John was a latecomer to year-round swimming as an 11 year old. Most of the kids his age on the club team had been swimming for several years, and so John was a long way behind them. One of his first swim meets was in Augusta, GA at the Augusta College swimming pool. It was an old indoor facility that looked like it had been built in 1910. The water was pea green and looked decidedly unhealthy.
The swim meet was for swimmers with B and BB times, the slowest and lowest classifications for swimmers. Many were swimming the events for the first time and had “NT”, for “No Time”, on the heat sheet. As a rookie, this was exactly where John belonged. It was also my first swim meet. The swimming was, well, unimpressive, and filled me with a sense of dread. “What if this is as good as John can do?” I wondered.
We didn’t know anything about heat sheets, circle seeding, shave and tapers, age groups, qualifying times, or anything else. We knew nothing, and felt totally lost. A coach was briefly present at the Augusta meet, but we were on our own at the next meet in Peachtree City. It was a lonely, forlorn feeling to be there with no one to guide us. I had to get over my innate shyness and ask strangers what we were supposed to do. Oftentimes they didn’t know any more than I did. I wondered if we’d made a bad mistake by letting John sign up for year-round swimming.
It got better over time.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Splits
I started running track and cross country while in high school. Mom and Dad made it to many of my competitions, often with no advance notice. I’d be in the middle of a four-mile cross country race and Dad would be standing out in the boonies of the course yelling for me and my teammates. During track season he might pop up out of nowhere in the middle of the backstretch during the mile.
My dad didn’t know much about track or cross country. During the first year or so Dad would give me split times at unmarked places on the course or track. If he was giving me a 400 meter split, it would be useful and helpful information. Instead, he would be standing in the middle of nowhere on the course reading the elapsed time to me and my teammates. I appreciated his effort and good intentions, all the guys did too. He wanted to help and support in any way he could. In time he learned the obscure details of the sport.
What Dad lacked in knowledge of the sports, he made up for with enthusiasm. There was no place within a stadium or cross country course that his voice could not reach. Dad was so loud and avid in his support that it took only a few moments for the entire crowd to know which kid, and which team, he was supporting. I was embarrassed and apologized to my teammates. It didn’t bother the guys because he wasn’t their dad. They had their own dads to embarrass them. They loved the support and the fact that my parents were everywhere.
My parents showed up for high school meets in Dubuque, Iowa City, Davenport, Waterloo, Ames, Marshalltown, Des Moines, and Clinton. During the college days they appeared without warning at Wartburg, Luther, Monmouth, Knox, Cornell, Grinnell, Simpson, Central, William Penn, Beloit, Ripon, Carleton, St. Olaf, William Penn, Upper Iowa, and Drake. Well, most them anyway. They got to know all the guys, and the guys knew them as well.
One year the college cross country season ended and our coach quickly moved on to his true love, basketball season. I asked Mom and Dad if they couldn’t do something for the guys to mark the end of the year. Mom and Dad put on a monster steak dinner at our house for all of the guys and the coach. I was dating Jean at the time and she helped my mom out in the kitchen. The guys loved it; my folks had become their folks, too.
It should therefore come as no surprise that Jean and I made it to most of Ann’s track and cross country meets in high school. All kids become their parents in spite of their attempts otherwise, and thus it was with me; I became my father. God help me! I’d say that we made it to every one of them, but I didn’t keep track. We traveled all over the Atlanta area, which is roughly the size of eastern Iowa. I am afraid that I abandoned Jean all too regularly to place myself where I could give Ann and her teammates a useful split time or elapsed time, in memory of my father’s efforts.
I would stand just past the 400 meter mark on the track where Ann could hear me give the split. The officials would give an elapsed time at the 400 mark, which isn’t useful after the first lap. The physical and mental effort in a track race is so extreme that calculating a split time while running takes too much time and effort for the runner. Track races look simple, but there is a LOT going on out there, much of it in the form of an internal conversation. (Yes I can; no I can’t) I knew from my own experience how wonderful it is if someone just tells you what your last 400 was so you can adjust your effort appropriately. Giving splits let me be involved.
At cross country meets I would get my workout by running the course before the race. This allowed me to find the mile marks and plan how I could capture the start time, make my way to the mile mark and deliver a split time, and then also make my way to the second mile mark for yet another split time. It gave me an excuse to be out on the course and support Ann and the team during the empty stretches of the course.
Fathers are, by their very nature, embarrassing to their children. The real truth is that children, by THEIR very nature, are embarrassed by their fathers. I did my best to minimize the psychological trauma Ann experienced due to my antics, but sometimes it could not be avoided. I just had to yell and cheer when I wasn’t giving splits.
I have to apologize to Ann at this point. We never traveled the 900 miles to West Point for one of her cross country meets, or the 500 miles to Richmond for the marathon. We preferred to travel to West Point on weekends when nothing was planned and could actually spend time with Ann. The travel costs were significant and we wanted our finite dollars spent towards spending time with Ann. That was our logic at the time. I feel badly that we didn’t go in spite of the lack of contact time and wish now that we had. Again, sorry kiddo.
My dad didn’t know much about track or cross country. During the first year or so Dad would give me split times at unmarked places on the course or track. If he was giving me a 400 meter split, it would be useful and helpful information. Instead, he would be standing in the middle of nowhere on the course reading the elapsed time to me and my teammates. I appreciated his effort and good intentions, all the guys did too. He wanted to help and support in any way he could. In time he learned the obscure details of the sport.
What Dad lacked in knowledge of the sports, he made up for with enthusiasm. There was no place within a stadium or cross country course that his voice could not reach. Dad was so loud and avid in his support that it took only a few moments for the entire crowd to know which kid, and which team, he was supporting. I was embarrassed and apologized to my teammates. It didn’t bother the guys because he wasn’t their dad. They had their own dads to embarrass them. They loved the support and the fact that my parents were everywhere.
My parents showed up for high school meets in Dubuque, Iowa City, Davenport, Waterloo, Ames, Marshalltown, Des Moines, and Clinton. During the college days they appeared without warning at Wartburg, Luther, Monmouth, Knox, Cornell, Grinnell, Simpson, Central, William Penn, Beloit, Ripon, Carleton, St. Olaf, William Penn, Upper Iowa, and Drake. Well, most them anyway. They got to know all the guys, and the guys knew them as well.
One year the college cross country season ended and our coach quickly moved on to his true love, basketball season. I asked Mom and Dad if they couldn’t do something for the guys to mark the end of the year. Mom and Dad put on a monster steak dinner at our house for all of the guys and the coach. I was dating Jean at the time and she helped my mom out in the kitchen. The guys loved it; my folks had become their folks, too.
It should therefore come as no surprise that Jean and I made it to most of Ann’s track and cross country meets in high school. All kids become their parents in spite of their attempts otherwise, and thus it was with me; I became my father. God help me! I’d say that we made it to every one of them, but I didn’t keep track. We traveled all over the Atlanta area, which is roughly the size of eastern Iowa. I am afraid that I abandoned Jean all too regularly to place myself where I could give Ann and her teammates a useful split time or elapsed time, in memory of my father’s efforts.
I would stand just past the 400 meter mark on the track where Ann could hear me give the split. The officials would give an elapsed time at the 400 mark, which isn’t useful after the first lap. The physical and mental effort in a track race is so extreme that calculating a split time while running takes too much time and effort for the runner. Track races look simple, but there is a LOT going on out there, much of it in the form of an internal conversation. (Yes I can; no I can’t) I knew from my own experience how wonderful it is if someone just tells you what your last 400 was so you can adjust your effort appropriately. Giving splits let me be involved.
At cross country meets I would get my workout by running the course before the race. This allowed me to find the mile marks and plan how I could capture the start time, make my way to the mile mark and deliver a split time, and then also make my way to the second mile mark for yet another split time. It gave me an excuse to be out on the course and support Ann and the team during the empty stretches of the course.
Fathers are, by their very nature, embarrassing to their children. The real truth is that children, by THEIR very nature, are embarrassed by their fathers. I did my best to minimize the psychological trauma Ann experienced due to my antics, but sometimes it could not be avoided. I just had to yell and cheer when I wasn’t giving splits.
I have to apologize to Ann at this point. We never traveled the 900 miles to West Point for one of her cross country meets, or the 500 miles to Richmond for the marathon. We preferred to travel to West Point on weekends when nothing was planned and could actually spend time with Ann. The travel costs were significant and we wanted our finite dollars spent towards spending time with Ann. That was our logic at the time. I feel badly that we didn’t go in spite of the lack of contact time and wish now that we had. Again, sorry kiddo.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Big Waves
When Ann and John were small we often went to Topsail Island, NC for our summer vacation. We rented a beach house there and spent a week. Jean would hunt for shark’s teeth up and down the shore. Ann, John, and I would play in the ocean.
