Blue Angels 2007

Have I ever mentioned that I like airplanes?


I'm so proud - my first youtube post......

Common Ground

Grant and Stanley don't always get along with each other. Go figure.

Sometimes they get along just fine (usually when they're plunked on the couch watching Spongebob) but other times...well...not so good. What typically happens is that Stan wants to play with his buddies and Grant can't leave them alone, and I'm usually trying to step in between them before too much blood is spilled. Boys will be boys but I try to intervene once someone picks up a weapon which happens more often than not.

But over the last couple days we've found some common ground. Our old flower garden. Or as I like to call it, our worm hunting grounds.

Last fall we had a small storage shed built where our old garden was. We took down the fencing and where we used to have our wildfowers is some open area where the boys can dig. It started on Monday afternoon with Grant and I, and yesterday afternoon Stan jumped into the fray. I use the big shovel to dig into some of the harder terra firma while the 2 boys use hand spades to do the detail work.

So far neither handspade has been used in anger.

I think it's good dirty fun. They get along and work together, get out in the fresh air and away from the TV. And me, I get free bait and a little sanity.

A Quiet Walk

Life is busy, that's a given. Like most, I don't take the time to stop and smell the roses and I really should. I think all of us should. Like most, my days are hurried and harried and you never seem to be able to catch up.

Running, Running, Running.

Always.

And it sucks.

My morning drive up Pilot Knob Road in Eagan is fairly mundane, the usual crawl up north through the suburban stop lights sipping the usual coffee, and flipping through the usual morning talk radio. Both the coffee and conversation bland at best. Normally I'm focused ahead of me, watching for brake lights and the occasional Canadian Goose. But something caught my eye this morning.

On the sidewalk along Pilot Knob was an elderly couple walking up the sidewalk. Hand in Hand.

There was quiet there. Peace. Dignity.

It wasn't quite a DeBeers diamond commercial, but I found it poignant nevertheless. Through all the hustle and daily business there walked partners in life seemingly oblivious to the daily chaos surrounding them.

Hopefully one day I'll have that peace.

One day in the Rosemount Post Office....

Our 3 year old, Grant, can be a handful. A handful as in a hand-grenade with the pin pulled, or a handful as in you can’t get enough of your hands on him because you just want to squeeze him to pieces. Kids are like that. Some moments we might want to sell him to the circus but you take a breath and he’ll have a glint in his eye and you can start laughing until tears come from yours.

On April 17th he decided to be a hand grenade.

Well maybe that’s not entirely fair. On that Monday, Brenda had taken him on some errands, nothing big, and nothing too strenuous. But at the Rosemount Post Office he started to get whiny. Not that I blame him, I mean seriously, how much fun can you have at a post office as an adult let alone as a 3 year old?

It’s a Monday, and it’s also Tax Day so there are a few people there. No biggie. She brings him in and goes to our P.O box, meanwhile, Grant is complaining that he wants to go home. No full-on meltdown, no snot-flying, tear-drenching epic tantrum. He’s whining a bit but hey, we’ve seen worse. Brenda continues to do her thing, managing his volume and getting her stuff done.

“BE QUIET!” a voice booms out. But it’s not my wife’s voice. She turns to look and there is some middle-aged lady glaring over at Grant. Stunned, Brenda takes him by the hand and into the line to mail something. Grant continues to whine, same volume, but there’s not anything Brenda can really do about it.

“SHUT-UP!” the voice comes again from behind the line. “Is she talking to him?” asks another woman behind my wife in line. “I guess so….” She answers in shocked anger. Brenda finishes her business, and without a word walks out of the Post Office with Grant in tow.

Now I’m a parent, so I have an ability to drown out most whining, but I can also see the other side, because I don’t enjoy hearing it either. But I tell you what, you have some balls telling a parents kid to shut up. I’ll give granny the benefit of a doubt, maybe she was just having a bad day. After all it was tax day so maybe she was pissed off that she had to mail her pull-tab money to the government. Who knows.

Good thing it was Brenda instead of me. I would’ve gone postal.

Un-Reality Television

I don't watch a whole lot of TV anymore. My viewing diet typically consists of hockey (go figure), the Discovery Channel, the Food Network, the National Geographic channel, and a little of the History Channel.

I like to watch music videos but since MTV and VH1 don't show those anymore I go to youtube for those. VH1 Classic actually does show video's that don't annoy me so I'll give credit where credit is due.

What I really detest these days are so-called "Reality Shows". I had about 3 minutes in the first survivor just to see if anyone would be dumb enough to eat a cooked rat. I haven't seen an episode of American Idol, the Bachelor, or any of network television pablum that passes for entertainment.

Two of my favorite shows could be considered reality shows however and I'll explain why I differentiate them from most of the others.

