Case,
Hey, buddy, it's been a while since I updated the blog. A whole lot -- I mean A WHOLE LOT -- has happened in the past 14 months. I promise to catch you up on all of it soon. Until then, just a few words that came to me while thinking of you on the ride home from work last night.
Sometimes I don't know what to believe/
or what I can count on as true
But nothing's been said as important as this/
I'll always believe in you
Love,
Dad
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Monday, June 30, 2014
That's so Case!
Case,
A little before 1 a.m. last night, your mother and I were shocked from our slumber by the sound of our bedroom door flying open and hitting the wall. As I opened my eyes and tried to focus, I saw a 3-foot shadow in the doorway.
"Case?" I asked?
"Case, what are you doing?" your mother asked, much louder.
You then quickly emerged from the shadows grinning and jumped up on our bed as I left it to go find out how you had escaped your crib. As I left the room, I heard your mother say, "He's not wearing any pants!"
I'm not sure if you climbed over the top or burrowed out from underneath the mess you had made of your mattresses (mattressii?), but I had no time to play detective. I grabbed a diaper out of the bathroom on the way back and re-entered the room to find you sitting happily next to your mother, naked from the waist down.
I put the diaper on you and crawled back into bed. I glanced over at your mother and waited for her to tell me to return you immediately from whence you came. She did not. I was surprised. I tucked you in between us and you were generally quiet after a minute or so. But then you'd randomly blurt out words I couldn't understand and I knew it was really annoying your mother, who is 31 weeks pregnant and had an 8:30 doctor's appointment. She didn't need to deal with this.
After about five minutes, I grabbed you and we returned to your room. I knew you weren't going to go (to sleep) quietly, and I wanted to give your mom a break. So I laid down on the floor beside the crib and curled up into the fetal position (I thought this was a little weird, but I was comfortable and just went with it). You jumped with mediocre fervor for a while, then laid down and patted my head, first with your feet sticking through the crib and then with your hands. I was too tired to tell you to quit it, and you stopped in short order anyway. Two hours later, I woke up in your room. I unfurled, got up, grabbed my pillow and said a quick prayer (Please, God!) as I looked into your crib. You were out (Thank God!).
I relayed this story to your Grandma Richards this morning and in-between hysterical laughter she said, "That's so Case! I can see him doing that."
So there you go, son. Not even 3 and people aren't surprised when they hear you burst into a bedroom naked in the middle of the night.
Have fun in college.
Love,
Dad
A little before 1 a.m. last night, your mother and I were shocked from our slumber by the sound of our bedroom door flying open and hitting the wall. As I opened my eyes and tried to focus, I saw a 3-foot shadow in the doorway.
"Case?" I asked?
"Case, what are you doing?" your mother asked, much louder.
You then quickly emerged from the shadows grinning and jumped up on our bed as I left it to go find out how you had escaped your crib. As I left the room, I heard your mother say, "He's not wearing any pants!"
I'm not sure if you climbed over the top or burrowed out from underneath the mess you had made of your mattresses (mattressii?), but I had no time to play detective. I grabbed a diaper out of the bathroom on the way back and re-entered the room to find you sitting happily next to your mother, naked from the waist down.
I put the diaper on you and crawled back into bed. I glanced over at your mother and waited for her to tell me to return you immediately from whence you came. She did not. I was surprised. I tucked you in between us and you were generally quiet after a minute or so. But then you'd randomly blurt out words I couldn't understand and I knew it was really annoying your mother, who is 31 weeks pregnant and had an 8:30 doctor's appointment. She didn't need to deal with this.
After about five minutes, I grabbed you and we returned to your room. I knew you weren't going to go (to sleep) quietly, and I wanted to give your mom a break. So I laid down on the floor beside the crib and curled up into the fetal position (I thought this was a little weird, but I was comfortable and just went with it). You jumped with mediocre fervor for a while, then laid down and patted my head, first with your feet sticking through the crib and then with your hands. I was too tired to tell you to quit it, and you stopped in short order anyway. Two hours later, I woke up in your room. I unfurled, got up, grabbed my pillow and said a quick prayer (Please, God!) as I looked into your crib. You were out (Thank God!).