As soon as the kids could swim I took them out into the waves. Jean was concerned for their safety and asked about the size of the waves. That is what mothers do, worry about their children’s safety. I, on the other hand, did not carry them in my belly for 9 months; I was not nearly so invested in their safety.
Each year I would take them out as far as I dared to see how they would handle it. When a wave smacked them particularly hard we would move in a little closer to shore; for a little while. We always talked about how to handle the waves safely, so I think we were mostly safe, but I haven’t always been the best judge in that department. They didn’t drown, so we were either safe, or lucky.
Sometimes a big wave just grabs you, churns you up for a little bit, slams you against the ocean floor and spits you out. I told the kids to roll up in a ball to keep their backs from breaking, and keep their head and neck tucked in tight. They were either good or lucky, like I said before.
In the early years we stayed inshore of where the waves were breaking. We had one of those rectangular inflatable rafts that you see in swimming pools. I’d carry the raft and drag the kids behind me so my body would break a small hole in the waves. Between waves I would throw the raft down on the water, and throw the kids on top of that, and shove the raft towards shore as the next wave arrived. It yielded a pretty good ride as the wave churned and bounced toward shore.
As the years went by Ann and John were able to dive under the waves and make their own way out to where the waves were breaking. The waves are bigger out there and yield a better ride. My job was to carry the raft over the waves while the kids went under. This meant I got hammered pretty hard. Eventually the kids grew too large to ride together and had to take turns.
Topsail had a strong ocean current running north to south. The strength of the current seemed to be directly related to the size of the waves. I don’t think you’d technically call it undertow, but it was strong enough to be intimidating. As we worked our way out through the waves, which were trying to push us back into shore, the current was simultaneously pushing us to the south end of the island. It was a pretty good workout.
We eventually quit fighting the current. We would run up the beach a quarter mile or more before going into the ocean. By the time we made it out to the breakers and were ready to ride a wave into shore, we would find ourselves in front of our own beach house. So we would ride one wave in to the shore and run up the beach yet again.
Each morning before going out in the ocean I would remark to Jean how small the waves looked that day. Jean would look at me with an expression of disbelief. When we returned from our session in the waves the kids would tell Jean how BIG the waves were, thereby destroying my earlier attempt at deception and any future credibility. They never did understand the “Don’t tell Mom” policy.
As soon as the kids could swim I took them out into the waves. Jean was concerned for their safety and asked about the size of the waves. That is what mothers do, worry about their children’s safety. I, on the other hand, did not carry them in my belly for 9 months; I was not nearly so invested in their safety.
Each year I would take them out as far as I dared to see how they would handle it. When a wave smacked them particularly hard we would move in a little closer to shore; for a little while. We always talked about how to handle the waves safely, so I think we were mostly safe, but I haven’t always been the best judge in that department. They didn’t drown, so we were either safe, or lucky.
Sometimes a big wave just grabs you, churns you up for a little bit, slams you against the ocean floor and spits you out. I told the kids to roll up in a ball to keep their backs from breaking, and keep their head and neck tucked in tight. They were either good or lucky, like I said before.
In the early years we stayed inshore of where the waves were breaking. We had one of those rectangular inflatable rafts that you see in swimming pools. I’d carry the raft and drag the kids behind me so my body would break a small hole in the waves. Between waves I would throw the raft down on the water, and throw the kids on top of that, and shove the raft towards shore as the next wave arrived. It yielded a pretty good ride as the wave churned and bounced toward shore.
As the years went by Ann and John were able to dive under the waves and make their own way out to where the waves were breaking. The waves are bigger out there and yield a better ride. My job was to carry the raft over the waves while the kids went under. This meant I got hammered pretty hard. Eventually the kids grew too large to ride together and had to take turns.
Topsail had a strong ocean current running north to south. The strength of the current seemed to be directly related to the size of the waves. I don’t think you’d technically call it undertow, but it was strong enough to be intimidating. As we worked our way out through the waves, which were trying to push us back into shore, the current was simultaneously pushing us to the south end of the island. It was a pretty good workout.
We eventually quit fighting the current. We would run up the beach a quarter mile or more before going into the ocean. By the time we made it out to the breakers and were ready to ride a wave into shore, we would find ourselves in front of our own beach house. So we would ride one wave in to the shore and run up the beach yet again.
Each morning before going out in the ocean I would remark to Jean how small the waves looked that day. Jean would look at me with an expression of disbelief. When we returned from our session in the waves the kids would tell Jean how BIG the waves were, thereby destroying my earlier attempt at deception and any future credibility. They never did understand the “Don’t tell Mom” policy.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Wilkinson
Harold Wilkinson was my high school track coach. He was a great coach. We referred to him as “Wilkie”, but never ever called him that. We called him Coach, or Mr. Wilkinson. Wilkinson had a thorough understanding of every event, or so it seemed to a rookie like me. I had complete confidence that the workouts he prescribed were exactly what I needed.
Wilkinson coached 9th grade football in the fall, and was the head track coach in the spring. He had an assistant coach working with the sprinters, another with the field events, and another with the distance runners. Wilkinson monitored each afternoon’s workout by moving from group to group.
I had a particular respect for Wilkinson because he lacked the usual prejudice favoring sprinters. As a distance runner I had (and still have) a special antipathy for sprinters that was fostered by the smothering newspaper coverage they got and the distance guys never got. I never saw any indication that Wilkinson had a bias for any track event over another. He personally wrote out the distance workouts and handed them off to the assistant coach for execution. Somehow that made him alright by me. I never heard anyone say a critical word to him or about him.
A good king orders his subjects to do that which they would have done anyway. Wilkinson explained the workouts to us, what they would accomplish, and we were convinced to run them as directed, not because he told us to, but because we saw the wisdom behind them. The workouts made sense. Each workout had a purpose. If Wilkinson did not state the purpose, you could still see it in the structure of the workout. He coached track, and he taught track.
By my senior year I no longer needed explanations or convincing. If he told me to do something, I did it. If he told me I could run a certain time, I believed I could do it, and often did. If I failed to run that time, I was sure that if I had run the race properly I would have run the time.
They were the best three years of my 42 years of running.
Wilkinson coached 9th grade football in the fall, and was the head track coach in the spring. He had an assistant coach working with the sprinters, another with the field events, and another with the distance runners. Wilkinson monitored each afternoon’s workout by moving from group to group.
I had a particular respect for Wilkinson because he lacked the usual prejudice favoring sprinters. As a distance runner I had (and still have) a special antipathy for sprinters that was fostered by the smothering newspaper coverage they got and the distance guys never got. I never saw any indication that Wilkinson had a bias for any track event over another. He personally wrote out the distance workouts and handed them off to the assistant coach for execution. Somehow that made him alright by me. I never heard anyone say a critical word to him or about him.
A good king orders his subjects to do that which they would have done anyway. Wilkinson explained the workouts to us, what they would accomplish, and we were convinced to run them as directed, not because he told us to, but because we saw the wisdom behind them. The workouts made sense. Each workout had a purpose. If Wilkinson did not state the purpose, you could still see it in the structure of the workout. He coached track, and he taught track.
By my senior year I no longer needed explanations or convincing. If he told me to do something, I did it. If he told me I could run a certain time, I believed I could do it, and often did. If I failed to run that time, I was sure that if I had run the race properly I would have run the time.
They were the best three years of my 42 years of running.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Ann Broke My Ribs!
It’s true. Ann came home from West Point for Thanksgiving in 2001 and broke my ribs.
Maybe I should back up just a little bit. I’ve always roughhoused with the kids. There was no way my kids were going to grow up without knowing a few wrestling moves; not with my background. We did a lot of good-natured pushing and shoving in the house. In the wrestling culture a push to the shoulder serves as the friendly non-verbal equivalent of “do you want some of this”? A push and a push back could easily devolve into an unrefereed wrestling match on the carpet, chairs, and couch. It was essentially the game of “mine” (see the earlier post) without an object to defend.
When Ann arrived home for Thanksgiving she was well into her second year at West Point. She’d had some hand to hand combat training during her first summer at West Point. She’d had some more hand to hand combat training during her second summer at West Point. At the time of that Thanksgiving break she was almost done with yet another course she opted to take.
Wrestling is, for the most part, a safe sport. All the rules are designed with safety in mind. The legal moves are all quite safe if executed properly. This is the background I’ve lived and breathed my entire life. So when Ann passed me by in the kitchen and I gave her our traditional friendly shove of non-verbal challenge, I was totally surprised when she responded with a counter move designed to kill or incapacitate.
