Soccer Magic

Eva and Emilio played hard soccer with their teams this past weekend in the Land Park Shootout. We were on soccer fields all day, both days. The temperature was in the upper 90s, both days. Eva's team, the Extreme, played all four of their games with only 10 players, no substitutes. That means that each of the girls was on the field for each of the 40 minute halves played.

There are times when I find things my children do to be odd. Playing competitive soccer in the heat is one of those things. They did not get their soccer genes from me. Their grandpa watched the morning games. He is fond of believing that the children's "extreme" soccer and inclinations toward athleticism are somehow hard on them. It is all too much, don't I think?

Respectfully, there are some woosy genes on my side of the pool, and I got them. Eva and Emilio did not. Not once, the entire weekend, did I hear one girl on Eva's team complain about the heat. Not one time did I hear a girl say she was too tired, or needed to come off the field. Not one time did a girl make an excuse or hesitate, not once. Each of those 10 girls remained on the field, in the heat, and played her heart out for her team.

And, they won. They kept winning. Against all odds they made their way to Sunday's 5:00 pm championship game. Small miracle (throw in some good skill), times 10. Those young ladies were something.

First half, no score. Second half, no score. Parent leaves to get more cold water. First 10 minute overtime half, no score. The parents are unsettled. Second 10 minute overtime...no score. I was experiencing feelings and reactions that I am ashamed to own. I felt occasionally juvenile. All the while, my daughter was out there on the field, in the heat, playing the best she knew how, trying desperately to score a goal for her team.

Eva's team won the under 16 girls championship in penalty kicks. It was really a moment. It was one of those rare, sweet moments when it is so great to be a parent. She might as well have been an Olympian...
Mostly though, I am in awe of her ability to play on a team, under the harshest of circumstances, and stay committed to her team mates. Lifelong skills, those are.

Emilio's team played the Sunday evening championship game also. They also went into overtime. They took second place in under 14 boys.

Dad stayed home in the cool of the house, and finished off the Sunday New York Times. Boy, though, was he proud.

We celebrated that evening with BBQ and soccer stories.

Magic...

we are here...

well...maybe...
in any case...we have survived the summer...
dad has been to Oregon, and Eva and Emilio and I have been to Oregon (that is certainly a longer story) and now we are all settling ourselves into routines for this next season...

Summer, however, in California, is a long season. While Eva begins high school tomorrow, I still have two weeks off before the first day of school. Dad can remember those days, those early September days when you wonder who your students are, what their needs will be, how you will meet those needs, and how you will take care of yourself, on top of it all. Dad and I have had vastly different teaching experiences. I think that is to be expected, this is a different time, the needs of students are different.

I am excited to meet my new ninth graders. But tonight, I am excited for Eva. She has four wonderful years ahead of her.

Grandpa and I wish you the best, Eva. May you make sweet friends and love your studies and learn how to be a young woman who cares about her world...

When can you start, Barack? (or...respectfully, president, sir, can you get some empathy now?)

Craig Ferguson's joke, relating to Obama's visit to Baghdad and the Iraqi leaders asking him this question, made me laugh. It's good to have an occasional laugh when reading the newspaper. Dad gets upset a lot. He's not really very optimistic about either of the two presidential candidates. I understand political malaise, and in general, would listen to him and nod in agreement. But this year I happen to be very excited about one candidate, and I'm hoping to help dad join in. (I'm trying to not rant about politics. Kelly has suggested that this isn't the most effective way to communicate one's view, and I think he could be on to something...)

There was another thing in the newspaper today that was not very funny. "Bush uncensored: 'Wall Street got drunk'" (originally reported in the Houson Chronicle). I read the sad piece and then, really feeling more sad than angry, considered the stark lack of empathy than our current president appears to possess. We talk about empathy a lot in education. We talk about how to teach it, understanding that, for many, it is not an inborn trait. Certainly, some children appear to have lots of it, and they grow up to be sensitive, nurturing and often emotionally healthy adults.

Some adults didn't learn empathy from their parents or their teachers or their life experiences or any other way. President Bush clearly falls into this category. How can a leader, charged with leading a proud people, make jokes about the economy or the housing slump when vast numbers of his people are suffering under said unfortunate conditions?

"And then we got a housing issue, not in Houston, and evidently, not in Dallas, because Laura was over there trying to buy a house today." Said our humble leader.

"Before friendly audiences, especially in Texas, Bush tends to be more relaxed and candid than he appears at the White House."

So we can expect that when our president is "candid," he feels comfortable enough to show how insensitive and uncaring and lacking in empathy he truly is? It is possible that these comments were taken completely out of context. Given his position, however, and the current financial woes of the ever-growing middle class, how could jokes such as these ever be appropriate? We have certainly had more than enough proof that he really isn't "a man of the people" like so many of the citizens who voted for him (twice) wanted to believe. We wanted to believe that being inarticulate and smug equaled being "one of us."

