our priorities.  As a sports enthusiast and a parent, I can attest that neither a goal nor a home run stacks up to the immense responsibility of shaping the future of our young people.  The theme of my story was somewhat self-serving.  I asked that Mr. Rumsey delay any thoughts of riding off into the sunset for a minimum of three years.  That's when my younger daughter, Avery, would have completed grade 6 and my days of dodging the craters of the St. Francis of Assisi parking lot will have come to an end.

I know Mr. Rumsey is a frequent reader of my stories, but he did not  heed my request in this instance.  A hour ago I stood in that very school parking lot and watched Mr. Rumsey being greeted by the students, staff and many parents as he arrived at the school for his final day as its leader.  He was accompanied by the grade 5 teacher, Mrs. Furey, who will also be retiring.  Although, it the case of Mrs. Furey it must be early retirement because she looks no where near old enough to call it a day.  Perhaps she has a second career planned?

It was very symbolic that the fog that enshrouded the school was lifting just as Mr. Rumsey and Mrs. Furey arrived.  In a real sense, that's what educators do for our children.  As for arriving in sports cars, I'm not exactly sure what that says about Gerard and Janet future plans, but the kids sure loved the spectacular entrance.  We all lingered in the parking lot to soak up the good tidings, as much as the sunshine.  Given the title of my previous story about Mr. Rumsey, how fitting that the weather behaved as it did.  Every time I looked for Mr. Rumsey I found him joyfully conversing with the kids.  When he's amongst the elementary students he can be hard to locate, as he is somewhat vertically challenged.  Despite that, Mr. Rumsey will always be a giant in the eyes of the people that know him.  His heart must occupy most of his body because it is huge.

I could go on and on and on.... but as Mr. Rumsey knows, there is always a right time to stop doing something.  Farewell sir!