Grandpa Kyle

I'm still occasionally migrating posts from my blog that is no more.  This one was first posted June 25, 2009.

Today I happened to drive past the cemetery where my grandfather is buried.  I haven’t been there since the funeral, now almost 18 months ago.  I’ve thought a lot about him lately, nothing in particular, just random memories and stories.  I decided to pull in and spend a minute.

For the past few weeks, I’ve toyed with the idea of posting the talk I gave at his funeral.  In the end, I decided to wait until one of the two dates on his headstone.  As I stood there at his graveside and thought for a few minutes about this man, I figured today was as good a time as any.


Kyle Ballard Sorensen

December 1, 1922 - January 11, 2008

Hello, for the benefit of those of you who don't know me, my name is Clark K Y L E Graff.  I am the oldest of Kyle and Leone's grandchildren.  My mother, Kyleen, was also named after her dad.  Accordingly, she often refers to herself as his oldest son.  I too have followed this family tradition by giving my oldest child the middle name of Kylee.

This past week, I have reflected often on the intertwining of each of our lives.  Each of us share strands that bind us together.  These shared ties and strands may include: a family name, common ancestors, or a common faith in Jesus Christ and His restored Gospel.  In this group there are many of these intertwining strands.  Today we celebrate the life of Kyle Sorensen, a man known and loved by each of us, whose life connects us and brings us all together today.

One of the first of the many ties, binding my heart to my grandfather, happened when I was 19 years old.  My family was living in Reno, Nevada and Grandma and Grandpa drove out for my mission farewell.  Later that night, I was set apart as a missionary and entrusted to the care of my Grandparents, who drove me the next day to Salt Lake City.  The way things worked out, I ended up spending about 10 days with Grandma and Grandpa before entering the MTC.  I assure you, Grandpa took his role as my first companion VERY seriously.  By the time I got to the MTC, I was thrilled to get a rest from all the studying.  

During this same ten days before my mission, I needed to buy some white dress shirts and a pair of dress shoes.  Grandpa volunteered to take me on what ended up being one of the longest days of my life.  We must have hit every men's clothing store in all of the downtown area.  We shopped all day and bought nothing.  Just when I had given up, Grandpa causally suggested we stop by Mr. Macs.

While I tried on shirts, Grandpa went to work on the salesman.  "Now, if we buy five of these shirts, what type of discount will you offer?  What if we buy seven?  What's your best price on this pair of shoes?  How about this pair?  How about this?  How about that?  What if we pay with cash?"  And so on.  He was relentless.  I was amazed.

By the time we were finally ready to go, the salesman's smile looked a little unnatural.  He gave us the grand total, including the discount Grandpa had already negotiated.

Grandpa replied with a simple question, "Is Mac here?"

Is Mac here?  I had no idea there was even a real Mac.

The clerk looked back at him, paused, and affirmed that Mac was indeed in the store.

"Tell him, Kyle Sorensen is here."

"Holy cow," I thought in amazement, "he is not done making deals yet."  Forcing back a smile, I stared at my grandpa.  He quickly smiled back at me and turned to watch as the salesman headed toward the back of the store.

The clerk was gone about a minute.  He stepped to the counter with a pleased smile on his face and announced an additional 10% off.  "My grandpa was a hero!"  Happy as could be, I pulled open my wallet.

Never taking his gaze from the salesman's eye, my grandpa reached over to me and put his hand over my open wallet.  He then repeated his last sentence, only, this time he carefully emphasized the two, most important words.

"Tell him,   K y l e   S o r e n s e n   is here."  He was cool and collected.  I about fell over.

The clerk was clearly flustered.  He paused, looked down, took a deep breath, and nodded.  Without a word he again headed to the back of the store.

After what seemed an hour, the salesman returned, the forced smile again on his face.  "Twenty-five percent?"  He was both making a statement and asking a question.  My grandfather paused thoughtfully, and nodded his approval.  The clerk relaxed a little.  And I quickly handed over the money.

