We used to live about 3 hours from the ocean. We loved the ocean. It was a magical place to visit with endless vistas and the power of the sea on constant display. The enormity of it all reminding you of your humanity and the greatness of the universe. Then we moved to the beach and all that changed.
When you visit the beach you take the time to enjoy the natural beauty of it all. You go to the beach prepared to get down with nature, get a little wet, a little sandy, and really enjoy yourself. You get to spend time and slow things down a little. Walking the beach makes you want to live there. You envy those lucky shell hounds that get to spend time on it every day.
This was our perception when an opportunity came up for us to move to the coast we had visited for so long. Obviously we would take advantage of the ocean and go for walks in the surf every day collecting shells and pretty rocks. Our family would grow closer and our lives would be perfect because we would live by the beach. To quote my daughters: “Whatever.”
When you live near something cool it just becomes something you live by. You still have to go to work every day and you still have to mow the lawn and clean the house and blah blah blah. You finally decide to take advantage of the beach that’s practically in your back yard so you pack up all the kids and go. You know…just for a walk.
Nobody is wearing a swimsuit or anything. We’re just going for a walk right? So you and the kids are walking on the beach on a cool and blustery day. Walking in the soft sand watching the beautiful waves roll in.
Then, after about five seconds everyone realizes that the soft sand is really hard to walk in. It’s like walking through molasses, with swim fins on. So you move up to the packed wet sand next to the beautiful crashing waves and the walking and perfect family time continues.
Then, after another blissful five seconds a good sized wave sneaks up on you and everyone has to run away to avoid getting their shoes wet. “Wow, that was fun.” Everyone thinks. “That beautiful slightly large wave tried to get our shoes wet. But we beat it to dry ground. Aren’t we clever?” And eventually you or a child person voices or does what everyone else is thinking, “Let's do it again.” And in the next few minutes the shoes are off and the pant cuffs are rolled up and the happy, playful children are joyously running and dancing in the beautiful waves while mom and dad hold hands and watch one of those rare moments when the children are playing together without drawing blood.
In a peaceful moment when all the children are standing in only three inches of surf and playing so well together, a beautiful monster of a wave secretly forms off shore. Dad, happy but vigilant, watches the wave form and a growing suspicion calmly voices itself. “RUN, RUN, RUN.” Dad calmly screams like a girl while running toward the kids.
As the giant beautiful wave rolls towards the perfect happy beach family, the oldest and the youngest run for dry ground like the dickens. What’s the dickens? I don’t know, but they’re fast.
So now Dad is running toward the giant wave and the six year old twin girls that are looking at him like he’s a moron. By the time the beautiful wave engulfs the girls it’s only three feet high. The problem is, so are they. And they are not surfers.
They look like cabbage patch kids in a washing machine. Arms and legs are spread eagle trying to find the bottom of the beach as they are being swept inland toward Dad at about three hundred miles an hour.
Only a second later the water has mellowed to two feet deep but the twins are still being pushed and rolled and tumbled in toward dry land. They are down the beach from Dad now and he is running after them. Himself wading through the wet two feet of beautiful wave, lifting his legs as high as his head so he can clear the water and reach his girls. (It looks nothing like a sexy lifeguard show.)
He is only four feet away from the closest one now. He can see the look of horror in her face under the water as her wide eyes try to make sense of the tumbling world of wetness and sand. A half second later Dad has reached her and thrusts his arm into the beautiful wave to grab her.
No time for jubilation, they’re twins, two for the price of one. Dad tucks her forty pound frame under one arm like he’s carrying a football, a fully clothed, soaking wet, crying football.
High stepping toward twin number two with water splashing everywhere, the barefoot dad can almost see the ponies in her hair when a lucky tumble throws a foot up and out of the water only a few inches in front of him. He snakes a hand out to grab the girl as the beautiful wave tries to bury her in foamy water again.
His hand closes around an ankle and he pulls straight up into the sky. She breaks free of the water, sputtering and gasping for air, and grabs her dad around the waist. She is cold, wet, and upside down, but she is out of the water.
