I was damn near bawling, I felt so damn happy, if you want to know the truth. I don’t know why. It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat and all. God, I wish you could’ve been there.
For the past three years, I’ve been teaching freshman English again, just as I did earlier in my career. When I review my school’s reading list to prepare my curriculum each summer, there are some titles that I hem and haw over, unsure as to whether I want to give that book a go again. And then there are others for which I have no such doubts; I know I’ll be teaching them. And I know some of my students will be glad that I did.
It’s been 61 years since J.D. Salinger wrote The Catcher in the Rye. Some of those in education have voiced doubts about the book’s relevance in 21st-century America. Some of my students dub Holden Caulfield a “whiner” who can’t stop complaining about everything he sees. Some find it ironic that Holden calls so many people a “phony” when he himself is lying, drinking underage and smoking. They see no reason for a kid to give up on his grades and flunk out of four schools.
I listen, and hear my students’ reactions to this 16-year-old boy who sees so much to frown about in his world. Some may find fault with Holden’s words and actions, but when I ask them if there are things that they find annoying or phony in the world, my students flood the classroom with answers. All manner of human behavior is brought up, as they complain about the actions and words of friends, teachers, celebrities, coaches and family members. I ask them to write about these observations, and they do that, too.
By the time my students meet Holden’s 10-year-old sister, Phoebe, and see the ways in which she’s able to help save her brother from giving up on this world, they’re hooked. They understand by now that Holden never hated the world – he simply couldn’t understand how it could be so full of negativity. He didn’t see why children have to grow up into adults who make such poor decisions and endure such difficult experiences. He didn’t see why we have to give up our innocence in this life. “Certain things they should stay the way they are,” he muses. “You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone.”
It is Phoebe who helps Holden see that he’s got to find a way through this. The 10-year-old sister challenges her 16-year-old brother to focus on the positive in spite of the many negative things that are, and always will be, around him. Phoebe’s mantra, if she had voiced one, would be similar to that found in the holiday cards sent by a dear friend of ours named Kathy. Our friend’s message is simple: “Heavy on the joy.” It sounds so easy to do, but as we all know it can be hard to keep our minds on the things that bring us love and joy – especially when we see and feel the things that invoke anger, fear, grief or depression.
My wife and I don’t have a 10-year-old Phoebe at home right now. No, our 10-year-old has a lot more Holden in her at this time. As our Katie grows into a girl who can see with eyes wide open, she notices things that make her nervous. This world ain’t easy, and Katie can tell. Her 7-year-old sister still sees it all as one cool dance party, but Katie’s days of unbroken bliss are gone. She sees the phonies and the fearful things, and she isn’t at all sure what to do about it, except worry. I tell her that she’s inherited this all from me, as my own mother had dubbed me “Warren the Worrier” by the time I was 10. I tell her that I had to figure out a way to think about the beauties more often than the phonies, and that I found, as a writer, ways to explore some of the things that concerned me about the world. I tell her that she can do the same.
Katie listens intently, and she takes it all in. She reads, and writes, and goes for walks. All activities that Holden enjoyed, too. Since she could talk, she’s also asked me to tell her stories before bedtime. So tonight, for the first time, I told her a little about Holden. Some of it went over her head, which is fine. I really just wanted her to think about the part at the end, when Holden watches Phoebe on the Central Park Carousel. As Phoebe sits on her horse, smiling and reaching for the gold ring, Holden sits on a bench out in the rain and just starts crying. For once, these are not tears of pain, but tears of joy. Heavy on the joy. The kid sees a moment of pure beauty, and he realizes that moments like this do win out in the end. That life is very much worth living. That even the people who annoy you often end up being OK when it’s all said and done. That the innocence may fade, but the goodness can last.
Katie listened to the end of my story, then faded off to sleep while I sang “Rainbow Connection” to her and her sister. Someday we’ll find it / the rainbow connection / the Holdens, the Katies and me.
I’m finished with Catcher for this school year. But I’m never really finished with Catcher. None of us are. We take it on every day; Katie’s just starting early. The phonies are everywhere; but the carousels are, too. It just takes a little more work for some of us to see them. And man, when we do, it really does make us so damn happy. Damn near bawling.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Turning Tom Seaver
It was full-blown baseball nerdiness, but we enjoyed it anyway. It was the kind of thing you’d never figure out unless you lived in our world. And we only did it whenever one of us had a birthday.
My brother Eric, my friend Ron and I had a mutual passion for baseball that far exceeded anything our mid-1980s world had to offer. So we expanded that world on our own. We went to stores and had our T-shirts silkscreened with Yankee uniform numbers and names long before sporting goods stores started selling those shirts. We joined fantasy baseball leagues long before those statistics could be compiled by web sites. We played Wiffle Ball for hours with make-believe lineups made from major-league teams.
And then there was this birthday thing. Instead of saying “Happy 17th, Warren,” my brother and friend would say to me, “Hey, you’re Mickey Rivers this year.” Instead of being 23, I was “Don Mattingly.” And instead of wishing one of them a happy 31st, I’d tell them they’d reached “Dave Winfield.” I guess when you’ve got so many uniform numbers floating around amid your baseball memories, you’d might as well find a use for them. So, during each birthday, we’d connect our years-old to the numbers worn by those pinstriped heroes we used to cheer for every summer night.
