God damned bicycle anyway...For real?...

      We had been at my sister's for Thanksgiving dinner. We were heading home when Isobel spoke up.

      Isobel: "Daddy?"
      Daddy: "Yes, Turkey Lurkey?"
      Isobel: "Daddy, why does Uncle Doug always call me Izzfest?"
      Daddy: "Uncle Doug likes to put things like that together. We have always called you Izzy and Izzy is kind of like Ozzy. Ozzy has Ozzfest, you have Izzfest."
      Isobel: "OK...who's Ozzy?"
      Daddy: "You don't remember? Ozzy Osbourne? You know, bark at the moon? You used to watch that video all the time?"
      Isobel: "Pfft, no."
      Daddy: "Well, you used to watch that video over and over again. You used to love Ozzy."
      Isobel: "And that's why uncle Doug calls me Izzfest?"
      Daddy: "And the Princess of Darkness, yep."
      Isobel: "What's wrong with him?"


       I was remarking to myself the other day that since she learned to ride her bicycle,Isobel has virtually left it untouched. I figured she would be tearing up and down the driveway with unrivaled zeal. I asked her about it "How come you don't ride your bike anymore?" I asked.
    "I still ride it. I'm just not riding it now."
     "I haven't seen you ride it for a while. You better ride that thing before you forget how."
   ...and so I have only myself to blame.
      The thing about bicycles, is you always fall off them. Usually one really bad fall in the learning to ride phase of your biking career.
      I remember mine well. I had inherited my brother's old bicycle. A wicked banana seated beauty complete with ape hanger handle bars and a flashy new paint job, courtesy of the Old Man. My father had become obsessed with the colour British Racing green. Everything within reach was painted this colour, whether requested or not. My old school banana bike-British Racing Green. My brother's new five speed-British Racing green, which has often led me to wonder about the legality of ownership of a 'brand new' bicycle that you paint the second day you have it. Anyway, the bikes, The Old Man's car, the dog (well not really but if he'd been a tad slower he might've) you get the idea. British Racing Green as far as the eye could see.
     So there I was, ready to mount my new steed. With my trusty squire by my side. Actually it was my friend Jeff Morrison and he was neither a squire nor trusty but he had a bicycle nearly identical to the one I was about to ride and he could ride it. I knew how to ride a bike of course but this particular bike was still fitted to my brother's frame and my brother was and remains noticeably taller that I am.
      It was across the street from my house, thirty feet at most, up a dead end street where the only car visible was parked in the driveway of a man we knew worked the night shift. Or was a vampire, either way he wasn't getting up to interrupt my ride. I was ready, Jeff was ready and we were off.
     I made it about seventeen inches and realized that while height is mostly inconsequential in the riding of a bicycle, it is crucial in the stopping of one. My feet groped for solid ground and only the very tips of my tiptoes found it. When I discovered I couldn't reach the ground, I began to panic and that panic set the front wheel of my new British Racing Green banana seated charger into a vicious shimmy that I couldn't correct no matter what I did.
     I am to this day unclear how it was possible but I managed to go over the handlebars...well overish. I somehow managed to land on the handlebars, the bottoms of the handlebars. I soon discovered that The Old Man had not put the handle grips back on the handlebars and so the rough un-filed steel tube was now firmly embedded in my left armpit. I was impaled.
     "Go get The Old Man!" I screamed at Jeff Morrison, who by this point had stopped laughing and started staring with a sick amazement.
      "Wow..." he breathed.
      "Jeff! Get my FATHER!"
        Oh there are fathers who are kind and gentle and understanding and who can fix problems regardless of what they are. There are also fathers who will assess any situation and determine no matter what has transpired, you are some how the cause. Guess which kind I got?
      "What the hell did you do to that god-damned bike? I just painted that you know?"
       The Old Man pulled me off the bike, literally and I swear it made a noise like a balloon being pulled through a watermelon. I didn't go to the hospital, rather just down to the Dr's office to see Dr. Lichtenheld. A wonderful doctor if  you enjoy war criminals administering your health care.
      "Is it safe, Mr. Baker?"
      A big band aid and a tetanus shot and home we went. I think i took the rest of the day off  but was back on my bike the next day. The Old Man never stopped bitching about the paint job I buggered up.
      "You better ride that thing before you forget how." I blame myself.
      She had a friend over and had pedaled up the driveway, expertly I might add. The way down the driveway was a different matter, she had forgotten the difference in speed and made a sudden turn out of panic and went down. I haven't heard her cry like that in a while. Huge sobs of pain and embarrassment echoed around her as she ran up on the porch.
      "What happened?" I asked, fearing that maybe an arm was broken or a tooth was out.
      "I...fell...off...and...and...arm and...legs and both legs...and..."
       I looked her over quickly and noticed that apart from dirty streaks on her face and road rash, she was alright. I have to admit, that for a second as she walked up wailing that she had fallen off her bicycle, 'What the hell were you doing wrong?' crossed my mind but it didn't stay long.
     I picked her up and carried her inside. I kissed her forehead and had a look at her arm. Road rash and a good case of it.
     "Let's get you cleaned up and then I'll go get your bike."
     She tried hard to hold back the tears and speak in a strong voice but the facade was fading fast.
     "Leave it out there," she said with a quivering voice. "I'm never getting on that stupid damn thing again."
     But she will...we all get back on the bike sooner or later.



