Be Quiet Inside And Enjoy The Ride

"And nothing seems to fit
And things don't go your way
You know you've had enough
You can't take another day
Where to go and what to do
You've got those bills to pay
You're really not alone you know
'Cause everybody says
Why me?
Why me?"

–Styx, Why Me?

The ceiling fan remote was gone and not where it was supposed to be. I always left it right on the second shelf next to my side of the bed. But it was gone. I scanned all the shelves. Nothing. I looked on the floor in and around the shelves and under the bed. No fan remote.

I wanted to turn the ceiling fan on because I was warm and I had some work calls to make. The office nook in our bedroom is a great place to make video calls because of the lighting, and my wife Amy and I both use it. But the only way to turn the fan on is with the remote. There is no wall switch. It was just easier to install that way. 

I called downstairs to where Amy was working. "Amy, where's the fan remote?"

"Isn't it where it we leave it? On the shelf?"

Sigh. "No, it's not there. I can't find it anywhere."

Now, if anyone can find anything in our house, it's Amy. Mom always knows where everything is. Usually. And if she doesn't, she has an idea of how to find it, like with our oldest daughter Beatrice's phone recently. Just like my mom did when I was a kid and a teenager. Usually the thing I couldn't find was right in front of me, and my mom always found it for me and reminded me it was right in front of me. Beatrice and I both still do that today and Mom always comes through. Our youngest daughter, Bryce, doesn't have the same debilitating lack of awareness that me and Bea have. 

To be fair, it isn't always that we can't find something, it's that we've gotten lazy and overly dependent on Mom, because Mom usually knows where that something is. That's not something to be proud of, but mercy me, that's why we love Mom so much.

This time she didn't know. She looked everywhere I looked, and more places, but didn't find it.

I was frustrated and mad. "Where the hell could it be, Amy? I leave it in the same place every single time!"

"Me too," Amy said. "Maybe it was the house sitter recently who misplaced it. Or maybe one of the girls."

"So frustrating," I said.

"I know," Amy said. 

My head swirled with questions: Can we purchase another ceiling fan remote and program it?  How much will that cost? Would we have to take the fan apart again? And then what if we can't replace it? How the hell are we going to use the fan if we can't? Why do I have to deal with this now?

Why me?!?

And there it was -- why me. Amy had already left me alone knowing there was nothing she could do to console me. This was my process. Immediate frustration that constricted endless possibilities and viable answers to a thin red line. A line that lead to nowheresville. The reality was that the ceiling fan remote most likely could be replaced and that it was just a transitory inconvenience of time and money. It was really more about the world imploding with uncontrollable chaotic fallout, burning my brain and tricking me, once again, into believing that this would cause me unending angst.

I purged the chaotic fallout and realized, yet again, this was nothing to lose my head over. Relax. If you can't find it, there will be a solution (what Amy always says, which is why I love her so much). That's when I checked in our bed, and buried snugly in between the mattresses was the ceiling fan remote. Later I would find out that Beatrice was the one who left it in the bed accidentally. 

Sigh. Everything is where it's supposed to be, including me, and I just have to be quiet inside and enjoy the ride. It will all work out ultimately. 

But just in case, I tied a string around the remote and attached it to the shelf. 

Men of a Vulnerable Age

I stood in the shade of the awning with others, away from the creep of morning valley heat. A slight breeze ebbed and flowed around us as the service began. Soon after, my friend Craig shared reverent words about his mother who had passed. With the exceptions of my long-time dear friends Rob and Greg, Greg's wife Jody, and Craig's wife Noriko, I didn't know Craig's family. I never even knew his mother. 

But I did know about her through him. And for the nearly 35 years I've known Craig, he has always talked fondly of his mother. For nearly 35 years, we've been getting together with our core group of long-time friends (45+ years for those of us who went to junior high and high school together). The last time all of us were together as a group was January 2020. Then COVID hit. 