Dad wades out of the beautiful wave and into the dry sand with one girl under his arm and another hanging upside down from his other arm pointed straight to the sky. It’s almost a decent statue of liberty imitation. “Give me your soaked, your sandy, your tumbled twins yearning to be dry.”
Many days later the last few grains of sand are washed out of the twins’ hair, clothes and bodies are finally warm and dry and we resigned ourselves to watching the beautiful waves from the car. No, we don’t live near the beach anymore.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Naming the Boy
(I wrote this over six years ago, This is the first time its even been published. I hope you enjoy it.)
So my wife and I are expecting our fifth (and final) child. We already have three beautiful daughters and one incredibly handsome son. That’s right, he looks just like me. Through the miracle of squishy gel and sound waves we just found out that we are pregnant with a second boy (and when I say we I mean she).
Oh what joy fills my bosom at this wondrous discovery. Of course now we are faced with the daunting task of finding a name for the new air breather. Ah, to name a child, your own flesh and blood. To find that right combination of letters and syllables that will be the first and foremost reason that your offspring utters the words “My parents are idiots”.
My wife Tracy and I have never had a hard time finding the perfect names for our children, until now. Oh we would throw names out there and suggest ideas to each other, but the right moniker always seemed to rise to the surface early on in our search. In fact, I believe we had the name of our oldest picked just a few weeks after the stick turned pink. But this last baby has been eluding a label now for 30 weeks and with the deadline of birth in site we are feeling the pressure to find this boy a name.
It may be because he is the last and this is our final chance to get it right. Or it may be the fact that he is a he and all the good names that come to mind are for girls, but this name thing is harder the fifth time than it was the first four.
As good responsible parents we (again, here I mean she) want to find something that embodies strength, tenderness, intelligence and leadership. To be honest I just want a name that means something cool like ‘warrior’, or ‘killer’, or ‘warrior killer’.
About two years ago I learned about a name in our past from a family member that is into genealogy. We have some ancestors whose last name was Sheriff. What a cool name. I could have a son named Sheriff Martin right out of the gate. No waiting for him to grow up, develop a career in law enforcement, and become an elected official.
And whenever someone looked at me funny and asked me how we came up with the name I could stick up my nose and simply say “It’s an old family name”. However, as you can imagine, a more ‘sensible’ head prevailed and vetoed me while laughing her sensible little head off. So now I’m just trying to find this boy a cool name that won’t help him bring extra black-eyes home from school.
I remember my school days as a young one plagued by my name and cursing my parents for it. Nowadays Ben is probably not such a bad deal, but in the late 70’s and early 80’s my grade school virtually echoed with “Benjy the Dog” and “Obi-Ben Kenobi” (Star Wars was huge). The most uninspired was “Ben, Ben, the big fat hen” and the one that boiled my blood, pushed my buttons, and almost guaranteed a fight and a trip to the principle's office, was the dreaded “Ben Gay”. Of course, now I use Ben Gay on my old man shoulders once in a while.
So now I search for something that will hold the name-calling down to a minimum and still meet my wife’s requirements of great meaning.
My fourth child and first son is named Tyler. An uncomplicated name with the same meaning in almost any language: a guy that lays tile. So thinking along those lines I came up with Sawyer, Thatcher, Mason, or Hammer-er. Then I realized that if I choose one of these I’ll have to get my contractor’s license and go into business with my boys.
So I came home the other day and my princess had prepared a list (she’s big on lists) of names along with their meanings that she gleaned from some Internet site. Now I had been perusing a few baby name sites at work (while on break of course) and a name on her list caught my eye. I had already noticed that name in my own search. Immediately excited, I believed I had found a possible name for our son.
There on her paper she had the name Kimball, and the Anglo-Saxon meaning was noble or brave. Of course I had seen this name before and had taken note of it. This one could be a winner. I like the sound of it, it’s a strong name, not too common, and my wife likes the name and the meaning. Of course we won’t tell her that I prefer the Welsh meaning: Warrior Chief.