      We were sitting around the appetizer table at my sister's place, stuffing our faces and chatting. The Boy Uncle Doug and I. My brother was explaining the coolness of his latest skull t-shirt.
     "The leaf glows in the dark." he said.
     It had a gigantic pot leaf on it behind the skull which apparently glows in the dark.
     The Boy is still young enough that he doesn't recognize the Cannabis Sativa leaf on sight and so if I tell him that Uncle Doug is really into horticulture and that's why a lot of his shirts have leaves on them, he takes it as just 'Sid using big words to make himself look smart again.' It's not going to last much longer and then I foresee a long and mostly confusing talk ahead. For now, it was nothing more than a skull with a leaf that glows in the dark.
     "Oh yeah?" I said. "I remember I had a Big Brother shirt that had eyes that glowed in the dark."
     "Wait, what?' asked The Boy. "You had a Big Brother shirt with eyes that glowed in the dark?"
     "Yep," I said. I loved that shirt. I wonder what ever happened to it?"
      "Who's eyes were they?" asked The Boy. "Dirty Dick or Johnny Fairplay?"
      I took three things away from this little snack time exchange.
     1) I am unbelievably old.
     2) The George Orwell character has been almost entirely usurped by the CBS television program.

     3) Johnny Fairplay was actually on Survivor.

Oh Yeah, That's My Kid...What the Hell, Already?...

We were driving to the mall to get something to eat. I stopped to get a lottery ticket. $40 million, why not?

      Isobel: "Daddy if you win the lottery can we get a farm?"
      Daddy: "Honey, if I win the lottery you can have your very own farm."
      Isobel: "Really!!?!?"
      Daddy: "Sure, but if I don't win the lottery I'm gonna kick the crap out of both of you."
      Isobel: "Wait, what? You're going top kick the crap out of both of who?"
      Daddy: "You two. You and The Boy."
      Isobel: "Why would you do that?"
      Daddy: "Well I have to blame somebody for not winning, might as well be you two."
      Isobel: "Oh."
      Daddy: "Oh? That's it? You're not worried that I'm gonna kick the crap out of you and your brother if I lose?"
      Isobel : "Pfft! I have my feet. He's on his own."

      It's coming to that time of year, when Izzy and I start cruising around to costume shops checking out all the Halloween goodies. The creepy lights and smoke, the gimmicks and make up and masks...ah favourite time of year.
     Now I should interject a couple of things here that might be important as we go along. First off, we used to go to Canadian Tire and Walmart and places of that nature...well lit places because Isobel was absolutely petrified and lost her mind at the one honest to god costume shop we went to. Maybe it was the creepy crawly things on the floor or the motion activated jump out and scare the bejesus out of you things or maybe it as a combination of all of them but whatever the reason, she screamed in the store, started crying and announced that Halloween was stupid and she didn't care if she didn't get any candy. She just 'wanted out of the damn store anyway!'
      Now I should also add (and I am almost certain that have mentioned this before and that I am likely to mention it again) that I nearly shat myself the first time I saw the Exorcist. It touched something way down inside and it still bothers me to see it to this day. BUT every time it comes on the television I watch it. Now a days, I am forced to watch it alone downstairs, Mrs. Narrator is also terrified of the Exorcist but doesn't have the same sick compulsion to watch it that I do. I like to be scared. Even a couple days after when the nightmares have stopped and I ask myself why I keep doing this I'll remember that it's because I enjoy having the bejesus scared out of me.
      OK, so there we were at the costume shop and the first thing we see on the way in is a gigantic picture of Linda Blair and not the one from the dirty magazine.
      "Look Daddy, The Exorcist! Isn't that the movie that scares you?" Izzy said.
      "Yep," I replied. "That's the one."
      "What's so scary about that?" she asked in a kind of disbelieving tone.
      Now I have a copy of this movie in the basement that I watch from time to time on my own...this is one of those moral dilemmas that one faces all the time. Do I go fetch the movie when we get home and show the mocking first grader exactly why this is the scariest movie ever made? Only to deal with the fallout until she's about 24?
      "Kinda tough to explain, Pick. Maybe when you're older we can watch it together."
      This Halloween store was really the show room for the spook set. They had a working version of nearly every lawn display and motion activated thing a majinx in the place...and we tried them all. I figured I would be rushing her out of there, screaming and bawling and cursing Halloween and all that it was but she wasn't phased by any of it. In fact, she went back to the ones that made her jump and scream and tripped the motion sensors again. Only to jump and scream again. She did it over and over again and her reactions were genuine pretty much all of the time. I know when she's being fakey and there was no fakery in the way she leaped away from the gigantic jumping spider. Hell, it scared me at least twice.
     "Daddy?" she asked. "Can we go back around to them all again?"
      "Let's go look at some costumes first."
       The Boy, who had been mostly silent up to this point came running at me with his costume choice. He has been the Ghost faced killer ( not from The Wu Tang Clan) for the last two or three years and this year was really just a variation of that albeit an unsettling one. His mask is hooded again but in the front of it is a mirror. Of course he can see out through the back of it but you can't see his face. it is a baffling thing to the human brain to see a body but not to be able to see a face. Well it bothered me anyway.
      Next came our delicate little snap pea. Did I mention that clowns bother me too? They do. Did I mention that the first mask Isobel tried on was a scary clown mask? Not just her idea of a scary clown, Pennywise had nothing on this thing. Clowns are scary enough but couple that mask with the eyes of a child and your brain goes into overdrive. The expression in the eyes betrays the look on the face and suddenly you are a monkey on the savannah looking into the face of certain death. Cuddly , fluffy death.
     "Isobel, that is just about the creepiest thing I have every seen."
      "Really?" she asked with glee. "Is it really scaring you?"
      "I wouldn't say it was scaring me but it is bothering me. Why don't you try a different mask."
      She took off the clown mask and went to look for something else. I walked over to The Boy to see what he had picked. He had not found anything that rivalled the mirror mask. I had to agree.
      I felt a tug on the back of my shirt and turned to see Isobel...in the disturbing clown mask.
      "Take that thing off, it's creepy."
      "Muahaha!" she laughed her big fakey, evil laugh.
      "Really Pick, go take it off and go find another one."
      I turned back to The Boy and felt a familiar tug on my shirt. Scary clown, wiggly evil fingers and "Muahaha!"
      "Isobel, if you don't take off that freaky clown mask, not only are we not going to see the motion stuff again, we will leave this story right now."
      "OK." she relented and started to walk back to the rack of scary clown masks. (yes, a whole god damned rack of them) I saw The Boy was wandering off toward the door and turned to call him.
      "Daddy," I heard.    Clown mask and all, it was like a scene from a bad Karen Black movie, I expected her to pull a knife from behind her back and hack me to death with it.
      "Muahaha!"
      Oh yeah, that's my kid.

