Hey Again Kiddo

I haven't forgotten about you. 

It's already been a whole year!  You're not in our family yet, but this past year I haven't forgotten the first letter I wrote to you.  You're the reason I started up this little collection of memories. 

There's going to come a time when you're almost grown and you'll want help. When I graduated high school I had a lot of important decisions to make that seemed just too big for me to make.  I wanted guidance.  I wanted help.  I wanted more than a parent.  I wanted to go back and meet my dad when he was my age.

I'll never be your age.  Sorry.  I'll be your daddy, your dad, your old man, and even that guy who "just doesn't get it."  But there will always be these years between us.

I started this little box of memories a year ago.  It has since blossomed into many things: a timeline for the milestones B. and I reach, an outlet for our fears and frustrations, an exploration and exercise in writing.  But above all, this is youth.  Our youth.  Our days of uncertainty and excitement.  You'll never see us as the kids we are now.  God willing we'll be a little better prepared when you come to us.

But when you come, we'll be what you need.  We'll love you, protect you, teach you, discipline you, mold you into an amazing person, and then stand back in awe as you surpass our wildest hopes.  You'll grow before us, you'll make leaps forward and stumble backwards at times.  We'll catch you when you fall and cheer you as your race on.  We'll try to offer advice as you face the perils of life, but I know there will be times when you'll want guidance from someone less crotchety.

So in an attempt to relate to the future you, present-us have some pointers for living fully.

Stretch yourself.  Surround yourself with people who challenge you to grow and improve.  Never submit to complacency.  The moment you start to feel like a face in the crowd, drop your crowd.  I chose who to fall in love with because she is so different from me.  I will never be comfortable.  I will never be bored.  I will never stop growing because of who I chose to spend forever with.

Love fiercely.  B. has caught me staring at her countless times.  I love with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.  I learned to do so from watching the way my father treated my mother.  Make your attention obvious.  When you are with your friend, be there.  When the love of your life walks in the room, light up!  People will notice, including the most important person.

Have the courage of your convictions.  You will come across people who mock and deride and scoff at what you believe in your heart of hearts to be true.  It will hurt the most when that derision comes from those closest to you.  Those who should be your friends and defend you will not always come to your aid; some of them might join or even lead the onslaught.  Don't give in.  You are better than surrender. 

Work well.  No matter what you have to do, earn a good living.  The work might seem beneath you.  We've been there.  Both of us.  I've had my fair share of bad jobs.  B. has worked in agonizingly unjust conditions, and has always excelled at what she does.  You might feel as if you've done your time, you deserve better than your circumstances.  You're probably right.  So prove it.  Prove you're better by sticking to it and trudging through the slop.  Greatness never cuts corners.

Have heroes, not idols.  There are and have always been great men and women whose stories inspire and delight.  However, no one is perfect.  Pretending that the people you respect are flawless is a fool's errand.  The people we look up to let us down in one way or another.  Separate the art from the artist, the cause from the leader.  Don't let their shortcomings destroy the dream they began for you.  Take the good parts of their legacy and move forward, adding your own contribution to something greater than you or your heroes.

The world is awesome.  It's hard to see beyond your own problems sometimes, but I guarantee you'll outgrow the chains that try to hold you down. There is a world out there that you can't begin to grasp fully.  I'm always impressed by B.'s knack for finding the extraordinary and clinging to it.  Exotic friends and amazing memories are drawn to her.  I never fathomed the wonders of the world she has introduced to me.  You aren't allowed to be bored.  Ever.

Another year has passed and you're not with us.  We're not ready for you yet.  We still have much to do before we are.  But we love you.  We've never met you but we feel like we've always missed you.  Until next year.

Love,


S. & B.

A Quiet Rave

My brother graduated high school today.

My mom sent me a photo.  When the blurred photo appeared on my tiny screen, I could only smile.  There he slouched, decked with all the trimmings of pomp and circumstance, that trademark look of detached bemusement that never completely leaves his face.  Logan in his truest form.

In many ways Logan and I are different.  He got a near perfect score on his ACT exam; I took the SAT twice to get a decent cumulative score.  He is an intense, avid gamer and plays for hours given the opportunity; I shelved Starcraft the moment a girl turned my head and haven't played much since.  He has been known to subsist entirely on cereal for days at a time; I find cooking therapeutic as well as nutritious.  He refuses to waste time on activities (or some people) that can't engage his intellect; I waste a lot of time being too nice.  He doesn't talk much, especially when you first meet, but when he does it's insightful, hilarious, or both; I make a passable pretense at insight and I'm rarely funny on purpose.

B. often tells me I'm just like my dad.  But she forgets that I'm a lot like my brothers, too.  Adam and I both have ipod shuffles for brains, constantly humming or beatboxing some obscure song that can usually only be recognized by each other.  Josh and I share an affinity for legos, an unhealthy addiction to the works of Bill Watterson, and a sense of wonder about the world.   And Dallin - well, we both like driving our parents crazy and using our endearing cuteness to get away with it.

