Anticipation

      Last year, Christmas cheer didn't hit me when I lugged out our artificial tree from the garage closet, set it up, hung decorations—string lights, our children's handiworks, and hand made heirloom ornaments—about the house, or watched the kids trim the tree to the accompaniment of festive holiday melodies—though these were all joyfully subdued moments. Nor when I bought gifts, or wrapped them behind closed doors as if some deep secret were afoot, then had the kids arrange them beneath the tree. Nor when I wrote, then mailed, once-a-year letters to seldom-heard-from friends and relatives. Nor when we received cards and updates of who did or is doing what.
      Nor when we shopped as a family to select our kids' presents at K-Mart where I told them, “If you see anything you're interested in, let me or Mom know.” Last year our daughter had a school class get-together, so we went without her, so she was surprised for once by her gifts. Jaren, our youngest, chose his own two gifts—one each for Christmas and his late December birthday, whittled down from a dozen or so mostly too expensive or inappropriate toys. But I did find him a fun something a few days later that I wrapped and stuck unbeknownst to him beneath the tree. When he went to look at the gifts the next morning, he noticed his name on this new gift's tag. But he remembered seeing his name on a different gift and it took him several go-rounds and gentle hints from me to comprehend that he had two presents under the tree. The delight I had in seeing him touch the new package (concealing two walkie-talkies on cardboard backing overlaid with hard plastic), wondering at its contents, and saying, “I don't know what this is. I know what the other one is and what my birthday present is, but not this one...” over and over again—that's when it hit me.
      Later that afternoon—Jaren's always noisy, talking—things got unnaturally quiet with crinkly noises near the tree. There he was, hunched over the mystery present wrapped in blue, unfolding an envelope shaped corner that wasn't taped down.
      I walked over and said, “Hey, don't peek.” It startled him—caught with his hand in the cookie jar—but he eased when he saw my smirk. I seized it from him and said, “I better hide this till Christmas,” and stuck it beneath my bed.
      It's that delicious, “I have to know. I can't wait. What is it? I know I'm not supposed to,” that his body language shouted that made me recall my days as a youth doing the exact same thing. My parents had had a laissez-faire attitude: “If he wants to spoil his surprise, let him.” Furtively, I'd peeked when they weren't looking, resulting in accidentally torn wrappers, which I retaped to conceal the incriminating evidence. Both times I'd peeked, I'd felt disappointed, guilty, and later, remorseful.
      I wasn't about to let that happen to him, much preferring he suffer in not knowing anticipation. Cool thing is, we always celebrate Christmas festivities at my sister's, so the kids can't nag us first thing they wake up to open presents, which we leave at hers the night before where we celebrate Christmas Eve dinner. Even cooler, a couple of recent Christmas mornings we've joined a ministry to help feed the homeless at Ala Moana park. This really re-tuned our thinking to the reason for the season and renewed our spirits early Christmas morning before the inevitable gift, football, and frenetic hype-frenzy to come. And both times, our morning at Ala Moana park (that really had been peaceful and quiet) turned out to be among our favorite memories of the day—the kids handing out gifts to humble, appreciative men, women, and children, the guests playing organized games for prizes, and us all singing out-of-tune, but joyous Christmas carols. 

Human Wealth

     The Hawaiian song “Kanaka Wai Wai” (Human Wealth) by the Sons of Hawaii is one of my favorites.  Most locals don't even know what it's about, and neither did I until a few years back when I borrowed the CD from the library to learn the song on guitar.  The CD's insert had the original Hawaiian words and their English translations.  Turns out it's about the man who runs up to Jesus, falls at his feet, and asks what he must do to have everlasting life?  Jesus answers follow God's law.  The man says I have done so since I was a little boy.  Jesus says there's one thing more:  sell all your possessions, give the money to the poor, then come, follow me.  But the man walks away sad, because he is rich.
     The part of the song that paraphrases the Hawaiian bible and quotes Jesus as saying (English translation):

     “To give...to give it all
     Of your great wealth
     But turn with caution
     To receive your everlasting life”

really got to me.  Having grown up as a fourth generation Hawaii resident, I feel emotionally attached to the Hawaiians and grieve their plights.  Though my ancestry is Japanese and I consider myself Japanese-American, I feel more at home in Hawaii—largely due to its people and culture—than anywhere else in the world.  Hearing the chorus, I felt as if all the Hawaiian people were being told to give everything away, which they already have, generous beyond reason.  They did so by giving first of their love and aloha, then of their possessions, then of their lives, then of their land.  They now have so little and things look so bleak, yet it's as if they're being asked to once again give it all—pride, dignity, resistance—everything.  Must they?  Should they?
     By the way, I don't believe the Sons of Hawaii wrote the song as political polemic or rallying cry (there isn't a note of bitterness or irony throughout the entire song that I can detect).  To the contrary, it strikes me as a straight-forward Christian song of the moral imperative of generosity.  After the rich man walks away sad, the bible says that Jesus turns to his disciples and says, “It is easier for a camel to walk through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.”
     They ask him, “How can anyone enter the kingdom of heaven?”
     He answers, “Through God, all things are possible.”
     We Americans are rich.  Filthy rich.  No one likes to admit it, but we are.  None of us will likely ever have to go a day  hungry, or without clothes or shelter.  This places us within the upper echelons of the wealthy in the world and especially throughout history.  And with today's medical technologies (vaccines, penicillin, drugs, and surgery)—things people would have paid a king's ransom for in the past—not to mention access to modern transportation, communication devises, heating, cooling, and cooking appliances, clean running water, indoor plumbing, beds, comfortable footwear, prescription glasses, etc., we're incomprehensibly wealthy compared to those living in Jesus' time.
     So we must give generously.  Until it hurts.  If it doesn't hurt or require sacrifice, it's not generous enough.
     Can we afford it?
     As John Steinbeck said, there are only two states of money:  no money and not enough money.  Or as Pastor Wayne Cordeiro said, “The problem with saying, 'If only I had this much, then I'd be satisfied and give generously,' is that we'll always raise the bar, again and again, and enough will never be enough.”  Mother Theresa defined true love as, “Through God's grace, a starving woman received a bowl of gruel.  Rather than go in and partake with her starving children, she crossed the street.  When asked where she was going, she replied, “To the neighbors—to share some with them.”  Generosity, then, can be seen as a key not only to humanity, but also to happiness, for nothing brings greater happiness to self and others than true love.

