Friday February 5, 2010
Late at Night.


"I know you're different. You know I'm the same."
Second Nature, Rush (Peart)



I guess one projects his respective interests on his kids whether they want it or not. Almost by simple osmosis they absorb what goes on around them and to some level it is appreciated and taken in or more likely, completely discarded. The interests that have staying power have a certain victory quality, or at least an affirmation of quality. These 'quality' activities help instill interests for one's kids and at least potentially, one's deeper future generations. Seeing what sticks is when it gets fun. Completely, utterly fun.

My oldest is arguably the most gentle soul I know. Hardly a quiet kid, yet he is exceptionally caring and acutely aware of others, being gracious and kind almost to a fault. He has the physical size that if he were to be a bullying sort, he could have his way in many instances. The fact that I have to teach him how to be aggressive on a basketball court, is still heart-warming. Now, mind you, once he's been given permission to literally throw his weight around, he will. I've seen him play with a controlled aggression that both is inspiring and impressive. But as soon as the game is over, he's back to being his gentle self, quietly drawing with an acumen that never fails to take my breath away.



The youngest on his own merit, is a ball of energy with a true passion for sports. All sports. The DEEP sports: "Dad, turn it back...it's women's billiards." He is the guy ESPN was made for. Athletics come easily to him, and he can and may do anything he wants inside chalk lines, fairways or under bright lights. He runs about the house in what seems like an unlimited number of sports uniforms, starting as Kevin Durant and then shape-shifting into Adrian Peterson in mere seconds. He insists I work on my alley-oop release. He has a very particular facemask he wants on his helmet. And the visor that goes with it. He knows all the rules to many of the games, flooring even me last Sunday during the Federer final in the Aussie Open when he told me without TV prompting that it was a break point for Federer in the third set tie-breaker. I kept my mouth shut not wanting discourage the kid as I stepped on him with my wealth of tennis knowledge, only to have Dick Enberg remind the audience that it was break point for Federer here in the third set tiebreaker. I flipped over to see what was going on in Women's billiards.

My dad came to the photography game while stationed in Thailand. Buying a Nikon F2A and a couple lenses and putting them to use when he got back to the mainland. And after he put them them to good use, he turned around and used them for making my sister and I just a litta bit crazy. Trips to Annapolis, Kill Devil Hills and Gettysburg were recorded with frame after frame of teenage ennui. Back in the good old days the cameras had film in them and the really good film made not prints, but slides. Yes, with a giant-ass bed sheet, my incredibly bad haircut and hideous glasses could be blown up to be the size of a small dirigible. Uproarious laughter by the photographer always accompanied the pained exhibit. The upside was having to sit in the dark of a bathroom trying to feed the photo-sensitive film into canisters and then letting the film dry, then ultimately sliced and mounted into slides. Homemade slides.

My grandpa was a mortician, and I write that with a morbid warmth in my heart. He was a gentle soul and deeply religious. He always knew there was another life after this and so he trod lightly in this life. For 97 years. He was also was a premier sportsman, and the rules of 'needing what you take, and taking what you needed' always applied. "If you hunt it, kill it. And if you kill it, you better eat it", ring in my ears every time I grab my fishing rod or shotgun. So along with family and friends he would hunt the Canadian north for trophies and dinner. Not necessarily in that order. He had a son who would become a provincially ranked shooter at 16. Guns weren't looked upon with any more regard than we'd give a ax. It was a tool...a tool you could really hurt yourself with if you went to screwing around with it, but if it was used correctly it was handy as a pocketknife, a handkerchief or a 30 lb. ball of camp wire. Guns back in the good old days didn't have a monster 30x scope with drop compensation built in. No, you put the sight on the moose/deer/elk/caribou and trust yourself. He got good at shooting because he had folks to feed.






Last weekend, my gentle giant drove me to the verge if insanity as we sat through a heavy downfall of snow, sleet and ice. It was my job,... no, duty... to thaw out the truck and drive him to...the gun store. Not any gun store for any 9 year old. No, the store where..they...know...him. I literally parked the truck, let him out, and continued to pound the windshield wipers into some usable fashion. After 10 minutes, I walked into the store where I completely expected him to be over by the cleaning rags and pouting that I hadn't come in and talked guns with the shopkeeper, but alas to my poorly hidden delight was my son shouldering and lowering a Browning, a Beretta, and a Remington, respectively. He was the only one in there as a customer. He was serious. He was passionate. We couldn't shoot, so we went where they talk about shooting. I bought a case of shells and did what every good dad would: loaded his butt up in the freezing truck and went to the OTHER gun store. He told me of each gun behind the counter. Told me his preferences. Told me what he would buy tomorrow if he had the money. He researched it all in books and magazines he bought with Christmas money. Other kids want to know the cheat codes for the latest war video games. Mine wants to know the magazine capacity of a Remington 11-87 versus a Browning Citori. He's figured out choke sizes. He competes in sporting clays tournaments as a Sub-junior. I didn't teach him that. I couldn't teach him that. It came from a different generation. Or two. Echoes from the past. Needing to be heard. Soothed.


This week, the youngest and I were doing what would be the equivalent of flipping baseball cards. We each grab our respective iPods and run through the music library and try to turn each other onto what music interests us. He truly has his own tastes, as do I. But many more times than not, we agree that we like a tune and flip it into our current playlist rotation. This week he turned me onto The Killers, a current pop band from Las Vegas. And honestly, I've been wearing it out. Conversely, I knew I'd made an impression on him as I walked past his bedroom at bedtime, only to hear the muffled sound of a kid under the blankets doing the trademark 'Whoa-oh-oh-oh's of "The Trooper" a song of the Crimean War from 80's heavy metal godfathers Iron Maiden. A 21st century "Mays for Mantle". One can teach children to listen to some music. No one can force personal preferences like this if they won't stick on their own. I love it that he likes my music. But I love it that I love HIS music.


Today my full photo card from the last 3 months has finally worked its way to the photo store to have enlargements made to ultimately have framed. As I turned the disk over, I dug deep and found my very serious voice and said, "Don't screw this up. I mean it." Of course I have everything backed up in two disks here at the house and online. Honestly the disk could be tossed to the wind and it would be just fine. But still, it felt like handing in a term paper. A term paper I really tried on; knowing there was some seriously good stuff in there. The disk was opened and the sales guy confirmed that this was good stuff, and that working with it wouldn't be a problem. It felt like pressing the lens to the slide on the viewer and seeing the image. Seeing the image come out perfectly. Even if it was my bucked teeth, bad hair and mismatched clothes.




Still, it was perfect.





And completely, utterly fun.