But Logan... Well, in him I see the quiet soul in myself.  The introverted intellectual.  The passenger who doesn't mind the backseat.  The watchful wallflower.  He and I are private people.

I've learned to divulge and not play so close to the chest now that I have B. in my life, but beyond that I'm a relatively private person.  I can small-talk, I can be friendly, and if we're really good friends I'll bare my soul to you (you know who you are).  But I don't mind spending a Saturday at home alone.  I don't bother myself.  I can go to the movies myself and have a great time.  I can rock out at home and dance in my living room and have a much better time than I would going out dancing or negotiating the logistics of an outing with friends.  For me, the private party - the personal day, the headphone-concert, the quiet rave - that's where I really can enjoy myself.

I didn't throw a graduation party when I left the hallowed halls of high school.  I graduated, and then I went home with my friends who quickly became disappointed and bored at my lack of festivity.  I used to think I just didn't know how to have a good time.  Now I think the prospect of entertaining other people and concerning myself with their enjoyment was too daunting a task.

But I don't think Logan will shut down as I did.  I'm told he's going to at least one big party and taking a trip with friends as well.  Celebrating in a big, public way in a large group isn't usually his style, and I tip my hat to him.  That's another way he and I are different: he's full of surprises.  Just when you think you've got him figured out he can turn on a dime and do something completely unexpected.  B. can attest, I am far too predictable.


Congratulations, Logan.  You made it.

Now the real party begins.

Life is awesome, and you're going to own it.



Now go play League or beat Metroid for the 8th time or something.  Enjoy your summer.




B. gets frustrated that she doesn't know my family that well, particularly my brothers - who are, let's face it, cryptic sphinxes compared to the open books that are her sisters - and my sister.  But I try to tell her that it's not her, and it's not them either.  It's not anyone's fault, no one offended anyone.

It isn't a grudge or a slight, it's just who they are.  Who we are.  The quiet ones, thinking private thoughts and living private lives.  Many people get uncomfortable around privacy, but the ones who really enjoy themselves don't have time to waste on discomfort.



What about you?  Do you rave quietly?  Or do you party loud?


S

Tunes

Sunday I slept in.

I didn't mean to or want to, but I slept in far past my alarm or any hope of making it to church.  I felt silly but I also knew nothing could be done about it, so I rolled over, finished the last 10 pages of The Narrative of Frederick Douglass and quietly slipped out of bed.  B. can sleep in like it's an Olympic sport, but I have too restless a spirit.  Church was nearly over; I saw no sense in waking her up simply because I needed to stretch my legs.

I got up, tidied, and did some left over dishes.  Then I pulled down a box of what have become a traditional Sunday staple for us: Lehi Roller Mills Blueberry Muffins.  They're delicious, and we get a kick out of the logo on the box: the Mill in Lehi, UT where Kevin Bacon gymnastically punch-danced out his rage in the 1984 classic Footloose.

I baked the muffins, poured fresh-cut strawberries and blueberries into a bowl, placed said bowl and muffins on a plate and brought them in to my sweet B.  Her head rolled over on her pillow.  She smiled blearily, snatched a muffin and swallowed the whole thing in two bites.  There are few better ways to wake up than to a plate of fresh fruit and fresher muffins.

I tell you this not just to prove that I am getting the hang of this husband thing, but also because breakfast is not the point of this story.  While muffins baked, I did more than dishes to pass the time.  I put in a new CD that my wife spoiled me with the night previously.  Yes, a CD!  I'm old fashioned and I like the cover art, sue me.  The first track faded in, and the rest of my morning was bliss.

I'm no Kevin Bacon.

Certainly less angry (and agile) but just as enthused, I rocked out to my tunes as muffins baked.  I ambled around, pumping my fist and dancing like a fool in the empty living room, fingers slapping clumsily against the low ceiling as the song swelled around me.  No punch-dancing for me, thanks.

B. tolerates this group.  I love them.  I've loved their music since high school.  I would plug into my headphones and just chill for hours.  In my painting classes, theirs is always the music that focuses my creativity.  When they come on during my runs, I reach a higher mental plane, I am more than I usually am.  I'm centered, stoic, infallible.  I can listen to the lyrics of a ballad and wonder and puzzle over their ambiguities.  Or I can tune out the words and just let the notes wash over me like waves of ambient sound.  And when their faster songs play, I dance like a fool.  I find my true, undisturbed self when I listen to their music.

I think everyone has a group like that.  Everyone has a favorite band, favorite song, ballad, symphony, drum riff, guitar solo, something that makes your goosebumps get goosebumps; a musical moment that rocks you to your core and strikes a chord deep within you that you may not have known was there.  I've found mine.  And now, thanks to my loving B., I have another album to paint, run, and live to.

Thank you sweetie for putting up with my tunes.
What are yours? 