      We did make it to the mall and on our way through Walmart, we naturally looked at the Halloween stuff and video games and toys and well, pretty much everything the Merchant of Shame has to offer.
     "I'm hongry," I said. Let's go eat and we can look at this stuff on the way out.
      "OK," said Izzy. "I'm hongry too. ( that's not a typeo folks, it's the way we say it. When you're really hungry, you're hongry)
      "Daddy?" she asked me after we sat down to eat.
      "What's up buttercup?" I said.
      "Daddy, it's not even Halloween yet, right?"
      "Right."
      "Then why the were they playing dang Christmas music already?"
      "What?" I asked. "Where were they playing Christmas music?"
      "At Walmart," she said. "We were walking around and Christmas music was playing and I was wondering what the hell was going on?"
     I have to admit I didn't hear any Christmas music but stranger things have happened. We finished our mall Chinese food and headed back out through Walmart.
      "Daddy, listen!" she shouted. "That's the Christmas music!"

      I gave a listen and a laugh...it was Bob Marley.
             ...well he did want peace on earth. 

Worst Fair Ever...Another Big Milestone...

      Izzy made a new friend, an older friend. She is the girl from across the street and she is eight or nine. Mrs. Narrator and I do not know this child.

      Isobel: "Daddy?"
      Daddy: "Yes, Pigeon?"
      Isobel: "Is it OK if Dana comes over and plays in our front yard and our backyard?"
      Daddy: "Sure it is."
      Isobel: (five minutes later) "Daddy, can we have two glasses of water?"
      Daddy: "Each?"
      Isobel: "No, like one for me and one for Dana?"
      Daddy: "Sure you can."
      Isobel: (five minutes later) "Daddy, can me and Dana play in your car?"
      Daddy: "No, not in my car."
      Isobel: (stomping upstairs to ask Mummy)
      Daddy: "...or Mummy's car."
      Isobel: "What if Mummy says yes?"
      Daddy: "She won't."
      Daddy: (five minutes later) "Well, what's the verdict?"
      Isobel: (shows a great big two thumbs down)


      Mrs. Narrator had a match this weekend and The Boy...well, he is still working on becoming one with the computer. I am not talking in spiritual metaphors here, if he could hard wire himself to the computer a'la the Borg, I believe he would do it. So it was Isobel and I-left to our own devices. With nothing to do and a nagging feeling that there was something we should be doing. There was, the last fair of the year. Little did we know that we would find ourselves smack in the middle of  THE WORST FAIR EVER.
      I have been to some past their due date and stinking to high heaven fairs in my time, I have seen sights that would make a more timid man fall asleep in his seat. Fairs where the unusual and ghastly are somewhere else. I remember a side show where the sign advertised a three hundred pound man eating chicken, that turned out to be little more than a fat guy with an eight piece box of the Colonel's finest. Where the mysterious six horned ram of Satan was really a common six horned sheep from Africa. Exotic yes but my ear wax has more of a mystery to it.
     But The Big Butler Fair and The (ghastly) Gilroy Garlic Days (they have an unused kissing booth from what I understand) even the New Hamburg fall fair, which we made it through in under an hour, pales in comparison to THE WORST FAIR EVER. I hesitate to name the town that has seared itself into my child's memory, for fear of it infecting someone else with its underwhelming banality. It could be the town's new calling card; Come and see THE WORST FAIR EVER, walk easily through the unattended entry gates and make your way through the horse shit slalom course just beyond the deflated bouncy castle.
     Next, be sure to visit the petting zoo. Come face to face with amazing creatures like The Donkey and Beef Cattle. But it doesn't stop there folks, no indeed. Just when you thought you had seen it all comes the star of the petting zoo-The Malnourished Plow Horse. Just before you move on, make certain to take a generous helping of our free hand sanitizer.
      From the petting zoo, it's only a short walk to the kids area. Boys and girls will want to spend all day climbing the Hay Bale of Mystery (How did it get so square?) Then it's on to a quick romp in the ball filled Mr. Turtle Pool but kids, no splashing! The adventure doesn't end there, don't forget to have a turn in the BOX OF CORN! You can make corn castles and any other sculpture your heart desires and watch them tumble into a disorganized pile of corn. Don't forget to get your picture taken through the Non-gender specific farm animal caricature holes of fun!
      Don't stop moving, you haven't seen it all yet. There's the exhibits. Make your way to the prize winning dryer lint sculptures and don't forget the blue ribbon pumpkins oh and the collection of sticks is fun for everyone! If your feeling hungry, why not visit our french fry stand. Hear your stomach rumble as you admit defeat and walk away from the darkened booth.
      If Dad is into classic cars, he will thrill to see the classic 1977 Chevette. They don't make 'em like that anymore. Check out the latest in post war farm equipment. Nothing but the best for your fields. But wait, that's still not the end...no, wait, that's it. So it's one more trip to see the petting zoo and one more blast of the free hand sanitizer and we'll see you all next year at; THE WORST FAIR EVER!

