Seeking to Save the Lost

I woke up this morning to an utterly quiet house, which is not unusual, and did my morning bed check ritual.  I still live with the pagan superstition that a kiss on the forehead while they sleep will act as a talisman warding all danger and harm away from my children while I am at work or out and about.  I checked on L first, as her room is closest - but her bed was empty.  Vaguely remembering the scamper of knees and elbows over me at some distant point in the previous night, I went back to my room to see if Stacy and L were compatibly arranged.  I didn't remember any further awkward pokes or kicks, so L must have slept on the other side of Stacy, and it must have been a tight squeeze since I'd had my usual spacious side all to myself.  But on examining the room, Stacy was snoring comfortably with no one challenging her for mattress real estate.

I went back to L's room thinking I just somehow missed her.  There was a lump of covers on her bed that I, somewhat relieved, realized had to be her - I had just failed to probe it.  But my subsequent probing turned up no cocooning kid - they really were just cover lumps.  I hastened to N's room.  He was virtually cocooned with his comforter drawn tightly around his face.  He looked like a Indian or Eskimo papoose.  But L was not with him.

I was pretty sure she had not gotten up - the living areas were dead quiet.  I couldn't imagine she would get up in the middle of the night with a bad dream and want to sleep on the couch so far from the rest of the family.  I quickly verified that assumption.  The living room was empty, the bathrooms deserted, the kitchen clear.  All the doors were still shut and locked.  Beginning to feel my adrenaline concentrate, I started wracking my brain.  The bunk-bed - I hadn't checked the bunk-bed!  So I checked the bunk-bed.  I beat on N's top bunk with my hand, feeling up and down the length of it.  No L.

I retraced my steps, checking all the empty spots again to see if a small child might have materialized in the moments since I'd last checked.  I began wondering how to tell Stacy.  Somehow this seemed all my fault.  Should I wake her up?  Maybe L would reappear if I just waited it out.  Usually happened with my wallet or watch.  Perhaps I could distract Stacy long enough when she woke up that she wouldn't notice L was gone.  How long could I pull that off?  An hour?  A month or two?  On scanning N's room for the third or fourth time I became engulfed in a burst of  protective anguish over the one child still left to my care.  At least I still had N - but what if I lose him too?  I stooped down to give him that guardian kiss I'd started to deliver twenty minutes ago.  (Did I forget to kiss L before I went to bed last night, I suddenly wondered?)  Wheezing peacefully in his full-body blanket binding, N was oblivious to his sister's abscondence; I scooped my arms around him to add an additional shot of voodoo hug protection to my kiss.  Something warm and solid collided with my hand as I sought to engulf my son.  There was a rustling of sheets, a murmur of "ouch" and then again, quiet.  I ripped back the sheets and there, fidgeting and shuffling in the sudden cold air, was my little fugitive, balled up and huddled behind her brother.  I stood in stunned disbelief.  The two cannot be within three feet of each other for more than ten minutes without a laceration, dislocation or near-dismemberment of some kind.  How dare they sleep so peacefully cohabitated when I'm in such a state!

A Tale of a Trail Where You Might See a Whale

Point Vicente on Palos Verdes

Last weekend Stacy and I celebrated our 11th anniversary by taking a one-nighter down at a highbrow inn in Dana Point. It was a great 24 kid-free hours. (Thanks, Grandma Lynne!) Our room had an ocean view and as we were sitting out on the patio after breakfast on Saturday morning we were able to see a few whales spouting way off in the distance. They were pretty far out and you couldn't spot them easily; the best thing to do was to look for the whale watching boats scattered about and when they all fired up their engines and raced to a common spot, you could train your binoculars and see a spout or two. It has been a very good season, supposedly, as the whales make their way back up the California coast to their summer quarters off Alaska.

On Sunday we were back in the real world and fully parental again. Inspired by our sightings in Orange County, and knowing the kids would get a kick out of it, we decided to pack up a picnic lunch and head to our local lookout after church. The Palos Verdes penninsula is a much-touted whale watching area, mainly because just opposite of where the peninsula juts out into the ocean, Catalina Island stretches long and large and forms a natural whale funnel, forcing the migrating monstrosities to bunch up and shoot through the narrow channel like cars on the 405 during a SIG alert.

We got to Point Vicente, the primo spot for water-watching, found a table and had our eclectic lunch - a hodge podge of things pulled from the fridge on our run out the door that morning. It was a beautiful day and Catalina was reclining lazily across the channel like it too realized it was Sunday and need not make any special exertions.

