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New daditude: Today's fathers are hands-on, pressure off
Photo by Cindy Seigle - http://www.flickr.com/people/cindy47452/
I was just 16.17 years old, approximately, when I received my first ticket for speeding. The problem was, I was innocent – really! I was trying to explain this to my four year-old, but even she wouldn’t buy my story. It’s not fair!
Maybe the court of public opinion will way-in on my side and I can finally feel vindicated. Here’s my story. I had gone to visit friends near Sherwood High School, in what was then rural Washington County. As I pulled out onto the main road, I assumed a speed that was “reasonable and prudent” for the conditions. It was a typical country road with a yellow line down the road. At that time, most roads that looked and felt like this were posted at 40 mph. So, that’s the speed I chose.
Suddenly, and without any provocation on my part, there was a Washington County Deputy Sheriff on my tail – with his overhead lights flashing. Apparently, not only was this NOT a 40 mph road, but I was in a school zone too. Despite my earnest teenage explanations, the deputy walked off with a “Harumpf!”
Being the young nerd that I was am, I figured this would be no trouble when I explained it to the judge. Two months later, I asked my Dad if I could borrow the car. He was mildly impressed that I was willing to face the judge alone, but then again, that’s the way he raised me – self-sufficient to the last drop!
As I stood in front of the grumpy, old judge and explained why I was indeed, not guilty, his glare nearly cut through my Greg Brady locks and seared my frail brain. I was not only intimidated, but quite dismayed that he questioned my wisdom, my explanation of the facts, and my innocence. “Harumpf!” He mumbled. “Guilty. Pay the clerk. Next case.”
What amazed me even more was the emotion this raised in me, as I related the story to my loving family. I was still angry. I’d been wronged. How dare he/they! I was right – dammit!
I looked at my Darling Demure Daughter in the mirror. Her worshiping eyes probed me for answers. “Daddy, why didn’t he believe you”? she asked. I tried hard to explain the mind of grumpy old men of authority. I vainly attempted to explain the naivety of very young teenagers. I struggled to explain that even though I was right – the stated speed limit in Oregon, at that time, was whatever is “reasonable and prudent.” And though I’d been driving since I was eight years old, and I was driving reasonably and prudently, for the conditions, 16.17 year-old boys actually have no concept of what reasonable and prudent means – let alone to determine how to apply it.
And with that probing discussion, I convinced myself that I was indeed guilty as charged. What!? What. “Oh.” I said to my adoring wife. “I suppose I should forgive those grumpy, old men who done me wrong?” So, right there and then, in the presence of my family, I forgave those men and moved on. About time, don’t you think?
Photo by Levi - http://www.flickr.com/people/leviphotos/
As I’ve contemplated this story over the last day, I realized that little injustices like this can stack up on a guy. They can also sneak up and beat us down! Today a man called me a moron because my agenda interfered with his. He was livid. I apologized, but it was a pretty minor infraction – yet he looked like he wanted to hurt kill me. I’ve known that rage. Too many men live with it.
Today, in Starbucks, I watched a young, pretty, but very sad mother talk with a caseworker. Her children were struggling to maintain a grip on some foundation of reality. I casually watched, and wondered. Why was this woman so sad? Just then she laughed, and I could see where many of her teeth had been knocked out. My heart wept.
I have suffered many injustices. So have you. I’m in the middle of one right now. “They didn’t listen!” I cried. “They don’t care!” “It’s not right! It’s not fair!” “Listen to me!” I shout – but they aren’t. And they don’t.
Let it go. Forgive them. Not because they deserve it, but because you will be a better person if you do. You will be happier if you let go of the hurt, the anger, the frustration – and the injustice. All of them. If you don’t do it for yourself – at least do it for those you love (or will love).
NOTE: The best part of this – which I didn’t do on purpose, was to model this for my kids.