“Whoa”, I said, “You can’t do that in wrestling!” She said, “You may be wrestling, but I’m not. I’m not bound by the rules of wrestling. Want to see some of the stuff I know?” Yes, I did want to see, but I wasn’t yet over the shocking realization that I could no longer safely wrestle my daughter. She would be safe, because I was following the rules of wrestling, but I wasn’t safe because she wasn’t following any rules at all. She knew things that could seriously hurt me.
Over the course of the long weekend Ann would spend a moment here and there demonstrating various situations, moves, and countermoves, all of a violent nature. It was fascinating. There is another whole world out there outside of wrestling. Who thinks these things up?
The actual rib-breaking moment is quite uninteresting. We were in the den and Ann was showing me a simple trip move. Ann was going to catch me before I fell backward, a chair got in the way, I stumbled awkwardly, my stumble made it difficult for Ann to catch me, and I fell with my back hitting the arm of the chair. It hurt like hell and I immediately knew something wasn’t right.
According to the rules of “Mine”, and you really need to read that post if you haven’t, no harm was intended, and Ann was profusely apologetic, so there was nothing to get upset about.
However, I knew that I had broken my ribs, but I did not want Ann to think that she had broken my ribs. From everything I’d read and heard about West Point, it is the most hellacious experience to be imagined. Ann had way too many responsibilities and worries in her daily effort to survive West Point; I did not want her wasting any time or energy feeling guilty or worrying about me. I did the best I could to hide my pain until Ann headed back to West Point.
I eventually went to a doctor who diagnosed a broken rib. The doctor prescribed a painkiller that was an opiate derivative. Opiate derivatives are great painkillers, but they are also great constipators. The doctor also prescribed some fiber pills and stool softeners to counter the constipating effect. I know; too much information.
Anyway, to finish up this short story that has run long, Jean and I went to the Army-Navy football game a few weeks later in New York. Ann visited us at our hotel room, used the bathroom, saw the fiber pills and stool softeners, and yelled “Hey Dad! Are you so old that you need fiber pills?” Rather than pretend/confess that I was indeed old, I preferred to tell her the truth about the broken rib and the prescriptions. I preferred “injured” over “old”; vanity run amuck!
Ann seemed rather proud that she had broken my rib. I was rather proud that she had broken my rib. Does that make us a strange family? Wouldn’t any father want a daughter who was capable of breaking a man’s rib? It’s a rare accomplishment. This is a woman who can take care of herself. Isn’t that the ultimate objective of a father raising a daughter?
Maybe I should back up just a little bit. I’ve always roughhoused with the kids. There was no way my kids were going to grow up without knowing a few wrestling moves; not with my background. We did a lot of good-natured pushing and shoving in the house. In the wrestling culture a push to the shoulder serves as the friendly non-verbal equivalent of “do you want some of this”? A push and a push back could easily devolve into an unrefereed wrestling match on the carpet, chairs, and couch. It was essentially the game of “mine” (see the earlier post) without an object to defend.
When Ann arrived home for Thanksgiving she was well into her second year at West Point. She’d had some hand to hand combat training during her first summer at West Point. She’d had some more hand to hand combat training during her second summer at West Point. At the time of that Thanksgiving break she was almost done with yet another course she opted to take.
Wrestling is, for the most part, a safe sport. All the rules are designed with safety in mind. The legal moves are all quite safe if executed properly. This is the background I’ve lived and breathed my entire life. So when Ann passed me by in the kitchen and I gave her our traditional friendly shove of non-verbal challenge, I was totally surprised when she responded with a counter move designed to kill or incapacitate.
“Whoa”, I said, “You can’t do that in wrestling!” She said, “You may be wrestling, but I’m not. I’m not bound by the rules of wrestling. Want to see some of the stuff I know?” Yes, I did want to see, but I wasn’t yet over the shocking realization that I could no longer safely wrestle my daughter. She would be safe, because I was following the rules of wrestling, but I wasn’t safe because she wasn’t following any rules at all. She knew things that could seriously hurt me.
Over the course of the long weekend Ann would spend a moment here and there demonstrating various situations, moves, and countermoves, all of a violent nature. It was fascinating. There is another whole world out there outside of wrestling. Who thinks these things up?
The actual rib-breaking moment is quite uninteresting. We were in the den and Ann was showing me a simple trip move. Ann was going to catch me before I fell backward, a chair got in the way, I stumbled awkwardly, my stumble made it difficult for Ann to catch me, and I fell with my back hitting the arm of the chair. It hurt like hell and I immediately knew something wasn’t right.
According to the rules of “Mine”, and you really need to read that post if you haven’t, no harm was intended, and Ann was profusely apologetic, so there was nothing to get upset about.
However, I knew that I had broken my ribs, but I did not want Ann to think that she had broken my ribs. From everything I’d read and heard about West Point, it is the most hellacious experience to be imagined. Ann had way too many responsibilities and worries in her daily effort to survive West Point; I did not want her wasting any time or energy feeling guilty or worrying about me. I did the best I could to hide my pain until Ann headed back to West Point.
I eventually went to a doctor who diagnosed a broken rib. The doctor prescribed a painkiller that was an opiate derivative. Opiate derivatives are great painkillers, but they are also great constipators. The doctor also prescribed some fiber pills and stool softeners to counter the constipating effect. I know; too much information.
Anyway, to finish up this short story that has run long, Jean and I went to the Army-Navy football game a few weeks later in New York. Ann visited us at our hotel room, used the bathroom, saw the fiber pills and stool softeners, and yelled “Hey Dad! Are you so old that you need fiber pills?” Rather than pretend/confess that I was indeed old, I preferred to tell her the truth about the broken rib and the prescriptions. I preferred “injured” over “old”; vanity run amuck!
Ann seemed rather proud that she had broken my rib. I was rather proud that she had broken my rib. Does that make us a strange family? Wouldn’t any father want a daughter who was capable of breaking a man’s rib? It’s a rare accomplishment. This is a woman who can take care of herself. Isn’t that the ultimate objective of a father raising a daughter?
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Hugs
Hugging is a regional pastime for southerners. Southerners will hug the grocery store clerk if she smiles. I am a native Iowan and hugging is a problem for me. Folks from the Midwest just don’t hug each other. In my native culture (Iowa) it was okay to hug your children when they are small, and your spouse. If you were still in the girlfriend stage you only hugged her when your folks weren’t looking. Everyone else got a hearty handshake. So, spending my adult years in Georgia has been a culture shock.
I truly am a stranger in a strange land. All too often I have been hugged/mugged by southern women. I don’t mind when I see it coming, but it’s a shock when they grab you uninvited. And exactly what is the protocol? When I hugged my girlfriend (now wife) I was looking for all the body contact I could get. (That one grossed out my kids.) In one of these social hugs is anything supposed to touch, or not? I’d like to know! I think my wife would appreciate it if the only parts that touched were, well, a hearty handshake would do just fine.
Turning this discussion to the serious side, I remember being about 10 years old and giving my mom and dad a hug and kiss goodnight. Dad said to me, “Aren’t you getting a little old to be hugging and kissing your dad goodnight?” I presumed from his comment that my behavior was inappropriate, so I quit the habit the very next night. I don’t recall our ever hugging again. Looking back, I think that was sad. Jean and I decided when our kids were born that we were going to hug and kiss them early, late, often, and always; both of them.
Our son, John, began year-round swimming with the Dynamo Swim Club in the fall of 1995 when he was entering the fifth grade, and Jean and I went through the training to become certified stroke and turn officials for U.S. Swimming. During John’s high school years we followed him to swim meets all over the southeast and officiated at those meets. Our favorite memories of those meets are standing alone on the deck of the pool officiating for long hours, and those special moments when our huge hulking teenage son walked up to give us each a hug and a kiss in front of god and everybody. Those were great moments.
I truly am a stranger in a strange land. All too often I have been hugged/mugged by southern women. I don’t mind when I see it coming, but it’s a shock when they grab you uninvited. And exactly what is the protocol? When I hugged my girlfriend (now wife) I was looking for all the body contact I could get. (That one grossed out my kids.) In one of these social hugs is anything supposed to touch, or not? I’d like to know! I think my wife would appreciate it if the only parts that touched were, well, a hearty handshake would do just fine.