         I'd like to say that it wasn't as bad as all that but it was. I mean it was nice to see Izzy interact with some livestock which is the bit she really likes about the fairs any way but even she was saying it would have been more fun to stay home and have a bath.




      This weekend has seen another milestone fall and a big one at that. Isobel has learned to ride a two wheeler. I started thinking about just how big of a deal this is to a kid. It is a transition between 'little kid' and 'kid'. No more training wheels, no more relying on something else to keep you upright. No sir it's your wits and you legs (and a generous dollop of balance) the get you going and keep you moving.
      She was over the moon when I suggested she learn two wheeling but when the reality dawned of how daunting a task it can be, she got frustrated and wanted to quit.
     "I fell off my bike," she told her Mother. "I'll never be able to ride a bike."
      For the record, she did not fall off the bike. (no, really she didn't) She was very flustered by the whole process of learning but she refused to quit. Stubbornness runs rampant on both sides of the family. That was Saturday night, by Sunday afternoon, she was getting further and further on her own and I just had to run along beside her and straighten her out now and again. By Monday after school she was flying solo up and down the drive way...mostly down.
     I thought about this a lot between yesterday and tonight when I sat down to write this. She's moving now, biking up and down the driveway all on her own. Soon it'll be up the street and to school and friends houses. Before I know it she'll be borrowing the car and then off to school and moving out.
      I wrote a song a while ago that has a line that goes 'My hands are strong, I know. Are they strong enough to let you go?'

    They really do grow up too god-damned fast...
    
     
    

Isobel Channels her Inner Hill-Billy...

      She was playing outside when she suddenly leaped in through the front door.
     Isobel: "Daddy, I just saw a fox!"
     Daddy: "A fox?"
     Isobel: "I think it was a fox. If a fox came near me I would bite its arm off."
     Daddy: "Oh, and what if this fox bit you?"
     Isobel: "He better dang not. I would bite that fox until he came right out of his skin and ran home to his Momma."
     Daddy: "And then make a hat out of him?"
     Isobel: "What?"
     Daddy: "You know, wear the fox hat?"
     Isobel: "Oh, (covers her mouth and snickers) Wait, wait. What did you just say?"

