Rupert is my kitty.

Monday: I bring a nearly dead cat to the door from the garage into the house. I lie her on the garage floor, not knowing if she has an awful disease, is starving, etc etc etc. I call the vet clinic. Jay wonders what's going on. We explain that "daddy found a kitty and she's very sick. Daddy is going to take her to the hospital." No, she's not ours. 
She was silent for the last half of the drive. I thought she was dead on arrival. No, she howled in pain when I touched her.

Tuesday: Took Jay to daycare; he's asking questions. No, honey, she's not ours. I don't know where she came from. She was very sick. "She's at the hosdibble?" Yes, she is at the hospital.
Canvas the neighborhood looking for owner, not knowing if she is alive (vets don't answer the phone until 8:45). 
Hanging out the Whitehall farmers' market, my friend Ray sez "when did she show up?" Friday. "The 31st." Yup. "She got dumped."
I have to agree.
Called the vet in the evening, she's eating up a storm. Pondering the dumping of a young cat with a $50 collar...

Wednesday: Stop at the vet's for an update. She's doing fine. They thank me for trying to find the owner. Jay is happy to visit the hosdibble and thank them for taking care of the sick kitty. I ask him if he would like to have her. He said, "She's not ours." Would you like her to be? "Rupert is my kitty."
We went on to tumbling class. Later that evening, talked to Dr. Kissack. Talked to Laura.
Talked to Jay. "She's not ours." Would you like her to be ours? He nods tentatively.

Thursday: we take Rupert in for his vaccines. Jay is introducing everyone, human and canine, to HIS cat Rupert. He also helped to carry in the extra carrier for the sick kitty. "Is she ours?" She will be. Is that okay? "Rupert still my kitty?" Yes, always. 
"Okay."

The past two nights, at bedtime story hour, Hallie has come into Jay's room to join us. 

"Is she our kitty?"
She is now.

She likes her new people, and is at home in Jay's space. Maybe it's that just-changed-diaper smell, maybe it's the best collection of blankets in the house, but she and Jay are slowly finding their way to each other. He knows to be gentle because she is still very weak, and she is okay with his excess volume and flailing arms and legs.
He still asserts that Rupert is his kitty, but Hallie no longer poses a threat. He gets excited when she ventures out, and it's fun to watch his eyes follow her. His brain gets very busy when she is out.

Ever changing.

On the day of the fourth anniversary of my marriage to Laura, many things are running through my mind. 

In the year following our wedding, I finished my college degree (lovingly known as the 33 1/3 plan, referencing the number of years it took from start to commencement), we sold our house in Massachusetts, bought a house in NY, I moved our entire household and orchestrated the move of our horses, Laura got pregnant, I opened a gallery and we went to Portugal for a last "just us" hurrah.

The gallery is now closed, and prints from the equine photo workshop in Portugal are piled in my basement but also displayed on four continents. The degree languishes, but the knowledge helps me every day in raising my son and striving to be a good father and husband. 

The horses moved home after boarding for a year, as I fenced in a few acres and brought in a run-in shed to shelter them. New water and electricity lines make their home easier for us to manage. The garden has tripled in size. I am now known to the state of New York as Farmer Number 1909, accepting WIC and Senior Nutrition checks (as well as cash, thank you) at three to four farmers' markets every week. I haven't ridden my horse in a couple of years, but he is still dear to me and as honest and sweet as ever. And, he and his pasture mate sure can make compost. They are a part of my spirit, they nurture my inner nurturer, and you can't beat the soil in our gardens.

And, the "baby". He's just shy of three years old now, and last night he joined in a bluegrass jam when a young woman offered him a washboard to strum along with the music. If we're foolish enough to leave the TV on during dinner, he is likely to jump out of his chair to dance to a theme song. Every week we go to "concerts"- music events where he can dance and play and clap, and flirt. People marvel at his willingness to entertain. As the saying goes, to Jay "there are no strangers, just friends he hasn't met yet."

Our marriage has not been easy. My wife's job is very stressful, and we are raising a child as members of slightly differing generational viewpoints. Sometimes I think our biggest connection is that we both frequently feel socially awkward, but are pretty comfortable with each other's energy and boundaries. That's not always easy to find, no matter how passionate and loving two people may feel. We continue to approach some sort of breaking point, cool off, and try to "re-set". It's work, wearying and wondering work, and yet it somehow does work.

And, my parents are very much on my mind. Their 58th anniversary approaches. I know they have had their share of work with each other. At the moment, my two concerns are for my mother's ailing heart and for my father's declining body and spirit. We had planned to visit in January, but I'm feeling an urgency to go soon. 

So many forks in this road, all of them requiring paring and pruning, and not always with a clear view of the road ahead. Faith keeps the feet moving forward- faith in my resourcefulness, faith in my family, faith in the power of love to overcome the power of sorrow and anger.

Ever forward, the only sin is sitting still and waiting to die. My 95-year-old neighbor fires up her wood chipper and mulches the rakings from her flower beds about once a week. Friends older than I am continue to strive for knowledge and growth. 

The lexicon of my new farming vocation says that I am a "grower". I like that title. I plan to keep it, even when I can no longer kneel in the garden.

Washboard duet

Bluegrass music is literally in Jay's blood. I can tell you that his grandmother, my mother, was born in the hills of eastern Kentucky, and that we had many an evening of mountain music when we visited early in my life. But all you really need to do is watch him when the music starts.

We have been feeding this interest for some time now, with visits to the Adirondack Fiddlers, and to various fairs and events nearby. There are regular and spontaneous hoedown throw-downs all around us- at the farmers' markets, art events, festivals, bluegrass is alive and well right here in and around the Green and Adirondack Mountains. Since we are positioned smack between the two ranges, we get it all.

