C: The Poll Comment Post started out as a great site, but has been getting out of hand lately.
Free speech aside, something needs to be done about the foul language, the implied foul language & name calling, and some of the other nonsense that is being posted unchecked on that site. -R.H.
A: Many newspaper readers are uncomfortable with changes in content. When they complain about us dropping a comic or adding a new feature they don't like, I argue that change is necessary because our audience is always changing. Every day, subscribers die or quit the paper, and new ones sign up.
It's the same thing with O-R Online. Our audience is changing, and getting bigger. In fact, we now have more than 40,000 individual visitors to our site each week - nearly twice the number visiting the site 18 months ago.
I have to agree with you. That audience 18 months ago was pretty well behaved. It was rare that any readers wrote anything bad enough to be stricken. That's not the case now. Frankly, we are struggling to decide where to draw the line; what language is unacceptable; what comment is too stupid or incendiary to pass along to the rest of our audience.
The Web audience and the newspaper audience are different. We are quite accustomed to dealing with newspaper readers. Online readers are still a bit of a mystery to us. But one thing that helps us is comments like yours.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
The Center of Europe, Part 4
(The island castle at Trakai)
Glaciers came from the north and scraped what is now Lithuania clean and flat and free of boulders. When they receded, the low spots filled with water, creating hundreds of lakes.
A civilization grew here that by the 13th century was strong enough to defend itself from its hostile neighbors. By the 15th century, the kingdom of Lithuania was the largest in Europe, stretching from the Baltic to the Black Sea. First its knights and then its merchants traveled back and forth to India for its jewels and spices and brought back with them some of the Sanskrit language that is evident in modern Lithuanian.
But the kingdom was overrun again, not by glaciers but by the Swedes and Poles and Germans and Prussians and Russians. By the 18th century, it no longer existed. It won independence in 1918, but soon much of the country was occupied by Poland, and then came World War II. Lithuania was overrun by the Germans, and after the war it came under control of the Soviet Union.
In 1991, it won its independence again. It is a new nation, struggling through its teenage years. But at the same time, it is an ancient land, dotted with burial mounds that hold human remains surrounded by tools and pottery that date civilization here to 4500 B.C.
Sometimes, you have a moment. You see something that hits you like a brick. Maybe it's a group of kids walking across a bridge to an old castle, and you see in their faces their Scandinavian and Slavic heritage, and all of a sudden you feel as if you've just seen the history of the world.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Whine, whine, whine
C: Could you please put something happy on the front page, something good that happens in the U.S.A.? - N.B.
A: Oh, all right, you win. Today's front page features a couple of photos of bunch of girls having fun at vacation Bible school. Can we get more happy than that? However, we resisted the urge to write this caption: "Police used Tasers to subdue aggressive teenagers who attacked each other with water when a Bible camp game got out of hand Wednesday. No one was injured, but charges of assault are expected to be filed."
The Center of Europe, Part 3
We are griping about $4-a-gallon gasoline here in the U.S., and for good reason. But can you imagine what life might be like here if we had to pay $44 a gallon? In real money - that is, as a percentage of income - that's what Lithuanians are paying for fuel.
The price of gasoline is rising constantly in Lithuania, too, and earlier this month it was selling for the equivalent of $6.50 a gallon. That's a bargain by European standards. In Norway, for instance, they're paying more than $11 per gallon.
But the problem for Lithuanians is that they don't earn much. In fact, the average income in the U.S. is almost 7 times higher than the average income in Lithuania.
It's hard for us to imagine gasoline commanding that much of our income, but here's an illustration: Just imagine owning a car that would run on nothing by Scotch whisky. Think of the cost of a fill-up at the State Store.
It's no wonder that the roads aren't exactly crawling with vehicles. Driving from Vilnius three hours north to Rokiskis, where we stayed for 10 days, was a pleasant cruise on two-lane roads, occasionally encountering another vehicle, passing by fields of green hay and brilliant yellow rapeseed, punctuated by purple thistle and lupine.
We passed farmers plowing their fields the old-fashioned way, guiding a plow pulled by a horse.
It's no wonder.
The price of gasoline is rising constantly in Lithuania, too, and earlier this month it was selling for the equivalent of $6.50 a gallon. That's a bargain by European standards. In Norway, for instance, they're paying more than $11 per gallon.
But the problem for Lithuanians is that they don't earn much. In fact, the average income in the U.S. is almost 7 times higher than the average income in Lithuania.
It's hard for us to imagine gasoline commanding that much of our income, but here's an illustration: Just imagine owning a car that would run on nothing by Scotch whisky. Think of the cost of a fill-up at the State Store.
It's no wonder that the roads aren't exactly crawling with vehicles. Driving from Vilnius three hours north to Rokiskis, where we stayed for 10 days, was a pleasant cruise on two-lane roads, occasionally encountering another vehicle, passing by fields of green hay and brilliant yellow rapeseed, punctuated by purple thistle and lupine.
We passed farmers plowing their fields the old-fashioned way, guiding a plow pulled by a horse.
It's no wonder.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The Center of Europe, Part 2
Lithuania is a country without natural resources. Once, many hundreds of years ago, it was a huge nation that stretched from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea. Now, it is the size of West Virginia, but without the advantage of that state's coal.
Even after its first unit was shut down in 2004, the Ignalina nuclear power plant supplies 70 percent of Lithuania's electricity. But as a condition for entry into the European Union, this old Soviet-style, Chernobyl-like reactor must be shut down in 2009. The decision has been made, and the plant will close, and thousands of jobs in northeastern Lithuania, where jobs are exceedingly scarce, will be lost. Not only that, the cost of electricity will skyrocket because the options are not many: Buy electricity from Russia or build a new reactor, at a cost of perhaps $18 billion.
Joining the European Union will be advantageous to Lithuanians, but painful as well. They have become accustomed to pain. The official unemployment rate is now down to 4 percent, but that figure is deceiving. In Lithuania, if you own a cow, which many families do just for the sake of survival, you are considered a farmer and thus employed.