One of my favorite shows is "Deadliest Catch" on Discovery Channel. If you want reality this is it. It is life and death - and from this viewers perspective, there isn't anything on that show that isn't compelling. You can't fake the terror and fear of an entire crew when a 60 foot rougue wave knocks a boat on it's side. It's not like they can tell 2 captains that they're going to have to race between a couple of islands and see who catches the most and then give a rose to the winner. That's crap.

My other favorite is American Chopper now on TLC (previously on Discovery). While I haven't paid as much attention to it this season as I have in the past I still follow and enjoy the show. The constant Paul Jr. vs. Paul Sr. battles have long been lost on me but what I enjoy the most is watching the crew create. I don't even own a motorcyle but I can appreciate the effort and creativity involved in fabricating one. I'm not naive enough to think that shit isn't sprinkled into the mix to keep things interesting but all in all I think it's entertaining.

But why must every other media outlet have to shove these shows down our throats? I understand that Fox9 has to pimp "Idol" because it's on the network. But when I turn on the radio in my car on my morning drive I find myself flipping the dial trying to get away from the "results."

Darfur.
Iraq.
Proposed 350% increase on the beer tax.

These are issues, not who got booted, not if Paula is drunk or not.

I make the choice to not watch it, I'm also given the choice to not to care about it. Don't try to convince me that I should.

End of the season...

The Gophers lost 3-2 to UND tonight so the 2006-2007 season is in the books and over with. But that's not the season that I'm upset that ended.

My son's Mite season ended today. One of the things that I hate is putting the gear away after the season. After every practice and scrimmage I go to the basement and take out all of his gear, hang it up and air it out so it doesn't smell and get develop a lot of mold. I swear that in the bottom of some kids hockey bag is the cure for cancer.

He played his final games against the other Rosemount teams this weekend and we got shelled pretty bad yesterday but today while he was in goal he played pretty well and we wound up winning. So after I turned in the goalie gear and we came home, I took the bag downstairs and hung it all up. It seems like the year went by so fast, and like so many things in childhood you wish that they wouldn't end, but you blink and they are gone in an instant.

We had our team party after the afternoon game yesterday and it was fun to have a chance to chat with all the other parents over a couple of beers. As an assistant coach I'm always worried about teaching and coaching and sometimes you can forget about the parents that bring those players to practices and games. Last year for the Boosters I put DVD's togehter for 14 of the teams, and while I wasn't asked to do it this year for the Boosters, one of the mom's and I decided to do one on our own. I gave them to the kids and they loved them. For all the yelling and prodding I did this year I thought it was the least that I could do.

So his gear hangs in the laundry room, socks and jersey in the dirty clothes pile ready for the washer. Shin pads and gloves quiet and dry. True, I could have him in spring hockey, but he hasn't pushed, and I haven't pushed either. The season started in November and it's time for him to hang it up for now. But I still hate it.

Hockey Dreams can Come True

The following story is something I had written in the spring of 2006. I wanted to capture the moment before my memories had faded. I hope that you enjoy it.

Youth hockey in Minnesota can be a wonderful yet trying endeavor for any hockey parent. From association fundraisers to far away weekend tournaments and summer hockey camps you know that once you start your son or daughter in the sport and it takes hold of them you are going to be in it for the long haul. While I had only played organized hockey for a brief time as a child I knew of the trials and tribulations of my parents taking me to games and practices at all hours and in all weather, and now being the father of a 7-year-old Mini - Mite 2 in the Rosemount, Minnesota hockey association I steel myself for the long journey ahead. Who knew that on this damp, foggy November morning, our journey into youth hockey would take an unexpected and wonderful turn.

It was Thanksgiving weekend and we were scheduled to practice at Inver Grove Heights since Rosemount was hosting their Peewee and Bantam tournaments. Ordinarily I bring my son to the rink by myself as our precocious 2 year old, Grant, would rather toddle around the rink with my wife in tow than watch what is happening on the ice. But this morning we decided that all of us should come to the rink to watch Stanley and the rest of his team practice. My son plays in the Rosemount Area Hockey Association, located in Rosemount, Minnesota, which is a small-to-medium size, outer ring suburb of the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. While not a traditional suburban hockey power, the program seems to be making the right moves to grow and develop players through the association. Rosemount begins with its Initiation Program at the Mini-Mite level, which comprises of kids from the ages of 5-8 years old. Most of this team had played together before in Mini-Mite 1’s the previous year and it was a joy watching how they had all developed and improved in the short time since they had started out. While most of the kids on the team had previous skating and/or hockey ability, there were some who needed a little extra attention while on the ice; and as coaches and parents it was our job to help them along with little coaching but lots of encouragement.

We arrived at the arena running late as usual, and Stanley and I walked down the hallway to the locker rooms while my wife Brenda, and my youngest took to the grandstands. Before too long I had Stanley’s skates laced up, helmet strapped on and I sent him out onto the ice ahead of me. By the time I had my skates tightened and gloves on, the rink was full of Mini-Mite 2’s. Before coming out onto the ice, one of our coaches, Steve Lewandowski was joking around in the locker room telling the rest of us coaches that we were under evaluation, when in fact he had forgotten his skates and was going to have to watch from the stands today. The rest of us joked around that we’d better be on our best behavior lest we be cut from the squad. So onto the rink I went.