As the clerk handed me the change, I glanced up at my grandpa.  He had a look I had never seen before.  His head was high, his gaze firm.  A very pleased expression had washed over his face.  His eyes were full of satisfaction, pride, and a hint of delight.  Together, Kyle Sorensen and I slowly walked from the store.

There were many qualities that made him a great negotiator and salesman.  But, some of these same qualities often made it difficult to get to know and love him.  In fact, I was pretty nervous around him for most of my childhood.  For me this started to change when I was in high school.  I was about 17 when I made my first unannounced visit to my grandparents’ home.  Through the years and the many visits that followed, I have come to think of my grandparents as friends, and, especially my grandpa, as a mentor.  I could always count on him to listen and to understand me, and also to share his wise and sound advice.  Sitting on the living room couch, with Grandma between us, a big bowl of ice cream on each of our laps, he would advise me on matters such as education, car purchases, marriage, business, church callings, and life in general.  The advice was always good and their support was something I could always count on.

It was also through these visits that I discovered that, like many people in this family, I am a lot like my grandpa.  Through the years, as I have explored the similarities between our personality types, I have learned much, not only about myself, but also about this man who has had, and will continue to have, so much influence on my life.  Because I am like him in many ways, it gives me insight regarding things he wasn’t good at showing.

Yes, he was tough and demanding, sometimes distant, and cold.  Yes, he always expected nothing less than perfection from himself and from those around him.  But, there were also times when he could be loving and even gentle, and at times would say or do something that made me realize he had very strong feelings for his family and for his Savior.

Now, this softer side did not show itself very often.  It was always a bit of a surprise, but, it was always welcome, and insightful.  Some of these experiences include: seeing him once sneak a kiss from Grandma, when he thought no one was looking.  My own children have fond memories of giggling and laughing as he hugged and tickled them.  Others for me were when he, more than once, caught Jake and me digging a huge hole in the back yard and came out, not to reprimand, but to offer engineering advice and ask if we had the correct tools for the job.

And my grandpa had lots of tools.  More tools than most men could ever need.  He loved his tools.  But, I think he really enjoyed giving them away as well.  One or two at a time, he gave them, through the years, as gifts to his visiting sons, grandsons and neighbors.

The day he died, it had snowed at my house.  After hearing the news, I came home and decided to clear some of the snow off our back deck.  Looking to the spot where I keep the snow shovels, I found two there, one with the name "Sorensen" the other with the initials "KBS" engraved on them.  Two, old, metal shovels that once belonged to him, that now belong to me.  Two simple ties that bind him to me.  I grabbed one and got to work.  I shoveled, and thought about my grandpa and some of the many other ties that bind me to him.  I would like to share two more of them with you.

When I went to the Temple for the first time, it was my Grandfather who sat beside me.  He was my escort, my teacher, my helper, my example.  Grandma was also there, and after the session, in the Celestial Room, the three of us talked quietly near the stairs.  Grandpa bore his testimony to me there, weeping openly as he spoke of the Savior.  I always knew he believed, but I did not know until then how strong his feelings were.  This experience, this memory, this tie between us has stayed with me all these years, and I hope to never forget it.

Another of these moments, that ties me to him, happened just two weeks ago.  I went to see him in the hospital.  He was looking pretty rough.  Not only that, he was talking and talking, but not really saying anything.  I could understand most of his words but none of the words made sense when used together.  I pretended to understand and, as best as I could, answered what seemed to be questions.  He was very agitated and frustrated.  He was telling me something, but I couldn’t tell what it was.  Three separate times I told him I was going now, and headed for the door.  But, so urgent was the tone of his speech, each time I came back again to his side.  His rambling continued with gestures toward the door or the television or whatever else happened to be directly in front of him at the time.

I'm quite sure he had no idea who I was.  In fact, I'm not sure he even knew where or who he was.  But one thing he did know, one thing he was willing and ready to share with any person who would listen.  That thing was his testimony.

And, it was then, there in the hospital, when it happened.  Three words.  Unmistakable.  Clear, and full of meaning.  "Church is true," he said, and was again immediately rambling on and on about nothing in particular.

