by While in El Paso earlier this year, I was working with my buddy, Brad, who, on one of many fairly mundane days, found something to get excited about. He was inspecting a roof and discovered a rubber snake. Brad is a pretty easy-going fifty-something kid and as he climbed into our truck I could sense his excitement. “Check it out”, he said, with a slightly devilish smile on his face, as he produced the nice-sized green and black rubber snake. I was interested by his find, but not overwhelmed, until he told me his plan.
“I’m gonna hide it under a towel on Larry’s bathroom floor.” He smiled and might have giggled a little bit. I laughed at the thought of our pal, Larry, moving his towel and shaking in start at the snake. I still smile when thinking about it. Brad’s stock is always pretty high in my book, but it experienced a little jump that day as we laughed like a couple of twelve year olds at the beautiful potential of this shabby little rubber snake.
A couple of nights ago, my daughter was getting ready for bed with all the usually hubbub: pajamas on, teeth brushing, me yelling, potty, hugs and goodnight wishes. I noticed a strange nuance to her behavior. She was a little too happy. She usually mopes and complains and stalls, but this night she was more or less on task and had a peculiar way about her. I sensed something different, but couldn’t identify what it was. After she was in bed with a smile on her face, I retired to the living room to do whatever I do before I go to bed. A couple of hours later, I go through my routine, and get ready to hop in bed. While climbing into my bed, I notice, perched as a trophy right next to my pillow was a marvelous chunk of fake dog poop, very realistic. My sweet, clean, pure little six year old daughter had placed this fake turd and had snickered herself to sleep thinking about how funny it was to “get” dear old dad. I felt at the moment a profound joy. I know how good it feels to “surprise” someone and I was relieved to realize that this simple little joy would not be lost on her. Her vehicle may not have been my first choice, however I’ve learned to take what I can get. Her brother, on the other hand, I would expect no less from him. Understanding how to have fun and how to make fun is a valuable lesson and I am glad that she is developing a sense of “humor”, such as it is.
A sense of humor is a marvelous thing. It certainly takes many shapes, but is important to any joy I have encountered in this life. Laughter truly is the best medicine. It keeps life in its proper place. It reminds us that though struggles exist and daily battles are waged, a smiling peace rests nearby in the unfortunate minds of fifty year old adolescents and sweet six year old little girls. It is everywhere and makes life the grand adventure it is. Having quality people providing life’s comic relief is necessary and wonderful. We all know them and they are the best things I can think of to have.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!" Also, you can "friend" Dave on Facebook here.]
Today was a good day. I knew it would be. Some days you just know. Some days you know are going to suck. Some days could go either way. And some days are just good ones. This morning the sun was out and the breeze was cool, but warming. My dog wore a smile and my kids weren’t fighting. My spirit was high and my soul was aligned with its proper place. This was a day of much to do, but also much possibility. Work would handle itself, but the variable of how to best spend the free moments was a deep consideration.
Much of my joy these days involves a peripheral sliver of my kid’s fun. Their joy is mine, some of it, sometimes. I made omelets with my six-year old daughter. She likes omelets. Eggs, cheese and sausage are her favorites. I kick in a little tomato and avocado for myself. My crazy-haired son ate cereal on the couch in his underwear, shrouded in his favorite blanket while watching his favorite cartoon, some weird Asian space show that I don’t get. Nonetheless, the morning was virtually conflict-free, a true oddity in my home.
Next, we went to my wife’s office where I have a little landscaping project shaping up. I am removing and resetting the paver entry path. It is the perfect sized project for me. I tend to suffer from some type of adult ADHD when it comes to projects. I tire of them quickly and they become onerous and un-fun for me. This was a two-dayer, perfect. I had my son removing stones and my daughter cleaning them with the garden hose. In another unheard-of development, my daughter did not “accidentally” spray my son with the hose. Here, we avoided an epic screaming match and potentially some serious pick-axe threats on my daughter’s life by my son. It was smooth and everyone seemed to enjoy their contributions. This, too, is exceptionally rare. My kids were content and peaceful in their efforts.
Later, we had lunch, which included ice cream cones. Nobody, in their over-eagerness, licked too hard and had the scoop drop on the floor. This is, again, pretty uncommon. My kids like ice cream and dive into a waffle cone without regard. They understand the consequences of this, but they don’t care. They don’t care if the ice cream falls on the floor. They will pick it up or, more likely, my wife or myself, will pick it up, shave the dirt off with a napkin and set it back on the cone, always within the “five-second rule” window, of course.
In the evening, I invited a couple of buddies and their families over to barbeque. I love barbeques. I love standing at the grill with a beer in my hand and smoke in my eyes hiding my tears of joy at how good my chicken and sausages smell. In the background, through the delicious meat sizzle, I hear my kids playing with my best friend’s kids. They are going to be life-long best friends, too. My wife makes a salad with friends, smiling the entire time. I hear a couple of other old buddies smack-talking during a cribbage game. This false conflict is a ritual that I have both witnessed and participated in for nearly thirty years and a cribbage game between old friends would be less without it. My buddy, Dan, takes alternating turns spraying the hose at the swing set slide creating a redneck waterslide for the kids and spraying, my dog, Diego, in the face. This is Diego’s favorite thing in the world. It is a bizarre fetish, but it is his. The kids cannot get back in line quick enough for another run down the slide.
As I look around and see all that I love standing in my yard or sitting at my picnic table, I am, very simply, happy. The sense of peace and joy and my contented arrival at the place that matters defies words or I am incapable of expressing them clearly enough to define all of the nuance and implication that this moment deserves. The depth of sentiment is deeper than my mind can dig for explanation. This being the case, I will simply call it, the truth. It was a good day, indeed.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!" Also, you can "friend" Dave on Facebook here.]
Well, summer has finally arrived and as I formulate the various ways to create a fun vacation time for my kids, I wonder to myself, “Why?” Those ungrateful dipsticks deserve nothing. I would think, apparently errantly, that with so much at stake my kids would be a little more diligent in their efforts to impress. Much like around Christmastime when their rooms remain relatively clean and their shoes don’t sit in the middle of the living room floor for days. But such is not the case. My kids will shamelessly ignore, dismiss, and/or flat-out betray my pleas for help.
Help me clean the house. Help me pick up their stuff. Help me feed the dog. Help me mow the lawn. Anything at all…just help. I don’t require much, but these lazy stiffs are wily and quite creative when it comes to avoiding work. They work harder at avoiding work than the actual work would require. They make excuses and busy themselves, dutifully, doing anything but what I request of them. They are geniuses of distraction and disguise. They mask their blatant disregard of my requests with false concern and falser promises. “I will…right after…fill in the blank” is my favorite. I bite like a hungry carp every time. I trust them. This is my fault. They are liars and I should know this by now. They play me like a dime store kazoo.
I probably shouldn’t blame them as I am the parent and, supposedly, should know better. So their behavior is not entirely on them and perhaps would not bother me so much if they didn’t want so much. They are completely without compunction when asking me for stuff, even after I have begged them to do something that they, once again, did not do. I am a great believer in the barter system. Some reciprocal back-scratching is nice once in a while. Again, such is not the case, my kids only want their backs scratched, often, and with the correct touch too, not too hard, not too soft. They are takers. They take and don’t give. Something is very wrong with this system. It is broken and I don’t know how to fix it. I yell and threaten and take stuff away. They are immovable. They are stronger than I am. This is just the way it is.
So, today, I will take them on the boat. I will run through the sprinkler. I will make what they want for dinner. I will play games with them that I don’t like to play. I will let them watch their shows on TV. And I will enjoy it, because it is summer time and even a couple of ungrateful twerps cannot put me in a bad mood. They are made their way and I am made mine. Summer is my season. A little sunshine and heat heals all that is broken in me. I am tan and tolerant. I will give what I have to allow my perfectly flawed kids a glimpse into life’s summertime potluck of fun and I will not hold any grudges…lucky for those eggheads.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!" Also, you can "friend" Dave on Facebook here.]