I relayed this story to your Grandma Richards this morning and in-between hysterical laughter she said, "That's so Case! I can see him doing that."
So there you go, son. Not even 3 and people aren't surprised when they hear you burst into a bedroom naked in the middle of the night.
Have fun in college.
Love,
Dad
Friday, May 30, 2014
The dirty business of parenting
Case,
To the dismay and horror of your mother, the following story is true. There is no need to embellish.
Circumstances dictated that you tag along on a business meeting this morning. The initial stated plan was to introduce myself to a magazine editor and pick up some back issues for a writing assignment I had been given.
I didn't think your presence would be a problem. And, to your credit, it wasn't. For the most part. Once the phone in the conference room was unplugged and it was clear that your general silence could be bought by judiciously doling out crackers (you ate an entire sleeve), the meeting went along smoothly. A productive conversation took place for about an hour while you ate crackers, played with a train and occasionally crawled up on the table to remind us you were there. (Right now, your mom is thinking, "Oh, Jesus." Or possibly, "Good God.")
But that's not the story. Here's where it gets interesting. About an hour in, I realized I needed to bring the meeting to a close. I could sense it. Rather, I could smell it. In such a situation, a parent "nose" it's time to go.
So I politely explained that I needed to get you home, picked you and Peter Sam up and waited nervously with you in the lobby as the editor searched for some more back issues I had asked for.
And then I did what any good parent would do. I proceeded to spend another 10 minutes chatting and telling stories while holding you and hoping that the numerous people gathered in the vicinity (there were donuts in the break room a few feet away) either had colds or small children of their own. On a related note, this is the point at which you know you've become too comfortable as a parent -- when you willingly carry on a conversation (professional, no less) while holding a child who has shit his pants.
In hindsight, the extra time not addressing the issue at hand was a mistake. Just how big of a mistake I would soon find out.
A couple of minutes later we were back at the car. I put you in your car seat and figured I would just drive you back home and deal with the mess there. But the smell seemed to be clinging to me. I wanted to do something about it right then. I did. I shouldn't have.
I looked around for wipes and couldn't find any. That should have tipped me off that the new plan was doomed. But determination is often the mother of stupidity. At least in my case.
So I cleared off the front seat (by throwing everything onto the floor), grabbed you and two clean diapers, placed you on the front seat (you don't fit anymore), removed your diaper amid your squirming and my swearing and immediately knew I had made a HUGE mistake. A diaper is not a suitable cleaning product, especially when you're faced with the Chernobyl of bowel movements. I did what I could, but I felt like one of those people who try to clean ocean birds after an oil spill. There was only so much I could do.
I managed to clean you up enough (or so I thought) to put a new diaper on you. I didn't even bother putting your clothes back on. I just put you back in the car seat and paused for a moment while I reflected on what I had done. I also took the time to wipe off the car seat with a bank envelope and search my hands for signs of struggle. Unfortunately I found some. More unfortunately, I had run out of inappropriate items with which to clean up. I may have spit on my hand as a stopgap solution.
OK, now the story REALLY gets interesting. Once we left the parking garage, I drove to the closest place I could find with a bathroom. I walked into the 7-11 and was greeted by this sign on a door next to the counter: "No public restrooms. Sorry for the inconvenience." My first and only thought was, "You have no fu**ing idea, 7-11. You have no fu**ing idea."
I left, resigned to the previous 10 minutes of futility and looking forward to getting back home. Trying to brighten the mood after what went down on Level 2 of the Book Bindery, I turned around at a stoplight and said to you, "Hey, buddy, doin' OK?" You smiled. I smiled too, momentarily feeling good again, and then I saw them: streaks of brown all over the backs of your legs. You kept on smiling. I did not.