Since then we haven't seen each much. There was Rob's retirement party, and then some of us individually going to see the other mutual friend from our core group, my best friend since junior high, Robby. Pre-pandemic we've gone to Robby's as a group at least 1-2+ times a year for decades. Robby, who had broken his neck at a swim meet in high school, has been paralyzed ever since. While still living somewhat independently with home healthcare, his travel mobility has decreased dramatically over the decades, and today he doesn't venture beyond his own city limits. Also, outside of this core group, there's Troy, my best friend from college, and we've only seen each other once in the past few years. 

When Craig's mom passed away, he posted when her service and reception would be, and I knew I had to be there for him, as did our friends Rob and Greg. Listening to him talk about his mother at the graveside service reminded me of when my own parents passed back in 2012, only four months apart, and all the emotional upheaval experienced during that time. At his mom's memorial reception, Craig, Rob, Greg and I hugged, talked, and laughed freely, realizing how much we've missed our time together.  

While it may be true that men can go longer periods of time without talking or seeing each other, and don't necessarily thrive on intimacy and emotional connection as much as women do, my friends and I have shared quite a bit of our lives with each other over the years. The good, the bad, the ugly, and the meh. The stormy rainbow yak of life. 

In fact, what I've found is that the intimacy and emotional connections have increased over the years, even without seeing each other or talking to each other that often. Maybe it's simply maturity and nurturing empathy, although we still know how to give each other quite the inappropriate regular ribbing; we are a diverse group, that's for sure. Now in our mid to late 50's, most of us have our own families and children (and grandchildren!), and all of us have lots of life lived behind us, and hopefully lots more ahead. We are now men of a vulnerable age, making peace with our present, and embracing the presence of each other's love. 

Other past posts about these friends of mine:

• The #MeToo Guys
• Men of a Women's Age
• Men of a Consequential Age
• Grown Men Friends and Fathers
• Like Men Knowingly Bound to Their Future
• Because That's How It Works With The Guys That Work
• Men of An Unremarkable Age

How We Learn and Grow

"...and if love remains, though everything is lost, we will pay the price, but we will not count the cost..."

–Rush, Bravado

Beatrice searched her backpack. 

"Where's my phone?" she said.

"You lost your phone?" I said.

"No, I just had it on the bus. It was in my pocket, but it's not now."

"Look through your backpack again." 

"I did. It's not there."

It was inevitable. The loss of something we should never lose. Especially when we're teenagers. But teens don't own exclusive rights to losing stuff; I recently lost the title to one of our cars. Gone. Poof. Farewell. 

Crap.

"You must have left it on the bus," my wife Amy said to our daughter. "Let's check 'find my phone' to see where it is."

We checked the app. Sure enough, it looked like the phone was moving along the bus route Bea had been on when she got off at our home stop. She had been hanging out with friends after school that day and then took the bus home from downtown. 

"This bus loops back down the hill, so you should go up to the upper bus stop and wait for it and then search the bus."

This caused Beatrice escalated angst. Her face contorted. "I don't want to go by myself. Can you go with me? Or, can you just call the bus driver?"

"We can call the bus station, but that won't help you get your phone back now," Amy said. "I have to go to a meeting, but you should still walk up there and wait so you can get your phone back."

At this point I had been running all the things through my head that we'd have to do if her phone was truly lost. And I didn't want to have to do any of them. 

"I'll wait up there with you. C'mon, let's go," I said.

"Okay. Thank you, Dad. Will you help me talk to the bus driver?" she said. "I'm so sorry."

"Yes, I'll help you. Let's go so we don't miss the bus."

We walked up the hill to the bus stop and sat on the bench. I was tired and wanted to relax before I had to pick up Bea's sister Bryce from theater rehearsal, but that wasn't going to happen now. I also knew Bea felt horrible and was stressing out about losing her phone, so berating and/or shaming her wasn't going to make things any better, or make me feel any better. The phone was gone and we just had to focus on hopefully getting it back. 

I had the "find my phone" app up on my phone and Beatrice's phone was supposedly still on the bus and coming back down the hill. We sat on the bus stop bench and waited. I told her if the phone was on the bus, we'd get it back and then go get her sister. She was stressing hard about it and I felt for her. She really thought she still had the phone when she arrived home earlier. 

