Today's Moments Are Tomorrow's Memories...

As a dad I have some lofty goals when it comes to raising my son.  Let’s see.  Keep him off of meth, out of the emergency room, and in school.  Oh and out of jail. Okay, there, that’s a good start. Perhaps off the meth thing and the out of jail thing go hand in hand, but I really want to hammer that one home.  Moving on..

So I was on the way to work the other morning and thinking about memories.  Everyone has childhood memories, no matter how great or painful, or in my case embarrassing they are. Hopefully the good outweighs the bad and no serious damage occurred.  But then my brain continued to roam and dream and come up with ridiculousness and I thought, I’m kind of the maker of my kid’s memories.

Not that I’m so self-centered as to think that every memory will involve me.  Actually I don’t want that. Who needs that kind of pressure?  But still, most of his childhood memories, whenever they start, will involve his mother and me.

So that means everything I say, do, how I react, will all be recorded in his little black box in his mind. And one day, when my son looks back on his amazing life and all of the things he accomplished because of/despite his father, he’ll sit down to write his memoir.  And I want to look good in this thing.  I mean, not play myself in the movie adaptation good, but not Joe Jackson bad...

That means…

Let’s say I make a habit of getting wasted on the weekends.  Well, my son’s memoir could include the following passage:  Dad called me over to him and I forced myself, with timid steps riddled with fear, towards the familiar aroma of George Dickel and smoke.   See what I mean? 

Or he could go into his hatred of sports.  And then, in the tell all book he drops this little gem about dear old Dad…

It was during halftime of our little league game.  Dad had been taunting the officials and threatening the coaches for most of the morning when another parent asked him to knock it off.  What happened next would render the game pointless and the field bloody…

Let me go ahead and note here that I haven’t been a fight since I was 14 and don’t make a habit of drinking bourbon, so I think I’m safe with either of those scenarios.  But you get the point.

As a memory maker, or at least shaper, I have to show self-control and discipline.  I have to watch my language and from what my wife says, even my expressions. It sounds so easy until I’m sitting behind a tractor trailer stuck in traffic and late for work while I’m carting the little sponge in the backseat…. But I’m working on it. Let’s turn the page of this little memoir…

Dad’s laughter bounced off of the walls, filling our home with the warmth and joyous gift of happiness that I’d come to love.  He once nursed a butterfly to health with dental floss and toothpicks...

Okay, a stretch maybe, as I haven't done the butterfly thing yet. But at least I’m not knifing people at the mall.  Or doing meth. (reading this you might think that I have a thing against meth). In all seriousness, I'll probably fall somewhere in between.  But whatever he does remember, I hope there are more smiles than tears, and I hope he knows that I cared and that I tried.  Because I do and I will.

I smell a best seller. 

 

Christmas Past...

My childhood Christmas memories hold a special place in my heart.  I think back to them with a rosy glow of nostalgic magic that grows fonder with each passing year. I remember the gifts, the electric excitement of the season, but perhaps most of all, i remember the traditions.  

Every year on Christmas eve, our family would head to church to enjoy a quaint little dark candlelit service where we’d sing carols and rejoice over the true meaning of Christmas. We said sir and ma'am, spoke with British accents, and donated our gifts to charity. We did none of that, but that's how I envision the made for tv movie. 

On the way home, we took the scenic route, driving past the most heavily decorated houses before my favorite part, the paper bag luminaries that lined the street and continued for what seemed like miles.  Staring out the window, I felt the holiday spirit rush through me as we passed the candle lit bags on the street.

My Christmas memories have always been special and I cannot wait to enjoy magical Christmas moments with my son.  But for this last childless Christmas, with my very pregnant wife in tow, I became determined to relive my Christmas past.

The weather should have been the first indicator that things weren't going according to plan.  Starting in the morning, a steady, unrelenting rain began soaking the yard.  Next, the thermostat began clicking, unable to turn on the heat pump and leaving the house at a balmy 57 degrees. But I wasn't going to let it get me down, I didn't need heat, I was warm with the glow of Christmas.

That evening, after dinner and gifts at Mom’s house, my wife and I arrived at the church just a few minutes late.  The street was blocked off, but after following the detour, we found the parking lot filled to capacity.   Well it has been over 20 years since I attended the Christmas Eve service, I thought.  And then things got weird...

