Thursday, May 28, 2009

And That is Where the Children Play

It’s the end of the evening; the homework is done, the dinner dishes are drying in the rack. Now it’s reading time. I send my two oldest boys, Nick who is 10 and Brian 8, upstairs to read by themselves. I tell Charlie, my four year old, to go upstairs and grab us a book. We usually read in the living room. You see, I read aloud with Charlie, and my one foot voice is really more like a twenty five foot voice. We read downstairs so as to not disturb the big boys. Charlie scampers down the stairs with Margaret Wise Brown’s Big Red Barn. I smile. He’s excited, “Hey dad, I found this book! It looks like a good one.” Somehow, in the reading rotation, we have not seen this classic in a while. I say, “I know Charlie, that’s a special book. It’s been in the Spinner household for a long time. Nick got that when he was a baby. It’s gone through all three Spinner boys.” Something clicks. What are the chances? I think. A few hours before, Nick got off the school bus and asked me about “the movie.” We have been hearing about “the movie” for a few years now. Apparently towards the end of fourth grade, the boys and the girls go to separate rooms to see The Puberty Movie. As Nick says, "We learn about growing hair in weird places. And we are not allowed to laugh or we get sent to the principal’s office.” Not allowed to laugh? I’m having suppressed laughter just thinking of this "ABC After School Movie"/knock-off about growing up. A movie starring some Mister Rogers-type dad where the teacher talks about private parts and pubic hair. Not laugh. Fourth graders? My sentimental moment radar is tingling. I notice that Charlie and I are about to read a book we received as a gift when Nick was first born. And tomorrow morning my little Nicholas is going to learn about perspiration and hormones. I hug Charlie a little closer and I begin to read, “By the big red barn In the great green field…” While I am reading I am thinking…who gave us the book. I think it was Murph, Nick’s godfather, I'm thinking it was one of Kira's high school friends, Heather Burke. “There was a pink pig Who was learning to squeal.” What house were we living in when I first read this book to baby Nicholas? “There was a great big horse And a very little horse.” How many houses have we lived in? The “River House” in Oxford. When did I first read this book to Brian? Arden Road in Waterbury? Then the move to Middlebury...
“And on every barn…” I hear footsteps on the stairs. Nick peeks his head into the living room and says, “Dad I have to get my…Hey, I remember that book.” And he walks over, head tilted, with a quizzical look on his face. So I say, “Nick, you want to read it with us?” Because he’s ten, I’m thinking he might say no. “Sure.” Nick snuggles up next to Charlie and I. I think about how long until Nick recognizes this moment too. Those apples don't fall far from the tree. I continue to read. Nick says, "Hey I remember this part! On the next page the bats come out of the barn." I'm thinking this is going to be it. I continue to read, looking at the back of Nick's head and my voice cracks. Nick picks his head off my shoulder to look at me. He doesn’t say anything but I can see he’s getting emotional too. Charlie hears the emotion in my voice and cranes his neck and says, “Daddy, why are you crying?” To which I say, “I was just thinking about how long we’ve had this book. And that my Nicholas is growing up and sometimes I don’t want him to grow up.” And Charlie says, "I know Dad, me too." Then it’s three boys, a group hug and quite a few tears.
Parenting’s a lot of work but moments like that make it all worth it. “There was a big pile of hay And a little pile of hay, And that is where the children play.”

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Road Rage




Road Rage





Kira and I were sitting on our front porch recently with another couple as our six boys played football in the backyard. Something I like to call a family play date. Melissa Migliaccio, our close friend asks, “Jim when’s the last time you washed your car.” She wasn’t being rude, just trying to point out that it needed a wash. Like you would point out to your roommate that his shirt was wrinkled as he was leaving for work. I smirked because I knew the reaction my response would get. Melissa and her husband Mark, both successful lawyers, drive fairly nice cars and make an effort at upkeep.
“Never.”
Mark’s head snapped. “Never!? You’ve never washed your car?”
“Not the outside. The rain does it for me.”
“What about road salt!? That stuff will eat at your undercarriage, it will cause rust.”
“Miggie, it’s a ‘98 Nissan Altima for Christ sakes, it lasted this long, what do you want from me?” Enjoying the game a little I continue, “I wash the inside; every once in a while I take a little Windex to the windows. That counts right?”

Honestly, I never saw the sense in washing the car when I could be reading a book or playing basketball. Most of the guys I knew in Brooklyn who washed and primped their cars were usually doing it to impress women. I always thought, You really must have no personality if you have to use your car to get a date. I could never fathom wanting to date a girl who would be attracted to you because you drove a shiny car with some nice rims and a spoiler.

