One Night at Benaroya

I’m convinced that some of the most memorable experiences in life can’t be replicated. That was the case about 10 years ago when Kim told me Tracy Chapman was coming to Benaroya Hall in Seattle. At the time, I didn’t work too far from Benaroya, and I mistakenly assumed I could stop by the box office on the way to work to purchase two tickets the day the tickets went on sale.

When that day arrived, phone lines and the website were jammed, and tickets sold out in 10 minutes.

I’d heard of Chapman before I met Kim but didn’t own any of her music. I was hooked the first time I heard “Talkin’ Bout a Revolution”

And finally the tables are starting to turn
Talking about a revolution
Finally the tables are starting to turn
Talking about a revolution oh no

Over the next couple of weeks I scoured Craigslist and Ebay for tickets. I hit a number of dead ends, but finally found a man willing to sell me two tickets for five times face value. I had no idea where the seats were located, but the concert was approaching and I’d heard the acoustics at Benaroya were excellent from any section. I paid the scalper cash and prayed the tickets weren’t counterfeit.

I’ve been to a number of sold-out concerts, but none of them approached the electricity outside Benaroya the evening of the concert. Kim and I stood on the sidewalk among a sea of Chapman fans with tickets in hand. People were dancing and singing. Many were holding signs trying anything they could to secure tickets.

Two women that night are still etched in my memory. A mother and daughter had driven three hours from Portland with hopes of finding tickets. The daughter was crying when she realized tickets were not going to be easy to come by if at all. She wandered through the crowd offering $800 for two tickets. I turned to Kim and said, “Would you sell them for a thousand bucks?”

I didn’t have to wait for an answer. Tracy Chapman seldom goes on tour, and this might be our only chance to see her in concert.

And thank goodness we decided not to sell. After a short wait, we entered the concert hall, the home of the Seattle Symphony. I was blown away at the workmanship and architecture of the structure. I had no idea where our seats were located so I handed our tickets to an usher. He instructed us to follow him. He lead us to the balcony and continued towards the stage. I kept turning to Kim. This couldn’t be happening. No way could we have lucked into such great seats. We took our seats on the balcony that overlooked the stage. We could not have asked for better view of the stage.

Tracy came out dressed in black from head to toe with a black guitar slung over her shoulder. Her band joined her on stage, and we listened and watched the most inspiring performance either of us has ever seen. I felt like the only person in attendance who didn’t know the lyrics to every song. I didn’t regret deciding to hold on to the tickets although I sat there hoping the mother and daughter from Portland were experiencing the same.

I often think back to that night and realize it will likely never be duplicated. Kim and I have attended a number of concerts since that night. On the way home we’ll talk about how much we enjoyed the concert, and discuss our favorite songs. But, inevitably, one of us will say, “Tonight was good, but remember that one night at Benaroya…?”

First Assignment

The days leading up to the start of the new school year are as chaotic as the days leading up to Christmas. Each year seems to bring with it an ever expanding list of school supplies.

Our three oldest children brought home their first assignment this week. It’s one they complete each year, and they look forward to it. The assignment is to fill out, color and add pictures to a poster-sized sheet of paper. It includes which are focused on the student and allow teachers and fellow students the opportunity to learn more about them.

On one section that asked what each student he or she wanted to become, Lincoln wrote that he wants to be a painter. Anna wants to be a cake maker which sounds about right. One section asks the children to write Three Super-cool Facts about themselves. Lincoln’s answer of “I’m an interesting guy” made me laugh.

Several areas were left blank which allowed the children to show off their artistic skills and add pictures. I enjoyed looking through thousands of pictures with the kids and helping them decide on a few I could print for their posters. The kids could spend endless hours laughing at the funny faces they pulled for the camera. It was difficult to find a picture where Anna wasn’t either sticking her tongue out or where she didn’t have food or sand on her face.

Kim and I helped the kids attach the pictures to their posters with copious amount of glue. We used so much glue that certain at least one in three pictures will actually survive the bus trip and arrive safely to class.

It was getting late, and I sent the kids upstairs to brush teeth and get ready for bed while I gathered the last few supplies. I put on my headphones and was about to zone out for the night when I noticed Luca’s poster. She’s a perfectionist. I noticed she’s erased some words and rewritten them until they look exactly as she wants. She’s given much thought to her artwork and answers, and I begin to read from the top.

Eventually I come to the section, “My Hero” and Luca wrote “My Dad”.

It probably sounds corny. But these are the small, unexpected rewards that lift my spirit. No matter what’s going on in other areas of my life, and how many mistakes I make as her father, I feel a sense of validation that I’m connecting with my daughter on some level. It’s not always apparent when she’s having a meltdown because I asked her to help her sister clean their room.

But, for now, I’m going to focus on the joy she brings to my life.

Jordan’s Competiveness

Quote from Bill Simmon’s “Book of Basketball” on Michael Jordan:

“He soaked teammates in poker on team flights so brutally that coaches warned rookies to stay away. He once lost to teammate Rod Higgins in Ping-Pong, bought a table and became the best player on the team. He dunked on Utah’s John Stockton once, heard Utah owner Larry Miller scream, "Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?" then dunked on center Mel Turpin and hissed at Miller afterward, "He big enough for you?”

George Winston at the Rialto Theater

We sat in the first three seats of row G on the left side of the Rialto Theater because anyone who’s seen George Winston in concert knows that provides the best angle from which to see his fingers dance across the keys of the Steinway grand.

Kim and I decided to invite Luca along. This would be her first concert and, although she’s taken piano lessons for a couple of years, I wasn’t sure he’d keep her interest for two hours.