After we had our lunch the kids played on the rocks and fences and tormented their mother with stories about all the rattlesnakes they knew were lurking about (as all the signs insisted). Then we got out the binoculars and began our survey of the sea. We were chagrined. Sunny and beautiful, the waters frothed and churned, but were apparently devoid of life, at least of the aquatic mammalian kind. After fifteen or twenty minutes of fruitless searching we grew restless and decided to save our straining eyesight and take a stroll on the walking path that lines the cliffs. As we progressed, we were actually treated with more natural wildlife, but not the kinds were were really hoping for.

N demonstrating how to surf around rattlesnake infested areas.

Thar she goes!!!  Oh, nevermind.  It's just a rabbit.

Mommy's binoculars were the source of much grief and petty bickering. It might have been a little self-serving, but I quickly laid down the law the if anyone squabbled, Daddy got the binoculars for 5 minutes.

N enjoying his pristine view of the fence railing.

Look over there!!!  Oh, nevermind.  Just pelicans.

As we were making the reverse leg of our excursion we had just about returned to the look-out area when there was a commotion among all the other would-be whale watchers draping the fences. Everyone was chittering and murmuring and pointing. There, just beyond the lighthouse point, was a frothing band of water. It was foaming and spitting and slowly moving northwest around the point. It looked as though the bottom of the ocean floor was slowly rending apart sending spurts of boiling volcanic steam up as the split rent the length of the channel. A closer view with the binoculars, however, revealed something much more biological than geological: an enormous pod of dolphins or porpoises was making its way up the coast in a mad frenzy, arching and jumping and leaping and twirling. It was an unbelievable sight - the line kept growing as more and more dolphins rounded the point. There could have been 200-300 hundred of them, maybe as many as 500 - who could count the heaving, foaming mass? They would clump up then spread out then regroup again. They were making incredible time as they raced past us and off toward Malibu and points north.

We watched them until they were a shimmering splash of spray far out and away and then slowly gathered ourselves for the walk to the car. We were not another fifteen feet further along when another of those now familiar gasps of excitement sloshed from the sightseers along the fences. "A spout!" someone cried.  Back to the fence we raced and got to watch a retrograde whale making his way against the flow of traffic, down the coast heading southward. I expect he'd found something tasty as he headed north and had swung around for another helping. He would spout and crest one or two times, then disappear for a few minutes only to throw off another spout a quarter mile south of where we last lost him.

He was right up front and fairly close to the shoreline, which surprised me somewhat. (I looked it up later and found that the sea bottom plunges down very quickly just off the cliffs, and he didn't have to be far afield to be in very deep water.) We watched him make his meandering way south, looking very leisurely compared to the mob rush we'd just seen from his cousins. Soon he was lost to our eagle eyes. We turned yet again toward our car and this time let no cries of joy divert us from our journey home.

Not exactly a National Geographic shot, but the best I could do.

It Was Probably that Brooklyn Accent

L was peeking over my shoulder as I was watching an Anonymous 4 video on YouTube. She listened, but couldn't make out the words.

"Where is that?" she asked.

"I think it's at a radio station in New York," I replied. Her puzzled look intensified.  

"Are they speaking New York?"

By the Sweat of Your Face You Shall Eat Bread..

"Daddy," N whispered to me in church this morning, "Be-member that I'm going to help you in the garage today."  N is all into helping and does so willingly and with great spirit.  We encourage it because generally it helps shame his sister into actually doing the one or two chores specifically laid out for her.  On Saturday the kids found me cleaning out my files for the new year, shredding old bills and receipts in my garage man-cave.  For L and N, few things incur the wide eyed glee of watching full 8½ by 11 sheets of paper go crinkling to their confettied demise.  I always get the full court plead for permission to feed in their own doomed docs.  N is the more conscientious of the two.  With L it's just a matter of time before she snags her hair or shirt sleeve or some other bodily accouterment and is dragged kicking and screaming into the gaping ¼-in slit that has been the bane of so many reams before her.  On Saturday we wiled away a minute or two pulverizing some old water bills before the task got old and fresher fare caught their interest, but N, ever the sensitive soul, promised me he would come back later and help me finish the task.

This afternoon as I headed out to the garage were I would be able to ignore the Super Bowl in peace and quiet I beckoned to N to come lend a hand (or finger or shirt collar or whatever he wanted to offer).  N is all sincerity, and his offers to help are anchored in the bottom of his heart, but he does possess all the focus and single-mindedness of the 5-year-old that he is.  He mounted the chair that brought him up high enough to reach the shredder and joyfully eviscerated a handful of old gas company bills and then quickly lost interest and started to find something else to keep himself occupied.  He was savoring the male man-cave bonding time, so he didn't want to go back in the house or out to the yard to play, but boredom takes a heavy toll on free spirits such as his.  I locked him down for another couple of minutes by pulling over a tall stool for him to climb up on.  The simple act of climbing up a stool and sitting a couple of feet above the floor is a joy and game that for we older, stoggier sort, has faded to the point where we are no longer capable of understanding all its inherent fascinations.  We quickly devolved into a scene that is probably replicated in garages world-wide on a regular basis - one guy mutely doing all the work, the other "assistant," ostensibly there to help, holding down a bench and yacking the first guy's ear off.