This summer we have discovered Little Theater on the Farm in nearby Fort Edward. It's exactly what the name says, a little theater on a farm. The stage and a seating area are in the back of an old dairy barn. They hold regular bluegrass jams, as well as gospel jams that are thinly veiled bluegrass jams with maybe an extra nod to the spiritual roots of the music.

A few weeks ago we had our large animal vet, Lauren Marsh, out to help me with some infected scratches on my horse's legs. As we worked, we chatted about the area and the culture. Lauren asked if we knew about "Pickin' in Pawlet." I said no, but we were happy for the tip.

Tonight we went to our second Pickin' in Pawlet, in the Tavern of The Barn Restaurant. Yes, I took my 2-year-old to a bar to dance and chase women. Okay, well, I took him to eat and dance. The other part he did on his own. And hell, he's almost three, right?

He is becoming a big hit among the locals. and tonight he joined the jam. A beautiful young woman who regularly sings with the musicians, also sits by the stage and strums a washboard when she is not singing. She loves Jay, and gets up to dance with him when he hits the floor. Tonight she got out a second washboard, and invited him to play along. He was in seventh heaven. He studied her closely (technique is very important- must get it right!). Soon he was strumming along with the band in between the local ladies' frequent dance requests.

It's a beautiful thing to watch, spontaneous and fun, as a jam should be. He already "gets" the spirit, and why not? It runs through his veins, it makes his very heart beat. It is his lifeblood.

Native Pickle.

I threw down a big fifty cents on an old-school metal Spiderman lunchbox for Jay at a 

garage sale last weekend.

It is now his most important possession.

And, now, most things are food.

Laura has been going through boxes of her childhood toys. Among them is a canoe 

with two Indian chiefs, in full head dress and regalia, paddling along. The canoe is 

dark green and mottled. I explained what is was to Jay, and said "Can you say 

'canoe'?"

"It's a pickle", he said, and slammed it into his lunchbox next to an apple.

End of discussion.

Too soon.

I have been reading many Facebook posts about mothers this week. A dear friend, Denise Gainey, has been writing and sharing her final months with her own mother, who passed a few days ago. The writing has been beautiful, painful, and inspiring. As with many, it has triggered many thoughts about my own mother. Here are a few:

Many of the posts I have read begin with some form of this statement: my mother was taken too soon. I believe every one of them. I know that I am one of the lucky ones; my mother is still here.

When Laura and I visited my parents about five years ago, mom had just had two of her coronary arteries re-opened using stents. The new flow of blood through her body reinvigorated her, and she felt more energized than she had in years. Neither of her own parents lasted very long. Her father died of heart failure at age 49, and her mother died of cancer shortly before her 51st birthday. During this particular visit mom told me, "I never expected to live to be 70 years old. Every day I have from here on out is a gift."

And what a gift it has been. Too many of my friends do not have the gift I have, two living parents at my ripe age of 55.

Her many gifts to us go WAY back, but let's just look at what she has done in retirement. 

• I was able to pull out one of the many exhaustively researched books she made for us on our family history and look up the ages of my grandparents. These resources are so very rich to me, and will be a wonderful thing to hand to Jay. 
• Our house is filled with beautiful quilts, all entirely of my mother's own, aged hands. Every one of them is a splash of love to me. When any of my four siblings posts a picture on Facebook that was taken in their home, I almost always see a "Gramma Gerri" quilt somewhere in the frame. She will warm us forever and a day.
• In addition to her prolific quilting for us, she made "lap quilts" which are about four feet by six feet, perfect for a couch or single bed. In one single year, mom made over fifty (yes, about one per week), and donated them to a shelter for women and children escaping domestic violence.

During the summer that Laura was pregnant with Jay, mom went into the hospital to have a hiatal hernia repaired. There were severe complications after her surgery, and another surgery soon followed to remove her gall bladder. I talked to my dad nearly every day for a while, and we helped each other through the ordeal. I passed along messages to the sibs, but mostly dad and I connected over our concerns for mom and also for him and his stress and health. We agreed that Jay's impending arrival went a long way to giving mom the energy to fight and stay with us.

Mom turned 77 in May, and seems to still be going strong. I still need her, and we still love knowing that we can call at any time to give important messages and updates. Not the least of those includes Jay getting the first words of the phone call:

"I WENT PEE-PEE IN THE POTTY!!!!!!!"

I know they were extra happy to get that phone call.

They won't be here forever. I know this. But, they HAVE been here long enough to get me started on this parenting journey. Any time I get with them will make me a better parent. When I lose them, no matter their age or mine, it will be too soon.

Crazy bouncy rolly

It's been a crazy, bouncy, rolly couple of weeks. 

It began with preparation for the Bedlam Farm Open House cookout, then the open house. We left that Sunday for a whirlwind trip to Long Island for Jay's great-grandfather's 90th birthday, capped off with Jay's intro to the ocean at Robert Moses beach. 

The day after we got home from that, Laura left for a four-day work trip to Pennsylvania. She got home around 11:30 am Friday, and by 12:30 I was on the road for a three-day horse show in Massachusetts. 

I got home Sunday night, and spent Monday sorting and editing over 5000 pix from the show before getting dragged away for a steak-and-beer birthday dinner. 

A full day with Jay yesterday included a trip to Emerald Lake beach in Vermont, then more editing while he napped. Strong storms last night coupled with exhaustion meant no progress on uploading photos, but Jay and I got in some good hill-rolling before the rain and thunder hit. And, just for good measure he was UP, for good, at 3:00 this morning. We discussed the value of sleep and the likelihood of dinosaurs visiting (THEY like to sleep at night too!). 

Finally, 7:15 rolled around and it was time to ship him to daycare for the day. I came home and uploaded the 3286 images that survived the cut, watered the garden (just in time for another storm), and...

NOW.

