Regular Life

It all started out as a simple trip to donate leftover garage sale items to Goodwill. It wasn’t dark, but it was getting stormy.

Alex noticed that the SUV parked in the neighbors’ driveway was empty, but its headlights shone on the garage door. They had SUV’s of the same make and model but two different colors. It was the gray one, the one that the traveling husband drove, that sat drawing attention to itself.

“Hey, their lights are on,” Alex said. “They’ve been on the whole time we’ve been getting ready to leave.”

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“This bag is full of glasses,” I said to the young man helping unload Homer at the Goodwill donation station.

“That’s okay. If it breaks, it’s just Goodwill,” he said. I wasn’t surprised to see that his shirt read: Yeah, I know. Go to my room.

“What? Man, that’s not right,” I said while laughing.

“Well, you know, this is going to a store where they won’t care.”

He and his co-worker then explained that the quality of goods and the prices in Goodwill stores vary according to their socioeconomic surroundings. In different terms, sure, but that’s basically what they said.

“So, are you guys volunteers, or what?” I said.

“We might as well be,” said the guy stacking boxes of our history into a trailer.

That scene played out on Saturday, just one weekend following a garage sale that brought in about $770, not including my in-laws’ take. A moving sale for Shannon’s mother and stepfather and an empty-the-attic sale for us, its preparation required hours of application of their elbow grease and organization skills. I tacked on a little heavy lifting just a few hours before the starting horn sounded.

What the heck could we have sold for that much money at a garage sale?

Click any pic for a look at the goods.

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Benjamin splashes in the bathtub as I lean over the side.

He plunges a toy squirting frog under the water and squeezes it, then lets it slowly draw in its fill. “My frog loves the water,” he says.

“Yep, most frogs do. You know, frogs are amphibians. That means they live on the land or the water. Or both,” I say. Then I consider that reptiles fit that description, too, and go on to distinguish the two. “Amphibians start out breathing underwater, and then they switch and breathe the air.”

“Frogs are amphibians?” Benjamin says and squirts water from the frog to the tub wall.

“Yes.”

He makes a glug-glug noise as he again sinks the frog to the bathwater’s depths for a refill.

“My pee-pee’s not an amphibian,” he says.

Accustomed to conversations turning to someone’s bottom, a toot, or Ben’s privates, I dial my laughter down to a chuckle and say, “No, son, it isn’t.”

It occurs to me that I often write about things I do, but rarely about passive entertainment. This time, I’ll cover two movies I recently watched.

Both are westerns set on the Texas-Mexico border, and both are set in the present. Unlike most westerns I have seen, these are packed with emotion. The testosterone set need not worry, though; these films do not shy away from the brutality of the times, places, and people they cover.

(no spoilers)

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Click either pic for a better look (albeit unfocusey on the first)

During one of many trips between our house and the house my in-laws just sold, I recalled a joke from the stick of the Pop Sicle knock-offs a nurse gave to Ben while he recovered from an allergic reaction to fire ant stings.
Me : What do you call a skunk that can fly?
Benjamin: I don’t know.
Me: A smellycopter.

Less than 5 seconds later came this exchange:

Benjamin: What do you call a horse that can fly?
Me: I don’t know.
Benjamin: A neighcopter.

I have heard it said that one should avoid relying on a single source for news.

You mean, like, even if that source is Jon Stewart? No. Way.

As a matter of fact, way.

In 2004 The Associated Press reported that, “21 percent of people aged 18 to 29 cited ‘The Daily Show’ and ‘Saturday Night Live’ as a place where they regularly learned presidential campaign news,” according to the Pew Research Center for the People and the Press.

Late one night in 2004 I just happened to be watching Stewart’s show when he mentioned this Pew study. After informing his viewing audience of their tendency to rely on his show for all their news, he stared wide-eyed for a close-up and said, “Don’t do that!”

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With summer here and Benjamin out of school, I’m thinking of a place my brother and I spent many hours each week of our childhood summers. It ties in with a funny moment during my 10-year high school reunion weekend, which I’ve been recalling because my 20th is only about a year away.

A classmate’s girlfriend said she was anxious to go to the dinner at the country club. Her life up to that point apparently had not included trips to such places, and her eyes danced in anticipation of regal surroundings.

My friend laughed and said, “No, you don’t understand, this is a country club.”

The hometown crowd cracked up because we knew exactly what he meant. I knew a little better than most because my family had a membership.

Don’t go thinking that meant we were rich (but I know that’s a relative term). Let me tell you what set our club apart from what your mind conjures up when you hear “country club.”

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Thursday ended with Shannon staring at her computer screen, tears streaming down her face. “Ben’s hiding in his closet,” she said. Ben likes to do that when I get home so I can “find” him.

Then Shannon looked up at me and sobbed, “He could have died.”

Just home from work, I set down my laptop bag and walked over to her. “But he didn’t, and he’s fine now.”

Somehow that didn’t seem like a profound thing to say in light of the afternoon’s events.

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Although I enjoyed all the father/son time Benjamin and I spent last week while I was off work, the time we spent as a family topped my list.

They often get buried under her depression, but my wife’s sense of humor and love for life can’t be stopped. More and more lately, she’s winning small battles in her interminable internal war. When those victories combine with Benjamin’s unflinching zeal, I feel like I’m flying.

No Father’s Day gift could top that.

Last week while I was off work, we had another first, and it was a blast.

One nice thing about living in a major metro area is that there’s almost no limit to the options available as long as you can cover the admission price. Laughter was the sound of the day as we stomped, splashed, slithered, and swooshed our way around the Don Rodenbaugh Natatorium in Allen, Texas.

That brings us to the word for today: natatorium. Strictly speaking it’s a building housing a swimming pool. By today’s standards, however, it means waterslides, diving boards, a lazy river, lap pools, kiddie toys, and more. With a child (barely) under five years of age, we only scratched the surface, but Benjamin never stopped smiling.

Well, except for the time he bonked his head on a steel pipe. That’s always good for at least a frown and maybe a tear or two.

Warning: photos of pasty white man and his son of similar complexion follow

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