N's topics of conversation tend to be somewhat free ranging, stream-of-consciousness kinda stuff.  Were it not for the frequent "Don't you think so, Daddy?" pauses for acknowledgment to which I'm obliged to respond, I would likely have let him blur into the sound of the grinding shredder.  One topic seemed pretty pertinent as I was working through a pile of four-year-old credit card receipts.  "Daddy, if you don't have any money, you can't go to the bank and get any money, right?"

"That's right, N," I agreed.

"You have to get some money before the bank gives you any money," he explained, while I cocked my head and squinted at him, wondering exactly where this was coming from.

"And how do you get this money?" I asked, preparing a moralistic little jaunt down Work Ethic Lane.

"By going on walks and finding quarters." he replied.

My Idea of a Super Bowl

Last month I got to go out to lunch with some coworkers to celebrate the Chinese New Year. We went to a traditional Taiwanese "hot pot" restaurant in Gardena and I had such a good time I've been jonesing to bring Stacy and the fam. Given that neither of the kids have been seriously maimed in a week or two, so we decided this would be a good weekend to press our luck.

We piled into "Goldie" (as L refers to our golden minivan) and made the jaunt up Western Blvd to the Asian metropolis of Gardena to the Boiling Point restaurant. Stacy ordered the seafood soup, I got the beef, and we ordered a second seafood to split between L & N. Klutzy kids and bowls belching prominences of fire always make for an edge-of-your-seat dining experience!

The kids were fascinated by the food; N was particularly impressed that the shrimp in his bowl still had their eyes.  L pointed out that a significant number of the denizens of her soup were in fact "bivalves."  Eventually N became concerned that the "smoke" coming off the boiling bowls and the fire whipping out from under them was drying out his sensitive lips.  Mommy's emergency lip balm evidently wasn't rated for hot-pot dry-out, so the complaining continued on through the meal.

By the time we finished we'd managed narry a spilled drink nor a single scorched body part!  This was a celebratory accomplishment!  (We don't count the 8 or 10 dropped chopsticks recovered from the floor.)  As a reward for "trying and not dying" we made a second stop on the way home - the Ranch 99 Market on Artesia Blvd where we promised the kids a special treat.  I love that place.  It is a real-deal Asian market and I always feel compelled to show anyone I drag there the meat counter.  You'll find staples like filet mignon and pork tenderloin along side more unexpected delicacies like duck feet and twelve different types of tripe.  The pork bung looked especially fresh.  Sadly they appeared to have run short on pork uterus.

The special treat ended up being peanut butter ice cream bars, which is about all Mommy would let me get away with after the meat counter tour.

The Newt Testement

L's 1st grade classroom has been the home of an amphibious mascot this year, but around Christmas Mrs. Shepard decided that the newt was a little more fragrant than she liked in a classroom already replete with the assorted aromas of 20-odd seven-year-olds.  So the newt got the boot, but rather than being cast aside and quickly forgotten like a primary election drop-out, Mrs. Shepard offered him to Stacy, and Stacy, never one to turn down a great deal on an aquatic semi-reptile, jumped at the suggestion.

We now have our little black friend crouching on his slippery rocks amid his frothing water aerator, showing all the signs of happiness and utter contentment that a newt can muster.  The kids have obviously bonded with such a loving and affection animal.  He's already filled that little black newt-shaped hole in our souls we never knew we had.  Our hearts are strangely warm, despite the fact that his will never be.

Need I mention we've named him Mitt?

But Wait! Christmas Ain't Over Yet!

I get in trouble when I let warm, fuzzy family holidays go undocumented for more than a month.  I'm already irrevocably in the doghouse for Halloween and Thanksgiving, so no point in trying to plea-bargain those, but I might be able to secure probation if I post Christmas pictures before Valentine's Day.  The judge is pretty strict about these things though.

Our Christmas traditions follow a pretty predictable cycle year in and year out.  Variety may be the spice of life and the genesis for good stories, but in many cultures spice is regarded with suspicion and malice.  Some folks look askance at spice -- "Away, you foul up-heaver of consistency!"  Salt and pepper are twice as much spice as some need.  Our spice-challenged traditions have always involved a Christmas Eve trip to Burbank to visit Stacy's grandparents, followed by the long haul to Agua Dulce for the annual Christmas Eve tamale party.  At least it has always been thus.  Why should the end of 2011 be any different?  (Well, Stacy's grandparents aren't in Burbank any more, for one thing.  They are both now in a nursing facility, but it's in Glendale, so that's probably close enough for our purposes.)

