Memorial Day

Last night, Evan (my son) and I took a walk after dark - when it was bit cooler. We're in a new neighborhood, so in his 12-year-old mind he insisted on having a flashlight, just in case we got lost. One neighbor was shooting fireworks into the night sky. I explained that they likely went to Wisconsin to get fireworks like that, because in Minnesota the government has decided we're not mature enough to sell big fireworks here.

So we started talking about Memorial Day and what it means to people. I told him how, when I was in ninth through 12th grades, every Memorial Day our high school marching band would get up early, meet in the Junior High parking lot (in uniform) and march two miles to the cemetary just west of town. Along the parade route, people would sit in their lawn chairs and watch the National Guard trucks and jeeps roll by, following by the band, followed by the horse color guard and other Memorial Day-like parade participants.

We would arrive at the cemetary, play a couple patriotic tunes like America the Beautiful, and then watch the flag ceremony. The Legion Hall veterans stood tall (some with larger stomachs hanging over their belts), salute and honor the local veterans who had passed away since last Memorial Day. Then our two best trumpet players would play taps in echo fashion.

I told Evan how then, at age 17, I had little idea what an honor it was to be involved in that ceremony. I was just a kid, with a drum in a band uniform. But years later I recognize that through that music; through the honor that came with marching those two miles on a warm May morning; the veterans from the Legion Hall and others were truly thankful us "kids" were there at the cemetary to recognize their brothers.

I'm glad I made the march as well.

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Wipe Out

In 1963 a band called The Surfaris recorded a "B" side song on their first 45 release. The song, "Wipe Out," featured a drum solo by Ron Wilson along with an introductory hyena-like laugh followed by the words "Wipe Out." The song rose to No. 2 on the charts and still receives air play on oldies stations all over the country.

I always love that song as a kid. The drummer in me admired the solo work. Wilson was actually playing a simple paradiddle drum cadence he'd learned while participating in his high school marching band.

So...funny how when I recently had my first bike crash I began humming that tune. It's been in the back of my head for days, in fact. The crash was relatively minor. A little bruise and road rash on my hip. No damage to the bike at all. Mostly ego damage. Thank God no one saw me!!!

Prior to my ride, it had rained a bit. The air was humid, and although windy, the bike path hadn't dried up. I was riding full out down a slight hill and rounding a curve when my bike tire slid out from behind me. Leaning to my right, I took the bike down to the asphalt and skidding about 20 feet. My first wipe out ever (and I've been cycling for six years).

I consider myself very lucky. I know people who have taken headers, broken appendages and gotten major road rashes causing pain and stiffness for weeks. Still, I'm certain next time I hop on the bike I'll be peddling with a certain drum solo beat stuck in my head thanks to The Surfaris very capable and talented abilities.

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Conference Room Meetings

I'm not big into formal meetings at work. The kind scheduled in your Microsoft Outlook Calendar. The kind that give you pop-up reminders 15 minutes prior to the meeting start time. The kind that have agendas and objectives and anticipated outcomes. The kind that have action items for everyone at the table. I hate those work meetings.

So today I'm in one of "those" meetings at work. It started at 1 p.m., just after lunch and involved four or five people (I lost count) on a conference phone call as well as six of us in the room. First agenda item: listen to an hour-long recitation of 43 PowerPoint slides. I hate, hate, hate these kind of meetings. About half-way through I'm daydreaming. Disengaged completely. Then the worst happens...I get drowsy. The three Ds of at-work, post-lunch conference room meetings. There I am struggling to keep it together, trying to stay alert and making sure no ones notices that my eyes are mere slits with sleep taking over.

The only solution is to participate in the meeting. I sit up, clear my throat and start interjecting comments here and there. For example, on-the-phone call leader is wrapping up her eighth minute on ONE PowerPoint slide. She says, "And so, if there aren't any questions, I'll segway into the recommendations part of the presentation."

"Seg-a-way," I say to the room. This little comment prompts some laughter and someone even says, "I've never heard that before. Seg-a-way. That's funny." The people on the conference call just don't get the reference.

Still, I scored humor points with five co-workers who I see every day. All in all, not a bad takeaway from a work meeting.

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Ah To Be 15 Again (No Thanks!)

Fifteen-year-olds! Some days I just don't know what to do. One moment they can be the light of your life (I'm talking about my 15-year-old daughter, who happens to be brilliant, composed, full of common sense, and stunningly beautiful). The next moment, however, they can knock your legs out from under you with a hormonal meltdown that seems to come from another galaxy.

At first, I want to laugh at the insane statements and lack of respect sputtering from between her two lips. The very lips that say, "I love you Dad" every night. But as the drama continues, and I plead for her to tell me what she's thinking? Why she's feeling like she's feeling...the frustration builds and builds and finally I have to just shrug my shoulders and walk away. It's the hardest thing a father can do.