      Yes true believers it is that time of year again. There is a chill in the air, the leaves are starting to drop from the trees and tents are going up in rural communities all around us. It is fall fair season. Izzy and I look forward to it all year long. They few parking lot carnivals we hit during the spring, pale in comparison to a real, dyed in the wool fall fair.
      The whole atmosphere of them put Izzy and I into our element. Perhaps we were carnies in a former life but we do seem to feel at home among the mud and livestock stalls. It's almost like there is something in the air that calls to us...beckoning us from miles away. Stale french fry grease, likely but whatever it is around about this time every year our eyes begin to glaze over and remain so until at least one generous helping of candy floss and a spin or two on the tilt-a-whirl.
      If you will recall from last year's post, Isobel and I and the Loud Twins went to the Paris fair and spent an undue amount of money. I think Mrs. Narrator finally stopped yelling at me for that one two or three weeks ago. We couldn't make Paris this year, for one reason or another. New Hamburg would have to do for us. After all, New Hamburg is where I grew up. It's my home fair. This time it was Izzy's turn to bring a friend and so we set off, two giggling little girls and me.
      I remember the fair in New Hamburg being an endless source of wonder and fascination for me and all my friends when we were young. Livestock, carnies, hucksters, shysters, rigged games and tattoo booths. There were shows for the grown up folks that we kids were not allowed into. (Incidentally it was Stompin' Tom what the hell was so bad about his show that we couldn't get into it?) Luckily the walls of the arena back then had gaping holes in them and we could see that we weren't missing much anyway.
      But the girls wanted no shows (except the livestock) and no food. They wanted rides and carnival games and they wanted them quickly. Dad, on the other hand, had not eaten lunch and so a hot dog and a can of coke were quickly fired down my face to prevent blood from crashing and temper from flaring. Let the games begin.
      First up was a game that I have yet to ever accomplish. The bowling ball roll. The object being to roll the ball just hard enough to get over the hill but not so hard that it hits the other end and rolls back. Isobel's friend rocked it on her second try and got a bright red bear for her troubles. Isobel on the other hand, is my daughter and walked away empty handed. I thought it might bring tears but she ended up being more excited for her friend winning than her friend was. Next it was the fish hook til you win game. A safe and tear free bet all around. Two plush magnet filled 'I Love You' hearts and we were back pounding the earth and moving onward, ever onward.
      It was time for rides...If I can impart one piece of advice. If you are going to take your kids to a fair, go on The last day. The carnies who run the rides are generally quite hung over and the concept of tickets for rides seems to elude them altogether. The girls rode all they wanted for at least an hour and I don't recall giving any tickets until near the end of our stay.
      First was the fun house which was fun right up until Izzy fell on her butt in the spinner on the way out. She soldiered on and raced to the slide...the big slide. You know the kind I mean. No I don't. Yes you do. You know the kind of slide that is like six hundred feet tall and you walk up six hundred steps to get to the top of the slide. Once your up there you sit on top of a burlap potato sack and then rocket earthward, grabbing handfuls of fresh air as you go. Know what kind of slide I mean now?
      Isobel's BFF had clearly been on one of these slides before. She raced to the top, flopped herself onto the potato sack and was heading to the bottom before Izzy had even caught her breath from ascending the mammoth stair case. My child has never, to my immediate knowledge, ever been on one of these monstrous declines before and the look of terror on her face as the ground started to rise up to her showed me that she may never go on one again. She let out a scream that was not having fun, not happy to be sliding at the fall fair on a Sunday. It was more a look of full on panic tipped with a little hatred for the friend that ever suggested they go on this rotten contraption in the first place. Luckily that fear lasted until just before the bottom of the slide and the screams turned to howling laughter. I have scarred her enough with frogs and bugs, Mrs. Narrator can ruin carnival rides for her.
      We had seen just about all we had come to see and we were heading toward the exit when she heard it. A sound so loud and violent that she immediately clapped her hands over her ears to shelter herself from the sonic onslaught.
     "What the hell is that sound?" she asked her friend who couldn't hear what Isobel was shouting as her own hands were also covering her ears.
      "It's the demolition derby." I said.
      "The what?" she asked. "Holy crap! Daddy, that car just smashed up that other car."
      "The other name for a demolition derby," I began. "Is a smash-up derby. The cars smash into each other until they don't work anymore. The last car that is still running wins."
      The look that came over her face can only be described as Hillbillificent. It was a look that could only say 'This smash up car concept is quite foreign to me but it's 'bout the coolest fuckin' thing I ever seen y'all!'
       If I would have had a beer on the go, I don't doubt that she would have taken a long pull off of it. We stood and watched for a long time. Through the cars, all three heats and into the pick-up trucks.
     "Daddy!" she screamed. "The pick-em-up trucks are smashing into each other now! Seriously Daddy, look!" And indeed they were. I had a quick look around to be sure there weren't any school buses in the derby for fear that she might want to get a back tattoo and start smoking before we got home.
     One thing I noticed was that she became increasingly nervous about the fate of the drivers in the cars. Understandably so, we are told all of our lives to buckle up and drive safely because people get seriously hurt in accidents and here are people getting into accidents on purpose. I explained to her as best I could that they take out all of the things in the car that could come loose and hurt someone and that the drivers are strapped in and well padded and wear helmets. Nobody gets hurt very often and when they do, it isn't very serious.
     She seemed better about that and we were finally ready to go home. As we were walking toward the gate, we came across a man sitting on the hood of his wrecked car. Obviously not the winner of the derby and a surly looking cat to boot. But my kid wanted to see the inside of this twisted piece of steel so surly or not, we were having a look. All the seats were gone but the driver's, the windows and mirrors and anything else that could come loose were also all gone. It wasn't until she saw the massive harness on the driver's seat and the fire extinguisher that Izzy was confident it was OK and that the driver 'probably wasn't going to get hurt and dead after all.'
     As we turned to leave, the surly driver started heading our way. I'm not sure what I figured would happen next. Maybe years of associating with many of the people I have has left me paranoid and suspicious of people who walk toward me quietly and with determination. But  I didn't see this coming.
      He reached to the trunk and pulled out a mangled, broken and bent set of keys. He gave Isobel the keys and smiled at her as she beamed back at him.
    "Have a nice day." he said to me as we walked away.

        I came away with a totally different understanding of my fellow fair goer. First, Isobel's BFF is a complete ringer when it comes to games and when she gets a little older I think we need to invite her along on a family vacation to Vegas. Secondly, if you would have told me that my little girl would be a certified nut about demolition derby even last week, I would have said you needed your head examined. (Incidentally, we call it smash up derby as demolition is proving as bit of a tongue twister and DALMATIAN derby just gets confusing)  Last and most important, the Drumbo fair is this weekend and I'm pretty certain there is a smash-up derby on Saturday night and Mrs. Narrator has a game...

The First Bell...

      It was a nice day so I walked to the school to pick her up. I thought she would enjoy the change and the sunshine on her face on the way home.
      Isobel: "Where is your car"
      Daddy: "I pawned it."
      Isobel: "What does that even mean?"
      Daddy: "Skip it."
      Isobel: "No, seriously where is your car?"
      Daddy: "I left it at home. I thought you might like to walk home for a change."
      Isobel: "Oh, OK. Daddy it was so cute today at recess, all the KINDIES were out playing together. They were all so funny."
      Daddy: "What's a Kindie? Is that a kindergarten kid?"
      Isobel: "Yep."

    Daddy: "You know that you were in kindergarten just last year, right? And you were the worst of the bunch due to all of your wickedness and evil?

     Isobel: "That was LAST year."



      This might be a bit of a departure to what you've grown used to but hold on and we'll see it through...
  