Cost of Living

     I grew up in Hilo, in an upper middle class neighborhood, in a three bedroom, two-and-a-half bathroom house with two long hallways, dining room, family room, kitchen, separate living room, and two-car carport.  Located at the end of a cul-de-sac, the lot features a large yard that surrounded two-thirds of the house, a long driveway, and landscaping throughout.  The entire cost was $15,000, which was a lot of money in the mid-1960's, but Hawaii Planing Mill, which acted as the general contractor, provided an architect who drew up blue prints to my parents' specifications.  Through the years, my dad, an elementary school principal, paid the mortgage off plus college  educations for my two siblings and I, my mom having worked part-time, then full-time only much later at little above minimum wage.
     Fast forward forty-plus years to present and such a redwood house with oak floors throughout built to spec in a comparable neighborhood in Oahu would easily top $2,000,000.  Though I have saved diligently over the past twenty-plus years—ever since I started working—I can not afford any such house, not by a long shot.
     Though the nation's housing bubble burst in 2008, Oahu's housing prices apparently barely nudged downward.  My real estate friend recently estimated the median three bed, two bath home price at about $600,000 (barely ten percent down from the peak price pre-2008).
     So I have been (and will likely remain, if I continue to reside in Oahu) a lifetime renter.
     I tell myself it suits my personality.  I'm not into maintaining, repairing, and replacing—I struggle and resist doing so for the sole used car we own.  The thought of doing so for an entire property and house conjures images of termites, leaking roofs and pipes, cracked foundations, dry rot, dishonest repairmen, demanding yard work, property insurance and taxes, etc.  My parents, up to a decade ago, had maintained their house and property immaculately, but now that they've slowed due to old age and health issues, the house at times slips into gross disrepair.  Even if neglected for two years, it seems to age ten, due in large part to Hilo's incessant rain and humidity.
     Although I have often desired a house (and even had occasional fanciful notions of building one myself), I don't feel the least bit cheated out of one.  It’s a matter of could of, should of, would of.  The timing wasn't right when I could have.  Then, the sudden extreme price rises that seemed unreal and unsustainable—they still do—priced me out of the local market in just over a year.  Had I known in advance of this impending price rise, I probably should or maybe even would have bought earlier, breaking my own policy of, “Don't even think of buying unless you plan on living there for at least the next twenty-five years.”
     In response to the squeeze between ever-rising costs (of rents, utilities, food, fuel, etc.) and stagnant salaries, I've looked longingly, on occasion, to the outer islands, U.S. Mainland, and even some foreign countries.  Right now—right now!—we could afford a fabulous house (comparable to what I grew up in, say) in an exciting, memorable, and fun locale.  But I've concluded, it's not best for my family and I.  After all, there's more to life than having cool stuff and good fun. 
     And I've also concluded there's something about Hawaii, and more specifically Oahu, that's kept us here.  Relatives.  The people.  Local food and culture.  Nice weather.  Kid-friendly schools and activities.  It's important to us that they know our heritage.  Also, God has given us a purpose and meaning here, and our positive (albeit small) contributions have led to so much fulfillment.  Oahu has given us just enough excitement, but not too much, and plenty of stability.  A guy could do a lot worse than living in a decent rental in Honolulu, right?  The cost of living in paradise is high, but not too high for us, at least not for now.

NCLB Politics—Part III

           Because NCLB was a political act, not an act of academic necessity, it helps to understand its reason for being. And that, I believe, boils down to gold medal envy.
     Remember when the Soviet Bloc countries dominated the Olympics and the U.S. bemoaned its also-ran status in the medal count standings? Sure, U.S. apologists would justifiably complain about unlevel playing fields, hand-selected athletes trained since youth at professional-style facilities, performance enhancing drugs, biased judging, and the like. Yet the U.S. couldn't help but envy and admire the strength, agility, speed, finesse, adroitness, and beauty of their enemies' superior athletes.
     The same has been true for decades with international standardized test score rankings, where the U.S. usually finishes somewhere near the middle or lower half among developed countries, and yet ranks near the top in dollars spent per student, meaning, we are getting poor returns for our dollars. The inescapable conclusion has been: Something's got to change! How do the more successful (Asian & European countries, especially) do it? Why not adopt some of their practices in our schools?
     In business school, students learn the importance of measuring what's desired to be changed. Basic human nature obsesses over whatever is being measure—whether reducing costs, increasing sales, or increasing market share. The unintended consequence, however, can be over-emphasis on measured results and disregard of the means by which they are obtained, perhaps resulting in poorer customer service, ethical violations, lowered morale, or, in extreme cases, lying, cheating, or fraud in order to “hit” targeted expectations or goals.
     NCLB could be a business school's case study of the law of unintended consequences, though all could easily have been foreseen. My children and the children of friends and relatives (all bright students) have hated studying Everyday Math and Wordly Wise (see my prior essays NCLB Politics & NCLB Politics—Part II) ad nauseum in endless preparation for their four-times-a-year standardized tests (highest score only counts). Subjects that have been proven very beneficial for both mind and body have been cut (in funding and hours) such as P.E., art, band, cursive writing, home economics, choir, cooking, automechanics, shop, etc.--all useful, life-long skills and fun besides. The concept of developing well-rounded, independent, and creative thinkers seems to have taken a back seat to producing stunted standardized test taking conformists to both their and our country's detriment. (E.g. the childhood obesity rate continues to balloon, yet schools have become sit-and-shut-up-style cram institutes, concerned about promoting healthy and active lifestyles more in word than in deed.)
     Certain mainland school districts have been found guilty of widespread cheating on standardized tests whereby teachers prompted students during tests to change erroneous answers, posted answers on exam room walls, and held “parties” to correct erroneous answers. And as the old adage says, for every one caught, a hundred gets away.
     Among middle and high school students (including achievers at all levels), over seventy percent admit to cheating on class tests and/or term papers. It's safe to bet this cheating carries over to all-important standardized tests as well.
     Such blatant, brazen cheating raises the question of just how fair a comparative measure standardized test scores really are. China graduates hundreds of thousands of engineers every year, but most are considered unhireable (by U.S. Companies) because of underqualification (http://www.engineeringuk.com/_resources/documents/Engineering_Graduates_in_China_and_India_-_EngineeringUK_-_March_2012.pdf), suggesting schooling of inferior quality. Likewise, when foreign countries report superior average standardized test scores, can they be relied on? If cheating happens occasionally in America, how much more so might it be happening in other countries where the politics of international competitive academia compels best-of-the-best type standings?
     Rather than stuffing students' heads full of boring memorize-and-forget knowledge—as if childrens' minds were lab beakers that must be filled to arbitrarily designated levels by arbitrarily designated grades—then, educators should instead seek to instill a lifelong love of learning. My favorite teachers included Mrs. Lau, a fourth grade teacher that demonstrated her love of life, her students, and academia; Mr. Ishimoto, a middle school science teacher that showed the joy of scientific verification via reference books (he calculated for me that the distance to the moon and back is far less than a google plex subatomic particles line up in a row; he didn't accept my assumption that a big hissing propane torch burns hotter than a puny, unimpressive alcohol lamp—he looked up the fuels' burning temperatures); and Mr. Hilliard, my A.P. English teacher in high school who pushed me to expand the limits of my comprehension (and love) of literature. For the paltry time I spend with each of them, they taught me to grow my mind for the sheer joy of it, which I have done unreservedly (for the most part) to this day.
     Students who view learning as waste-of-time drudgery will be far less likely to acquire a lifelong love of learning. Unfortunately, teaching to the test epitomized waste-of-time drudgery.