Being that it was the Thanksgiving weekend I didn’t quite expect the number of players on the ice or family in the stands that we had show up. I figured that since it was a holiday weekend that there would be a fair amount of kids who would be out of town visiting family, but as I skated around and warmed up it appeared that most everyone must have enjoyed their holiday here. After a few minutes of skating around and stick handling it was time to start our drills. Our Head Coach, Doug Ebner blew the whistle, the kids obediently shot pucks back into the nets and skated down to the far end line for some warm-up drills. During these drills we have the kids practice their strides, their stopping and starting, and making sure they keep “Good Hockey Position,” which is both hands on the stick, knees bent, and head up.

After we do these initial drills then it’s time to break the team into thirds and to move them to different “stations”. Coach Mike Burr and I took our group to the center ice area and started having our kids practice their stopping techniques, while Coach Doug had his group in one end skating around the cones and shooting on the goalie, who this week was his son Wyatt. The far group with Coach Mark Peare was working diligently on how to correctly pass the puck. While we encouraged and exhorted our players about using proper techniques, I slowly realized that something was going on in the lobby.

Soon after starting our drills I looked over to the lobby area, as there seemed to be some sort of commotion happening. Looking over I saw a group players walking into the rink, full gear on, many wearing their helmets, and all wearing dark green hockey pants and socks. They also seemed a size or two larger than your typical youth hockey player. Curious of what was happening I skated over towards the boards, and to my utter amazement I realized who it was.

It was the Minnesota Wild.
I’ve been a hockey fan for as far back as I remember. When my brother went to the University of Minnesota he worked at the ticket office and was occasionally able to get us tickets to watch the Golden Gophers at the old Mariucci Arena. This was in the late 1970’s when Herb Brooks was working magic before the Miracle. I was hooked, and it wouldn’t let go. I’d also catch every Minnesota North Stars game I could, many nights listening to them on the radio in my room as I drifted out to sleep. I can’t remember how many late afternoons were spent at the local rink after school with a few friends, noses running, toes frozen, but never tiring. Each one of us was Neal Broten, Bill Baker, and Mike Ramsey, or a multitude of college or NHL’ers in front of thousands of screaming, cheering fans. When I’d find solitary time on the rink I would forever be Mike Eruzione turning and wristing a hard shot past the Soviet goalie to the delight of a nation, dancing on the ice, with arms raised in jubilation. In my mind I’d run over a running commentary in either Al Michaels or Al Shavers voices; “Up the boards to Broten, across to Christian, fed to the slot to Ancheta…he shoots, he scores!!!” Then I’d gather the puck from out of the goal, skate back the other end of the rink and do it all over again. And again. And again. And again until the lights came on and I’d have to rush home for dinner.

But while I was excited to see the Wild in the building, part of me wasn’t sure to make of it. My first fear was that they were going to kick us off the ice. In fact, once I realized that it was indeed the Wild I skated over to where Brenda and Grant were sitting in the stands and excitedly told them that the Wild were at the rink. Wide-eyed she asked me what they were doing at the rink, and at the time I wasn’t sure. Later on we found out that Xcel Energy Center where they play and practice was being used for a concert that evening and the Wild needed a place to go and Inver Grove Heights was an alternate location for the team. Meanwhile, as the realization of the Wild being in the building began to spread around the families in the stands, and the kids and coaches on the ice I began to wonder if we were going to be able to remain on the ice to finish our practice. I know how disappointed I would be, but my main concern would be how the kids would feel.
I skated up to my son, ”Stanley, guess who’s here?” He looked over to the lobby area, since vacated by the players, “who dad?”
“The Wild just showed up. I don’t know what they’re doing here, maybe we’ll be able to watch them practice before we’re done.” His eyes grew to be big dark saucers; he smiled around his mouthpiece, and skated away to continue his drill.

I found myself looking over to the door that leads from the locker rooms to the ice every few seconds, waiting for a couple of the Wild players to hopefully join us on the ice. I asked Coach Mike if he knew anything about this but he was as much in the dark as the rest of us were. The previous spring after our season was finished, Coach Doug had arranged for our team to skate at Excel Energy Center and Mariucci Arena on the same day, about 3 hours apart. I thought that somehow Doug had pulled a few strings and had the Wild show up as a treat. But he had ho idea of what was going on either. After a few more minutes of drills (which none of us could seem to really concentrate on), I saw the door swing open, and out stepped the Minnesota Wild. And it wasn’t just a few of them, but it was the whole team. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Coach Steve Lewendowski, who had forgotten his skates, had approached Brent Burns (#8) of the Wild and asked him if he and some of the other players would like to join our Mini-Mites on the ice, and he agreed. Instead of sulking about a scheduling mistake, the players piled out of the locker room and joined us all on the ice. They weren’t kicking us off the ice, no; they wanted to share it with us. It was a relief to me, and I wasn’t the only one. Griffin Lanoue, one of our hard charging players, had been worried as well. At first he didn’t know who these guys were, but when he realized that he was staring Dwayne Roloson (#30) in the mask, and recognized Marion Gaborik (#10) skating around he figured that he was going to have a pretty good day. He was right.