Stacy's brother Kyle had a pretty cool idea for a Christmas gift for Bunny and Lefty (a.k.a. GGMa and GGPa).  They have established themselves as the sweethearts of the nursing home they are in and have quite the reputation.  The staff dote on them and the residents, at least those of them who can remember who they are past breakfast, love them.  They are the octogenarian version of the varsity quarterback and his head cheerleader girl.  Kyle thought it would be cool to put together a picture book of all their old glory-days pictures to show their friends at the home.  He enlisted his scrap-booking fanatic sister to help pull the book together and on Christmas Eve we brought the printed version up to give to Bunny and Lefty.  It was really sweet to see Bunny light up as she looked through the book, pointing out certain pictures and giving a play-by-play.  Lefty hung over her bed, unsteadily following along, smiling and grunting his concurrence with the Queen Bee's descriptions.  I think he learned a long time ago to let Bunny tell the stories.  GGMa tires out quickly so we didn't stay long, but it was a nice visit and satisfying to see Bunny with some measure of energy and Lefty unusually clear headed.  It was good that we went that Christmas Eve afternoon because Christmas day would bring Bunny's fall that would throw everything into that chaos that is still raging strong.

In previous years our Burbank trip was also Stacy's chance to catch up with all the neighbors on Buena Vista Street.  Stacy grew up in a house across the street from Bunny and Lefty, so even when she left the neighborhood to take up with a questionable Southlander like me, she still kept abreast of all the Burbank news.  On Christmas Eve, after the stop at Bunny and Lefty's we would usually pop over to Grandma Helen and Grampa Dick's (a.k.a. Mr. and Mrs. Wahler), and then on to see Stacy's childhood across-the-street friend, Chad Becken and his family.  Tradition might vary a tiny bit from year to year with visits to Mrs. Shirley Hartenstein, Paul and Madelyn Thompkins,  Noreen Mackentie, and Karen Gilbert, depending who was around.  The crew has thinned out considerably over the last few years, but Stacy can't imagine a trip to the area without a stop on Buena Vista, even if Bunny and Lefty aren't there any more themselves.  So after we left the nursing home we made our Buena Vista pilgrimage, dropping in on the perennially cheerful Helen and belovedly grouchy Dick, and giving our Wassail to Chad and the Beckens another door down.

On Christmas Eve we try to make it up to Agua Dulce before sunset so we can get a hike in over at Vasquez Rocks State Park before they close.  This year we dragged our heels and it was full-on twilight by the time we got there.  Probably for the best.  I always manage to inflict damage on my marriage in Vasquez Rocks.

Of course all the usual suspects gather in A. D. - Grandma, Papa, Kyle, Aunt Claudia, Uncle Brian and Aunt Janet -- but the tamale party is really one of the best  opps to catch up with some of the further flung branches of the Harris clan.  Gene and Shanna Garno always come in all the way from Diamond Bar - Shanna is Kirk's cousin and she and Stacy are very close.  We get to see sweet Helen and Cathy Mires (Aunt Janet's Mom and sister-in-law respectively) who are both always so friendly and thoughtful, and there's usually a fair smattering of cousins in town - this year it was Julie Galan and her daughter G, and the blushing bride Laura Harris, with her fiancee Allan.  Kyle's girlfriend Sera was there, and this year even brought Aunt Wendy and Uncle Don from Venture in a rare Christmas sighting.

Cousin G in from Denver.  (That's one heck of a horse.)

The second cousin brigade.

N scores some holiday jingle.

Since Christmas was on a Sunday this year, our usual yule morning routine was warped somewhat by our standard church schedule.  Never fear - there was plenty of time to overload the kid's rooms with more gifts than we can possibly store.

Some gifts self-destructed after opening them.

As has been our Christmas practice for at least the last two years, the big family dinner was held at our house.  There was the four of us, plus Kirk and Lynne, Aunt Claudia, Aunt Joyce and Mr. Jay, Kyle and Sera.  We forsook the turkey and ham, going for a seafood menu.  Stacy made a really taste cioppino and I grilled a huge salmon steak, ignoring its cries for mercy, until it was dry mealy slab of orange cardboard.  Everyone seemed to want seconds of the cioppino.  The salmon, not so much.

Uncle Kyle about to be Scrooged.

Kyle and Sera

Papa ponders.

Lynne's Christmas gift.

Papa-claus

Pontiff-claus?