The employment picture is better, though, because there are fewer people now. Massive emigration has depleted the population. It's estimated that among the young and educated, one of every four has left the country since independence in 1991.
What they've left is a beautiful landscape, verdant, and spotted with lakes of crystal-clear water. Driving through it, knowing something of these peoples' troubles, it makes your heart ache.
Even after its first unit was shut down in 2004, the Ignalina nuclear power plant supplies 70 percent of Lithuania's electricity. But as a condition for entry into the European Union, this old Soviet-style, Chernobyl-like reactor must be shut down in 2009. The decision has been made, and the plant will close, and thousands of jobs in northeastern Lithuania, where jobs are exceedingly scarce, will be lost. Not only that, the cost of electricity will skyrocket because the options are not many: Buy electricity from Russia or build a new reactor, at a cost of perhaps $18 billion.
Joining the European Union will be advantageous to Lithuanians, but painful as well. They have become accustomed to pain. The official unemployment rate is now down to 4 percent, but that figure is deceiving. In Lithuania, if you own a cow, which many families do just for the sake of survival, you are considered a farmer and thus employed.
The employment picture is better, though, because there are fewer people now. Massive emigration has depleted the population. It's estimated that among the young and educated, one of every four has left the country since independence in 1991.
What they've left is a beautiful landscape, verdant, and spotted with lakes of crystal-clear water. Driving through it, knowing something of these peoples' troubles, it makes your heart ache.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Center of Europe, Part 1
Perhaps it was a geographer with too much time on his hands who determined the Rugby, North Dakota, was at the absolute center of the North American continent. And it must have been another who determined that the geographic center of Europe was a spot 20 minutes' drive north of Vilnius, Lithuania.
Looking at the map, you may wonder about this determination, considering that Vilnius is a good 2,500 miles from Lisbon, but you must consider all of Scandinavia and Russia to the Urals in the calculation.
Nevertheless, on June 9 - a bright and windy Monday afternoon - we reached the marker just off a two-lane road and in the middle of a golf course. Golf is not exactly a popular sport in Lithuania. What the course was doing there, I don't know, and there was no one around to ask.
A few miles away is Europe Park, 135 acres where paths wind among tall pines and clearings where sculpture has been placed. The park was founded in 1991 by Lithuanian sculptor Ginntaras Karosas shortly after his country became independent from the Soviet Union. The goal of this outdoor museum is to give "artistic significance to the geographic center of Europe." More than 100 works by sculptors from 32 countries are exhibited there. The bronze sculpture shown here is "Electricity," by Lithuanian artist Evaldas Pauza.
It's electricity, by the way, that's at the root of Lithuania's most perplexing problem. More on that tomorrow.
Complaints and questions
C: I am writing to question or at least bring attention to an apparent lack of consistency or communication within the O-R family. Does the O-R have an editorial board policy of seeking general public participation in editorial decisions or does it have a policy of seeking participation strictly from chosen special interests?
In two recent O-R endorsed publications, I noticed an apparent editorial inconsistency between the two because they show a contrasting policy of courting special interests yet masquerading as champions of fair play, ethics, and open journalism. To be specific, on May 14, 2008, the lead article on the Editorial page was titled: “State must boost Medicaid funding.” At the end of the first column a paragraph begins as follows: “PANPHA, a coalition formed by various providers of care for the elderly, has been sending representatives around the state to call attention to the problem. When they met the Observer-Reporter editorial board, they pointed out that Welfare Secretary Estelle Richman..."
This caught my attention as I remembered a past entry from the blog of the “Grumpy Old Editor” that was in stark contrast to what I just read on his editorial page. It took me awhile to find it, but I have paraphrased it below from his June 11, 2007, blog entry: “Someone wrote the other day and asked me if we have a program of public participation on our editorial board and allow representatives of the public to attend our editorial meetings to decide editorial opinion and news content. This person represented a special interest group that he believes does not get enough exposure in the media... Some newspapers do have such a program... That's not the case here... We are a business, not a public utility. Frankly, what we print in the newspaper is what our subscribers want to read and are willing to pay for. Our editorial opinions are that of the newspaper's owners and its editors, reached after thoughtful analysis and sometimes after heated debate... It's our feeling that readers should be exposed to the news and to a diversity of opinion - no matter how unpopular that news or view might be - so that they can form their own reasoned opinions. Making news selection an equal-opportunity process for special interests can only distort that exposure and hinder the process of reasoned thought.”
Do you see the inconsistency? We have one “special interest” asking for access to the editorial board and being denied, and we have one “special interest” asking for access and being not only welcomed but given public exposure... - J.L.
A: (I'll let Lou Florian, editor of the editorial page, answer this one...)
The comparison is between apples and oranges. The question Park
addressed was about allowing representatives of the public to attend
our editorial meetings to decide editorial opinion and news content and
he answered correctly that we do not allow such participation. However,
we will meet with groups, including government officials, who want to
make a case for their programs. Obviously, we don't have time to
accommodate everybody and we limit it to matters of public interest. We
do our decision-making, however, without them.
We also interview candidates for major public offices before
elections, but we don't let them decide whether we'll endorse them.
In two recent O-R endorsed publications, I noticed an apparent editorial inconsistency between the two because they show a contrasting policy of courting special interests yet masquerading as champions of fair play, ethics, and open journalism. To be specific, on May 14, 2008, the lead article on the Editorial page was titled: “State must boost Medicaid funding.” At the end of the first column a paragraph begins as follows: “PANPHA, a coalition formed by various providers of care for the elderly, has been sending representatives around the state to call attention to the problem. When they met the Observer-Reporter editorial board, they pointed out that Welfare Secretary Estelle Richman..."