The mailman delivered our latest gizmo gadget (a state of the art Ultra Flip HD Camera) a few weeks back and we thought “what the flip should we do with this ding-dang newfangled thingamabob?”
Out of the red, white and blue, it occurred to us that our third President, one Thomas Jefferson, who loved new gadgets and devices and inventions and discoveries, would have gotten a kick out of this powerful little digital camera, the size of a deck of cards, not much smaller than a hand-held booklet-sized copy of what is known as the Declaration of Independence.
It was 234 years ago right now, that our Founders were “cutting and pasting” their final draft of what became known as that treasured and precious document, the Declaration of Independence, whose primary author was the then 33 year-old future President Jefferson.
So someone said:
“Let’s take our camera around Des Moines and Burien (and Normandy Park and White Center) and ask our fellow neighbors and friends and passersby to read aloud the Declaration into our new little camera, piece the quotes together into one colorful video, and release it to the nation and world on our various neighborhood news blogs.”
And so we did – well actually Mark Neuman did, then Scott Schaefer edited it – see if you can find yourself, or a friend or two:
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grzhgTJx_7g[/youtube]
(…at the end of the video, look for some amusing outtakes as well as terrific “Happy Birthday USA!” salutations)
HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY FROM THE WATERLAND BLOG!
I love the 4th of July. I have loved it forever. I love the explosions and the colorful flashes and the smell. It, like many holidays, has the ability to create new memories and re-create the feelings of times past. The 4th of July’s of my youth were filled with sparklers, firecrackers, ground flowers, lady-fingers, M-80s, pop-its, bottle rockets and stinky growing snakes that disintegrated when the wind blew. The missile battery always sealed the deal and left us breathless and worn out. The street in front of my house as a kid was littered with the neighborhood display leftovers. It was great. The smell of smoke and burned paper lingered for days.
These days the rules have changed and personal use fireworks have diminished to a level un-fun to anyone familiar with the “good old days”. I suppose this is probably ok as a few roofs will, undoubtedly, be saved, not to mention, a few fingers. Though, there seems to me to be something uniquely American about a half-pickled Dad standing in the street holding a Roman Candle while his kids watch in awe and his wife watches with mild to intense trepidation. It is OUR holiday and being able to personally invest in recognizing this has some value to me.
But…so it goes and this year I will stand with my kids at the Marina and watch our local show booming over the water. I will think this is great, too. My kids will tip their heads and stare, unblinking, to the sky and marvel at the spidering webs of smoke trails. They will flinch when the bombs fire and they will have goosebumps during the grand finale. I will, too. I love the grand finale.
Like many things in life, the experience will change for me as it will become more about my kids than me. But, buried not so deep will be the remembrance of warm summer nights coaxing my Dad to “light the big one!!” while sitting on my mom’s lap in our driveway eating popcorn and drinking grape soda, watching the show with the sleepy amazement that only belongs to children. I hope to recognize this in my kids and know that memories are being made for them that will last. These memories detail a life of quality and creating them is my most important job as a Dad.
As life unfolds in its circular fashion, while my kids are watching fireworks on the 4th of July this year, my son will be drinking a grape soda and my daughter will be eating popcorn on her mom’s lap. They will be happy and so will I. Life will be as good as it gets. They will remember it fondly and, in the future, as I look back on this current time, I will be satisfied that I did ok. I cannot and will not ask for anything more than this.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!" Also, you can "friend" Dave on Facebook here.]
I got flipped off by an old man the other day. I was driving down 7th Avenue and stopped at a crosswalk to allow a woman to cross the street. The lady was standing at the crosswalk and was looking around a little confused, but to me, still seemed to be intending to cross the street. Apparently, she was just confused and stepped back and did not cross. The old man behind me in a small silver car honked at me as I was waiting for the woman to see me stopped and cross the street. I stuck my arm out the window and pointed to the lady, with my left index finger, indicating to the old man why I was stopped in the middle of the road. At this point, his raised a meaty middle finger and shot me the bird through his windshield. I, instinctively, returned fire and had a brief flash of road rage that included an image of grabbing this geezer by the neck, forcibly removing his false teeth from his mouth and chucking them into the fresh beauty bark neatly spread in the planters on the side of the road. This image passed very quickly and I then just smiled and drove on.
I am never the sharpest guy in any room. I am, however, considerate. I was right to stop for the cross-walker and the grouch was wrong to honk while I waited. This was fact and served to release me from any onus of responsibility for receiving the bird. I was good, baby!
I have been flipped off plenty of times over the years. It is always a little troubling, sometimes warranted, sometimes not, but rarely any big deal. It was not a big deal this day and more than anything highlighted for me a sense of evolution that I may have attained. I had a good day following a middle finger by a grumpy old man. In the past, I may have lingered over the gesture. Having someone deliberately and quite personally attack one with a finger does not feel too nice. It has the power to create some negativity that can dwell for some time. It seems that, at least on this day, that power no longer had impact on me. I was unaffected, with the exception of the aforementioned, very brief, denture throwing fantasy. 
I soon had to make a left turn and as the angry man passed on my right, I waved (with all fingers) and grinned at him, while shaking my head. He stared straight ahead and did not acknowledge my gesture. My day moved on without incident.
I rode bikes with my son to the marina. We bought ice cream drumsticks at ABC Grocery, chatted up, Yoon, the owner, and rented a movie. I played “Sorry” with my daughter who, once again, delivered a handy beat-down (or two). I barbequed hamburgers while standing bare-footed in my lawn. I had a cold beer with my neighbor at the fence which separates our yards. I went to bed early with a good book and a contented mind. I opened my bedroom window and enjoyed the cool sea breeze blowing through. It was a day of days, a dream day. It could not have been a better day. A better day has not been invented and even a fat, hairless old finger shining in my rear view mirror could not disturb it.
Any evolution I have achieved through the years has been slow and painful, though at age 41, it feels pretty good to understand that good days are available everyday and that the power to manifest them is mine alone and even a crusty, quick-fingered old fart cannot shake my tree. This is a good thing to know and I will continue to stop at crosswalks, every time.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!" Also, you can "friend" Dave on Facebook here.]
The other night I took the garbage out. This was not as remarkable as my wife may find it. I take the garbage out as often as necessary. Sometimes volume and sometimes smell will inspire my trip outside to the can. This night it was a combination of both. The nine o’clock sun was setting and the sky was cloudy, blue and red. It was nice. Somehow weaving its way through the stench of my trash was the smell of the sea. It must have been low tide, as I could smell the briny water and heated sand and mud and the creatures that dwell in both.
This is my favorite smell. It is the smell of my life. It is the smell of my youth and my life today. It reminds me of standing in line for the Scrambler at the Waterland Festival as a kid. It reminds me of early morning and late evening water-ski trips in high school to the sand pits hoping for some flat water. It reminds me of fishing and crabbing and sitting in guest moorage drinking beer in the sun. It reminds me of dog walks and family walks and squiding off the pier. It reminds me crisp autumn mornings mowing Beach Park and warm summer afternoons looking for spider crabs and perch along the pilings when they both excited me more than they do now.
This smell and this sea is my home. It is where my Dad’s ashes lie and where mine will go when the time comes. Today, my sea serves to make taking the trash out something more. Like nothing else, it has the power to give my life perspective. As I get bogged down by life’s have-to-do’s and running-lates, the late spring smell of my sea in the evening brings my life back in order. It is easy to get mired in unimportant things. As human animals, we struggle and chase and want. We spend an unseemly amount of time running, with tunnel vision, towards a future of more running. Sitting still, smelling, listening and feeling that life is pretty good, right here, right now, is necessary for both the peace and state of mind that make life truly wonderful.