And during those years when there were no great Yankee uniform numbers attached to our new age, it was even more fun to try and remember lesser-known players who’d worn those digits. “You’re Bob Shirley,” one of us would say when we’d reached age 29, harkening back to the left-handed reliever of the mid-1980s. Or “Happy birthday, Kevin Maas” when we turned 24, referring to the slugging first baseman who started off his Yankee career like a superstar, then quickly became a much more pedestrian hitter.
I am pretty sure that the woman who would eventually marry me heard some of these conversations, and yet she chose to remain with me. You’d have to ask her why. I guess the important thing to tell you is that as I stand two days shy of 41 years of age, I do not partake in this nonsense anymore. I don’t sit around and think about the ballplayers who have worn the number my aging body will be donning throughout the year. That’s really kids’ stuff, to be honest.
Tom Seaver. Eddie Mathews. Sterling Hitchcock.
OK, so maybe I do think about it a little bit. Just for a minute. Then I move on to other, more mature stuff. Like writing a blog about baseball and life.
Number 41 is not a big Yankee number. There have been somewhat effective pitchers with the number, such as Hitchcock and some guys from my childhood, like Joe Cowley and Shane Rawley. But it’s not a number you’ll see on a pinstriped uniform for sale at Modell’s. Over in Queens, however, Number 41 means an awful lot. Even more than it does in Atlanta, where Eddie Mathews’ number 41 is retired. Mathews was a great player, but he played nearly all of his career in Milwaukee, before the Braves moved south. For the Mets, however, Number 41 represents the only player in team history ever to have his number retired.
They called him “Tom Terrific,” and Tom Seaver lived up to every bit of that nickname. In a 20-year career, Seaver won more than 300 games and became one of the best pitchers of his era. He spent 11 of those years with the Mets, and most New York fans will tell you that the Mets should never have let him go. As a Yankee fan, I always followed Seaver from a distance, except when he showed up as a Yankees broadcaster after his retirement. But when I’d go out on the field to pitch, I’d always hear coaches comparing my delivery to that of Seaver. I had the full windup, the “drop and drive” delivery that saw my right knee scraping the ground and my right foot pushing off the rubber, followed by the overhand delivery with the good follow-through. Just like Seaver.
Of course, that delivery was the only similarity you could find between my pitching style and that of Tom Seaver. Once the ball left my hands, you might compare me to, say, Charlie Brown. But for an average pitcher, I was apparently pretty to watch. A vague reminder of a classic.
So that brings us to age 41 – a little more vintage than I envisioned myself being back in my pitching days. But here I am, Tom Seaver in age. I’m not dropping and driving anymore. Just workin’ for a livin’, raising a couple of kids, and still in love with the cute redhead I met back when I was still pitching and making those corny birthday jokes.
It’s not the kind of thing they retire uniforms for, I guess. But I’ll take it. And as for the growing older bit, why worry? There’s lots to look forward to. After all, I’m only one year away from Mariano Rivera. Three away from Reggie Jackson. And five away from Andy Pettitte.
Plenty of numbers to throw around for a good long while. Baseball nerds unite. And blow out your candles.
My brother Eric, my friend Ron and I had a mutual passion for baseball that far exceeded anything our mid-1980s world had to offer. So we expanded that world on our own. We went to stores and had our T-shirts silkscreened with Yankee uniform numbers and names long before sporting goods stores started selling those shirts. We joined fantasy baseball leagues long before those statistics could be compiled by web sites. We played Wiffle Ball for hours with make-believe lineups made from major-league teams.
And then there was this birthday thing. Instead of saying “Happy 17th, Warren,” my brother and friend would say to me, “Hey, you’re Mickey Rivers this year.” Instead of being 23, I was “Don Mattingly.” And instead of wishing one of them a happy 31st, I’d tell them they’d reached “Dave Winfield.” I guess when you’ve got so many uniform numbers floating around amid your baseball memories, you’d might as well find a use for them. So, during each birthday, we’d connect our years-old to the numbers worn by those pinstriped heroes we used to cheer for every summer night.
And during those years when there were no great Yankee uniform numbers attached to our new age, it was even more fun to try and remember lesser-known players who’d worn those digits. “You’re Bob Shirley,” one of us would say when we’d reached age 29, harkening back to the left-handed reliever of the mid-1980s. Or “Happy birthday, Kevin Maas” when we turned 24, referring to the slugging first baseman who started off his Yankee career like a superstar, then quickly became a much more pedestrian hitter.
I am pretty sure that the woman who would eventually marry me heard some of these conversations, and yet she chose to remain with me. You’d have to ask her why. I guess the important thing to tell you is that as I stand two days shy of 41 years of age, I do not partake in this nonsense anymore. I don’t sit around and think about the ballplayers who have worn the number my aging body will be donning throughout the year. That’s really kids’ stuff, to be honest.
Tom Seaver. Eddie Mathews. Sterling Hitchcock.
OK, so maybe I do think about it a little bit. Just for a minute. Then I move on to other, more mature stuff. Like writing a blog about baseball and life.
Number 41 is not a big Yankee number. There have been somewhat effective pitchers with the number, such as Hitchcock and some guys from my childhood, like Joe Cowley and Shane Rawley. But it’s not a number you’ll see on a pinstriped uniform for sale at Modell’s. Over in Queens, however, Number 41 means an awful lot. Even more than it does in Atlanta, where Eddie Mathews’ number 41 is retired. Mathews was a great player, but he played nearly all of his career in Milwaukee, before the Braves moved south. For the Mets, however, Number 41 represents the only player in team history ever to have his number retired.