This caught my attention as I remembered a past entry from the blog of the “Grumpy Old Editor” that was in stark contrast to what I just read on his editorial page. It took me awhile to find it, but I have paraphrased it below from his June 11, 2007, blog entry: “Someone wrote the other day and asked me if we have a program of public participation on our editorial board and allow representatives of the public to attend our editorial meetings to decide editorial opinion and news content. This person represented a special interest group that he believes does not get enough exposure in the media... Some newspapers do have such a program... That's not the case here... We are a business, not a public utility. Frankly, what we print in the newspaper is what our subscribers want to read and are willing to pay for. Our editorial opinions are that of the newspaper's owners and its editors, reached after thoughtful analysis and sometimes after heated debate... It's our feeling that readers should be exposed to the news and to a diversity of opinion - no matter how unpopular that news or view might be - so that they can form their own reasoned opinions. Making news selection an equal-opportunity process for special interests can only distort that exposure and hinder the process of reasoned thought.”
Do you see the inconsistency? We have one “special interest” asking for access to the editorial board and being denied, and we have one “special interest” asking for access and being not only welcomed but given public exposure... - J.L.
A: (I'll let Lou Florian, editor of the editorial page, answer this one...)
The comparison is between apples and oranges. The question Park
addressed was about allowing representatives of the public to attend
our editorial meetings to decide editorial opinion and news content and
he answered correctly that we do not allow such participation. However,
we will meet with groups, including government officials, who want to
make a case for their programs. Obviously, we don't have time to
accommodate everybody and we limit it to matters of public interest. We
do our decision-making, however, without them.
We also interview candidates for major public offices before
elections, but we don't let them decide whether we'll endorse them.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Home from Lithuania
Scroll down just a little and take a look at the last photo I posted, on June 5. That was of Dijana Kanciene and two of her daughters five years ago. I took this photo last week, which shows Dijana with the same two daughters: Santa, 17, who just graduated from high school, and Teresa, now 5.
A lot has changed in Lithuania in those five years, most of it for the better. But it's still a country with many problems. I'll be writing about it over the next two weeks, and introducing you to some of its people.
I'm sure few people are aware of this, but Lithuania is the geographic center of Europe. That's a rather dubious distinction that together with 3 litas will get any Lithuanian a large mug of beer. Nevertheless, it calls to mind that Europe encompasses much more than tourist attractions of Paris and Rome that bubble to the surface of the American mind.
So, we'll call this next series "The Center of Europe." It starts tomorrow.
Whine, whine, whine
C: Please - You must begin distributing grocery coupons, like the Post-Gazette and Tribune Review, otherwise I'll have to cancel. These coupons are more valuable than ever now. - M.M.
A: This reminds me of another frequent suggestion: "Print more obituaries!" Short of going out and killing people, we have no control over the number of obituaries published in our newspaper. It's the same way with coupons.
Several large advertising companies distribute manufacturers' coupons. These companies conduct market research and target certain areas for coupon distribution. Sometimes, coupons go to both larger and smaller newspapers, but most of the time these advertising companies pay large metropolitan papers in targeted areas to distribute the coupons.
We have lobbied these companies to include us in their distributions, but they are not at all interested in our readers' problems in managing their food budgets. Their only interest is in the data they gather from the redeemed coupons.
A: This reminds me of another frequent suggestion: "Print more obituaries!" Short of going out and killing people, we have no control over the number of obituaries published in our newspaper. It's the same way with coupons.
Several large advertising companies distribute manufacturers' coupons. These companies conduct market research and target certain areas for coupon distribution. Sometimes, coupons go to both larger and smaller newspapers, but most of the time these advertising companies pay large metropolitan papers in targeted areas to distribute the coupons.
We have lobbied these companies to include us in their distributions, but they are not at all interested in our readers' problems in managing their food budgets. Their only interest is in the data they gather from the redeemed coupons.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Goodbye, until June 23
I suppose a really dedicated blogger would own a laptop and take it with him no matter where he was going, but I think of vacation as a time to remove myself from computers.
I'll be gone for a couple of weeks. Enjoy the other blogs at O-R Online while I'm away.
Eight of us representing the Washington Rotary Club are headed to Lithuania, via Prague. It's a working vacation. We'll be spending a couple of days in Obeilei, Lithuania, painting, cleaning and doing repairs at Arteities Vardan, a safe house for abused and neglected children. Our Rotary club has been assisting it for several years and even paid for one of the kids from the home to attend college.
You may remember Dijana Kanciene, pictured here with two of her daughters. "Saint Dijana," as the townsfolk call her, runs Arteities Vardan. She'll be our boss. It will be good to see her again.
I'll be writing about our experiences and sharing photos when I return.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Whine, whine, whine
I was in a meeting this morning, and when I returned, there was an angry message on my phone. It was from a 25-year subscriber who said he was quitting the paper after reading this morning's editorial about the gun-control debate.
The caller advised me to take my newspaper and put it in a place I can't mention, but I'm sure it would hurt.
The caller's point was that "guns aren't the problem in this country. It's the U.S government that's the problem."
For the record, our editorial never implied that "guns are the problem in this country." Our editorial was about how old is the debate over guns, citing an editorial that appeared in this newspaper in 1878 that decried the bearing of concealed weapons in this community.
I have to say, this is one for the books: a subscriber quitting over something we printed 130 years ago.
The caller advised me to take my newspaper and put it in a place I can't mention, but I'm sure it would hurt.
The caller's point was that "guns aren't the problem in this country. It's the U.S government that's the problem."
For the record, our editorial never implied that "guns are the problem in this country." Our editorial was about how old is the debate over guns, citing an editorial that appeared in this newspaper in 1878 that decried the bearing of concealed weapons in this community.
I have to say, this is one for the books: a subscriber quitting over something we printed 130 years ago.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Complaints and questions
It seemed like a good idea at the time...
That idea was to write about a European Web site devoted to women on Pennsylvania's death row. There is little question that the creators of the Web site are opponents of the death penalty and are interested in rallying support for these poor women, who are victims in their eyes.