So my wife and I are expecting our fifth (and final) child. We already have three beautiful daughters and one incredibly handsome son. That’s right, he looks just like me. Through the miracle of squishy gel and sound waves we just found out that we are pregnant with a second boy (and when I say we I mean she).
Oh what joy fills my bosom at this wondrous discovery. Of course now we are faced with the daunting task of finding a name for the new air breather. Ah, to name a child, your own flesh and blood. To find that right combination of letters and syllables that will be the first and foremost reason that your offspring utters the words “My parents are idiots”.
My wife Tracy and I have never had a hard time finding the perfect names for our children, until now. Oh we would throw names out there and suggest ideas to each other, but the right moniker always seemed to rise to the surface early on in our search. In fact, I believe we had the name of our oldest picked just a few weeks after the stick turned pink. But this last baby has been eluding a label now for 30 weeks and with the deadline of birth in site we are feeling the pressure to find this boy a name.
It may be because he is the last and this is our final chance to get it right. Or it may be the fact that he is a he and all the good names that come to mind are for girls, but this name thing is harder the fifth time than it was the first four.
As good responsible parents we (again, here I mean she) want to find something that embodies strength, tenderness, intelligence and leadership. To be honest I just want a name that means something cool like ‘warrior’, or ‘killer’, or ‘warrior killer’.
About two years ago I learned about a name in our past from a family member that is into genealogy. We have some ancestors whose last name was Sheriff. What a cool name. I could have a son named Sheriff Martin right out of the gate. No waiting for him to grow up, develop a career in law enforcement, and become an elected official.
And whenever someone looked at me funny and asked me how we came up with the name I could stick up my nose and simply say “It’s an old family name”. However, as you can imagine, a more ‘sensible’ head prevailed and vetoed me while laughing her sensible little head off. So now I’m just trying to find this boy a cool name that won’t help him bring extra black-eyes home from school.
I remember my school days as a young one plagued by my name and cursing my parents for it. Nowadays Ben is probably not such a bad deal, but in the late 70’s and early 80’s my grade school virtually echoed with “Benjy the Dog” and “Obi-Ben Kenobi” (Star Wars was huge). The most uninspired was “Ben, Ben, the big fat hen” and the one that boiled my blood, pushed my buttons, and almost guaranteed a fight and a trip to the principle's office, was the dreaded “Ben Gay”. Of course, now I use Ben Gay on my old man shoulders once in a while.
So now I search for something that will hold the name-calling down to a minimum and still meet my wife’s requirements of great meaning.
My fourth child and first son is named Tyler. An uncomplicated name with the same meaning in almost any language: a guy that lays tile. So thinking along those lines I came up with Sawyer, Thatcher, Mason, or Hammer-er. Then I realized that if I choose one of these I’ll have to get my contractor’s license and go into business with my boys.
So I came home the other day and my princess had prepared a list (she’s big on lists) of names along with their meanings that she gleaned from some Internet site. Now I had been perusing a few baby name sites at work (while on break of course) and a name on her list caught my eye. I had already noticed that name in my own search. Immediately excited, I believed I had found a possible name for our son.
There on her paper she had the name Kimball, and the Anglo-Saxon meaning was noble or brave. Of course I had seen this name before and had taken note of it. This one could be a winner. I like the sound of it, it’s a strong name, not too common, and my wife likes the name and the meaning. Of course we won’t tell her that I prefer the Welsh meaning: Warrior Chief.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Romance?
The windows were open all night so the air in the bedroom is fresh and has a crispy coolness that accentuates the warmth of the covers and her body lying next to mine.
She is on my left, always. I roll over to be near her and lay my arm over her sleeping body. I outline her beautiful collarbone with my finger and continue the line to her shoulder.
My head is pressed up against her and I can hear and feel her heart beating and her soft breathing.
She can sleep on her back, I can’t. I am an ugly sleeper. I can’t get a good night’s rest unless I am on my stomach with a pillow under one side, one knee drawn up to my head, and my mouth wide open to allow a puddle of drool to form so I can put my ear in it later.
