Artistic Quirks and Deformed Biscuits

One of the most fascinating things about this crazy collective of madness called the human race is how people develop their own little quirks... things that would be impossible to predict about someone, and yet when the quirks reveal themselves... we immediately think... "That is so him/her/them."

When I make biscuits for our morning breakfast, I cut the biscuits from the kneaded dough with a circular cutter... but on the last one, I tend to just grab the remaining dough and hand-form the biscuit, patting it down on the baking stone.

For some reason, my son Logan has latched onto this 'final biscuit', claiming it as his own each and every time I make them.  He calls it the 'deformed biscuit' and it makes his morning to be the first one to grab it.

I have no idea why... but it is so Logan.

And you, dear reader, might ask:  "Why is this worthy of a blog post, even in this blog?!?"

Because.... it is little quirks like this... that complete the masterpiece of artwork that is each of us... us fallen, 'deformed' humans, so beautiful and fascinating.  Those who would say we are 'accidents of an evolving universe' are missing something.  In any work of art, there are little signs of the artist... the way a painter makes a whorl of paint, or a potter carves a piece... these little details transform a pot or a painting into... something beautiful, artistic, and divine.

Those kind of signatures aren't an accident.   They are loving strokes of a Creator, who cares about us and makes us each unique, with our own little quirks.  Delightful quirks, maddening quirks, endearing quirks, infuriating quirks.... but they are ours.  And they were woven into us by a master.

Momma, I'm home...

One of the very few drawbacks of being at camp for 2 months each summer is the disconnect from our church home.  One can continue one's personal study of the Bible, and prayer life, etc.... but all Christians need to have a place to gather with those who share their doctrinal beliefs, a place of warmth, acceptance, accountability, and fellowship.   Those who follow Christ are instructed to come together, to worship together, and to serve the world and each other.  For the Welch clan, that home is Frisco Bible Church.

And today, for the first time in many weeks, I sat with my whole family and worshiped and fed on the Word with my extended (church) family.

Of course, there was the joy of seeing friends we have not seen in a while, and the personal gratification of the warmth of the greetings from them (one of Allison's friends... her face beamed so brightly on seeing my lovely wife I thought her skull might explode from the force of it...).  And to be lead by the worship band in songs of praise is always uplifting.  But the real worth is the teaching of the Right Reverend Dr. Wayne Braudrick.

Pastor Wayne amazes me.  Somehow he manages to balance the line between teaching at an erudite level and yet remaining engaging enough for the masses.  I've been going to church all my life, and I have studied a ton of things pertaining to all things Christian... let's just say that a shallow, surface skimming sermon or study is not going to offer me much in the way of teaching me something completely new.

And yet, somehow I come out of Frisco Bible every Sunday... and I mean every Sunday... having learned something new;  some nuance I had never thought before, or some historical background or some minor detail that just enriches and deepens my understanding or knowledge of the Word of God, or the magnificence of God's end-to-end plan for this wretched human race.

And Dr. Braudrick does it all without making it feel like a seminary class lecture.  He's engaging and funny without detracting from the lesson he wishes to impart.  Sometimes he's stern... never afraid to strap us for our shortcomings while showing us what God has laid on his heart; but invariably, by hook or crook, he teaches.  And he teaches in a way that everyone, no matter whether they gravitate to the scholarly or otherwise, will learn and learn well.

And teaching like that is ***hard*** to do.  Trust me.

Of course, he will tell you that it's only by God's grace that he has the skill and insight to teach with such balance;  he's right of course, but I also know how hard he works and prepares to lead his flock.

And thanks to his dedication, and that of the worship band, and all those who work hard to make our services happen.. my soul was fed this morning.

I already miss camp, and my camp family.  But, as it turns out... I have all kinds of families lying around... my blood family, my camp family, and my church family.  Today, I reunited with my church family.

And it was good.  Very good.

Ambushed by a Moose Pond.. and a bakery

(Alas, I am running a bit behind on my blog here.  Time to play catch-up.  Which is entirely different than playing 'Salt', which is my name for a popular game in the dining hall- where campers try to slide the salt shaker across the table, hoping to gauge the slide so that the shaker stops right at the edge with a bit hanging over... but I digress.   This post concerns my adventuring 2 weeks ago, on July 4-5)

One of the best parts of coming to camp as a (quasi) staff member is the plethora of wonderful opportunities available to you on your day off-- there is so much to do, to explore, and new discoveries to make;  I really do feel that, no matter how many summers I end up spending here, there will always be some little delightful, heretofore unknown thing just waiting around the corner.  One of those occurred as I went to breakfast on my Saturday morning.

