Leaving Home to Find Home

I don’t remember the exact day Seattle became my home. But it doesn’t matter because I felt comfortable on my first visit.

It was nearly midnight when I steered a clumsy U-Haul across the 520 bridge that connects Bellevue to Seattle on my way to the University district where I’d live in a studio apartment across from the University of Washington. Although I hadn’t visited many large American cities, I’d spent a couple of years making my way around larger German cities. I was able to make my way around Frankfurt and Koln, so how difficult could Seattle be?

I’d soon find that out that building a city surrounded by water makes GPS a necessity.

I was 26 years old and nearly 24 of those had been spent in Utah. It wasn’t that I was dying to leave Utah after graduation. I more or less stumbled across a job that took me from Salt Lake City to Rock Springs, WY and finally to Seattle. When I accepted the job, I knew there was a chance I’d be transferred to Seattle or Denver. I would have accepted either.

But there was something about Seattle. A bit of aloofness. Political, but not in an annoying way. Ken Griffey posters outnumbered only by Starbucks logos. Or maybe it was Pearl Jam which a friend had recently introduced me to. The song that hooked me was “Black”.

Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin round my head
I’m spinning, oh, I’m spinning
How quick the sun can drop away

Thoughts were spinning for sure. So was my life, but moving to Seattle gave me a glimpse of hope. Each border I crossed, I left a portion of my old life behind. Utah, Idaho, and Oregon. There was plenty to go around, and when I reached the 520 bridge and looked over the edge into glimmering moonlit water, I had no doubt this would be my home for a long time.

It’s difficult for me to understand why so many people decide to live their entire life in one city or state. I’m sure they have their reasons. Maybe their job or family keep them from leaving. Or they are content to stay put. But I’ll bet many fear the unknown. The notion of leaving the familiar for the foreign doesn’t sit well with them. Reminds me of the song, “Taking the Long Way” from the Dixie Chicks.

My friends from high school
Married their high school boyfriends
Moved into houses in the same ZIP codes
Where their parents live

And yet, I understand why people stay close to their roots. Especially when children show up on the scene. I never lived more than 30 minutes from my grandparents. They were part of my life in a way my children will never experience.

Yet, I look back on my decision to leave Utah, which was made during the most tumultuous time of my life, and can’t help but smile. I wasn’t smiling back then very often because I had no idea better days were just around the corner. That turning point is indelibly tied to Seattle.

I was raised in Utah. But I grew up in Seattle.

—photo by S x 2

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 Kick Of The Night

“If you can touch it, you can catch it”, I yelled across the backyard loud enough that neighbors to both sides could hear.

Lincoln scanned the yard for the ball. As he walked towards the shed where the ball had nestled up against, his bounce was gone.

So was his smile.

Just days before I played the same game with his older sister, Luca.

The game is simple. Find any ball. The softer the better. Today we used a volleyball belonging to our neighbor that found its way over our fence. The kids stand on the grass, and I kick the ball to them from 20 to 30 yard away as they try to catch it.

I know the game sounds boring, and it would be if I was able to kick the ball straight with any consistency. But I am no Lionel Messi. I spray the ball into the trees, neighbors yard and even Kim’s tomato plants.

But the unpredictability is the key to the game because the kids feel special on those rare moments I kick the ball in their vicinity and they are able to catch it.

My two oldest children go about playing the game in entirely different fashions. Luca likes me to challenge her. She likes to hear that I don’t believe she’ll be able to catch the next ball, and she keeps score as if her life depended on it.

Lincoln likes to keep score as well. But he wants to be encouraged instead of challenged. So telling him that he can catch it if he can touch it doesn’t go over well like it might with Luca.

I cherish this time with my son. It reminds of of those hot afternoons spent tossing the baseball around the yard with my father. As much as I enjoyed playing catch with my friends, nothing felt better than earning my father’s praise. But what I remember most are the talks we had. Most had nothing to do with baseball. But he was focused on me during those times. No TV, cell phone or sisters to distract. I learned a lot about my father on those nights where we played until it was dark or the mosquitoes were too thick.