The point of the May 18 article by staff writer Linda Metz was that the Web site completely ignores why these women are on death row to begin with. Of particular interest is one of the convicts: Michelle Tharp, who was sentenced to death in Washington County for starving her daughter, Tausha Lanham, to death and dumping her body in a trash bag along the side of the road.
We had a feeling that readers would be outraged by the article. They should be outraged at the folks who like to see Tharp as the victim here. But some of the outrage has been directed at us, and for all the wrong reasons.
One letter-writer was appalled at us for glorifying these women. But I think we made it clear who was doing the glorifying. We even called the glorifier in Europe and interviewed her.
And just today we received a scathing letter in defense of Tharp. "What makes you think she killed her daughter?" the person asked. We weren't the ones who determined that. It was a jury of her peers.
As messengers, we're used to being attacked and shouldn't be surprised. But I sure do wish readers would first understand the message before swinging that ax.
That idea was to write about a European Web site devoted to women on Pennsylvania's death row. There is little question that the creators of the Web site are opponents of the death penalty and are interested in rallying support for these poor women, who are victims in their eyes.
The point of the May 18 article by staff writer Linda Metz was that the Web site completely ignores why these women are on death row to begin with. Of particular interest is one of the convicts: Michelle Tharp, who was sentenced to death in Washington County for starving her daughter, Tausha Lanham, to death and dumping her body in a trash bag along the side of the road.
We had a feeling that readers would be outraged by the article. They should be outraged at the folks who like to see Tharp as the victim here. But some of the outrage has been directed at us, and for all the wrong reasons.
One letter-writer was appalled at us for glorifying these women. But I think we made it clear who was doing the glorifying. We even called the glorifier in Europe and interviewed her.
And just today we received a scathing letter in defense of Tharp. "What makes you think she killed her daughter?" the person asked. We weren't the ones who determined that. It was a jury of her peers.
As messengers, we're used to being attacked and shouldn't be surprised. But I sure do wish readers would first understand the message before swinging that ax.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Comments and complaints
I've received several calls from readers eager to thank us for publishing Scott Paulsen's weekly column. A couple of those calls came from women experienced in raising chickens - the subject of his second column.
Scott is a talented writer. I've been reading one of his books, "Cow Tipping." All of the pieces in that book were originally written for radio and were meant to be recited on air. As a result, the writing has a natural flow to it; you can hear his voice as you read.
I can guarantee that not all of our readers will like his column. In fact. I'm sure some will hate it, just as some readers despise Beth Dolinar, or Byron Smialek, or John Steigerwald.
We in the newspaper business are accustomed to being stuffy and condescending; you know, looking down at the rabble from our ivory tower. Paulsen's background is radio, where disc jockeys once competed to be the most juvenile and offensive. He retains some of his edginess. The easily offended are bound to bristle.
But we like to try new things here.
Scott is a talented writer. I've been reading one of his books, "Cow Tipping." All of the pieces in that book were originally written for radio and were meant to be recited on air. As a result, the writing has a natural flow to it; you can hear his voice as you read.
I can guarantee that not all of our readers will like his column. In fact. I'm sure some will hate it, just as some readers despise Beth Dolinar, or Byron Smialek, or John Steigerwald.
We in the newspaper business are accustomed to being stuffy and condescending; you know, looking down at the rabble from our ivory tower. Paulsen's background is radio, where disc jockeys once competed to be the most juvenile and offensive. He retains some of his edginess. The easily offended are bound to bristle.
But we like to try new things here.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Dreams of My Children, Part 13
There's this picture that's been on the dresser in our bedroom for years. It's a snapshot of our kids in the front yard, taken just before our kids were headed off to school, or maybe it was to vacation Bible school, I can't recall. But I do remember that morning, standing barefoot in the damp grass in my bathrobe, my eyes crusty with sleep.
"Go on, give your brother a hug," I said.
Click.
Forever since, we've had this frozen moment: under the big maple tree, the girl grinning, her arm thrown around him, her cheek pressed into his shoulder; and the boy, a third-grader in brand-new clothes, squirming, his face screwed up in revulsion. Sisters! Yuck!
How long ago was that? I'm confused. There have been so many moments in this lifetime. I walk out onto the lawn in my bare feet now and I can't tell the years apart.
A few weeks ago, the boy - hardly a boy any longer, but a college graduate - packed most of his belongings into his truck and moved away to another state and another life. His mother and I stood beneath the shade of that same big maple tree and watched him drive out of our lives, toward all those new possibilities.
Today, we pack another car with all the girl's things and take her away to college. I'll take her photo in the morning, by the big maple.
Some time ago, I dreaded this moment. "How will we stand this big, quiet house?" I asked over and over again. We both wondered: What will we do without the distraction of raising children? The idea of an empty nest was haunting, depressing.
But we dread the day no longer. The boy may be gone, but he still calls – more often than he ever did while he was at school. His life is new and exciting, and we are able to share the excitement, even more so because we are free of the responsibility of making decisions for him.
The girl is anxious to go; she's been packed for a week. We share her anxiety and eagerness. We want her to go, too, but not to be rid of her. We're just excited by all her possibilities.
The quiet that I thought might suffocate us will be a nice change. And the telephone will not ring so often. And we will not lie awake in bed each night waiting for the sound of her coming home.
And for a while it will be like it was before we had children. I will walk out into the front yard in my bare feet, and all the memories – as blended and confused as they might be – will still be there.
And we will be alone. But then, there are all the possibilities.
- August 1996
THE END
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Dreams of My Children, Part 12
It seemed like such a long summer, just before their older child went off to college. The telephone started ringing right after high school graduation and didn't stop until that night late in August when they packed the car with all his stuff. The phone calls had exasperated the man and his wife. "No, he's not here. Yes, Shawn/ John/Dom/Don/Dawn, I'll tell him that you called."