We drove a few more blocks and I spotted a gas station. I pulled in and there was only one parking spot, a handicapped spot. People who park in handicapped spots without themselves being disabled are the worst people in the world. That is why we sat in that parking lot -- both of us shit-stained -- and waited until another spot came open.
After a couple of minutes, we parked and I took you inside. You still weren't fully clothed, but I did put a shirt on you. We walked toward the back and a woman, seemingly knowing that a befuddled-looking man with a baby missing its pants could use some help, said, " The bathroom is over here."
The bathroom was locked. Of course it was. At that point, my determination kicked in. I was going to get us clean, one way or another. I looked around for a wife. They didn't sell them. They did, however, sell paper towels. And soap. And bottled water.
Still holding you (thank you for being so calm during this whole mess), I grabbed those items off the shelves, unashamedly paid for them and returned to the car (the bathroom was still locked, and I wasn't going to subject us to any time in there anyway after someone had been in there doing bathroom things for who knows how long).
At the car, I put you back in your seat, opened all the items, strategically placed each of them within reaching distance and went to work: 1. Grab a handful of paper towels. 2. Pour water on them. 3. Rub them on the soap. 4. Vigorously scrub body parts. 5. Smile knowing that all this nonsense will make a GREAT story. 6. Repeat as needed.
A few minutes later, we were all set to go. I gave you a high-five, put the cap back on the water bottle, placed it, the remaining paper towels and a bar of soap I should probably throw out when I'm finished here in the only container I could find -- a souvenir White Sox batting helmet that, fittingly, originally held a taco salad.
Our ordeal over, we hopped on the interstate and headed west. I'd be lying if I said the whole adventure didn't make my day.
Love,
Dad
To the dismay and horror of your mother, the following story is true. There is no need to embellish.
Circumstances dictated that you tag along on a business meeting this morning. The initial stated plan was to introduce myself to a magazine editor and pick up some back issues for a writing assignment I had been given.
I didn't think your presence would be a problem. And, to your credit, it wasn't. For the most part. Once the phone in the conference room was unplugged and it was clear that your general silence could be bought by judiciously doling out crackers (you ate an entire sleeve), the meeting went along smoothly. A productive conversation took place for about an hour while you ate crackers, played with a train and occasionally crawled up on the table to remind us you were there. (Right now, your mom is thinking, "Oh, Jesus." Or possibly, "Good God.")
But that's not the story. Here's where it gets interesting. About an hour in, I realized I needed to bring the meeting to a close. I could sense it. Rather, I could smell it. In such a situation, a parent "nose" it's time to go.
So I politely explained that I needed to get you home, picked you and Peter Sam up and waited nervously with you in the lobby as the editor searched for some more back issues I had asked for.
And then I did what any good parent would do. I proceeded to spend another 10 minutes chatting and telling stories while holding you and hoping that the numerous people gathered in the vicinity (there were donuts in the break room a few feet away) either had colds or small children of their own. On a related note, this is the point at which you know you've become too comfortable as a parent -- when you willingly carry on a conversation (professional, no less) while holding a child who has shit his pants.
In hindsight, the extra time not addressing the issue at hand was a mistake. Just how big of a mistake I would soon find out.
A couple of minutes later we were back at the car. I put you in your car seat and figured I would just drive you back home and deal with the mess there. But the smell seemed to be clinging to me. I wanted to do something about it right then. I did. I shouldn't have.
I looked around for wipes and couldn't find any. That should have tipped me off that the new plan was doomed. But determination is often the mother of stupidity. At least in my case.
So I cleared off the front seat (by throwing everything onto the floor), grabbed you and two clean diapers, placed you on the front seat (you don't fit anymore), removed your diaper amid your squirming and my swearing and immediately knew I had made a HUGE mistake. A diaper is not a suitable cleaning product, especially when you're faced with the Chernobyl of bowel movements. I did what I could, but I felt like one of those people who try to clean ocean birds after an oil spill. There was only so much I could do.