Allison has Sundays off, and that is our main "trip" day.  Thus, I often have the other half of my weekend to myself, assuming I can recover from my Friday deep-night camp watchman duty with sufficient energy to get out and about.  Since I sleep until sometime mid-morning, the first activity of the day is brunch, usually in North Conway (NH), at either Priscilla's or the Stairway Cafe, my two favorite haunts for a bit o' eggs, bacon, and syrupy delight.

In order to avoid the awful traffic on the main thoroughfare in NC, experienced visitors use the side roads to approach and park, and on this day I parked on a side road I had not used before; as I walked toward the restaurant, I noticed a little covey of businesses tucked behind the houses... and to my delight I noticed a bakery that I had no idea existed.

The little bakery behind the houses

I love bakeries.  There are few things in this world as aromatic as the smell of fresh bread cooking, and the yeasty incense wafted down this tree-lined entrance.  I'm sure the look on my face was not much different than Charlie had when he discovered his possession of the Golden Ticket to the Chocolate Factory.

But first, breakfast.  I would abstain from the bakery for just a short while in search of protein.  The Stairway cafe is an eclectic place with incredible menu options, including various wild game sausages.

The "North Country Hiker"breakfast... yummmmm

The presentation is wonderful, the food delicious; it's been a delight of mine for 3 years.  This year marked two minor changes that intrigued me:  they had added air conditioning, in the form of a window unit; and the paint job on the signature stairwell was disappointingly uniform.  When I first discovered the restaurant, the words to the first verse of "Stairway to Heaven" were painted on the risers of each step.  They actually repainted them last year, but when I inquired about the words I was told that they would be repainted on the new coat as well.  Alas, they were not, and one of the quirky aspects that delighted me seems to have gone the way of the dodo.  As for the A/C, it was a welcome addition, but also changed the feel a bit... in the past I would choose Stairway only on the cooler mornings, when the breeze coming through the open balcony door was sufficient to keep this hot-natured boy comfortable.  Now, that decision factor no longer comes into play, and they keep the balcony door closed.   Minor points, I know, but I get nostalgic about such things sometimes.

After breakfast I walked the main street for a bit, and took in an arts and crafts fair benefiting the Senior Center.  There were a handful of booths, and I missed my wife the most as I wandered through, for the smell of fresh kettle corn was drifting from the center outwards; Allison dearly loves kettle corn, and I'm sure I would have lost some coin in my belt pouch if she had been with me!  At one booth, I met a fellow potter.  I have been studying and learning pottery for the past year, having both a modicum of success and a wonderful time to boot.  Now one thing about Maine and New Hampshire... they are magnets for artistic types.  You can't swing a kayak paddle around here without hitting a pottery shop.  However, many of them are often shops featuring the work of masters, and stuff that is light-years beyond my capabilities at this point.

My pottery acquisition

I truly enjoyed meeting this lady and browsing through her works because, although she was a more advanced potter than I, her techniques and styles were much more similar to the ones I'm learning, so I felt a kinship with her and her pottery.  Sort of a "this is where I will be before too long" feeling.  I honored the kinship by purchasing one of her pieces.

And then I headed to the bakery.  I won't attempt to write how I felt when I went inside.  It was a vicarious experience that I would have to mind-meld with you to share.  Suffice it to say I bought I loaf of bread to take back to the cabin with me, for snacking on later that day.

Matthew, all set to run fou

Prudence demanded that I head back to the cabin for a nap, but instead I headed to Bridgton, a town just to the east of Fryeburg.  I had been there just the day before, to watch Matthew and other IA/FA campers running in the annual "Four [mile] on the Fourth".  However,it had been drizzling rain all day, and my favorite bookstore was closed, so I went back the next day.  I wanted to go to the bookstore, by gum.

Bridgton is a neat little town with good shopping, dining, and (dare I repeat myself) a great little bookstore.  I believe the town is mentioned in several Stephen King novels, although I can only personally confirm that for the "Dark Tower" series.  Despite the fatigue that was starting to set in, I wandered through the narrow aisles between bookshelves, picked up a few things on clearance, and also selected an anthology of works by Maine poets.  A few more pictures taken, some butter for the bread purchased at Food City, then it was time to head back to camp.