"Who was that on the phone?" the woman would ask.
"I'm not sure. Their names all sound alike to me."
But that August night was unusually quiet; the incessantly ringing telephone suddenly fell silent. Most of the boy's friends had already left for college.
The man lingered in the driveway and considered the contents of the trunk. There was his son's new stuff: clean, stiff sheets and towels, pencils and pens and blank notebooks; never-worn socks and shirts. And the old stuff: a skateboard; his cherished wall posters; an old stuffed toy dog that had been around since the boy had first gone to kindergarten.
"I remember that day," the man said to himself, peering into the darkness toward the road where a dozen years earlier his child had climbed aboard the school bus, walked to the back and took a seat, never looking back.
Next day, they crossed an ocean of Ohio cornfields to reach an island of academia, a place humming with the activity of 400 nervous freshmen, moms and dads in tow. They helped haul the boy's stuff into the dormitory. Walking down the hall with cardboard boxes under each arm, the man glanced into the rooms as he passed, and later said to his wife in a harsh whisper: "Boys and girls together, on the same floor! This smells like trouble."
Through the heat of that humid day, they attended to their son's needs. They put the sheets on his bed, helped him hang his posters, went with him to buy a bicycle permit and open a bank account. When it was time to go, Nature gave the signal. The wind picked up and dark clouds rolled in from the west.
The three of them walked quickly to the car as big drops began to splash around them. They sprinted the last 50 yards to the parking lot and then stood huddled together beneath an umbrella by the open car door.
"Keep the umbrella, you'll need it," the boy's mother told him.
They left him that way, standing in the pouring rain, looking a little lost. That's the picture that stuck in the woman's mind as they headed east toward a much quieter home.
"He'll be home for a weekend before long, I'm sure," the man said, squinting at the road ahead of him. The rain came hard and fast and made a racket on the roof. He turned toward his wife and watched the tears roll down her cheeks.
The couple arrived home as darkness fell. Their younger child had already eaten supper and was on the phone, so they fixed themselves something to eat and sat alone at the kitchen table.
The phone rang all evening, all the calls for their younger child. Her father's brow furrowed and he began to mutter to himself.
"Take it easy," the woman said. It's only for another four years, and then she'll be off to college, too."
He groaned and rolled his eyes. And then they laughed. And the worst of it was over.
- September 1992
"Who was that on the phone?" the woman would ask.
"I'm not sure. Their names all sound alike to me."
But that August night was unusually quiet; the incessantly ringing telephone suddenly fell silent. Most of the boy's friends had already left for college.
The man lingered in the driveway and considered the contents of the trunk. There was his son's new stuff: clean, stiff sheets and towels, pencils and pens and blank notebooks; never-worn socks and shirts. And the old stuff: a skateboard; his cherished wall posters; an old stuffed toy dog that had been around since the boy had first gone to kindergarten.
"I remember that day," the man said to himself, peering into the darkness toward the road where a dozen years earlier his child had climbed aboard the school bus, walked to the back and took a seat, never looking back.
Next day, they crossed an ocean of Ohio cornfields to reach an island of academia, a place humming with the activity of 400 nervous freshmen, moms and dads in tow. They helped haul the boy's stuff into the dormitory. Walking down the hall with cardboard boxes under each arm, the man glanced into the rooms as he passed, and later said to his wife in a harsh whisper: "Boys and girls together, on the same floor! This smells like trouble."
Through the heat of that humid day, they attended to their son's needs. They put the sheets on his bed, helped him hang his posters, went with him to buy a bicycle permit and open a bank account. When it was time to go, Nature gave the signal. The wind picked up and dark clouds rolled in from the west.
The three of them walked quickly to the car as big drops began to splash around them. They sprinted the last 50 yards to the parking lot and then stood huddled together beneath an umbrella by the open car door.
"Keep the umbrella, you'll need it," the boy's mother told him.
They left him that way, standing in the pouring rain, looking a little lost. That's the picture that stuck in the woman's mind as they headed east toward a much quieter home.
"He'll be home for a weekend before long, I'm sure," the man said, squinting at the road ahead of him. The rain came hard and fast and made a racket on the roof. He turned toward his wife and watched the tears roll down her cheeks.
The couple arrived home as darkness fell. Their younger child had already eaten supper and was on the phone, so they fixed themselves something to eat and sat alone at the kitchen table.
The phone rang all evening, all the calls for their younger child. Her father's brow furrowed and he began to mutter to himself.
"Take it easy," the woman said. It's only for another four years, and then she'll be off to college, too."
He groaned and rolled his eyes. And then they laughed. And the worst of it was over.
- September 1992
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Dreams of My Children. Part 11
"You had better put some air in those tires," the man said to his son.
"Yeah, OK, but I've got to hurry and take a shower," the boy said. "I have to pick up the guys at six."
"Go clean up then," said the man, heading to the garage to find the pump.
The car was old and crumpled, and as he leaned against the fender to pump the tires, a trace of faded blue paint wore off on his sweating palm.
They bought the car from a friend for $25 and had put 10 times that amount into it to make it roadworthy. It had been poised for weeks now, waiting for that day when the boy received his driver's license.
Presently, the boy came bounding out of the house, all arms and legs, wearing a ball cap and high-tops, baggy over-sized shorts and T-shirt, dog tags hanging around his neck, wire-rimmed glasses and a gold earring: your typical 16-year-old.
"Thanks for taking care of the tires," the boy said. "See ya later."
"Just a minute. I have some things to say to you first."
Watching from the porch, the boy's mother said, "I've already given him the big lecture." But she had a few more things to add. Watch out for children on bikes, and don't be a show-off. Call when you get to the mall. Call when you get to your friend's house.
"OK, Ma. Really!"
The boy climbed behind the wheel and started the engine of the old blue car. It sputtered to life, making the sound that exhaust systems make shortly before they must be replaced.
"Keep your eyes on the road, not on the radio dial," the father yelled.