Problem is, we don't make the issue of empathy central to how we evaluate our potential leaders. We ought to look at their lives, their experiences, the reading they engage in and how they treat others (among many other things) to determine how they might empathize with our need and pain in troubled times.

Problem is, it probably won't be an important issue this time around, either. One could argue that both Obama and McCain possess certain amounts of empathy. But right now the bar isn't very high. Obama has already been called aloof and "out of touch" with the average working class American. Is that because we can't imagine him sitting down and having a beer with us? We need to learn, as a country, to distinguish true and sincere empathy from other "qualities" that we might often confuse with empathy.

I'm going to be watching Mr. Obama, and studying his life, for signals that he can "walk in our shoes," including the shoes of the most disenfranchised among us. I'm going to hope that he'll build policy that will reflect this.

For the time being, Mr. Bush, look up "empathy" in the dictionary, and figure out how to get some for yourself.

How we Eat

We took dad to the Sweetwater Restaurant for his 85th birthday. Sweetwater is my favorite east Sacramento neighborhood spot. I knew we would win there because the menu includes both traditional fare and creative cuisine-type items. I LOVE their wedge salad (with grilled, carmelized onion, bacon chunks and the richest blue cheese dressing around)--ok, ok, I know that a wedge salad is made with iceberg and not arugula, but I'm not that much of a food snob. Their grilled artichoke is killer. Mostly, we order off the appetizer menu, and have never been disappointed.

Dad selected the pork loin with garlic mashed potatoes and green beans. He wasn't disappointed either. Dad likes simple, midwestern-type food. He isn't very adventurous when it comes to dining. He could live out his days on a diet of german bologna and pale bread, with ice cream thrown in for good measure. No offense to dad's midwestern sensibilities, it's just that he has lived rather extensive portions of his life in California, and well, you'd think he'd enjoy this great state's food just a bit more.

I've been fortunate enough to either live in or spend considerable time in every great (and large) city in this state, and those sojourns have contributed to a palate that is both curious and, for lack of a better word, dignified. A food writer I am not. And I'm only really snobbish when it comes to coffee, ice cream and wine (if someone else is buying). But dad is still happy at predictable chain restaurants like the ones he and mom took us out to during childhood. Eating out, together, is a challenge for us.

He isn't fond of Mexican food and sushi (Eva and Emilio's current culinary obsession) is beyond reason. Nor does he like Indian, Thai or anything else remotely ethnic.

We're going to have to navigate this dining out issue. Really though, he's 85, and he can eat, or not eat, anything he darn well pleases.

For now, I think we'll stick to the Sweetwater. We can all be happy there.

(blogger's block)

This blog is clogged...due to its writer's inertia. Oh, I've a thousand good reasons for not writing--reveling in the afterglow of Africa, tending to household business, preparing dad for his trip to Oregon--good reasons, you see. But the single biggest factor is that I suffer from my own fear of committing to the words on the page (or screen). (My dear friend Rui is currently suffering from the very same malady--come on, Rui, write that thesis! Let go of the fear and make haste with the words inside of you!) Truth is, I'm in good company with writers the world over. And I'm not writing the greatest book ever written, I'm just trying to be disciplined with this little ol' blog.

Really, I'm pathetic. I've created this fictitious audience inside my head and they're a tough group to satisfy. If I don't write anything, I can't fail them. Ha! I laugh at myself! This blog was born both to chronicle an important phase in my family life AND to get me writing--to help me enter the discipline of consistent writing...audience is icing...

So I whine and make excuses no more!

And I create another post this very moment...

A Big Adventure in Tanzania...(dad holds down the fort)

Eva, Emilio and I returned from Tanzania day before yesterday. We had a really big adventure. The beloved Bordens (of Wild Hope fame), my dear friends from college days in Santa Barbara, opened their home to us and showed us a grand time. We experienced their East African life for just a spell, and came to love the Masai land they call home.

This is a much bigger story, of course. The real point here is that while we were off galavanting around the globe, dad was here, alone in the house and in charge of making sure that all ran smoothly. I think he felt a little abandoned, and I'm afraid that with the thrill of preparing to depart, I didn't look forward to anticipate how he would adjust to being alone.

Ten years ago he would have been less lonely. Now (he's 85 today), he has fears about leaving the house. I admit that I wasn't prepared for this. Dear Kelly stepped in (he wasn't prepared either) and helped dad through these past three weeks. They took road trips and dined together and K. called dad each day, just to check in.

Two other dear friends here offered to share meals with dad. It takes a village. I am grateful.