Turning this discussion to the serious side, I remember being about 10 years old and giving my mom and dad a hug and kiss goodnight. Dad said to me, “Aren’t you getting a little old to be hugging and kissing your dad goodnight?” I presumed from his comment that my behavior was inappropriate, so I quit the habit the very next night. I don’t recall our ever hugging again. Looking back, I think that was sad. Jean and I decided when our kids were born that we were going to hug and kiss them early, late, often, and always; both of them.
Our son, John, began year-round swimming with the Dynamo Swim Club in the fall of 1995 when he was entering the fifth grade, and Jean and I went through the training to become certified stroke and turn officials for U.S. Swimming. During John’s high school years we followed him to swim meets all over the southeast and officiated at those meets. Our favorite memories of those meets are standing alone on the deck of the pool officiating for long hours, and those special moments when our huge hulking teenage son walked up to give us each a hug and a kiss in front of god and everybody. Those were great moments.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Awards Ceremony
Our recreation swim league team had a potluck supper at the end of each season. Trophies and other awards were passed out at a simple ceremony after the supper. The coaches, who were typically early college or late high school kids, determined the awards and presided over the ceremony. It took some creativity on the coaches’ part, but all of the little kids got at least one trophy for something or other. For the older age groups, trophies and plaques were less important and therefore increasingly scarce.
I will never forget this one funny moment at the 1993 end of year awards ceremony. At the end of the ceremony the coaches awarded a single award, the ultimate of all awards for the night. It was called the Swimmer of the Year.
Jean and I were sitting in our lawn chairs as one of the coaches went on and on about the accomplishments of this one young swimmer. We whispered to each other guessing who it might be. The coach told about his improved swim times. We immediately knew the gender and started looking around to see if people were looking at any particular swimmer. The coach said this kid had won all of his dual meet races that year. Now we were really intrigued. Our heads were on swivels looking around trying to figure out who this kid could be. How could we not notice a kid who’d won all of his races and not say a kind word to his parents? After a pregnant pause, the coach announced our son John as Swimmer of the Year.
Honestly, we had no idea that John had won all of his races. Other parents claimed to know from the very beginning that it was John, but we did not know. We knew he’d won some races, and we knew his times had improved, but just assumed he’d lost a few races somewhere along the way. We were always asking him “did you have fun”, or “how was your stroke”, or “how was your turn”, but never noticed or cared that he had won; winning just wasn’t important.
I will never forget this one funny moment at the 1993 end of year awards ceremony. At the end of the ceremony the coaches awarded a single award, the ultimate of all awards for the night. It was called the Swimmer of the Year.
Jean and I were sitting in our lawn chairs as one of the coaches went on and on about the accomplishments of this one young swimmer. We whispered to each other guessing who it might be. The coach told about his improved swim times. We immediately knew the gender and started looking around to see if people were looking at any particular swimmer. The coach said this kid had won all of his dual meet races that year. Now we were really intrigued. Our heads were on swivels looking around trying to figure out who this kid could be. How could we not notice a kid who’d won all of his races and not say a kind word to his parents? After a pregnant pause, the coach announced our son John as Swimmer of the Year.
Honestly, we had no idea that John had won all of his races. Other parents claimed to know from the very beginning that it was John, but we did not know. We knew he’d won some races, and we knew his times had improved, but just assumed he’d lost a few races somewhere along the way. We were always asking him “did you have fun”, or “how was your stroke”, or “how was your turn”, but never noticed or cared that he had won; winning just wasn’t important.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Parents Meeting
John began swimming on recreation swim league teams in the summer of 1989 when he was turning 5 years old. He began year-round swimming with the Dynamo Swim Club in the fall of 1995 when he was entering the fifth grade.
At the beginning of each year the Dynamo coach would have a meeting with the parents. The purpose of the meeting was to teach new parents, and remind old parents, of their responsibilities. We were reminded that the parent’s responsibility was to pay the club dues, to give their swimmer unwavering support, and to stay out of the way. The coach’s responsibility was to coach. By John’s eighth year with Dynamo I think I had the spiel memorized.
This sounds quite simple, but there were all too many parents who thought they were coaches and/or did a poor job of paying their dues; thus the need for an annual meeting with the parents. If the parents could just listen and follow the advice of the professional coaches, the parents and their swimmer would be oh so ever happier.
We were told never to judge our son’s races. We were to ask him how it went and let him judge himself. It was possible to win a race, but be unhappy with the time. It was possible to set a personal record, but be displeased because it was slower than expected. It was also possible to swim a slow time and yet be proud of it because of the heavy training load preceding the race and lack of rest. It was possible to finish last, but be proud of a great time. John was swimming to meet his own expectations; he did not need the additional burden of our expectations as well.
Somehow we knew most of this before joining the Dynamo Swim Club. I think we knew it from Ann and John’s participation on the rec league team at Hanarry West the previous six years. The parents at Hanarry West were excellent role models for us. They were all so very positive and supportive of their kids. Winning wasn’t as important as having fun. Improved times at any stroke or distance was a cause for celebration. The team won plenty of swim meets, but nobody seriously cared.
At the beginning of each year the Dynamo coach would have a meeting with the parents. The purpose of the meeting was to teach new parents, and remind old parents, of their responsibilities. We were reminded that the parent’s responsibility was to pay the club dues, to give their swimmer unwavering support, and to stay out of the way. The coach’s responsibility was to coach. By John’s eighth year with Dynamo I think I had the spiel memorized.
This sounds quite simple, but there were all too many parents who thought they were coaches and/or did a poor job of paying their dues; thus the need for an annual meeting with the parents. If the parents could just listen and follow the advice of the professional coaches, the parents and their swimmer would be oh so ever happier.
We were told never to judge our son’s races. We were to ask him how it went and let him judge himself. It was possible to win a race, but be unhappy with the time. It was possible to set a personal record, but be displeased because it was slower than expected. It was also possible to swim a slow time and yet be proud of it because of the heavy training load preceding the race and lack of rest. It was possible to finish last, but be proud of a great time. John was swimming to meet his own expectations; he did not need the additional burden of our expectations as well.
Somehow we knew most of this before joining the Dynamo Swim Club. I think we knew it from Ann and John’s participation on the rec league team at Hanarry West the previous six years. The parents at Hanarry West were excellent role models for us. They were all so very positive and supportive of their kids. Winning wasn’t as important as having fun. Improved times at any stroke or distance was a cause for celebration. The team won plenty of swim meets, but nobody seriously cared.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Mine!
When we moved to Lilburn in 1989 we became members of the Hanarry West Swim and Racquet Club. We had no interest in tennis, but did want Ann and John to have access to a swimming pool and a recreation league swim team. Since our neighborhood did not have a pool, this was the closest alternative.
Our first season in the Hanarry West pool was the summer of 1990. John turned 6 that summer and Ann was 8.
One day when I was in the pool with the kids I brought a tennis ball with me. I said to Ann with a big smile on my face, “This tennis ball sure is fun. I really like this tennis ball. It’s a fine tennis ball. The best part about this tennis ball is that it’s all MINE!” After making similar remarks to John, the two of them looked at each other, and came after me and “my” tennis ball.
That was the genesis of the game called “Mine”. The game was quite simple. I would jump in the pool and declare some object mine. Ann and John would try to get it away from me with great vigor. It wasn’t a violent game, but it was extremely physical. There was a great deal of forceful pushing, pulling, prying, shoving, dunking, upending, wrestling, leaping, and general mayhem. The only thing that kept it from meeting the definition of “violent” was the lack of hitting, kicking, and scratching. Everything else was fair.
Each of us used all the strength, speed and guile we possessed. The game would last until I was totally worn out. Most games lasted an hour or more.
I don’t recall ever letting them win. If/when they got the object from me I wanted them to know that I’d done my very best and that they had actually accomplished something. In the process of playing this “game” they unintentionally learned most of the wrestling moves that I knew that could be used from a standing position. All three of us also got a great workout.
We started out in the shallow end of the pool because John was only six. Other kids kept their distance to avoid getting hurt. We tried to stay to one side or the other of the shallow end so other kids could have some space to play in. As the years passed and Ann and John got older we moved up the pool into deeper water. The violent nature of the game continued to keep people far away from us. As time passed I became less and less successful in keeping the object.
Occasionally one of us would get hurt unintentionally by an elbow to the head, or a knee to a soft place. We always stopped the game immediately to look after the injured party and to express heartfelt remorse. We weren’t trying to hurt each other intentionally, but by the very nature of the game we were guaranteed to get hurt anyway. We never got angry with each other. If one of us ever did get angry, it would have meant that we had gone too far.
Jean tells me that one time at the pool a father stopped to ask her how we got Ann to roughhouse so violently with her father. He was dismayed that his own daughter was such a prissy little girl. Jean told him that I had roughhoused with Ann all her life. It was as natural an activity for father and daughter as it was for father and son.