       I have recently been give an opportunity, a door closed and a window opened, fortune smiled on me....whatever tired metaphor you'd care to use. I will call it for what it is, a second chance. I am forty four years old (what!?! When did that happen and where was I when it did?) and with the exception of an eleven year blast as a full time, full on rock and roll star, I have spent all of my adult life inside of a factory. They are dirty, demoralizing places where you don't matter and people will go out of their way to keep you down, keep you miserable...keep you there.
      They lure you in with the promise of big money and it's there but how much you'll put up with to get to it is another matter. Would you screw over a co-worker? A friend? A brother? I've seen it happen. I've seen good people crushed under the wheels of industry while the scum rose to the top of oceans of indifference.
      I was told by my parents and I have told my children, "Whatever you do, don't work in a factory."
      It's rough and it is nearly impossible to break free of the factory cycle once you get into it. Especially if you have kids. The money comes in handy in the beginning and you think 'I'll just work here for a summer and then I'll go back to school.' Then your first child is born and now you need the money. So you think 'I'll just work one more year, build up a bit of a nest egg and then it's back to school.' Then you blink and your first child is starting school and your second is about to be born and the bills are piling up and you've just been given your yearly raise and you start to think 'School will always be there, I'll work for a few years and figure out what I want to do and if we can afford it I'll go back.' Then one day you lose that job and you forget you ever thought about going to school and you scramble trying to find a job to pay for the babysitter while your partner takes on paying for-well everything else. If you're really lucky, you'll find another full time, decent paying job quickly enough that your relationship won't suffer too much but it will suffer. The scars and resentment that come from bearing the financial burden usually go unspoken and rarely if ever heal...And then it all starts over again...and again...and again.
        Isobel and The Boy are totally familiar with the cycle. They have been through it at least four times with me and Isobel is only six. You know, playing rock and roll wasn't the most profitable venture I ever embarked on but it was one of the best decisions I ever made and I have been punished for it almost from the second I put my feet back on Canadian soil.
      But there is light in all of this. The government has a program to retrain foolish people like me who followed their dreams. They'll pay for you schooling and you books. Uniforms shoes and all other sundry expenditures provided you meet the criteria. Hell they'll even pay for your gas if you meet the requirements. Sure there are rules but when aren't there and for all the stuff I have ever said the government didn't deliver on...and there's a bit, this is one thing that seems to be all up front.
      So this is the truth of it, three of us started on monumental journeys this year. Isobel to full on school with homework and french and learning of all sorts and not a play kitchen with a hundred feet of the the classroom. The Boy has one off to senior public (his mother may never recover) and I have been sent off to college.
      At first, Izzy and I were really excited about the whole new school thing.
      "Daddy?" she asked.
      "Yep?"
      "Daddy, is your school like real school?"
      "What do you mean like real school?"
      "I mean like real school. With teachers and other people and learning things?"
     "Umm, yes?" I answered, not sure where she was going with this.
     "That's good." she said.
     "What kind of school did you think I was going to?"
     "TV school," she said. "They don't seem like they are very good places.
     I knew what she meant, I had to investigate three schools, one of which was a career college that was advertised on TV. I had mentioned to her in passing that I applied to that school but didn't really want to go to it.
     She was going to a real school, grade one, the path to grown up. The first bell.
     The Boy I am happy to report is well on his way to teenage awkward, one word responses to everything.
      "Are you worried about your first day at a new school?" I asked.
      "No." Said The Boy.
      "I guess you'll have some friends from last year and the guys you play Minecraft with to hang around with right?"
      "Yeah." said The Boy.
      "I'm a little nervous," I said. "I haven't been to school for a while and I am probably going to be the oldest in my class."
       "Oh." said The Boy.
      His heart is in the right place even if his conversational skills are not. It was a couple of days after I found out that I was well and truly accepted. All the T's had been crossed and all of he I's dotted. All that remained was my text books and paying for parking. In was putting him to bed one night and he said "I'm really glad you get to go back to school, Sid. I know you weren't happy in any of those places you worked." I'm paraphrasing a tad. It was mostly monosyllabic and had a lot of likes and um-ah's in it it but the meat of what he said remains unchanged.
      Here it is two weeks into all of our school years and I have been asking the kids how they have been getting along. It is suddenly much more important than I think it has ever been.
     "How are things at school?" I asked Izzy. "Are you having fun? Do you still play with your friends?"
     "Of course!" she gushed. "Me and Candace are in the same class and I get to play with my other friends at recess. We are learning all kinds of new stuff. We're learning french! Do you know how to say hello in french? It's bonjour!" She's a popular kid, she always has been and I see no reason why that won't continue. She has the ability to adapt herself to nearly any social situation and she can find bucketfuls of commonality in nearly any situation. I was glad to hear she is having a good time.
      So I asked The Boy thew same question;
     "How are things at school? Are you having? Do you still play with your friends?"
      "Sure." said The Boy.
         In the normal run of things I might be concerned with his not wanting to talk about ...anything but he has grown so much over this past summer. Things that would have made him lose his mind a short time ago, roll of his back now. If all he can manage s a syllable or two from now until doomsday it'll be alright with me. Most of his friends speak the same way anyway. Better to be part of the gang than trampled by it. Especially at his age.
      So how are things at school Sid? Are you having fun? Do you still play with your friends?
I have to be honest that until this past Monday, I thought I had made a gigantic mistake and that I was in way over my head. I spent most of last week wandering around hopelessly lost, trying to find classrooms. Wandering around hallways looking for the cafeteria, feeling like all eyes are on the 'far out old man who came back to school.' All the while thinking that there must be somebody from the Ministry of  Training and Colleges ready to jump out and take it all away from me and send me back to factory I sneaked out of. By last Friday, I was nearly ready to say I couldn't do it, that it was too different and I was to afraid to step out of the box. I didn't dare say anything to anybody about how I felt, that would make it too real...my failure would be complete.
      I asked Izzy about school that day as we walked home. Of course she said it was fine.
      "What did you learn at school today?" I asked her.
      "We don't really learn a lot at school." she said.
      "You don't really learn much?" I asked. "What are you doing then?"
      "Mostly the stuff we did last year." she said, sounding dejected. "I keep waiting for the new learning to happen."
      "I learned about helping people." I said.
      "That sounds like fun." Isobel said.
      "It's kind of scary." I said.
      "Helping people is scary?"
      "No," I replied. "Learning all the new stuff is scary. I'm not sure if I'll be good enough to do all this stuff."
      "I think you should just do it." she said.
      "Do what?" I asked.
      "School," she said with a tone that said I was far too stupid to be in school f I had to ask a question like that. "Just go to school and learn how to help people."
       I kept coming back to that all night. Mulling it over in my mind. She didn't mean it to be as deep as I was reading it (cripes maybe she did?) but her sentiment was the point. I talked all summer long about how much I wanted to go back to school and now I was. There was no question in it. I wanted it, I got it. Now follow through. It's not as though I actually entertained the thought of quitting, that was never an option but self doubt can be poisonous...and it will paralyze you if you let it in.
      Yesterday was our first lab-handwashing. I scored high and was suddenly being asked technique questions by the other students and complimented by the Instructor. It felt good and I felt accepted. It felt nice to finally get a god-damned break. I said the other day how odd it felt to know that once school is over, I will never see the inside of a factory again. I can do this...I owe it to Izzy and The Boy. Hell, I owe it to me. There is sunshine outside the factory walls and there are buses that run out that way all the time but if you don't keep your head up, they'll pass you by. Here's hoping my tickets won't get revoked.
    