So there I was in front of one of the players benches, trying to keep 7-year-olds interested in learning on how use proper edge control when they stop at the cone. Yeah right. Like that’s what was going to happen now. To my surprise, Kyle Wanvig (#27) skated up to me and asked, “So coach, what drill are we running?”
“We’re skating up and stopping at the cones to practice our edges,” I replied.
“Mind if we jump in line with your guys?”
“Sure,” I replied, “why not,” I answered back. Sure enough, players like, Kyle Wanvig, Wes Walz (#37), and Stephane Veilleux (#19) jumped into line, our Mini-Mites looking up at them in disbelief, and we briefly continued our drill. Suddenly I noticed how crisply our players were skating and stopping, fast to start, and hard to stop, an intensity in their faces as they came to stop in front of me. When the Wild came through they also did there best to impress me that they knew the drill, grinning the entire time. Wes Walz looked over to our group of Mini-Mite’s and said in a loud voice, “who wants to skate with me?” All of them let out a resounding roar and followed him in a board-to-board relay as fast as their legs would take them. I noticed my son and how suddenly intense he was, trying to impress, knees bent, both hands on the stick. Good Hockey Position. Just like we were teaching them. Stephane Veilleux approached me and talked to me for a few minutes, asking how old the kids were and which team we were. I commented about the season the Wild were having, and thanked him for coming out to skate with the kids. It was then and there how I realized how surreal this whole thing was.

There we were on a Sunday morning in a suburban ice arena, with 7-year-old kids, and the local professional hockey team sharing the rink. My son has a runny nose while skating after Wes Walz, I had “The Franchise “, Marion Gaborik stickhandling in one end of the rink, with Wild team enforcer Derek Boogaard (#24) who is 6 feet 7 inches tall (without skates), skating next to kids who barely reach the bottom of his hockey pants in the other. Gram Peterson later remarked to his dad, upon looking up at Boogaard, “Dad, he was taller than the Zamboni!” On one end of the rink I saw Wild players curling around the circles to take a shots on goal on Kindergartener Wyatt Ebner, placing well-placed pucks in the middle of his leg pads. When asked by his dad, Coach Doug Ebner, what it was like to make saves on real pro hockey players, Wyatt deadpanned, “Dad, they are shooting them into my legs.” A couple days previous, Wyatt had gone to his first Wild game where they had played the St. Louis Blues, and Pierre – Marc Bouchard (#96) had scored a couple of goals, and now here he was clearing pucks out from behind Wyatt and chatting with him as he stood between the pipes. In the far end, Pascal Dupuis (#11) was giving some instruction on how to zip a pass across and catch a pass softly, our kids absorbing every word. Meanwhile, all of the parents and families of the Mini-Mites who were expecting to be patiently stamping their cold feet and drinking their hot cocoa are staring in the ice in complete disbelief.

After some of this initial shock wore off I realized something, and that was how much of a good time the Wild players were having. The cynical part of me thought that I’d see some dour looks from these adults, some of them multi-millionaires, of having their practice disrupted by a group of 7-year-old beginners. But by the looks on their smiling, laughing faces I knew that it couldn’t be further from the truth. Seeing and hearing them urge the kids along, passing them pucks, chasing them, almost made it seem like they were enjoying the moment even more then our players. All of them, kids and pros were sharing a special time, and all of them seemed to know it. This wasn’t some sort of convoluted publicity stunt thought up by some marketing whiz from the NHL. This was an honest mistake in scheduling that turned into something special. Under these helmeted heads you could sense the joy. In each Wild player you could see that they remembered what it was like to be that 7-year-old, full of wonder and exuberance, before statistics and bonuses seemed important. And in the children’s eyes you could see the joy of know that someday, they could be this player in a Wild sweater, skating in front of thousands of cheering fans.

As was our usual team practice, we broke into scrimmages, again dividing the ice in thirds, with blue on one side, and yellow on the other. We let the Wild figure out where they wanted to play. One of our kids, Nick Peare is a sparkplug of a player, always moving, always skating, and seemingly always scoring. At one point, Wes Walz looked over to me and says, “hey coach we better put a ‘checker’ on this guy.” I laughed and filed that one away to make sure that I told Nick’s father after the skate. Goals were scored, and through it all we laughed and enjoyed the scrimmage. But pretty soon it was time to get off the ice. We gathered our players from each end and congregated at center ice, our players taking a knee, the Wild players taking knees beside and standing behind them. Rather than 2 separate teams on the ice, for 20 short minutes they were all one team. The players faced the stands for a couple of pictures, and the applause of the gathered family and fans, while not necessarily loud, was heartfelt and thankful.

