Journey to Spain, Part 2: Granada

Granada is a rough hewn and bustling town with its historical claim to fame, as far as I can tell, is that it was the last Moorish town to fall back into the hands of Christian Spain. It was here in 1492 that Queen Isabel and King Ferdinand confronted the resident Moors centered in the Al Alhambra and retook the region, Andalusia, for Spain. If I have this right, it was a generally peaceful exchange as most of the Moors had been divided amongst themselves and were weakened both by internal and gradually external factors.

We stayed at a simple pension, near the old Jewish Quarter, Realejo, which was perhaps the least interesting and least lively of the three main neighborhoods in central Granada. The other two are the Christian and Moslem (Albaycin). Our pension was at the base of the road that leads up the hill to Alhambra: the Moorish castle, government seat and pleasure house. On our first full day, we walked up to the Alhambra where we bumped into the choir’s tour and thus the kids. Here are some pictures from that enjoyable morning/afternoon.

The above photo is taken from the Generalife, the royal gardens, orchards across from the Alhambra.

And several other photos from the Generalife.

I suspected that cat was fishing without a license.
For even better pictures of the Generalife and Alhambra click here.

Here is a very effective mobile mouse trap used exclusively on the palace grounds, pleasant demeanor not required.

Here are some of the choristers with their chaperone, leader, and teacher outside of the Juan Carlos V addition to the Alhambra. The group named themselves the 'recon squad.' They were delighted to take in the sights in their unique and youthful manner under the steady and mature supervision of a masterful guide and protector.
This was taken on the grounds of the Alhambra.

And what is a fortress without some cannons?!

This picture below attempts to communicate the fascinating effect of perfectly circular buildings/ampitheaters. When one stands in the center, one's voice reverberates stereophonically around oneself. So, if you are inclined to talk to yourself, and like what you hear, you could happily install one of these forum like structures on your palace grounds.

Well, the rest of the day was spent relaxing, walking, reading and resting. Actually, I think this was the afternoon that I, at least, went back to the bus station across town to buy our tickets to Seville. I walked and caught several buses to the station, got the tickets, and decided upon a simple, less arduous taxi ride for my return trip. Just before speeding away, I was somehow motivated to look at the ground just outside the door of the taxi where upon my billfold lay. Stopping the cabbie, I picked it up grateful for all the many protections that are provided us by our guardian angels.

That evening, there was another choir performance. We, my fabulous and well travelled in-laws and a fellow from the school shadowing his daughter and wife on the tour, had been invited by friends to meet up with them at their apartment rental in the Albaycin area prior to the concert. They are thoughtful and kind people and had prepared for us a wonderful spread of cheeses, olives, bread, wine and slices of a Spanish delicacy, thinly sliced aired cured ham. Here is picture of a nearby deli where the ceiling was veritably loaded with the stuff.

Interesting to see, delicious to eat. I've been told that hanging ham like this not only saves space and ages the ham, but also testifies that the shop owner isn't kosher and shouldn't be ransacked or otherwise ostracized for being Jewish.

Our hosts took good care of us. They had even scouted out a lovely restaruant for us to dine at after the performance. It was a very nice meal and a pleasant evening with them.

After our preconcert get together, we headed to the performance at the Basilica of Juan de Dios. Here is a picture of the Basilica’s retablo. The choir sang a few paces in front of this backdrop.

Believe it or not, I met a man named Juan de Dios in the Basilica of Juan de Dios. We were seated next to one another, again great seats just a few rows from the front. After getting comfortable, and being early, there was some time to visit before the concert began. We chatted a little here and there about various things: the choir (he was impressed that they weren't charging admission), politics, recently elected Obama, Clinton’s trip to Granada years ago, and about the Basilica, of which he is very proud. San Juan de Dios is co-patron of Granada along with Santa Maria. I think the original Juan de Dios was Italian, and after becoming a priest, his journeys and service to the poor brought him to southern Spain.