We were greeted by ushers standing outside the sanctuary, who informed us that the church was filled to capacity.  I thanked the nice man, who leaned in close--for a split second I think he was going to offer us scalped tickets to the service--informing us that there is a screening room, where we were welcomed to watch with other slackers who arrived late.  We're shown to a room where, sure enough, there are around 15-20 folks watching church on tv.  This is also where got the third or fourth "I told you to leave earlier."

Desperate to stick to the plan, I dragged my wife inside and began watching what had to be the lowest definition broadcast in television history. I’ve seen reel to reel footage of Civil War veterans that was of better quality than the picture on the screen.  But that isn’t the point…what was the point?  Oh yeah, it's Christmas, and I was looking forward to the luminaries on the way home, still determined to relive the magic of the past.

We made it through the sermon (which is the most important part, right?), and decide to make our exit.  After whispering one last, I told you we should have come earlier, we walked up the aisle of the small room and made our escape. 

On the way home we approached the hill and I looked for the candles.  All was dark.  The road that lit the way home from Christmas Eve church so many years ago had been turned off, perhaps due to the rain, but maybe due to time.  I took a deep breath, trying to keep my spirits up.  My wife looked at me, a smile full of pity on her face, and said:

“Honey, it has been over twenty years.”

And she’s right, it was a long time ago.  Things change, they come to an end and that's part of life.  I’ll always have those special Christmas memories from my childhood to cherish—they’re a part of me and who I am.  And now I look forward to forging new traditions with my wife and son.  Hopefully we will provide him with great memories that one day he will look back upon and think....those were the days.

John Denver and The Muppets

The sounds of the season make Christmas all the more enjoyble, and it seems everyone and anyone has put out a Christmas album at some point.  Elvis, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, and Nsync have all made Christmases more enjoyable over the years. Well, three out of four anyway.

For me, nothing reminds me of early childhood Christmases like The Muppets.  That’s right, the Muppets.  In 1979, the stars aligned as John Denver, along with Kermit, Mrs Piggy and the rest of the Muppet gang collaborated on a Christmas album that has stood the test of time.

The album takes me back to a special place, to a small house where a Kerosene heater warmed the living room, a rotary telephone was fastened to the wall in the kitchen, and music was played by setting a needle onto the grooves of a record as it turned at 33 revolutions per minute.

My sister and I would sing along to this record as we bounced around the room with spirited excitement, feeling the Christmas magic in the air (it may have been the fumes from the kerosene).   Family and friends would stop by and we would welcome them in from the cold, inviting them to sing along as we decorated the tree.

Money was tight and times were tough, but our troubles were forgotten--if only for a night--as we sang along to our favorite Christmas album.  We played it over and over again, as Mom would flip the record when the needle began its rhythmic bumping on the label.  A little bit of heat, The Muppets album, a few neighbors, and we had ourselves a party.

I'd help my mother with the decorations, as she would always save her Christmas cards and use them to decorate the house, I still remember looking through the cards that felt like a lifetime ago in my four year old mind.

Later, as I lay in my bed, too wound to sleep, my sister and I would listen for Santa’s sled up on the roof, singing the songs from the album that were still fresh in our head.  Did you hear that?  My sister would say, and I would try my best to hear the sound of the sleigh on the roof.

Not long ago, at an estate sale just down the street from my house, I was flipping through a crate of dusty albums when sure enough, I came across the familiar cover.  I opened the sleeve, and for a moment I was back in that small house from my childhood, singing songs and decorating the tree.  I held onto the album, unashamed as I walked through the house with my childhood treasure tucked under my arm. I ended up paying two bucks for the record, and as I walked out with the record I couldn't help but wonder if its previous owner enjoyed it as much as I had.

As an expectant father, I can't wait for my son to experience this album, the full experience.  From the crackling sound of a real record, to the timeless songs that I loved as a child. Not to mention the great singing voices of The Muppets. I look forward to enjoying this classic with my son, and hopefully it can spread its magic all over again.  But I'll have to make it clear, if he makes fun of The Muppets he's grounded.