An hour before I go to pick him up. A bit of ME time. I'm afraid to get too cozy. I will sleep MUCH longer than one hour if I sack out.

As if on cue, this year's fawns introduced themselves just now. Two does have given birth in our woods every year since we moved in. This is our fourth summer here. I was hoping the moms and fetuses made it through the really tough winter, and expected the worst. We generally see them before this, and I thought no way, no babies this year. Then, craning my neck and shoulders to stay awake, I saw this forty feet from my back window:

And soon there was another. I fumbled around to get me camera set up (still in the garage in the car with the wrong lens for this), and as luck would have it, the kids were feeling brave.

They bounced around my back yard, checked out the horses, and eventually answered a call from one of the mothers to get back home.

Better than a nap, any day. 

Project 199

It's been an intense week. 

I posted earlier in the week about meeting some incredible older men, with amazing stories and histories. I find that if one really wants to understand the history of the early to mid-20th century, the thing to do is find people who lived it and talk to them.

My wife Laura's maternal grandmother was born in Providence, Rhode Island in 1918, at the height of the flu pandemic. Her father later told her that she was put in the corner to make it or not make it; he could get another daughter but not another wife. She said she'd been fighting ever since, and everything I ever saw from her confirmed that. Her father was a physician in Providence, and saw patients in the front part of their house. People paid when they could, with whatever they could, and that became especially so in the 1930's during the Great Depression.

The stories go on and on. While working for Outward Bound, I took a group of semester course students into Leadville, Colorado, to do some service work. We met an 80-year-old mining widow. Her husband had passed away decades before from health issues related to silver mining, and the resultant lead in the water that gave the town its name. She remained here, in the highest town in North America, to live out her years, and told of the earlier days raising her family there.

But, I digress (I sometimes think that should be the name of this blog).

Meeting the men, listening to the elders like a wondrous child, was a high point for certain, but a couple of other things happened this week that I think will have a more lasting and profound impact on me.

One of those older men, Dominic, is Jay's great-great uncle. He is 92, and the brother of great-grampa Pat. During the course of the evening at the restaurant, I met a tall, physically imposing woman who had served in the Marine Corps. In the course of the conversation she said that she was about to turn 40, and that Dominic was her father.

THAT caught my ear.

I asked her more about that. We did the quick math, and sure enough the age difference between her and her father was almost precisely the difference between me and Jay, 52-plus years.  I asked her about her experience.

She loved it. "It was great. He had time to be home for me, he was always there. He was young at heart, and we had so much fun together." And now, about to turn forty years old, she still had him.

One of my concerns is leaving Jay too early. I wonder about my ability to stay alive, to stay healthy, and vibrant, and at what point caring for me might be a burden on a young man. This meeting gave me hope, and a kick in the ass to get healthier. It can happen. 

On the other side of hope is fear. I choose not to live in fear; I have seen it consume people. It's generally about as useful as Worry, which is the expression of fear in a slow burn, consuming fuel and life from people who should have other, productive things to do.

A close, dear friend is spending the weekend in the hospital, awaiting heart surgery. He's a few years older than I am, but like him I am overweight and have diabetes. My blood pressure runs a bit too high. I could be in a bed like that soon unless I change the course of my life.

Last night, at 11:00 pm, I should have been asleep but all I wanted to do was relive my early morning. Jay awoke at 5:10 am, and we set about putting together his shiny new train table. By 6:45 he was gushing over his new furniture- "OH, WOW!!!!", followed by "THANK YOU DADDY!!!". By 6:50 he was in my lap, lowering my blood pressure and removing the angst over "bolt B".

It's time for me to get it together. I am morbidly obese (don't waste your fingers typing a response that I'm not; the math is what it is. Denial is what has kept me here too long). An "ideal" weight for my height is probably about 60 pounds under where I am right now. THAT sounds intimidating, but let's start with a number that sounds within reach. Project 199 will being Tuesday, July 1st. That will involve dropping about 20 or so pounds. Then we'll go from there. I expect momentum to carry me beyond, but first things first. 199 is in my gunsight.

Monday is my birthday. I will enjoy cake and ice cream. Tuesday I will weigh in, and we'll get this party started. I have seen where I want to be and where I don't want to be this week, as clearly and honestly as it could have possibly been laid out for me.

Let's do this.

The Train Table and Bolt B.

Laura has been out of town for work, so Jay and I hung out together all week. Last night we visited Laura's father, aka Grampa Fred, for dinner. We had a great time, and as we got ready to leae Fred brought out a large box with an amazing train table, including track and toys. We had to rearrange Jay's car seat, the passenger front seat, and with a good bit of twisting and grunting, we got it into the Civic.

Of course when we got home, already past Jay's bedtime, the box HAD to get opened. I managed to appease him with some of the track and a couple of shiny wooden buildings, and eventually got him into bed.

One downside to these wonderful early summer days is that up here in the north country, the sun is up EARLY. At 5:10 this morning, we were up. By 5:15, the box was open and construction was underway. Let me justify this by saying that I would be leaving mid-day for a weekend-long horse show four hours away in Massachusetts, and I knew how torturous the weekend would be for Jay (and his mother) if the train table box lay in taunting mode the whole weekend. I had no idea how the table would get assembled until our early wake-up; now I had two unplanned (and yes, unwanted) hours to kill.

Okay, so by the time the table was together and I was choking down expletives with my coffee and the directions to the spiral track accessory, Jay was in full gratitude mode. "Thank you Daddy!" poured, gushed, repeatedly from his mouth with such sincerity and astonishment that it was hard not to keep pushing on. At one critical moment, trying to cram bolt B into tower 4 and the wooden block with the too-small hole, he crowded onto my lap. "I want to sit with you." He had a brand new dream toy six feet away, and he wanted to be with me. RIGHT NOW.