They called him “Tom Terrific,” and Tom Seaver lived up to every bit of that nickname. In a 20-year career, Seaver won more than 300 games and became one of the best pitchers of his era. He spent 11 of those years with the Mets, and most New York fans will tell you that the Mets should never have let him go. As a Yankee fan, I always followed Seaver from a distance, except when he showed up as a Yankees broadcaster after his retirement. But when I’d go out on the field to pitch, I’d always hear coaches comparing my delivery to that of Seaver. I had the full windup, the “drop and drive” delivery that saw my right knee scraping the ground and my right foot pushing off the rubber, followed by the overhand delivery with the good follow-through. Just like Seaver.
Of course, that delivery was the only similarity you could find between my pitching style and that of Tom Seaver. Once the ball left my hands, you might compare me to, say, Charlie Brown. But for an average pitcher, I was apparently pretty to watch. A vague reminder of a classic.
So that brings us to age 41 – a little more vintage than I envisioned myself being back in my pitching days. But here I am, Tom Seaver in age. I’m not dropping and driving anymore. Just workin’ for a livin’, raising a couple of kids, and still in love with the cute redhead I met back when I was still pitching and making those corny birthday jokes.
It’s not the kind of thing they retire uniforms for, I guess. But I’ll take it. And as for the growing older bit, why worry? There’s lots to look forward to. After all, I’m only one year away from Mariano Rivera. Three away from Reggie Jackson. And five away from Andy Pettitte.
Plenty of numbers to throw around for a good long while. Baseball nerds unite. And blow out your candles.
Friday, November 25, 2011
They've Got the Whole World in Their Hands
The girls sat down at the bar and waited to order. When the bartender walked over, he looked at my 9- and 6-year-old daughters and asked if they were OK with blue. The girls nodded. He reached beneath the bar, then handed each of them a hunk of blue clay.
“What would you like to make?” he asked Katie.
“A bird,” she said.
“Very good choice,” he said.
“And you?” he asked Chelsea.
“A pencil,” she responded.
“Excellent,” the man said, then proceeded to show both girls the first steps to their creations.
They say you can find anything in New York, and I’m more convinced of that now than ever. I say that because my girls and I drove into the city two weeks ago and went to our first clay bar. That’s right – just beneath Houston Street, on a charming side street off the Hudson, you can take your kids to a bar where they sit and make things out of clay.
It’s part of the Children’s Museum of the Arts, which recently reopened on Charlton Street with loads of artistic opportunities for kids. Walk into this museum and you can paint to your heart’s content, create your own an advertising logo, learn stop-action animation, draw cubist art and use markers to tag your own graffiti. And, yes, you must sit down and try the clay bar. Joe, the bartender, will be happy to see you.
Joe creates the same thing you’re making, and he models each stage for you from his side of the bar. He showed Chelsea how to turn little slivers of gray clay into a facsimile of the ferrule that connects the pink eraser to the wooden pencil. He showed Katie how to make eyes and a beak, then handed her some fluffy pipe cleaners so she could add a few feathers to her bird. As the girls focused on each stage of their clay creations, Joe worked the bar, assisting other kids. A glance down the black marble bar top revealed a turtle, a mermaid, a motorcycle, and a shark complete with fish in mouth.
I’ve been reflecting on Joe and the clay bar this month and during this Thanksgiving weekend. It’s hard to know just what you can count on in this autumn of 2011. We’ve got a federal government that can’t function and a financial crisis that seems to know no end. We’ve got a college sex scandal rocking the country and college tuitions that are no longer affordable for many Americans. We’ve got wars and uprisings in Asia and Africa, and climate change-induced weather uprisings in our own backyard.
So with the world seeming to be out of our reach these days, it’s comforting to find something you can hold in your hands, and shape to your heart’s content. For some of us, it’s a dish we cooked for Thanksgiving. For others, it’s a card or e-mail we’ll be sending to a friend over the holidays. For still others, it’s the tree we’ll be trimming or the menorah we’ll be lighting during the next month.
For my girls earlier this month, it was the clay. They collaborated with Joe for a good hour, and came away with the best creations they’d ever sculpted. The bird and pencil now sit prominently in our living room – proud reminders of what can happen when we work together, experience wonder, and create beauty. Reminders of what it feels like to hold a piece of this crazy world in your hands. It’s still possible to do those things in this world today. Just hop up to the bar and find out for yourself.
“What would you like to make?” he asked Katie.
“A bird,” she said.
“Very good choice,” he said.
“And you?” he asked Chelsea.
“A pencil,” she responded.
“Excellent,” the man said, then proceeded to show both girls the first steps to their creations.
They say you can find anything in New York, and I’m more convinced of that now than ever. I say that because my girls and I drove into the city two weeks ago and went to our first clay bar. That’s right – just beneath Houston Street, on a charming side street off the Hudson, you can take your kids to a bar where they sit and make things out of clay.
It’s part of the Children’s Museum of the Arts, which recently reopened on Charlton Street with loads of artistic opportunities for kids. Walk into this museum and you can paint to your heart’s content, create your own an advertising logo, learn stop-action animation, draw cubist art and use markers to tag your own graffiti. And, yes, you must sit down and try the clay bar. Joe, the bartender, will be happy to see you.