The boy cupped his hand to his ear and looked at his father questioningly, then turned down the volume of the radio and said, "What did you say?"
"Aw, never mind, the man said. "Have a good time."
And he drove down the driveway, never looking back.
His parents stood in the driveway for a time, looking down the road, listening to the distant sputtering of the old blue car as it headed toward town.
"Now what do we do for the next three hours? Watch the clock and worry ourselves sick?" the man asked his wife. She put her hand on his shoulder and they turned and walked toward the porch together.
"It seems like just last week that we watched him get on the school bus for the first time," he said.
The warm evening passed, as least as far as the young driver's father was concerned, with maddening slowness. And at 9:35 p.m., they heard the old car sputtering up the road, and the man and his wife stepped out onto the porch and watched the boy pull into the driveway.
They joked with him, scolded him and peppered him with questions; they put their arms around his waist and walked into the house. They had let him go, and he had come back. Maybe next time it would be easier.
- June 1990
"Yeah, OK, but I've got to hurry and take a shower," the boy said. "I have to pick up the guys at six."
"Go clean up then," said the man, heading to the garage to find the pump.
The car was old and crumpled, and as he leaned against the fender to pump the tires, a trace of faded blue paint wore off on his sweating palm.
They bought the car from a friend for $25 and had put 10 times that amount into it to make it roadworthy. It had been poised for weeks now, waiting for that day when the boy received his driver's license.
Presently, the boy came bounding out of the house, all arms and legs, wearing a ball cap and high-tops, baggy over-sized shorts and T-shirt, dog tags hanging around his neck, wire-rimmed glasses and a gold earring: your typical 16-year-old.
"Thanks for taking care of the tires," the boy said. "See ya later."
"Just a minute. I have some things to say to you first."
Watching from the porch, the boy's mother said, "I've already given him the big lecture." But she had a few more things to add. Watch out for children on bikes, and don't be a show-off. Call when you get to the mall. Call when you get to your friend's house.
"OK, Ma. Really!"
The boy climbed behind the wheel and started the engine of the old blue car. It sputtered to life, making the sound that exhaust systems make shortly before they must be replaced.
"Keep your eyes on the road, not on the radio dial," the father yelled.
The boy cupped his hand to his ear and looked at his father questioningly, then turned down the volume of the radio and said, "What did you say?"
"Aw, never mind, the man said. "Have a good time."
And he drove down the driveway, never looking back.
His parents stood in the driveway for a time, looking down the road, listening to the distant sputtering of the old blue car as it headed toward town.
"Now what do we do for the next three hours? Watch the clock and worry ourselves sick?" the man asked his wife. She put her hand on his shoulder and they turned and walked toward the porch together.
"It seems like just last week that we watched him get on the school bus for the first time," he said.
The warm evening passed, as least as far as the young driver's father was concerned, with maddening slowness. And at 9:35 p.m., they heard the old car sputtering up the road, and the man and his wife stepped out onto the porch and watched the boy pull into the driveway.
They joked with him, scolded him and peppered him with questions; they put their arms around his waist and walked into the house. They had let him go, and he had come back. Maybe next time it would be easier.
- June 1990
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Whine, whine, whine
A reader e-mailed a complaint this morning that we had "dropped the puck" by not including in our newspaper a poster celebrating the Pittsburgh Penguins making it to the NHL championship round. "The day of the first game, I expected to see an insert sign that I can hang in my window to brag some more how proud I am of the pens."
This is indeed tragic. But perhaps the reader can acquire a piece of cardboard and write "GO PENS!" on it with a Magic Marker. Better still, write, "SCORE A GOAL, PLEASE!"
This is indeed tragic. But perhaps the reader can acquire a piece of cardboard and write "GO PENS!" on it with a Magic Marker. Better still, write, "SCORE A GOAL, PLEASE!"
Dreams of My Children, Part 10
The little one had asked me to tuck her in. I sat on the edge of her bed in the dark and listened to her weep.
"What's the matter, babe?" I asked her, taking a corner of the sheet and wiping the tears from her cheeks.
"I miss Mom," she managed to say between sobs.
I kissed her damp forehead, smoothed back her tangled hair. "I'm sure I'll miss Mom, too," I said, "but she's only been gone a few hours."
"I don't care, I still miss her," she spoke into her pillow.
Great, I thought. Only 13 days and 12 hours until Mom comes back.
"Cheer up," I tried. "If Mom knew you were crying, she wouldn't be having a good time herself. And we want her to have a good time. She's never been to Europe before; this is a great adventure for her. Let's not ruin it by being sad guys."
She told me OK, and I smiled at myself in the dark, proud of how well I had handled my first crisis of single parenthood.
But before 24 hours had passed, my self-satisfied smirk became the harried expression of an overworked air-traffic controller. Make that heir-traffic. I never realized how difficult raising children can be. I suddenly gained great respect for the single parent who must face this task every day, year after year – not, as in my case, for just two weeks.
What's so tough about raising children on your own? First, there's only one parent for a child to complain to about being bored, and only one parent to come up with ideas to prevent boredom. There's only one parent to do the shopping, to plan the meals, to do the cooking, to make sure everyone has enough of the right things to eat, and only one parent to make sure everyone gets up on time and goes to bed, too make sure teeth are brushed and hair washed, that pets are fed and beds made, that dishes are washed, plants watered, clothing laundered, grass cut and bills paid.
And there's only one parent to do the worrying. "Can I go to the movies tonight?" my son asks. I can't say, "It’s OK with me, but ask your mother." Now the decision is all mine, and what pops into my head are visions of wet highways and car crashes, fights in parking lots, burning theaters...
Single parents don't have the luxury of ignoring their children while the other parent is paying attention to them. Single parents are constantly paying attention to their children, like it or not.
Somewhere on the northern coast of Wales, my wife is probably feeling a little homesick at this moment. Why, I can't imagine, as I struggle to figure out how to get them to and from practices and lessons, when to vacuum the carpets and scrub the tub. How can she miss these things?