It’s a little odd to me that a fairly routine trip to the garbage can inspire thoughts like these, but maybe the thoughts needed to be found and perhaps any vehicle would do. Either way, I’ll take them when they come and I appreciate them as old friends. I have a lot of great, old friends, but these thoughts and the smell of my sea are some of the best. As my wife will testify, I am not exceptionally fussy about my choice in friends. But as I have come to learn, a man can never have too many friends and I’ll take all that I can get.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!" Also, you can "friend" Dave on Facebook here.]
At four o’clock this morning, I rose and did not shine and drove my wife and our two kids to the airport. They are traveling to upstate New York to visit her folks and family. I returned to my home and slumber. I woke up a couple of hours later to an empty house. Actually, the dogs were here, but since I am a marginally neglectful dog owner, they don’t imposition me too much.
My kids are a different story. They are, definitively, impositions, cute, fun ones that I love more than any words could express, but impositions nonetheless. It was very strange this morning, not having to fix breakfasts, bedsides my own, (leftover Mexican food and some jerky). I did not have to make any lunches or find socks for my daughter or tell my son to get out of the shower. I did not have to watch cartoons or make sure homework was complete and packed in the appropriate bag. I did not have to race to any schools to keep my kids from yet another tardy.
My schedule is my own and that is, sometimes, dangerous. Left entirely to my own devices, I am a wildcard. The angel and devil on opposing shoulders wage a noisy battle for my attention. I have much that needs to be done. I have responsibilities and duties and obligations. I also have an incredible capacity for procrastination and since “free” days are so rare for me, it would seem a shame not to let the devil drive a little bit. Finding some balance will be my goal and perhaps a daunting challenge.
Fortunately, some of my schedule is already booked. I have a meeting and I promised to help out a neighbor with some yard work. These should help tip the scales and keep me out of trouble for a while. If I play my cards right and diligently perform my tasks with clean intentions and a clear mind, I could actually stockpile a few good credits to be used later as an offset for any of my bad ideas. I think this is a good plan. I think can do just enough work to keep me guilt free. We’ll see how it goes.
The quietness of the house is already getting to me. These things I complain about and some days pray to escape from, I miss. I liken it to a newly released prisoner missing the guards that kept him locked up or perhaps the “Stockholm” syndrome in which a captive develops strong feelings for his/her captors. While am excited, on many levels, about my liberation, I am also going to miss my captors.
I will schedule a tee time for a rare non-wife-negotiated golf game with buddies. That might help with my pain. I will call some buddies and plan on meeting to watch some World Cup games this weekend. This might be another step towards feeling better. Maybe, I’ll see who’s free Saturday night for some shuffleboard and a few beers. I think it’s working. I am starting to get relief. Perhaps, I’ll plan on a Sunday morning breakfast with lots of bacon and zero extra napkins dedicated to wiping up “somebody’s” spilled orange juice. Now, we’re talking!!
My family only just left and won’t be gone long, but I miss them already. They are what I care about most and I will be very happy when they get home and life returns to normal. In the meantime, I’d better call about that tee time to help me cope with their absence.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!" Also, you can "friend" Dave on Facebook here.]
“Look within, Listen, Be Nice” and “Never pet a burning dog” are my two all-time favorite pieces of bathroom graffiti. These words were written right next to each other on the wall to the left of the urinal trough in the best college bar in the history of college bars, The Coug. I read them many, many times. I was always struck by the absurdity of their connection. The duality in their relationship is not unlike many other things in life. Life is filled with light and dark, hard and soft, good and bad. They exist together. They share the same space on bathroom walls and perhaps truly need each other to exist at all. Sunny days in Seattle are always more sunny because they follow gray days. This duality must exist for us to have anything of value.
The other night my wife and I were having a very serious discussion. We were talking urgently about the usual un-fun topics of money, plans, bills, the future, the laundry list of things I was doing wrong, etc. While deep in the heat of the intense conversation, I noticed that on my right index finger I was, not consciously, yet quite deliberately, twirling a piece of fake dog poop. I tuned out of the conversation for a moment, hoping my wife wouldn’t notice me playing with a fake turd during our important talk, and pondered how life IS this duality and how sometimes, in our worst moments, we are our best and how humor and joy exist even in the most serious circumstances. I began to feel that, though our conversation about “stuff” was significant, it was not everything. Few things are everything. Family and friends are the only items I can think of, that qualify to me. Yet, a lot of emphasis is placed on things that don’t and won’t ever matter.
Our world is filled with bad stuff happening. We have wars, oil spills, sucky economies, and lots of bad people doing bad things. This is sometimes overwhelming and disheartening. But as I looked out my lighthouse home office window the other morning and glanced into my neighbor’s yard and witnessed him dressed head to toe in his raingear, sitting on his lawnmower cutting his grass in a downpour, I was happy. He had a cup of coffee in his hand and was smiling. At this same time, I noticed his two year old daughter playing nearby with dirt in her mouth and flowers in her hair. She was wearing a pink puffy dress that she swiftly removed before she squatted and peed in her dad’s freshly mown lawn.
It is very easy to get lost in all the bad news that chokes us daily, however, I think that as long as carefree little neighbor girls exist that will stand in the rain and whiz in the yard, we’re gonna be ok. It’s a good neighbor to have.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!" Also, you can "friend" Dave on Facebook here.]
My kids hate my music. They hate all of it, across the board, from Buffett to Springsteen, from Bowie to Strait. They hate it all. They are indiscriminate in their disdain. They don’t understand that with each note, the soundtrack of their lives is being written. These songs that drive them to say mean things to me will one day, not a long time from now, remind them of a gentler and simpler era.
I, most fondly, recall from my childhood, sitting at our kitchen table, eating Frankenberry cereal, while my Dad drank his coffee and did crossword puzzles before going to work at the water district. Every morning, KJR was tuned in on the little clock radio and DJ, Gary Lockwood, played the music that created my soundtrack. The Doobie Brothers and the other 70’s stars sang through the single speaker and defined my childhood. The soft, sleepy moments eating sugary cereal sitting with my Dad in the mornings before school are what I remember best. Those moments are relived today whenever an oldie hits the air.
Hearing a favorite song is a mood lifter and day changer. We remember and feel what we felt, then. Life is and has always been, for the most part, GOOD!! Music, like nothing else, transports us to our best memories. It is a time machine or a plane ticket to where we were or where we want to be. 
Music says things we can’t. It is expressive and inspiring and describes thoughts and feelings better than words. Chords strike deeper than words can reach. “Hey, Jazzman, play me a serenade in a deeper blue… than you’re playin’… in your brain…” The Boss reaches the dark, rarely seen, but often felt, fathoms that we all have and need. The deep blue is felt and understood and where the glory, absurdity and beauty of life reside as real and clear and relevant. It is hope.
For these reasons, I battle the “Not agains!!” and “This song sucks!!” and smile at my poor, ignorant kids who don’t get it, but one day will. In a future nearer than they can imagine, they will have their own favorite songs and some of them will be mine. I will proudly gloat, “I thought you didn’t like this song?” They will smile and I will know why. They will feel their life and enjoy it. Songs will remind them of their youth and their brief time sharing it with me. We will be eternally connected by melodies and guitar solos.
One day, when they hear American Pie and the words, “I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck, with a pink carnation and a pick-up truck…” they will inform their kids that, “This is Grandpa’s favorite line in any song.” They will be right and these words that now make them cringe and wince will sing to them something else. They will be my words and like all things parents pass to their children, they will become theirs, too.