The sun was setting and the shadows were making it difficult for Lincoln to see the ball. But he doesn’t want to stop playing.

He tells me he’s going to miss school but can’t wait to spend time with his grandparents at the beach and pool.

He describes the many friends he made at school this year and the books he’s reading. He asks me dozens of questions such as, “Who pays for the books at the library”.

I begin to understand why my father was willing to play catch with me until the sun went down after a long day at work.

“Last kick of the night”, I say.

Vision is limited and I wonder if I have one good kick left in me. Lincoln stretches out his arm as my best kick of the night bounces off his chest towards the shed. Lincoln pauses, expecting me to tell him that if he can touch it, he can catch it.

“Good try. You’ll catch it next time”, I call out as Lincoln bounds down the stairs towards the shed.

In Search of a Hat

I didn’t mind that my father took the scenic route from Bountiful down Beck Street, over the state capital and then up South Temple until we came to the University of Utah campus.

As we wind our way east, my father points to where a carwash used to be. He worked there to put himself through school.

Our destination is the university bookstore. Because I’m not returning to Seattle without a black “Ute” hat.

The university is tucked into to Wasatch Mountains on the eastside of Salt Lake City. When the 2002 Winter Olympics swept through, the university was a large beneficiary. It was a gorgeous campus when I was there in the early 90’s, and it looks even more modern today. I barely recognize Rice-Eccles Stadium.

Yet the campus is much the same as it was in the late 60’s when my father was a student. He points out the building where he took a physics class. I told him that I played a lot of pinball at the student union before showing him where I took numerous German courses.

We made our way across campus talking about whatever came to mind. It didn’t really matter because these opportunities don’t come along often. He tells me that, if he could go back, he would have continued on and earned a Masters. I never knew that. I’m mesmerized listening to him tell me about his college years.

We eventually found the bookstore, and I got the black hat I was after.

But I returned to Seattle with something far more valuable.

The Home on Van Buren

I’ll never know a home like the one I grew up in.

It’s not just the home where I spent the first twenty years of my life. It’s the place where, as a child, I explored every nook and cranny. I knew exactly how far the water hose stretched in order to drench my sisters while they played on the swing. I knew how to climb on the roof to retrieve balls that wouldn’t budge from the carport, and I knew where to jump down so my parents couldn’t see me.

I didn’t grow up with a Nintendo or Xbox. Unless the Steelers were playing, I had little reason to sit in front of the TV.

I’d much rather be outside playing wiffleball with Butch who lived across the street. Every young boy needs a friend named Butch. We made our own rules. If the ball landed in the street it was an automatic out. So we learned to bat left-handed and pull the ball onto the neighbors lawn. The third pole from the right served as first base, and the water meter cover served as second.

I thought about the old house this past week as my parents were packing and moving into a new home a few miles north. It served as their home for 40 years and looks about the same as it did when they moved in other than a few trees my father planted.

Visiting Ogden this summer won’t feel quite the same. The hub of our extended family now belongs to someone else. Life goes on.

Many of my favorite memories center around helping my father around the yard. Each Saturday I was expected to mow the lawn after I watched an episode of Hong Kong Phooey or two.

Our mower didn’t have a bag to catch the clippings so my father made me mow the grass in two directions effectively turning our basic mower into a mulcher. At the beginning of each summer I’d beg my father for a new model, and he finally got around to purchasing a fancy Honda mower the year I moved out of the house.

I’ll sure miss the old home, but I have a lot of great memories of the place.

And that pine tree you see on the foreground? That served as third base when it was only a few feet off the ground.

Four Days With My Father

During my senior year in high school, I hit a shot at the buzzer to win a basketball game. In the frenzy that followed, teammates and students stormed the court. I was immediately surrounded by hundreds of celebrating students and parents. I tried to make my way to the sideline where my mother was sitting.