So, while he physically seemed unsure or unaware, deep down, spiritually he knew exactly who he was.  Kyle Sorensen was a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  My grandfather was, is and will always be a disciple of Him who's church he belonged to.

No, my grandfather was not a perfect man.  But he deeply loved and faithfully served that One who is perfect.  Countless hours of my grandfather’s life have been spent studying, writing, praying about and researching topics related to his religion.

There is a verse of scripture in Moroni, chapter ten, in the Book of Mormon, which I think is applicable here.  Verse 32 invites us to . . . come unto Christ, and be perfected in him . . . and if [we] . . . deny [ourselves] of all ungodliness, and love God with all [our] might, mind and strength, then is his grace sufficient for [each of us].  The scripture continues by saying, "that by his grace ye may be perfect in Christ; and if by the grace of God ye are perfect in Christ, ye can in nowise deny the power of God."

I am so thankful for this man I call Grandpa.  I am thankful for his life, his friendship, his help, his advice, his leadership, his example and his love toward me and my family.  Above all of these, his personal testimony, shared with me on several occasions, ties us firmly together and is of far more worth than anything else he ever did for me or gave to me.

Through the years there will be many, many opportunities for me to remember my own connections to this man.  Perhaps someday I will actually need a two foot long monkey wrench and find his initials engraved on it.  Or maybe I will be self-consciously and ineffectively backing out of an extremely difficult driveway, or shoveling an extra 6" of snow off the grass at my house, instead of just stopping at the edge of the concrete.  No matter the connection to my grandfather, I will think of the man I am named after and I will know that he was a believer, a true disciple of our Savior, Jesus Christ.

_ _ _

My Grandpa Sorensen was my mentor, my cheerleader, my sounding board and my friend.  Today I realized I will miss him more than I thought I would.


When I got home, the kids were playing a game on the computer.  It was a simple game, with a bottle tied to the end of a balloon.  As the balloon floated up into the sky, it pulled the bottle past flowers, floating in the air along the way.  The goal was to collect as many flowers as possible.  The game ended when the balloon slowed, and the bottle, now heavy with the collected bouquet, rested gently next to a gate, high up in the heavens.  A small gift for someone who now lives there.

The Links

One of the last jobs I had while still in college was as a construction superintendent for a small semi-custom homebuilder.  The company was run by three brothers and their dad.  Each had very different skills and aptitudes that seamlessly harmonized with one another.  This was a well-run business and I was fortunate to work there for a time. 

My job involved building houses in a small subdivision of about 40 or 45 lots called, The Links.  Never much of a golfer, it took me a while to make the connection between the name of the subdivision and the golf course directly behind the neighborhood.  

My boss was one of the three brothers.  He was the technically-minded contractor of the team, a man’s man, intense, highly motivated, and obsessed with the details.  I didn’t like him.  Maybe I could have liked him if he wasn’t my boss, but he was, and things there didn’t work out well for me. 

Being a superintendent is a tough job.  You are responsible for building several homes at the same time, managing the schedule, and working with a million variables like subcontractors, homeowners and the always changing weather.  At the time, the job proved to be too much for me, and my boss began micromanaging my every move.  Even today, the memory of his truck, pulling slowly into the neighborhood, its lights peering eerily through the hazy calm of early morning, still conjures up thoughts of a bad, low budget, horror film. 

I can’t blame anyone but myself for the way things turned out.  They took a chance on a young and untested superintendent, and I just wasn’t ready for the job.  All too soon, that fact became painfully evident to everyone involved.  In time, he asked me to move on.

Even now, 10 or 15 years later, I think about that place all the time.  Not so much about my old boss, but more about the little things that happened while I was there, the people I worked with, and the things I did.  As examples, I include just two of the most recent memories from this past week. 

Saturday, while I was roofing a small shed with my son.  I told him about a roofer I once knew, who could hand-nail shingles almost as fast as someone using a nail gun.  He could pound a nail with two hits of his heavy hammer, and then have another nail in place, ready to be pounded, all in about a second.  In his left hand he held as many nails as he could manage.  His fingers would quickly roll one nail into place, where the first strike of the hammer would tap it down.  Immediately this hand would pull away and begin rolling the next nail into place as the hammer came crashing down to finish off the first nail.  By then, held loosely between the calloused fingers of his left hand, he would have another nail ready to be started.  The memory of the dull, thudding sounds, coming from somewhere in the neighborhood, “bam, BAM . . . bam, BAM . . . bam, BAM . . .,” rings even today like music in my memory. 