As we gathered in the locker rooms afterwards it sounded like a million voices at once. “Did you see….,” and “Wow, wasn’t it cool…” Each child had his or her own story and wanted everyone to hear it all at the same time. We piled out of the locker room to see if we could catch some practice and maybe a couple of autographs from the players. After the Zamboni was off of the ice, a few of the players took some time to sign whatever pieces of clothing or spare pieces of paper we parents could find in the arena. Dylan Hall had about 6 or 7 autographs on his Rosemount Irish jersey, and my son had his stocking cap signed by goaltender Dwayne Roloson. Andrew Howard didn’t have any paper with him, so he literally took the shirt off his back and had the Wild players sign it while he zipped up his winter coat to keep the chill of the arena out.

We stayed for the rest of the practice session, amazed at the speed, the grace, and the power of the NHL’ers, and part of it was back to business for them. My son and a friend of his from the other Mini – Mite team went back behind the bench to catch some action there. One of the Wild trainers pretended to squirt water at them from behind the Plexiglas. As they were laughing and walking back to us parents, Coach Mike Ramsey scooped a blade full of snow of the ice, lifted it over the glass, and showered our 2 unsuspecting boys. As they looked up surprised, Coach Ramsey had a laugh and skated away back to practice. “Who was that?” asked my son.
“That’s Coach Mike Ramsey,” I answered, “he played for Herb Brooks in the 1980 Olympics.”
“He played for Herbie?”
“Yep, you just got a blade-full of snow from a guy who beat the Soviets and won a gold medal.”
“Cool.”
Yes…very cool.

As practice wound down, and the Wild players cleared the ice, a few of us remained, our children patiently waiting to see if they could get a couple of more autographs. And the players for the Wild didn’t disappoint. They took their time, smiled, signed, and walked out to the team bus that was waiting outside. If anyone on our Mini-Mite team wasn’t a Minnesota Wild fan before, they sure were now.
As we drove home that day we just couldn’t believe what had just occurred. In fact, I couldn’t believe it the next day when the Minneapolis Star-Tribune ran a small little article of the practice in the sports section. Our family left the rink that day walking on a cloud. The memories that we would take away from this day would stay in our minds forever. Someday, Wyatt Ebner would be able to tell his kids how he stopped the Wild shooters again and again, or how Wyatt Solderholm scored a hat trick against Dwayne Roloson. And how my son would be able to tell his kids how Manny Fernandez lightly punched him on his facemask when he smiled and said hello. It’ll be a thousand stories out of a thousand little experiences that were encompassed in those brief 20 minutes on the ice.

For those children on that day, the players and the coaches of the Minnesota Wild did something extraordinary; they inspired without trying. By being everything they were, and nothing they weren’t, they demonstrated to our kids how much they truly love the game. And to us coaches and parents, by showing respect to our kids, they helped to make life long hockey fans. For me, part of a child’s past came true, I can now say I shared the ice with past, present and future Olympic medal winners, Stanley Cup Champions, and NHL All-Stars. For a late starter who’d never made it past Midget “B” I thought I’d made out ok. I know that this life-journey as a hockey dad is going to be filled with challenges. I’m sure some mornings I’ll be sick of sitting in cold arenas while drinking 3rd rate coffee from out of thin paper cups. I’m sure I’ll wince in discomfort every time I get the monthly bill for ice time. But I know that I’ll temper that that by knowing that through it all, hockey dreams can come true.

My good deed for the day....

It was my first winter here at work (1992) and we had a little departmental Christmas Party. Since I was living at home at the time my mom didn't want me bringing in a platter of Twinkies so she cooked up some eggrolls and dipping sauce. My manager at the time, Mike, loved the things and he would've eaten the whole tray of them if we would have left the room.

Since that time I've changed positions here at work and when we cross paths he'll ask me when he can expect some of my moms eggrolls. It's an insiders joke and we'll laugh about it.

But a few months ago things weren't so funny. He had gone to the doctor complaining about some pain in his leg. After a couple more appointments he finds out that he's got a tumor in his leg. For a while there he was on a chemo drip to shrink it down so they could eventually operate and remove it. While he was on that poison he was shrinking away in front of us, he lost his hair, and was on limited duty here at work.

But things are looking better now. The operation went well, his hair is starting to come back, and he's back to full duty.

And as an added bonus, he's got some more eggrolls. I told my mom about his plight and she was more than happy to make some more for him. He said he owes me. Naw, it's all good. Just so he's back at it is payment enough for me.

And my mom made up some extras for me.....

