Questing Parson

A Gift to the Children on Mother's Day

Here's the annual reminder: Sunday is Mother's Day. Write it down; tie a ribbon around the gear shift of the car; tell one of the ladies at the office to remind you; do whatever it takes to make sure you don't forget: Mother's Day is Sunday.

Mother's Day is a difficult day, even if you remember it in time. It's a difficult day because there's the annual challenge of selecting the right gift. Mother, as you well know, is also a wife. Being a wife, this mother is prone to make light of certain gifts. For instance, don't attempt that cute trick of gathering the kids early on Mother's Day and cooking her breakfast and serving it on a tray while she's still in bed. Were she just a mother in this situation she'd make the appropriate appreciative comments. But, because she's also a wife as well as a mother she will be unable to resist making comments about your culinary skills, and while she may manage to portray an appreciative attitude, the kids will pick up on the fact that she's underwhelmed. You'll be lucky if she doesn't make some comment about your propensity for burning toast.

My suggestion to you is to completely forget about Mother's Day. Go ahead and buy some flowers or a box of candy or any other generic gift you can think of. Give it to her on Mother's Day. But by putting Mother's Day second, you'll be freed to do what's most important to the mother of your children.

When dinner is over a couple of nights between now and then, tell her, in front of the kids, to go take a bubble bath and relax because you'll take care of the dishes. While washing the dishes, insist the kids be quiet and allow their mother to have some private time. Be darn insistent about it, being stern if necessary.

On Saturday, while the family is out in the yard doing the things that need to be done, let the kids see some merriment. Use your imagination, but you might throw some pine straw in her direction, you might tackle her to the ground and roll through the grass, you might even find a magic moment to pause and then kiss her.

Whenever the kids get uppity and speak in a disrespectful manner to their mother jump on them hard. Make sure they know you'll never tolerate anyone talking to their mother that way. Look at her and say you're sorry for their behavior.

You might go as far as to ask her to dance when a particularly special song is playing. Yes, dance right there in the family room in front of the kids.

Now I realize these suggestions do not readily meet the standard idea of a gift for Mother on Mother's Day. But these suggestions will work. Here's why:

Your wife, the mother of your children, has a desire. Her desire is that you impart to your children the qualities that can make them successful in life. And those qualities go far beyond providing a living for the family, they go beyond a quality education, they go beyond teaching manners and respect, they go beyond all the normal standards of behavior for a father.

The greatest manner of honoring you children's mother, is to honor her children. The greatest way you can honor her children is to make sure they know you love their mother.

Pilobolus Workshop

So, what do my oldest son and his wife, my daughter-in-love, do in their spare time?

Summer Adventures

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Hello, this is your daughter.”

“I know. I have this amazing phone. It tells me who's calling before I answer. And please notice I answered even though I knew it was you.”

“Funny. Very funny. Look, we need to have a serious talk. I need your advice.”

Immediately I perked up. This child became independent around the age of seven. She's in her forties now. Imagine the thrill of having her ask for my advice. “Okay,” I said, “how can I help you?”

“We need to talk about your number two granddaughter. She's becoming a little presumptuous, and we need a united front in talking to her.”

“What do you mean, presumptuous?”

“Look, now let me get this completely out before you respond. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“We're really grateful you take them on your little adventures. We're even grateful that you took them to live in the Alaskan wilderness for two weeks last summer. We're even grateful, in a weird way, that they came home thinking they were completely self-sufficient, could conquer any problem, and suddenly thought there was no reason they couldn't be independent. We're really grateful for that. But we've encountered a problem.”

“What's the problem?”

“Okay, so, your number one granddaughter loves dancing. And because she suddenly thinks because she climbed the face of a glacier and survived with only a knife in the Alaskan wilderness she can confront any challenge. We love that you gave her that confidence. And we love that because of that she auditioned to attend a workshop and dance with the Rockettes in New York City. That's really wonderful. And we're grateful that you're taking her and spending the week with her there.”

“I get the feeling there's a 'but' coming.”

“There is. Remember, you took both of them to Alaska. You spent all that time with them both. Now, the younger one has the idea that because her older sister is going to New York City with you she automatically gets to, also.”

I started to interrupt her, but interrupting my daughter is one of life's greater challenges.

“The other day I heard her talking to a friend on the phone. Apparently her friend asked her if she wanted to go to some event this summer, and when the friend told her the date she said, 'I'm going to be in New York City that week.' When she got off the phone, I asked her how she planned to go to New York City. Her response was she was going with you and her sister. And on top of that she volunteered the information that while her sister was at her dancing she and you would be exploring the city.”