Weekday Dinner Conversations

     Dinner at our house usually begins with grace with whoever's turn it is doing the honors.  The kids each have their own set prayers that they recite by rote—even though they can say anything they like, as Deanne and I do.

     Then, as we partake, after thanking Deanne for the wonderful meal and complimenting her on the food's deliciousness and awaiting her thank you acknowledgment, I ask each child in turn from oldest to youngest, about his or her day at school.

     I used to ask, “How was your day?” but always got the same noncommittal, “Fine,” answer.  So then I started asking, “What did you study today?” to which they'd respond with a list of subjects—not the type of information I was really seeking.  Follow-up questions, such as, “What did you study in Math?”  “What did you do in P.E.?” followed.  I might then quiz them what is two squared  What did Columbus discover?  Did you get to throw the ball?

     More recently, I've had some luck with, “Anything interesting happen?” but all-too-often get only a mumbled, “No,” response.

     The best question—at least for the older ones—now seems to be, “What did you learn in school today?”  They usually come up with thought-provoking responses that lead to open-ended discussions that involve everyone—one of the best types of dinner conversations.

     But the process does have its risks.  My oldest son recently summarized his science project:  Describe the solar system in cartoons.  I asked, “What's your story line?”  He said there really isn't one.  I asked, then why did you print out a satellite?  (I had asked him earlier that day what he was printing and he showed it to me.)  He said that it discovered rings around Uranus.  I asked what's the satellite's name?  He said I can't remember.  I asked when was it launched?  A long pause followed.  “I think,” he said, “in the late nineteen hundreds.”

     My mind swirled through the calculations.  “Technically accurate, though oddly expressed,” I thought and felt very old.  But I laughed and said, “That's correct.  But you don't have to say it like that.  You can say the nineteen seventies or whatever.  The way you say it makes it sound sooo ancient.  It wasn't that long ago.”  I told Deanne, “Jeez, we're from the nineteen hundreds...”

     She, still young, laughed it off and said she guesses that's how kids born in the two thousands view us, just as she viewed Laura Engels and those born in the eighteen hundreds.

     The kids had a fun time seeing our exaggerated chagrin and unexpected hilarity at our own expenses.  Jaren laughed the loudest with theatrical hand gestures, thrown back head, and wide open mouth, though he's far too young to catch the humor behind it all.  It's fun enough for him to just laugh along loud.  Which made Deanne and I laugh even more (until it started to get a little annoying.)

Voting

     My University of Washington MBA economics professor (the best lecturer I ever heard) said something interesting: “I believe people who don't vote, choose not to because it's not fun anymore.” At the time (mid 1980's) ballots had tiny perforated nubs that voters poked out using a pointy instrument (a pen or pencil would do) beside the selected candidate's name. “I believe if we went back to the old voting machines, more people would vote.” The machines were of the punch-card variety with the pull down lever that left a rectangular hole beside the selected candidate's name.

     I confess, I saw his point. The process of pushing out the perforated nubs felt far less satisfying (dare I admit it?, manly) than thumping down the arm of the punch card machine with authority. The ballots themselves looked cheap—like some no-brain elementary school assignment.

     Our professor expanded on his theory and said nearly everyone realizes that his or her vote doesn't matter. “Has there ever been a single election where your one vote cast decided the outcome?” he asked rhetorically. “Knowing this is unlikely to happen, individuals decide whether or not to vote based on how well they enjoy the act of voting—whether the positive feelings (or lessened negative feelings) associated with it exceed their costs.” The economic principle of marginal costs and marginal benefits applied to more than just business decisions, he explained.

     A fellow student stridently argued the importance of everyone voting, because in the aggregate such actions had major implications for everyone's lives. The professor conceded that voting is a good thing and everyone ought to do it, but insisted that voting machines would bring more people back to the polls.