Eventually, I noticed my dad, who was our head coach, speaking to a reporter. I tried to make my way over to him. He noticed me about the same time. He left the reporter in his tracks and ran over, picked me up and hugged me.

I was 18-years old at the time.

As I’ve thought back on that experience, I understand how excited I was to hit a shot that won a game for our team. But it’s the love and emotion my father showered down on me that evening that made a long-term impression.

My grandfather did not show a lot of emotion which I’m sure rubbed off on my father. His example of a father was one that provided for his family which he always did. But I don’t believe my grandfather provided a lot of emotional support to his family. My father improved upon that although the role of a ‘shoulder to cry on’ fell to my mother. My mother was more demonstrative. It was impossible to leave the house without a kiss to the forehead.

I recall riding bikes with a friend whose father was a few year older than my father. As we rode our bikes onto her parent’s driveway, her father was there to greet us. My friend jumped off her bike and made a beeline to her father before jumping into his open arms.

I couldn’t have been older than ten at the time. It felt strange watching my friend hug her dad. It felt too personal. Maybe a little uncomfortable. But the part of me that didn’t feel strange felt envy. I couldn’t imagine running up to my father to hug him. Certainly not in front of friends.

Over the years we’ve both changed.

It didn’t take some life-altering experience between us. We began sharing details about our interests. One of my fondest memories was the time we spent 25 hours together driving from Washington to Utah taking the scenic route down the Washington coast. I learned a lot about my father on that trip. I like to think he learned something about me as well.

This afternoon, I dropped my father off at the airport. He spent the last four days with our family. My kids have been counting down the days until he arrived, and now, he was heading back to Salt Lake City. I stood a few feet away as my dad pulled his luggage from the van. He said goodbye to each of the kids. Eyes were red. Cheeks were covered in tears.

When my father reached out to hug me, he leaned over and told me he loved me.

I thought about that moment in time when I was 18. As the rain poured down from the dark Seattle sky I couldn’t help but think he is still my coach in many ways.

Never Accept A Ride From A Gorilla

I don’t remember if I was in first or second grade.

What I do remember is that I was with my friend who lived two houses down from mine. She was a girl and girls were not cool. But she owned the first Schwinn bike I’d seen, and that was very cool. All I had was a puke-yellow skateboard.

As we walked home from school, I remember my friend slowed down and then nearly ran over me while screaming for her mom. I was oblivious to the car that had pulled up next to us.

I turned towards the street to see a gorilla looking at me. What’s a gorilla doing driving down the the street? His head was out the window, and he was growling at me. He never said a word. I stopped walking and just stared at him. He slowed his car but didn’t stop.

When my mom asked me to describe the make and color of his car I drew a blank. All I saw was the gorilla. But now I understood that I hadn’t actually seen a gorilla driving a car; I’d seen a man dressed in a gorilla mask.

And that bummed me out a bit.

I was too young to recognize the potential danger. I didn’t feel threatened at all. I couldn’t wait to tell my dad I’d seen a gorilla cruising down Van Buren Avenue.

Since having children of my own, I’ve often thought about that hairy but mobile primate. I don’t know what I’d do if my children encountered a such a strange sight. I don’t remember my parents overacting. I don’t recall any meetings with the principal. Imagine the warnings and training we’d bombard our kids with if the same thing happened today.

It took a while to settle my friend down before our parents could remind us again never to accept a ride from strangers.

Or gorillas.

How Much Does Your Life Weigh

George Clooney’s character in the film, Up the Air, gives a memorable speech where he asks, “How much does your life weigh?”

I’ve seen the movie twice now, and both times I’ve got lost in thought each time I’ve watched this scene.

How much does my life weigh?

Currently it weighs a lot. I’m responsible for providing life’s basics for six people and one dog. When I write that I can feel the weight. Yet that’s how I set it up. That’s what I was taught. I go to school. Get married. Buy a home and have some children.

