Inked

 

Poor Tom Arnold. At the time, getting a tattoo of his new bride's face on his chest seemed like such a romantic gesture. However, more than fifteen years after their bitter divorce I'm sure he has some regret. I can't imagine his girlfriends have been all that fond of seeing Roseanne Barr smiling at them from beneath all that chest hair.

That's the think with tattoos. They're forever.

Our kids have more than a hundred of those little stick-on ones that last  for a couple of days, depending on how regularly they shower. Most of these are animals, insects, and flowers. There used to be a lot of peace signs in the tattoo jar but most of these were used up right away. Our general rule with the tattoos is that they can apply one or two at a time but no more. No sleeves. Or back murals. We have somehow come to the conclusion that a few are okay but too many will inevitably lead to a life of Busch beer, biker gangs, and heroin use. It all begins with one too many sparkly butterflies.

Sometimes they want something a little more permanent - like a Sharpie tattoo. For this they bring me a collection of permanent markers and I make my best tbuzzing noise while coloring in cartoon-ish pictures on arms, backs, and legs. I'm not really much of an artist but can manage a respectable heart, baseball, smiley face, or flower. The kids had friends over this weekend and they wanted some Sharpie tattoos. You always have to wonder what their parents think when they come home with a manly anchor and chain inked onto their arm.

Still, these are playful and, most importantly, temporary. What about the real things? How does one go about deciding what to have permanently colored onto their skin? Olympic swimmer Missy Franklin made that decision this past week when she had the Olympic rings put onto her upper leg, just below the cut of her swimsuit. The rings represented her status as an Olympian and the location ensured that it would only be visible when she wore a swimsuit. She was also careful to pick a spot where, later in life, the rings would not sag into ugly egg-shaped ovals.

In what was a surprise to many people, Tricia got a tattoo last week as well. It was actually something we have both talked about for the past fifteen years. With her birthday approaching I made the joke I was going to get her a tattoo for her gift. Instead of laughing she said, "Okay." Fifty dollars and thirty minutes later she was permanently inked. No, she didn't get a picture of my face or even a skull with a dagger and serpent protruding from the eye sockets. She decided, instead, on a small daisy near her ankle. It's simple, cute, and discreet.  

No sleeve. Or back mural.

But there are plenty more birthdays to come. So who knows.

Yosemite - Eleven Months Out

Here is a short video featuring the breathtaking landscape I cannot wait to explore next summer as we make the long haul West toward Yosemite National Forest. I was thinking of Yosemite yesterday as I sat in a teacher meeting. We were reading a lovely article by naturalist Rachel Carson about the benefits of walking beside our children and, together, living in awe of the beauty and wonder of nature. Not that I have high expectations or anything, but I'm already feeling that if I were allowed to visit only one place my entire life this would be it.

If you haven't been to the Yosemite Valley you might want to join us after seeing this. (Oh, and make sure click "full screen.")

“As long as I live, I'll hear waterfalls and birds and winds sing. I'll interpret the rocks, learn the language of flood, storm, and the avalanche. I'll acquaint myself with the glaciers and wild gardens, and get as near the heart of the world as I can."

                                                    - John Muir

Olympic Haze

Last week I heard that President Obama had taken the time to call the US women's gymnastics team to congratulate them on their gold medal in London. He quoted himself as having told them "The wonderful thing about the Olympics is that it reminds us for all our differences, when it comes down to our country we're Americans first and we could not be prouder of them and everything they're doing on our behalf."

This made me think of the advertisement Visa began running before the games began. At the end of the ad it read simply  "Go World." In this vein, I would have preferred to have heard Obama say that first and foremost we are members of a global community. And that despite our differences we are united as one. However, that's not what the games seem to be about. The Olympics provide that once-every-four-years opportunity to root madly for some previously unknown American to beat the bejeezes out of that cocky looking [insert any other nationality] swimmer in lane four.

I remember watching the Olympics as a child. Rooting interests were crystal clear - we watched and prayed that the United States would beat the much-hated Russians. Supremacy over communism was being waged in the form of boxing, sprinting, and pommel horse. It seems silly now but I really got wrapped up in it back then. I don't know that there's so much of that anymore. Maybe if Syria or Libia had better beach volleyball teams?