And it's the littlest of things that seem to ignite the rocket boosters of 15-year-old daughters. Tonight it's the simple fact that her mother allowed her younger brother to open his birthday present BEFORE his actual birth day. "HOW UNFAIR!!!" Next time it will be because the washing machine knob was left on the "cold" water setting when she really wanted to wash clothes in warm water. Dreadful, I know.

Fortunately for all of us, she's 15 going on 16. She'll be driving soon and I still have hair on my head ready to fall out when the requests for gas money, the insurance payments, the late night arrivals, and the traffic tickets start to roll in. All I ask is that she always feels confident in telling me what's on her mind - when she's good and ready to tell me. Then perhaps, I can amaze her with some brilliant retort to her question or statement that will keep her ever mindful that dad still knows a thing or two.

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Cardboard Dreams

In two weeks I'll be moving to a new place. It's larger, more convenient, offers more privacy, and provides several do-it-yourself opportunities that I'm actually looking forward to tackling.

BUT! Moving. I hate moving. For the next several days leading up to the move-in date, I'll be looking for boxes and thinking about boxes nearly 24/7. Moving is all about the boxes. Finding that perfect box that will hold all of my precious belongings. Sturdy boxes, boxes with lids, boxes that make you want to break them down and keep them because they're so damn functional (and eventually we all just move again, so we'll put it to good use in the future). The physical action of finding good boxes and then packing them up makes moving a chore. I don't mind so much the removal of boxes from the old address and carting of items into the new address - that's a form of adrenaline rush that doesn't bother me a bit. Perhaps it's why I worked in the moving industry during my college days for so long. A summer job turned into full-time employment. I even spent a year considering buying out the owners of the business. I learned quickly though that I don't belong in the service industry.

So in two weeks, as I pack up and cart out the last box of stuff, I'll breathe a huge sigh of relief. Not out of being tired so much as being thankful that I won't be moving again for a while. I'll be setting up a household that, for the near future at least, will be my home and a part-time home for my two kids.

Of course when it's time to move on, I'll do the box dance all over again. For the sake of the cardboard.

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How Utterly Obese Can This Problem Become?

What's healthy? Working for a medical device company, I've quickly come to realize how those of us who are healthy take that little aspect of life for granted. It takes something like a chronic disease or other major life problem that impacts our health to get us to snap to and recognize that it is really all we have...our health that is.

Consider obesity, for example. There have and always will be fat people in society. But when America's fascination with getting larger increases year after year (even the bloody Brits are now a healthier society than those in the U.S.), something has to give.

I wonder if most people understand the deeper meaning behind President Clinton's actions. He's taken the basic step to get soft drink companies to agree they should only sell diet soft drinks at schools throughout America. The goal is to help kids make better decisions and ultimately reduce their odds of becoming obese. It's a small step toward better health.

But when, in 30 years, we no longer have to read news headlines about the latest 1200 pound man, who's so large he can't get on a commercial airline flight to receive life-saving gastric bypass surgery, we'll be a better society. Sure, taking sugar-laden sodas out of high school cafeterias isn't the only answer to America's obesity epidemic, but it's a start. Thank President Clinton for firing the first shot across public school's bow. If we left it up to the "dietary" experts, kids would have mini corn dogs and 20-ounce servings of Mountain Dew on their trays every day.

Now it's the parent's turn to take action at home. As summer draws near, time to put away the Playstation and hand kids the keys to their bikes, rollerblades and skateboards. Time to unplug the TV and take that valuable walk around the neighborhood with junior. What harm could it do? Perhaps, you moms and dads who are so busy with life and work, could have a conversation with your kid that runs deeper than the cursory, "What did you do today?"

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Book Me...Pleaseeeeeeeee

With my newly recovered penchant for books, walking into a bookstore can be very dangerous...and highly fulfilling. Tonight I spent two hours meandering a local Barnes & Nobles. Up and down the Fiction/Literature aisle, through the rows of Mystery novels, pacing the Local Authors section - there's nothing I don't like about the book store. I can even shop for a hard-to-find CD while I'm there. It's a perfect place to wile away an hour or two. And tonight I "escaped" from the book store without making a purchase. Now THAT'S willpower at its highest form.

But spending time in the book store leads me to wanting my own mini-library at home. I've got a tiny start, but by this time next year I want to double or triple my personal library. When it comes to books, quantity is the best approach because every book ever written has at least one good sentence in it to read.

Another upside of hanging among the works of authors (famous and not-so-famous) is the inspiration it gives me to keep working on my own novel idea. It's an idea at this point - mostly in my head. However, it's starting to come out in the form of notes on my Blackberry and soon I'll find the right notebook to begin drafting and outline, character profiles and other aspects that will one day result in a book that I'll call my own.

No pseudonyms for me. When I actually complete "my" book, it's going to bear my name. After all the years of thinking and putting it together, I want full credit.

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