As for my frustration with bolt B, which any idiot knows should have been a screw, not a bolt, and could have at least been the right size and maybe easier to handle by thickened, aging, arthritic fingers, well, fuck. Fuck bolt B and the fucking block and fucking tower 4; they'll wait.

I picked Jay up, slid my chair back from the table, and plopped him into my lap. The hugfest lasted about 34 seconds, and was summarily terminated when Jay put one hand on each side of my face. He smashed my cheeks together, forcing my lips to pucker. He laid a huge, WET, seriously I'm drowning here, kiss on me. He grabbed tower 4 and took off for the table. Fuck.

Okay, so I really don't talk like that, but my inner dialogue was seriously close to the surface early this morning. Fatigue, a few days of single-parenting, and 16 bouts with bolt B's had worn down my resistance.

Who knew that a face-smashing/ near-drowning at the hands of a two-year-old could heal so thoroughly?

The counsel of elders

Saturday night, we took Jay to the Hartford Volunteer Firehouse for a benefit concert featuring a band called The Tennessee Mafia Jug Band. It was bluegrass and country music at its true finest (there is PLENTY of not-so-fine country music out there, but this would have made Patsy and Hank Sr. proud). The fiddle player was fast and silky smooth, maybe the best I have seen in person. Banjos, stand-up bass, slide guitar, mandolin, washboard, and yes, a moonshine jug. It's my music, in my blood, as my mom grew up in eastern Kentucky coal country. We are Scottish-Irish, the very roots of mountain music hold us together. And, ya gotta love a band that closes out the night with a parody of a western classic, "Ghost Chickens in the Sky."

It's Jay's music too. He loves anything with a beat (Jewish reggae or rap a la Beastie Boys or Matisyahu make him snap), but mountain music moves his whole body from the inside out. It's a joy to watch. I can't wait until he's old enough for a trip to Ireland.

However, I think the best part of the night came when my friend Stephen and I were sitting together at a cafeteria table, listening and nodding to the music. Our wives were outside with the boys, Jay and his friend Rowan. Stephen saw someone he knew, nodded, and shouted "How are ya?" over the music.

I looked up. A man, maybe in his 80's (?), with a very broken body, weathered face, and incredibly engaging smile, nodded back. He wore work pants and a blue work shirt with two patches- "CRS ( don't remember the exact initials?) Dairy Systems" on the left, and "Phillip" on the right.

They chatted for a second until they remembered where they had met, and settled into a discussion of just about anything imaginable. Phillip had worked in the dairy industry his whole life, and his body showed the wear. His mind was sharp beyond what I could ever hope for myself. It was fascinating to listen to his stories, to enjoy his company, to marvel at his ingenuity.

Not one single part of this man was waiting to die. He had several irons in the fire, and plans to expand a couple of business enterprises. A written transcript of the conversation might lead one to believe that the speaker was in his thirties, established but still building. I was enthralled.

The next evening I found myself on Long Island with Laura and Jay. We introduced Jay to his great grandfather Pat for the first time, on the celebration of his 90th birthday. Somehow I ended up with the honor of sitting next to Pat and his "younger" brother, who was in his mid-80's. A few seats away was a third brother, the big brother, 92 years young. The brothers and their friends shared stories from World War II, from their early days in Long Island City, about their father who died young, and their mother who raised the youngest while the older three left to fight the war in Europe and Africa.

I was transformed more than once this weekend to a child, sitting at the feet of the elders, taking guidance in their counsel. Their stories were so much more than reminiscence; they were about the power of family, about never slowing down even while looking back. They were history.

There is a history in our world, and more of it dies off every day. It lives while, and where, our elders live. It inspires us when it is drawn from them into our lives. It is our duty to call it out, to ask the questions, to carry it forward. To Phillip, to Grampa Pat and your brothers, to my parents, you still matter so very much. Your stories guide us, your history has molded us and built a world for us.

Talk to me. I want to hear more.

I need to hear more.

My head fell off.

I awoke this morning (it was indeed morning- 4:27, to be exact) to my wife's poking fingers jabbing my kneecap. This was a new one, I thought; she must be really tired if she can't move her hands to pound my shoulders.

She muttered something about Jay and an ow-ee, then said, "It's too early. WAY too early." I wasn't sure what to make of any of that, but Jay was fussing and maybe crying. I got up and used the bathroom -once I get into his room, there is no telling how long it will be before I can get back out. And, who among us gets up at 4:30 and doesn't need to go? I mean, really. I used the bathroom right outside his door, and I expected him to hear me and start calling for me. Daaaaaaaaaaaddeeeee...

To my amazement, the fussing stopped almost instantly. Was he up and waiting for me? No, his fussing stayed stopped, and his room remained silent. Almost too silent. Almost.

I expected to hear from him soon, so I walked into the living room and half-dozed in the rocking chair. As much as I tried to sleep, my mind kept wanting to process the sudden stop of his pleadings, and Laura's half-asleep comment about an ow-ee. Was he okay? I knew he was, my intuition told me so, uncommon things happen uncommonly. And my mind kept replaying a story I had heard a few years back about a couple whose son died overnight of something mysterious. No explanation was ever found. 

I'm good enough at recognizing irrational fears that I can work my way through them, for the most part. My years in mountaineering helped me to develop a cool and objective approach to most things. That life experience is part of why I stayed in the rocker. That, and the mileage those experiences put upon my body. I was pooped, he was very likely just fine, and the father in me wrestled with the risk-managing climber for nearly two hours. The sun was rising, dawn was breaking, even at 4:30 am this time of the year, so to go into his room would mean he would be up and the day would start for everyone in the house.

At nearly 6:30 he woke up, and I went in to greet him. He smiled. "Hi Daddy!" It's the best way to start a day, period.

Then he reached for the back of his head and gave a bit of a grimace. 