One last little note on the "discovery" theme.  This country up here has a way of 'ambushing' you with scenic vistas.  The prevalence of heavily wooded areas, composed of extremely tall pine trees, can provide a veil of sorts that hides things from you until the last minute;  in the flatter, rolling landscapes of Texas and the Southwest, where the horizon is almost always visible, this doesn't occur so much.

Although I've made the drive to Bridgton many times now, I still recall vividly one such ambush the first time I drove there, and decided to recreate for you as best as possible.   On the way to is a lovely little lake called Moose Pond.  For my money, it's large enough to be called a lake, but up here, they call such things ponds, so we'll go with that.  But the only warning you get is the existence of the kayak/tube/paddleboard shop just up the hill from Moose Pond, and BOOM! you go from forest to an exquisitely beautiful lake straddling both sides of the road.  I guarantee you my pictures don't do it justice.

Just a country road through the pines...

this is less than 1/10 of a mile from the other photo. Promise

So, one never knows when one might be ambushed by a Moose Pond or a bakery.  The only option is to get out there and see what happens... see what you can find.  Here in Maine... or New Hampshire... or anywhere.

Two Lives to Live

Last night, Allison and I were returning from a date night and, having dined and shopped in North Conway, we were driving across the main road headed into Fryeburg, when Allison said:

You know, it's like we live two lives.  Our Texas life, and then our Maine life.

That phrase has stuck in my mind all day.  It was a keenly astute observation...  This is now our third summer living here in Maine, and working/living/playing at this camp... but I have noticed that this year, for the very first time, Maine feels a bit like a second home to me.  A new home, full of things I've yet to discover or enjoy, but a home nonetheless.

[caption id="attachment_332" align="alignleft" width="194"] A new magazine for me to take on... (Source: Internet, www.msspa.org)[/caption]

When we were checking out at the grocery store, I saw a copy of "DownEast" magazine ('The Magazine of Maine Est.1954!);  it caught my eye primarily because it was a "Best of Maine" issue, and looked like we might get some ideas from it on how to spend our Sundays this summer.  Sunday is Allison's official day off, and we try to cram in a trip to somewhere exciting, but we keep it in a fairly decent radius so we get back in time for Sunday night campfire.

That's the joy of our new 'home'... each summer, we try to find something different to explore, or go do something we have yet to do together but might have done separately.  This Sunday, our plan is to go to Boothbay Harbor, a quaint seaside town northwest of Portland;  Allison has been there but I have yet to, and with my love of the ocean and seaside communities, it looks to be right in my sweet spot.

There's so much to learn about Maine... even a short recreational drive not far from here yields heretofore unseen sights;  tonight I drove into Fryeburg to purchase something at one of the convenience stores, and decided to head south on a road I have passed many many times, but never explored.... and I discovered a wonderful climb up the mountain until I looped back into Fryeburg from the south.  (This trip might warrant a later blogging..)  Someday, I want to sample my second life during the winter, for a short trip.   Given the well known reputation for the harsh winters here, some might call that nuts, but I want to experience my second home with snow; maybe a family Christmas trip might be arranged some year in the future.

[caption id="attachment_333" align="alignright" width="220"] The magazine of my first life. (Source: www.texashighways.com)[/caption]

And yet, as much as there is to learn about Maine, I realized as I mulled this blog topic over in my mind today-- there is a lot I can still learn about Texas.  We are all guilty of this- how often do the local folks never go to the great art museum, or botanical gardens, etc, etc, etc, that is the highlight of the 'Visitor's Guide to X town in X state'?   At my first home, I recently subscribed to the magazine "Texas Highways", which is a counterpart in many ways to the "DownEast" I was reading today.  And I've begun to make a list in Evernote of the places I want to go in Texas, or the restaurants I want to try, that I have read about in those pages.

In the latest issue I just finished (ironically, here in Maine), I found an article on small music hall in downtown Galveston, where great folk/acoustic music can be heard... the place is apparently quite legendary.  I passed the link to the article on to a Facebook Friend, whom I know loves folk/acoustic music, and asked her if she had ever been there, for it's only a short drive from her home in Houston.  She admitted that she had not, and that was "bad on her!"  A little gem of Texas, right there in her backyard, that will be just her kind of place for a night out.  You are welcome, Ms. Stinson!

