A Bagful of Memories

With most of the school supply shopping out of the way, Luca sat next to me at the computer as we searched for something to carry all those supplies. We reminisced about the pink Nike backpack I bought her for Kindergarten. In the subsequent years, the kids have carried their homework to school in bags I collected by attending various technical trade shows.

Luca has outgrown the color pink. That’s what happens when one has a little tomboy in them and leaves Kindergarten and Dora the Explorer behind.

Our chat lead to Luca asking me about what I used to carry to school. I went to garage and pulled out a number of bags I’ve used over the years. Here are three of my favorites:

The black bag in front is the one I currently carry to work each day and have owned for three years. It has the most features, is the best-made, and most conservative bag I’ve carried. It’s also expensive by my standards. But the last bag of similar quality lasted me for 10 years so I feel like it’s a good investment. It has several compartments, my favorite of which holds my sunglasses case. The handles and shoulder strap are covered in high quality leather and the fabric is made of ballistic nylon which means it’s nearly impossible to rip or scratch. It’s made by Tumi and I expect it will last for many years.

The green and beige messenger bag is made by Timbuk2 which is a little San Francisco shop that’s famous for making some of the best bike messenger bags you can buy. I bought this bag in 2000 when I worked in downtown Seattle and rode a Xootr kick scooter around the city. I needed a bag that fit over my shoulder that I could fasten to my waist. And since this is Seattle, it had to be waterproof. My favorite features of the bag are the two Velcro fasteners (not seen in picture) that secure the large flap without having to secure the straps. The bag is very well-made but not ideal for carrying around anything heavier than a book or two and and iPod. I paid about $65 for the bag and it still looks brand new after ten years.

The last bag is my leather messenger bag I purchased in Germany in 1987. It has the fewest features of any bag I’ve owned. It also requires a lot of maintenance. Over the years, I’ve rubbed many containers of mink oil into the thick leather which keeps it soft and waterproof. I’ve had to take it to a number of shoe repair shops to have a seam or two stitched up. When I carried it around the University of Utah campus, my friends called it the ‘man-purse’.

My kids were not sure what to make of it when I showed them how I wore it around my neck and over one shoulder. I told them how I carried this bag from door to door as a missionary. It was just large enough to hold four Books of Mormon, my wallet and Geistliche Ausweis (license to preach).

This bag is one of my most priceless possessions. I had it with me during some of the darkest times of my life, but also during some of the most joyful. It’s full of personality. Like the large scratch across the back that came when I removed it just in time to swing and stun a dog that had been chasing me down the block. I carried letters from my parents and grandparents in the front pocket. It wasn’t uncommon for me to read those letters while taking the train from one city to the next, and they provided a much needed boost when I needed it.

I was surprised to see my kids demeanor change. They were no longer making fun of this strange looking and well-worn leather bag. I retrieved a rag and mink oil from my drawer and began rubbing the oil into the bag just as I did 23 years ago.

I remember wanting it for my birthday, but having to wait a few weeks later for Christmas when my parents and grandfather would send extra money. I got to know the local shop owner well because I checked often to make sure the bag was still in stock while I saved for it. On the day the check from my father arrived, I rushed to the bank to exchange it into German Marks, but the dollar had weakened due to Black Monday. I went by the shop to ask the owner if he’d hold the bag for a few more weeks. I believe I had about 100 Marks and the bag was priced at 140 or about $80.

At the time, I carried a backpack I’d used during my first year of college. It was in decent shape, but I wanted something I could fling over my shoulder. I found wearing a backpack over a suit jacket was an awkward mix. I also wanted to integrate myself into the German culture a little more, and wearing a bright blue American-made nylon backpack wasn’t helping with that.

The shop owner began asking me questions. My German was poor and my companion had to translate most of our conversation. I explained that I was sent to Germany to teach about Christ, and find opportunities to give service. He took the bag off the shelf and handed it to me. I began to explain that I would give him 50 Marks to hold the bag until I was able to come up with the remainder. He took the 50 Marks and said something to my companion. As we walked out of the store, he explained the store owner had sold the bag to me at his cost.

Letter From Home

At first all I could see were arms waving. As I got closer I recognized the police uniform. The first thought that rushed through my mind was, “I wonder how fast I was going?”

I couldn’t tell if I was supposed to pull over, so I slowed down until he began pointing towards a side street. I didn’t have time to flip on my right blinker, but I made a slow right turn, drove 20 yard before pulling over to the right side of the street.