     I suggest that the reason many, if not most people bypass voting (or have little fun voting) has little to do with the voting mechanics and much more to do with the choices presented. When a buffet table offers slim pickin's and you know you're going to feel nauseated afterward, does it really matter what type of dinnerware the food is served on or the quality of glassware and table cloth? As Simon and Garfunkle put it, “Laugh about it, cry about it, then you've got to choose, anyway you look at it you lose...” or Ralph Nader, “Pick your poison.” When was the last time a candidate for national office spoke words that moved you to the core with complete and total conviction that he or she “got it” exactly the way you believe? For me, these have come few and far between, and have never won. I voted for them anyway as I like to encourage third party and alternative candidates to run. Two choices are seldom enough. On occasion, I find a major party candidate that I can support with some hopefulness. But the most fun I get voting is for the all-important state constitutional amendments and other such initiatives.

     Friends and family used to tell me I waste my vote on nonviable candidates. I tell them if I ever believe my vote will be the deciding vote, I may then vote for the lesser of two evils. This has never happened, and I doubt it ever will.

     Following my professor's line of reasoning, I come to the inescapable conclusion that either every person's individual vote doesn't matter, or every person's vote does matter (in the rare instance that an election is decided by one vote). However, collectively, everyone's vote always matters and decides the outcome of every single race. So, fun or not, please do vote every election (as do I, passionately).

     A fanciful notion to make voting funner occurred to me: develop optional electronic voting in a video game-style format. Selecting a candidate will result in a short show—perhaps a cartoon of the candidate getting beknighted with a sword or bedecked with a crown, all smiles and jumping about, while the upset challenger looks on and boos. It would probably increase voting—at least among the apathetic youth—until the novelty wore off, at which point the video shows would have to be updated.

     By the way, I haven't voted in person in decades; I vote absentee ballots all the way—so much more convenient.

NCLB Politics—Part II

     Local primary school educators who deny teaching to the test crack me up.  Reminds me of Bart Simpson, who—spray paint can in raised hand and over-spray on limbs and clothes—when confronted by Principal Skinner and a cohort of witnesses before a graffiti painting says, “I didn't do it.”
     If they had any guts, they'd say, “Of course we do it.  What do you expect?  We need the federal funds.  Who wants the added scrutiny of restructuring status?  If you don't like it, vote out the politicians that enacted NCLB!”

     Wordly Wise is blatant teaching to the test.  It requires youngsters to memorize asinine word lists--definitions, spellings, word forms, usage, synonyms, antonyms, etc.  I remember when I was a kid that the SAT company claimed its tests were impossible to study for because they encompassed a body of knowledge that could only be mastered through years of accumulated learning and that was what made them fair—rich kids had no advantage by taking cram classes because they didn't help.

     Well, I guess that myth got debunked, but instead of eliminating or de-emphasizing the socially and economically biased standardized tests, politicians and educators instead decided to attempt to level the playing field by having virtually all public school students drilled for these tests year-round.

     Now, I'm all for versatile vocabularies as word mastery expands comprehension and facilitates communication.  But memorizing word lists is not the way to go.  Enhanced vocabularies should be a useful byproduct of engaged learning, not the boring object of learning.  Or, once a child can read, dictionaries should be the primary vocabulary building tool, not standardized word lists.  Children that habitualize dictionary use while studying real subjects such as science, social studies, English, history, or health as early as possible tend to have the best vocabularies anyway, since they know best how to interpret and apply words in real-life contexts.

     Vocabularies, because they are so easy to test, are over-weighted in standardized tests.  Even spelling bees have such a narrow scope, they have only limited applicability to contestants’ future academic endeavors (especially if they don't even know the definitions of the words they so masterfully spell).  And for many, poor vocabularies don't even seem to impede their professional careers.

     An audit manager (who was about to be promoted to partner) in a CPA firm I worked for helped “correct” me in a small gathering stating that he believed the word I sought was “pronunciation,” though the word I was looking for and wasn’t sure how to pronounce was “enunciate.”  I didn't dare correct him.

     An HR director in a large state of Hawaii office misspelled a painfully obvious word (I can't remember what—he used a phonetic spelling) in a training session, that elicited a few chuckles.  It didn't hurt his career in the least.

     A former U.S. Vice President famously prompted a spelling bee student to change his spelling of the word “potato” to “potatoe.”

     Sure, public faux pas in others are easy to ridicule, yet we all slip now and then, whether through typos, hurry, distraction, or temporary mental block.  The important things are understanding; reasoning ability and agility; and perspective, compassion, and integrity—not persnickety perfection.  It is more important that we raise a nation of good, cooperative people and citizens, rather than robotic test-taking academes.

Making A

     A father will do anything for his kids. Give a kidney? No problem. Work an extra decade to send 'em through school? To be expected. Make A? Sure, why not?
     My brother-in-law did it when he dressed as Santa for my niece's second Christmas. She cried over the tall, skinny stranger that walked in through the front door, but everyone else appreciated his Ho Ho Ho Merry gesture.
     It was my turn at last year's Hawaii County Fair. A Maltese Family Circus clown (that looked and dressed like a gym rat) sought a volunteer for his knife-throwing act. He should've picked one of the cute teens jumping up and down two rows in front of us shouting, “Pick me! Pick me!” Instead, he walked past them, oblivious to their antics, and just as I was sensing a distinct possibility of his untoward intentions and turned to my wife and said, “Maybe we should have sat somewhere else,” he stopped beside me and cried through the loudspeaker, “How about you, Sir? Come on up,” getting the crowd involved—you know the routine. Once, twice, thrice they cheered encouragement to my demurrals until only a scum could further refuse. As I rose, I asked in an aside, “How much will I get paid?” to which he replied you'll have fun. I was off to be mounted upon the man-sized chopping board.
     The first throw was the worst. Head covered in a black bag, handcuffed, and leaned back on the board (inclined, I guess, in case I fainted), I must have flinched. It was a long throw of at least thirty feet—way longer than acts I had seen in the past—and that thunk beside my left ear boomed throughout the almost filled auditorium. The assistant beside me removed the blind and there stood the erect, shiny blade two inches away from my unbelieving eyes. I shook my head. “No more, please,” I said with a giddy smile.
     The assistant said in an aside, “Relax. I do it. It's safe.” His words reassured me and from then on instead of fretting for my health, I calmed and even tried to ham it up as a performer. I examined the knives beside my chest, removed one, and dropped it to the floor. I resisted the balloon in my mouth, then spat it out (as instructed) as soon as the assistant put it in. And I bent my knees when the balloon between my legs popped. (They'd placed a bucket below the balloon in case I peed, which I didn't.) Total time on stage was five-plus minutes, though it felt much longer, I just wanted the darn thing to hurry up and get over with. As we exited the auditorium and the throng slowed to get through the bottleneck exit, a lady beside me said you did well.
     Years ago, I'd've cringed if a performer even glanced my way during a volunteer-from-the-audience search. I never would have done it, and thus, never got selected. Now, they see me and sense: “He's the one. He doesn't want to, but he will.” Why? Because of my three kids beside me. For them, I'll do anything. Even make A.