Joe creates the same thing you’re making, and he models each stage for you from his side of the bar. He showed Chelsea how to turn little slivers of gray clay into a facsimile of the ferrule that connects the pink eraser to the wooden pencil. He showed Katie how to make eyes and a beak, then handed her some fluffy pipe cleaners so she could add a few feathers to her bird. As the girls focused on each stage of their clay creations, Joe worked the bar, assisting other kids. A glance down the black marble bar top revealed a turtle, a mermaid, a motorcycle, and a shark complete with fish in mouth.
I’ve been reflecting on Joe and the clay bar this month and during this Thanksgiving weekend. It’s hard to know just what you can count on in this autumn of 2011. We’ve got a federal government that can’t function and a financial crisis that seems to know no end. We’ve got a college sex scandal rocking the country and college tuitions that are no longer affordable for many Americans. We’ve got wars and uprisings in Asia and Africa, and climate change-induced weather uprisings in our own backyard.
So with the world seeming to be out of our reach these days, it’s comforting to find something you can hold in your hands, and shape to your heart’s content. For some of us, it’s a dish we cooked for Thanksgiving. For others, it’s a card or e-mail we’ll be sending to a friend over the holidays. For still others, it’s the tree we’ll be trimming or the menorah we’ll be lighting during the next month.
For my girls earlier this month, it was the clay. They collaborated with Joe for a good hour, and came away with the best creations they’d ever sculpted. The bird and pencil now sit prominently in our living room – proud reminders of what can happen when we work together, experience wonder, and create beauty. Reminders of what it feels like to hold a piece of this crazy world in your hands. It’s still possible to do those things in this world today. Just hop up to the bar and find out for yourself.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Thinking Different
A few weeks ago, my brother and I took my girls to see the Jim Henson exhibit now running at the Museum of the Moving Image in Queens. The wonderful exhibit chronicles Henson’s entire career, from commercials and Jimmy Dean talk-show appearances in the 1950s and ‘60s through the mega-success of Sesame Street, The Muppet Show, Fraggle Rock and the Muppet movies in the final two decades of Henson’s life.
I saw this exhibit with Eric and the girls in late September – before the passing of Steve Jobs, before the release of the latest Wilco CD, and before the St. Louis Cardinals’ stunning World Series victory. But as I reflect on these very different events from Autumn, 2011, they all remind me of that very rare individual – the one who can visualize and create something that is not there. Jim Henson, Steve Jobs, Jeff Tweedy and Tony La Russa fit that bill – and for different reasons.
Henson is so well-known for his creative genius that Jobs placed him and Kermit the Frog on one of Apple’s “Think Different” ads in the 1990s. Take a single image from any Muppet – say, Kermit playing the banjo at the start of The Muppet Movie – and you find yourself shaking your head at the sheer ingenuity. Since his death last month, Jobs has been eulogized by many as his generation’s Thomas Edison for his contributions to the technological revolution in which we currently reside. As Guggenheim perfected the printing press, Jobs perfected the smartphone. Jeff Tweedy has led Wilco to a place where pop music defies categorization, and that is meant as the highest compliment. Is this band, now well into its second decade, a pop band? Rock? Alternative? Country? Roots? The more you search for a clean label, the more elusive – and hypnotic – Wilco becomes. And as for Tony La Russa, anyone who is willing to buck the status quo in baseball deserves some kind of plaque in Cooperstown. La Russa’s willingness to think different in how to use pitchers and position players alike – and his ability to win a World Series with the likes of pedestrian players such as Nick Punto and John Jay in his starting lineup – is puppetry at its finest.
Tony La Russa retired yesterday – more than 2,700 wins were apparently enough for the man, and he’s ready for something else in life. With his jet-black hair and his bowl haircut, La Russa looks a bit Muppet-like. He and Jim Henson would probably have a lot to talk about. La Russa would surely compliment Henson on his adroit use of lesser-known puppets such as Bunsen and Beaker. Henson would likely fine-tune the Cardinals’ “rally squirrel” to give it a more human dimension. Jobs would probably recruit them both for an iPhone commercial, complete with Wilco soundtrack.
Yes, the geniuses are out there, and they’re still changing the world. It may seem as if we’re living amid a whole lot of ordinary sometimes. But in spite of the reality-show nonsense and movie-sequel mania, there are still innovative entertainers creating great art for us all. And despite the copy-cat technology in your nearest Best Buy, there are still inventors changing the way we live. Somewhere beyond all those American Idol songs, there are also still musicians crafting truly new sounds. And way out beyond the SportsCenter highlights, there are women and men thinking about sport in ways that no one has dared to think before.
The exhibit in Queens is titled “Jim Henson’s Fantastic World.” As we scan the headlines and the cable channels, this world doesn’t seem all that fantastic sometimes. But if we look within, open our minds and think different, it can seem damn near amazing. Great enough to make a frog sing. Or a Cardinal cheer.
I saw this exhibit with Eric and the girls in late September – before the passing of Steve Jobs, before the release of the latest Wilco CD, and before the St. Louis Cardinals’ stunning World Series victory. But as I reflect on these very different events from Autumn, 2011, they all remind me of that very rare individual – the one who can visualize and create something that is not there. Jim Henson, Steve Jobs, Jeff Tweedy and Tony La Russa fit that bill – and for different reasons.