       

    

     

School Dazed And Confused Redux Again...Rocket Man...

      She was preparing to go back to school and so we practiced some spelling.
      Isobel:  "Daddy, what does  r-e-s-p-o-n-s-i-b-l-e spell?
      Daddy: "Responsible."
      Isobel: "What does responsible mean?"
      Daddy: "It means you have to do something. Or it can mean you have control over something."
      Isobel: "What?"
      Daddy: "You know, like Mummy says if something goes wrong, Daddy is responsible."
      Isobel: "Daddy. What does it really mean?"
      Daddy: "No really Pick, that's what it means."
      Isobel: "I'll just be careful then."
   

      Ah another school year has begun and with it have come many changes. Isobel started first grade this year, The Boy has gone off to a whole new school and your humble narrator has embarked on his quest to be the oldest geezer on campus at the local community college. Big things are on the horizon, good or bad is uncertain but big things to be sure.
    OK so the whole truth of the matter is three of us went back to school today. Two in the traditional fashion and one (me) by means of the Canadian government and as I am the only one with homework, this week's screed may seem shorter than usual. I do like to blather on however so who knows how this will turn out.
      I remember Isobel's first day of school. It was only two years ago though it seems so much more than that. I took her and fought every instinct to grab her and run away. You want to protect your kids from all harm. Even the harm that eventually does them good, like primary school and appendicitis surgery. I didn't run away with her, rather I held her hand and watched her face go as ashen as mine as the recess lady came and took her off to class. The next year (senior kindergarten) was old hat. More of the same fun with her friends from last year. She gave me a peck on the cheek and skipped off to play with her pals. No fuss, no muss.
      Now just sort of backtracking a bit, at the end of the school year last year, Isobel  and the rest of the SK kids were given an envelope that read 'To be opened the night before Grade 1.' Totally forgotten by everyone except me. (The curse of excellent long term memory, I can remember what Mrs. Narrator was wearing the night I met her but I'll be damned if I can remember what she told me this morning.) In this envelope was a letter - a poem actually. AND glittery confetti.
     "Oh," said Isobel. "That goes under your pillow."
      Mrs. Narrator and I got a god chuckle out of that.
      "Honey,"I said. "I don't think it goes under your pillow, it's not the School Fairy."
      Yeah...so as we read further on in the poem....the confetti was for under the pillow. Meant to help you sleep through the  night...no nervous jitters and that...
      So I have taken Isobel to both of her first days to school and I have to admit that I was a little disappointed that she didn't want me to take her this year. Mrs. Narrator is working from home now and so Isobel wanted Mummy to take her to school the first day. She was nervous I was told and a little unsure of where to go and what to do. I imagine she was the ashen hue she was on the very first day of school. Mrs. Narrator said she felt awful for Isobel until her teacher from last year came and took her and another girl to where the needed to go. When I picked her up after school today, it was a predictable 'GREAT!' when she reported how her day went.
 The one word answers I got from The Boy told me that he will do well at this school (even though I know he was a little nervous about the whole new school deal) and that he has matured a great deal over this summer...maybe we all have.
     As for myself, I have been anxious since the day I found out I was approved to go back to school on the Government's dime. Not because I didn't think I was capable of it. Rather I was always afraid they would find me out for the fraud that I am and change their minds. "No Mr. Baker, you can't go to school after all. Go find another factory job and try again next year.' It's nice to catch a break and feel like I am not being punished for running away to join the circus. By this morning, I was utterly shitting myself. I told the mirror at least a dozen times that I couldn't do this and I was stupid to think I could just walk away from factory life...But I did.
      They say that a door closes, a window opens. I think many doors have closed in the history of this family for good or for ill but three tiny windows opened this morning...hell we kicked the bastards in. Broken glass and glittery confetti...Ain't education great?


      This is the part of this week's blog where I was going to talk about the awesome gift The Boy got from his Auntie Kimmie. A model rocket. I assembled the rocket, the launch pad, made certain we had enough engines and wadding to hurtle cardboard missile skyward. The only thing missing? The Boy.
     He has of late, become addicted to Minecraft and Skype. and so did not care to have his rocket slip the surly bonds of earth. I threw down a layer of shame so thick even he couldn't slip out of it and told him that without a doubt we would be shooting his rocket this weekend or his computer days would becoming to an end. So stay tuned for this impending wacky adventure with me and The Boy.
     In the meanwhile, here is a picture of Isobel in her new sunglasses since I didn't get a picture in her new school outfit.

     

Time To Say Good-bye...Crying...