The performance was lovely, so much so that during it, I had resolved for several reasons to try and give them a standing ovation. So, after the last song I jumped to my feet, I was very near the front, and clapped standing like only a one and half armed guy who decides to do such a thing can, with gusto. I was proud of the choir and their directors. They were pouring out their talents and discipline for these strangers who had welcomed us strangers into their lives for the sake of beautiful music. The world, at moments, can be such a beautiful and marvelous place. I look forward to heaven where I’ve heard it is like these moments multiplied by great magnitudes ALL THE TIME! Oh my.

I said goodbye to my new friend Juan de Dios, a very devout Catholic man, and he told me that he had decided that he would meet me the following morning for the choir’s mass at the Granada Cathedral, which he did. The cathedral is a magnificent (huge) building and the liturgy was again very dignified and meaningful. There is not much like the comfort of being a traveler in a strange land and finding that the symbolism and ritual of prayer is common, more accurately universal. I love being catholic. My life doesn’t make sense any other way.

One could sense the same of Juan. He came late to mass, sat next to me and we participated in the liturgy together. In Spain, some of the standing, sitting, and kneeling moments differ from the American church and as a congregation we were a little confused and unsure of what to do next. I like to kneel and dear old Juan knelt alongside with me even though I knew no better and the Spaniards were standing or sitting. Oh well, one of the downsides of tending to sit up front. Either way, we all sent up our meager and humble prayers together during mass. Mine were principally for a young classmate of my middle son, who had fallen critically ill at the time. I also prayed for a friend of mine, one of the best men I am privileged to know personally, who will probably never see Spain in person. I also thought a lot of my two grandfathers, wonderful and old European types, who would have loved to have been there with me, but both of whom have died in the last few years. I was travelling for others and in spirit was joined with others as well.

For these men young, old, and gone, I prayed and the church was full of the choir’s ethereal music. At one point, the acoustics were such that the choir’s voices resonated behind me though the choir was situated in front of me and to the right. The sound was clear, crisp, bright and coming from behind me! Haunting and playful, the notes saturated the space filling our humble hearts with a touch of greatness. Thank you for the singing!

After mass, Juan was ready to guide me around the cathedral and environs. Unfortunately, we had to walk back through several meandering city blocks following the choir in order to collect up our respective children for the first ‘parent’ day of the trip. By the time, I collected up the kids. Juan had to go and my personal tour never happened. We exchanged addresses and said our goodbyes. He is a father and grandfather and perhaps a widower. Above all, he struck me as a sincere and devout man in love with the beauty of his Church and neighborhood. Here is a picture of the two of us.
The kids and I then managed to take in a few sights without our well versed or local guides. (My in-laws, excellent travel companions and guides, had returned to Madrid the morning of the mass in the Granada Cathedral, and Juan de Dios had made his exit.) The kids and I walked the neighborhoods around the cathedral, got helado -- my daughter has a memory for delicious spots she previously noted while in town on the tour -- but mostly we just enjoyed the sun and the common life offered in the adjacent plazas.

Here is a picture of the Granada Cathedral. The buildings are rather close near the huge cathedral in Granada. This is best picture I have of the outside.
The following day, after the kids had departed to Seville, my travel mate and I took in the Capilla Real, the small but richly appointed resting place of Isabel and Ferdinand, and the heir to the throne and his wife. Photos were prohibited, so I don’t have any pictures of the immense and intricate carved marble burial covers that rested over the crypt. In the chapel, but especially in the sacristy there was a plethora of marvelous artwork. Most notable among them were several by van der Weyden as well as a stunning Dead Christ in the Tomb by Perugino. We took our time here, allowing various tours to glide past us. The interior of the chapel and the sacristy encouraged a reflective mood and the opportunity to absorb some of the history and richness of the lives of the great monarchs and their commitment to endowing a lasting structure, artworks and relics for the town of Granada. It was a great way to close out our visit of the city.

The next post, Part 3 of 4 will be on Seville. I should have it posted by Sunday.

