Kings Mountain State Park

What a great day. With no football games for the boys, we decided to get out of town for a hike. Generally we head up I-26 toward the mountains of North Carolina but today we wanted a shorter drive. So instead we drove north on I-77 toward Charlotte to Kings Mountain State Park. While it was a bit nippy in the morning it turned out beautiful with a high near 62 degrees.

Kings Mountain, for those who do not know, is a very historically significant locale in the state of South Carolina. It was the site of a pivotal battle in the Revolutionary War. It was atop the mountain (which looks much more like a large hill) that the Patriots defeated a group of 1,000 loyalists who had been trained by Colonel Ferguson, the best marksman in all the British Army. Of the 1,000 loyalists only about 100 actually had red coats. The others wore pine sprigs in their hats. Once it became obvious that they were thoroughly surrounded by the Patriots, who wore white paper in their hats, many of the loyalists pulled the pine sprigs from their hats and changed sides in hopes of avoiding certain death. How funny is that?



It took only one hour for the Patriots to secure victory - killing Colonel Ferguson in the process. There was a marker showing the exact spot he was shot. Harper was quick to ask "How do they know this is the exact spot where he was killed?" Great question. I didn't even try to make up an answer. Instead, I shrugged and we moved on.

The entire trail was a mile and a half. I'm not certain this qualified as a bonafide hike since the trail was paved but the scenery, with thousands of bare trees, was wonderful. There's a certain energy in the cool air of late fall that you don't find on a summer hike. There's also a lot fewer people!



When I got home I told Tim that we had a great time and that I learned a lot about history. He looked at me in disbelief and pointed out that I was far from being a history buff or even someone who remotely enjoys history. He's right, of course. Maybe the magic was in having the opportunity to spend the day outdoors, do some hiking, and enjoy a family day together.

Water Gun Fight

Imagine you're hot and sweaty. You are in need of something to cool you down.

you say "maybe a water gun fight with my friends."
Inside is cool and nice the T.V. is on dad is watching a baseball game and munching on cheese its.
You ask " can I get my friends and siblings and have a water gunfight?"
"yes you can but don't get in the garage and take turns" he said.

Water shoots every witch way, yelling surrounds you, disobeying your dad because someones in there.

IT'S FUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Molly, Emily, Harper

______________________________________________



The ending was when every one went home. Inside we dryed up and changed clothes.




The End Harper {adultish child}

Needless Things

I like to think of myself as somewhat of a minimalist. An exaggeration perhaps, but a peek into my closet would shine light on the fact that I barely have enough pants to stretch across the work week. There are very few pairs of shoes. And in cold weather I have to wear the same shirt or sweater more than once before Friday.

The garage looks much the same. There are not a lot of specialized tools or yard machines. I do have two bikes - one a road bike, the other a mountain bike. That feels a little extravagant. I guess.

Not much of a collector of anything, I struggle this time of year to think of things to add to a Christmas wish list. I'm certainly not in need of anything and I worry about where I'll actually keep the things that I do get.

I also have a reputation for ridding the house of anything that hasn't been used since...say, last Tuesday.

"Where's my phlozzy-doodle?" Ainsley will ask.

It takes only a few moments. You can almost see the wheels turning in her head.

"Dad, did you throw it away?"

This makes me feel a bit guilty but it's a fair question. I've plotted, before, to get the kids out of the house so that I can bag up loads of toys that haven't seen the light of day in weeks. Sometimes days.

This isn't to say, though, that I've never owned a completely useless contraption. An impulse buy. A guilty pleasure.

There was the time that Tricia and I bought a beautiful, brand new pool table. Jet black with chrome piping and a sunflower-yellow cloth, it was a sight to see. But given the fact that it had to be set up in the dark and damp basement, I think we probably wound up paying around $25 for every game we actually played.

And then there was the smoothie maker. Looking remarkably like our blender, it chopped up ice and frozen fruit in a flash. Amazing. How does it do it? Did I mention already that it looked an awful lot like a blender?

But my favorite had to be the GPS watch I once saved up for months to buy. No longer would I have to guess how far I had run. No, such haphazardness would risk being off by as much as one or two tenths of a mile. But with a special $150 watch, that by-the-way would have looked bulky even on Susan Boyle's arm, I could accurately track my runs to the nearest thousandth of a mile. But that's not all. It also displayed my top speed, average speed, and heart rate. I may never rival Steve Prefontaine or Jesse Owens but I could definitely track my mediocrity with excruciatingly accurate detail.