I shouldn’t have been concerned.

Winston played a number of songs from albums we listen to at home, such as Summer and December. But he also played two slack key guitar tunes and one harmonica number. I could have listened for another two hours.

I’ve seen him in concert seven times now. Each time he walks on stage in jeans, button down shirt, and socks. He’s soft spoken, and seldom tells you much about himself other than who or what influenced his music. He ends each number the same way he always has. As the clapping comes to a stop he says, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Have you ever felt overwhelmed in the presence of talent? I feel a rush of emotion rush through my body as I listen and watch him play. When Winston announced he was going play a song called “Woods”, Luca leaned over and said she liked this one. She held my hand for the next seven minutes as we listened to one of our favorite songs.

That was the best part of a memorable date with Kim and our oldest daughter.

Shopping For A Shower Curtain

After staring at the various colors, patterns and fabrics for nearly twenty minutes, I had to admit that I do not posses the skills or fashion sense to purchase a shower curtain.

My old brown shower curtain had begun to turn light brown. So I went shopping for a new one not fully understanding what I was getting myself into.

I located the shower curtain aisle at Fred Meyer and began looking for something that didn’t look too cutesy or juvenile. I didn’t want a floral pattern anymore than I needed one depicting SpongeBob SquarePants. I wanted something neutral. Something safe. Maybe light brown with a splash of boring that screams, “selected by a guy who wears Dockers five days a week”.

I located a few patterns I thought would work just about the time I noticed they came in a number of sizes. That’s when I realized I was looking at drapery and window coverings.

Off to a good start.

Eventually, I found shower curtains next to the shower liners and hooks and rods. I wondered out loud if this was an all-or-none purchase. If I purchase one item am I required to upgrade the other three? This whole experience is beginning to feel like a scam.

I decide to begin with the shower curtains which are on display. I quickly locate one with geometric shapes that will work. Now I’m supposed to match the big red number on the display curtain to the bin number where I can retrieve the packaged curtain for purchase. But I quickly realize there are two or three times as many display curtains as packaged curtains for sale.

The available curtains fall into two categories:

1. Those that are 100% transparent

2. Those that are 80% transparent that include cutesy frogs

I’ll admit that I don’t know a lot about shower curtains but my limited knowledge tells me that shower curtains should possess two characteristics: keep the water off the floor and keep people from having to watch me shower. Every curtain in stock failed one of the requirements.

I decided to skip the curtain for now and move on to shower liners. I’m no longer a shower liner rookie because I can tell you they come in a number of colors that include white, tan, and clear. The clear liner and transparent curtain make the ultimate stalker ensemble. I tossed couple tan liners in my cart.

By this time I was worn down from the experience. I took one look at the wall of hooks and grabbed the first box I could find under fifteen bucks.

Something tells me I’m working backwards. I reached down to the bottom rack where the “bargain bin” curtains are in disarray. Some have been opened. Most have been shoved into a generic plastic bag. All include a big red sticker that says, “CLEARANCE”. I try not to think about someone taking a curtain home for a test shower only to return it the next day. After some digging I locate one brown and one green curtain. Both are ugly. Both look like something Courtney Love might wear. But both are marked half off. I tossed the brown one in my cart. Or maybe it was the green one. I dunno.

I got everything hung up that night, and it looks worse than I can describe. In fact, it looks so hideous that nobody is going to ask to use my shower.

I could be on to something.

The End of Summer

Our boxer looked at me and then at the couch. And then back at me. With a kid on each side, I sat on the crease between cushions and watched a strange episode of Amazing Stories. There was no room, so she whined, did a circle and sat at my legs on the floor.

We’d spent the day together shopping for the last few items for school, while everyone took turns keeping Kai from shoplifting. Most nights we’d need a break from each other. But, with the summer winding down, Kim and I decided we’d gather on the couch before we returned to a normal bedtime schedule.

Each year at this time, I look back with mixture of joy and regret.

The joy comes from the weeks we spent at the beach with grandparents. Some of the best times were visiting the little shops along the coast and watching the kids enjoy an ice cream or fill a bag full of salt water taffy. We’d return at night to the tent and stay up late telling stories until our ribs hurt from laughter. My in-laws purchased an RV, and invited us to stay with them while visiting various Washington coastal towns. The RV is good sized but gets cozy fast when the six of us arrive. Yet this is what brings us together and forges friendships. Our kids don’t want to leave.

Luca walking on Westport Beach with her Grandpa Henke

But I also look back on the summer with some regret. I ask myself if I’ve completed enough projects around the house or provided Kim with enough breaks from her busy schedule. We intentionally refrained from signing the kids up for sports this summer and scaled back piano lessons so that we’d have more time to spend together. Although we stumbled at times, I feel it worked overall.

A couple of weeks ago we picked blueberries together. At one point it was so peaceful that I wondered if the kids had wandered off to another area of the farm. But they hadn’t. Each was busy picking or eating berries, too busy to converse or tease a sibling. It was one of those moments I wish I could catch in a bottle. I’d then replay it when the kids are at each other’s throats while saying, “See, I know you can get along!”

When the kids were in bed tonight, I came upstairs and sat on the couch while Kim played several George Winston songs. This gave me time to reflect on the summer. All the mosquito bites, sunburns and popsicles. Our nights together in the tent and trips to Dairy Queen for dip cones. So many memories packed into a 3-month period.

As Kim wound down her playing, our boxer approached the now kid-free couch. She didn’t look at me this time before jumping up to secure her spot. I was glad she joined me. But I missed my kids.

Even if it means sitting on the crease.

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.