Journey to Spain, Part 1: Segovia

Hello. I am experimenting with this new blog site, so bear with me. I thought it might be nice to post some of my photos for those of you who are interested. This is part one of a four part series on our central/southern Spain tour. Enjoy!

As some of you might know, my two older kids and I went to Spain in November. They were part of the Madeleine School Choir, I was tagging along for moral support. It was great. We all had powerful and lasting experiences, yes there was some drama (human frailty has a passport!), but all in all, it was a life changing journey for the better. It has been a goal of mine for about 15 years to go to Spain, now it is my goal to return within five. It was a lovely time, with many thought provoking and spiritually significant opportunities, if one is so inclined. Spain's architectural and cultural relics are amazing and many are still very much in use!

Above is the Cathedral in Segovia at night after a wonderful dinner at a place off the plaza called Jose Maria. The salmon and soup were remarkable. So, was the wine.

Below, is the church of San Millan in Segovia where the choir sang for the Sunday mass. It was an old (13th century?) simple and pleasant neighborhood church. The pastor was a modest and dignified Spaniard who was very gracious to host such a magnificent cultural exchange of beauty and richness.


Here below is a picture of the Segovia Cathedral during the day.


This is an interesting (sunset) picture from the city walls of the Roman Aqueduct that is a couple thousand years old. Once upon a time, a statue of Heracles was nested at the crown of the Aqueduct, now resides a statue of Santa Maria Regina del cielo y mundo.


This is the store front of a restaurant that was very enjoyable at various times of the day and night, Jose Maria. It is just off of the plaza.

When I went in to get a reservation for the following evening, the gentleman took my reservation in Spanish. Fine, I did my best, and we seemed to have communicated, but just to be safe, I asked for his name in case I might need to call upon him to hopefully remember me and verify our reservation. His reply to my query about his name was 'Jose Maria, senor.' I was a little confused because my Spanish, albeit not horrid, isn't excellent, so I thought that he misunderstood. I knew what the name of the restaurant was, I had wanted his name in case I need to call on him, not the restaurant to verify my reservation at some later point. 'Si, senor, mi nombre es Jose Maria.' Clarity was mine and we had a little laugh over it especially after I told him, which is true, that my two oldest children have the English equivalents of Jose and Maria. He was/is the son of the owners and founders of the restaurant! Nice place. I hope to return. N.B., in Spain, a traditional specialty dish is roast suckling pig. Nested in the wall of the store front on the right is a bronze statue testifying to said dish and the house specialty. For all my fine dinners, I never indulged in a full serving of this authentic delicacy, though I humbly accepted a morsel here and there from my table mates. It is good. In the US such a dish would probably be violently boycotted and the cute little bronze in the picture, if stateside would be consistently effaced with red paint. 'This little pig went to market, this little pig would stay home..."

This last picture (actually video) from Segovia is of the choir performing. They were warmly welcomed by the local children's choir and their parents, neighbors, and friends. Segovia is a lovely place with generous people. Among them, I had the privilege to befriend a fellow named Camillo, whose two daughters are in the Segovia children's choir. He teaches English, so we could work out my rough Spanish with his English fluency. His children and mine were introduced after the concert. He confided in a later communication that he and his friends were amazed at seeing so many Americans present in the audience. The Church, San Juan de los Cabelleros, was packed to standing room only! Actually, at one point an elderly Spaniard graciously offered his seat to an elderly woman while I was sitting comfortably next to him, now her. Well, now I felt obliged to offer my seat to him as I was much the younger. I offered, he said no; I offered with gesture, insisting kindly and in Spanish that he have my seat; he said no. At this point, I risked a scene mid-performance, (we had great seats near the front), so I gave up and offered the seat to a younger lady standing nearby. His sense of honor perhaps would not allow his magnanimity to be impugned. Mine neither, so we stood for the rest of the performance together!

Well, that is all for Segovia. The next day (and the whole day), we travelled by high speed train, subway, and bus to the southern city of Granada. Check back in a few days for the next installment, Granada: am I Moorish, Christian or Jewish?