"Daddy, my head fell off."

Ummmmm, okay, you have my complete attention.You already did, but now I'd LOVE to hear more.
"Your head fell off?"

"Yeah, Daddy, my head fell off."

Did it hurt?

"YEAH!" 

How did you do it?

"I don't know!"

I'm sure glad you got it back on! That would be quite a mess! Are you okay now?

"Yeah Daddy!"

"My eyes are burning!!!!!"

Wow, this little dude is off to a rough start. The sun had peaked over the horizon and was now streaming into this room. I shielded him from the sun with my body, and moved him over to the changing table.

Let's change your diaper and go say hi to mom. 

"Okay! Yeah!"

We got dressed and went out to greet the day.

He screeched like a scorched vampire as we entered the main living area of the house. We doused hid pain with a cup of cold milk and some hugs. Laura held him, and he reached for the back of his head again. "OUCH Mommy!"

She looked, and found a good-sized knot at the base of his skull along with a slightly bloody scab. Damn.  

His head really DID fall off. Or at least, it probably felt like it.

It's likely that he woke up, tried to stand up while he was still groggy, and fell back and hit his head. I slept through all of that, since my deaf right ear was up and the good ear was happily buried in a soft pillow.

Laura cleaned him up, and we looked him over to make sure he had no signs of trouble- walking straight, talking well, giving us shit for bad parenting:

Check, check, and double check.

As the day went on, Laura and Jay went about play dates and their own happy social calendar while I finished up the second day leading an equine photography workshop. 

That evening we had dinner, gave Jay a bath, and stayed up a bit after dressing him in his jammies for bed. He was busy enjoying some of his new toys from the town-wide yard sale on Saturday. After a bit he looked up and said, 

"My toes fell off."

Indeed his toes had fallen off. Or, more accurately, his feet came out of the footies in his pajamas. You know, fell off.

Neither Laura nor I rushed to reattach his toes; like this morning it's best, I think, to let him sort these things out. Having amassed many years as an experiential educator, I know that rushing in to fix fallen-off heads and toes would deaden his learning process. I'm proud that my two-and-a-half-year-old can now re-affix both his head AND his toes, when necessary. 

I'm struggling to turn off the incessant thwack-thwack-thwack of my helicopter parenting. He's got this stuff. I just need to stay out of the way.

And with that it seemed time to end a slightly anxiety-filled but perfectly-balanced day at our house. We finished as we finish every day: milk, books, music, heads and toes firmly attached (or reattached, as necessary).

Paw Patrol!!!!!

Jay got an extra-long nap yesterday, and the sun is climbing into our mornings at ever-earlier hours. So, it wasn't a too-big surprise when Jay woke up a 5am ready to start his day. I took him a glass of milk and laid down on his bedroom floor with him in an attempt to get him to sleep a while longer. 

No dice.

So, when his bouncing on my mid-section accelerated my need to get to the bathroom, well, it was over. We got up. He went into the living room and I raced for the bathroom.

He found some new toys on the coffee table, and was pretty excited. His 5-year-old friend Zachary had visited from Connecticut over the weekend, and left behind some of the toys he had outgrown. He went right to what he does best- staging disasters. Soon the train was teetering precariously at the edge of the cliff (coffee table) while TowMater drawled soothing, calming words to keep the train from panicking. TowMater delicately hooked the train and pulled it back to safety. "Ta Dahhhhh!!!"

Within seconds the train was in trouble again.This scene played out over and over. I picked up the remote control and moved the train. Silly me.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

A train at the edge of a cliff is ever so much more intriguing than one that moves by remote control.

Eventually he got over the novelty, and asked Laura to turn on the TV so he could watch Paw Patrol.

A few days ago we switched from Dish Network to DirecTV for our satellite service (we can only get satellite services out here, so those are our options). We have three months of free premium channels, so last night I watched a movie on one of them until I fell asleep. I shut off the TV and went to bed.

So, when Jay wanted Paw Patrol this morning at 6:20am, Laura turned on the TV and cable box. As luck would have it, Cinemax was earning its nickname, Skin-emax. The 47-inch screen was filled, corner-to-corner, with an unclothed couple wildly enjoying each other's company.

Jay giggled.

I stepped between him and the TV while Laura scrambled to figure out the new remote.

Jay leaned around me. "PAW PATROL!!!!!" 

Um, yeah, I guess that could be a good title for this... guy-in-uniform fantasy and all...

Instead of changing the channel to ANYTHING ELSE, Laura fumbled trying to find the selections of our recorded materials. The center of the screen was filled with text. The upper left corner still writhed in ecstasy while the upper right corner showed thumbnails of the choices. Sex on the left, Dora the Explorer on the right. Then Dinosaur Train. Now Super Why. Oh dear god, Team Umizoomi? Really? The couple rolled over, trading places.

Jay strained to see around me, Laura's thumbs worked furiously at the remote. "PAW PATROL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Finally, the screen was filled with six cute trouble-solving puppies. 

Phew. It's 6:22 am. I need a nap.

May Day.

As in distress call.

Wait- what?

It's May 1st? Oh, THAT May Day. No. But if it's May 1st, then why did I put on a heavy coat and gloves to feed the horses this morning? Oh wait. That was Laura. Why did Laura put on a ...

Never mind.

We have bigger problems.

We did everything right. We waited until Laura was far enough down the road that she wouldn't turn around if she forgot something. We picked out  Paw Patrol episode NOT entitled "Pups Save the Easter Egg Hunt", which Jay recites the lines before the characters do. We ate cereal.

Good cereal.

Still, the fog rolled in, and along with it some Bradburian circus. While I tried to delete some 6-month-old episodes of Ink Master to make room for tonight's Red Sox game, an invisible force blocked my attempts to do anything. After a bit everything froze on the screen.