Henson is so well-known for his creative genius that Jobs placed him and Kermit the Frog on one of Apple’s “Think Different” ads in the 1990s. Take a single image from any Muppet – say, Kermit playing the banjo at the start of The Muppet Movie – and you find yourself shaking your head at the sheer ingenuity. Since his death last month, Jobs has been eulogized by many as his generation’s Thomas Edison for his contributions to the technological revolution in which we currently reside. As Guggenheim perfected the printing press, Jobs perfected the smartphone. Jeff Tweedy has led Wilco to a place where pop music defies categorization, and that is meant as the highest compliment. Is this band, now well into its second decade, a pop band? Rock? Alternative? Country? Roots? The more you search for a clean label, the more elusive – and hypnotic – Wilco becomes. And as for Tony La Russa, anyone who is willing to buck the status quo in baseball deserves some kind of plaque in Cooperstown. La Russa’s willingness to think different in how to use pitchers and position players alike – and his ability to win a World Series with the likes of pedestrian players such as Nick Punto and John Jay in his starting lineup – is puppetry at its finest.
Tony La Russa retired yesterday – more than 2,700 wins were apparently enough for the man, and he’s ready for something else in life. With his jet-black hair and his bowl haircut, La Russa looks a bit Muppet-like. He and Jim Henson would probably have a lot to talk about. La Russa would surely compliment Henson on his adroit use of lesser-known puppets such as Bunsen and Beaker. Henson would likely fine-tune the Cardinals’ “rally squirrel” to give it a more human dimension. Jobs would probably recruit them both for an iPhone commercial, complete with Wilco soundtrack.
Yes, the geniuses are out there, and they’re still changing the world. It may seem as if we’re living amid a whole lot of ordinary sometimes. But in spite of the reality-show nonsense and movie-sequel mania, there are still innovative entertainers creating great art for us all. And despite the copy-cat technology in your nearest Best Buy, there are still inventors changing the way we live. Somewhere beyond all those American Idol songs, there are also still musicians crafting truly new sounds. And way out beyond the SportsCenter highlights, there are women and men thinking about sport in ways that no one has dared to think before.
The exhibit in Queens is titled “Jim Henson’s Fantastic World.” As we scan the headlines and the cable channels, this world doesn’t seem all that fantastic sometimes. But if we look within, open our minds and think different, it can seem damn near amazing. Great enough to make a frog sing. Or a Cardinal cheer.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
The Coconut Man
Time can speed up on you when the game starts getting beyond your reach. There’s just too much going on, and suddenly you’re feeling as if you’ve lost yourself. You’re a starting pitcher watching the runs cross home plate, like Zack Greinke of the Milwaukee Brewers was last night. You try and breathe deep and slow it all down.
But it’s hard to do. And I’m not just talking about baseball.
Life in the 21st century often seems like it’s playing out in fast-forward mode. We’re in the car, on the phone, online, answering a text, updating our status, and clicking. Forever clicking. Before we know it, the day is gone. And our to-do list and inbox have grown larger.
Two weeks ago, my wife and I had the rare opportunity to leave those clicks behind and let time slow down for a few days. To celebrate my 40th birthday earlier this year and Amy’s 40th next year, we flew to the Bahamas over a long weekend. Our trip was planned with one goal in mind: to relax.
So, over the course of three days on Cable Beach, we read books and held hands in front of the glistening Caribbean. We swam in the water, pointing out fish and picking up shells for our girls. We walked. We lay in a hammock. We ate big breakfasts. We hugged a dolphin. We slept. And, most importantly, we talked – lots. All those things that the typical day doesn’t give us time to say, we said. We also listened to each other, and this led to a lot more nodding and smiling than those fast-forward days often allow.
Two weeks later, we are very much back in New Jersey, where life has returned to normal. The question, of course, is how to go about it all in a way that makes time feel like it’s moving at a slower pace. How can we stay in the game and keep it within our grasp? How can we put life back in “play” mode?
Maybe the Coconut Man can help.
He was strutting along Cable Beach, selling Pina Caladas, Bahama Mamas and Bahama Papas. He smiled to everyone as he walked up and down the white sand with a coconut in hand. “Day-Day-Day-Day!” he shouted, as he bopped along, asking each vacationer if they were up for a drink. I was engrossed in a magazine article when he walked past me, but as I peaked up from the newsprint, he and I locked eyes. “My man, I know you’re reading, and I’m not going to bother you right now. But when you’re ready for some coconut, you just give a call.” We both nodded and parted ways with a fist-bump.
Another tourist approached the Coconut Man for help in getting some beach chairs. Instead of saying this wasn’t his job, the merchant called out to a hotel employee who took care of it. As yet another tourist bought some Bahama Papas, she gave the Coconut Man change that he couldn’t break with the money he had on him. So he explained this, went into the hotel, and got the right change. All the while, he never stopped smiling.
To walk through life with that kind of zest, that kind of awareness of all that the day-day-day-day has to offer, is something to see. Now granted, the Coconut Man is living in a pretty relaxing place to begin with. But selling drinks for a living on the beach is not as calming an experience as being a tourist on the beach. Yet, the Coconut Man seemed to spend his days seeking out all the sunshine, seashells and sand that a day can bring.