Arc the Herald Angels Singe

Hi. I'm back. This is the first Mini-van-dad entry in years; I guess it is the holiday cheer just bubbling up so strongly in me that I just can't help it anymore. Oh, I'll be truthful, it is just the coffee kicking in. Even more truthful is that my wife got such a kick out the following near death experience (mine) that she encouraged me to write it down for posterity. Yes, there will be laughter when I am gone!

Whatever the motivator, it is great to be back in a kinder, gentler, less expensive venue (this is free as far as I know). Yes, times are tough and even resourceful minivandads are hurting. Well, actually, we are hurting more than pretty much any other segment of the population because we are multitasked to extreme (read near delerium) on a moment to moment basis without hardly any remuneration. Though, I do remember finding a quarter in between the cars seats once. That was cool. There was also an old french fry there, with some fry sauce too, but I consider those perqs. To the point, I am going to keep this entry particularly brief as I am heading promptly to Capital Hill for a bailout, or a shellout, or a bombshelter for hurting minivandads everywhere. Without asistance, we'll be underpaid, potentially homeless, forgotten, abused...would you buy underappreciated? Well, I hope so 'cause, in times like these, you fine taxpayers are my greatest asset...if I can get a bailout. I don't really remember exactly what I am supposed to get once I arrive, but my wife thinks its cool that I am going with a list, so that at least I'll look like I have a clear plan to revitalize the industry.

Oh yes, the list! This brings me back to Christmas! and Angels!

As some of you might know, I really try to be a good husband. (I am practicing all the time!) So, this year, when my dear wife asked me to hang Christmas lights on the roof of the house, I said no way, that's &$%# crazy. No, no, I actually paused, thought about how it was dangerous, electrical, and daring, so I thought that it was a perfect opportunity for a minivandad to generate excitement, panache, and real life skills that I'll never use in the workforce because there isn't one anymore! Actually, I paused, to give the impression of thought, and then after counting to seven or something I said yes, deliberately, but without any reticience. My bad.

Out came the ladder and out came the lights. In went the plugs and shined up all my stripes. Oops. This is not my poetry class. The first part of the roofline is easy to string with lights as it is over a balcony/deck. So far, so good. Then comes the hard part. We get out the next string of lights, yes I have faithful Christmas helpers. But in so doing, one of the lights break. Don't worry, no one was hurt. I just mumbled something inaudible that I don't even remember now. Then, I just kept drawing out the lights to continue along the roofline. At this point I am three-fourths the way up a sixteen foot ladder. That's right a SIXTEEN FOOT ladder. It was really cool and was kind of freaking me out, ok, ok just a little, but I didn't show it. I let others around articulate my inner feelings so that then I might more easily resist them. My wife and oldest son both chimed in, "Hey, you're making me nervous. Really nervous. Yeh it's kind of freaking me out." And another less invested child calls out, "Looks pretty dad." I encouraged all observers that instead of worrying, they might better use their concern by praying to their guardian angels to protect dear old dad in his civic activity of increasing our energy dependence and generating excess revenue for the local power company.

Just then, before I finished exhorting my fine helpers, I realized that the lights were still plugged in and that the broken light was not really all that broken. The filament was still illuminated, only the protective glass had broken, exposing the circuit for me to inadvertently put my fingers into it as I was pulling up more lights to the roof line. There were several sparks, the noise of popping circuits, and the very unpleasant smell of burning hair. And I was on a SIXTEEN FOOT ladder!

I checked my ungloved hand, it also happens to be my only hand, so I cherish it. The thought then occured to me, albeit a little late, that I should really be wearing a glove in this cold weather and working as I am with lights and electricity and SIXTEEN FOOT ladders. Then, not feeling any pain and not seeing a white light at the end of a tunnel, and still being on the said SIXTEEN FOOT ladder, I looked more closely at my hand and saw gray ash streaks around my wedding ring on my ring finger. The Christmas lights arced out on my wedding ring! I have always held that my marriage saved life and improved its quality immeasurably, but I really wasn't thinking that it worked this directly!