I managed to clean you up enough (or so I thought) to put a new diaper on you. I didn't even bother putting your clothes back on. I just put you back in the car seat and paused for a moment while I reflected on what I had done. I also took the time to wipe off the car seat with a bank envelope and search my hands for signs of struggle. Unfortunately I found some. More unfortunately, I had run out of inappropriate items with which to clean up. I may have spit on my hand as a stopgap solution.
OK, now the story REALLY gets interesting. Once we left the parking garage, I drove to the closest place I could find with a bathroom. I walked into the 7-11 and was greeted by this sign on a door next to the counter: "No public restrooms. Sorry for the inconvenience." My first and only thought was, "You have no fu**ing idea, 7-11. You have no fu**ing idea."
I left, resigned to the previous 10 minutes of futility and looking forward to getting back home. Trying to brighten the mood after what went down on Level 2 of the Book Bindery, I turned around at a stoplight and said to you, "Hey, buddy, doin' OK?" You smiled. I smiled too, momentarily feeling good again, and then I saw them: streaks of brown all over the backs of your legs. You kept on smiling. I did not.
We drove a few more blocks and I spotted a gas station. I pulled in and there was only one parking spot, a handicapped spot. People who park in handicapped spots without themselves being disabled are the worst people in the world. That is why we sat in that parking lot -- both of us shit-stained -- and waited until another spot came open.
After a couple of minutes, we parked and I took you inside. You still weren't fully clothed, but I did put a shirt on you. We walked toward the back and a woman, seemingly knowing that a befuddled-looking man with a baby missing its pants could use some help, said, " The bathroom is over here."
The bathroom was locked. Of course it was. At that point, my determination kicked in. I was going to get us clean, one way or another. I looked around for a wife. They didn't sell them. They did, however, sell paper towels. And soap. And bottled water.
Still holding you (thank you for being so calm during this whole mess), I grabbed those items off the shelves, unashamedly paid for them and returned to the car (the bathroom was still locked, and I wasn't going to subject us to any time in there anyway after someone had been in there doing bathroom things for who knows how long).
At the car, I put you back in your seat, opened all the items, strategically placed each of them within reaching distance and went to work: 1. Grab a handful of paper towels. 2. Pour water on them. 3. Rub them on the soap. 4. Vigorously scrub body parts. 5. Smile knowing that all this nonsense will make a GREAT story. 6. Repeat as needed.
A few minutes later, we were all set to go. I gave you a high-five, put the cap back on the water bottle, placed it, the remaining paper towels and a bar of soap I should probably throw out when I'm finished here in the only container I could find -- a souvenir White Sox batting helmet that, fittingly, originally held a taco salad.
Our ordeal over, we hopped on the interstate and headed west. I'd be lying if I said the whole adventure didn't make my day.
Love,
Dad
Monday, May 26, 2014
Swimming pools and sacrifice
Case,
I'm wearing headphones and listening to my iPod right now. I should probably take them off to think more clearly, but where's the fun in that, right? Music makes everything better, right? Well, we shall see.
Anyway, it's Memorial Day, when Americans across the country commemorate members of the military who have sacrificed their lives to sustain our freedoms by gathering at apartment complex swimming pools and partaking in thousands upon thousands of disgusting human stews. Others class it up by going to public beaches, which are just Walmarts at 2 a.m. with sand.
It wouldn't be an American holiday if it wasn't bastardized — by commercialism or shameless strangers showing too much skin.
Sometimes it's better to be stuck in the office flying a desk while the masses "celebrate" a holiday. Part of that celebration is the phrase that too often accompanies the recognition of this day — "Happy Memorial Day." What a terrible, (oxy)moronic characterization. I realize people don't mean anything bad when they say it, but it's really annoying — not so much morally but grammatically.