"Thank you for helping me Dad and not making me feel bad," she said. 

"I love you, Bea. We all lose stuff."

"Love you, too."

A woman walked up to the bus stop and waited with us. We struck up a conversation and she was very empathetic about our situation and said she would help us. She told Bea she was 24 years old and still lost things. 

The bus arrived, and after telling the bus driver the situation, he was very gracious in helping us search where Bea had been sitting. The other passengers helped, too. But the phone wasn't there, and according to the app, it should've been. 

That's when Amy called to tell me someone had picked up Bea's phone and got off the bus further back up the hill. He was waiting for us in front of a convenience store not too far away. I called Bea's phone to confirm, and he was very nice and said he'd wait. We walked back down the hill, got our car, and drove up to where the guy had her phone. 

After thanking the young guy for finding Bea's phone, I handed Bea her phone and we drove home. Her face was flush with relief. 

"Thank you again, Dad," she said. 

"You're welcome. I'm just glad we got it back," I said. "Text your mom and tell her we got it."

"Okay."

"So, what are you going to do the next time you get off the bus?" 

"Double-check that I have my phone," she said and smiled. 

I then told Bea about the times when I was in high school when I locked my keys in my car and my dad had to come help me get into my car. Too many times, actually. He was in law enforcement and knew how to use a Slim Jim tool to unlock my car door. He reminded me constantly to always have my keys and my wallet on me at all times, to always know where they were at all times, wherever I was. 

And then I pointed out to her that today, there are three things you always need to know where they are: your keys, your wallet/purse, and your phone. Always know where those things are and all will be well in the world. 

Like Beatrice, I was quite relieved we had found her phone and again ran through the things in my head I would've had to have done if we hadn't. It's just time and money, I thought. We would've figured it out. But we did find her phone thankfully and all was well. 

It was also a special bonding time for us looking for her phone. I was still Dad helping Daughter who had lost something she shouldn't have, but getting angry about her losing her phone wouldn't have helped anything other than making her feel like unworthy crap. Encouraging her to be preemptive and double-check next time was a better use of my time, as well as sharing about my own teen and adult fails. This, I told her, is how we learn and grow. 

I'm not sure how much she got of that, but she gave me a big hug and thanked me again. 

Our Kids, Our Future

I told my wife Amy I'd only help sell the drinks for the PTA if I could be in the shade. And that's exactly where the table was when we got to our middle school, but it was still 85 degrees with only a little sea breeze. I set up the water, soda, and juice station nonetheless, preparing to ask for donations. Our oldest daughter Beatrice, now in high school, helped me set up, then vanished. Amy was inside the school running the PTA table and our 7th grader Bryce was preparing to sing in the choir. I was on my own for middle school open house.

It was nice to see old friends whose kids have been going to school with ours since forever. We were only asking for $1 PTA donations for the drinks, and because of the heat and the taco truck nearby serving delicious food, folks flocked to my table. Soon there was nothing left but a few waters. That's when the classroom open house started. 

Amy and I went to each of Bryce's classes, in her regular schedule order, and got to meet and hear from her teachers. It was a great turnout overall and most of the classrooms where full of eager parents wanting to learn what was in store for their children. 

It was the same story the next night when we went to Beatrice's high school open house. Except it was over 20 degrees cooler. That's Santa Cruz for you. I should've sold drinks that night for sure. Beatrice was excited to help us find each of her classes, and again, we really enjoyed meeting all her teachers. 

Being on our local school board, I have the privilege of serving our community, our district teachers, our district staff, and most importantly, our district kids TK-12. It was inspiring to hear this year all our teaching positions were filled! This hasn't been easy here or in many districts throughout California and the rest of the United States. Especially in rural areas. And now the teacher shortage has gotten worse, declining 16%, even after a seven-year increase in the number of new teacher credentials issued in California.

Public education is one of the cornerstones of a sound and thriving democracy. And while democracy isn't exactly thriving right now, I have hope that it will hold. What else does public education mean to America, and to our family? 