S

Good boy, Mama

Somewhere in a box stored away with all the other memories my family drags around from home to home as each new military assignment comes is a cassette tape.  In a world before vines, iPhones, Facebook and even the internet my parents kept their treasured moments in photo albums and cassette tapes.  On this tape you hear three voices speaking into the recorder.  The first is a squeaky toddler listing off animal sounds and Sesame Street characters.  His prepared statement is eagerly and cheerfully encouraged by a younger version of my father, the clear tenor of his voice yet unweathered by experience and hard-earned wisdom.  And then the last voice enters the scene.  It is higher than it is now, ringing like a soft bell.  There, frozen in that moment is the young girl, the new wife and newer mother with a bright naiveté that shines through the troubles that await her in the coming years.

There is my mother.

Every child has certain catchphrases that come about organically in their speech development.  My younger brother couldn't say my name correctly when he was small (mine has always been the hardest for kids to master).  Spencer, or even Spenc was shortened and endearingly captured as "Wemps," a name still tossed around teasingly today.

I was no exception.  When I wasn't quoting my beloved thespian muppets from the Barrio or reciting what animals made what noises I would spit out other more memorable gems.

I am the oldest child in my family.  I was raised and loved and nurtured in a boy's world.  When brothers came that didn't change much.  My sister wasn't even born until I was almost 9.  We grew up in a world where "boys will be boys."

"Atta boy"

"Oh, boy..."

"That's my boy."



Good boy.

For some reason that last one stuck early on.  And in a process similar to my brother's creation of "Wemps," I discovered a way to reciprocate praise to the owner of that bell-like voice of the tape recorder.

"Good boy, Mama!"

I didn't say it much, but the first time I did, she laughed and made sure to remember it forever.  And so I repeat, not to the memory captured on tape, but to today's Mom.  To the grown woman who raised not just me but five other children in a tight-knit family that has been tossed from house to house over the years.  To the caring, vibrant, beautiful woman who taught me how to be a good boy and a good man:

Good boy, Mama.

Well done.  I am constantly amazed at all that you do, all that you give, and all that you sacrifice for children who love you but don't always like you - who respect you but don't always show it.  Good boy, Mama.  You perform miracles everyday in an all too often thankless calling.  I love you.  We owe you everything.





Good boy to all Mamas.  And thanks for teaching us to be good boys.


Wemps

Dos Años

Yesterday was Cinco de Mayo. I'm not Mexican, nor is sweet B., but this day is a big deal to us.  Two years ago yesterday we got married.  And now, at long last we did Cinco de Mayo right. We went to Mexico.

I'm sitting in a gorgeous hotel in downtown Cancun typing away as muffled music wafts in through our balcony.  Children play in the schoolyard across the street and vendors shout at passersby in the plaza just down the road.  Ours is a small hotel tucked out of the way but still within walking distance of bus stops, small shops, taco carts and Wal-Mart.  B. is sleeping off her bad sunburns and I'm just sitting here, drinking in the otherness.

This trip has been a long time coming.  When we got married, we opted for a cheap honeymoon, staying in a mountain cabin some family lent to us for a week.  Last year we went to the zoo and the aviary and then invited as many friends as we could fit into our apartment to help us polish off the turkey B.'s work had given us the previous Christmas (we needed freezer space).  But this year we decided to finally take a real vacation, to leave the country and bake on a beach.

And bake we did.  Yesterday was fantastic. We slept in til 10, went shopping, had a delicious breakfast of empanadas and found a bus to the beach.  It was perfect.  Clear blue water, white sands, warm sun and cool breeze... paradise.  We laid down our beach towels and immediately took to body surfing.  I discovered it is one of my favorite things to do - ever.  B. took more breaks to tan and lounge in the sand.  I loved riding waves.  Eventually we both dozed in the sun. We walked to some nearby restaurants and splurged on our go-to celebratory meal: filet mignon.  Then we grabbed a cab back home, showered and scrubbed away the sand and surf before tucking in to bed and cuddling to George of the Jungle on Netflix.  Silly. Impulsive. A day only we could make.

The sun did a number on us both.  I ended up with some pretty raw red spots on my back and forehead.  Sweet B. woke up this morning to some mild blistering on her shoulders and rad tan lines on her front.  We slipped out this morning in search of aloe.  Once we obtained our ointment we came back and she's been sleeping it off since.

I'm not that tired, so I've been writing some emails, catching up on tumblr, facebook, and now updating here.  After this I'll read another chapter of the book I've been trying to finish for over a year.  I should probably be bored, but I'm enjoying the emptiness of our time here. We decided early on not to over-schedule this week.  We might go window shipping later this afternoon.  Tomorrow we might hop a bus to see some Mayan ruins.  Or we might hit the beach again.

Each day here is a gift to ourselves.  A little reward for all of our drudgery in school and at work.  This is the deep breath we need before diving back into the fray of B.'s grad school applications, my never-ending search for a job, an internship, a chance to get my foot in the door somewhere beyond campus, her summer classes (which start next week), our lost weekends and non-existent social lives. This is our last chance for sanity for the next five or so years.  This is our vacation.



Happy Anniversary, sweetheart.  I'll be here when you wake up.


S