Also recently, I was telling some friends about how I would often have to take cover when a stray golf ball would fly unexpectedly over a house and into the street.  This last memory came just a few days ago, after I got invited to attend a golf tournament for work. 

The tournament was today.  I haven’t golfed for a couple years and was kind of rusty.  The memory of stray golf balls again found its way into my consciousness, only it was me now who was pounding them out of bounds.  Fortunately for my team, the format we played was to move to, and hit from the best ball of each shot.  So even though I was the weak link on the team, no one suffered too badly. 

Even with that, and a couple strong players on my team, we still ended up with the highest score of all the 36 teams.  As we handed in our score card, with teams still coming in off the course, the man who took the card read it and said, “Oh, you will be getting a prize for this one.”

It was there in the clubhouse, waiting in line for lunch, that I saw him, my old boss, from years ago.  He looked exactly the same: tall, blonde, confident, smiling, and loud.  He was talking with some friends, and I decided not to interrupt.  After the lunch and awards, I caught up with him and shook his hand.  I reminded him of my name and said I had worked for him a few years ago.  We briefly caught up and then talked for a few minutes about nothing in particular.  In the conversation, I mentioned something about him letting me go.  He stopped me and kindly said he didn’t let me go, but, “encouraged me to find other work in another field.”  We both laughed.

Near the end of the conversation, I mentioned his old truck, “the one with the yellow lights on top of the cab.”

“My old Dodge!” he beamed, turning to the man standing next to him.

“Yes,” I affirmed.  “For several years after I left your company, whenever I saw a truck like that one, I would get the hugest knot in my stomach.”

He looked surprised.  “My old truck wasn’t that bad, was it?”

I laughed.  He laughed.  His friend laughed.  I don’t remember him having such a quick sense of humor. 

He then asked me, with real interest, “We didn’t part ways so terribly, did we?” 

Standing there in the clubhouse, with this man I once hoped I’d never have to see again, I realized I’d finally dealt with the pain.  Somewhere along the way, I had reconciled the frustration of that episode of my life.  I had put the past behind me.  I had forgiven.  And now I can forget. 

“No,” I lied, “No, of course not.”

Give Them Rocks

Today and yesterday were spent with my son at Cub Country day camp.  With us were some of his friends and another father/fellow Cub Scout leader from the neighborhood.  The camp is located in a stunning, narrow, rugged, mountain canyon near my home.  It’s one of the most beautiful places I've ever been.

The first thing we were told when we arrived at camp was that all rocks and sticks should be left where they are so that other people can enjoy them.  “But,” we were told, “we have a Trading Post in camp, where you can purchase other great souvenirs to remind you of your time here.”  I suggested to my friend that over the span of 100 years, if every boy that ever came to this camp went home with a pocket-full of stones, you wouldn’t be able to tell at all.  Later in the day, I told him about a dinosaur track I had recently seen on a trip to the San Rafael Swell.  The track, millions of years old, is being damaged by people who cover it with rocks to hide it and ‘protect’ it from vandals.

Just the day before I went to camp, I found myself in a related, but much more intense conversation with a group of friends from work.  Someone commented on how out of control the government is with taking away lands and establishing them as protected areas, thus rendering them useless to industry.  As the topic rolled quickly through the group of six people, I found that I was on my own on this one and cautiously disagreed.

One big problem I have with arguing about big, emotionally charged subjects is that you seem to have to pick one side or the other.  I don’t know why this is the case.  It seems ridiculous to me that there can be only two sides to every argument.  Some things, like preserving lands over industry, or vice versa, are so ambiguous and multifaceted that there can be as many ‘sides’ to the story as there are individuals and experiences related to the subject.