These reasons (according to the California School Board Association - CSBA and the Masters in Governance course I'm taking as a school board member): 

• A tuition-free education for all students.
• The promise of equal educational opportunities no matter race, religion, or ability.
• A commitment to high standards and high expectations for all students.
• A system of governance that ensures public accountability.

The public school system is not without its challenges, though, including teaching and staffing shortages, declining enrollment, budget shortfalls, navigating the academic and behavioral setbacks that occurred during COVID, fewer resources for students with special needs and those with cultural and language needs, divisive culture wars, mental health struggles, antiquated curriculum for some, among other challenges. There are also alternatives for families when the public school system doesn't work for them. 

But the public school system has provided our children with the educational resources and quality teaching since preschool that have helped them thrive academically and socially. I see that district-wide now as a board member, from elementary to secondary. Our daughter Beatrice might even want to be a teacher someday, and we couldn't be prouder. This is why I'm hopeful after meeting teacher after teacher who teach all the kids in our district. Who prepare our kids for college and/or career. Who help our kids believe they can be the best versions of themselves -- inclusive and empathetic critical thinkers. Our kids, our future. That's what it's all about.

Frame By Frame

It's becoming our thing, like reading together. Watching Wes Anderson films that is. Our youngest Bryce, who just turned 13, loves the different, the strange, the obscure, the artsy, the smart avant-garde, the visually appealing story unlike the mainstream formulaic. And so do I.

Recently we watched Asteroid City together and loved it. It's not for everyone, including my wife Amy and our oldest Beatrice. But it is for Bryce and I. She doesn't even know all the actors who were in it like I do, and there were many. This is true for most Wes Anderson films. 

I kept telling her throughout the movie, "This is so weird and good." And she wholeheartedly agreed. 

Was it a play about a movie, or a movie about a play? Was it a retro satirical look at the 1950's UFO fears? Was it ultimately about dealing with one's own mortality and grieving about death? Who the heck knows. We really didn't, and while the ratings weren't great for it, you like what you like, and we liked. 

"Every frame of the movie is like a work of art, don't you think?" I said to Bryce. 

"Yes," she agreed again. "I love it!"

In fact, even when we lost the threads of story watching the film, it didn't matter, because it was art for us, every shot a vividly detailed still-life painting storybook. 

Years ago our kids watched Fantastic Mr. Fox, based on Roald Dahl's book of the same name. They both loved it, and Bryce realized now it was another Wes Anderson film.

The other night Bryce and I watched Isle of Dogs, another one she'd watched before and loved. Again, the style of Wes's storytelling, whether animated or live action, is fascinating. Now, we have a list of his movies we're going to watch, some I've already seen and some I haven't, including Bottle Rocket, his first movie. 

That will be the fun part, watching more of these movies with Bryce (although maybe not Rushmore, Mom said). But more than that, us watching both Bryce and Beatrice grow up has been a rich tapestry of moving storybook art, frame by frame, just like a Wes Anderson film. Each of moment of their lives vivid and colorful, still-life pictures over the years rushing by in succession creating movement, sound, and memories -- happy and sad and all in between. These we can watch together over and over and over again. 

I Am Me

"Any life is made up of a single moment, the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is."

—Jorge Luis Borges

The first time we landscaped our small backyard, I didn't really know who I was. The yard was nothing but rocks, weeds, and ground that was as hard as cement. It was back-breaking work, but my wife Amy and I did it all ourselves, grass, flagstone, and all. We also planted the Japanese maple Amy had given me when we were first dating. The only exception to the backyard work was the installation of sprinklers that a friend of ours helped us with, which was way above our pay grade. That yard lasted as is for years, through the birth of both our children, Beatrice and Bryce. 

The second time we landscaped it, I was learning more about who I was. We replaced the old, dying grass with new sod, and added more flagstone. Some plants were replaced and we created an outdoor enclosure for our rabbit. Although it wasn't as back-breaking as the first time, it was still a lot of hard, sweaty work.