So I challenge you- where ever you make your life, be it one life, two lives, or three or more... explore.  Learn.  The world is a big ol' huge place with lots of fun and quirky and entertaining stuff just around the corner.  Go find it.  Get out from in front of the TV/computer/xbox/whatever, and go explore.  Learn about your home.

As for me, as I read the "DownEast" on the elliptical machine this morning, I decided right then and there that I would subscribe to it as soon as I return to Texas... and I will read and dream about my second home, our second life, until I am able to return once again.

The right place for the old ways

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm weird in a myriad of ways, more than I have time to document or you have desire to read.  But the oddity du jour is this:  I am as wired and into technology, etc, as any modern computer geek you will find (limited only by the fact that I can't justify spending too much money on gadgets...), but I have a vicious streak of anachronism in me.

I love old things, and doing things the old way.  Things that have, to some degree, become passe fascinate me to no end.  I have a drawerful of calligraphy equipment, I just purchased a wooden longbow that I plan to use in favor of my modern compound bow, I pretty much prefer an honest-to-goodness paper book to my various e-reader options... the list could go on.

I don't utilize these things all the time.  Most days I write with a modern pen (and very particular ones, different for the whatever I'm doing at the time, thank-you-very-much).  But sometimes I like to pull out the parchment and a dip pen and ink- heck I might even go whole hog and wax the missive shut with my seal.

I think for me, it's a connection to the past sort of thing... when I write on parchment with said pen, I can't help but think that this was the exact same way Timothy Matlack scritched out "When in the Course of human events...."  One doesn't get that same historical mojo with a disposable Bic and a post-it note...  my compound bow is a good sight easier to shoot, and shoot accurately, than a bare longbow.   But when I draw that traditional bow, I'm in Sherwood Forest or participating in the Battle of Agincourt.

[caption id="attachment_329" align="aligncenter" width="300"] The oven at Flatbreads... the pizzas sit on stone shelves to the right and left of the fire, inside the dome.[/caption]

So what does this have to do with camp?   Simple.   This place is the right place to enjoy old school.  The camp and surrounding countryside offer ample opportunities to connect to the past.  The thought for this blog came to me as we dined at Flatbreads (an artisan pizza joint in North Conway, NH).  I was watching them make the pizzas and slide them onto the stone shelves in the oven with long wooden paddles... and as I stared into the fire of the oven, I loved the utter simplicity and timelessness of it.

Now, I know there are wood-fired pizza places elsewhere.  But as I ruminated on that fireplace, I began to realize just how much around here touched that same vein in me:   the many covered bridges, the simple farms, the last active human-powered water lock for boat passages in the country... and every year I discover more.

And then there's camp.   This place permeates with age and connections to the past.

[caption id="attachment_328" align="alignleft" width="300"] Just so you know... I have *will not* be shooting my longbow in my skivvies[/caption]

All around the dining halls there are murals depicting young men participating in camp activities... and they weren't commissioned last year, if you catch my drift.  One of my favorite places is the Alumni lounge, where a century of Color War results adorns the walls and rafters, a mosaic of red and brown arrowheads pointing backwards, tugging us to the memories generated here.

[caption id="attachment_327" align="alignright" width="300"] Look closely and you can see Brown has won the last 3 years. My boys aim to change that![/caption]

Generations of family men have come here- Allison and I are housed in an unused campers cabin, and every year on Parent's Weekend, we get people knocking on the door, wanting to show their camper the cabin that Dad stayed in when they were little. (And the same thing happened at Forest Acres the year we were there... mom showing daughter!)

Like the old ways I enjoy, camp is not a constant thing.  It comes out when it is needed, and we are allowed to reach out and touch, and feel the vibrations of history, and of things simply done and done well.  Whether it's a longbow, or tug-of-war, or young men singing a song about the Saco River, we know that we follow in the tracks of those who have done it before.

Let us revel in it....

 

Things change, they stay the same-- grab your earplugs and brave the rain.