One thing I do know is that normally the people facing off are not too far apart on the facts.  For example, most people agree that keeping Americans working is a good thing.  Most people also believe that protecting natural wonders and ancient artifacts is also important.  But, depending on your personal experience or beliefs, you may have to decide between one or the other of these two issues.

I personally believe that as the current tenants of Earth, preservation is our duty.  We each have a moral obligation to protect the world for the use and enjoyment of future generations.

But I disagree that preservation means leaving every rock or stick exactly the way you found it.  For example, a road to an amazing location, opens it up to being appreciated by more people, thus making preservation more likely.  That same road, if used appropriately, also keeps the viewer from straying too far, and unintentionally damaging the thing they came to see.

For my entire life, I have been a collector of rocks.  It is a pastime I learned from my father’s uncle, who spent his life collecting beautiful rocks and artifacts in the deserts and hills of Southern Utah.  He now is gone, but his collections still inspire everyone who sees them.  For me, collecting is essential to preservation.  Without collections, there would be little inspiration for, or interest in preservation.  I’m referring only to the legal, non destructive collection of small, naturally broken off pieces.

The rocks I have collected, all through legal and non-destructive means, tie me to the place they are from.  They remind me of amazing things and of my desire to see and experience them again.  And, when I do go again, I will take someone who has probably not seen the place before.  They in turn will hopefully grow to appreciate these things for themselves.

So I say, pick up those rocks, boys.  If you love them, fill your pockets.  If you want them, take them home.  But, remember where they came from, and always do what you can to keep this place special for anyone who follows you.

June 22nd

 Today is Kris’ birthday.  He would have been 31.  On the morning he was born, I was staying with my grandparents.  My grandma had to wake Jake and me up to tell us we had a phone call.  I held the phone up to my ear as the sun shined through the kitchen window.  It was good news.  I remember the moment as if it had happened this morning. 

We get together every year on his birthday for dinner.  When we were all kids, pizza was how we celebrated every birthday.  For several years after Kris died, we kept this pizza tradition going.  This year we are changing things some and going to a centrally located park for a picnic and games for the kids.  The weather should be perfect with partially cloudy skies and temperatures in the 70’s.  Everyone is planning on being there. 

This year we almost had a major scheduling conflict with Nancy’s family.  Fortunately everything worked out when the other event was moved.  Actually, I didn’t even know about the conflict until it had already been resolved.  Even so, I was pretty frustrated about it and glad I wasn’t forced to make a choice.  This was a bit of a jolt that gave me some time to think about this yearly tradition with my family and what it means to me. 

Over the years, and for several reasons, the gathering has evolved to represent more than just Kris’ birthday.  The biggest reason is that most of the people coming tonight never met Kris.  When he died, almost 10 years ago, our family consisted of 10 people, including six adults, one teenager and three grandchildren under the age of three.  Now there are 11 grandchildren, none of whom have memories of their uncle Kris.  Additionally, the teenager, now 25, will bring along his girlfriend and her young daughter, bringing this year’s total up to 20 people. 

Since most of the people attending know or remember Kris only from stories and photos, change is inevitable.  Additionally, this is often the only family event everyone makes an effort to attend, and because most of my mom’s sons have birthdays in the summer, this celebration is almost as much for all of us who are there, as it is for the one who is not. 

That is not to say that Kris’ birthday will be pushed aside or forgotten in any way.  Oh no, my mother will never allow that.  She will have a big sheet cake with candles for the grandchildren to blow out.  She will have balloons for each child to release into the heavens at the end of the day.  She may even make everyone sing the happy birthday song, though this is less likely as the years roll on. 

In reality there was no scheduling conflict at all.  Tonight, like last year, and the years before, like next year and every year following, I’ve already chosen what I’m doing on the evening of the 22nd of June.  Regardless of what the weather is like, or what else is going on, or who else is there, I will be at dinner with my mother and brothers, celebrating the birth and life of my brother Kris. 

This isn’t an obligation for me, nor will it ever be an event I will just make an appearance at before quickly heading off to something else.  I go because I want to go and because it is important to me.  I go because I want to remember my brother’s birthday and because my other brothers will be there too.  I go because, well, even if there is no pizza, I like birthday parties.