Outside, the mountains disappeared. Vermont was gone. Then the ridge on the other side of Liebig Road, then our woods, then our horses...

A thick white mist moved up and over the house. I scrambled to replace the batteries in the remote. There had to be a way to turn this all off. Suddenly Jay shrieked.

The screens were black. No computer, no television. It was a two-year-old's craziest nightmare. Okay, it was this two-year-old's craziest nightmare.

I hurriedly replaced the batteries, clicked the back of the remote into place (almost breaking off the tabs that hold it in), and pointed.

I take pride in my aim, but I was shooting blanks. Nothing happened. The black maw of the 42-inch LCD screen gaped at Jay, begging him forth.

I fired again, and again. I opened the remote, and turned the batteries around so they were pointing the same way as the friggin' diagram (who has time for diagrams when something wicked this way came?). In the window, grackles and starlings danced and taunted.

I snapped the cover in place and took my best shot.

The opening screen warmed into place. Jay went from "Daddy daddy!!!!" to "Paw Patrol!"

I turned on the cable box. The only Paw Patrol episode left was the one we had been watching when the circus came to town. Nineteen other episodes: gone. Paw Patrol Easter Egg Hunt: Gone.

Wild Kratts: Gone.

Thomas the Tank Engine: gone.

Super Why, Wally Kazaam, Wonder Pets. All gone.

98% (I actually did the math) of our recordings were gone.

The circus was in town for less than five minutes, and left with our Dinosaur Train, Third and Bird, and Dora the Explorer.

Wait. Was that it?

Had they come for Dora, and all else was collateral damage? Last night, Big Red Chicken had a cake on his head. Was that a sign? Had Jay reached a magic number of re-watchings of Dora's Easter Egg Hunt?  Oh, it had to be Swiper. That nasty old fox is always trying to swipe our stuff.

We were left with four Peter Rabbits, seven Curious Georges, three Walking Deads, twenty Team Umizoomis, and one No Country For Old Men.

And NO Ink Masters.

Mission Accomplished.

Time to work on those mighty math powers. Bring it on, Team Umizoomi.

It's all fun and games until...

... someone tries to conga with their pants around their ankles.

No photos for this post.

I've had Jay at home all week. Debbie, his wonderful daycare provider, lost her sister on Easter Sunday after a long bout with cancer. We knew Connie, a little anyway, and she loved Debbie's kids. We will miss her. With some heaviness in our hearts, we set out for a big-jeff-little-jeff bonding week.

We've been doing well. Both of us have adjusted our expectations for the week. Right now Jay is taking his first real, not in-the-car-while-daddy-is-exhausting-himself-driving-then-waking-up-when-we-get-somewhere nap. It's Thursday. 

Tuesday was the hardest- he woke up, a little scared and a little damp, at four in the morning. As in, he FULLY woke up. I wasn't about to start snoring next to him when there was bouncing and singing to do. So, we never got back to sleep. He DID fall asleep at 9:45 on our way to library story hour. I carried him in, and rocked him during the story reading, as his friends and mine wandered past. I finally decided that we should go. He woke up when I tried to peel him off my chest and place him in his car seat. He screamed to go back into the library. And, he was up. Up again, and for the rest of the day. We poured him into his crib a seven that evening (he usually goes down around 8:30, if we're lucky), and he slept through the night.

Yesterday he also took only a short nap, on the way to Home Depot. When we got there he woke up, and wanted to go inside. We picked out lots of garden supplies (I found several seed packets of mystery vegetables in the bag when we got home). On the way home, I asked if he wanted to go to his friend Alex's house. We hadn't been there before, but his mom was looking for play date candidates and we were just as anxious to fill the latter part of the afternoon. We had to stop by our house along the way to check messages and grab a fruit tree order for Mandy's Spring Nursery, which was between our house and Alex's. All the way home Jay was chattering about going to Alex's house. He was also showing signs of a second straight day with a too-short nap, which is to say he was getting a bit moody and, at times, downright giddy.

I left him playing in the yard and ran inside. I checked messages and grabbed the order and check, and went back out to the van. I said, "Let's go to Alex's house!"

As he climbed onto his slide for one last run, I couldn't help but laugh. "Dude. Are you smuggling grapefruit in your pants?"

He giggled, and said "Yeah Daddy!" He came running over and climbed into the van. 

I pride myself in the 20-second diaper change, no matter the conditions. Ten seconds if it's only wet. I fully expect to get a call from an Indy pit crew before Memorial Day. We have been practicing our Standing Diaper Change, and he knew the drill. This time he wanted to stand on the center seat, which put everything right in front of me- easy peasy. Thanks little guy. I pulled his pants to his ankles, and dropped his diaper. It hit the driveway like an unbroken water balloon. SPLOOSH!

There is no book to read which can prepare a dad, young or old, for what came next. 

His pants were still down. He turned his rear end to me (remember, this is all happening at eye level), and started shaking. Then the singing begins.

Dunt dunt dunt dunt - CON-GA!

Dunt dunt dunt dunt - CON-GA!

He got halfway through the third line before he fell over, between the seats, laughing hysterically. He hit the floor, yelled out "I'M OKAY!", and jumped back up to start again.

Dunt dunt dunt dunt - CON-GA!

Dunt dunt dunt dunt - CON-GA!

By now we both completely lost it. The harder I tried to get his diaper on, the harder he wiggled and the louder he sang. This went on for five full minutes before we both collapsed onto the seat, still laughing and panting. 

I have absolutely NO idea where this came from. I wish I did know; I feel like I owe someone a thank-you letter. 

The ten-second diaper change took more like ten minutes. It also marked another step forward for us. I am realizing how much fun it is to be with him- not in an observing father, watching his growth kind of way, but simply to enjoy him as a person, to love (most of) his developing personality, to share with him dad-to-son as well as human-to-human.