I am sure the kids learned something from the game, but I don’t feel much like pontificating about it at the moment. If I did it would probably be something about breaking traditional gender behavior, teaching competitive spirit, maintaining composure, bonding, or the pleasure of intense physical activity. Oh hell, it was fun. That’s all. It doesn’t have to be a deep meaningful learning experience.
Our first season in the Hanarry West pool was the summer of 1990. John turned 6 that summer and Ann was 8.
One day when I was in the pool with the kids I brought a tennis ball with me. I said to Ann with a big smile on my face, “This tennis ball sure is fun. I really like this tennis ball. It’s a fine tennis ball. The best part about this tennis ball is that it’s all MINE!” After making similar remarks to John, the two of them looked at each other, and came after me and “my” tennis ball.
That was the genesis of the game called “Mine”. The game was quite simple. I would jump in the pool and declare some object mine. Ann and John would try to get it away from me with great vigor. It wasn’t a violent game, but it was extremely physical. There was a great deal of forceful pushing, pulling, prying, shoving, dunking, upending, wrestling, leaping, and general mayhem. The only thing that kept it from meeting the definition of “violent” was the lack of hitting, kicking, and scratching. Everything else was fair.
Each of us used all the strength, speed and guile we possessed. The game would last until I was totally worn out. Most games lasted an hour or more.
I don’t recall ever letting them win. If/when they got the object from me I wanted them to know that I’d done my very best and that they had actually accomplished something. In the process of playing this “game” they unintentionally learned most of the wrestling moves that I knew that could be used from a standing position. All three of us also got a great workout.
We started out in the shallow end of the pool because John was only six. Other kids kept their distance to avoid getting hurt. We tried to stay to one side or the other of the shallow end so other kids could have some space to play in. As the years passed and Ann and John got older we moved up the pool into deeper water. The violent nature of the game continued to keep people far away from us. As time passed I became less and less successful in keeping the object.
Occasionally one of us would get hurt unintentionally by an elbow to the head, or a knee to a soft place. We always stopped the game immediately to look after the injured party and to express heartfelt remorse. We weren’t trying to hurt each other intentionally, but by the very nature of the game we were guaranteed to get hurt anyway. We never got angry with each other. If one of us ever did get angry, it would have meant that we had gone too far.
Jean tells me that one time at the pool a father stopped to ask her how we got Ann to roughhouse so violently with her father. He was dismayed that his own daughter was such a prissy little girl. Jean told him that I had roughhoused with Ann all her life. It was as natural an activity for father and daughter as it was for father and son.
I am sure the kids learned something from the game, but I don’t feel much like pontificating about it at the moment. If I did it would probably be something about breaking traditional gender behavior, teaching competitive spirit, maintaining composure, bonding, or the pleasure of intense physical activity. Oh hell, it was fun. That’s all. It doesn’t have to be a deep meaningful learning experience.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Just the Facts
Jean and I have had a difficult time figuring out what happened when. We know what happened. Exactly when it happened has been difficult to determine. “When” isn’t particularly important, but people have a fascination with the details. So, just to get the facts straight, here are some of the particulars –
Ann was a member of the recreation swim league team at Wade Walker Pool in the summer of 1988. Ann was six years old that summer and had just finished Kindergarten at Stone Mountain Elementary School. John was 3 years old, turning 4, that summer and we did not register him for the swim team.
Ann also was a member of the recreation swim league team at Wade Walker Pool in the summer of 1989. Ann was seven years old and had just finished the first grade at Stone Mountain Elementary School John turned 5 years old the summer of 1989 and that was John’s first year on a swim team.
We moved to Lilburn, GA in September of 1989. Ann went to second grade at Gwinnett County’s Camp Creek Elementary School. John went to a private kindergarten at Memorial Drive Presbyterian Church that fall.
Ann was on recreation swim league teams from 1988 through high school graduation in 2000. I think she missed the summer 2000 season because she had to report to West Point mid-summer.
John was on recreation swim league teams from the summer of 1989 through the summer of 2003. John began year-round swimming with the Dynamo Swim Club in the fall of 1995 when he was entering the fifth grade.
This means that Jean and I were working on recreation swim league meets from the summer of 1988 through the summer of 2003; that is 16 swim league seasons. We also worked in USA Swimming meets from 1995 to 2003; a period of 8 years of double duty.
Our recollection is that Ann was running in the neighborhood with Jean during the sixth (93-94) grade, and then started running with me out at Stone Mountain beginning with the summer of 1994, just prior to starting the seventh grade.
Ann and John will surely let me know if any of these facts are amiss.
Ann was a member of the recreation swim league team at Wade Walker Pool in the summer of 1988. Ann was six years old that summer and had just finished Kindergarten at Stone Mountain Elementary School. John was 3 years old, turning 4, that summer and we did not register him for the swim team.
Ann also was a member of the recreation swim league team at Wade Walker Pool in the summer of 1989. Ann was seven years old and had just finished the first grade at Stone Mountain Elementary School John turned 5 years old the summer of 1989 and that was John’s first year on a swim team.
We moved to Lilburn, GA in September of 1989. Ann went to second grade at Gwinnett County’s Camp Creek Elementary School. John went to a private kindergarten at Memorial Drive Presbyterian Church that fall.
Ann was on recreation swim league teams from 1988 through high school graduation in 2000. I think she missed the summer 2000 season because she had to report to West Point mid-summer.
John was on recreation swim league teams from the summer of 1989 through the summer of 2003. John began year-round swimming with the Dynamo Swim Club in the fall of 1995 when he was entering the fifth grade.
This means that Jean and I were working on recreation swim league meets from the summer of 1988 through the summer of 2003; that is 16 swim league seasons. We also worked in USA Swimming meets from 1995 to 2003; a period of 8 years of double duty.
Our recollection is that Ann was running in the neighborhood with Jean during the sixth (93-94) grade, and then started running with me out at Stone Mountain beginning with the summer of 1994, just prior to starting the seventh grade.
Ann and John will surely let me know if any of these facts are amiss.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
I Lose John, Again
We decided to register Ann for the recreational swim league team based at DeKalb County’s Wade Walker Pool for the summer of 1988. We’d never participated on a swim team, but thought it might be fun for Ann. John was just 3 years old at the time and would turn 4 in July, so I don’t think we signed him up.
We’d heard stories that some teams had limits and filled up quickly, so we arrived early on registration day with the kids in tow. After a few minutes in line, a lady who was also in line called my name. It turned out she was a classmate of mine in high school 18 years ago. Once she identified herself (Kyle somebody) I remembered her, and we quickly engaged in the “small world” chat and what we knew about fellow classmates.
While we were chatting the registration line snaked its way into the pool area. Kids were swimming in the pool and the line went right next to the pool. I didn’t much like this as I was in street clothes and really didn’t want to get wet. It was at this time that I realized I’d lost track of John. He normally stayed right with us, but must have wandered off while I was chatting.
I started to scan all of the kids on the deck of the pool, but did not see him there. There were so many it would be easy to miss him, so I scanned again quickly. I looked out the gate towards the parking lot, but did not see him there either.
I was about to go out in the parking lot and see if he was on the other side of the building. Before I went though, I decided to take two steps over to the edge of the pool and scan all of the kids in the pool.
I didn’t see him at first, but when I looked down at my feet, he was there. John had fallen into the pool and was three feet from the edge of the pool. He was also one foot under the water looking up at me. He didn’t seem to be concerned. He was holding his breath and his legs were kicking, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t reach the top and he couldn’t reach the bottom either.
The lifeguards didn’t notice, and I really didn’t want to create a commotion yelling for help. I also didn’t want to jump in the water fully clothed and create a commotion that way either. He was, after all, only three feet away. The problem was that I did not know how long he’d been underwater, so had no idea whether I had some time, or no time, to save him. I thought one of the kids nearby would notice and give John a push over to me, but they didn’t notice him either. I got down on my hands and knees and tried to reach John, but he was just out of reach.
I’d finally decided that John couldn’t hold his breath any longer and I was about to roll into the pool from my hands and knees when a little girl in the pool noticed me, and noticed John, and shoved him into my reach.
I pulled him out of the water and stood him up and that was that. John wasn’t the least bit bothered by the near-drowning experience. I was disturbed, but not John. He probably would have stepped right back in the pool if we’d let him.
We’d heard stories that some teams had limits and filled up quickly, so we arrived early on registration day with the kids in tow. After a few minutes in line, a lady who was also in line called my name. It turned out she was a classmate of mine in high school 18 years ago. Once she identified herself (Kyle somebody) I remembered her, and we quickly engaged in the “small world” chat and what we knew about fellow classmates.