For the most part I don't really care for the Olympics anymore. We have watched more of them this year thinking that it might provide some worthwhile family time together every few evenings. The first night we coerced the kids into watching the opening ceremonies. After about half an hour of a symbolic reenactment of British history Ty looked over and asked "What ARE the Olympics?" I tried to ensure him it would be about sports but he didn't look all that convinced.

Over the next few nights we all sat and watched a good bit of gymnastics and swimming.

"Wow, America wins at almost everything!" Muluken declared.

"No, Muluken," I corrected. "They just show the sports on TV that are most popular. They're generally most popular because those are the sports we usually have a good chance of winning. In China they are probably not showing swimming. Just like here they're not showing so much ping pong or badminton."

These types of conversations popped up more than once. The sacrifices (and subsequently, priorities) of the gymnasts who leave their families to train under great pressure. The lone swimmer who passed on corporate money so she could remain eligible to swim with her high school team. Oh, and the advertising.

Especially the Olympic advertising.

There was one ad where a swimmer was training in the pool and at the end of his swim he pulled up at the edge of the lap lane where there was an ice cold bottle of Coca-Cola waiting for him. Smiling, he reached over and took a big drink.

"I don't think Olympic swimmers probably drink Coke while they're practicing," someone mentioned.

Another "favorite" came, not so surprisingly, from Mc Donalds. They were promoting a game where you can win food prizes as American athletes win gold medals. This struck us as an odd pairing. Basically, we win the opportunity to clog our arteries as reward for the athletes demonstrating great fitness and strength.

I tried my best to explain that these companies pay millions of dollars to attach themselves to the Olympics so that when you feel elated by the victory of athletes you might also feel elated by their products. It is as if you can become a part of this Olympic experience by purchasing a GE product or filling the refrigerator with Coke.

It's hard to pick which of these sponsorships is worse but, if pressed to do so, I might have to go with the trio of BP, Rio Tinto, and Dow Chemical Company. In what have been dubbed "The Green Olympic Games," these three companies serve as sponsors despite all the harm they cause to the Earth. Many have accused them of trying to "greenwash" the public concerning their many unethical corporate and environmental policies. Some protestors have taken to splashing their large print ads with oil.

After a few nights the kids lost interest and moved on to other things. Soon after, so did Tricia and I. The Olympics are about to come to a close and I think we are all relieved.

We're about Olympic-ed out.

Men vs Wild

Since moving into our house about a year ago Ty has tried repeatedly to catch a fish in the lake. His first attempts were made with a reel he received as a favor at a birthday party a few years ago. He would jab a worm on the end of the hook, cast it out, and wait a few seconds before deciding to reel it back in and start over. As much as he wanted to patiently wait for a fish he couldn't quite resist the urge to cast over and again.

Sometimes he would create his own fishing poles from sticks he collected in the woods. He would dig out lengths of my rope from the garage and tie them to the end. While these poles never worked they certainly weren't any less successful than the nice store-bought one he'd been using. Also, the creativity and perseverance he demonstrated in carefully putting them together could easily be considered reward enough.

Still, he really wanted to catch a fish. Last winter a friend of mine came over with his fishing gear and, although he didn't get any bites, assured Ty that there were plenty of fish in that lake just waiting to be caught. He suggested we keep at it. I wondered if this would be enough since I knew literally nothing about fishing other than where to put the hook and the worm.

A few weeks later I went to the sporting goods store and bought some new tackle, hoping this might help. The salesman filled my ears with lots of advice as well as a rundown of his greatest catches. I stood there trying my best to look adequately impressed. Much to the consternation of the salesman, I grabbed a few glow-in-the-dark bobbers and headed home. That evening I took the boys night fishing. Though we still didn't catch anything we did enjoy watching the tiny lights bobbing around on top of the black water. After twenty frigid minutes we headed back down the trail toward home with the understanding that we were just as bad at fishing in the dark as we were in the light of day.

 Finally, this past June someone saved the day.  Tricia's sister and her family dropped by on their way home from Florida to spend a few days with us. While they were here, the boys' Uncle Dan shared his knowledge, and love, of fishing. He patiently sat for hours sorting out mangled knots, replacing gear, and teaching everyone what lures to use (not to mention how to put them on the hook correctly).  Soon everyone was trying their luck.

 In just two days time we all  "worked" together to pull eighteen fish out of the lake. Despite a bit of initial hesitation the boys even learned how to take the hook out of the fishes' mouth and throw it back in.

 Now successful fisherman, there was just one thing left to do.

Eat the fish.