But she sleeps on her back with her beautiful brunette hair splayed about in such a “I’m-sexy-without-even-trying” manner that I swear she arranges it herself before she falls asleep.
I continue to draw an imaginary line from her soft perfect shoulder down the velvety smooth skin of her arm. She works out almost every day and I can feel the subtle muscle definition in her arm, the slight rise and fall of the outside of her bicep.
I hear a faint little noise come from her lips. A sigh, a spoken breath? I love her lips. Lately she has been wearing lipstick more often. Lipstick is the greatest invention in the world. Forget the wheel. The only thing the wheel is good for is to get to the woman wearing the lipstick.
My fingers round the slight bend at her elbow and continue down her forearm. She is coming to the surface of consciousness. I can sense it. She isn’t awake, she isn’t moving, but she is leaving the depths of sleep and starting the journey to join me in the world of daytime. Is she breathing different? I can’t tell, but I feel her waking up.
My hand reaches hers. My fingers spread to match her fingers. I close my hand over hers and hold her hand for a moment. How many times in these 15 years of marriage have we held hands? How many times has this simple act represented our bond of love and friendship? How many times have our hands held each other in a passionate embrace?
I release my hold and turn her hand over. My fingers lightly graze her palm. I trace tiny and soft designs in her sensitive skin. So many nerve endings in the palm of the hand. Sensitive to the lightest touch, the feeling can linger far after the contact. I know I am sending little shivers of pleasure up her spine and to her brain.
I feel her awake now. She lies still while I continue to draw random lazy shapes across the lines of the palm.
She inhales a sharp breath through her nose. I anticipate the exhale that I know should come, the exhale that will part her lips. The exhale that will put power behind her sweet words of good morning and fill her voice with the lazy pleasure my touch has created.
Then she says, “Let’s paint the wall behind the couch green.”
Damn.
She is on my left, always. I roll over to be near her and lay my arm over her sleeping body. I outline her beautiful collarbone with my finger and continue the line to her shoulder.
My head is pressed up against her and I can hear and feel her heart beating and her soft breathing.
She can sleep on her back, I can’t. I am an ugly sleeper. I can’t get a good night’s rest unless I am on my stomach with a pillow under one side, one knee drawn up to my head, and my mouth wide open to allow a puddle of drool to form so I can put my ear in it later.
But she sleeps on her back with her beautiful brunette hair splayed about in such a “I’m-sexy-without-even-trying” manner that I swear she arranges it herself before she falls asleep.
I continue to draw an imaginary line from her soft perfect shoulder down the velvety smooth skin of her arm. She works out almost every day and I can feel the subtle muscle definition in her arm, the slight rise and fall of the outside of her bicep.
I hear a faint little noise come from her lips. A sigh, a spoken breath? I love her lips. Lately she has been wearing lipstick more often. Lipstick is the greatest invention in the world. Forget the wheel. The only thing the wheel is good for is to get to the woman wearing the lipstick.
My fingers round the slight bend at her elbow and continue down her forearm. She is coming to the surface of consciousness. I can sense it. She isn’t awake, she isn’t moving, but she is leaving the depths of sleep and starting the journey to join me in the world of daytime. Is she breathing different? I can’t tell, but I feel her waking up.
My hand reaches hers. My fingers spread to match her fingers. I close my hand over hers and hold her hand for a moment. How many times in these 15 years of marriage have we held hands? How many times has this simple act represented our bond of love and friendship? How many times have our hands held each other in a passionate embrace?
I release my hold and turn her hand over. My fingers lightly graze her palm. I trace tiny and soft designs in her sensitive skin. So many nerve endings in the palm of the hand. Sensitive to the lightest touch, the feeling can linger far after the contact. I know I am sending little shivers of pleasure up her spine and to her brain.
I feel her awake now. She lies still while I continue to draw random lazy shapes across the lines of the palm.
She inhales a sharp breath through her nose. I anticipate the exhale that I know should come, the exhale that will part her lips. The exhale that will put power behind her sweet words of good morning and fill her voice with the lazy pleasure my touch has created.
Then she says, “Let’s paint the wall behind the couch green.”
Damn.
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