The Best Parenting Advice Ever

     For awhile after my wife and I became first-time parents, we got bombarded with well-intentioned unsolicited advice—from relatives, friends (even single ones without children), and strangers (at super markets, or passing by us on the sidewalk). I hated their advice. I was already so confused, unsure, and hesitant that everything I did felt inept, faulty, and/or harmful/dangerous. Their advice stressed me out and made me second guess myself even more.
       First-time parents: you can spot them even from afar. The solicitousness for their precious treasure is so touching. And their frazzled nerves from sleep deprivation and over-excitability show in their every gesture. And they stick to their charges like flies to, well, honey. I noticed this only a decade later in others and then realized that we, too, were once like that.
   The problem with the advice proffered is it all sounds so credible. Take it? Disregard it? What's one to do? What will happen as a result? Parents think they know best, but how can they, inexperienced as they are, stand confident? Maybe those others who sound so certain know better?
      When I was in the midst of it all, I shared my aggravations with my long-time friend Norm, who already had two young children. He told me, “Tim, you're getting way too worked up about this. Don't take any advice from anyone. Let me rephrase that. The only advice you should take is this: Disregard all other advice you receive from anyone else—whether from relatives, friends, or well-meaning strangers. Even doctors' advice, you should take with only a grain of salt because as parents, by definition, you know what's best for your child. When someone offers you advice, you should say, 'Thanks, but no thanks.' Correction, say, 'Thanks,' smile, appreciate it, then disregard it. That's the only parenting advice you should ever take. And enjoy it. Enjoy being a parent. That's the only other advice you might want to consider taking. Easier said than done, though, at times, aehhh?
      I thought about it and decided I'd take Norm's advice. It's sound and makes sense. For suppose we take someone else's advice against our better judgments as parents and things don't turn out so well, then we'll always regret, “We should have done things our own way. We knew it and should have just done it. It would have been so much better that way.” Or, things might turn out OK, but inside we'll still wonder, “Maybe it would have been alright or even better had we done it our own way.” And, indeed, attentive parents do know their children far better than anyone else, and since every child is different, and no one loves a child more than his or her parents, the parents are in the best positions to decide what's best for him or her.
      Even as our children age, I see the soundness of Norm's advice. Children are resilient and adaptable. No parent is perfect. And no child is perfect, either. We each have our own needs, desires, strengths, and weaknesses. We do our best as parents and hope for the best. The rest is up to them (and God). The main thing is to stick together as a family, support one another, and give them happy childhoods—something they can always look back on for comfort, strength, and grounding, which I've done countless times myself through the years. It doesn't cost much, just a whole lot of love, time, support, talk, care, respect, and discipline—among the best things in life, besides.

Blessed Boredom!

     I always wondered why even the most uplifting song, if listened to often enough, will eventually irritate me to antsy-ness.  Noticing this tendency, I intentionally avoid listening to favorites in order prolong their fresh appeal.

     My second child, as an infant, was a delight to watch.  I noticed how a simple thing such as sunbeams through the slats of her crib fascinated her for hours on end, even days.  Then her fingers held before her face held her attention before she redirected it elsewhere to the next curious thing.  No doubt she was displaying signs of boredom as first one thing, then another fell first in, then out of favor in not too long a time.
     Obviously what she was observing wasn't changing much from minute to minute, hour to hour, or day to day.  What changed was her perceptions of them from fascinating, interesting, captivating objects to boring, same-old same-old, nothing-much-happening-here leftovers.  And each time an external stimulus exhausted her curiosity, she sought something new to replace it—eventually us (her family), speech, and things further outside her crib, outside her room, and even outside our apartment—the outside world.
     This made me realize the benefit of boredom.  Had she not had this boredom proclivity, she might still, as a ten-year-old, be lying content on her back all day long absorbed in the marvels of the sunbeam and the interplay of shadow and light, or staring at her fingers.  What need for learning to crawl, walk, speak, or use the potty if all of life's necessities (food, water, diaper changes, etc.) are provided for and the simplest of things remain ever entertaining?  Nope, her boredom spurned her on to seek exciting new things, thank God.
     Furthermore, I believe that her antidote to boredom—curiosity—is the same antidote that we, too, can apply to our general feelings of ennui and disinterest.  For me that comes mainly from learning new things, or creative endeavors:  guitar playing, photography, writing, minor woodworking and around-the-house repairs, and reading.  Also talking to people I meet and learning about them, their views, and how they live.  Exercise, too, helps.  And observing and teaching my kids (and wife!--just kidding, Deanne.)  Everyone's different and what works for one may not work for another (Deanne enjoys cooking, reading, and socializing with friends) and let's not forget one of the best antidotes of all—meaningful, productive work.  Anything that makes life a little better for others or self including works of charity and faith are just great.

Roadside Gems

     Old furniture, placed roadside for bulky items pickup, are not always garbage.  Seven total pieces, all solid wood, destined for the landfill, instead grace our house, beautiful and functional.  Restoration costs totaled under thirty dollars.  Buying these new would have cost perhaps thousands.  Our finds include a pair of matching oriental display platforms, a child's table and mini-desk (a hobbyist's handiwork), a small oval table with magazine rack beneath, a steel twin size platform bed with four corner posts, and a chest of drawers.