We all sat around the computer and watched a YouTube video explaining how to fillet a bass. The guy in the tutorial did a beautiful job in just under two minutes. He made it look so incredibly easy. After a heatwave and multiple summer trips the boys and I headed back to the lake to catch a few fish we would eat. We weren't nearly so successful as we had been when Uncle Dan was here but Muluken did manage to catch two large mouth bass for us. We dropped them into the bucket and listened to them flip around in the small bit of water we had put into the bottom. I found this sound to be unsettling. Ty, on the other hand, really wanted to watch them die. (I'm going to hope this is a natural eight year old reaction)

We brought the two fish back to the house and I taught the boys to clean them. I decided to put off something so sophisticated as filleting and stick with just the crude act of pulling the guts out. They slit open the fish along their bellies, pulled out the organs, and rinsed them off under the hose. We then wrapped them in foil, built a small campfire, and put them over the flames using the top grate from the barbeque grill. After about ten minutes we pulled the fish off the fire and spread them out on the table beside the fire ring. Though Muluken looked a bit unsure as to whether this was safe to eat, Ty dug right in. Within a few seconds all three of us were  pulling the fish apart and eating its flesh with our grubby fingers. Ainsley came out with a friend to see how it was going and wrinkled her nose at the sight. She wasn't interested in joining in.

After we finished, we threw the skeletal remains into the woods and our dog Tess ran out to ensure there was nothing left. As we were cleaning up Ty remarked "That was SO cool. Can we eat the fish again?"

"Not today. Or tomorrow. Or probably next week," I said. "But sometime. Maybe next time we'll try to fillet it like in the video."

I can only imagine this might not go so good. But it'll be part of the process of learning. We learn one little simple thing, like casting a lure, and then after some success begin to wonder what we could improve or learn more about to be even more successful. Thus, the layers of learning begin. This should say something about schooling, don't you think.

Somewhere along the timeline of this story Ty said to me, "You're the best dad ever. NO OTHER dad would let their kids eat the fish!!!" Of course, lots of dads would. And almost all of them would know a lot more about fishing, gutting, and cooking. Yet my lack of knowledge and experience didn't stand in the way of a good time. It was enough just to be learning together. And laughing.

I'm going to end with the final passage from the book I've been reading this summer, Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder. This book spent a good bit of effort making the point that we don't have to know everything about nature to instill a sense of wonder and appreciation in our children. We need only enjoy ourselves alongside them.

As a side note: The following passage is so peaceful yet I'm using it alongside my own nature story that ends with the blunt killing and gutting of fish. I'm just sayin'...the contrast is not lost on me.

*****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****

It seems like just the other day...

The boys are small. We're staying in a three-room cabin beside the Owens River on the east slope of the Sierras. We can hear the October wind move down from the mountains. Jason and Matthew are in their beds, and I read to them from the 1955 juvenile novel Lion Hound, by Jim Kjelgaard. I have read this book since junior high. I read: "When Johnny Torrington awoke, the autumn dawn was still two hours away...

The next evening, after Matthew goes into town with his mother, Jason and I walk a stretch of the Owens to fish with barbless flies. As we fish, we watch a great blue heron lift effortlessly, and I recall another heron rising above a pond in woods long ago, and I feel the awe that I felt then. I watch my son lift the line in a long loop above his head. Under the cottonwoods, he tells me with firmness that he wants to tie his own leader. And I understand it is time for me to put some distance between us on the river.

When it is too dark to see into the water, we walk toward home in the cold. We hear a noise in the bushes and look up to see seven mule deer watching us. Their heads and long ears are silhouetted against the dark lavender sky. We hear other sounds in the bushes. We reach the gravel road, and an Oldsmobile rolls up behind us and an old man cranks down his window and asks, "Do you need a ride or are you almost there?"

"We're almost there," I say.

We can see the light in our cabin. Matthew and his mother are waiting, and tonight I'll read a few more pages of Lion Hound before they sleep.


Jason is a man now, and on his own. Matthew is in college. I feel a sense of pride and relief that they have grown well, and a deep grief that my years as a parent of young children is over, except in memory. And I am thankful. The times I spent with my children in nature are among my most meaningful memories - and I hope theirs.

We have such a brief opportunity to pass on to our children our love for this Earth, and to tell our stories. These are the moments when the world is made whole. In my children's memories, the adventures we've had together in nature will always exist. These will be their tales.