We did eventually stop and order our trees, and we did get to Alex's house. I'm glad we ended up running late.

"Daddy, I made a pile."

Jay takes a great deal of pride in being industrious, and even more pride in knowing the words to describe what he has done.

Jay and the Farrier

8:15 a.m.

The farrier came early. Wayde Ellsworth trims our horses’ feet every six to eight weeks or so. It’s been about ten or eleven weeks since his last visit, but because of the cold, snow, and inactivity, their hooves aren’t too bad. 

He was due around 8:30 this morning. Jay was in the middle of his second episode of his current TV obsession. Paw Patrol, which I had cleverly timed to end at about the hour of Wayde’s arrival. Except, Wayde got out of the house early this morning. At 8:15 there was a knock at the garage door. I poked my head into the garage. “Be right there.” Wayde heard Jay’s objections and smiled. “I’ll be here.”

Wayde is himself a father, the single parent of a 12-year-old girl. He works his ass off at a job that is, on its best days, unforgiving and brutal to his body. Yesterday he spent a good bit of time doing some corrective work with a very heavy, unbalanced horse that refused to hold its foot up (horse owners do their best to train their horses to lift and hold their feet for farriers, vets, and even for themselves, so they can clean out rocks and debris). His back was still a bit off today, but Wayde is a man of few words. He doesn’t waste them on complaining.

The argument over leaving the TV to go outside in the rain had the seeds of an epic father-son battle. I didn’t want to keep Wayde standing around, so I immediately pulled out the big guns. “Jay, you get to wear your squishy boots.”

“Oh. Okay.” He sat quietly in the big recliner, breaking his gaze from the TV long enough to look down and smile as I pulled on his monkey socks. I pulled his muck boots as far onto his feet as I could. Jay slid onto the floor and jumped up and down, saying “BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE” until his heels reached the bottoms of his boots. I didn’t teach him that. He continues to put his own spin on his world, and I can only shake my head and smile at his spontaneity.

We pulled on his dinosaur raincoat, and headed outside. The air was heavy, with a few sprinkles popping onto Jay’s green spiked dinosaur hood.

I had run out earlier and put halters on the horses. It’s nice to have a “handle” when I need to catch them. Kal, my horse, was never a problem. As is the case with most horses of Arabian descent (Kal is Anglo-Arab), he is extremely people-oriented. I walked up and took hold of his halter. He didn’t really want to go into the shed, but that is just how he is. He prefers to stand in the rain than to go inside any building. He relented, and I turned him so Wayde could get to his feet safely.

Holding a horse for someone else is not a casual thing. Everyone in the area needs to have a clear space to move, to run out of harm’s way if necessary. No one should end up between a horse and a hard wall. The handler should know to hold the horse on the same side as the one working on that horse. This allows the handler to pull the head toward him or her if the horse objects, which moves the hind feet away. Ideally this has to be done while not standing directly in front of the horse. Some horses will strike out with their front feet, others may head-butt. Because of the position of their eyes to the side of the head, some horses get nervous about anything directly in front and up close. They actually don’t have great vision there. 

On top of all of that, the farrier in particular has to be able to move the horse’s feet around, forward and back, out and back in, to clean, clip the ends, pare the sole, and rasp the hoof wall. This requires the handler to control the horse fully, give the farrier ample room, and always be on guard to move the horse away from the worker who is likely to be bent over in a vulnerable position.

Thankfully, our horses are generally quiet and pretty easy to work with. Today’s rain and gusty winds challenge the calmest horses, however, and Kal was a bit jumpy. He’s a good boy, but just doesn’t balance himself well when standing. He shifted his feet together. Wayde talked to him calmly, suggesting that it would be easier for the both of them if Kal would square up a bit. Kal did his nervous best.

Jay stood at the edge of the fence. He knew not to enter the turnout without being told it’s okay, and I was extremely proud of him for not testing me on the matter. 

Molly, Laura’s horse, wandered around the paddock, and seemed to be pretty calm, at least while Kal was the center of our attention. I asked Jay if he would like to come in with us. His eyes widened and brightened, and the excitement in his face was radiant. It was a big-boy thing, this being asked by Daddy to come in with the horses. He nodded vigorously. I pointed to the divider between the stalls of the run-in shed. It was under the eaves, thus dry, and a pretty unlikely place to get run over no matter what happened.

“How about standing right over there?”

“Okay!” He walked quietly but quickly to the assigned spot. He was beaming with pride and excitement. He was IN with the big guys.

Jay watched Wayde's every move. “What are you doing?”

“I’m working on your horse’s feet. What do you think of that?”

“Cool!”

I explained, “It’s kind of like when mommy trims your toenails. A horse’s foot is ALL toenail.”

“Ohhhhhhhh.”

“What are you doing?”

Jay really wanted to maintain his conversation with this fascinating man. Wayde patiently and kindly answered questions (okay, it was actually just the one question, over and over) as he moved from hoof to hoof. I had Jay move into a corner while I turned Kal around for Wayde to work on his right side. Wayde finished the last hoof and said to Jay, “What do you think? Does he look like he’s done? Does that look okay?”

“Yeaaaaaaah!” Jay was thrilled to offer his opinion.

I gave Jay a carrot to offer to Kal, and reminded him to hold his hand flat. Kal is great about this thing in particular; he takes food from the hand with his lips, and is extremely careful to keep his teeth back. He smacked Jay’s hand with his lips, grabbed the carrot, and turned away. Jay cackled with delight.

I moved Kal out of the stall far enough that if he decided to celebrate his freedom everyone would be safe. I removed his halter and stepped to the left. Sure enough, he charged Molly and threw his right hip into her. She had already been wandering around, dreading her turn, and was ready to show some fire.