     The oval table, which became my nightstand, was in the recycle area of our former apartment building.  All it needed was a bit of cleaning, polish, and sunning.
     The two children's pieces, discovered roadside, were not much to look at—paint stained, scarred, and dirty.  It became a family project to clean, sand, and finish with two coats of combo urethane/stain.  The wood grain (one mahogany, the other pine) showed beautifully after that, though pitted with minor imperfections.  The two older kids, having worked on them, love them for their displays and storage.
     The oriental pieces—after a bit of polish and sunlight—became stands for my youngest child's toy storage bin (one of three), plus a catch—all for all his other soft toys, knick-knacks, and play things.  He doesn't notice them much except as the boundaries within which his things must be stored during clean-up time.
     We had been looking for awhile for a replacement twin-size platform bed for our daughter, who'd been sleeping since our move to a house in a separate room from my sons—the oldest in a matching twin size platform bed (it and my daughter's stackable into a bunk) and the youngest, then age four, who slept on his crib mattress laid out on the floor (safe if he fell out at night).  As the latter was about to enter school, we wanted him to be in the lower level bunk to match his big boy status.  But months of looking produced only one reasonable platform bed option which was still overpriced and army-barracks ugly.
     Then, just up the street, a dusty disassembled black metal bed frame and four wooden posts—scarred and pitted—appeared a few months later.  I asked our daughter did she like it?  Her eyes lit up and she said yes, nodding.  An elderly man came out and said we could have it.  I asked if he had the nuts and bolts that went with it—I could find replacements, I was sure, but they'd look ugly (and be a hassle to shop for and modify, if necessary).  He said he'd ask his daughter, so I gave him my number.  Later that night, he called, my oldest son and I drove over, and his son passed on a baggie full of all the hardware.  We packed up, but the main platform didn't fit in our family sedan, so my son and I walked it down the street to our house.
     The four corner posts took the most work—sanding, staining, and varnishing as before, but the kids did much of the sanding (even the four year old).  The steel frames needed cleaning, lubricating, insecticide spraying, sealing of holes, and polishing—lots of elbow grease.  But the end product and seeing my daughter lying on it (using her same bed mattress) the first time, smiling, made it all worth it.  The country-style black metal head and footboards add character to her otherwise drab, white walled room.
     The creamy white, heavy construction chest of drawers, covered in scores of stickers, appeared curbside at the same neighbor's house a year later.  My oldest son and I borrowed a neighbor's hand trolley to haul it back.  Then everyone got involved in removing the stickers using rags, water, soap, detergent, fingernails, furniture polish, and tons of rubbing.  A drawer's bent guides needed replacing and additional wood supports—a fun project for me.  Perfect-sized replacement guides were available at the local hardware store.  Leftover white touch-up paint covered the more obvious outside scrapes and inside speckled stains.  It's still not perfect, but nonetheless a fine addition to my daughter's room to replace her old make-shift cabinet (a gutted and shelved RCA console) which went to my oldest son to supplement his stacks of second-hand plastic storage drawers and wire frame cubes.
     Since writing this piece a year ago, we've also acquired a solid wood foldable corner display shelves unit for the kitchen; three laminated particle board pieces including a desk organizer for my daughter's dresser, a CD storage tower, and a fold-down shoe storage cabinet; and an adult mountain bike that Braden requested we donate to his orchestra for its white elephant sale, but which, once I started fixing up and my daughter rode, she requested we keep.
     It required thirty dollars’ worth of brake parts, bolts, a shifter, and a tire repair kit; lots of cleaning and lubricating; disassembly, reassembly, and adjustment of brakes and derailers; and greasy fingers that all-too-often got pinched and cut, to finally get fully functional, but it was worth it showing the kids just how much fun doing dirty mechanical work can be.  So we'll donate Penelope's Sea Princess bike (that we purchased new and that she hardly rode, preferring big brother's old second-hand Mongoose bike after awhile) to the orchestra.
     I love that we gave second lives to these quality pieces otherwise destined for the landfill, that they were free and fun to work with without shopping hassles or outrageous retail prices, and that they all came with little stories and pleasant memories.  We even made a low puzzle table (for a two thousand piece Da Vinci's Last Supper jigsaw puzzle my mom gave us) from a large, round, outdoor plastic table top I recovered.  Spare one-by-four inch lumber (also found) cut to eight-inch lengths; sanded, stained and varnished; and bolted beneath serve as legs.  Light weight and durable, the unit now serves as Penelope's private study desk and slides neatly hidden beneath her bed when not in use.

     Caveat:  The key to successful roadside acquisitions are thorough inspections—especially for water or termite damage; prompt removal from the elements; a wipe-down and reinspection; a few hours of direct sunlight (to kill hidden bed bugs); a wait period in an outdoor covered area (carport/garage/patio) of at least three weeks—the approximate time it takes for minuscule hidden bed bug eggs to hatch (see related article “TV-less Bliss” for our family's experience with bed bugs); spot insecticide spraying; and furniture polish application before bringing indoors.  Frankly, I'd give the same advice for any used furniture purchase, whether from a garage or estate sale, or Goodwill or antique store.  By the way, our used furniture purchases have included a solid wood chest of drawers, a solid wood dining room set, stainless steel storage shelves, pressboard wood veneer book shelves, a designer leather-on-steel director's chair, and a multiple surface, movable, adjustable, personal reading table of solid wood-on-steel construction.  All were priced at ten to thirty percent the cost of buying new.  The pleasant, engaging owners, some of whom were neighbors, and the smooth, relaxed atmosphere attached their own feel-good memories to the articles purchased.  The amazing thing is it's been decades since I've gone out-of-the-way looking to buy used furniture.  All such recent acquisitions have been serendipitous—same's true with all our roadside finds, too.  We just happened to notice a posted sign, a garage sale in progress, or an abandoned item in passing, which made them all the more delightful.