Now, without any pausing to imitate thoughtfulness, I call down to my fans and supporters, "The lights just arced out on my wedding ring. Yeh, I am okay, I just need to see about the lights and the fuse box." (When I am really freaking out, I don't cuss.) After making my descent, I showed the wife my ring and told her what happened. On the ring there was a soldering scar left when the electricity melted that spot. There was also a sharp fleck of some baser metal. (Yeh, it still kind of hurts when I touch it.)

After settling up with the fuses and what have you, I thanked my prayerful helpers for their support. I am convinced that without their prayers my guardian, I mean ARC-angel might not had intervened so promptly and fortuituously, and that I might not have been on the SIXTEEN FOOT ladder to tell them all about it.

Merry Christmas & check back in a week or so for my next post.

Chris

Youthful, heady inflation

From the Frontline of Fatherhood....September 8, 2006

One of my sons has recently done what most young children do at some point in their careers as children: he began his formal education. This one has indeed begun and when he finishes, regardless of rank, honor, and prestige, I’ll show him this story to remind him that he has always been one of the smartest in his class since ever I could remember, or if I can’t remember at that point in my life, I’ll read this story and be amazed at how such a young child could be so resourceful in getting whatever he sets his mind upon.

We moved to a new neighborhood shortly before this son, Michael, began kindergarten. It is a splendid middle class neighborhood, where there is genuine friendliness and a village like ambience that comforts its inhabitants. Being a friendly energetic boy, my son was quickly welcomed into a rambunctious group of buddies who seemingly challenged the resourcefulness and patience of the well loved, endearing, and gentle kindergarten teacher. But, she was up to the task.

After two months of unbridled chaos, behavior logs came home with clear instructions how parents might respond to a three tier grading system for little Johnny’s behavior on any given day. One star would be issued for excellent, a smiley face for good and a frowny face for ‘maybe next time.’ The flyer was thorough, extensive, and, well laborious. I am guessing that teach stayed up pretty late the night prior trying to channel her frustration constructively into a plan of action. One of the recommended rewards for a ‘star’ mark, the highest, is to make play-dough with a parent and then play with play-dough with a parent. Being a parent who doesn’t play with, let alone make play-dough, I quickly halted further reading of said detailed informational behavior modifying notice and told my boy, that if he got a star for being a good listener in class, then I’d reward him with a piece of candy. The boy likes food.

Well, shape up he did. But, he was born for greater things. After a week, each drive to school was spotted with questions like, “If I get a star, dad, can I go to the toy store and get a toy?” “Sure,” I said, assuring myself that bribery masquerading as parenting could be a transferable skill in certain parts of the world. Well, as his behavior improved and he fell in line, we, his now even less-creative-in-rewarding-our-child-when-he-behaves-parents, did the obvious, we raised prices. Now it was a full week’s worth of stars for a toy and for the exceedingly desirous and more expensive rewards, we set the price at ten stars or two full weeks of behavioral perfection! The drive to school was now quieter.

Then one day, upon picking up the little kindergartner, the young boy bubbled with accomplishment. He clearly stated that he had received 5 stars that day. Intrigued and suspicious, I sought clarifying details. How could this be? "You know dad, I came up with a really great idea and Mrs. Walgreen, my teacher, agreed. I said that maybe if I was really good the whole time with zero reminders, then we could all get five stars for that day,” said son who must have studied monetary policy at MIT. I smirked, perhaps it was a sneer.

It was mostly a sneer that belied a bit of resentment at being gleefully outwitted, not confronted, by an incredibly resourceful boy who also happened to be my son. I did not know whether to embrace him with exuberant pride for his insight, resourcefulness, and persuasive oratory or to start into him about how I might just take this price war to a whole new level. I can just see it now, little Mrs. Walgreen’s class all nodding their heads approvingly and with dignity at Michael’s deliberate and well delivered proposal. Mrs. Walgreen, impressed by their earnestness, and flattered by their docility toward her new star system of behavior modification, gladly obliged, and with her innocent nod of consent, she effected an inflationary moment in at least two dozen households in my new, peace loving, friendly, middleclass neighborhood. I just hope that when my son’s classmates talk to their parents about their significant accomplishment of multiple stars on only one day, they take credit for the bright idea.

