Friday, April 13, 2012
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Saturday, February 14, 2009
That sultry evening in our dusty garage in Malvern we spent hours and hours going through the boxes and tattered bags. What we found was a portrait of Marget's life detailed by books on gardening, stitchery and clockmaking ... the dated newsprint that wrapped items all the way back to the 1940s ... the endless array of notes and remarkable items which were stowed in the pages of the books.
While Tara put supper out for the kids and eventually tucked them into bed I carried precious finds into our kitchen where Tara poured over them. We found my father in law's Bible, dozens of beautiful hardback books on from obscure authors such as Henry Charlton Beck (The Jersey Midlands), D. W. Hering (The Lure of the Clock), and Katharine Morrison McClinton (Collecting American Glass). We found love notes to Alfred and from Alfred (great grandfather James Alfred. We found annotated magazine clippings. We found small things at the bottom of the boxes and bags that Marge and Al probably thought were lost. Some boxes seemed to be packed during prior moves all the way back to Piscataway.
In the pages of one book, we found a manually typed document folded once, the author unknown.
A NOTE TO DAD:I don't ever want to find the author. I will never Google these idioms. I like to think that this is about Tara's father and grandfather, or about my father and me, or about my sons ... or about me ... or you.
This was written about the greatest boy in the world --- YOUR SON. We think you will enjoy reading; maybe you will even want to save it to read someday when the boy has grown to be a man like you.
"Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood we find a delightful creature called a boy. Boys come in assorted sizes, weights, and colors, but all boys have the same creed: To enjoy every second of every minute of every
hour of every day and to protest with noise (their only weapon) when their last minute is finished and the adult males pack them off to bed at night.
Boys are found everywhere --- on top of, underneath, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running around, or jumping to. Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers toerate them, adults ignore them, and Heaven protects them. A boy is Truth with dirt on its face, Beauty with a cut on its finger, Wisdom with buddle gum in its hair, and Hope of the future with a frog in its pocket.
When you are busy, a boy is an inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding jangle of noise. When you want him to make a good impression, his brain turns to jelly or else he becomes a savage sadistic, jungle creature bent on destroying the world and himself with it.
A boy is a composite --- he has the appetite of a horse, the digestion of a sowrd swallower, the energy of a pocket-sized atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of a Paul Bunyan, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel trap, the enthusiasm of a fire cracker, and when he makes something he has five thumbs on each hand.
He likes ice cream, knives, saws, Christmas, comic books, the boy across the street, woods, water (in its natural habitat), large animals, Dad, trains, Saturday mornings, and fire engines. He is not much for Sunday School, company, schools, books without pictures, music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults, or bedtime.
Nobody else is so early to rise, or so late to supper. Nobody else gets so much fun out of trees, dogs and breezes. Nobody else can cram into one pocket a rusty knife, a half-eaten apple, 3 feet of string, an empty Bull Durham sack, 2 gum drops, 6 cents, a sling shot, a chunk of unknown substance, and a genuine super-sonic code ring with a secret compartment.
A boy is a magical creature --- you can lock him out of your workshop, but you can't lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your study, but you can't get him out of your mind. Might as well give up --- he is your captor, your jailer, your boss, and your master --- a freckled-face, pint-sized, cat-chasing, bundle of noise. But when you come home at night with only the shattered pieces of your hopes and dreams, he can mend them like new with the two magic words --- "Hi Dad!"
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
do so a couple of weeks ago but just went downtown in the end. It is
far more distracting working in an office. What I miss the most about
the home office are the kids working quietly in the Lego Factory.
Today Jack spent the whole day with me. We took the 8:04AM R5 from
Daylesford. We got a Dunkin Donut and registered at the Comcast
Center. SpongeBob and Jimmy Neutron replaced news on my TV and Jack
met some other children in CIMcity, played PingPong and RockBand and
raided the kitchen for some candy. We managed to get the Xbox360
In the end, what Jack spent hours doing was building a Lego kit on the
floor of my office. I put some news on, dug into some email, and it
was like being back in the Lego Factory even though we were really
Monday, October 27, 2008
when you are riding out on the platform between cars because it's
beyond standing room only there is plenty of fresh air. This morning
the trains were late and screwd up. I heard on KYW 1060 that it was
due to dew on the rails and wet leaves. All I know is that a few
commuters starting at Daylesford were surprised (and unsafely stunned
standing close to the tracks) when the late train from Paoli raced by
and skipped our platform. This evening platform 4B at Suburban station
was jam-packed. The 6:09 Thorndale express was way behind and the 6:12
Malvern local was at least 15 minutes late. THE LAST Phillies World
Series game was coming on soon and everyone wanted to get home. It's
7:20PM and I am halfway home. I left Comcast Center at 6:04PM.
I was almost the last person on the train boarding at Suburban. We
squeezed onto the platform cab. I felt bad for about one second for
the ton of folks at 30th Street Station who didn't stand a chance. One
tenacious lady budged in - she must have been from New York.
At Overbrook, the conductor insisted on dropping the hatch to the
stairs and we had to squeeze in further and then ridevin the air.
After a couple stops the capacity reduced enough to get folks off the
platform cab. And I grabbed a seat and took this shot over my head.
This commute is really going to get old this winter. Lesson learned
though. In this economy you either get a warm seat on SEPTA or you
get cool fresh air - never both.
That MLB.com iPhone application may earn it's keep yet ...