Having said that, and understanding that Memorial Day as a day of solemn reflection is an idea that has been lost in a haze of sunshine, barbecues and bathing suits, I'm not a Grinch about people trying to have a good time on the final Monday in May — as long as they have perspective. Of course, that's easier said than done. Perspective is what Memorial Day is really about. Unfortunately, perspective is not really an American trait in the 21st century.
Perspective is a stranger to the hurried masses
It seems to make no difference what the station or the class is
A species that's endangered like my mother's Latin masses
We all just want to bitch and moan until the moment passes
On Memorial Day, don't let the moment pass. Have fun spending time with family and friends, gorging yourself on meat products and pretending you have the type of body that people would want to view in public. Just remember that we're allowed to bask in such frivolity not because we deserve it (Nobody cares how hard you've been working; you're alive, aren't you?), but because many brave souls have and continue to pay the ultimate price for it.
Many people will say that Americans don't die in service to their country so the rest of us can "enjoy" Memorial Day. That's true. Americans die in service to their country so we can enjoy EVERY day. That's the American ideal, the American Dream. It shouldn't take a single day in May to be cognizant of the freedom that makes this nation great. But that's just how it works for the hurried masses in the 21st century.
I don't know how much of what I write in these letters will stick with you, but I hope the message in this one does. Make Memorial Day about fun AND solemn remembrance. Celebrate your freedom how you see fit, as long as, at the end of the day, you're aware of and thankful for those who gave (and keep giving it) to you.
Love,
Dad
P.S. I have no idea what songs I was listening to for the past 30 minutes.
I'm wearing headphones and listening to my iPod right now. I should probably take them off to think more clearly, but where's the fun in that, right? Music makes everything better, right? Well, we shall see.
Anyway, it's Memorial Day, when Americans across the country commemorate members of the military who have sacrificed their lives to sustain our freedoms by gathering at apartment complex swimming pools and partaking in thousands upon thousands of disgusting human stews. Others class it up by going to public beaches, which are just Walmarts at 2 a.m. with sand.
It wouldn't be an American holiday if it wasn't bastardized — by commercialism or shameless strangers showing too much skin.
Sometimes it's better to be stuck in the office flying a desk while the masses "celebrate" a holiday. Part of that celebration is the phrase that too often accompanies the recognition of this day — "Happy Memorial Day." What a terrible, (oxy)moronic characterization. I realize people don't mean anything bad when they say it, but it's really annoying — not so much morally but grammatically.
Having said that, and understanding that Memorial Day as a day of solemn reflection is an idea that has been lost in a haze of sunshine, barbecues and bathing suits, I'm not a Grinch about people trying to have a good time on the final Monday in May — as long as they have perspective. Of course, that's easier said than done. Perspective is what Memorial Day is really about. Unfortunately, perspective is not really an American trait in the 21st century.
Perspective is a stranger to the hurried masses
It seems to make no difference what the station or the class is
A species that's endangered like my mother's Latin masses
We all just want to bitch and moan until the moment passes
On Memorial Day, don't let the moment pass. Have fun spending time with family and friends, gorging yourself on meat products and pretending you have the type of body that people would want to view in public. Just remember that we're allowed to bask in such frivolity not because we deserve it (Nobody cares how hard you've been working; you're alive, aren't you?), but because many brave souls have and continue to pay the ultimate price for it.
Many people will say that Americans don't die in service to their country so the rest of us can "enjoy" Memorial Day. That's true. Americans die in service to their country so we can enjoy EVERY day. That's the American ideal, the American Dream. It shouldn't take a single day in May to be cognizant of the freedom that makes this nation great. But that's just how it works for the hurried masses in the 21st century.
I don't know how much of what I write in these letters will stick with you, but I hope the message in this one does. Make Memorial Day about fun AND solemn remembrance. Celebrate your freedom how you see fit, as long as, at the end of the day, you're aware of and thankful for those who gave (and keep giving it) to you.