Until then, I will play what I want and suffer the insults and hurled objects. My kids will complain and whine and I won’t care. They cannot, as I could not, conceive of the notion, that Dad actually had a few things right and my Dad WAS right, “Benny and the Jets” is a damn good song. Thanks, Pops.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!" Also, you can "friend" Dave on Facebook here.]
“You’re making that little kid mow the lawn?” a passing neighbor inquired in a tone that was more accusation than question. I smiled and replied “No, no, no, I am letting him mow the lawn.” The neighbor looked puzzled, but moved on. There is a fine distinction at my son’s age, eleven, between what is work and what is fun. Using power equipment is fun. I understood this and had generously allowed my son to spend an hour and a half walking behind a mower bigger than he was. I would take a break from playing cribbage and drinking beer on the deck with my buddy to empty the catcher bag for him. It was a rare moment of mutual happiness.
When I was a kid, I was on standing loan to various uncles, friends and grandparents for whatever work they needed help with. I was essentially a type of serf, child labor at its finest or worst. From weeding and mowing to hauling, chopping and stacking wood to de-constructing old buildings, at a young age I learned how to work. I did not always appreciate this. On many occasions, I missed out on a Saturday morning creek fishing trip with my buddies to work for my Grandpa or Uncle John on some “project”.
For a couple of reasons, I rarely complained. One, it really did not matter to anyone, what I thought. Two, I always got do something cool when the work was finished. My rewards came in the form of more work, but the “fun” kind. I usually got to use the chainsaw, rototiller or drive something.
My eyes lit up when my Dad said, “Hey, Corky (my childhood nickname), you want to back the truck up?” Driving the truck or my Grandpa’s old Willys jeep was a prized trophy and I would damn near kill myself pushing logs bigger than me up a steep hill, with the hope that I might be able to sit in the driver’s seat when I was done, carrying me through each painful step. These remain my fondest memories.
In trying to help create the good adults my children will undoubtedly become, I have only my own experience as reference to how it should be done. I try hard NOT to do the things my parents did that I remember with distaste. Sometimes it is easier to define how to do something by understanding how NOT to do it. The “I will not do that’s” exist. For the most part, though, I carry the things that I enjoyed about my youth to my parental table. The joys of working and being included in the man’s club are things that helped shape me in, hopefully, good ways.
I understand my son’s perspective on this, because it was once mine. He likes being involved. He wants to be included, as an equal. For all the tremendous faults of my male role models, they always included me. I was never an outsider or a bother. They hid their true feelings very well. On more than one day, I am sure they questioned bringing me along. I was, no doubt, often in the way and I asked a lot of questions. They were amazingly patient. At least, I remember them as being patient. They probably weren’t, but my selective memory has blocked out most of the times they yelled at me for being a bonehead.
As a parent, I have come to discover, either on my own or through reflection on my childhood, that not helping a child is, sometimes, the right thing to do. Being allowed (or sometimes forced) to try and fail, but then succeed is invaluable. Knowing how to “figure it out,” is a significant quality. Creating a somewhat safe pasture for kids to screw up in lets them gain their own experience. From this grows confidence, and a sense that “they can do it”. This is the legacy left me by my knuckleheaded and kind, Dad, Uncles, and Grandpa, that I am most grateful for; this wonderful sense of belonging, yet independence, and a belief that I can do it.
As parents, we screw up our kids. All parents screw up their kids in ways unknown at the time. Our parents screwed us up and theirs screwed them up. So it has been since the dawn of time. We try not to, but we can only give what we have. We will give them some of our flaws, but we will also give them our goodness.
I will give my son opportunities to mow the lawn, use a weed-whacker and a nail gun. He will learn how to use a shovel and back up the truck. And after three hours of splitting and stacking wood, he will use the chainsaw and feel like a king. I will feel like a king, then, too.
It’s important to feel like a king once in a while.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!" Also, you can "friend" Dave on Facebook here.]
Each year, my Rotary club sponsors an essay contest for local middle school students. The kids write their stories and can win a few bucks. I am always amazed at the stories. These kids open veins and bleed their lives onto the page. It is very inspiring and makes me take great hope into the future knowing that kids like these will be leading us. As impressive as the essays are, what really strikes me is the fact that these kids can stand up in front of their school and read their stories. Writing a personal tale in the bedroom at night is one thing. Reading your words in front of an audience of peers is something else entirely! As talented, insightful and well-spoken as these kids are, what most affects me are the balls it takes to stand alone on the stage and bare their souls. These kids will go as far as they want in life. As jaded as I become seeing the punk kids around town being punk kids, I am irrevocably encouraged knowing that kids exist who will stand in front of a crowded gymnasium and read their words.
Last summer, we had a parade in town to celebrate its 50th birthday. My 10-year old son, Aden, was riding his bike, following a drill/dance group in this parade. Every time they would stop to perform. He would stop and scream,
“GO TO!!!! PIERVIEW!!!!! CHIROPRACTIC!!!!”
(Pier View Chiropractic is my wife’s office located in downtown Des Moines.)
The first time I witnessed this, I was a little unnerved. His face was mean and his voice was truly fierce. He was very intense. I was frankly a little scared, and I know I can take him!! Once I got over my fear pangs, a wonderful sense of pride took over. “Dang, the kid’s got balls.” I thought. The streets were lined with hundreds of people and he continued his “marketing” for his mom’s business the entire length of the parade route. His love and support for his mom made him stand on his pedals, tip his head to the sky and yell. He was very unselfconscious about this. It was great. As a parent, you hope your kids are strong and thoughtful, good people. You also hope they remain unburdened by the crippling fears that sometimes inject themselves into lives over time. Our kids teach us many things. However, my son’s lesson to me this day was truly inspiring. “If you care about something, do something about it and don’t worry about what others think.” I have no worries about that kid.
“The follies which a man regrets most in his life are those which he didn’t commit when he had the opportunity.”
~Helen Rowland
You don’t regret the things in life you did. You regret the things you didn’t do when you had the chance. I have made some monumental bad choices, big time boners. I don’t really care too much about them. I have screwed up and moved on. The stuff that sinks deep and really rubs me raw are the opportunities I had, that I passed on, times when I did not DO. This list is not short and has the power to make me feel really bad. That’s why I try not to think about it, except when faced with a rare second chance to make it right. The “doing and “not-doing” comes down, most often, to balls. My biggest regrets involve me somehow, chickening out. My greatest successes have come from me stepping out of the comfort zone and performing, whether the act was successful or not is moot. Having the cojones, potatoes, guts, or just the balls to step up IS the success. Being willing to take a risk is the most powerful attribute a person can have. Brains and heart are important, but I will take balls any day of the week. Countless fantastic ideas and good intentions have dried on the vine, because the guts weren’t there to follow through in spite of the omnipresent fears. The lessons these kids, especially my son, have reminded me of serve as a challenge to do better, be better, and most of all remember from my successes that the balls are there to carry me where ever I wish to go. This is true for all of us. It is a good thing to know.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!" Also, you can "friend" Dave on Facebook here.]
“HOWDY!!” My wife screams as she whips open the shower curtain on me. Luckily, I am already in the shower as I wet myself. She laughs deviously and moves on. Her day improved.
Scaring people is funny. While I stand shaking and dripping, I am mad, but not too mad. I probably deserve it. I love scaring people. Nothing else can create the unnatural facial expressions, noises and body movements like a good scare. It is hilarious. Watching America’s Funniest Home Videos, I always laugh the hardest when someone jumps out of the Christmas present box or the “skeleton” grabs at someone on the front porch on Halloween. People freak and I grin.
Scaring is an art and timing is everything. Unsuspecting victims, engaged in some activity which distracts them, are the best. Stealth is vital, but understanding the target is also important. In the mid 90’s, my buddies, Dan and Shane worked in the same commercial construction office. They were friends and had some latitude in how they could behave towards each other, but their “Scare War” was legendary. Tales of a perfectly timed bang on the window as the victim’s back was turned and head was down, obviously deeply focused on some important task, still crack me up. Their battle waged for months. From popping out of a toilet stall and screaming while the other was mid-stream to hiding behind doors to the window bangs, they are all classics. To this day, they both still behave very warily towards each other, no doubt suffering some mild form of PTSD. I love it all.