Again I tried to say something, but her vocal motions were in high gear.

“Then I asked her what made her think that just because her sister was going she would get to go too. She informed me that you and her sister were a team and always went somewhere together in the summer. I asked her if you'd asked her to go. She said, 'Not yet.' Look, Dad, she assumes that you're taking her. I need you to intervene with me.”

“Intervene? What would I intervene about?”

“About her unrealistic expectations.”

“They're not unrealistic.”

“What?”

“I'll call and invite her tonight.”

Is My Baby Boy a Revolutionary?

So, here's the thing. I was pursuing the Huffington Post last week, and, lo and behold, there was an article about my baby boy, the high school English teacher.

That kid has this crazy idea that even though the classroom has looked the same since the eighteenth century there's no reason it should not change. Basically, he putting forth the idea that education should enter the 21^st Century.

You decide. Read the article. And be sure to click on the link reading “A Revolutionary Classroom” contained in the article to see a video with a virtual presentation of his ideas.

Full disclosure: The link also lets you contribute to making his ideas a reality. But don't let that stop you form clicking the link. You can help his a lot if you forward the article to someone you think might be interested in his concepts.

Read the Huffington Post article HERE.

The Problem With Those People

“Parson, can I talk with you for a minute?” the woman asked.

“Sure,” said the parson. “Have we met?”

“No, we haven't. I live across the street from one of those transitional houses that your church operates for homeless women.”

“Oh, I'm sorry we haven't met before,” said the parson. “Which house are you talking about?”

The woman let the parson know which house she was talking about.

“Yes, you're the one with the beautiful garden. I know your house.”

“Well, thank you,” she said. “I wonder if I might discuss the folks that are in the house now.”

“Discuss them? I”m not sure what you're asking.”

“Well, that woman has two children and one of them is always trying to talk to my kids.”

The woman paused as though she'd provided sufficient information. The parson waited a pregnant moment. “One of your neighbor's children is trying to talk to one of your children?”

“Yes.”

“And there's a problem with that?”

“I guess there is.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

“Look, Parson, that kid is always coming over and asking if my child can come and play with him. He's always trying to make some kind of relationship with us.”

The parson stared at the woman. He sensed where this was going. He tried to stifle the anger he felt rising.

“We're good Christian people, Parson,” the woman continued. “And when your church puts those people in the house across the street from us it threatens our kids. We can't have our kids hanging around with those people.”

“Those people?” the parson asked. “Those people! Where do you get off calling them 'those people'? That boy was coming over to your house asking if you would be his friend. That boy was coming over to your house and pleading to you to treat him with the dignity of a child of God. You slammed the door in his face. You know what,” said the parson knowing this would probably get back to church superior and he'd have to attend another meeting, “the only problem with those people is you people.”

Christmas At My Daughter's House

It's the day after Christmas. That means you should have completed, or at least made a dent, in picking up the discarded wrappings, finding a place to put all the new stuff found under the tree, and after two hours of trying to understand the new technological gadget, you read the directions. Funny, how we adults need to read the directions. It's totally a waste of time. Why read directions to technology devices when you can ask an eight-year-old?

Well, as I said above, you should have all this Christmas cleanup, if not completed, under control. Me, I'm just getting started with messing up. You see, somewhere along the way, several years back, my daughter decided our side of the family would get together on the day following Christmas. If memory serves me right it was the year she also decided to assume the role of my mother. (But that's another story.)

So, now on the day following Christmas we gather at my daughter's house, me, my two sons, their wives, their children. And, to tell the truth, it seems more like a party. Wait. Did I say party? Hold on. My daughter was born the day after Christmas. She grew up complaining that she never had a real party on her birthday. And now we have a party at her house on the day after Christmas. My goodness, did I raise a smart kid or what?

So, as you read this epistle I'll be celebrating Christmas and/or my daughter's birthday at her house. It will be a grand time. The grandchildren will be running here and there. They'll jump over sofas and bounce off bookcases. The ornaments on the Christmas tree will shake in time with the cadence of their little feet. After a while my daughter will come in and with a firm, if not loud, voice proclaim, “You kids stop that right now.” They will stare at her with a look of consternation on their face and reply, with fingers pointed in my direction, “He said we could.” My daughter will look my way with the proverbial daggers flying out of her eyes. I'll look at her with the practiced innocence of the one her kids refer to as the “fun grandparent.”