But I miss her, in ways I never imagined before. I now have great respect for the single parent. I just don't want to be one.
- July 1990
"What's the matter, babe?" I asked her, taking a corner of the sheet and wiping the tears from her cheeks.
"I miss Mom," she managed to say between sobs.
I kissed her damp forehead, smoothed back her tangled hair. "I'm sure I'll miss Mom, too," I said, "but she's only been gone a few hours."
"I don't care, I still miss her," she spoke into her pillow.
Great, I thought. Only 13 days and 12 hours until Mom comes back.
"Cheer up," I tried. "If Mom knew you were crying, she wouldn't be having a good time herself. And we want her to have a good time. She's never been to Europe before; this is a great adventure for her. Let's not ruin it by being sad guys."
She told me OK, and I smiled at myself in the dark, proud of how well I had handled my first crisis of single parenthood.
But before 24 hours had passed, my self-satisfied smirk became the harried expression of an overworked air-traffic controller. Make that heir-traffic. I never realized how difficult raising children can be. I suddenly gained great respect for the single parent who must face this task every day, year after year – not, as in my case, for just two weeks.
What's so tough about raising children on your own? First, there's only one parent for a child to complain to about being bored, and only one parent to come up with ideas to prevent boredom. There's only one parent to do the shopping, to plan the meals, to do the cooking, to make sure everyone has enough of the right things to eat, and only one parent to make sure everyone gets up on time and goes to bed, too make sure teeth are brushed and hair washed, that pets are fed and beds made, that dishes are washed, plants watered, clothing laundered, grass cut and bills paid.
And there's only one parent to do the worrying. "Can I go to the movies tonight?" my son asks. I can't say, "It’s OK with me, but ask your mother." Now the decision is all mine, and what pops into my head are visions of wet highways and car crashes, fights in parking lots, burning theaters...
Single parents don't have the luxury of ignoring their children while the other parent is paying attention to them. Single parents are constantly paying attention to their children, like it or not.
Somewhere on the northern coast of Wales, my wife is probably feeling a little homesick at this moment. Why, I can't imagine, as I struggle to figure out how to get them to and from practices and lessons, when to vacuum the carpets and scrub the tub. How can she miss these things?
But I miss her, in ways I never imagined before. I now have great respect for the single parent. I just don't want to be one.
- July 1990
Monday, May 26, 2008
Dreams of My Children, Part 9
I spent about 18 years in school, and for the most part, it was a struggle. I was very much the scholastic also-ran, the kid who had to scramble to reach the lofty level of the Average Student. Sometimes, I didn't make it that far.
When I started college, I had this crazy idea that I was bright, perhaps brilliant, enough so that I didn't have to study at all. Reality soon hit me like a stack of biology textbooks, and I spent the next four years running in slow motion through an academic nightmare.
I awoke in a cold sweat just in time to receive a degree, marry and produce children who, quite fortunately, do much better than I did in school. Still, they often come home with report cards that don't accurately reflect their potential.
I tell them, just as my father used to tell me: "Please, all I ask is for you to do your very best, to try your very hardest. If you work as hard as you can, I don't care what your grades are."
Invariably, they don't try as hard as they can, and I do care what grades they get.
"You can do better than this!" I insist. What follows from them are those tired excuses that all parents know – shabby alibis I once used myself. Her are my favorites, my Top 20:
1. "Honest, nobody got a good grade this time."
2. "We only had two tests, and one I couldn't study for because I left my book at school, and the other one I didn't know about because I was sick the day before."
3. "But Mom, C is average."
4. "I did better than Jennifer."
5. "We don't know what the teacher wants and she won't tell us."
6. "If I didn't have to spend so much time practicing piano, I'd do better."
7. "Really, Dad, the telephone and television do not take up too much of my time."
8. "You can't study for that kind of test."
9. "It's not like the final grade of my whole life or anything."
10. "OK, OK, so I'm stupid!"
11. "The teacher a) doesn't like me; b) doesn't understand me; c) is too hard; d) grades on a curve; or e) doesn't grade on a curve.
12. "I didn't do so hot last grading period, but I got a 98 on a quiz today."
13. "Next grading period I will do better because we're going to be studying the really important stuff."
14. "I did try my very hardest. Well, almost."
15. "Report card? Oh, shoot, I left it in my locker."
16. "This is better than the grade I thought I was going to get."
17. "The teacher said this won't count much against our final grade for the year."
18. "Well, it's not perfect, but I'm satisfied with it."
19. (In explaining a dive from all A's and B's to all B's and C's) – "I went down in three grades and stayed even in three."
20. "The teacher made a mistake."
Sound familiar? I thought so.
There is, however, one excuse I never used. I never had the gall to use it, nor have
my children. I think we all realize that a thousand excuses aren't worth a single, honest explanation.
The one excuse we never used: "I tried my very best, and that's the best I can do."
- May 1991
When I started college, I had this crazy idea that I was bright, perhaps brilliant, enough so that I didn't have to study at all. Reality soon hit me like a stack of biology textbooks, and I spent the next four years running in slow motion through an academic nightmare.
I awoke in a cold sweat just in time to receive a degree, marry and produce children who, quite fortunately, do much better than I did in school. Still, they often come home with report cards that don't accurately reflect their potential.
I tell them, just as my father used to tell me: "Please, all I ask is for you to do your very best, to try your very hardest. If you work as hard as you can, I don't care what your grades are."
Invariably, they don't try as hard as they can, and I do care what grades they get.
"You can do better than this!" I insist. What follows from them are those tired excuses that all parents know – shabby alibis I once used myself. Her are my favorites, my Top 20:
1. "Honest, nobody got a good grade this time."
2. "We only had two tests, and one I couldn't study for because I left my book at school, and the other one I didn't know about because I was sick the day before."