In Memoriam: Aunt Susan

     My Aunt Susan (Auntie Sue to my siblings, cousins, and I) recently died at age eighty-three.  She was a wonderful woman (she really was, I'm not just saying that)—the closest thing to an angel come down from Heaven I have ever met.  Not that she was perfect—she once said a racist stereotype thing to me in passing that raised my eyebrows, but that was such an aberration that I dismissed it as a one-time lapse in judgment.  It never happened again.  She was the type that lived the mottos:  If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it, and, treat others as you would have them treat you.  I have no idea how she did it so consistently.  As a retired secretary and devout Buddhist, she volunteered for twenty-five years at her temple, so her faith probably had a lot to do with it.  Her husband, my Uncle Rod, a humorous, jovial man with only mild human frailties, predeceased her by a year-and-a-half.  A part of me sensed that after his slow, undignified death, which included a brain tumor and surgery that seemed to extract much of his soul, she allowed her will to live to slowly ebb away.  Her already frail body weakened, she had to use a wheel chair and walker, and eventually endure placement in a care home.  A year later, she suffered a series of “mild” strokes that eventually did her in.

     Auntie Sue and Uncle Rod had been such a happy honeymooning couple all their adult lives, that life apart from him eventually became unendurable for her.  She just couldn't bear being apart from him any longer, so she let herself go—not prematurely, but on her own terms, when she was ready.  Everyone had ample chance to say their good-byes, I love yous, and thank-yous to her while she was still mentally hale and in good spirits.  Her dignity and repose throughout the entire ordeal were inspiring.  She spent individual time with each of us in my immediate family when we visited her at her care home, asking us questions, responding to queries, giving us gentle assurances, and tender smiles and praises, that always cheered us up.  She liked to grasp one of my hands within the two of hers, nod, smile, and pat the back of it as I told her my own health concerns (which have since largely stablized or resolved.)
     My daughter and I (the tender-hearted ones in our family) sobbed throughout what we knew would be our final visit with her.   She made eye contact and a few soft gurgling vocalizations.  I bent near to hear, but didn't really want to understand because I knew whatever she said would just make me sob all the more—not that I have anything against sobbing, but I didn't want her to feel badly because of my sorrows over her.
     She had previously made clear that she was content with her situation—no regrets, no feelings of being cheated or short-changed, just mostly gratitude for everything because she had lived a...good life.  The way she nodded and smiled, her face effortless and at ease, you just knew she meant every word she said.
     It was apparent that her comfort always came secondary to that of those around her.  She gave us some of the best moments in her final year and even honored Jaren, our youngest, with a seat on her lap throughout the first half of what was to be her last, large family reunion, thus honoring our entire immediate family by extension.
     Her death left a gaping hole in our lives and we miss her dearly.  But I told her eldest daughter Lilith it's good that we grieve 'cause it shows just how much we love her and how lovable she is.  If we weren't grieving at all that would be a different story.
     My immediate family were fine throughout the memorial service (a part of me had been dreading it).  It was at the brief inurnment ceremony at Punchbowl Cemetery (Uncle Rod had served active duty in the Korean War) that I lost it and wept openly.  I was fine at first, feeling comfortable and relaxed.  We weren't even asked to offer incense powder (versus at the memorial service when my immediate family went forward when called upon and stood silently for a moment before the burner before returning to our seats relieved after the awkward moment of non-conformance).  The open-air ceremony was so peaceful—puffy white clouds hung in the blue, balmy skies beyond the crater's rim, manicured lawns shimmered beneath flags and trees whose leaves fluttered in a lazy breeze.  Being surrounded by loved ones—always close on Mom's side of the family—devoid now of yet another elder, I soon sensed Auntie Sue's presence, at least in thought, manifest by her raspy voice in my ear, a soft, gentle touch on the back of my hand, and her honoring manners that validated my soul.  A sudden well of emotions flooded my throat, and though I knew it was safe, and it was okay to cry, I nonetheless resisted, concentrating on the gazebo's eaves, but to little avail.  Deanne squeezed my hand tight as I convulsed beside her, teary and snuffling.  It was the most beautiful funeral service I had ever been to.

NCLB Politics

     Everyday Math.  Many parents of school age children cringe at the term, though some must applaud it.  It's a new way of teaching math that's supposed to bring meaning and excitement to the sometimes tedious subject.  I call it teaching to the test.

     Due to America's fixation on standardized tests (NCLB and all that) and schools' slow improvements in scores, educators continue to search for a silver bullet that will cure all schools' ills.
     The system largely does away with tried and true methods of rudimentary addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division that earlier generations grew up with (times tables, “carry the four”, “borrow from the tens”, etc.) and replaces them with a plethora of test taking techniques (referred to as strategies).
     Granted, each child is different and some learn one way better than another and there is no sure-fire, one-size-fits-all best way—but the answer in my opinion is not to teach them three to five different techniques in rotation without giving them adequate opportunity to master any one of them.  When I instructed my lost son a few years ago, who struggled in vain to memorize and master the different techniques, to always use the same technique that he liked best, he told me that his teacher told him that he had to use the method listed.  Such insistence on variety probably did create marginally better standardized test takers (my son did fairly well on them), but did not instill greater overall subject matter mastery (his report cards and written tests weren’t so hot) or love of math (I think he often hated the subject).  It also, by its cursory coverage of each single technique, left a lot of the heavy lifting to parents and/or private tutors.
     My son's third grade teacher (one of his best, by the way) announced at open house that children should spend about one hour and forty-five minutes every night on homework.  When I told my dad (a retired elementary school principal) that, he said, “That's too much!”  When he told his retired middle school vice principal friend that, he said, “That's crazy!”
     When will it end?  NCLB is the worst single law passed in my lifetime and is designed solely to discredit virtually every public school in America with perhaps the hidden agenda of school vouchers implementation, which would be nothing more than tax breaks for the wealthy since a voucher alone will be virtually worthless to a typical family except at public schools.  For what decent, well-established private schools would set tuition at or below the voucher's value?  I bet virtually none (especially in Hawaii).
     Full disclosure:  I attended only public schools and so have my children.  The experience has been uniformly excellent and academically and socially rewarding.  My gripe is not with schools or teachers, public or private, but with NCLB and its politics.  Fingering educators as scape goats and “failing” students as victims will not help and neither will vouchers.  I look forward to the day I can finally celebrate its repeal.   Until then, children, chin up, do your best, and enjoy these, the happiest, best, carefree, innocent, play-filled, halcyon most important formative and all too often stressed-out days of your lives.