Isn’t that how we define success in America? The size of our home and the emblem on our cars. The instruments our children play and the camps and schools they attend. The blueprint for success has already been created. All we have to do is follow it. Yet nobody forced me to follow the blueprint. It was my own doing.

I’m starting to rethink how I define success.

I used to place a lot of value on not only my job title but the prestige that came working for a well-known and respected company. I used to think we had to raise our children in a certain neighborhood among people of our education and economic levels. At times I’ve felt the need to spend more time at work and church taking on more projects. Whoever can complete the largest to-do list was the winner. The busier the better.

But the older I get I see that this way of thinking does not lead to happiness. It focuses on the quantity instead of the quality of life. More is less. A lot less.

I recently came across an interview with former CNN host, Lou Dobbs. He worked at CNN for nearly 30 years and served as the host of Moneyline as well as a corporate executive at CNN. This is a man who graduated from Harvard and earned tens of millions of dollars as a news personality.

Yet when asked to complete the phrase, “I wish…, Dobbs replied “I spent more time with the kids”.

Here’s a guy who had the means to do whatever he wanted. Certainly he could find time to spend with his four children if he so desired. Yet our culture doesn’t place a lot of importance on how much time fathers spend with their children. That’s mom’s job or, more often, the nanny or child care provider’s responsibility.

I hope I never look back on my life and answer that question the same way Dobbs did. That would be a nightmare scenario. Dobbs lives on a 300 acre farm. He has whatever money can buy. Yet what he wishes for something which can’t be bought. No amount of money will bring back the years he could have spent with his children. Who cares how big your house is if it’s empty.

I’m slowly starting to remove things from my life that take away from time I can spend with my children. I’m going to commit myself to fewer projects. I’m going to watch less TV and more time reading or telling stories with my kids. I’m going to call my parents and siblings instead of goofing around on the internet so much. I’m going to look for opportunities to give service. I worked on a friend’s computer for a few hours this month, and I felt great afterwards.

I want more of that in my life.

This past week I did something I wish I had done months before. I turned off email on my iPhone so I would not be tempted to read or reply to it. I had over 30 unread emails when I sat down at my desk this morning. And you know what? I survived. No email is so important that it should pull me away from my family on the weekend.

I’m hoping that as I strip away distractions and activities that the next time I hear Clooney give his speech, I’ll say to myself, “My life weighs less than it did it a month ago”.

Three’s a Crowd

Every morning Luca, Lincoln and Anna line up at the door, ready for school. Well, not quite ready. I have to remind Lincoln to put on his shoes. Anna forgets where she last saw her sweater, and Luca searches for her homework.

No matter how early we wake the kids, I feel rushed getting them to school on time. This school year I’ve been dropping the kids off at the elementary school on my way to work. Although it’s only a few minutes, I enjoy this time immensely. It’s a great way to start my day.

All three of them are excited for school. Even giddy. I know it won’t always be this way.

Over the past couple of months I’ve noticed Anna is the last to get out of the car at the school. Luca and Lincoln get out first and could wait for their little sister, who started Kindergarten this year. But they don’t. They jump out and run ahead leaving Anna on her own.

And yet I understand why this happens.

Anna is our most vocal and emotional child. She’s also our most upbeat. She wears her emotions for everyone to see. She likes to dance and twirl around the house. She likes to sing. But mostly, she wants to be around her older brother and sister.

But what really irks Luca and Lincoln is the whistling. Luca nor Lincoln can whistle so it’s doubly annoying to them that Anna has no problem whistling songs to popular Nintendo games.

But it still hurts to see Anna walk alone to class each day. Kim and I have ask Luca and Lincoln to keep an eye on their younger sister. I’ve tried gentle reminders as we approach the school. But so far nothing has worked. I don’t want to force the issue though. I know doing so could worsen the situation.

The rain was coming down hard as I pulled up to the school today. I turned on my windshield wipers as fast as they would go, and it still wasn’t enough. All three kids had backpacks full of homework and a lunch. I expected the same pecking order to prevail as I unlocked the door.