Simple Ties

 
This is a repost from my old blog that is no more.
First posted 06-17-09

Last week we had the opportunity to tour the brand new Oquirrh Mountain Temple, prior to its dedication later this summer.  As we walked through, I pointed out to my daughter how the base molding changed subtly as we went through from room to room.  I have always been interested in the simple symbols used in architecture, used to demonstrate the importance of one area in relation to another.

In almost any building you can find simple things, like vaults or intricate flooring or larger windows, designed to accentuate and bring attention to an important area or room.  In our house the nicest molding is in the dining room.  It is still simple, but layered and painted in a way that gives the room prominence.

When we first moved into this house, we ripped out all base and casing of almost the entire upstairs.  We replaced the old, 2 ½”base with a simple, tall, flat molding that has a routed bead at the top.  Tonight as I sat in the baby’s room, rocking him to sleep, I noticed again how good it looks and thought about how well it fits us and this house.  Next to the original, single panel doors, it looks especially good, like it has always been here.

Like all out of control home improvement projects, we made this as complicated as possible by doing the trim a little different in almost every room.  Some rooms have wainscot, some rooms have crown molding or chair rail, and some rooms have bead board, etc.  To tie everything together, we always used the same 7 1/2” flat baseboards with the same 3” casing around the doors.

Earlier this evening, before dinner, our oldest son had been sent to his room for the night.  Later, Nancy decided he should be allowed come up to eat dinner with the family.  Her reasoning was that dinner is the only time we spend, sitting and eating together.  She is worried that this daily tradition of eating dinner as a family is losing its important place as our only time each day to come together and share the stories of our busy days.  In time, she persuaded me and up our son came to spend an hour, eating with the family.

This dinner together was nothing unusual as far as dinners go: always good, always loud, always entertaining.  Tonight we enjoyed a large loaf of delicious bread from a new recipe.  While we ate, one child told of his visit to Nana’s house, another child, dressed in her dance leotard and tiara, told us about her first day at piano lessons, and one child, wanting the dinner to last as long as possible, ate very, very slowly.

Though this meal together could be considered fairly typical, it can also, in very subtle ways, be considered a new beginning for us.  What it lacked in originality, it made up for in resolve.  Tonight was, in fact, history in the making.  Though we have eaten together thousands of times before, today it was forever set, no matter what, each day, as a family, we will always enjoy at least one meal together.

Once, a long time ago, and years before I had a family of my own, I saw a billboard in Chicago.  The message was clear to me then, and still rings just as true today.  It read, “A family that prays together, stays together.”  Yes, giving thanks, with and for your family, is essential because it, among other things, creates bonds that help to hold, or tie us together.  And it is to these ties that we can add depth and variety by stopping once a day, and sitting for a time in one another’s company, by telling stories, worries, and experiences, and by daily, with the ones we love, breaking and sharing a warm loaf of bread.

Letting Go

It was dark when I came in the house from working in the yard.  I was dirty and went immediately to the shower.  We have an old tub with an afterthought shower setup.  It includes a long chrome pipe, sticking out of the top of the tub faucet.  Normally, on newer houses, this runs inside the wall.  Ours is outside the wall, inside the shower.  Near the bottom is a second shower head on a hose.  To use one or the other, you turn a little valve.

Ever since we moved here, I have typically been the only one that uses the upper shower head.  Most everyone else uses the tub faucet or the shower head on the hose.  Lately though, one of my children has gotten into the habit of using the upper shower head.  This wouldn’t be a big deal except for he always changes the setting to massage, only the massage setting doesn’t really work.  Mineral deposits inside the shower head have locked the moving parts in place.  So instead of an alternating spray out of six holes, three at a time, the water shoots out in three laser beam streams. 

Okay, not a big deal.  I know this.  But I’m still bugged.  Maybe I’m bugged because I have asked him to change it back when he’s done, and still he doesn’t.  Or maybe it’s because he has to stand on the sides of the tub to reach the shower head and could easily slip or fall.  Or it could be that I get sprayed all over, trying to figure out which way to spin the little dial, returning it to the setting I like.  Lame as it sounds, the most likely answer is that the upper shower head is just mine, it’s always been mine, and I don’t like people touching it.  Like I said, I realize its lame.  