          She had a shower and was heading upstairs to get her jammies.
      Daddy: "All shiny and clean like a baby's bum?"
      Isobel : "Like what?"
      Daddy: "Skip it. Going to get your warm jammies on?"
      Isobel:  "Yep."
      Daddy: "Well, safe travels then."
      Isobel: "What?"
      Daddy: Never mind."
      Isobel: (Coming downstairs) "Daddy?"
      Daddy: "Yep?"
      Isobel: "Notice anything?"
      Daddy: "No...well, you are walking like a cowboy...you lost your horse, that's it?"
      Isobel: "Daddy."
      Daddy: "Not that huh?"
     Isobel: "Do you know why I am walking like this?"
     Daddy: "Not the horse?"
     Isobel: "Nope."
     Daddy: "OK Pick, I give up. Why are you walking like a cowboy?"
     Isobel: "I'm still sticky."



       I am a pack rat. I come from a long line of pack rats. I suspect it has something to do with thievery somewhere in my family's past but I'm just guessing on that. It wouldn't surprise me though. Filthy, sneaky buggers that we are. There's that wandering away that they warned me about. OK, back in session...pack rats...right... I am one and so is my progeny.
      Izzy made me an Easter egg at school ( I want you to remember that I said Easter) it was about a foot long and decorated with many colours and stripes. It was made with love or at least a sense of holiday obligation and she chose to give it to me. It sat beside the sink in the kitchen for a couple of days and got splashed. That's when I noticed that the Easter egg became sticky.
      "Isobel?" I inquired of my thoughtful child.
       "What?" she came bounding down the stairs as though the speed at which she got to the bottom might get her some kind of reward.
        "What is this Easter egg made of?"
       She answered slowly but with a tone that said she thought I was the most stupid man she had ever known. "...Paper?"
      "No, no." I said trying to prove that I wasn't the most stupid man she had ever known. "What is on it that is making it sticky?"
      "Oh," she said and I swear I hear an 'you old fool' in there somewhere. "We put real cake icing on it and then sprayed it with sugar and water to make it sparkle."
     Ingenious and inventive and very popular with the cats. Now as I mentioned I am a pack rat and a parent of six years. To that end, I am never certain what of my children's master pieces I should keep and for how long? Is there a best before date on school projects? I know the really big ones I should keep for as long as possible (my mother still has a clay turtle that looks as though it had a stroke made by my brother. I believe it was a Mother's day gift for her. In October my brother will turn 49.)
    Anything that I can't immediately make a joke about or something that, dare I say makes me a little misty, is going to go the distance if humanly possible. But where in all of that do sticky Easter cards and drawings of mittens and pictures of damn fine duckies fall? So the icky sticky Easter egg was tucked away with the full intention of being disposed at an opportune time. I would look at the shelf in my room and see it there, the icky sticky Easter egg and it would mock me. It would laugh and in my head I would hear it tell me that it would be there till the house fell or I did and it didn't care which came first. Such are the trials of the pack rat.
      It is the last week of August and I (for whatever earthly reason) looked at my shelf today and noticed the icky sticky Easter egg. It was now the crunchy crusty Easter egg and into the trash can it duly went.
      Now there's a good bet that a pack rat will tend to produce another pack rat, there are few examples of it being a recessive trait. At least in my family. Isobel is NOT an exception.
      "Daddy, why is your picture in the trash?" she asked.
      "It's old and dried out, honey." I fumbled.
      "Oh," she said. "OK."
     I figured that was the end of it.
      "Isobel?" I asked her. "Why is your tongue blue?"
      "It isn't." she said.
      "Are you licking the Easter egg?"
      "No!" she said. The utterly aghast tone and indignation in her voice told me that she was of course licking the crunchy crusty Easter egg. I'm certain it was well on its way to being icky and sticky again. About an hour later, she had completely given in to thew bunny on her back and came down the stairs taking big long licks off the icky sticky Easter egg.
     "Oh god," I said. "Are you nuts?"
      "What?" she said.
      "You're licking that Easter egg."
      "I can't help it Daddy," she pleaded. "It's just so good."
     She took a giant lick of it like it was an all day sucker. It wasn't, it was an icky sticky Easter egg that had sat on my dusty bedroom shelf since April. It is August.
      "It is August, Isobel. That thing has been sitting on my shelf collecting dust since April. You're not going to think t is so good when you are throwing up tonight or shitting yourself blind tomorrow morning."
      While I was fairly certain she wouldn't get the slightest symptom from the icky sticky crunchy crusty Easter egg, I wanted her to understand that we don't eat old food. (All you beer and whisky and cheese people zip it)
      "Isobel," I said. "Sometimes we have to let go of the things that we really like. Especially when they get old and could potentially poison us. It's not a lot of fun but that's just the way it is. As you get older, you'll see I'm right." I was proud of myself for not freaking out and still managing to sound Fathery at the end of it all.
       "That sounds made up." she said.

       I was sitting downstairs when I heard a terrible sound coming from her room. I thought it was a terrible sound. It sounded awful, as though she were up there wailing over some terrible wrong that had just been inflicted on her. Or some great pain she was being made to endure. It is not a sound a parent wants to hear come out of their child. Ever. I raced upstairs to get to her. What could possibly have happened in the few minutes since she had been up there? I tried not to think of the worst. My brain switched into high gear, trying to think of all the things that were upstairs that she could have injured herself with.
     I got to the top of the stairs and bolted to her room...
         She was sitting on her bed, with headphones on and singing into the auto tune singing machine we got her for Christmas. Wailing away without a care in the world...
     "What?" she asked.
      "I thought you were crying," I said. "I was worried.
     "No, I'm OK." she said. "But my singing was so good, I FELT like crying."