This is the extended Walter Family, c.1979
The absence of grandparents is really a serious dilemma for modern parents. When I was growing up, we had regular and frequent contact with all four of my grandparents. I even remember spending time with my maternal great-grandmother, who died when I was very young. But in today’s mobile society, families often live several states away from their kids’ grandparents and other extended family. I didn’t realize how challenging this could be until the last 19 months since we moved to Oregon.
While in Colorado, we had older friends at church who stepped in as surrogate grandparents to my kids. We also had a couple of families who were as close as our own siblings. These are awesome people who spoiled my kids with love and provided a safe embrace for our family. Here, I have some aunts and uncles across the Mighty Columbia River, in the Vancouver area, but even though it’s only an hour away, it isn’t always convenient to visit. My aunts are filled with love and treat my kids as if they were their own grandkids – they’ve also been incredibly loving and supportive to The Wife during some of her health issues over the last year. The best way to love me is to love my family!
Yesterday we drove down to Ocean Park, Washington, on the Long Beach Peninsula, to spend some time with aunts, uncles, cousins, and their kids. Through the years, my Dad’s siblings and extended family have all been close. Our time with them yesterday just reminded me how important it is to have extended family nearby – and more importantly, people who love us unconditionally.
Extended family is important for our kids!
Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and surrogates all provide a solid foundation for our kids. They offer the kind of unconditional love that only non-parents, who love our kids as much as we do, can offer. They hold our kids, emotionally and physically. They listen in an unhurried way that tells our kids that they are the most important people on the planet at that moment. They offer physical and emotional safety during times of change.
The Extended Walter Family, c. 1969
Extended Family is important for our marriage!
Not only does extended family provide a safe place to get safe parenting advice, but it is a good place to let one’s guard down and be yourselves. Every marriage needs this kind of space. These people will hold us accountable, but in constructive ways. Plus, and this is probably the most important, extended family are able to provide safe, similar-values, babysitting. Every couple needs regular date nights (unfortunately, this is something The Wife and I have not had much of in the past two years – and that is not good).
Extended family is important for me!
Yesterday, as I began to get into a power struggle with my four year-old, Darling Determined Daughter, my aunt stepped in. We were able to get the toys put away, after some struggle, by turning it into a game. However, getting her to stop that game and move on to the next task, so we could drive home, was becoming a war of wills. Just as she lay down on the floor and started crying, and I began the counting: one, two…, my aunt picked up my Darling Daughter and held her close. She just loved on her.
I told The Wife on the way home that it was amazing how she did that. My aunt didn’t usurp my authority, she didn’t stop the process of getting my daughter to obey, and she didn’t contribute to any power struggles. She just calmly stepped in, loved on my Darling Daughter, and then quietly explained the next two tasks that needed to be accomplished. Within 15 minutes we were in the car driving home from the coast. It was awesome to watch! The whole experience left me empowered as a parent, left my daughter feeling loved, and our precious father-daughter relationship intact.
Extended family is important to our identity!
Being around people that love us, unconditionally, and know us, like no one else does, is very relaxing. This environment allows us to be real and authentic. It’s very difficult to keep secrets from people who used to change your diapers! All the women cook like my Mom did (we had macaroni salad yesterday that tasted “just like Mom’s”), and love on my kids like my Mom would have. On top of that, my cousins are like brothers and sisters to me. Coming home from a family gathering, like yesterday’s, is very centering.
My Dad, Me, My Mom, and my Darling (newborn) Daughter
The next time you consider moving to another state to take a job, or to move away from your family, think twice (even if you don’t have kids). There are some costs that cannot be measured financially. Even though this position in Oregon was farther from our extended families, it was closer to a major airport and we thought that would be better than 3 day drives. Telephones, email, photo/video-sharing sites, and infrequent visits are no substitute for real families doing life together.
If you have the opportunity, stay close to your family – geographically and emotionally! You, and your family, will be healthier and better balanced because those who love you most will be able to reach out and touch you better.