Following a wonderful meal, we'll gather chairs around the tree and the present opening will begin. I'l sit back and relish the entertainment of my children trying to get their kids to be courteous. “Now, let's take turns. You just wait until your cousin opens her present and then it will be your turn.” I think it's a hoot watching my children try to get their seven kids to “take turns” at a Christmas and/or birthday party. The most fun I get, however, is when each of those kids comes upon the present with the tag indicating its from me. As each “takes his or her turn” they pause before opening it to look at me. The eyebrows raise in a question. I nod. They smile knowing it's the thing their parents said they couldn't have.

This year my greatest pleasure will come from what I give my kids. The daughter gets two AAs. The oldest son gets four AAAs. And the youngest gets a 9 volt. With each battery is a note reading, “Toys not included.”

A Lesson in Giving

The church finance committee was discussing the fiscal problems of the congregation. The parson was listening.

The problem facing the committee was that the church was obviously not going to meet its budget asking for the year. All the bills had been paid, the parson had been paid, the denominational obligations had been met.

“I'm really concerned that we never seem to meet our budget,” said Franklin Lansing. “For the last ten years this committee had worked hard to make a realistic budget and for the last ten years we always fall thousands of dollars short.”

“Yes, but we've already said that we've met all our obligations,” countered Maynard Sinclair. “What's the point of worry. We're doing what needs to be done.”

“We're doing that only because of the parson's constant attention to finances,” remarked Harry Potter (Yes, that's his name.). “We owe him a debt that he keeps the spending down when the giving is down.”

“You're right,” said Margaret Conner, “we do owe the Parson some thanks. But the truth is we need more generous givers like William Miller. Without his generous weekly giving we'd be in a world of hurt.”

“What do you think, Parson?” asked Harriett Abbott.

“I think Margaret is right in a way,” said the parson. “We do need more generous givers. But we don't need givers like William Miller. We need givers like Bobby and Susan.”

“Bobby and Susan?” echoed Margaret. “Bobby and Susan. Who are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the Simpson's kids,” said the parson. “Bobby and Susan, when we sent out the request for folks to bring an offering to help the victims of Hurricane Sandy answered the call. Bobby, who's in the fifth grade brought a jar of coins that totaled $18.53. Susan, the second grader, brought another jar with $22.40. Those totals represented the contents of their piggy banks,” the parson continued. “The emptied their banks.”

There was silence for a few moments. Finally Harriet spoke. “You're suggesting we empty our banks.”

“No, I'm not,” said the parson. “I'm just suggesting the people in this church should give with the faith of a child.”

My Wilderness Guides

It goes without saying. One should, if one desires to derive the most, engage the services of a competent guide when exploring unfamiliar wilderness. I desired to derive the most, and, consequently, I took advantage of a local guide service while exploring a portion of the western Connecticut wilderness the week of Thanksgiving. Luck was with me as two brothers, both familiar with the area I was to explore agreed to lead me through the forest.

Now I know some of us Southern folks, when thinking of those New England places, don't imagine forests populated by mighty trees with streams tumbling over rocks downward into quiet deepness through the fertile valleys. It's difficult to realize that just a hop, skip, and a jump, or more precisely a two hour car ride, from New York City there could be a postcard like rural, picturesque setting. Even in our most imagined historical scenes of colonial American farms with the rock walls bordering the pastures, we don't get the feel that today, in this 21^st Century, there remains in that place a wilderness to explore.

The Housatonic River is majestic as it flows south to southwest through western Connecticut. In the wilderness that borders its banks in various places the rock outcroppings are spectacular. The occasional erratic rock, one that doesn't belong where it is but was carried there by a glacier, gives hint to the massive forces of nature that carved these valleys eons ago. The trails through these gifts of nature are not all that difficult, but it takes a guide to enrich the journey with commentary.

And so, last week Sam and his brother, Owen, led me up the mountains and down into the valleys, through the rock formations, beside the flowing waters of the river and around the occasional hint of a previous human occupation. Both were familiar with the area, having walked these trails previously. Both were at home in the wilderness, and both, apparently, were delighted to have me sharing this experience with them.