Today.  Today is the first official day of camp.  The young men who have chosen, or were chosen, to spend the next 7 weeks here started arriving last night.  The very first white van, driven by the incredibly beautiful Mrs. Welch, pulled into camp towards the end of the annual "New staff/counselors vs. Veteran staff/counselors" softball game.  Which was officiated by yours truly.  (More on that later)

This softball game is one of my favorite yearly traditions.. it follows a BBQ cookout over at the girl's camp, and then... having gorged ourselves on ribs and/or chicken, baked potatoes, and strawberry shortcake, we go play softball.  As it turned out last night, in 110% humidity.   (Mr. Vaughn... I know that's not possible.  But it felt like it).   This year's version was one of the best games I can remember, won by the veterans with a 1-run margin on a walk-off triple.   The "News" often struggle with the game, as many are counselors from other countries, especially one island nation where the last thing that resembles softball was called "rounders"... and now they play cricket, among other sports.

But this crew of New Ones did themselves proud... they had plenty of folks who knew the game and knew it well... and a couple of the cricket players beat the ever-lasting snot out of the ball.  Just crushed it.  It really was a good game, and it was fun to participate in it.

About that... for the second straight year, I was requested/volunteered to provide umpiring services in the field.  (Batters batted until they put it in play).   I've been an umpire for a very long time, but we all know how much that counts.  After a few controversial calls, I think there are about 2-3 counselors who are probably planning a midnight raid on our cabin, to beat me thoroughly about the neck and head with pool noodles....  but there was one "New" guy who said at one point "Are you actually an umpire?"... guess some kind of skill showed through, huh?

Oh, and that white van?  Upon arrival, it disgorged a gaggle of boys from Israel, and camp is now officially camp.   Up to now, it's been all preparation, staff bonding, and the calm before the storm... but this place doesn't really come alive until the kiddos arrive.  They are, after all, the raison d'etre for this place.

A small group settled in last night, but today the big coach buses, and more vans continued to arrive, accompanied by the occasional family who lives close enough to drive their son up here personally.   And then... remember that humidity?  It ran head-on into gravity.  After 7 gorgeous days here in Maine, the rains arrived about the same time the campers did.   Go figure.

Don't get me wrong... it is beautiful here when it rains, and I love rain.  Love walking in it.. (I swear I am going to have a hooded cloak some day... they need to come back in style).  Love listening to it.  But it does put a damper on the sports and other outdoor activities that permeate this camp.

So, tonight... I am going to go lie down in bed, and read... and listen to the rain.  Listen to it pattering on the cabin roof.  And sleep, knowing that, at long last... camp has begun.

 

What's that you say?  Why the earplugs in the title?   100+ young men and a bunch of twenty-something male counselors, in a dining hall, with a full repertoire of camp songs, chants, conga lines, feet stomping, and table banging to draw from.... and the vim and vigor of youth begets volume.... and lots of it.

Greatness.

 

You were there, now you are here; the Old Blood sings!

Tonight, at camp, the evening activities highlighted both where we have been and where we are now.  The evening meal had a theme-- counselors, staff and associated families were grouped by the state/country from whence they hail, and were requested to dress up in clothes indicative of said region, and/or make a skit or presentation touting such areas, sometimes at the gentle expense of the rival regions or countries.  (The Ohio vs. Michigan one was particularly good)

Since the camp photographer is now here with us, there is a good degree of possibility that a certain Texan was photographed while wearing an entirely-too-small red cowgirl hat, a la Jessie from "Toy Story".  I shall have to hack his files and make sure those do not see the light of day....

Other than showing once again that we have almost as many Brits here at this camp as we do Yanks, it was fun to see the various groups showing their colors, or their native duds, or the completely-made-up-citizenship approach (I'm talking to you, Mr. Holcomb from Sveeden).  Once again, the Brits shone with a proliferation of Union Jacks, football kits, and a sign held by the lead person asking for an "orderly queue" to be formed.

After the meal, we moved to the campfire grounds, and the night transitioned.   It was no longer about where we came from... this is about where we are.  Right now.   For these two months.

For me, as I am sure it is for many others, the true start of camp begins with this first campfire.   Allow me to set the stage for you:

[caption id="attachment_318" align="alignleft" width="300"] Sunset gleaming on the Saco River[/caption]

This view is the heart and soul of Indian Acres.

[caption id="attachment_320" align="alignright" width="300"] A little fire, friends, family, and fun....[/caption]

As the giant bonfire is lit, we see many of the usual suspects wander out to regale their wares of stories, songs, and presentations:   the SNL-inspired IA Update, wonderful music by our many talented musicians, testimonies and silly skits.  We even learned how to say "I love camp" in Hungarian.