Love,
Dad
P.S. I have no idea what songs I was listening to for the past 30 minutes.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Do you have change for that?
Case,
I've come to the realization over the years that one should embrace his/her idiosyncrasies. It will never be a problem for me to wear a sleeveless full-body pug shirt in front of 40,000 people. On the other hand, it's been a revelation of late that there's a difference between idiosyncrasies and flaws. It's not healthy to embrace being an asshole. It's not healthy to embrace being selfish. If you spend your whole life resistant to change, at the very least you'll often be miserable, and at worst you'll just push away the people it's worth changing for.
The consequence of vanity
If it's not about me, then who's it about?
I'm the one juggling these chainsaws of doubt
If it's not about me, then I don't understand
First … know thyself; is that not the plan?
It's not for the weak, and it's not for the mild
It's not for the boy, an impress'nable child
He spent his whole life penning a love song to insanity
Caught between obsession and the sirens of inanity
In the end succumbing to the consequence of vanity
If it's not about me, then what's it about —
the answers within or the questions without?
If it's not about me, I'll admit I'm confused
This is just how I am; this is not what I choose
It's not for the faint or the calm of this world
It's not fair to you or the beautiful girl
He spent his whole life penning a love song to insanity
Caught between obsession and the sirens of inanity
In the end succumbing to the consequence of vanity
If it's not about me, if it's not about me
If it's not about me, then I fail to see
If it's not about me, then how can it be?
I will never find peace; I will never be free
Love,
Dad
I've come to the realization over the years that one should embrace his/her idiosyncrasies. It will never be a problem for me to wear a sleeveless full-body pug shirt in front of 40,000 people. On the other hand, it's been a revelation of late that there's a difference between idiosyncrasies and flaws. It's not healthy to embrace being an asshole. It's not healthy to embrace being selfish. If you spend your whole life resistant to change, at the very least you'll often be miserable, and at worst you'll just push away the people it's worth changing for.
The consequence of vanity
If it's not about me, then who's it about?
I'm the one juggling these chainsaws of doubt
If it's not about me, then I don't understand
First … know thyself; is that not the plan?
It's not for the weak, and it's not for the mild
It's not for the boy, an impress'nable child
He spent his whole life penning a love song to insanity
Caught between obsession and the sirens of inanity
In the end succumbing to the consequence of vanity
If it's not about me, then what's it about —
the answers within or the questions without?
If it's not about me, I'll admit I'm confused
This is just how I am; this is not what I choose
It's not for the faint or the calm of this world
It's not fair to you or the beautiful girl
He spent his whole life penning a love song to insanity
Caught between obsession and the sirens of inanity
In the end succumbing to the consequence of vanity
If it's not about me, if it's not about me
If it's not about me, then I fail to see
If it's not about me, then how can it be?
I will never find peace; I will never be free
Love,
Dad
Monday, April 28, 2014
Don't
Case,
A few words to live by:
* Don't be more concerned with looking the part than you are with doing your part. I mean, it would probably behoove you to dress better than your old man (I'm wearing a respectable shirt today, although I wore a Patrick Kane shersey to work Thursday), but it's much better to be mocked for your fashion sense than your work ethic. The workforce is littered with people who look good doing terrible work. Don't be one of them.
* Don't forget where you came from, but don't be afraid to leave.
* Don't put ketchup on a hot dog. Or much of anything for that matter. Ketchup is for hillbillies. (The exception is your Grandma Pallister's meatloaf. It's so awesome that it makes ketchup work.) On a related note, don't eat pizza with mandarin oranges on it. You will regret it.
* Don't drink scotch. It gives you a weird hangover and will make you pretentious. Also, don't drink beer with fruit in it. I shouldn't have to explain that, no matter how young you may be when you read this. On second thought, don't drink. As your Grandpa Pallister said to me many times in his later years, "I never got into any trouble that wasn't the result of drinking." Wise words.