While we were chatting the registration line snaked its way into the pool area. Kids were swimming in the pool and the line went right next to the pool. I didn’t much like this as I was in street clothes and really didn’t want to get wet. It was at this time that I realized I’d lost track of John. He normally stayed right with us, but must have wandered off while I was chatting.
I started to scan all of the kids on the deck of the pool, but did not see him there. There were so many it would be easy to miss him, so I scanned again quickly. I looked out the gate towards the parking lot, but did not see him there either.
I was about to go out in the parking lot and see if he was on the other side of the building. Before I went though, I decided to take two steps over to the edge of the pool and scan all of the kids in the pool.
I didn’t see him at first, but when I looked down at my feet, he was there. John had fallen into the pool and was three feet from the edge of the pool. He was also one foot under the water looking up at me. He didn’t seem to be concerned. He was holding his breath and his legs were kicking, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t reach the top and he couldn’t reach the bottom either.
The lifeguards didn’t notice, and I really didn’t want to create a commotion yelling for help. I also didn’t want to jump in the water fully clothed and create a commotion that way either. He was, after all, only three feet away. The problem was that I did not know how long he’d been underwater, so had no idea whether I had some time, or no time, to save him. I thought one of the kids nearby would notice and give John a push over to me, but they didn’t notice him either. I got down on my hands and knees and tried to reach John, but he was just out of reach.
I’d finally decided that John couldn’t hold his breath any longer and I was about to roll into the pool from my hands and knees when a little girl in the pool noticed me, and noticed John, and shoved him into my reach.
I pulled him out of the water and stood him up and that was that. John wasn’t the least bit bothered by the near-drowning experience. I was disturbed, but not John. He probably would have stepped right back in the pool if we’d let him.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Coming Attractions
Here are the titles of the next several posts.
I Lose John, Again
Just the Facts
Mine!
Coach/Parents Annual Meeting
Awards Ceremony
Hugs
Ann Broke My Ribs!
Wilkinson
Phiz
Big Waves
Splits
First Swim Meets
Age Appropriate Books
Drag Suit
Invitational Academic Workshop
Junior Nationals
I Lose John, Again
Just the Facts
Mine!
Coach/Parents Annual Meeting
Awards Ceremony
Hugs
Ann Broke My Ribs!
Wilkinson
Phiz
Big Waves
Splits
First Swim Meets
Age Appropriate Books
Drag Suit
Invitational Academic Workshop
Junior Nationals
Lost In Surf
For a number of years we got in the habit of going to the beach for our summer vacation. We’d been to Topsail Island, NC a couple of times with our running friends, and we decided to continue to go on our own. Well, not quite. On our own meant asking grandmas, Uncle Bill, and Uncle Carl to go along with the four of us. It was nice to have family along to help handle the kids; otherwise it would be no vacation at all.
Topsail Island has the greatest beach in the world, and thankfully, nobody seems to know it. Collectively, we’ve been to beaches in Florida, Georgia, New Jersey, Hawaii, and France. None of them are as good as Topsail. It is an uncrowded family beach. We always rented (still do from time to time) a house right on the beach. They were the greatest family vacations of all-time.
One year we were at the beach when John was 2 or 3 years old. I could claim that I nobly wanted Jean to enjoy a break, but I suspect that “kid duty” was thrust upon me by “she who must be obeyed”. I figured I could take John down to the beach to play in the shallow water which would take minimal effort on my part. Jean wasn’t too keen on the idea as John couldn’t swim and might wander out into the ocean. I made a great and solemn vow to stay between John and deep water and herd him into the shallows as necessary. Jean reluctantly yielded.
John wasn’t content with the shallows for long. He quickly created a game where he would attempt to dodge and dash past me into the deeper water where the waves still had some size. I tried to herd him like a sheep dog, but was repeatedly forced to catch him with my hands and take him back to shallow water. I backed up into the water as far as I dared. The deeper water slowed him down significantly and made him easier to catch. It was easy to forget my promise to Jean.
It was really just a matter of time. Every so often there is a wave that is significantly bigger than the others. Since I was facing the shore to keep an eye on John, I had no idea of the size of the next wave. One of these bigger waves plowed past me, knocked John down, and swallowed him up. As the wave washed up on shore and returned to the ocean, John was nowhere to be seen!
Quite frankly, my first thought was “Jean is going to kill me if I don’t find John!”, but where to look? I looked all around me and realized how impossible it is to find a small child in the frothy surf. It’s a big ocean and the surf was going every which way. If I moved from where I was, I would lose all perspective of where I was and where I had lost him. So I stood in the same spot and tried to look everywhere at once for anything that might resemble a body part of a small child.
Several more waves passed by with no sight of John anywhere. I was about to start yelling for help when John stood up about five feet past me in the deep water. He wasn’t the least bit frightened or concerned. Only his head cleared the surface in the trough between two waves. I lunged and got a hold on him just before the next wave could swallow him yet again.
We went back to the house to shower, change clothes, and spend some time inside. I needed a few hours of reflection before I took John back in the ocean. I like to think I was more careful the next time. I like to think that, but I am not entirely sure it is true.
It was several years before I told Jean about this incident. “Don’t tell Mom”, became a catch-phrase with the kids in later years as we ventured into deeper water and bigger waves.
As Ann recently reminded me, the truth is I didn’t lose just John, I also lost Ann; and it didn’t happen just once. Don’t tell Mom. Please?
Topsail Island has the greatest beach in the world, and thankfully, nobody seems to know it. Collectively, we’ve been to beaches in Florida, Georgia, New Jersey, Hawaii, and France. None of them are as good as Topsail. It is an uncrowded family beach. We always rented (still do from time to time) a house right on the beach. They were the greatest family vacations of all-time.
One year we were at the beach when John was 2 or 3 years old. I could claim that I nobly wanted Jean to enjoy a break, but I suspect that “kid duty” was thrust upon me by “she who must be obeyed”. I figured I could take John down to the beach to play in the shallow water which would take minimal effort on my part. Jean wasn’t too keen on the idea as John couldn’t swim and might wander out into the ocean. I made a great and solemn vow to stay between John and deep water and herd him into the shallows as necessary. Jean reluctantly yielded.
John wasn’t content with the shallows for long. He quickly created a game where he would attempt to dodge and dash past me into the deeper water where the waves still had some size. I tried to herd him like a sheep dog, but was repeatedly forced to catch him with my hands and take him back to shallow water. I backed up into the water as far as I dared. The deeper water slowed him down significantly and made him easier to catch. It was easy to forget my promise to Jean.
It was really just a matter of time. Every so often there is a wave that is significantly bigger than the others. Since I was facing the shore to keep an eye on John, I had no idea of the size of the next wave. One of these bigger waves plowed past me, knocked John down, and swallowed him up. As the wave washed up on shore and returned to the ocean, John was nowhere to be seen!
Quite frankly, my first thought was “Jean is going to kill me if I don’t find John!”, but where to look? I looked all around me and realized how impossible it is to find a small child in the frothy surf. It’s a big ocean and the surf was going every which way. If I moved from where I was, I would lose all perspective of where I was and where I had lost him. So I stood in the same spot and tried to look everywhere at once for anything that might resemble a body part of a small child.
Several more waves passed by with no sight of John anywhere. I was about to start yelling for help when John stood up about five feet past me in the deep water. He wasn’t the least bit frightened or concerned. Only his head cleared the surface in the trough between two waves. I lunged and got a hold on him just before the next wave could swallow him yet again.
We went back to the house to shower, change clothes, and spend some time inside. I needed a few hours of reflection before I took John back in the ocean. I like to think I was more careful the next time. I like to think that, but I am not entirely sure it is true.
It was several years before I told Jean about this incident. “Don’t tell Mom”, became a catch-phrase with the kids in later years as we ventured into deeper water and bigger waves.
As Ann recently reminded me, the truth is I didn’t lose just John, I also lost Ann; and it didn’t happen just once. Don’t tell Mom. Please?
Friday, July 3, 2009
The Swing
From time to time it was my duty to change Ann and John’s diapers. It was during this chore that I first realized that infants are indestructible. During a moment of inattention on my part, each of my kids, on separate occasions, rolled off of the changing table from a height of roughly three feet onto the hard linoleum floor. Both screamed, loudly, but neither died. Whodathunkit! Thank god that Jean was not there.