These photos of my paternal great-grandparents were taken to commemorate their wedding.
As we prepared for my maternal grandmother’s funeral, it was my honor to go through a few boxes of her mementos and write a eulogy. She and I always had a special relationship, so it was a melancholy and nostalgic journey that lasted well into the early morning hours. I discovered that she was voted most beautiful in her high school class, and a host of other unknown facts. I even discovered a piece of her 60 year old wedding cake, carefully wrapped in foil.
As we go through life, acquiring stuff, we rarely think about what will happen to our stuff when we die. At a certain age, or when we have children, we may create a Will, but for the most part, we rarely think about those little things that clutter the corners of our desk drawers. It isn’t the photos, valuables, or capital items that we ignore, but the old letters, concert ticket stubs, and not-so cherished knickknacks.
As my grandmother’s health deteriorated, my mother had the unenviable task of downsizing her estate. First she moved from a three-bedroom ranch home (with a very full garage, craft room, kitchen, and attic), to a two-room retirement apartment. As a child of the depression (she graduated from West Linn High School in 1929), she kept everything – margarine tubs and plastic bags were her specialty. The task was quite overwhelming for my Mom and the thought of doing the same is daunting for me!
My Dad didn’t really get rid of anything after my Mom died three years ago. However, several boxes or keepsakes and crafts ended up in my brother’s basement. My Dad isn’t really a sentimental kind of guy. Stuff means very little to him, but when he moved into a new, smaller place, shortly after my Mom’s death, he recreated her decorating style almost perfectly. It was amazing – really! This stuff was important to him, because it had been important to his wife, my Mom, for 49 and a half years.
Temporarily living in a 24-foot travel trailer in our driveway, his stuff was stored in our extra bedroom, garage, and basement. We’ve enjoyed having my Dad “around” and sharing meals with us – but that living arrangement was not for the claustrophobic. Last week he found a small place to rent – and I do mean small. It is a15′x15′ studio house – one room, a tiny bathroom, and a very-small closet.
I asked my brother about the future and what will we do when my Dad dies?
Photo by stuart updegrave - http://www.flickr.com/people/supdegrave/
Even before my brother and I began to unload the trailer, it was very apparent that all of this stuff was not going to fit. Oh, sure, we could get it all in, but there wouldn’t be any living room left over. With the trailer only half unloaded, we were already putting things in the primitive carport. It was obvious that my Dad was going to have to downsize – and we still had another trailer load (or two) at my house. What to do?
On the 15 minute drive to go get more stuff, I asked my brother about the future and what will we do when my Dad dies? In the middle of a move is not the time to decide what to keep and what to throw away – or sell. And my frail, 74 year-old father was already exhausted, stressed, and on his last legs – literally. I’ve never before seen him hunched over his cane like that.
150 years ago, people didn’t have this much stuff! My ancestors lived in one and two-room cabins. My Dad was born in the two-room log cabin his grandfather built, after emigrating across the Oregon Trail. In 1934 when my Dad was born, there was still no electricity, or running water in the house. Most furniture, in the 1800s, was handmade and was easily discarded when it lost it’s usefulness. Family heirlooms usually consisted of a single teacup, or a pocket watch. Photographs and financial portfolios were unheard of. They didn’t face these dilemmas. And given that three generations often lived in one house, what little they had was easily passed on without having to “make it fit.“
All five of my senses seem to be linked to my memories.
In my house, I now have six ten+ large plastic bins full of photographs that span the last 100 years of my paternal and maternal family. I have books, boxes of heirlooms, paintings, favorite pieces of furniture, and boxes of stuff. I, being more nostalgic than my brother, have an emotional attachment to this stuff that makes it hard to discard. But really, what am I going to do with six, mis-matched, antique, China tea-cups? What would I do with a box of hand-embroidered pillow-cases that my maternal great-grandmother gave my Mom on her wedding day? I dont’ have enough storage for my own eclectic collections from a life well-lived.