How can we keep the game from speeding up? Perhaps the solution lies in being ready for those seashells and coconuts, whenever and however they surface. And, to take it one step further, we can also seek out those shells, rather than assuming an ordinary day lacks the potential for beauty. It’s not easy, especially when runners are on base and the home crowd is roaring in our ears. It’s hard to hear the water lapping at the sand when the daily buzz is humming. But it is there, if we look – and listen – hard enough.
I don’t know if we’ll ever get back to the Bahamas, or encounter the Coconut Man. But I’ll see other people who carry his zest, and find the hidden “Carpe diem” inside their coconuts. Maybe, on my best days, I’ll even be one of those people. Now that’s something for the to-do list.
But it’s hard to do. And I’m not just talking about baseball.
Life in the 21st century often seems like it’s playing out in fast-forward mode. We’re in the car, on the phone, online, answering a text, updating our status, and clicking. Forever clicking. Before we know it, the day is gone. And our to-do list and inbox have grown larger.
Two weeks ago, my wife and I had the rare opportunity to leave those clicks behind and let time slow down for a few days. To celebrate my 40th birthday earlier this year and Amy’s 40th next year, we flew to the Bahamas over a long weekend. Our trip was planned with one goal in mind: to relax.
So, over the course of three days on Cable Beach, we read books and held hands in front of the glistening Caribbean. We swam in the water, pointing out fish and picking up shells for our girls. We walked. We lay in a hammock. We ate big breakfasts. We hugged a dolphin. We slept. And, most importantly, we talked – lots. All those things that the typical day doesn’t give us time to say, we said. We also listened to each other, and this led to a lot more nodding and smiling than those fast-forward days often allow.
Two weeks later, we are very much back in New Jersey, where life has returned to normal. The question, of course, is how to go about it all in a way that makes time feel like it’s moving at a slower pace. How can we stay in the game and keep it within our grasp? How can we put life back in “play” mode?
Maybe the Coconut Man can help.
He was strutting along Cable Beach, selling Pina Caladas, Bahama Mamas and Bahama Papas. He smiled to everyone as he walked up and down the white sand with a coconut in hand. “Day-Day-Day-Day!” he shouted, as he bopped along, asking each vacationer if they were up for a drink. I was engrossed in a magazine article when he walked past me, but as I peaked up from the newsprint, he and I locked eyes. “My man, I know you’re reading, and I’m not going to bother you right now. But when you’re ready for some coconut, you just give a call.” We both nodded and parted ways with a fist-bump.
Another tourist approached the Coconut Man for help in getting some beach chairs. Instead of saying this wasn’t his job, the merchant called out to a hotel employee who took care of it. As yet another tourist bought some Bahama Papas, she gave the Coconut Man change that he couldn’t break with the money he had on him. So he explained this, went into the hotel, and got the right change. All the while, he never stopped smiling.
To walk through life with that kind of zest, that kind of awareness of all that the day-day-day-day has to offer, is something to see. Now granted, the Coconut Man is living in a pretty relaxing place to begin with. But selling drinks for a living on the beach is not as calming an experience as being a tourist on the beach. Yet, the Coconut Man seemed to spend his days seeking out all the sunshine, seashells and sand that a day can bring.
How can we keep the game from speeding up? Perhaps the solution lies in being ready for those seashells and coconuts, whenever and however they surface. And, to take it one step further, we can also seek out those shells, rather than assuming an ordinary day lacks the potential for beauty. It’s not easy, especially when runners are on base and the home crowd is roaring in our ears. It’s hard to hear the water lapping at the sand when the daily buzz is humming. But it is there, if we look – and listen – hard enough.
I don’t know if we’ll ever get back to the Bahamas, or encounter the Coconut Man. But I’ll see other people who carry his zest, and find the hidden “Carpe diem” inside their coconuts. Maybe, on my best days, I’ll even be one of those people. Now that’s something for the to-do list.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The End of Summer
As my girls and I were walking our dog the other day, I spotted a lone firefly blinking his way through the dusk. He was floating around the rear bumper of an old Buick, perhaps looking for his friends. I watched his self-illumination with longing, and wished him well as the dog pulled me away.
I guess that firefly didn’t get the memo. Either that, or he was granted one of life’s greatest gifts – an eternal summer. Ah, perchance to dream.
For those of us not living in San Diego or Miami, summer does come to an end every year. We try to ignore it, but those fireflies depart so that fallen leaves and carved pumpkins can take center stage. Baseball’s regular season gives way to baseball’s playoffs, which yield to pro football. It’s a different season, with different rhythms.
Most of us who work as educators in the Northeast have started school this week. The first week of school always feels like you’re going from zero to 75 miles per hour in about 10 seconds flat. Even if we’ve spent days preparing our rooms and curricula, there are just so many new variables that can only arise when those students first walk in the door. They’re here now, and the marathon has started – as it always does – with a sprint. But we will manage our new challenges as they arise, and make sure we’re nurturing our new students in all the right ways. It’s what we do.
And as we do so, we’ll glance over our shoulders and notice summer cruising away. Maybe it’s attached to that Buick, with the firefly serving as escort. Most likely, though, it’s somewhere we simply can’t be right now – like down in the Caribbean, or out in the desert. Last weekend, my wife and I took the girls to the USS Intrepid museum on the West Side of Manhattan. It was fascinating to be on an aircraft carrier and inside a submarine, and the girls enjoyed it quite a bit. But every time we stood on the port side of the ship, we all found our eyes drifting to the giant cruise ship docked just north of the Intrepid. This Carnival ship was boarding for a late-afternoon departure. Some passengers sat in the boat’s restaurant, visible through tinted windows. Others walked around the place, checking out their home for the week. Still others sat on their balconies, staring at us.