But, certainly, I'm not alone in this. We have all found ourselves puzzling our friends and family with some pathetic attempt at material happiness. Some stores devote their whole existence to these types of items. Who doesn't enjoy walking through The Sharper Image or Brookstone just to laugh at the junk they're hawking. Towel warmers. Motorized tie caddies. Grocery list organizers.

But even these items fail to take the cake in uselessness. I recently found myself on a relatively short flight to Philadelphia. Ill-prepared to entertain myself for anything more than a few moments, I reached forward for the latest copy of Sky Mall catalog (is there a "latest copy" or do these stay in circulation for years?). At my fingertips were no fewer than 1,000 products poised to save me from my mundane existence.

Take for instance the Canine Genealogy Kit. For $59.99 I can use my dog's DNA to determine the breeds in her ancestry. This "provides scientific confirmation of the physical characteristics, behavioral tendencies, [and] personality traits...your mixed-breed dog has inherited." Physical characteristics? Thank god I'll finally be able to figure out what she looks like. You know, other than a German Shepherd.

Another favorite was the Telekinetic Obstacle Course. Reasonably priced at $99.95, this game "uses your focused brain waves to maneuver a ball through an obstacle course. A head band and two earlobe clips measure theta wave activity produced by your brain [to]...send a wireless signal to the game." Telekinetic? Brain waves? Tell me every man who was ever convinced, as a child, that he too could be a Jedi Knight isn't putting this at the very top of his Christmas wish list. It didn't actually come with a light saber but I'm sure that, too, can be found somewhere in the catalog - perhaps near the Voice-Activated R2-D2 ($189.95).

But my favorite, by far, was the Solafeet Foot Tanner. "If you always feel like people are gawking at your white feet and the unsightly tan lines around your ankles when you wear sandals or pumps, then you need the Solafeet foot tanner." Darn-tootin' I do! I am sick of people gawking at my pasty white ankles! It seems unfair when there are so many other pasty white body parts they could be looking at instead. But no more. Now for only $229.99 I can purchase a futuristic shoe-box looking doo-hicky with a strange blue light spilling out the two holes located at the top. Just slide it under your desk, slip in one or, preferably, both bare feet and you can get total tan satisfaction while working at the computer. Just think of what the neighbors will think of you now!

Of course there were others. On page 68 was the Magic Showerhead that sprays colored water (technically I think it's done with LED lights). The water actually changes colors every few seconds. I'm not certain what the official safety measures are for a shower but I imagine there's no real danger in turning the lights out and cranking up Pink Floyd. I'm imagining, now, a whole population of men who weren't really in the practice of taking showers finally finding it necessary to lather up from time to time.

As my flight neared its end and I turned the final page of my Sky Mall catalog I couldn't help but look down on the city and suburbs of Philadelphia and think about those poor souls who will go without this Christmas season. Not without Closet Organizing Trouser Racks and Remote Controlled Tarantulas, but without shelter, food, and warmth. And I thought Gee, you know how you could really tick off the needy and down trodden?

You could give 'em a copy of Sky Mall.

The Band

"The concert on Monday is off. The band broke up."

Those were the words that greeted me as I walked over to help my kids through the lunch line on Friday. Patton, who had just co-founded the band days before, was clearly dejected. I looked over to the lunch table and saw that his fellow band mate Reese was moping as well.

"What happened?" I asked.

"They wouldn't stop chasing us around the playground," he responded. "And they booed us after our song."

If he weren't so plainly upset I would have had to chuckle at the image of "the band" being chased around the playground by a pack of crazed seven and eight year old girls. I couldn't help but think of Beatlemania. Ah, the hardships of success.

"Are you sure they weren't just booing you to be silly?" I asked. "I don't think they would really want to make you guys feel bad. Everyone was so excited to hear the much anticipated Five Chimichangas concert."

"No. They were booing. They said it was bad."

I thought for a moment - hoping for just the right words to set it all straight. Instead, I reached for the teachable moment. "Well, the five of you said that the concert was going to be Monday but then you did it today. I don't think you rehearsed your songs enough. Just think of how many times we have to rehearse a new song in the classroom before we perform it for parents. We do it once or twice a day for about a week."