And, in what I am pretty sure is a first for campfire, even over all these years... there was a power paraglider who flew right down the Saco, just a few feet over the surface of the water, his engine overpowering the first musical act.  I was too slow to pull the phone out to record it for posterity, alas.

At times, several folks talked about the long history of this little place, as we sat on the (literal) roots of the pine trees and the (figurative) roots of the many people who have sat here before.    References such as these can often be trite, unless they are really true.  And I swear you can sit here and feel the old blood of this camp flowing through this little glen where we light a bonfire, sing songs, and make gentle fun of ourselves and each other.

[caption id="attachment_319" align="aligncenter" width="300"] One the many talented permutations of musicians here. The man on the left is a remarkable Liverpudlian... I don't think they've invented the instrument he can't play....[/caption]

In the "Wheel of Time" series of fantasy novels by Robert Jordan (and Brandon Sanderson), one of the highest honors that can be granted to someone is for another person to proclaim "Tai'shar" followed by the region they come from... in the made-up language of the books, it means "True Blood"... a character will say this when someone has fought valiantly or shown great honor or respect to duty.   Anyone who has read these books would recognize the term instantly.   It is based on the idea that the truest blood of the old blood runs strong in this individual.

The old blood sings in this place, and in these people.   Many of them are IA/FA, blood and soul.

Tai'shar Indian Acres!   Tai'shar Forest Acres!

Goodnight.... and safely rest.

Mama, I'm home... (kinda sorta)

At a little after 3:00 pm EDT, the Welch family came home from a 5-day car trip.  Yes, we came home...to our summer home.  It might sound a tad high-falutin' to say "the Welch family summers in Maine".... but that's exactly what we do.   And, 3 years in, this is a tradition that has started to settle into our blood.  When I saw these today....

[caption id="attachment_315" align="alignleft" width="300"] I-A... I-A... I-N-D-I-A-N-A-C-R-E-S.... Indian Acres!!! Indian Acres!!![/caption]

I felt like I was at home.

Because I was.

 

And the feeling only got stronger as the first afternoon progressed.   From the random greetings until the meet-n-greet event just prior to the first dinner, and then dinner itself, the re-connecting with friends seen (usually) exclusively during the summer only furthered the sense of return.

I'm home for the summer, folks.  And there's a whole bunch of friends and family to share it with.

 

3 years ago, I blogged about camp here in Maine.   This year, I've decided to take another run at it.  Hopefully I'll come up with enough new material to make it interesting to the 1.5 people who actually read my ramblings.   One thing is already divergent--this time, we reside at the boy's camp, so the experience is a bit different.   Rampant testosterone has a way of altering any experience, methinks.

I'm excited to be back, and excited to be logging my thoughts and memories here again.  As I sit at my work desk, with only a small fan in the window to blow the cool Maine night in my face, slapping the occasional skeeter away from feasting on my blood, and listening to the utter quiet of the campground (before the campers actually get here, mind you)... I know, deep, deep down....

I'm home.  Gonna be a great 2 months.  Let it begin.

The joy of the music recital (no, seriously!)

Yesterday, I had the occasion to attend a "Coffeehouse Concert" at the music conservatory where one of my sons is learning to play the drums. This is a highly elegant name for what is, in effect, a mini-recital in the middle of the season.

Signing up for this coffeehouse has been very good for my son... his desire for playing the drums, and subsequent practice habits, had flagged somewhat of late, and the goal of getting prepared for the gig has spurred him back into it with a gusto.

But it's still a recital. And those things carry some bad juju in the parenting world... the jokes abound about the suffering and misery of the recital (except, of course, for when your own little darling is up...)

And yes, I concede that some of the performances have all the surface appeal of listening to Wolverine walking through a chalkboard store.   And it is patently obvious that a certain percentage of the young folks seem to be participating solely because someone is forcing them to...

But then.   But then, there are those.  Those young people whose faces radiate their feelings as they play their favorite instruments.  Effused with a true love of music, they brave their performance anxiety in order to learn the crucial element of being able to ply this craft in front of an audience.  It is easy to pick out the ones who are still taking these lessons because they love music and they love to make music.