As I stand in the bedroom where half of my Dad’s stuff is still stored, I see remnants of a life that I want to hold onto. I have cherished my parents, my grandparents, and the stories of my ancestry. I revel in being a fifth-generation Oregonian and the physical mementos let me touch the past. It is a very real form of time travel for me.
Photo by Gary (gazzat) - http://www.flickr.com/people/gazzat/
All five of my senses seem to be linked to my memories. Whether it be a song from my past, a fragrance, or some tactile reminder, it is easy for me to travel back in time. A taste of a comfort-food, or an old photograph, and my mind can leap into my childhood. It is a gift, and a curse.
But the question remains, for how many generations can we continue to collect these analog reminders to our past? My solution (when I get around to it!), take photographs and store the memories digitally.
How do you handle the accumulation of family heirlooms, mementos, and stuff? How will you deal with the disposal of those items, when the time comes? When you look into the past, what do you see? How will you let that explain your future?
Photo by: Michael Ferrari - http://www.flickr.com/people/bunshee/
Time stood still as I stood motionless in the stranger’s apartment. It was beautifully furnished. There was a baby grand piano across the room with a silver tea set carefully placed on an expensive table cloth. Exquisite furniture, expensive carpets, and decoration only found in the most expensive homes. Yet, here on the floor, lay an elderly woman in her night clothes. She looked very peaceful.
I was a young, eager, and very inexperienced EMT. Not yet a paramedic, that would come several years into the future. Now, on this quiet Sunday morning in SW Portland, I stood in a luxury, retirement, high rise building in the 16th floor suite of a very unconscious, peaceful elderly woman. My senses sought desperately to keep up with the scene unfolding around me, but my body remained motionless.
My partner on the ambulance that day was one of the first paramedics in the country, yet he was only a few years older than me. His certification number was three – as in the third in the nation. Bob carried himself with the nonchalance of the streetwise, the coolness of the experienced, and the cynicism of someone who has seen the darkest of the human soul. I wasn’t his regular partner, in fact, I normally worked transporting people in wheelchairs. This was just a fill-in shift – to prepare me for my future as a street medic.
As I knelt down next to this very serene lady, I realized there was no one else in the apartment. Who called us? Who let us in? Why was she lying on the floor? I was still dazed and sleepy from being awoken from a sound sleep. The whole experience was so surreal. Driving South on Broadway, through downtown Portland, at 6:00am on a Sunday morning, with red lights flashing against empty storefronts – but in absolute stillness and quiet. And now, standing in this wealthy woman’s home – my mind couldn’t keep up.
“Maybe we should do some chest compressions?” Bob calmly asked as he prepared to assess her EKG with the LifePak heart monitor.
I was jolted into an embarrassed reality. I had taken my first CPR class when I was 15 years old. I’d run my first emergency call that same year. I’d run dozens of calls on a volunteer ambulance in rural, eastern Washington – and yet, here I sat, trying to understand, but without understanding. This woman had no pulse. How did I miss that? In my inexperienced hesitancy, I was taking my clues from my partner.
Photo by K. Anders - http://www.flickr.com/people/status6/
I placed my hands on her sternum. I had never performed CPR on a real person before. Her skin was loose, and cold. Her chest was so much more compliant than the CPR mannequins. As I pushed down, her abdomen rose up. With each compression, her stomach would bounce up. One-1000, two-1000, three-1000 – Bob dismissed my meager attempts as he checked her rhythm with the paddles. Asystole – no electrical activity. She was clearly DOA. He began putting equipment back in the kits.
I don’t remember much after that moment. It was a transcendent experience. I had touched death, yet here I was alive to ponder it. I know we didn’t transport her to the hospital, that would be the work of the funeral home. I know we didn’t linger at the apartment, it was time for shift change. I’m not sure who stayed with the body until the funeral home arrived.
But I do remember the piano and the tea set – and how worthless all that stuff was to the serene lady on the floor.