3. "But Mom, C is average."
4. "I did better than Jennifer."
5. "We don't know what the teacher wants and she won't tell us."
6. "If I didn't have to spend so much time practicing piano, I'd do better."
7. "Really, Dad, the telephone and television do not take up too much of my time."
8. "You can't study for that kind of test."
9. "It's not like the final grade of my whole life or anything."
10. "OK, OK, so I'm stupid!"
11. "The teacher a) doesn't like me; b) doesn't understand me; c) is too hard; d) grades on a curve; or e) doesn't grade on a curve.
12. "I didn't do so hot last grading period, but I got a 98 on a quiz today."
13. "Next grading period I will do better because we're going to be studying the really important stuff."
14. "I did try my very hardest. Well, almost."
15. "Report card? Oh, shoot, I left it in my locker."
16. "This is better than the grade I thought I was going to get."
17. "The teacher said this won't count much against our final grade for the year."
18. "Well, it's not perfect, but I'm satisfied with it."
19. (In explaining a dive from all A's and B's to all B's and C's) – "I went down in three grades and stayed even in three."
20. "The teacher made a mistake."
Sound familiar? I thought so.
There is, however, one excuse I never used. I never had the gall to use it, nor have
my children. I think we all realize that a thousand excuses aren't worth a single, honest explanation.
The one excuse we never used: "I tried my very best, and that's the best I can do."
- May 1991
Friday, May 23, 2008
Dreams of My Children, Part 8
Right after he was born, people talked about how much he resembled me. I thought, huh? How could anyone think that this baby, this squinting, pink little thing that threw up all the time, resemble any adult, let alone me?
When he was a little older, going off to school, people didn't let up. They'd look through our snapshots and say, "No doubt whose boy this is." It just puzzled me. I looked at his long blond hair and his chubby cheeks and saw a stranger - an adorable stranger - but not me.
He grew, as all kids, as fast as corn. He was getting bigger and changing in other ways, too. But he was his own person, unique. He resembled no one else on this planet, except, possibly, his mother, and maybe his sister, just a little.
"He is you," said my wife. "He has your legs."
My own father would say, "He reminds me so much of you at that age." I couldn't imagine why; not until just the other day, that is.
His high school soccer team was playing on the field in the valley, and the late afternoon sunlight burned through the tops of the trees and into the faces of the spectators on the east side of the field. I held my hand up to my brow and squinted in the direction of the players. The back-lighting made silhouettes of them so that it was difficult to tell one from another. After the game, when the kids lines up for the obligatory hand slaps, I walked out on the field to tell the boy that he had played a good game. (I was proud that he had a chance to play at all.) I stepped into the shadow of the hillside and, without having to squint and shade my eyes, saw everything clearly for the first time.
I yelled his name and he turned, somewhat startled to see me. That's when it happened.
Suddenly, I was looking at myself through some sort of time-warp mirror. I realized that his hair had become darker and that he had put on some muscle, and he moved just the way I did, and still do. His uniform was grass-stained and damp, his face and hair speckled with mud.
All the sensations of my own playing days came streaming back: the sweat and the chill, the metallic taste of exhaustion, the sore shins, the ache and weakness left in limbs that adrenaline leaves behind, and the exhilaration. Through all of this, I managed to yell to him, "Good game!"
"Sure, thanks," he said, a little out of breath, before trotting off to the other side of the field with his teammates.
For the first time, I saw him as a part of me. I watched him laughing and horsing around with his friends and I felt a part of it, as if he were a vital organ of mine attached by long, invisible nerves.
Lately, I've been looking in the mirror and seeing my father's face instead of my own. It makes me feel as if I'm on a downhill slide to the grave. But knowing now that I have actually left my mark on this earth makes that descent less treacherous.
He is my flesh and blood.
- October 1988
When he was a little older, going off to school, people didn't let up. They'd look through our snapshots and say, "No doubt whose boy this is." It just puzzled me. I looked at his long blond hair and his chubby cheeks and saw a stranger - an adorable stranger - but not me.
He grew, as all kids, as fast as corn. He was getting bigger and changing in other ways, too. But he was his own person, unique. He resembled no one else on this planet, except, possibly, his mother, and maybe his sister, just a little.
"He is you," said my wife. "He has your legs."
My own father would say, "He reminds me so much of you at that age." I couldn't imagine why; not until just the other day, that is.
His high school soccer team was playing on the field in the valley, and the late afternoon sunlight burned through the tops of the trees and into the faces of the spectators on the east side of the field. I held my hand up to my brow and squinted in the direction of the players. The back-lighting made silhouettes of them so that it was difficult to tell one from another. After the game, when the kids lines up for the obligatory hand slaps, I walked out on the field to tell the boy that he had played a good game. (I was proud that he had a chance to play at all.) I stepped into the shadow of the hillside and, without having to squint and shade my eyes, saw everything clearly for the first time.
I yelled his name and he turned, somewhat startled to see me. That's when it happened.
Suddenly, I was looking at myself through some sort of time-warp mirror. I realized that his hair had become darker and that he had put on some muscle, and he moved just the way I did, and still do. His uniform was grass-stained and damp, his face and hair speckled with mud.
All the sensations of my own playing days came streaming back: the sweat and the chill, the metallic taste of exhaustion, the sore shins, the ache and weakness left in limbs that adrenaline leaves behind, and the exhilaration. Through all of this, I managed to yell to him, "Good game!"
"Sure, thanks," he said, a little out of breath, before trotting off to the other side of the field with his teammates.
For the first time, I saw him as a part of me. I watched him laughing and horsing around with his friends and I felt a part of it, as if he were a vital organ of mine attached by long, invisible nerves.
Lately, I've been looking in the mirror and seeing my father's face instead of my own. It makes me feel as if I'm on a downhill slide to the grave. But knowing now that I have actually left my mark on this earth makes that descent less treacherous.
He is my flesh and blood.
- October 1988
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