Luca reached over the seat to hug me before she left. Lincoln would rather give me a high five so that’s what we did before he jumped out.

That left Anna.

I looked out my window covered in raindrops to see Luca and Lincoln fling their backpack over their shoulders. “Here we go again”, I thought.

“I love you Anna Lynn”, I said as she reached her arm out to hug me. I straighten her glasses that Luca or Lincoln bumped on the way out. She scooted her legs across the seat before dangling them onto the ground. She struggled to stabilize her backpack before reaching back to close the car door.

The rain was really coming down now. My windows were fogged up to the point where I could not see through them. I wiped the windshield with my sleeve before lowering the driver’s side window.

And that’s when I saw them.

I assumed Luca and Lincoln had run ahead like they every morning. Instead I saw three kids standing in the rain. Right next to each other. Lincoln was helping Anna with her backpack while Luca fixed her hood so Anna’s hair wouldn’t get drenched.

As they walked along the sidewalk leading to the school,I sat in my car and watched. Eventually they broke off towards their classrooms.

I could only see Anna’s backpack hanging from her shoulders and her tiny feet hitting every puddle. Yet I have no doubt she had a smile painted across her face.

And she was probably whistling.

An Uncertain Year

This year can be summed up by a question my son asked me tonight as we sat on the couch together and watched the lights on our tree.

“Dad, how come the lights at the top of the tree don’t work?”

Normally, I’d crack a joke. But not today. I didn’t have an answer for why a third of the lights didn’t work. I suppose I could look for the dead bulb or the short in the cord. Maybe one entire strand of lights hadn’t been plugged in. Not sure. Whatever the reason it didn’t seem to bother Lincoln so why should it bother me?

An imperfect tree to an uncertain year.

We didn’t send out Christmas cards this year. We handed out a few gifts to neighbors. We didn’t hang lights around our home. We didn’t give as much service as we had planned. Home and auto repairs seemed to drop out of nowhere. Our three oldest kids needed glasses and dental work done.

Nothing major. Just many small expenditures that add up over time during a year when my bonus was slashed.

These were my thoughts as I wrapped the last few presents with Kim tonight. In a few hours our kids will awake to find that Santa delivered fewer gifts this year than in years past. They won’t understand why that’s the case.

Yet if they do ask, I’ll explain to them that 2009 has been a difficult year for many people. Like our friends down the street who have been unable to sell their home for well over a year. Or another friend who lost his job three months ago and has yet to find work. Or the evening I returned home from work depressed because I had to tell several loyal employees I no longer had jobs for them due to a downturn in business.

This has been a year of drastic upheaval for many.

Too many good people looking for jobs. Too many people taking whatever work they can even if that means delivering pizza to keep the lights on.

In spite of the tough year, we’ve been incredibly blessed. Our kids were able to spend more time with their grandparents this summer than any before. We enjoyed our weeks at Longbeach and our summer trip to Ogden. We spent a lot of time around the table putting puzzles together, playing games and sharing goofy stories.

As we lounged around the house tonight, a friend dropped off a box of Cap’N Crunch Christmas Crunch. The kids followed me to the kitchen assuming I’d pull out plates and napkins to minimize the mess. They were surprised when I opened the box and tossed Christmas Crunch across the table in their direction.

Mom wasn’t home to put a stop to it.

And then it started. I blame Kai. He started the mayhem by reaching over to pilfer my red crunch berries. I had no choice but to steal Lincoln’s green crunch trees. Of course, Lincoln had to take back what he’d lost from his sisters.

Before long we had more cereal on the floor than in our mouths. But it didn’t matter because everyone was having a wonderful time. Kai giggled as he tossed berries across the table. We all laughed. Everyone got along. A Christmas miracle.

Maybe we should have read the Christmas story from the Bible tonight. Or acted out the nativity scene. Or sang songs together. But we didn’t. Instead we sat around a table and munched on Crunch.

It was an imperfect activity to end a great day.