But I still have to figure out how to get dad out and about more...my big task for the month of July.

All in all, dad did a great job of feeding the pets and cleaning the litter boxes and sweeping the floors and keeping the house lived in and loved. And I'm sure he spent just a few quiet moments thinking of his own Africa days, in the northern reaches of the continent, when he and mom met while teaching and travelled the land together.

It's a big place, that Africa. Glad we've both been able to experience just a wee bit of it.

things I didn't consider...

Emilio reminded me, last week, that having Grandpa here means that it will be harder to let him go, when the time comes.

I honestly hadn't considered this, when mulling the possibilities of his coming to live with us. I wouldn't have said that I was particularly close to my dad, I sort of just knew that he was out there, not too, too far away. But now, as he settles into our home, I feel myself drawing nearer to him. I find myself growing fond of his peculiarities...of the way he marvels over the Starbucks french press (and other modern gizmos), of his television too-loud-in-the-room-across-the-hall, of the way he asks me, each morning, if we need anything from the market.

I find his list-making endearing. And I love that, at the end of the day, he'll report that he forgot to get such-and-such (in spite of the list). I have asked him to consider the canvas bags for transport during his outings to Target. He prefers the plastic, we may need the bags...

then I just find a kind way to suggest that the bags are choking the planet (what about those poor cows in India?) and let the issue go...

I think that all of this means that I am closer to him, already. I know it means that I am more tolerant than I thought I could be.

and loving my dad more, at this point in our lives, is certainly worth considering...

tonight...change I can believe in...

there is a wonderment in the land tonight...

there is a hope, a belief that this country might now make me honored to be a humble citizen of this world...

there is a man who can make me believe Americans want good things for each other, and for the brethren and sisters beyond our border...

LET ME BELIEVE, TONIGHT...

(Hillary fought valiantly, dad wanted Hillary to win the nomination--thought she was better prepared to fight McCain...she, too, made a glorious history...)

he'll get behind Obama now, we'll get to watch these next few months with anticipation, with occasional breathlessness...

I'll get to hope that this man can care for the least of us...

there is such hope, I want to just feel it.

Baseball and old movies…

My very sweet special-man-friend, K, is able to pull the best from dad. They can talk baseball and old movies like nobody’s business.

Dad is a genius in these realms. And I guess I never knew it…conversation in our house never led into these areas. In any case, dad and K can talk and be specific and name players and dates and list films and favorite actors and, just basically, be darn smart together.

It’s no wonder dad couldn’t indulge these interests while raising children with my mother. They had a really sick daughter to care for, that demand, and others, kind of detracted from what they might have given to each other…

But the fact that dad had all this knowledge sort of stored away impresses me now. The fact that he can remember these things—events that happened 50+ years ago—is remarkable, to me.

And I’m so glad that these two neat guys can share this information with each other…makes me appreciate each of them more…

These teen years…or, wait your turn for the bathroom…

Dad probably never thought he’d have the privilege of watching
another young girl navigate her teen years…though certainly, Eva does
this maneuvering with a fair share more grace than her ol’ ma did…

Never thought he’d get to watch another adolescent boy move
recklessly from teenager to young man (though, for sure, Emilio makes
this all look easy…)

Guess again, dad!

Lucky for you, I get to do the dirty work—

discipline
cook for
nag
reason with
shop for
clean up after

And you get to, simply, love…

With a laugh or two thrown in for good measure.

civilized, we are

Last Sunday at the dinner table, Eva said to her grandfather, “Your hamburger is upside down.” He smiled and placed it on his plate, carefully turned it the upside way and took another bite.

I’ve noticed that he eats slowly. I don’t know when this happened, or if it has been happening bite by bite these past several years. I don’t have memories of my father being a careful eater. I mean that in the way that I am not a very careful eater. I sometimes eat standing up, I often eat too fast, I don’t chew enough times, and, when at home, I rarely pause to consider the pleasure of the meal.

This has become more apparent to me now that I share the evening meal, several times a week, with my father. He does all of the right things, now, at the dinner table. He is clearly eating less, and when I am finished, lickety-split, right after the two young teens, he is still enjoying the tastes and textures of the meal.

He comments on the menu, how tasty it is, how rather lucky we are to have it.

He lingers and enjoys...this is new for him.

If we don’t watch it, I might have to change my habits to slow down with him.

commandments...that is...

I'm not certain I remember the other nine...and if I could, I'd be sure to have violated at least several of them...for now, this one is etched deep within me--"honor thy father and thy mother."

Last week, my eighty-four-year-old father came to live with me. He needs a place to settle his aging self, and I need to find ways, in my own middle-age, to get wiser.

For now, here we are, in Sacramento California, me, two early teens, and their grandpa.

this adventure is just beginning...