* Don't listen to music at an acceptable volume. There are two kinds of music — bad and loud.
* Don't take every pitch. The best you'll do with that approach is drawing an occasional walk. The worst you'll do is spend years watching strike three go by. You can't hit a home run if you never swing. Sure, you'll still strike out, possibly often, but at least you'll strike out swinging.
* Don't wear white after Labor Day.
* Don't fold clothes haphazardly. If you're going to do laundry, do it correctly.
* Don't forget to turn off the coffee pot. And the stove. And the oven. While you're at it, just unplug everything before you leave the house.
* Don't take pride in being an idiot. We all have our quirks and eccentricities and many of them make us endearing to those closest to us. You should never be ashamed of those. But some aspects of our personality make us a**holes. Don't be an a**hole just to be an a**hole. For instance, stop throwing trains when you're denied a third cupcake. Pick your spots.
* Don't root for any football team that ever employed Michael Vick, the Packers, the Cubs or Gwyneth Paltrow. Seriously, you can become obsessed with soccer for all I care or immerse yourself in fantasy NASCAR, but for God's sake, have some standards! On a somewhat related note, your mom and I attended RavenCon this past weekend. It was a gathering of, um, eclectic folks who like to dress up as characters from the science fiction realm. I saw a large-breasted Klingon, I learned Bobba Fett drives a Dodge and I snapped a great picture of a half-naked man riding a hobby horse. Initially, I just shook my head and wondered how these people could take themselves seriously when they choose to lose themselves in such an endeavor. But then I realized that we all need an escape. Your mother has books. I have sports. Really, anyone who has ever painted their face to support their favorite team can't mock a guy who wears his stormtrooper suit every once in a while. Find the escape that suits you and enjoy the hell out of it. Don't worry about what other people think.
Love,
Dad
A few words to live by:
* Don't be more concerned with looking the part than you are with doing your part. I mean, it would probably behoove you to dress better than your old man (I'm wearing a respectable shirt today, although I wore a Patrick Kane shersey to work Thursday), but it's much better to be mocked for your fashion sense than your work ethic. The workforce is littered with people who look good doing terrible work. Don't be one of them.
* Don't forget where you came from, but don't be afraid to leave.
* Don't put ketchup on a hot dog. Or much of anything for that matter. Ketchup is for hillbillies. (The exception is your Grandma Pallister's meatloaf. It's so awesome that it makes ketchup work.) On a related note, don't eat pizza with mandarin oranges on it. You will regret it.
* Don't drink scotch. It gives you a weird hangover and will make you pretentious. Also, don't drink beer with fruit in it. I shouldn't have to explain that, no matter how young you may be when you read this. On second thought, don't drink. As your Grandpa Pallister said to me many times in his later years, "I never got into any trouble that wasn't the result of drinking." Wise words.
* Don't listen to music at an acceptable volume. There are two kinds of music — bad and loud.
* Don't take every pitch. The best you'll do with that approach is drawing an occasional walk. The worst you'll do is spend years watching strike three go by. You can't hit a home run if you never swing. Sure, you'll still strike out, possibly often, but at least you'll strike out swinging.
* Don't wear white after Labor Day.
* Don't fold clothes haphazardly. If you're going to do laundry, do it correctly.
* Don't forget to turn off the coffee pot. And the stove. And the oven. While you're at it, just unplug everything before you leave the house.
* Don't take pride in being an idiot. We all have our quirks and eccentricities and many of them make us endearing to those closest to us. You should never be ashamed of those. But some aspects of our personality make us a**holes. Don't be an a**hole just to be an a**hole. For instance, stop throwing trains when you're denied a third cupcake. Pick your spots.