It was just too much to take – these lucky souls, boarding their ship for a summer extension. Finally, we turned away, and began walking southbound along Hudson River Park. We stopped to watch some tiny waves lap up against rocks and soda bottles near the Circle Line dock. We watched bicyclists and in-line skaters zoom past us. The girls got to pet a horse from the police department’s mounted squad. And then, as we neared the end of our sun-drenched, late-summer walk, I overheard two women talking as they strolled by us.
“I love the Dairy Queen near me,” one woman said, “because it only accepts cash. That way, I can’t stop there unless I have the money on me.”
The other woman nodded, about to say something. And then they were gone. I had no interest in eavesdropping, so I kept walking. But I took some small consolation in the fact that this conversation was every bit about summer. I could taste that Blizzard – soft-serve vanilla with bananas, please – as we made our way back to Penn Station.
Summer is a collection of strikingly vivid details, photographed with slow exposure. We savor these details, filled as they are with wonder, serenity and – cue the ice cream – even temptation. But this season always manages to leave us. And, like any great romance, the longing makes us love it all the more when it comes back.
I guess that firefly didn’t get the memo. Either that, or he was granted one of life’s greatest gifts – an eternal summer. Ah, perchance to dream.
For those of us not living in San Diego or Miami, summer does come to an end every year. We try to ignore it, but those fireflies depart so that fallen leaves and carved pumpkins can take center stage. Baseball’s regular season gives way to baseball’s playoffs, which yield to pro football. It’s a different season, with different rhythms.
Most of us who work as educators in the Northeast have started school this week. The first week of school always feels like you’re going from zero to 75 miles per hour in about 10 seconds flat. Even if we’ve spent days preparing our rooms and curricula, there are just so many new variables that can only arise when those students first walk in the door. They’re here now, and the marathon has started – as it always does – with a sprint. But we will manage our new challenges as they arise, and make sure we’re nurturing our new students in all the right ways. It’s what we do.
And as we do so, we’ll glance over our shoulders and notice summer cruising away. Maybe it’s attached to that Buick, with the firefly serving as escort. Most likely, though, it’s somewhere we simply can’t be right now – like down in the Caribbean, or out in the desert. Last weekend, my wife and I took the girls to the USS Intrepid museum on the West Side of Manhattan. It was fascinating to be on an aircraft carrier and inside a submarine, and the girls enjoyed it quite a bit. But every time we stood on the port side of the ship, we all found our eyes drifting to the giant cruise ship docked just north of the Intrepid. This Carnival ship was boarding for a late-afternoon departure. Some passengers sat in the boat’s restaurant, visible through tinted windows. Others walked around the place, checking out their home for the week. Still others sat on their balconies, staring at us.
It was just too much to take – these lucky souls, boarding their ship for a summer extension. Finally, we turned away, and began walking southbound along Hudson River Park. We stopped to watch some tiny waves lap up against rocks and soda bottles near the Circle Line dock. We watched bicyclists and in-line skaters zoom past us. The girls got to pet a horse from the police department’s mounted squad. And then, as we neared the end of our sun-drenched, late-summer walk, I overheard two women talking as they strolled by us.
“I love the Dairy Queen near me,” one woman said, “because it only accepts cash. That way, I can’t stop there unless I have the money on me.”
The other woman nodded, about to say something. And then they were gone. I had no interest in eavesdropping, so I kept walking. But I took some small consolation in the fact that this conversation was every bit about summer. I could taste that Blizzard – soft-serve vanilla with bananas, please – as we made our way back to Penn Station.
Summer is a collection of strikingly vivid details, photographed with slow exposure. We savor these details, filled as they are with wonder, serenity and – cue the ice cream – even temptation. But this season always manages to leave us. And, like any great romance, the longing makes us love it all the more when it comes back.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
A Waterlogged American Dream
So much for the American Dream. The two-story Colonial, the wraparound porch, the white picket fence, the backyard garden. Who needs a mortgage when you’ve got hurricanes with which to contend? Here in the Northeast this week, homeowners are dreaming more of an end to the flooding, the sewage backups, the dampness and the fallen trees. They’re dreaming of having their power back. They’re dressing like fly fishermen just to walk out in their streets.
In our home, Amy and I were lucky. We pulled our first all-nighter in some time Saturday as we worked to save our basement. After about 10 hours, 50 towels, dozens of buckets of water and hundreds of broom sweeps, we kept the water from destroying our finished basement.
But we were lucky. We had the chance to fight off the water. For those in nearby New Jersey towns such as Cranford, Paterson and Manville, there was simply no way to stop the rush of water that Hurricane Irene brought with her. For these families, there will be a long road back to normalcy. It is the same all along the East Coast, from Vermont to North Carolina. For some families, there are also individuals to bury in the days after this vicious storm. Talk about a week.
In most of New Jersey, the streets are now passable, although nearly every curb is filled with giant tree branches. For those still without power, the hum of generators can be heard, and extension cords stretch across the street as neighbor helps neighbor. What looks like a midweek yard sale is actually a family’s basement belongings, drying out on the lawn. Most traffic lights are working again, and war stories can be overheard in workplaces, libraries, stores and parks.