But where was the other officer? Don’t they work in pairs? I checked my rearview mirror assuming the officer who motioned for me to turn would be coming up from behind me. But he wasn’t. Soon other cars were passing me on the left and proceeding down the street.

No ticket. Just a detour. One that would turn my 60 minute commute home into twice that. And this was the only thing that turned in my favor this week.

As much as I enjoy playing basketball and racquetball, my body pays the price for the rest of the week. I feel great during the games, but I find it difficult to sleep through the aches on pains. The injuries would hardly be worth mentioning if I were in my 20’s. But seemingly insignificant muscle strains have a way of lingering once I hit 40.

Ever felt your life was out of sync? That’s how I’ve felt this week, and the injuries to my hand and foot seem to flair up when I’m trying to fall asleep. During these times I tend to seek out my headphones and music to take my mind off my ailments.

But tonight Kim was playing the piano and the kids had gathered around to listen. Luca asked me to rub her feet which I do while she reads a book. It’s not long before Lincoln and Anna join us in various positions on our small, uncomfortable couch. Lincoln proudly tells us he’s memorized our home telephone number, and proceeds to recite five numbers that appear to be chosen at random.

We listen to Kim practice a few more song until she pulls out a song I’ve not heard her play for many months: Pat Metheny’s Letter From Home. It’s a mixture of melancholy and beauty and could not be a more appropriate song for how I feel. The song is short yet each note is played with reverence.

I’ve had friends lift my spirit before. And certainly our children have provided laugher or just the perfect amount of goofiness to lighten the mood.

Tonight Kim did it with music.

Aging Gracelessly

For the past year, I’ve been playing basketball on Tuesday nights and racquetball on Wednesday. Occasionally I’ll play basketball on Friday mornings, but not consistently. Two days of strenuous exercise is about all my body can take right now. If I lost some more weight, maybe I could sneak in another day or two which is my plan. But that’s a few months off.

It’s easy to come up with excuses for why I shouldn’t play basketball. I have a weak ankle that I’ve rolled half a dozen times. My big toe is in constant pain for two days after I play. And last year I sustained a back injury that didn’t subside until I gave up all athletics for two months. I’ve broken bones and ripped off my knee cap playing soccer in the rain when I slid over a sprinkler. Yet those felt like a paper cut compared to the back pain.

I wish I could say I always feel better after I play. I supposed I feel better knowing that I got in some high intensity exercise. But my body creaks and aches until Tuesday rolls around again and the court calls my name. I just can’t turn down a game of basketball no matter how hard I try. I love the game although I’m a very average player for how much I’ve played.

When I was in college, I would jog downtown to the Deseret Gym from the University of Utah. It was only a couple of miles, but then I’d play basketball for two to three hours. Four to six days a weeks. I can’t fathom doing that today.

Sports can be deceptive. My mind tells me that I should be able to drive the full length of the court and weave my way into the lane and knock down a jumper. I can picture myself doing that because I was able to it for so many years. Now, I’ll defer to a younger player to bring the ball up the court while I search for an open spot behind the three point line. I’m the Rasheed Wallace of the community gym. I’m the guy that doesn’t look like he could throw the ball in the ocean. But I can knock down a three if left unguarded. More than once I’ve heard opposing players say, “No way is that old guy going to beat us”.

This got me thinking that maybe my mind is not aging at the same rate as my body. My mind can recall the days of playing day after day along with the moves and shots I took for so many years. I wish my mind would sync up with my body in that sense.

Two weeks ago I decided to take up a less demanding sport in golf which I’ve not played in years. I woke up early to hit a bucket of balls at the driving range in preparation for the round my friend scheduled two days later. Given how long it’s been since I played, I was thrilled with how well I hit the ball. I felt like I was turning back the clock, and that maybe, I’d found a sport that I could perform as well at 42 as I did at 24.

Until I woke up the next morning with acute pain in my thumb from holding the club incorrectly.

I wonder if I should buy myself a jumpsuit and a pair of Mephistos and take up mall walking.

Despite Our Differences

Relationships are tricky. Especially when they involve parents.

Until I headed off to college, I had a closer relationship with my mother than my father. Although my father coached me during the four years I attended high school, we didn’t talk about much outside of sports. My father got to know me, the student-athlete. But I’m not sure he knew me off the court.