I scare my neighbor a lot. He is always busy outside. I don’t always intend to scare him, but he is too easy. He gets focused on something and even though I was not planning on scaring him, I do. It is a crime of opportunity. I always make sure the gate is shut and that I have a good head start on any chase that may occur before laying on the horn. “HI, NICK!!” He shakes and swears. He rarely disappoints. He’s very reliable. I appreciate this. He’s also big and I don’t want him to catch me when his blood is boiling. Gratefully, he’s quick to cool. I sometimes bring him a beer as a peace offering or maybe more of a “thank you” gift for the enjoyment he provided me.
While scaring people is fun, one must choose targets wisely. Some people get very upset. My buddy Dan’s wife, Catherine, punches hard. Trust me on this one. She is a little jumpy already and it doesn’t take much to make her jump a little more. Given that she can and will deliver a serious bone bruise, I don’t try to scare her anymore. Though, I have been falsely accused and convicted on a few occasions. She metes out punishment swiftly and violently. One must be careful when dealing with such individuals. In my experience, it is best to avoid them altogether.
As I glance at the clock, I see that it is about time for my son to be walking home from school. It is time for me to take my usual place behind my neighbor’s hedge and wait for him to pass by, then jump out and scream, “HOW WAS YOUR DAY!?!!! He won’t budge and that is unacceptable. I need to find a hiding new spot.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!" Also, you can "friend" Dave on Facebook here.]
Last week, I “celebrated” my 41st birthday.
I am rapidly approaching “farts dust” old, though, I may already be there and am just too old to know it. My age is incomprehensibly ancient to my 11-year old son. “Mannn, 41 – that’s OLD!” He says while walking away, shaking his head, trying to imagine someone this old still being able to use the toilet, unassisted. Unbeknownst to him, he’s at the top of my list when the day comes that I need a little extra help. Payback is gonna be sweet.
I stopped caring about my birthdays a while ago. For me, 40 was the only milestone worth noting and even then it was used mainly as a reference point to how much closer I am to death than birth and, truthfully, it is simply easier for me to count by tens. I’m not that strong in math. Since I am likely past the halfway mark of my life, I try not to think about it too much.
Through the years, I have had my fair share of birthday parties. I have whacked piñatas. I have pinned donkey’s tails. I have had cake, ice cream, pizza and shots. I have gone to church. I have danced and I have sung, poorly, on both accounts. I have eaten well. And I have thrown up. One year, I blew the candles out with my nose. My guests focused their appetites on the ice cream. One year, I went fishing with my Grandpa. One year, I went fishing with my buddy, Andy, and wound up on a drunken exodus through several small bergs in Eastern Washington. I have celebrated in different states and different countries. Last year, my wife had a surprise party for me. The party was a month after my birthday. I had long forgotten about my birthday and I was SURPRISED!! (Note: This is genius.)
This year I was back to my standard indifference. I need no reminders of my aging. I am very familiar with it.
As genuinely ambivalent as I was about my birthday, an unexpected vehicle presented several little gifts that were very welcomed and much appreciated: Facebook. I received “Happy Birthday’s” from many different people. I am not a Facebook junkie and generally don’t post my own minutiae. I don’t often reply to other people’s posts and I don’t play any games. But, I’ll tell you, after my birthday, I am a believer! Facebook allows for wonderful “arm’s length” relationships that have no heavy investment, yet feel good. We have all shared the different times in our lives with many different people. It is nice to be connected or reconnected with these people. I have known lots of folks over the years and have liked most of them! But, life is busy and/or moves on. It is a challenge to remain in contact with everyone. Facebook is a nice consolation. The laundry list of people who commented on my birthday included: elementary school friends, middle and high school friends, relatives, college buddies, and old work buddies. All of these people have shared a time in life with me. We are connected in memories and yearbooks. This has value. Visiting the profile of the guy who sat behind you in English class for four years is great. It is nice to see his kids and how he is doing. I wouldn’t call him on the phone, that’s too personal, but I am happy for him and our time spent together. Facebook makes possible a new kind of, slightly voyeuristic, relationship. It shrinks the world and that’s good.
With this in mind, I thank all my friends for their well wishes and wish good things for them and appreciate the electronic sharing of their lives with me. From now on, I will send “Happy Birthdays”, because I know that, no matter how long it’s been since I have actually seen or spoken to some of my “friends”, every one of us likes to hear or read “Happy Birthday” wishes to us. My note will be sincere and filled with genuine hope for a good day. “Happy Birthday” just feels good. No matter how old we are.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!" Also, you can "friend" Dave on Facebook here.]
What began as a very safe and innocent exploration into how my relatively small-bottomed family consumes a disproportionate amount of toilet paper has morphed into something else entirely. I discovered that once I started writing about “bathroom issues”, I just couldn’t stop! It occurred to me that we all, as human animals, share a great number of these issues and that indeed they may be the only things we ALL truly have in common. The toilet may be our absolute lowest, yet most common, denominator. No person is safe from stomach to rear end induced anxiety, ranging from minor to major. These issues are indiscriminate and collectively feared. As such, they create both empathy and sympathy like few things in life can. A couple of examples will help illustrate this.
Example I: While inspecting a roof in El Paso, Texas a few months ago, I witnessed my buddy and colleague, Larry (name unchanged), duck-walking, quite briskly, the two blocks to our “big, blue friend”, the sani-can at a construction site. I understood and rooted for Larry. With an intent stare and softly moving lips, I may have silently mouthed, “You can make it, L-Train. You can make it.” He made it, but for a time, he went through a rough patch and was forced pretty consistently to duck-walk. He perfected it. In fact, his duck-walk actually became his regular walk! Over time, with the help of some dietary modifications and a lot of encouragement, Larry is walking normally, again. We’re all very proud and happy for him. We all understand this urgency and will always help when we can. It could have and has been, ANY and ALL of us.
Also worth noting, our nickname, the “big, blue friend”, was not just another juvenile wit creation. It was conceived in reverence. There truly is no better friend when the need strikes. We will forsake our mother, children and God himself to find a “friend” when breathing shallows, the forehead begins to bead with sweat and the eyes blur with terror. We seek the comfort and relief our “friends” represent. They always deliver. That can be said for very few things in this world.
Example II: Another buddy and colleague, Mr. X, I will call him for his protection, was not as lucky as Larry. His episode resulted in an unfortunate late night request for new sheets on TWO queen size hotel beds. A bad cheeseburger was blamed. As disturbing as this incident was, it was met with a bunch of, “are you oks?” and, “can I get you anythings?” from a usually pretty jaded and inconsiderate group of fellas. This episode caused genuine concern. Had he chopped his nose off while shaving, we would have called him some names and told him to rub some dirt on it. Under circumstances such as these, though, we felt for him and were genuinely sympathetic. This is a rare and wonderful thing and can only be inspired by our own fear and comprehension of the devastating events that occurred, a true nightmare come to life.
These are not isolated incidents. My own catalog of “uh oh” moments is unsavory and vast. We all have a catalog. Knowing this brings us all a little closer. From the low to the high end of human status, we all share a universal worry. It is the great equalizer and indeed, may exist solely for this reason. I can think of no other good reason. From now on, when faced with an adversary, I will try to see the softer side we share that begins with a sharp cramp, followed closely by a slight gurgle, culminating in terror and desperation. It’s the least I can do.
(A side-note to the Mr. X incident was his three am phone call to house-keeping and his introductory comment, “Send someone you don’t like.” This is and very likely will remain the quote of the year for me. Thanks, Mr. X.)