I’ve seen pictures of wheelbarrows of money being traded for a few potatoes in economic textbooks illustrating chaos and desperation; when Kmart starts jacking up its toy prices, I’d rather the finger not be put on my household.

My Happy Place, Da-ism

According to standard pediatric lore and common observation, my one and something year old ‘should’ be talking by now…at least a few words anyhow. By all stretches of the imagination, one would think that life even for a very little human creature would be greatly enhanced by utilizing the verbal skills of his mother tongue. But, though not a dull creature, this kid seems to prefer a speechless world, but he is nonetheless not a silent force to be reckoned with.

At dinner yesterday, for example, this speechless, though not soundless, child was clearly articulating his every desire quite effectively. The only bothersome thing for us speaking types is that he differentiates his wordless desires by his volume and pitch whereas we differentiate the world verbally through different sounds as well as volume, pitch, timbre, etc. If we are tuned in with the boy and his desired ‘da’, his multipurpose ‘word’ for pretty much everything, then his and subsequently our nearby little world is at peace. However, things can get quite unexpectedly violent if, for instance, we thought his ‘da’ meant bread where for him it actually meant butter. Then, he turns up the volume a notch and repeats ‘da’, so we scramble before he reaches glass shattering levels of ‘da’ to locate the ‘da’ he is actually intending, which to decipher in the midst of a public restaurant with four other little ones needing their own little things for comfort and happiness is no small task.

Though well intentioned, we miss again, so this time he declares boldly ‘DA! DA!’ which, as far as I can tell means: ‘You fools! Will somebody around please listen to me!’ It also means that our neighboring diners are now on standby for immediate evacuation if volume levels continue to increase. Perhaps, my wife and I are a bit ambitious to take a family with five kids out to eat, but we do so rarely. We’ll occasionally splurge and go out on holiday weekends when most of our kids’ friends with either fewer or older kids have gone to Paris, Disneyland, or Hawaii. Given that we can hardly travel more than a few miles from home without some serious and disturbing incident which requires our immediate attention (like a crayon dropped between the seats, for instance), we’ve decided that on our holidays we tend to stay closer to home, but celebrate by dining out once or twice to change things up a bit. I admit, that at times, we are a bit bound up in a vacation-less environment because even when doing something fun and different with small children often doesn’t equate with rest and relaxation.

Now that the volume level had drawn the attention of the local authorities and the international media, I was shuffling pretty swiftly while trying to stay calm and search out the latest DAism of my son. I was failing miserably; I could tell by his repeated angry jesters and louder and louder ‘DAs’. I looked to my wife to let her know that I was going to implement operation ‘Get This Kid Out of the Public Space ASAP!’ I figured the relaxing benefits of dining out had now been heartily outweighed by my very loud, but speechless twenty pound boy. He was attracting the attention of nearly the whole place at this point. I figured that I would find my inner peace and harmony much more readily at this point by hustling this kid out of the restaurant, strapping him into his car seat, and waiting with him their until the rest of my family finished their meal in relative quiet as he shouted his crescendo-like ‘DA’ behind me in the minivan.

My quest for an eastern form of inner recollection was over: my da-ism had found me. It was yet again in the form of a child; this time he was a needy, demanding, and in his own way an adorable little child, who, in spite of the great desire of his dearest associates, has yet to find his voice in noisy world.

Closing the Sale

Stories from the Frontline of Fatherhood: February 12, 2006

My four year old is quickly learning the tough art of persuasive communication. He’s is a ‘strong-willed’ child, but then again pretty much all of my kids are. This one, along with the others, has many enjoyable characteristics, but at the ripe old age of four his verbal ability to get what he wants seems, at present, to lag significantly his great desires. This manifests itself in many ways throughout any given day, but when he is inclined to converse with you, just to socialize and make small talk, it seems to shine all the brighter.