Owen seemed to be more concerned for my well-being, in that, I, obviously, was a senior citizen. Often he'd move ahead of his brother and me, scouting out the trail that all was clear ahead. On more than one occasion he advised me of some difficult terrain and suggested alternative routes that would avoid them. He seemed at home in the forest as though pumped by the fresh air, the chilling breeze and the raw smell of nature.

Sam, seemed particularly intent on pointing out the various characteristics of acorns that were evident along the trail. At one point we reached a rock out cropping overlooking the Housatonic River. The view was spectacular. Down below a lone soul paddled his kayak up the river. History says we were sitting at the spot where the Native American daughter of a chief and her lover leaped to their death. Sam, undisturbed by the sacred spot, took time to point out the various aspects of an acorn.

Suddenly, he stood up and proclaimed. “I've got to pee.” He dropped his pants and proceeded to do so, oblivious of any others who might pass by on the trail. At that point Owen spoke up without any concern at his brother's dropped pants, and exclaimed, “Hey, Daddy Guy, come see this.”

I pulled up Sam's pants and with his two-year-old hand gripping my finger followed the older guide up the trail.

Thankful for Mysteries Solved

The season for counting our blessings has arrived. It's good this time of year rolls around. Truth is, we don't count those blessings and we don't give thanks for them without this annual time set apart. The shame of it is we have more to be thankful for in these present days than any time before.

Gracious how the world has changed in the last twenty-five years. My daddy would never believe it.

The other night I was traveling down the highway, just enjoying the journey, not in too much of a hurry to get to my destination. But I was hungry. I didn't really know where I was; I mean I knew I was between here and there and would soon arrive at there if I remained on this particular highway. But I didn't know where I was in terms of relieving the hunger pangs now wrestling in my stomach. No problem in this day and age.

I pulled out my smart phone, held the menu button down then said aloud, “Food.” Within a few seconds the phone spoke to me, “I found fifteen restaurants; thirteen of them are fairly close to you.” Glancing down at the phone, I touched the name of one of those restaurants. A map to the establishment appeared on the screen. So in this season I'm giving thanks I can always know how to get where I need to be.

Speaking of that phone, I called my grandson in Connecticut the other evening. He's a few months short of being five. After speaking to my son for a few moments he then called the grandchild, informing him I was on the phone. The grandson took the phone, looked at the screen and said, “He must have hung up.” Most of the time when I talk with him and his brother we do it via a video call. When he didn't see my face he assumed I wasn't there any longer. I'm giving thanks today that my grandchildren, even when we live a thousand miles apart, still know what I look like.

I'm thankful today the rising generation is not wasting their lives away on video games. They may be playing them non-stop, but they're not wasting their lives. Ever heard of Adrien Treville? He, a university professor, was frustrated at the slow place of solving some of the mysteries of AIDS and HIV. The university computers had been working on the problem for years with no positive results. He put the problem online in a video game format. Within days 300,000 kids were working on the mystery. It has something to do with the way protein molecules are folded. One of the top players was a ninth grader named Michael Tate. He and other players solved the molecule mystery within three weeks. Look at the power of this technology, not just a few scientists working on the problem but hundreds of thousands of kids.

I'm thankful for this age where, wearable, external robotic skeletons are making it possible for paraplegics to walk, where we are finding ways to control machines with our minds, and where I can watch, live, my grand kids in another city or state perform in their dance recital.

And I'm so very thankful it will be the ethics and values my generation teaches that will allow them to use this new technology for the common good and the betterment of all humankind.

Manners In Church

Sunday afternoon found the parson walking through a local park. He and his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, along with Ms. Penny, Charlie Brown's girlfriend, were getting a bit of exercise.

“Hi, Parson,” called a young lady from the opposite side of the planter.

The parson turned to look. “Well, hello, Louise. It's good to see you again.”

Louise, a ten-year-old, whose family had been visiting recently at the parson's church, came bounding around the planter. She put her arms around Charlie Brown's neck. Ms. Penny, moved in closer anticipating the affection might be extended to strangers. “Hello, Charlie Brown,” Louise said. She stood up straight. “I didn't know you had two dogs, Parson.”

“I do, now,” the parson replied. “This is Ms. Penny; she's Charlie Brown's girlfriend.”

“Why doesn't she come to church with Charlie Brown?” asked Louise.

“Well, Ms. Penny doesn't have the same manners Charlie Brown does,” said the parson. “I'm not sure she would act right at church.”

“Well, that doesn't keep some of the adults from coming,” said Louise. “Talk about bad manners, did you hear Mr. Franklin snoring during your sermon?”