At our first house in Stone Mountain, GA, we had a backyard with the obligatory metal pipe variety of swing-set, secondhand of course, and a cool geodesic dome jungle gym that was roughly four feet at its highest point, also secondhand. Neither of these was sufficient in my mind to satisfy my ballsy death-defying indestructible kids. Hell no! They needed to have a real swing, a high swing, like they have at park playgrounds for the bigger kids, only higher, not some sissy munchkin swing-set. My kids were indestructible, right?
A really good swing is so much fun, with two points of particular joy. The main objective, I recall, is going as high as you can, and that brief moment of weightlessness at the end of each trajectory; the adrenaline rush from the danger of going higher than ever before was intoxicating. The secondary thrill was the awesome speeds you could obtain while swinging back and forth. A swing placed high in the trees with really long ropes should permit greater heights, and greater speeds.
We had two tall straight Georgia pines in our backyard about 10 feet apart. If I was to use the two trees to hang a swing from at a significant height, the kids shouldn’t be able to hit either of the trees even if they tried. Don’t worry, they never did. Their near-death moments came at my hand, not their own.
So I went to a toy store and bought a flexible swing seat with metal brackets at each end to connect a rope or chain to, just like they have at park playgrounds. I went to the hardware store and bought 50 feet of rope with a rating of 250 pounds. If each rope of the swing is supporting half of the user’s weight, the swing should support a 500 pound person. “That ought to do the trick”, I thought.
I had a 20-something foot extension ladder to use when putting the swing up. The length of the ladder isn’t important to the story. The important point is that my body starts shaking in uncontrollable fear at a height of 10 feet. The problem was that I wanted a monster swing; a kick-ass kill them all and let god sort them out kind of swing. The kind of swing that kids will love because it is way too high for good sense and freaks mothers out. Kids are fearless and love heights. That is the swing I wanted my kids to have.
I used the ladder fully extended to put up the swing. The ladder was tied to the tree so it couldn’t slip out from under me. When I climbed the ladder it started shaking when I was half-way up, not because the ladder was unsteady, but because my legs were shaking the ladder. The kids were watching, and I wanted to appear brave, but there was no way to mask the truth.
The kids would only be able to swing as high as I tied the rope in the trees, so I really wanted to put it way up there. I climbed slowly up the ladder, really just prolonging my own agony, not really adding any safety to the moment at all. When I reached a height beyond which I dared not go, I had to wrap the rope around the tree and tie it off. Imagine my horror when I realized I would have to LET GO OF THE LADDER WITH BOTH HANDS to put the rope around the tree and tie the knot. To make a short story, which is already too long, shorter, I accomplished the mission on one tree, and again on the other tree at the exact same height.
Measured from the base of the trees, the swing was 18 feet high. By mathematical definition it was a kick-ass, kill them all and let god sort them out, freak-out mother of a swing.
The swing was a great attraction to neighborhood kids and visitors. We enjoyed showing off the swing and Ann and John’s bravery to ride the thing. It was quite a sight to see little kids squealing with delight well above the heads of the adults.
The problem was wind resistance. There was no way I could get Ann and John up to 18 feet. The equation for wind resistance (drag) increases with the square of velocity. So when their velocity doubled, the wind resistance quadrupled! When the kids reached the bottom of the swing’s trajectory they were going so fast that the wind resistance slowed them incredibly. It was a severe disappointment; a major bummer.
The kids were always yelling for me to push them “higher”. The kids kept a death grip on the ropes, but it wasn’t particularly comforting as a parent. When I would push them on their backs or butts to achieve the desired height, I would push them right off of the swing seat. They were hanging by their hands and arms from the ropes, with the swing seat trailing uselessly from behind, at a height of roughly 10 feet in the air! I caught them as quickly as I could before their little munchkin hands let go, then quickly looked about to see if Mom was watching.
“Don’t tell Mom”, I told them.
I needed another method, a safer method, to get them up in the air. I took to standing way back behind the swing. I wanted to catch them when their backwards motion stopped ever so briefly, and before the forward motion began again. My theory was that I could reach up (because they were well over head) and hook my fingers on the seat of the swing to sling them forward with all my might. Since I wasn’t touching their bodies I would not be pushing them off of the swing. I was only moving the swing.
Well sure enough, I was right; I was only moving the swing. I threw the swing forward with great force, but unfortunately, only the swing moved forward and the kid was left behind. The kid was again left hanging from the ropes, supported only by the strength of their munchkin hands and arms, with the swing seat preceding them through the arc. If they let go at the wrong moment, they would easily travel 10 feet horizontally and another 10 feet vertically. Again, I would catch them as quickly as I could before they fell.
History repeats itself.
“Don’t tell Mom!”
At our first house in Stone Mountain, GA, we had a backyard with the obligatory metal pipe variety of swing-set, secondhand of course, and a cool geodesic dome jungle gym that was roughly four feet at its highest point, also secondhand. Neither of these was sufficient in my mind to satisfy my ballsy death-defying indestructible kids. Hell no! They needed to have a real swing, a high swing, like they have at park playgrounds for the bigger kids, only higher, not some sissy munchkin swing-set. My kids were indestructible, right?
A really good swing is so much fun, with two points of particular joy. The main objective, I recall, is going as high as you can, and that brief moment of weightlessness at the end of each trajectory; the adrenaline rush from the danger of going higher than ever before was intoxicating. The secondary thrill was the awesome speeds you could obtain while swinging back and forth. A swing placed high in the trees with really long ropes should permit greater heights, and greater speeds.
We had two tall straight Georgia pines in our backyard about 10 feet apart. If I was to use the two trees to hang a swing from at a significant height, the kids shouldn’t be able to hit either of the trees even if they tried. Don’t worry, they never did. Their near-death moments came at my hand, not their own.
So I went to a toy store and bought a flexible swing seat with metal brackets at each end to connect a rope or chain to, just like they have at park playgrounds. I went to the hardware store and bought 50 feet of rope with a rating of 250 pounds. If each rope of the swing is supporting half of the user’s weight, the swing should support a 500 pound person. “That ought to do the trick”, I thought.
I had a 20-something foot extension ladder to use when putting the swing up. The length of the ladder isn’t important to the story. The important point is that my body starts shaking in uncontrollable fear at a height of 10 feet. The problem was that I wanted a monster swing; a kick-ass kill them all and let god sort them out kind of swing. The kind of swing that kids will love because it is way too high for good sense and freaks mothers out. Kids are fearless and love heights. That is the swing I wanted my kids to have.
I used the ladder fully extended to put up the swing. The ladder was tied to the tree so it couldn’t slip out from under me. When I climbed the ladder it started shaking when I was half-way up, not because the ladder was unsteady, but because my legs were shaking the ladder. The kids were watching, and I wanted to appear brave, but there was no way to mask the truth.
The kids would only be able to swing as high as I tied the rope in the trees, so I really wanted to put it way up there. I climbed slowly up the ladder, really just prolonging my own agony, not really adding any safety to the moment at all. When I reached a height beyond which I dared not go, I had to wrap the rope around the tree and tie it off. Imagine my horror when I realized I would have to LET GO OF THE LADDER WITH BOTH HANDS to put the rope around the tree and tie the knot. To make a short story, which is already too long, shorter, I accomplished the mission on one tree, and again on the other tree at the exact same height.
Measured from the base of the trees, the swing was 18 feet high. By mathematical definition it was a kick-ass, kill them all and let god sort them out, freak-out mother of a swing.
The swing was a great attraction to neighborhood kids and visitors. We enjoyed showing off the swing and Ann and John’s bravery to ride the thing. It was quite a sight to see little kids squealing with delight well above the heads of the adults.
The problem was wind resistance. There was no way I could get Ann and John up to 18 feet. The equation for wind resistance (drag) increases with the square of velocity. So when their velocity doubled, the wind resistance quadrupled! When the kids reached the bottom of the swing’s trajectory they were going so fast that the wind resistance slowed them incredibly. It was a severe disappointment; a major bummer.
The kids were always yelling for me to push them “higher”. The kids kept a death grip on the ropes, but it wasn’t particularly comforting as a parent. When I would push them on their backs or butts to achieve the desired height, I would push them right off of the swing seat. They were hanging by their hands and arms from the ropes, with the swing seat trailing uselessly from behind, at a height of roughly 10 feet in the air! I caught them as quickly as I could before their little munchkin hands let go, then quickly looked about to see if Mom was watching.
“Don’t tell Mom”, I told them.
I needed another method, a safer method, to get them up in the air. I took to standing way back behind the swing. I wanted to catch them when their backwards motion stopped ever so briefly, and before the forward motion began again. My theory was that I could reach up (because they were well over head) and hook my fingers on the seat of the swing to sling them forward with all my might. Since I wasn’t touching their bodies I would not be pushing them off of the swing. I was only moving the swing.