And I realized yesterday that there are few things as powerful as watching a young boy or girl, a young man or woman, play a musical instrument with joy and happiness, realizing that you are seeing the next link in a chain of musical legacy that stretches back over the centuries of human existence.  Whether it's drums played to the Clash, acoustical guitar covers of The Police, or piano versions of Greensleeves and Ode to Joy, music is a gift from God, and it is truly a blessing to see young people who are infected with a love of it, and a love of the very difficult craft of playing it and carrying on that tremendous tradition.

So, the next time you have to "suffer" through a recital, listen for those nuggets.... revel in those young men and women who are so obviously reveling in their music.   And count yourself lucky to be part of the great symphony/oratorio/opera/gig that is Life.

A truly Super Sunday...

One of my most beloved friends lives in Arlington with his wife (also a long-time friend) and their three lovely daughters.  This man, along with his brother, have one of the best relationships with their parents that I have ever seen, especially with their father.  Although I am sure there were some teenage growing pains, since that family is comprised of human beings, these men have a tight-knit bond with their Dad and their lovely Mom.  I have told the patriarch of this family (who I leave unnamed out of respect for their privacy... this isn't their blog) that one of my life goals is to have a relationship with my sons like he has with these two fine, God-fearing men.   As far as I'm concerned, Mr. X is a benchmark for a father.

So.... how in the world does that apply to a Super Sunday?

Yesterday morning, I had the immense privilege of baptizing my youngest two sons.  Our church allows someone undergoing this solemn ordinance to choose who shall dunk them, and I served in that role for Logan and Ryan.   It was a very special start to this Sunday, and from what I have gathered from my friends in the audience, I wasn't the only one deeply moved by it.

And yet, the event itself is not the connection to Mr. X.  That occurred several days prior, when Allison needed to tell the minister who would be performing the baptisms.  She asked my boys, and they declared, without hesitation, that they wished to be baptized by their Dad.  That simple action warmed my heart almost more than the actual event, and is what made me think of Mr. X and his sons.

There is a lot of time to be played yet... I'm still in the first quarter of this Fatherhood Football Game, and there is still much work to do in order to emulate the baseline of Mr. X.  That said, this little vignette from our family life this week made me feel that I'm on the right track.  I am blessed to have close, wonderful relationships with all four of my sons, and I would not trade that for any currency, of any form, in all the world.   I love my sons.

Mr. X:  thank you for the great example.

The Armchair Economist, Purple Car Syndrome, and the new LEI that isn't quite so Nobel

Lately, as I've been driving around the metroplex, I've begun to notice that there are a lot of businesses that have malfunctioning signs, where some of the letters or a portion of the sign is not lit.  Not a big deal, except that many of them are not getting fixed on a timely basis.  For example, the Spring Creek BBQ on Preston Road in Frisco has been "reek BBQ" for awhile.  

I love "Spring Creek BBQ".... not quite so sure about "reek BBQ"....

After noticing that one months ago, I've begun to notice what seems like a LOT of this.  Now, this might be what I call "Purple Car Syndrome":  once you notice a purple car, you tend to start noticing all the purple cars, which makes you think there is a trend toward purple cars.  Observational data-gathering while just driving around is not necessarily empirical nor impartial.   But the number and/or percentage of malfunctioning signs isn't what intrigues me... it's that they are not getting fixed.  And that I can confirm from memory as I keep seeing the same ones over and over.

If I were a business owner, I would think this is something one would want to fix fairly soon.  Your name is your brand, and it's out there in glorious neon for all to see.   And that leads to my new LEI (Leading Economic Indicator).. alert the media and those folks in D.C. take note here....

(Full disclosure:  I have **no** chops as an economist.  Despite all the things I have learned in life, the interests I have, and the subjects I've studied, I've never put any cycles into economics.  Which is pretty funny since that field is often tied closely to mathematics.  Most people don't realize there is no Nobel prize in math... so if a mathematician ever hopes to get a Nobel, it will be in economics.  As for me?  The sum total of my knowledge in economics comes from the bartering systems of various role-playing video games I enjoy.   "I got meat.  You want wheat?")