This past year we've been doing a series of home upgrades from floors to rooms, most of which wasn't our handiwork (again, above our pay grade and expertise). We're so grateful to have lived in this house for over 17 years, the house our children were literally born in (well, at least Bryce was -- Beatrice was another story). We've lived fully in every square foot of this house, including our backyard. I can't imagine living anywhere else.

Which leads me to that old saying, the third time's the charm. Back in January of this year, our backyard was a mound of muddy dirt after we had new drainage put in; we were starting from ground zero again. That was the beginning of the latest backyard refresh. One I didn't want to do ourselves this time. Too much back-breaking work, and as I inch toward 60 years of age, my back doesn't want to break anymore. 

But that's not what's happening. No, what's happening is that we are doing it again ourselves, because I wanted to do it again ourselves. Amy and I both did. We're repurposing the flagstone we had installed the first and second times, creating a new path around the back of the house to our main gate, will eventually add gravel and more plants and presto! A life renewed.

From rocky hard ground to mud pit to repurposed path, discovering who I am has definitely been an amazing journey, especially the past 26 years since I've been with Amy and starting a family. As I dig once again in the hard-packed backyard dirt, the slow-burn self-realization where I am today has inspired me. From the face of seemingly unending chaos at times to mindful moments of spiritual alignment, I really do control my own path.

Because the moment has finally come for me to know who I am: I am me. Amen.

A Beautiful Mess In Progress

After graduating 8th grade, our oldest Beatrice stressed about going to high school. Who wouldn't? I remember I did. It's such a big change, just like going from grade school to middle school. Like me her dad, stress keeps her up at night, and sleep is a restless mind-scramble mess.

But then she was a junior leader again at a local day camp in town working with 7-8 year-old kids, something she's loved to do, and the high school stress disappeared for the summer. This is the second year she's done it, and next year she'll be able to be a paid summer counselor, which is what she wants to do.

After summer camp was over, something wonderful happened; the week before the start of high school, she really wasn't that stressed any more. High school orientation came and went and it got her super excited about high school. She'll be 15 soon and there's a new level of teen maturity we hadn't seen until this summer. 

Same with her sister Bryce, who will be 13 soon and starting 7th grade. Both girls are very close and share a lot of the same interests -- but also couldn't be more different from one another. Bryce can be dark and broody, not wanting to talk a lot, rarely smiling, and always listening to her music. Beatrice is usually bright and shiny, always wanting to talk a lot, always smiling, and always drawing in her sketch pads. 

Like summer camp for Bea, the theater and choir are what have matured Bryce. After being in Beauty and the Beast last spring, Bryce is auditioning for The Addams Family musical this fall. And now that she's in her second year of middle school choir, may even want to try out for small solo parts. 

We're so proud of both kids, but my wife Amy and I would never want to put either of them in a box. Meaning, label them by what's seen on the surface, because there's so much more to the essence of them. To any us for that matter. 

A few months ago they watched The Breakfast Club with us, one of our favorite teen angst coming-of-age movies. Ironically, the movie came out the year after I graduated high school and the year Amy started high school, but it still left quite the impact on us both. 

Beyond the cheesy teen antics, it's an intense emotional drama at times. Our girls liked it, too. Out of all the questions they could have asked us, they asked if either of us had been in detention, and I told them I had lunch detention in high school for a week due to too many 1st period tardies. This was when I was student body president, too. Mercy me. They thought that was funny, especially when I told them the other kids in detention said to me, "Dude, your the school president. Wow."

Neither of our kids want to be labeled or put in a box (or be in detention). That's why they liked the note that the "brain" character writes at the end of The Breakfast Club for Mr. Vernon, their detention teacher, who had asked them to write an essay telling him who they think they are. 

Like all of us who have kids, teens in high school and middle school, they are so many things beyond what is seen on the surface. Getting to know who we really are is always a messy work in progress growing up and throughout adulthood. A beautiful mess in progress. We are all the things -- a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, and a princess, and a criminal -- and so much more. 

Sincerely Yours,

The #BhivePower Club