When I needed a sounding board, I went to my mother. I can’t imagine how many nights I came home late from a date, and my mom was there to greet me. If she wasn’t too tired, I’d coax her into letting me cut an orange into smaller pieces and sprinkle powdered sugar over it. We’d sit across the table from each other and chat. We didn’t stop until my father awoke from the laughter and sent us to bed.

I’m not exactly sure when the relationship changed.

Years would pass. I served a mission in Germany. Returned to get married and finish college. Eventually I took a job in Seattle and became the only sibling to move further than an hour away from my parents.

Seattle is different than Ogden, Utah. I felt like I could be myself. I no longer felt the pressure to act or speak a certain way. I even got my ear pierced. Of course it was the first thing my father noticed the next time we got together in Salt Lake City. But he respected my decisions even if he didn’t agree with them.

Yet, there’s a part of me that feels my mother isn’t quite sure what to make of my life. And that’s why I’m writing this as I attempt to make sense of the two relationships that are closest to me outside of my spouse and children.

My desire to come to terms with my feelings has taken a turn into complex and murky waters because my mother suffered a stroke about two months ago.

And now I stand on the outside looking in and wondering if I missed my opportunity to once again connect with my mother. What I’ve learned about strokes leaves me feeling part discouraged, part hopeful. Nobody really knows how the brain will respond and what percentage of normal she’ll return to. There are no quick fixes.

Despite our differences, I will appreciate whatever percentage of her returns. She’s able to move around with a cane and her speech is slowly returning.

And just maybe I don’t need to examine our relationship to they extent of putting a stamp of approval on it that we’d both agree on. I wouldn’t change my mother and I don’t believe she’d change me.

I guess what I want is the chance to spend one more evening sitting across the table from her, chatting until my father puts a stop to it.

The Last Stake

Kai followed me on his hands and knees as I drove stakes into the ground. Our tent was setup, and I was driving the last few stakes to hold the rainfly in place.

I figured Kai would realize I didn’t need his help before running off to the play area to meet up with his brother and sisters. But he stayed at my side watching my every move.

I handed him a bag containing the last few stakes. He’d smile and pull one out when asked. This went on until we’d made our way to the tent’s entrance and the final loop without a stake.

This time I handed Kai the hammer. He spent the next five minutes slowly tapping the stake into the ground. He used both hands and took a break every third swing or so. I considered lending a hand, but decided to watch instead. This feisty little 2-year old with floppy blonde hair. Makes me wonder if I provided the same mix of joy and frustration to my parents when I was his age.

When he could not longer see the head of the stake, he handed the hammer to me and said, “All done, dad”.

As I drove home alone this evening, I thought about the many interactions I’ve had with my kids over the past ten days I’ve had off work. We spent one afternoon picking blueberries and another at the children’s museum in Seattle. We went Rollerblading together and spent a couple of hours at an arcade playing pinball and Skee Ball.

But the small experiences like I had with Kai weave together to form the best parts of fatherhood. I wish I had another 10 day off work to spend with them.

Long Distance Greeting

Visiting an Old Navy store makes me feel old. I can’t relate with any of the fashions that include “painter” pants that intentionally slide off my butt or t-shirts that look as though they’ve already been washed 400 times.

I don’t understand the colors either. It’s as if every piece of clothing is working overtime to make me look like a UPS driver. How many shades of brown are there? I don’t know but Old Navy continues to drum up new ones each year just to “keep it fresh”.

I’m not here to talk about Old Navy fashions. I’m at that age where I’ll never understand what teens are wearing which means I can’t be far from chasing them off my lawn. But today we decided to knock out some school clothes shopping at Overlake Mall.

I entered the Old Navy pushing an empty stroller with Kai trailing. Without notice, I heard a woman’s voice boom, “WELCOME TO OLD NAVY!!” as if she was coming from a megaphone. I looked around wondering where that came from until I noticed a women standing at least 30 yards away, folding clothes at the register.

This is where things got awkward.

The employee with an amazing set of pipes waved in my general direction, and I wasn’t sure what the proper response should be. I wasn’t sure if I should cup my hands and scream back or act like I’m deaf. She was standing so far away I began to wonder if the greeting originated somewhere else. Did I trip an auto-greeting like those found at the McDonald’s drive-thru that attempt to push new menu items? “Would you like to try a 20 piece McNugget meal and one of our new strawberry banana smoothies? Order when you’re ready”.

I didn’t want to scare my kids or damage their hearing so I went with the friendly wave into space. I performed one of those waves you see at Miss American pageants that’s directed at everybody yet nobody.