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!"]
It was a pretty standard Saturday afternoon. The sun was out and the wind was light. Traffic on Marine View Drive was heavier that I would have guessed. Though, I suppose on a nice weekend day people have places to go and the main street is the way to get there. My daughter and I were walking to the market. As we strolled through town, I took note of the various shops and restaurants and remembered when they were different shops and restaurants. A lot has changed since my days walking with my Dad down this same street, but it always feels the same to me. This is my hometown and the footprints of my life are here.
As we neared the store entrance, I saw that my best friend’s wife and kids were selling Girl Scout cookies at the front door. My daughter is in the same troop, but fortunately my wife was able to pawn a good number of boxes off on her chiropractic patients, so I did not have to sit in front of the store bothering shoppers. We stopped and visited for a few minutes.
As we were chatting, out the automatic door, came Al, another friend of mine. We exchanged small talk. Him reminding me of my promised charitable contribution he had not yet received. I told him I was good for it and he grinned and patted me on the shoulder and went to have dinner with his wife.
While still standing there, another guy, Andrew, his kid in my son’s class, bought some cookies and said we were due for another baseball game. A couple of years previously, we went to a Mariner’s game for his son’s birthday. I said, “You bet.” And he went about his business.
Inside the store, while looking at meat, my old friend, Craig, tapped me on the shoulder with a smile. He called me bad name as old friends will and asked if I was still burping pickled eggs. On a bet, in a different lifetime, I once drank a pint of pickled egg juice from the dusty egg jar behind the counter in the Dugout, our local bar, for $28 dollars. Craig paid.
In the dairy aisle, I ran into Mike, an old neighborhood kid. He was a few years older than me and I distinctly remember him threatening to stuff my face through a cyclone fence thirty-some years ago. He says he didn’t, but I remember what I remember and we disagree and laugh whenever I see him.
At the checkout stand, I said hello to Sandy, a checker I have known since she worked at Johnny’s, our old market, and I was a kid hanging on my Dad’s hip asking for candy. I bought our dinner and we left.
As we were walking home, I began to think about the people we encountered. All have shared a piece of my life. It struck me as a rare and beautiful thing to know so many good people. I felt very good about the life I have chosen and where I have chosen to live it. Being a true local is a gift that only time can buy. A broad variety of folks have crossed my path through the years, the full spectrum and I do mean the FULL spectrum. These are the characters in the epic motion picture that is my life. We are all characters in each other’s life’s movies. We are all connected and necessary and we are all locals.
Holding my daughter’s hand as we walked through her hometown, I was happy that she would know some of the same feelings I have and one day walk around town, reminiscing fondly on a good life with deep connections to the ground under her feet. I just hope she doesn’t get the strange tickle in her belly and taste the foul, bitter burp remnants from a bad bet made many years earlier.
Or maybe, I kind of hope she does.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!"]
While sitting on my couch one day, I glanced to my left and saw my six year-old daughter two knuckles deep in her right nostril, digging for gold. I winced and watched. She pulled out a nugget and opened her mouth. “Don’t eat that!!” I screamed. She looked at me sympathetically. Then, she ate it. With the dark green fleck stuck to her front tooth, she turned her head and grinned at me. I shook my head and smiled. Being a reformed booger-eater myself, I knew that long-term damage was improbable, but I was still slightly queased.
My daughter is a contrarian. I say, “Don’t”. She does. I say, “Do”. She doesn’t. It is a very simple and predictable system. This has been a curse to me for as long as she has breathed air. Being resourceful and certainly familiar with bad ju-ju, I began concocting a plan to remedy the impact of her obstinacy on my quality of life. I am not interested in justice. I simply want compliance. An idea began to emerge, an idea with power. Evil power. I could get her to do anything by simply telling her not to. With this, I could do some serious tide-turning!! This was genius!!
I enjoy making my kids do dumb things. Two problems exist for me. One, my kids don’t listen to me. Two, my wife does not enjoy it as I do. In this idea, I saw a solution. By telling my daughter NOT to do something, she would do it. Also, if I played it right, I could be off the hook with my wife. I would give her my normal blank, nobody’s home look and she would buy it. I could exclaim, “I told her not to!” which technically, I had, and I was safe. This revelation felt like Christmas morning. A new world opened up for me. Gratefully, my daughter’s awareness of my manipulative powers are not as sophisticated as my eleven year-old son’s. I could ride this wave for a long time. I could have anything I wanted. I had to be smart about it, but this wonderfully despicable system was nearly fool proof.
My “system” in action: Last week, my daughter asked me if she could have a soda. I said “no”, with a knowing certainty that she would get the soda anyway. I sat on my living room couch with my feet up and continued watching Sportscenter. When she entered the room carrying the soda, I, looking outraged, exclaimed, “I thought I said no”. “Aww.” She replied. “Give it here.” I said and I now had the delicious refreshment that I had wanted and I had not moved. It was nearly flawless execution on my part, the puppet master at work, a true maestro.
I enjoyed this fabulous system until my son began getting suspicious. As the men in the house, I thought, foolishly, that we had a deal. It turns out that Benedict Arnold Markwell seems to enjoy my floundering as much as the rest of family and would forsake our man’s club for his own pleasure quite readily.
While employing my “system” to receive a much-deserved foot rub from my daughter, my son took it upon himself to begin asking questions. These questions went to the heart of the system itself. “Helena, do you know that dad just tricked you into giving him a foot rub?” he said, out loud no less. I gave him the “shut up” eye, but he continued. “He always makes you do stuff and you don’t even know it.” Good God, man, I thought we were a team. She looked at me dubiously, then looked at the traitor and stopped rubbing my feet.
It occurred to me, upon reflection, that I have no team. The boy I thought I could count on, very happily betrayed me. I had no illusions about my wife or daughter. But my son… it hurt. I am now back to square one, trying to devise an even more clever and deceitful method of achieving something resembling control in my house. I will do this alone. As noted in the greatest movie of all time, “The Hangover”, I am a wolf pack of one. So be it. The wheels are turnin’, kids. Beware.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!"]
It’s a dog’s world.
I woke up stealthily and ready for battle. I silently crept out of bed. My slippered feet were soundless as I slow-walked into the living room to catch my dog, once and for all, laying in my recliner. I had him this morning. I knew it. As I whipped my head around the wall to finally catch this sneaky mutt by surprise, I was greeted only by an ever-so-slightly rocking chair and Diego, his name unchanged to not protect him from anything, laying on the floor with a smirk. He knew I saw nothing.
He could not have heard me. I was the wind. I think he, by some strange dog sense, felt me. Some survival instinct, programmed in him through many generations of devious relatives, had saved him again. Diego rules the house this way. He sleeps wherever he wants. He eats better than I do and I hardly feed him. Kid’s leftovers are his favorites. He will steal a few bites when no one is looking, clean up after himself and always leave enough food to create doubt about whether or not he had climbed on the counter to eat. He never cleans the plate. That would be evidence. He doesn’t leave any. I know he does it, yet he knows I can’t prove anything. Always, when I’m about to nab him, he will be walking the other way, licking his lips. He wins every time. 
Diego’s talents for deception would have him high on any CIA recruitment list or perhaps employed as a “Black Ops” operator in some distant land if he were not just a regular old snaggle-haired, relatively gassy dog. As ordinary as he seems, he is a genius in his field, which is primarily sneaking stuff when I’m not looking. He is a master. In fact, he may be the master. I think the whole “master” thing was actually invented by dogs to let us believe we have control. Not unlike wives. Though, my wife gave up the charade about who’s “master” a long time ago. I am Diego’s servant. He is MY master. I feed him and groom him and pick up his poop. Scraping dog-doo off of wet grass is about as low as one can get and I am there. It’s a role I didn’t plan on, but like many things in life, I accept.