For better or for worse, we’ve introduced this child and his older siblings to the Lord of the Rings Trilogy as directed by Peter Jackson. The older kids had been exposed to Tolkien’s great books a few years ago, but since they have seen censored snippets of the recent movie series, our four year old has been captivated by the main characters. He cuts out Aragorn’s sword from construction paper, Gimli’s axe from some scraps, and Legolas’ (in his case, pronounced Lego-lows) bow and arrows with the little bits leftover.

We are all mildly entertained by his focus and attention to detail until he begins what seems to begin as a low-key chat session about his day, general interest, and life in general. He is a direct child, so if he starts a conversation he gets right to the point: “So, dad who is favorite character in Lord of the Rings, but it has to be King Aragon!?” (I am not sure whether to put a question mark after that previous statement/question, but that is indeed just how he quizzes me.) To have fun with him, I respond, “Well, I guess I’d have to think about it.” This usually isn’t the response he is looking for, so he follows-up quickly and somewhat differently with: “Who is favorite character in Lord of the Rings, but it has to be Gimli.” “I guess it is King Aragorn,” I say, but having seen me break his most recent bind, he quickly replies, “It has to be Gimli.” “Okay, okay, it is Gimli,” I say with a smile. Apparently I was to easy of a sell on this, so he changes again, but now he is rooting for Gandalf, or Legolas, or whomever. But the formulated question/statement remains the same.

After a while, I finally figured out that he wasn’t selling me anything about who should be my personal favorite, nor, clearly, was he interested in who my favorite was. As he was talking it over and over in really limited terms he was attempting time and time and yes time and time again to see if he could settle which character was ultimately his own favorite, which to this day I am pretty sure is Gimli, no it has to be Aragorn, no it has to be Legolas…

It has been said that kids are the greatest salespeople around: they know what motivates their clientele to action perhaps better than their clients, they have great persistence, and they have great persistence which wears this client down expediently in order to ‘close the sale.’ In this case, I am not sure who is more worn down for it though, but he seems to enjoy the chase nonetheless.

School Project

Well, fatherly responsibilities took me back to the trenches of elementary school work this past week. Having thought I had successfully passed and completed the arduous and at times tedious tasks of written assignments, extensive research reports, well established bibliographies and captivating visual presentations, I was wrong. Unbeknownst to me I was steadily lured into assisting my son in his recent energy conservation project for school. I am not one to readily assist in my children’s homework in an overly active manner. I figure I paid my dues and so can they, but the complexity and vision of his project somehow captured my imagination. In addition, the intricacies of the media required some adult guidance. So as a supportive father, I offered a few simplifying directives in terms of materials and let the boy at it. The only thing was that I got the job which required a certain amount of precision and time: cutting the poster board into assembly size pieces.

Day one went smoothly enough; we negotiated between the nearly NASA sophistication my son originally dreamed up for three stage rocket presentation to something more within our capabilities: the simpler, less refined aeronautical models made from poster board and packing tape. Once settled, the work began in earnest. I figured I was in it for an hour or so cutting up the poster board while studious son would work on the text, layout, and assembly.

If only life’s projects were so easy. Three days later and more hours than I’d wish to count, his original project description more or less came into being as he has envisioned it without the use of exotic materials and a welding kit. (I took a certain pride in this part of the project’s material ingenuity in that I really didn’t want my homeowner’s insurance premiums to jump any higher than they recently had. Nor did I want to rent any heavy equipment from the local hardware store.)

Well, he got the project in on time and in good order, perhaps he’ll even place well in the contest: yes it was a competitive event which further spurred the boy’s imaginative grandeur. But, that is another matter. Either way, he saw that even with well orchestrated and friendly colleagues, group projects create a fair amount of tension and negotiation before they are completed. Perhaps his teacher wanted him to experience firsthand the inherent challenges of collaborative work. I am proud of his accomplishment, but if on the off chance he wins or even places in the contest, I was wondering if I could get an honorable mention.