Well sure enough, I was right; I was only moving the swing. I threw the swing forward with great force, but unfortunately, only the swing moved forward and the kid was left behind. The kid was again left hanging from the ropes, supported only by the strength of their munchkin hands and arms, with the swing seat preceding them through the arc. If they let go at the wrong moment, they would easily travel 10 feet horizontally and another 10 feet vertically. Again, I would catch them as quickly as I could before they fell.
History repeats itself.
“Don’t tell Mom!”
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Don’t Tell Mom
My Dad’s sense of adventure was a blessing and a curse.
The Curse –
On a car trip he would wonder where a paved road led, and when it became gravel would follow that, and when it became two ruts in the dirt he would follow that, until the car was almost stuck in the mud and had to be backed out the way it came in. Rarely did such a trip end in a place where the car could actually be turned around.
In the same manner he liked to take our boat up small bays to see if the bay led to a stream. If there was a stream he had to find out how far we could get up the stream which in turn led to our getting stuck in a shallow muddy spot. Running aground always meant someone had to go overboard to lighten the boat and push it off the shallow spot. All too often that person was me. One time we did not have our swimsuits and I had to strip down to my underwear. It was not the way to endear yourself to a teenage boy. It’s funny now, barely, but nowhere close to funny back then.
While driving in the Rocky Mountains he never watched the road. Dad was always pointing out the windows exclaiming “Look at that!”, while the car drifted into oncoming cars, or off the road and down the mountainside. He would hug the side of the road to give us a better view of the ravine. These driving vacations were white-knuckle experiences for the entire family.
The Blessing –
Dad was not a touchy-feely kind of guy, but in retrospect he did communicate. He expressed his trust and confidence in me and acknowledged my growing maturity through various escapades.
One time we rappelled down the cliffs between Lake MacBride and Coralville reservoir. Dad had an old rope from our garage that was frankly rather frayed. He tied it to a tree at the top of the cliff and said “let’s go”. I was young and invincible, so over the side I went and bounded down the cliff in the manner I’d seen in TV shows. It was great fun, but also dangerous, which I barely realized. There was no belay rope. My hands were bare and at risk from rope burns. The only thing saving me from death was my grip on the rope, and it wasn’t much of a rope.
There were laws determining when children could drive, but Dad was the judge of when I could start getting practice. I remember him tossing the keys to me at age 12 and saying “Back the car out of the garage and warm it up.” I didn’t talk back; I did what I was told. When I was 14 he pulled over and stopped the car on a rural gravel road. “Why don’t you drive for a while?” he said. I drove the car. I was proud that he had the confidence in me to do these things ahead of the appointed time.
When I got my driver’s license, Dad suggested I take the car, the boat, and a couple buddies over to the Mississippi river and spend a couple days camping on whatever island we might find in the middle of the river. That was either a great deal of trust, or a great deal of nuts. Another time he sent us with the car and boat to the Cedar River for a trip up-river to camp wherever seemed reasonable for the weekend.
Conclusion –
These escapades are great memories for me, and I wanted Ann and John to have their own collection of memories. Jean and I talked about this early on. We grew up without a host of safety devices and turned out fine. If my kids could only do the “safe” things, that’s hardly living. I wanted the kids to have a real childhood that didn’t always have helmets and knee pads. So we agreed that I would, from time to time, push the boundaries and let the kids do things that they were barely ready for.
So we played rough, went out in deep water, rode waves that were too big, swam in strong ocean currents, climbed a mountain at night, ran through the woods in the dark, and literally howled at the moon. Normal was boring, and abnormal was fun, so we actively pursued the abnormal. I told Ann and John that I trusted them. I also showed Ann and John that I trusted them.
Sometimes I’d especially press the boundaries of safety; sometimes my judgment could have been better, and so as not to worry Jean unnecessarily (for the kids are still alive after all), I would whisper to the kids, “Don’t tell mom!” The conspiratorial nature of the phrase seemed to enhance the escapade in the eyes of the kids, so I used it more and more. I used it after safe adventures and the risky ones too. It really didn’t matter either way; the kids always told on me. They delighted in telling Mom of their latest adventure with Dad at the earliest opportunity.
This is the genesis of the phrase, “Don’t tell Mom!” , that you will see from time to time in this blog as I tell the stories of Ann and John’s childhood.
One Last Thing –
Jean and I feel that the confidence we showed in Ann and John through their many activities and experiences over the years generated tremendous self-confidence, and led Ann to graduate from the United States Military Academy at West Point with Honors, and led John to graduate from the University of Virginia as an eight-time NCAA All–American swimmer.
The Curse –
On a car trip he would wonder where a paved road led, and when it became gravel would follow that, and when it became two ruts in the dirt he would follow that, until the car was almost stuck in the mud and had to be backed out the way it came in. Rarely did such a trip end in a place where the car could actually be turned around.
In the same manner he liked to take our boat up small bays to see if the bay led to a stream. If there was a stream he had to find out how far we could get up the stream which in turn led to our getting stuck in a shallow muddy spot. Running aground always meant someone had to go overboard to lighten the boat and push it off the shallow spot. All too often that person was me. One time we did not have our swimsuits and I had to strip down to my underwear. It was not the way to endear yourself to a teenage boy. It’s funny now, barely, but nowhere close to funny back then.
While driving in the Rocky Mountains he never watched the road. Dad was always pointing out the windows exclaiming “Look at that!”, while the car drifted into oncoming cars, or off the road and down the mountainside. He would hug the side of the road to give us a better view of the ravine. These driving vacations were white-knuckle experiences for the entire family.
The Blessing –
Dad was not a touchy-feely kind of guy, but in retrospect he did communicate. He expressed his trust and confidence in me and acknowledged my growing maturity through various escapades.
One time we rappelled down the cliffs between Lake MacBride and Coralville reservoir. Dad had an old rope from our garage that was frankly rather frayed. He tied it to a tree at the top of the cliff and said “let’s go”. I was young and invincible, so over the side I went and bounded down the cliff in the manner I’d seen in TV shows. It was great fun, but also dangerous, which I barely realized. There was no belay rope. My hands were bare and at risk from rope burns. The only thing saving me from death was my grip on the rope, and it wasn’t much of a rope.
There were laws determining when children could drive, but Dad was the judge of when I could start getting practice. I remember him tossing the keys to me at age 12 and saying “Back the car out of the garage and warm it up.” I didn’t talk back; I did what I was told. When I was 14 he pulled over and stopped the car on a rural gravel road. “Why don’t you drive for a while?” he said. I drove the car. I was proud that he had the confidence in me to do these things ahead of the appointed time.
When I got my driver’s license, Dad suggested I take the car, the boat, and a couple buddies over to the Mississippi river and spend a couple days camping on whatever island we might find in the middle of the river. That was either a great deal of trust, or a great deal of nuts. Another time he sent us with the car and boat to the Cedar River for a trip up-river to camp wherever seemed reasonable for the weekend.
Conclusion –
These escapades are great memories for me, and I wanted Ann and John to have their own collection of memories. Jean and I talked about this early on. We grew up without a host of safety devices and turned out fine. If my kids could only do the “safe” things, that’s hardly living. I wanted the kids to have a real childhood that didn’t always have helmets and knee pads. So we agreed that I would, from time to time, push the boundaries and let the kids do things that they were barely ready for.
So we played rough, went out in deep water, rode waves that were too big, swam in strong ocean currents, climbed a mountain at night, ran through the woods in the dark, and literally howled at the moon. Normal was boring, and abnormal was fun, so we actively pursued the abnormal. I told Ann and John that I trusted them. I also showed Ann and John that I trusted them.
Sometimes I’d especially press the boundaries of safety; sometimes my judgment could have been better, and so as not to worry Jean unnecessarily (for the kids are still alive after all), I would whisper to the kids, “Don’t tell mom!” The conspiratorial nature of the phrase seemed to enhance the escapade in the eyes of the kids, so I used it more and more. I used it after safe adventures and the risky ones too. It really didn’t matter either way; the kids always told on me. They delighted in telling Mom of their latest adventure with Dad at the earliest opportunity.
This is the genesis of the phrase, “Don’t tell Mom!” , that you will see from time to time in this blog as I tell the stories of Ann and John’s childhood.
One Last Thing –
Jean and I feel that the confidence we showed in Ann and John through their many activities and experiences over the years generated tremendous self-confidence, and led Ann to graduate from the United States Military Academy at West Point with Honors, and led John to graduate from the University of Virginia as an eight-time NCAA All–American swimmer.
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