Wayde and I have been through this before with Molly. She hates the notion of being "caught." She could also rile up her stable mate with little effort. Between the two horses, we could soon have about 2100 pounds of careening cheval meat, complete with eight flying feet and two large tossing heads. And now there was a toddler in the mix. As I saw the energy build in the turnout, I looked to make sure Jay was staying in his safe place.

The other father in the paddock was at work. Wayde was already holding Jay in his arms. Jay was on top of the world, in the arms of a rodeo guy watching the horses play rodeo around him. He was completely comfortable, excited to be in the action and close to this most interesting man.

Molly raced around the muddy turnout, and if there had been less mud I’m sure she would have thrown a buck or two. She worked herself into a corner. Kal moved forward as if to help catch her. Molly’s sire is Custom Chrome, a member of the reining horse hall of fame. It's in her blood: she threw some spins and flying lead changes that dropped my jaw. While she never made it on the reining horse “A” circuit, she still had some moves left in her.

I continued to move Molly toward her stall, even as she attempted to flee. I dropped the lead rope and showed her my open hands, one balancing a piece of carrot. She wanted no part of me or my carrot. Eventually, though, a winter of inactivity and eating extra hay rations caught up with her. She kept moving away from me, albeit more slowly. Eventually she decided to switch tactics. That little boy had given Kal a carrot a few minutes before. Maybe he had one for her. She wandered up, and Wayde slowly and carefully reached out and took her halter. She relented. I gave her the carrot. Jay was pleased to have "helped" with the wrangling.

I took Molly's halter. Wayde looked at Jay and said,"Let's go get your daddy's lead rope." He giggled and answered "YEAH!"

As I moved Molly into position inside the shed, she hinted that she might want to rear up. This has historically been her defense; rear, spin, and run. She has overdone it more than once, having pulled off cross-ties, broken halters, and landing on her back in our barn in Massachusetts. Another time she nearly killed us both:

I was out riding alone with her. We were at peace, rolling along a dirt road, taking in fresh spring scents and sounds. We reached the gate the held out car traffic. She balked at my efforts to pass her between a large rock and the gate. She went up, and up, and over.  As we went over backward, my only thought was, I have no control over how this will end. I landed flat on my back. My head was within a foot of one of Massachusetts’ famous stone walls. Looking up, I watched her roll down onto me, and for whatever reason she tucked her chin at the last second. It saved her life, as she narrowly missed the same pile of rocks. She panicked, jumped up, and started to run. While my foot position was great during the ride, my boot had slid a bit forward during the ride over to our upside-down position. My foot was twisted a bit sideways in the stirrup. At the last possible second, it slipped out. Molly ran for home. I took my time, testing everything slowly before moving very much. Aside from a sore back and loss of wind, everything seemed to work okay. I got up and walked home. Molly was standing in the yard, eating grass. She looked sheepishly at me, and shuffled her feet nervously. She wasn't sure what my response would be. I walked calmly and confidently (as best I could), and took her reins. I patted her and talked softly as I re-cinched her girth. She knew it was no time to mess around, and she stood quietly as I remounted. We walked about a mile down the road, and returned home. A few short minutes after our near-disaster, we ended our ride on a positive note.

I looked up inside the shed. There was a two-by-four rafter about a foot and a half above her head. If she chose to rear, her decision would meet with some pretty fast karma. 

I looked over at Jay. Kal was shaking him down for more carrots, snuffling his pockets and pushing his nose into Jay’s hands. Jay was giggling, and rubbing Kal’s nose. Kal's feet were well away from Jay, and he was being his usual sweet and gentle self. Normally I would not intervene, but Molly was still a bit fractious, and nothing gets Kal into the air faster than a freaking-out Molly. I pushed Kal aside. He walked into Molly’s stall and began eating what was left of her hay. Molly decided that was okay, and settled into her trim.

Jay was disappointed to lose Kal’s attention, and told us so. We moved him into the front corner of the stall, right next to the opening. Wayde handed him a hammer and asked him to hold it until he needed it (our horses are unshod, so he wasn’t going to need his hammer). After Wayde finished each foot, he asked Jay for the hammer and gave Molly’s freshly-trimmed hoof a few taps. Jay was happy to see he was being so helpful. Once Molly's trim  was done, again he asked Jay to inspect his work. Jay nodded vigorously in approval.

Wayde took his hammer back and thanked Jay for his help. I moved Molly well away from the shed, and turned her loose. Wayde grabbed his box of tools and headed up the hill toward his truck. Jay was at his side, stretching his legs mightily, moving his squishy boots to match Wayde’s strides.

I gave Jay the check, and asked him to pay Wayde. “Here you go!” He handed over the check, and marveled at the tool shop in the bed of Wayde’s pick-up truck. There was row after row of horse shoes, boxes of tool, a drill press, and welding tools. 

“Ooooooooh, nice.” 

Jay was reluctant to let Wayde go. He had a new hero. 

He'll have many heroes. Mine, growing up, included those lucky guys that got to operate the garbage trucks, cement mixers, and other big noisy things. And perhaps the biggest of all, for a short while, was Neil Cole, an actor at the now-defunct Six Gun Territory near Ocala, Florida. He was the guy who, during the shootout, fell off the roof and landed in a cloud of dust. He told us after the show that he was a real cowboy, from the days when the town was a real western town. Right there in central Florida. We bought the whole story. My brothers and I ran around for days, maybe weeks, popping our cap guns and arguing over who got to be Neil Cole, the cowboy. Was I smitten? Almost fifty years later I remember the name of a 1960's theme park actor. 

You decide.

About heroes, I will say that Jay could do a lot worse than to idolize a hard-working single parent who goes out of his way to include a client's two-year-old in his work. A rough-hewn, heavily-weathered man who "gets" gentleness, Wayde will teach my son values I appreciate, without ever knowing he is doing it.