Sometimes a little "Thank You" means a lot

Yesterday afternoon we went to my parents place for dinner. Before we left our house we decided that it might be a good day to introduce our 3-year-old, Grant, to skating. So we loaded up our skates and sticks and headed to my folks place.

After we arrived we sat and visited for a while, and then the 4 of us drove down to the local flooded park/rink to skate a little while. Grant did ok, his little feet were chopping all over the place and in all reality I think he had more fun on the swings with mom than on the ice with dad. He did something I thought was fairly amazing though, he actually stood up by himself on his skates. Not too bad his first time out. I don't expect him to be another Sidney Crosby.....Derek Boogaard maybe....but I digress...

So after a few more minutes of tolerating the cold, Brenda and Grant have had enough. Stanley and I aren't quite done skating around yet so I tell them to pack up and drive home since it's only a short way back to my parent's house. So then it's just my 8-year-old and I out there on the rink.

This is the park where as a child I spent many a winter afternoon with my neighborhood friends. None of us played organized hockey, hell, truthfully we could barely skate. But like many Minnesota kids, it was at frozen sheets like these where we learned to skate, fall and get up. And in many ways learned about ourselves. As kids we'd come straight out to this rink and play until either the street lights came on or until we couldn't feel most of our extremities. Most times it would be the lights that came on first.

So it's just me any my eldest on the rink. This is his 3rd year of organized hockey so he's got some ability in him, he's a student of the game and plays hard and fair. He's also spent a fair time at the rink in full gear though scrimmages and practices. Around cones, on the line, around the circles, etc.... One thing he hadn't done yet this winter was spend time alone on the rink, no gear, no drills. Just time for creativity with the puck, dreaming 8-year-old hockey dreams.

So that's what I let him do.

We skate, we pass the puck to each other, but we don't really talk too much. We just play. No pressure, no pads, no whistles. Just my kid and I on the ice hanging out. Was it magical? No, not really. Was it fun? Absolutely.

After a while we both were starting to feel the cold (more me than him) so we decided to kick off the skates and head back to my parents house. As I'm getting my skates off he says, "dad, thanks for taking me skating today. That was fun."

Yes it was.

Merry Christmas Everyone!

This is just too funny not to post!

Why does being a business traveler have to suck?

In my previous post I mentioned that I'm in Seattle on business. Well that's where I am right now, sitting in my hotel room, eating some leftovers (courtesy of The Boeing Aircraft Company) and contemplating a couple of things...

...Like, why does it have to suck being a business traveler?...

Maybe I'm just old, but remember when getting on an airplane (business or pleasure) used to be fun. Go to the airport, watch the airplanes land and take-off, get on board, have a meal, read a book, get off, and away you go.

Not anymore.

You take off your shoes going through security, all of your items are x-rayed, poked, and prodded, then you squeeze aboard, maybe get some pretzels, and now...away you go.

Ever since I took this job with the airline I've noticed how much business travel seems to suck for everyone. I still have a good time but for so many people it seems like they just aren't having any fun at all. I mean really, isn't life too short to be attached to your Blackberry? I don't know how many times I see some poor guy in his suit, hurrying through TSA's shoe gauntlet, a Starbuck's decaf in one hand, his PDA/cell in his right, trying to explain to some supposed big-wig on the other end that his dog ate the jump drive his Powerpoint presentation was on.

Stupid.

When I got off the airplane here in Seattle, it seemed like everyone immediately put a cell phone up to their ear like they just saved the world by checking their voicemail.

Please. Stop.

After I picked up my bag I put on my Andover Hockey hat and walked to the car rental counter. There were a couple of uptight business dudes there in their khakis and just-the-right-length haircuts, trying to wiggle a couple of extra frequent flier miles out of their ubiquituous full size upgrade. After they put their ear-buds in and headed to whatever upgrade line they seemed destined for I took my place in line. Instead of tryng for the upgrade, you know what I did?

I took the time to actually talk to the person behind the counter. Sure we took care of business, and she tried to upsell the needless insurance dealio on me, but the rest of the time, we laughed, we joked, and I left feeling better for talking to her like a real person rather than some sort of human utility pole.

Why do we feel it necessary to have to button up and act business "correct" when we're on the road? Sure, surrounded by you contemporaries you don't want to show any supposed weaknesses, but in reality who gives a rats-ass? I see so many tight-asses getting their breakfasts in the morning, brows furrowed while looking at the USA Today (like that has any real info).

Loosen up people, sure you have a job to do, but let's not lose our humanity, or sense of humor. As for me? I'm showing up tomorrow morning wearing jeans and a hat, just to see how many tight asses I can loosen up.

mmmmmm....Pork Adobo

So I'm here in lovely Renton, Washington for the 2006 Boeing 737NG Industry Steering Committee meeting and it's time for lunch. There are about 40 of us here from all points of the globe from Ireland, to South Africa, to Japan, and Australia. Actually, the Boeing facility that we're in right now is a big training center for flight crews as well so you can imagine how many different nationalities there are.