It’s been a tough five years for U.S. homeowners. For nearly a decade, Americans were able to make hefty profits from their homes as real-estate prices soared and lenders doled out cash by the bundle. But since the mortgage bubble burst, the American Dream has given way to a bevy of foreclosures, a huge dip in most families’ equity, and a realization that your starter home will likely be your finishing home as well. On top of all that, many regions of America have suffered from severe natural disasters, from New Orleans to Missouri to Alabama to Arizona to the entire Northeast.
So that brings us back to my initial point – what’s to make of the American dream? Should we be working so hard to buy our own homes anymore? Is it all really worth it? I’m 40 years old, and I’ve spent far more time this week thinking about French drains than French kissing. Is that really the sign of an improved quality of life?
Homes are a lot like kids, it seems – they’re a ton of work and money, they make you nervous, they require constant attention and tender-loving care, and – often when you least expect it – they make it all worthwhile. On Sunday night, as our endless day came to a close, a pink sunset decorated the western sky. I stood beneath that setting sun with my daughters, and they wore baseball gloves on their hands. As the swift breeze of Irene’s tail filled our lungs, we tossed a neon yellow softball back and forth. We had this peaceful catch in our own backyard, where we could laugh and talk and throw to our heart’s content. Katie pumped me some fastballs, then hopped inside. Chelsea stayed out awhile longer, and she kept catching and throwing and chatting away. I listened, and caught her tosses.
It seemed like my 6-year-old could play catch all night. On this particular evening, her dad definitely could not do the same. As we finished our catch and walked inside, I heard the crickets starting their song in the gathering darkness. Inside, I heard the running water of two girls brushing their teeth. I walked upstairs to sing my daughters to dreamland in their bunk bed, and, after a few songs, I heard the soft breath of sleep.
In the end, it can be a house, a condo, an apartment, or a FEMA trailer. It’s not the home that makes up the American Dream. It’s the living that goes on inside and outside it. I’ll hold onto my house, all right. (I might even add one of those fancy French drains.) Because in the end, the fury of a hurricane can’t hold a candle to the love of a family. It’s not the American Dream that matters most; it’s the American spirit.
In our home, Amy and I were lucky. We pulled our first all-nighter in some time Saturday as we worked to save our basement. After about 10 hours, 50 towels, dozens of buckets of water and hundreds of broom sweeps, we kept the water from destroying our finished basement.
But we were lucky. We had the chance to fight off the water. For those in nearby New Jersey towns such as Cranford, Paterson and Manville, there was simply no way to stop the rush of water that Hurricane Irene brought with her. For these families, there will be a long road back to normalcy. It is the same all along the East Coast, from Vermont to North Carolina. For some families, there are also individuals to bury in the days after this vicious storm. Talk about a week.
In most of New Jersey, the streets are now passable, although nearly every curb is filled with giant tree branches. For those still without power, the hum of generators can be heard, and extension cords stretch across the street as neighbor helps neighbor. What looks like a midweek yard sale is actually a family’s basement belongings, drying out on the lawn. Most traffic lights are working again, and war stories can be overheard in workplaces, libraries, stores and parks.
It’s been a tough five years for U.S. homeowners. For nearly a decade, Americans were able to make hefty profits from their homes as real-estate prices soared and lenders doled out cash by the bundle. But since the mortgage bubble burst, the American Dream has given way to a bevy of foreclosures, a huge dip in most families’ equity, and a realization that your starter home will likely be your finishing home as well. On top of all that, many regions of America have suffered from severe natural disasters, from New Orleans to Missouri to Alabama to Arizona to the entire Northeast.
So that brings us back to my initial point – what’s to make of the American dream? Should we be working so hard to buy our own homes anymore? Is it all really worth it? I’m 40 years old, and I’ve spent far more time this week thinking about French drains than French kissing. Is that really the sign of an improved quality of life?
Homes are a lot like kids, it seems – they’re a ton of work and money, they make you nervous, they require constant attention and tender-loving care, and – often when you least expect it – they make it all worthwhile. On Sunday night, as our endless day came to a close, a pink sunset decorated the western sky. I stood beneath that setting sun with my daughters, and they wore baseball gloves on their hands. As the swift breeze of Irene’s tail filled our lungs, we tossed a neon yellow softball back and forth. We had this peaceful catch in our own backyard, where we could laugh and talk and throw to our heart’s content. Katie pumped me some fastballs, then hopped inside. Chelsea stayed out awhile longer, and she kept catching and throwing and chatting away. I listened, and caught her tosses.
It seemed like my 6-year-old could play catch all night. On this particular evening, her dad definitely could not do the same. As we finished our catch and walked inside, I heard the crickets starting their song in the gathering darkness. Inside, I heard the running water of two girls brushing their teeth. I walked upstairs to sing my daughters to dreamland in their bunk bed, and, after a few songs, I heard the soft breath of sleep.
In the end, it can be a house, a condo, an apartment, or a FEMA trailer. It’s not the home that makes up the American Dream. It’s the living that goes on inside and outside it. I’ll hold onto my house, all right. (I might even add one of those fancy French drains.) Because in the end, the fury of a hurricane can’t hold a candle to the love of a family. It’s not the American Dream that matters most; it’s the American spirit.
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