Tonight, as I reached up to change the head back to my setting, I thought about how it really isn’t a big deal, and maybe I could just let it go.  Suddenly, memory took me instantly to my high school days, when my old truck was in the shop, and my mom let me take her car once in a while.  She hated it when I adjusted the mirror in her car, and let me know about it whenever I forgot to change it back.  Eventually, it was easier to just stop adjusting it and use the other mirrors instead.  The mirror adjusting issue is so ingrained in my psyche that I still think about it almost every time I adjust the mirror in Nancy’s car. 

It was so strange for me to suddenly make this connection between these two seemingly unrelated events.  It’s also interesting that I didn’t make the correlation until I was actually reaching up, the way you would reach up to adjust a mirror, and at the same moment, I told myself to just let it go, the same way I wished my mother would have done for me.

Sometimes this boy and I don’t see things quite the same way.  He makes a lot of noise and has a hard time staying on task.  These two things are sometimes hard for me to deal with, especially when he should be clearing the table or going to bed.  I try so hard to be nice and to listen and to understand.  I constantly remind myself that his actions and behavior are all age appropriate, but, all too often I am just complaining about how he does this or that wrong, or how he could have done this or that differently or better. 

My own mother didn’t like a few things about me and tried to correct what she could.  But it was very rare for her to find fault or get on me about every petty thing.  She loved me, and I knew she loved me.  No matter what, I never questioned that about her.

She never let her frustrations with me get in the way of the relationship.  Or if she did, I never knew about it.  I honestly don’t know if my son can say the same thing about me.   

Today, when I got home, he ran up the stairs yelling, “Daddy’s home!”  He said it the same way all the kids did when they were younger, and grew out of saying when they reached the age of six or so.  I gave him a hug and rubbed his back for a minute.  “That feels good,” he cooed. 

I thought about how he doesn’t get much attention like this anymore, at least not from me.  I believe it’s time for that to change.  It’s time for me to change.  He is what he is.  He doesn’t know any other way.  I’m the one who’s wrong.  I’m the one who needs to let it go. 

“Daddy’s home.”  The words keep echoing in my mind.  Maybe I’m not completely there, but I’m working on it.  And I will keep working on it until the relationship is right, until I have let it all go, and until I can fully accept him for the person he is. 

I’m coming home.  And yes, that does feel good. 

Welcome to Summer

This is a repost from 06-04-09

Tomorrow is the last day of school for the kids.  After that, everyone will be chillin at home, going on bike rides, reading books, playing rock band, and sipping lemonade in the yard – all while I’m at work.  Don’t get me wrong, I would much rather be employed than have the summer off without pay.  No question about that.  But, the first few days of summer are always kind of tough for me.
 
This year it seems to be a little harder than years past.  It might be partially because we don’t have much planned this summer as far as vacations.  Last year at this point I was planning on being out of town seven weekends before school started up again. 

It was not only a very fun summer, it was very expensive.  And this year we don’t have a ton of money saved up for going out of town.  So the vacations we do have will mostly be around the house.  I have tons of projects to finish in the yard.  So if I can get some of them done, I will be happy because we will be improving things around here. 

One of the biggest projects is the playhouse.  It would be nice if I could get it done before the kids move away.  I started it four years ago and got a ton done the first year.  But it hasn’t progressed much since then.  It turns out projects around the house are more expensive than vacations.  What seems like a simple need for gravel or mulch, eventually turns into an addition on the back of the house and a new roof too.  Oh, and our driveway is shot and desperately needs to be replaced.  

So, while it would be fun to take the summer off to travel, work in the yard, or spend a little time screaming into a microphone in the privacy of my basement, I guess I'll go ahead and keep the day job this year.  It does pay the bills, and it keeps food on the table.  And, ironic as it seems to me now, it’s also my best option for supporting my many home improvement habits.

Enjoy your summer kiddies.  I’ll see you at 5:30.