Dogs are smarter than us. I’m convinced that the old velvet poster of dogs playing poker is an actual photo. They are probably very good poker players. Diego’s face betrays nothing. He is a world-class liar. I can easily imagine him wearing a visor with a cigar hanging out of his mouth dealing cards. I wouldn’t play with him.
He lies by my feet as I write and throws me a bone of affection now and then, cementing my commitment to serve him. He is a delightful rogue, an attractive nuisance. The hair on the couch and the tiny, very sharp little shards of disintegrated steak bone I pick out of my feet regularly from walking barefooted in my living room notwithstanding, I am his. He’s a good dog and I don’t mind too much, though it helps to see other folks walking their dogs in the cold rain, and with bare hands tucked deep inside a plastic sack, fingering poop off the sidewalk, too. We are all slaves to our dogs. It is so.
It’s a dog’s world.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!"]
After dropping the final kid off at school, I was ready to start my day. I began with great hope and many complicated plans that were going to secure a fruitful and most productive few hours. I had washed my hands of the usual morning catastrophes: “Dad, I can’t find any socks!! Look in your drawer, dinkus. Oh, ok.” “Daaaddd, I don’t want that in my lunch!! Too bad. I won’t eat it!! I don’t care.” “Dad, where’s my homework?!! It’s on the table where you left it. Oh, yeah.” “Daddy, how long until my birthday?!! Ten and a half months, sweetheart.”
I was now ready to dig in earnestly.
My first plan involved the post office. I knew that this was the wildcard. The pace at which I could navigate this hill climb would determine the shape of the rest of my day. I hate going to the post office. It is never a quick trip. I have never lucked out with a short line. I’m not sure they even exist. I have tried going to the post office at all hours and it doesn’t seem to matter. It is slooowww-going. I knew that hinging my day’s outcome on this uncertain variable was risky, but I was prepared and gave a reasonable cushion to allow for an exceptional delay. So I thought.
An hour and a half later, I walked out the door and felt like a corpse hopping out of the coffin. The sunlight was blinding and I was nearly run-over by another post office escapee fleeing in haste towards a better fate. I was deflated, if not completely beaten. My day was shot. The domino effect of this lost time was irrecoverable. I knew it. It was a done deal. I would go through the motions, but would end the day disappointed and dejected by all the unfulfilled potential. Oh well, not the first day that blew up and not the last, I’m sure. I prepared myself to move on as best I could.
While sitting in my truck gathering myself, I looked to my left and saw a lady in a small red car, two parking spots over, crying. Now, I was pretty sad about my big day getting flushed, but I wasn’t going to cry about it, though, in all honestly, I may have been close a couple of times while in line. As I cautiously spied on this poor woman, I felt bad for her, but I also felt kind of good, because for some perverted reason other people’s misery sometimes can minimize our own. Sad, but true.
As I started my truck and began to back out, I glanced at this unfortunate woman again and saw that she was indeed crying. In fact, she was bawling, but she was not sad. She was laughing her head off!! She was happy!! She was reading a letter and shaking and nodding and smiling with delight. She was affected. I watched her and began to smile myself. Then, I started laughing. This anonymous woman’s shameless joy was contagious and I was infected. Whatever was in her letter was magic. I felt a transformation take place not unlike when the Grinch feels his heart grow, then lifts the sleigh high over his head and streaks down the hill to deliver Christmas to the Whos in Whoville. I was changed.
I chuckled and drove away forgetting about what was lost and grateful for what was gained, a new perspective about what’s important. The people that write letters that can make us laugh hysterically in the post office parking lot are what matters. This recognition saved my day and I saw with fresh eyeballs all the wonderful potential that still existed. The outcomes were less important than the grin I would wear running my errands and the tone I would greet my late appointments with. My mood was lifted and that was the difference between success and failure. The smiling attitude that I met the world with was what mattered. This is true on any day.
I understood then, that my day was going to be just fine and I have never left the post office feeling better.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!"]
“Daddy, I can’t find my phone. It fell and I don’t know where it is,” my six year-old daughter said.
My daughter loses a lot of things, so this statement was not unique or surprising in itself. What was unique and surprising was that she said it at 3:30 in the morning, waking me up from a rather strange dream involving myself, Billy the Kid and some very hostile looking penguins. As I cleared my head, I brilliantly replied, “Turn your light on.” Knowing that this ingenious solution had probably escaped her sleep-weary mind, she left.
Proving once again that, on occasion, I am not completely without value, she returned to my bed with her phone and other things. For clarity, I must disclaim that I do not endorse or promote a six year-old having a cell phone. This phone was somehow one of several extra phones we acquired in an attempt to shave a few bucks off of our monthly bill. Through some cell phone company trickery or perhaps using the Bush system of “fuzzy math,” it was somehow cheaper to have three extra phones that we don’t use than just the ones we needed. My daughter, in another attempt to feel like a big girl, adopted one of these extra phones, which she carries around the house and uses as an alarm clock. Apparently, she must have been fumbling for it in the dark and it fell off of her shelf and went under her bed, thus the reason for her concern this late night.
As she climbed into my bed, I positioned myself firmly in a comfortable spot, knowing that it would not last. I tried to calculate the appropriate distance allowance for her shifting, twisting and kicking that would eventually force me to dangle on the thin edge of the bed without a pillow or a blanket. I’m not sure how she manages to manipulate a 200-pound man into a state of absolute discomfort so effortlessly. But she does it, regularly.
Per her ritual, she grabbed her fuzzy purple blanket and favorite doll, Mary, and slipped quietly between her mother and I and snuggled closely against my warm bare back. Some nights, it is annoying and I just wish she’d sleep in her own bed, but this night was different. It occurred to me at this unfortunate hour that like many things kids do, they don’t do them forever. We get a finite number of nights that our kids will climb into our bed and snuggle with us. I can already feel the number dwindling. Our daughter is six and our son is ten. On very rare occasions will he climb into our bed. Gradually, she will stop as well.
I will be sad when they stop.
A certain duality exists in parenthood. On one hand, you want the kids to be more independent and able to help themselves. On the other hand, you want them to stay little. You want them to need you and to still be able to comfort them with a band-aid, a fudge- sickle, or a kind word.
So I tolerate my own lack of comfortable sleep and wake early with a sore back and don’t get up, but lay still and watch my daughter sleep. Her fresh and peaceful face evokes feelings that only a parent of sleeping children understands. At bedtime, they cry and whine and say “no way,” but then sleep and dream and are happy. You can then remember why you love them so. It is a forgiving time. It is a special time that reaches a place in the heart of a parent that is often untouched and overlooked and probably wouldn’t exist were it not for the vision of sleeping children.
While I may I complain and futilely shove her back in place, sometimes a little violently, I feel the clock ticking on her, as well as me, and I understand that this time, like all other times, is fleeting and I’d better just appreciate it, because I know I’ll miss it when it’s gone.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!"]
The other night I stepped on one of my son’s toys. It was a red SUV-type truck with a surfboard rack. It used to have a surfboard, but that was lost a long time ago.
I have stepped on a lot of my son’s toys over the years. In fact, I have probably stepped on, tripped over, kicked, stubbed and/or somehow otherwise damaged myself on more of my kids’ toys than I have not. Breaking toys is not new to me. What was strange about this incident was that I felt bad about it. I was very surprised on this day that the accidental destruction of yet another trip hazard actually affected me.
Through the years, I have been a veritable serial killer of toys and have been personally responsible for countless “disappearances.” Literally, hundreds of victims have met their demise in the stinky, shallow grave of my kitchen trashcan, covered only by chicken bones and eggshells. I have been indiscriminate in my toy tossing. There has been no pattern that any expert CSI or profiler could reveal. It has been random and willful. I have been able to perfect a straight-faced response to my kids’ queries into where a particular toy that I had thrown away might be.