So I get my lunch voucher and walk into the cafeteria. Over on one side is your basic burgers and hot dogs. There's some cold sandwiches in another line. I look at the "international" line and lo and behold what do I see? MMMM.....Pork Adobo.

So why was I so excited? I make Chicken Adobo at home, my wife and kids love it, but for some reason I don't make the pork version. Adobo is a Filipino dish where you slowly cook either the pork or chicken in a combination of soy sauce, vinegar, bay leaf, salt and black pepper in a pot and serve it over white rice. It's something I grew up with as a child...seems like my folks made it once a week. It's a memory of youth.

Somehow seeing it in a lunch buffet line in Renton, Washington in the middle of a conference made me smile.....and it was damn tasty too.

Turning 38

I celebrated my 38th birthday a couple of days ago. No biggie. Do I feel older? No. Do I feel wiser? No again.

My parents called me to wish me a happy birthday and my dad said something to me that made me think. He says, "you know, when I turned 38 I brought our family over from the Philippines."

Wow.

Could I ever think of doing that? I think of how they packed up the 2 kids, got on a jet and landing here in Minnesota in November (coming from Manila no less). No job, living with relatives, a different country and culture.

Could I handle that?

My Pilgrimage to Fulton and Church

It was a warm October evening as we got off the train at Penn Station, much warmer than we thought it would be. As we exited the train and followed the after work crowd up to street level under Madison Square Garden I was both apprehensive and excited to experience Manhattan for the first time in my adult life. I was excited for the opportunity for finally experience the City, but apprehensive of where we might go, and how I might feel.

This was October of 2002, a year and a month removed from the September 11 terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center.

My coworker, Gordon, and I were in New York on business, spending most of our time at JFK airport. This, our final full day, we had finished up early and decided to take the train into the City and devote the rest of our time playing Midwestern tourists. As we climbed into the sunlight of midtown Manhattan it took me a minute to adjust to the mass of humanity, to the sounds of honking horns, and just the pace of the City. Gordon had been to Manhattan in his recent past so he knew where he was going so I followed his lead. From Madison Square Garden we walked to the Ed Sullivan Theater, as Gordon is a big David Letterman fan. We hung around outside the building and we could hear laughter coming from inside as they must have been taping an episode. After about 10 minutes of failing to catch a glimpse inside we decided to keep onto our sightseeing.

On our way across the street to Rockefeller Center our crosswalk was crowded and seemingly anxious, straining on it’s collective leash to cross the street. Thousands of citizens and tourists, needing to be across that strip of asphalt RIGHT NOW. I looked around and saw the faces of New York City; busy, harried, determined. And then a FDNY truck rounded the corner and slowly passed in front of us. A seemingly brand new one. Suddenly, if for only an instant, that crowd changed. For just a split second, that anxious, sweating mass of humanity quieted, and a hush fell over the intersection. A brief moment of quiet and remembrance in the bustle of the moment. One of the firemen sitting in the back of the cab made eye contact with me. I nodded, he nodded back, the truck kept rolling, and the crowd lost its moment. The volume and anxiety rose again, and we surged forward as the light turned from red to green.

As tourists we followed the crowd, walking through Rockefeller Center, and then eventually winding up at the south end of Central Park. By this time the sun was starting to set through the man-made canyons and valleys of mid-town, and the city lights began to light up the cityscape. With no set plan or timetable we felt free to explore and experience New York City, after all, it’s the City that Never Sleeps, so why should we? But something else was calling, and both of us seemed to know it. Few words were exchanged, and by mutual agreement, we started our trek down the Avenue of the Americas. We had started our own pilgrimage to Ground Zero.

Like countless people before us we felt like drawn like moths to a flame. Sure it was going to be a long walk, in fact, we had countless opportunities to hail a cab or jump the subway and get to Ground Zero relatively quickly. But why? We wanted to experience the city, to see it like any other New Yorker would see it. And I think another reason why we decided to walk was because we felt that we owed it to ourselves, to this city to make the journey on foot. Call it penance in a way. So we walked. And walked. And then walked a little more. We stopped at McDonalds for a coke and a chance to rest our legs. And after a bit of a rest we got back out onto the sidewalk and continued our trek south, past the Empire State Building on 5th street, and then eventually merging onto Broadway past Union Square.

Through the darkening night, through Soho, and the Garment District we walked. In a park full of homeless we found an empty bench, wiped our brows and rested a little more. On the map it’s only a 4-mile walk in a straight line, but we weren’t going in a straight line, and so we became a little bone weary. As we set out for our final push towards 1 & 2 World Trade Center we decided to stop and have a bite to eat. We walked into a little place, doubtless one of those places that entertains the financial district types, low key and low maintenance. As we sat and recounted our little pilgrimage I couldn’t help but look around and gaze at some of the pictures hanging on the walls. Some were old, but most were new. Most were pictures of what it looked like outside these windows on the day of September 11th 2001 and the days soon thereafter.