I’ll bet Old Navy has a policy where each person who enters the store must be greeted no matter where the employee is positioned. I’ve experienced this at Supercuts. I’ll be in the chair getting my hair cut, and a customer will come through the door just in time for my stylist to greet them from across the store. “Welcome to Supercuts! We’ll be with you shortly!”

I wasn’t planning on sharing my haircut with a stranger, thank you.

Can we put an end to this type of phony greeting? I understand it’s polite to welcome each customer to your store. It’s courteous and lets them know you’re there if they need anything. But I can’t imagine a Nordstrom employee yelling at me from across the room. Imagine entering a Ben Bridge Jewelers only to be greeted by a guy helping newlyweds select rings. I can wait till you’re finished. I really can. Please help the cute couple as I’m just here to replace my $15 fake alligator watch band.

If you’re a store owner, don’t demand that every customer must be greeted the second they enter the store. Instead of yelling from 30 yards out, what if the Old Navy employee had finished folding her stack of sweaters before walking over to greet me?

I’m sure the Party Cardis can wait.

“The Modern Workplace is Optimized for Interruptions”

I found myself nodding in agreement with every one of Jason’s observations about today’s workplace. When I must finish writing a review or need an hour or two to concentrate without any interruptions, I have to remove myself from the office. Most of the actual work I do is done at the cafeteria or at home because I can put on headphones and block out the world.

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An Afternoon On The Rock

While Kim recuperated from a minor concussion, I took the kids to Snoqualmie Falls. The kids were interested in the waterfall for maybe four seconds before heading towards an open patch of grass.

“Will you make up a game for us?” asked Luca.

My creative instincts rose to the challenge, and we played a game of tag that consisted of Kai running after us with a half-eaten sucker. When the ~~kids~~ dad was too tired to play any longer, we gravitated to a large rock just off the path. A few of them remembered this rock because we’ve rested in this very spot in years past.

The kids had all sorts of questions about the rock. How are rocks made? How did this one grow to be so big? How did someone move it to this exact spot for kids to sit on?

As we chatted Luca caught me off-guard with this question: “What would you do if you were a millionaire?”

I paused and thought for a moment about the cities around the world I’d take the kids to see. Maybe hire a nanny or at least someone to fold the laundry. I’d buy Kim an iPad and one of those robots that vacuums the kitchen floor. No, I’d buy her five new bookshelves. She’s been begging me about those for years.

Those were my thoughts as we sat on a rock in the middle of a forest. The skies were overcast and the temperature ideal for this afternoon. We watched squirrels run up and down the tree trunks. The entire setting is dominated with lush green tones.

As we were about to leave, I watched an elderly man grasp the arm of what looked to be his granddaughter before slowing making their way up the stairs to the lookout platform.

When we made it back to the car, I looked at the kids in the rearview mirror. Kai was nodding off to sleep and Anna and Lincoln were back to playing Mario Kart.

“Do you know what I’d do if I were a millionaire?” I asked, knowing only Luca would be listening.

“What?” she asked.

“I’d be doing exactly what I’m doing now”.

Play the Game

“Sometimes you have to play the game”

My father would utter the phrase when he sensed I was pushing up against the rules, be they ones created for our baseball team or those enforced at home.

I knew what he meant, although I didn’t want to admit it at the time.

Go with the flow.

Don’t fight the inevitable.

The process is bigger than the individual.

Remember the scene in Office Space when Joanna is criticized for wearing the minimum fifteen items of flair while her ~~annoying~~ enthusiastic coworker, Brian, wore 37 pieces? Brian knew how to play the game while Joanna didn’t feel comfortable doing so.

Yes, I got the message loud and clear. Sometimes it was easier to play the game than fight the system. That’s how it worked. That’s what I was supposed to accept. I felt like 15 pieces of flair were enough and didn’t want to add another 22.

I can hear my father’s voice when I run into a process I don’t understand: just play the game.

Lately, I’ve found myself unwilling to play the game because it feels fake. What makes it difficult is when many people around you are professional players. They know the game inside and out and expect you to go along with them. But this never leads to happiness.

Like the time I went through the gauntlet of interviews at the University of Utah only to find out few of the companies were hiring. Somehow that process was supposed to be valuable to us down the road, but I wasn’t aware the joke was on me from the start.

At what point in life does one stop playing the game?

I am playing it less than I used to, and my soul feels better for it. As I get older, I find it’s often easier to let others play the game and coast in their wake doing my own thing. Let them work the front lines while I sit back and observe.

Game over.