As you can see, I’m not a car guy, for me, a car is a conveyance. I suppose the utilitarian nature of the automobile was ingrained by my urban upbringing. In Brooklyn, you didn’t need a car. I took the F train to get to high school. When I joined the work force after college, the F train proved very handy then as well.

I would have loved it back in the day when Henry Ford’s assembly line was pumping out Model T’s in only one color, black. I wonder what the early car entrepreneurs would think of all of today’s makes, models and accessories. When did this movable appliance become so caught up in our image? Why does this material possession seem to say something about us? I suppose in America, this kind of thing was bound to happen.

100 years or so of mass-produced cars and some interesting things have happened. People use their cars as mobile bulletin boards. Let’s dispense with the most obvious, the cost of the car telling everyone how successful you are. Given that, it also seems that certain makes and models seem to attract certain kinds of people. What this amounts to is one giant high school clique…clearly the worst are the Jeep owners.





“You wouldn’t understand, it’s a Jeep thing.” I see this phrase on the tire cover of some dude filling up at the pump in front of me at a local gas station. I’m not sure but I think I may have laughed out loud. I may have even said, under my breath, “How cool are you?” Have you seen these Jeep people on the road? One giant fraternity/sorority waving to each other as they drive past each other? What they are saying is… “Hey, you’re a Jeep guy, I’m a Jeep guy aren't we so cool?” Big deal. So you bought the same car. And now you are compelled to make goo-goo eyes at all the other 4.5 million Jeep owners on the road? I mean how hard is it to get into this club? You go to the dealership, fill out some paperwork, and wallah, I’m a Jeep guy! Puhlease. These guys are one step away from the dork in your office who always points out when you are wearing the same shirt.

Speaking of making goo-goo eyes. When the nice weather comes to the NW corner of Connecticut, it’s time for riding motorcycles. And apparently, like the Jeep guys, if you join this frat, you must wave at every other motorcycle guy or gal you pass. And there's a lot of them! What’s up with this? I mean I am all for being friendly but, shouldn’t these motorcyclists keep both hands on the wheel?

Back to the cars. Not only are we buying our cars to impress, or to make a statement, Americans use their cars to tell us all manner of things about themselves. Bumper Stickers? Do you think this is what James Madison and our Founders had in mind for the first amendment? Was the Constitutional Convention fighting for my right to free speech so that I could tell you that I Cruise? Like I care? A lot of people choose to brag on their bumper about all of the really cool places they’ve been. ADK, BI, ACK. If I were to put one on my car it would say, BFD.

Once I was behind a mini-van cueing up to school and I read, “Don’t even think about talking to me until I’ve had my coffee.” I chuckled and I’m thinking, How much would I have to love a beverage to go to all that trouble?

I guess Ben Franklin and company would be heartened by Americans using their vehicles to persuade fellow voters to choose their respective candidate. (Obama/Biden, yes!) I do see some benefits to bumper stickers, at least they give us something to look at while we sit in traffic. I often wonder at the wisdom of espousing radical opinions on the bumper of your car. No matter which side of the Pro-Life/Pro-Choice issue you land, we all know there are zealots on either side. If these people get worked up enough about this issue to blow up a clinic, what do you think they might do to the Honda Odyssey you left unattended in the mall parking lot while you went to pick out lawn furniture?

I laugh heartily at the red-necks who drive their pick-ups around all-white, rural, enclaves with their Confederate flags announcing their rebel (read racist) nature. I’d love to see Mr. Lynard Skynard wind up with some car trouble in Hollis, Queens on the way to Kennedy Airport. Wouldn’t that be a scene? Big old pick-up rumbling off The Van Wyck Expressway in a neighborhood that would not take too kindly to the Stars and Bars.

And aren’t some things private? Why should we be announcing our sexual leanings on our vehicles? Do I want to know what you are doing in your bedroom as you careen past me on the Merritt Parkway? It’s mostly members of the gay community that feel compelled to show their true colors to other motorists. Should heterosexuals do this too? My buddy Steve likes his wife to dress up as a cheerleader. Should he tell his fellow commuters that? I mean just to be fair?



Lastly, I have to talk about Vanity plates. Just the name itself is a turnoff to me. If I even get past that, I can’t imagine purchasing something that would have me spending more time in the DMV. Is there any word or phrase, composed of 9 characters or less, that I would want on my car for the life of the vehicle? Isn’t this tantamount to a tattoo for your car? I am paralyzed trying to think of some witty phrase that I could use to entertain and impress for the next 3 years or 36,000 miles.

What’s the deal with people who talk in code on their license plates? How the heck are we supposed to figure out what all the letters and numbers mean? Well, if I did get a vanity plate, I suppose I might actually do something in code. I think I would like, FA Q. If that is taken I suppose I would settle for FA Q2.

Happy Motoring!