Those pictures told a story as I sipped a cold Budweiser. From those year-old pictures to my immediate view I saw an old wound starting to scab over. In those pictures I saw shattered vehicles, and shattered lives, people and objects strewn aside like so much flotsam. And now sitting comfortably and satisfied in this bar I sensed an oasis of calm and recovery. A bite of normalcy that served as a side dish to your burger. As a visitor I couldn’t truly know what those who worked behind that counter and kitchen felt and saw. Maybe there were unoccupied barstools in that place that were left empty on purpose. I couldn’t bring myself to ask. We ate our food and drank our beers, making small talk with those around us. But we still had a few final steps to take.

The closer you got to Ground Zero the brighter it got. Hundreds of halogen lights illuminated the night sky, some focused up into the surrounding buildings but most into the pit itself. Gordon and I slowly walked towards Ground Zero, quiet, somber, and still. It was quiet there. Sure you had sounds of traffic and the like, but it was much more quiet than I expected. As it was in October of 2002, it was quiet as the open grave that it truly was. More than 3000 people lost their lives on that fateful day, most at this 16-acre site. Over 3000 people. People with dreams, hopes and ambitions. Ordinary people like me, who were forced into extraordinary circumstances. Only to have those dreams extinguished forever.

Around the pit a large fence was erected, a memorial to those who had died there, as well as for those who had helped there. As for myself I felt weak and small. Part of a larger game whose outcome I did not yet know. There were a few people out there. Quiet, introspective, and meek. Every one of us in our own thoughts, and in our own spaces. I looked at the pictures on the fence, pictures of the World Trade Center in its heyday. Busy and vibrant, a symbol of ingenuity and prosperity. And then I looked through the fence and saw a hole in the ground. My emotions ranged from anger to hate, to sorrow and despair. I thought back to that day, how a seemingly perfect day led down this path of unknowing. And while confusion rang like a dissonant chime, I felt some clarity.

On the crossroads of Fulton and Church Streets I began to slowly heal myself. That’s where St. Paul’s Chapel backs up to Ground Zero. St. Paul’s Chapel is the little church that survived the collapse of the World Trade Center. Covered in debris, ash, and later on, tears, the little church provided an island of solace for countless rescue workers, family members, and citizens of conscious from New York and the rest of the world. Gordon and I walked slowly around the chapel, reading the memorials and I had to stop a couple of times to collect myself. We saw signed flags from New Zealand and the Philippines, t-shirts and hats from all 50 states. Even a signed hockey stick hung from the fence that rung the perimeter of the church.


It was here at this place, where people had first come to start to try to heal. By lighting candles, by hanging memorials and bed sheets and well wishes on cardboard, people came here to help those who needed to grieve, those who needed to cry out and be heard. Those voices of anguish and anger echoed in my mind, fresh and immediate. But in the relative quiet from around Ground Zero I heard another voice.

It was a voice of the Human Spirit.

It was a voice of reason, and a voice of calm. And that voice told me that no matter how ugly one face may be, there will always be another face: one of kindness, of generosity, and of understanding.

It seems like I stood there at the corner of Fulton and Church for a long time. I looked into Ground Zero for the last time and we turned away without looking back. The cab ride back to the hotel was quiet but not overly sad. We had seen what we had needed to see, and said what we had needed to be said. When our flight took off out of LaGuardia the next morning I looked over Manhattan again and found my eyes searching towards Ground Zero. I left part of myself on those streets of Manhattan, but I found that I had brought a larger part back with me.

20th Class Reunion - ooops I missed it (oh darn)

So this past weekend was my 20th high school class reunion and I didn't bother going. Big deal.

Our graduating class was upwards of 650 and I keep in touch with maybe 6 or 7 of them. We hang out with our families maybe 2 times a year and that works well enough for me. I've been to my wife's class reunions, but never any of mine. Why not you may ask?

Why is my answer.

I guess that I don't feel like I have anything to prove. Is that wrong?

How time flies....

I can't believe that this is 20 years old

Just trying to get by.....

Hey everyone, Stan here, just thought that I'd try this stuff out and see what blogging is all about. God knows that there are enough of these things out there so I figured what the hell, I may as well try it out.

So lets see what's going on......hmmmmm

Well my 7 year old and I are heading up north to Cohasset, MN. to see some of our friends. It should be a good time, I'm looking forward to getting out of the city for a while and reconnecting with some friends again. I haven't seen Rich since he stopped into work a few months ago and it'll be fun to tip a few back, rehash some old stories and hang out.

It seems like I get further away from people now. I rarely talk on the phone with them anymore, and most all of my friends have their wives and kids and the various activities associated with them. Life gets busier, time gets shorter, and it seems like we all have less time to stop and smell the roses. (Not that I'm a big rose guy). So why is it that? Is it just me? I don't think so.