“You must have lost it, like normal…” I can say without flinching or shame. Why do I do this? Simply put, my kids have too much crap and I have taken it upon myself to cull the herd. It is a lonely duty, but it is mine.
Independent of my efforts, the life of a toy in my household is a rough one. It is perpetual teeter-totter hell-ride, bouncing between extreme neglect and extreme abuse, with nothing in between. The truck that I damaged on this day had already endured several tough years. It was my son’s favorite for a time and I can remember him playing with it several years ago, back when he was just a cute little five-year old boy with baby teeth and a big head. This truck had managed to survive, when many, many others could not. While this accomplishment is worth noting, it, to me, does not explain my unusual reaction. I am a jaded and calloused toy killer and I sleep well at night knowing this. Why did I feel bad about crushing another toy that had done nothing to me, but be in my way for years?
Upon reflection, destroying the toy itself did not affect me, rather the toy represented something else that is both gone and leaving more everyday – my kids’ childhood. This stupid, broken red truck symbolized something wonderful and fleeting and its destruction spotlighted the fact my kids are growing older. Its obsolescence hurt me, because, I know what’s coming next…my obsolescence!! I am slowly and surely becoming the dusty, busted toy buried deep under the bed that nobody wants to play with anymore.
While this makes me sad, it comes with, as all downsides do, an upside. They say life begins “when the kids move out and the dog dies.” I cling to this idea as a life preserver. I look forward to golfing more and people not crying in my house everyday. I look forward to watching what I want on the TV with a FULL bag of Doritos. I look forward to fewer questions and less laundry. This is where I am stuck, because these things I will also miss. I will miss the constant bickering, crying and yelling. The silence scares me. My concerns may be premature as my kids are still young and I have a few years to get over my fears and simply enjoy the screaming, fighting, inconvenient pains in the arse that are my kids. They are growing up regardless of how I feel about it and I should embrace this as a natural part of life.
So….I guess that’s what I’ll do…..right after I fix the windshield and glue the roof back on the red truck, maybe polish it a little and while I’m at it, I should look for that surfboard…
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!"]
Feel Good Friday is Buzzing!!!!
Last summer, my five year-old daughter, Helena, and I went for a walk with our dogs down to the Beach Park in Des Moines. It was a little misty and cool, a pretty standard late August morning. While walking through the park, we ran into my ten year-old son, Aden and his buddy, Elijah, riding their bikes. For the previous three days, the boys had been scouring the town with the fairly newfound freedom of being able to ride around un-chaperoned. I remember this time in my life very fondly.
Upon seeing me in the park, my son’s eyes lit up a little bit in excitement to see me. He was playing it pretty cool, but he was genuinely happy to see me or maybe more happy for me to see him being independent.
“What are you clowns up to?” I asked, casually.
“Not much. We were just throwing rocks at a beehive. Want to see?” Aden replied.
A tiny, but powerful electric impulse hit me.
“Do I want to see!!?!! Of course, I want to see!!” I thought, frantically. Beehives still excite me and it will be a sad day when I pass up an opportunity to check one out. As we headed to the back of the park, I felt the rare and beautiful anticipation of something cool about to happen. When we got to the beehive, I saw that it was a dandy! It was a big hive and the bees were thick and swarming pretty good. It hung about ten-feet high in a wide-open hole between the branches of a maple tree.
I gently questioned Aden if he remembered how it felt when he stepped on a honeybee in our yard a couple of weeks earlier. His scream had been heard for blocks. He responded with, “Oh, yeah!” Enough said. It was a subtle, yet effective warning, a father’s duty. Upon clearing my parental conscience, I picked up a good-sized rock and hucked it. I hit the hive hard and square, then scooped up my daughter and ran with a wild-eyed smile on my face. Just behind me, laughing the hysterical laugh of fear and fun, the boys peddled furiously. We were all laughing that laugh. We managed to outrun the bees and were unharmed. I suppose this story would not be told had we been stung, as I’m sure my wife would have made re-living this moment un-fun, probably forever. Nonetheless, we lived to tell the tale and though there are many things that I am eagerly waiting to outgrow, chucking rocks at beehives is not one of them. I have become convinced that a small fragment of youth resides, untarnished by work deadlines and house payments, in each hurled stone, waiting to make a man a boy again.
On a cool August morning in my son’s 10th year, I was able to surprise him by truly sharing his excitement and letting one fly!! From the moment the rock left my fingers, I had, in some small, though not insignificant way, changed, to him. I wasn’t just Dad, the rule-maker and fun-taker. He saw that I was capable of something else, something more. I had the potential to be more to him. He’s not sure what yet, but I got him thinking and that’s a start.
It was a good day.
[EDITOR'S NOTE:"Feel Good Friday" is a regular column written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!"]
[EDITOR'S NOTE: We'd like to officially introduce a new regular column, "Feel Good Friday," written by Des Moines resident Dave Markwell, who extols to all neighbors: "Enjoy where we live. Put your feet on the pavement and truly feel how great it is to live here!"]
The other night my six year-old daughter and I attended a concert at Highline Community College. My ten year-old son was performing with the Parkside Elementary orchestra as they opened for a Des Moines Arts Commission Music Series show. He plays viola.
I have come to understand that the learning curve for instrument mastery is decidedly not steep. The slight twitch my dog, Diego, is now afflicted with, no doubt the result of the unnatural sounds piercing my son’s bedroom door, will testify to this. While the process is slow and sometimes painful, there is progress and as the group came together and played their pieces, it was actual music and it was great. Their focused and serious faces read their music as they played powerful works. Occasionally, a shrill missed note would find its way to my spinal cord, followed by an eye-raising wince from the assailant, but overall they sounded pretty good and I was proud.
As proud as I was of my son, my daughter, on the other hand, on several occasions, narrowly avoided a very public strangulation.
“Just sit still, PLEASE!” I loud-whispered and repeated as a mantra throughout the concert.
Now, I had no allusions that bringing a six year-old to a classical music show would be entirely trouble-free, but as the bouncing, talking, swinging, fiddling, fidgeting and kicking ramped up, I was considering very bad things.
Fortunately, as it sometimes will, fate intervened.
As my son’s performance wrapped up, the headline group, The Sirens, came out and began to play. They are a trio who play piano, flute and oboe. I don’t ever recall hearing an oboe before, certainly not like this. This woman played notes that I did not know existed. They touched me and gratefully must have touched my daughter as well. For three wonderful minutes, she sat on my lap and we listened to a song that we could feel. There is an emotion in the oboe that surprised me. The music swept over us and it was beautiful. I looked around the room and saw my son sitting next to his buddy several rows away from us, because if there is anything uncooler for a fifth-grader than a classical music concert, it is sitting with your dad and little sister at a classical music concert. I understood and was not hurt, too much. I enjoyed the true magic of the moment and was genuinely moved.
This was until my daughter woke up with a simultaneous flailing back head-butt to my face and swinging heel crotch-kick. The wonderful moment was over in an instant. It was just too good to last. As a stifled a yelp, I collected our things and knew it was time to go.
“Go get your brother.” I said as I made my way to the door and stepped out into the cool Des Moines rain.
I tipped my head to the sky and smiled and knew that the brief, pure moment was worth all of the hassle, struggle and even the crotch kick. The beauty of a single moment is worth all of it, every time.
Our intern, Bryan Charles, of Big Picture High School has created another cartoon in his “3 Frog Bros.” series.
Bryan is a budding young artist, and has a passion for comics, cartoons and even creating his own Flash animations.
He also has a twisted sense of humor and a sharp observational eye, and here’s this week’s “3 Frog Bros.,“:
To see more of Bryan’s work, click here.
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