And so, the new LEI that isn't quite so Nobel:   I can't help but wonder if... the preponderance of half-lit signs I'm seeing isn't indicative of what ails our economy at the present moment.   Things aren't horrible, but they aren't great either.. and maybe the business owners are having to really watch the coin.   In situations such as that, it might just be the case they don't feel they can put some funds in the "fix the sign" bucket.   Sort of like us, our house and the fence.  I would love to completely replace our fence for aesthetic's sake, but given the size of our yard and the cost of doing so, it's something that must be saved for and designated for the future.

But... I'm not trying to attract folks to my house with my fence.   These businesses depend on their signage to catch the consumer's eye, and right now many of them are doing so for the wrong, yet often hilarious, reasons.  And the armchair economist in me can't help but wonder if that's not significant.

P versus NP on the way to FBC

Our place of worship, Frisco Bible Church, is about an 11-minute drive from our home; on this morning all three of my boys were riding with me in my vehicle, and I had one of the most eclectic 10 minute conversations I could have possibly imagined.

It started innocuously enough:  Matthew piped up and mentioned how much he is into puzzles right now, and he mentioned that he has figured out most of mathematics is like a puzzle to solve.  Which it is. (My degree was in mathematics, which has served us well as we homeschool our boys).   I then told them about one of my favorite stories from math, about how Gauss developed the formula for summing a sequence of consecutive positive integers.

If you don't know the story, Gauss was, like most geniuses, not doing very well in primary school, and was assigned by the master to add up all the numbers from 1 to 100 as a form of punishment.  (It is the mathematical equivalent of writing lines, and it should take a good while to complete when done manually).  The young Gauss, however, solved it as a puzzle and returned with the correct answer in a matter of minutes.  And his formula is still used today... 

After that little foray into math history, the conversation then turned to the great unsolved conjecture from computational theory, P versus NP.  Yes, it really did.  Just a few days before, I had been watching an episode of "Numb3rs" with my boys, and the mathematician in the series, Charlie, had retreated to his garage during a time of emotional duress and worked on the PvNP problem as a way of holding his emotions at bay.

And so now, Matthew wanted to know what it was all about.  Talk about opening a can of worms:  I only have a B.S. in Math, and I'm not Charlie Epps... or Gauss.

So, with only my basic understanding of what the PvNP problem even entails, I endeavored to explain it to my sons. (In a nutshell, the idea is to prove that if a computer can be used to verify a solution to problem, then the computer ought to be able to be programmed to find a solution as well;  if this thing is ever proven {you can win $1,000,000 if you do}, it will have a huge impact on the computer sciences).

Obviously, this wasn't making sense to them (did it make sense to you?), so I struggled to find an analogy that would help them understand the difficulty often faced when creating algorithms that can be used in computer programming to solve problems.  Even the simplest things that humans can do without much effort or thought (such as sorting items) require an algorithm and multiple lines of code... all to teach the computer how to do these things, so the computer can do them very, very fast.

Then I remembered an old motivational demonstration I had heard about, designed to teach people about improving their communication techniques:  making a PB&J sandwich.  I told them I had a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter and a jar of jelly, and a knife.  I asked them to tell me how to make a PB&J sandwich.  (Most people will immediately start with 'put the peanut butter on the bread', so you put the jar of PB on top of the loaf of bread.... you get the idea).  The creation of the 'algorithm' is the outlining of the very specific steps to get the 'computer' to properly assemble the sandwich.

Since, in this instance, my audience is made up of pre-teen and teenage boys, moments of hilarity ensued and filled out the remainder of our drive.  "I'm spreading the jelly all over the plastic bag of the bread loaf!"

It was a very packed and interesting 10 minutes.

So......

 

What's the point of this otherwise-incredibly-nerdy-post-that-will-bewilder-most-folks?

Far too often, when my sons try to engage me in conversation, I do not give it the effort I really should.  You know what I mean, the 'uh huh' syndrome... or the 'I haven't got time to get into that right now', or 'Dad would like a few minutes of no questions'.   Guilty on all counts, plenty of times.  Especially since I tend toward the curmudgeonly, a card-carrying G.O.B.

This morning, for some reason, I didn't.  And it was a wonderful time... and will be a lasting, precious memory for me.

Every now and then, really listen to your kid's questions, no matter what your mood or the situation.  Whether it's unsolvable math problems, sports, the dating habits of their favorite musician, or the intricacies of Spongebob.   They asked, so it's something that interests them.  Discuss it with them and they will feel special.

And you might find out that you do too.....