"We rehearsed," he said dryly.

It was clear that this was a wound that would need time to heal. Who would have imagined two months ago that these second graders would have carved out such a bold new identity for themselves? Musicians.

It was a rough week of sorts. We experienced three consecutive days of rain without any hope of getting outside for recess. Generally I would say that indoor recess is about as excruciatingly painful as sitting through a Sandra Bullock marathon on TNT. However, these three days on indoor recess were just magical. Four or five kids spent their time working on number sentences on the board, a group of others hovered about the science table sorting through leaves, rocks, and the remains of various dead animals and bugs. Pairs of competitors were scattered about the room engaged in a game of chess or Othello.

And then there were the songwriters.

A couple of girls were hard at work on a songbook - a combination of songs we had sung together in class and original works of their own. One or two others worked independently at a song. But, by far, the most serious work was being done by Brandon, Patton, Daniel, Roman, and Reese who had formed "The Five Chimichangas." They wrote about four of five songs, planned a concert for recess, made up tickets for the event, and created posters to advertise their opening show.

All the while, I sat in the floor with my guitar offering chords to anyone willing to bring a song. We sat in small groups and sang - awkward melodies, awkward verses, awkward chord progressions. Still, it was music and everyone was loving it. It was creative and new and full of promise.

So, out of this, the Five Chimichangas were born. Three days of recess spent writing and talking and laughing and planning and dreaming. I see now that I didn't realize how important this had become to them. How real it had become. A couple of days later I heard stories back from one of their parents. It seems the budding singer had already developed plans for fame and fortune and the promise of a new house for mom.

But like so many bands it seems a lack of confidence in themselves and their music was their downfall. And, of course, the harsh early reviews. I tried, at the end of the day, to smooth things over.

"I would just hate to see the band come to an end," I said. "I really think this can all be worked out and you can get back together again."

I looked at each of their faces. And then Roman, without missing a beat, returned my gaze and declared, "I've already joined a new band!"

Easy come, easy go.


Childish Adult (Dad)

Name

I've been called by many different names in my life: Christopher, Chris, Dad, Hass, Mr. H. These are the standards. But, of course, there have been countless others. Kid, Jerk, Sir, Know-it-all, Dude, Twirp, Haas, House, Loser, and (quite often when answering the telephone) Ma'am. And now, after what came to pass this past week, I have added a new name to the collection.

Coach.

I am a football coach. Just to say those words elicits the image of my high school PE teacher who, when not making boys run around in tight pants knocking one another to the ground in preparation for the week's loss, liked to sit half-asleep at the far end of the football field each day while his squad of brutish half-wits terrorized the rest of us in the name of physical education. It seems it would be easy to hate a man such as that but to squint downfield and see him slouched over his metal chair with those ultra-short, double-button polyester shorts with eight fingers tucked tightly into the front of his waistband and his white tube socks pulled high you kinda just understood. We are all destined to take a certain post in life. And this was his.

And knowing this full well, I find myself joining his ranks. Football coach.

In all honesty, our similarities probably end immediately after the shared title. While his responsibilities were to get a collection of over-sized young men to run formations, make tackles, memorize plays and schemes, and make the other team pay a physical toll, I will be poised to get a handful of four and five year old boys to stop chasing butterflies and waving to their mommas.

In the place of cold, hard pigskin we will have squishy, foamy Nerf.

Rather than punishing our opponents by driving them mercilessly into the ground we will run around wildly - in hopes of an accurate stab at the other boys' dangling flags.

Penises beware.

I'm not certain I am qualified for such a task. I assume even the lowest ranks of the sport require a certain level of testosterone, grittiness, and USA-bred toughness. Just this past weekend I took my kids to an eight year-old's birthday party at one of those places filled to the brim with mammoth inflatables and (in this case) a monkey. I walked away from the festivities with a busted lip, a strained right forearm, a sprained ring finger, and ugly rug burns on the sides of both ankles. Not exactly the stuff of champions.

So as I plan for our first practice together I look ahead with a bit of apprehension. Hoping that I can somehow live up to, or at least grow into, this new name. If nothing else, at season's end I will walk away from this with a new pair of shorts and tube socks. Now if I could just find that chair.

Childish Adult (Dad)