* Don't root for any football team that ever employed Michael Vick, the Packers, the Cubs or Gwyneth Paltrow. Seriously, you can become obsessed with soccer for all I care or immerse yourself in fantasy NASCAR, but for God's sake, have some standards! On a somewhat related note, your mom and I attended RavenCon this past weekend. It was a gathering of, um, eclectic folks who like to dress up as characters from the science fiction realm. I saw a large-breasted Klingon, I learned Bobba Fett drives a Dodge and I snapped a great picture of a half-naked man riding a hobby horse. Initially, I just shook my head and wondered how these people could take themselves seriously when they choose to lose themselves in such an endeavor. But then I realized that we all need an escape. Your mother has books. I have sports. Really, anyone who has ever painted their face to support their favorite team can't mock a guy who wears his stormtrooper suit every once in a while. Find the escape that suits you and enjoy the hell out of it. Don't worry about what other people think.
Love,
Dad
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
The game of life
Case,
I just realized I haven't posted on your blog in a month. I've got plenty of stuff in my head, but I'm in one of those stretches where I just feel like keeping it all up there. Needless to say, the attic is crowded. I promise to start clearing it out now that spring seems to finally have arrived.
Anyway, I logged on today and saw that a year ago I wrote the following:
I just realized I haven't posted on your blog in a month. I've got plenty of stuff in my head, but I'm in one of those stretches where I just feel like keeping it all up there. Needless to say, the attic is crowded. I promise to start clearing it out now that spring seems to finally have arrived.
Anyway, I logged on today and saw that a year ago I wrote the following:
Case,
It's sad, but also very fitting that Major League Baseball's Opening Day falls on what would have been your Grandpa Pallister's 82nd birthday — the first since he passed. My fondest childhood memories involve playing baseball with your Grandpa. In fact, my first baseball memory involves a trip to Shabbona Park in Chicago. I was 6 and just learning about the sport. Before we started playing catch that day — an activity I looked forward to more than anything in those early days before organized baseball (and sometimes even after that) — Grandpa pointed to an older boy catching fly balls in a nearby field. The boy probably wasn't more than 9 or 10, and the fly balls were just high tosses from a man who likely was his father. But that boy looked like a giant to me, and each time the ball seemed like it would never come down. But as fly balls landed repeatedly in the boy's glove, Grandpa must have noticed my awe. "Matt," he said, "someday you'll be catching fly balls like that. All it takes is practice and desire." I never forgot those words, and I owe whatever I have accomplished and will accomplish in life — personally and professionally — to that advice. Just like all those subsequent afternoons when he would spend hours hitting me ground balls — constantly reminding me, "Stay in front of the ball! You don't always have to catch it. If it hits you, you've done your job." — Grandpa was teaching me how to play baseball, but he also was teaching me how to play a more important game.
Love,
Dad
It's sad, but also very fitting that Major League Baseball's Opening Day falls on what would have been your Grandpa Pallister's 82nd birthday — the first since he passed. My fondest childhood memories involve playing baseball with your Grandpa. In fact, my first baseball memory involves a trip to Shabbona Park in Chicago. I was 6 and just learning about the sport. Before we started playing catch that day — an activity I looked forward to more than anything in those early days before organized baseball (and sometimes even after that) — Grandpa pointed to an older boy catching fly balls in a nearby field. The boy probably wasn't more than 9 or 10, and the fly balls were just high tosses from a man who likely was his father. But that boy looked like a giant to me, and each time the ball seemed like it would never come down. But as fly balls landed repeatedly in the boy's glove, Grandpa must have noticed my awe. "Matt," he said, "someday you'll be catching fly balls like that. All it takes is practice and desire." I never forgot those words, and I owe whatever I have accomplished and will accomplish in life — personally and professionally — to that advice. Just like all those subsequent afternoons when he would spend hours hitting me ground balls — constantly reminding me, "Stay in front of the ball! You don't always have to catch it. If it hits you, you've done your job." — Grandpa was teaching me how to play baseball, but he also was teaching me how to play a more important game.
Love,
Dad
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