TV-less Bliss

     Some of the best, most exclusive hotels, resorts, and vacation rentals in the world are TV-less.  And they are pure bliss.  How do I, who've never been, know?  Because our home has been TV-less for the past five years and it's been one of the most blissful changes in our lives.

     It didn't used to always be that way.  We'd flip it on in the morning or when we got home and it'd stay on till we went to bed at night.  It was the hog that sucked our attentions, causing us to zero-out those around us.  “Shush.”  “Quiet, I'm watching,” we'd say with an urgent point toward the set.
     The beginning of the end started when my oldest child was in first grade.  One day, out of the blue, he said, “Why don't we not watch TV anymore?” the set blaring in the background.
     “O.K,” I said, already disillusioned by the blood-sucking, mind-numbing medium to which our lives had become captive.  And I switched the thing off.
     Then, the strangest thing happened.  A part of me revolted and silently screamed, “Turn it on!  Turn it on!”  I had never had such an urgent craving over such a ridiculous thing since who knows when.  But I put the remote down, somewhat disturbed by the odd craving, then picked up something to read, instead.  The craving immediately subsided, and the TV remained off that day, and part of the next.  Gradually over the coming weeks and months, TV resumed its presence in our lives, but much more selectively than before, perhaps down from forty-plus to twenty-something hours per week, my wife doing most of the viewing.
     Then, a year later came the bedbugs.  My daughter brought them home from her co-op type pre-school.  Our friends who had earlier had them said they were worse than the scourges of Egypt because at least you can see locusts, whereas bedbugs hide in credit-card thin cracks in furniture, carpeting, clothes, floorboards, etc.
     In response, we exercised the nuclear option.  We quarantined the bedroom, washed and bagged all clothes and bedding within the room, wiped down and sun-dried the mattress, sprayed with insecticide her and big brother's bunk bed frame and nearby wall crevices, petroleum jellied the legs of the room's wood furniture, and every evening for two months sometime between midnight and two a.m., crept into the eerie blacked-out room with flashlight to inspect for remnant nasty critters.
     My wife consulted an exterminator who warned they even crawled from one room to the next via shared power outlet receptacles.  I opened these, and finding a dead bed bug in one of them, sprayed them all down.
     The kids' room shared a common wall with our family room.  One of this wall's multi-room power outlet receptacles was that into which we had plugged our sole TV in the family room.  I asked my wife, “Is it OK if I tape over this wall outlet?  It'll mean no more TV, though.  It's up to you.” 
     She said, “Go ahead.”
     “Yes,” I silently rejoiced.
     My boy's grades instantly improved from C’s and B’s to B's and A's.  Our tempers flared far less frequently.  And we spent far more time reading and talking.
     During visits to relatives or stays at hotels, I sometimes flip through the plethora of channels, my heart rate accelerating in eager anticipation of seeing some of the good stuff I had been missing.  It doesn't take long for the mindless blather and hyper-kinetic images to create a dull, achey sensation toward the back of my head, my neck stiffening, me feel blah all over.
     Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed TV just as much as the next fella.  TV is not the root of all evil—it's just another communication devise like radio, internet, or print media.  But for me, at this stage in life, doing without has been pure bliss and I don't miss it a bit.
     For those intrigued, give it a try sometime, perhaps just as an experiment for a day or two.  Notice the before and after effects—they're sure to be stark.  And also notice the effects after switching it back on.
     And by the way, we had a milder case of bedbugs with no real recurrence after our first main spraying.  Talk about a blessing in disguise!

    

Fire the Tooth Fairy!

     Something's wrong with the Tooth Fairy. Twice she forgot to collect my daughter's tooth and both times she tried to make up for it the following night by leaving an apologetic note explaining her busy schedule, etc. and that that's why she's leaving twice the usual monetary amount. As if that makes up for Penelope's hurt feelings.

     The first time it happened, I felt just awful. There my daughter was, sitting up in her bed early in the morning, something clasped in her tiny fingers, her head bowed over with quiet resignation. The night before, she had gone to sleep all smiles, excited over the magical impending visit, knowing her tooth would be replaced by a reward—the first tooth she had ever lost, which had wiggled for weeks before falling out.

     My wife and I had enjoyed each other's company the night before. When I told her the next morning what had happened, she fisted her hands and mouthed, “Oh shit!” and I nodded and said, “I know.” But my daughter was resilient and happy enough when the Tooth Fairy came through the following night with the special note and reward.

     I learned about the Tooth Fairy the scientific way: I experimented. No one told me the truth about her, but I had my suspicions. The coins and hand written notes looked just too familiar. But there was that ounce of doubt, that delicious ounce, that made me believe and want to believe in magic, fairy tales, that all wishes and dreams come true and are real, alive, and active. So I did the big, cynical no-no. I lost a tooth, didn't tell anyone about it, and stuck it under my pillow. With a mixture of knowing smugness, yet hope beyond reason, I reached beneath my pillow the following morning and discovered...my tooth. Three days in a row this happened, before I threw the incriminating evidence away.

     Throughout those days, I felt a confident triumph—I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!--tempered by quiet sadness—it was all just make believe after all, it was never really real—ground-shifting realizations for a naïve nine-year-old. In balance, though, I thought it a good thing—fun while it had lasted. And I saw my parents in a new light—creators of happy moments, going out of their way to do nice, secret things for me as I slept, to make life a little more exciting and enjoyable.

     In a confiding tone, I later told Mom about the unredeemd tooth. She looked at me, nodded, and said, “Well you know..” Then she stroked my back and walked away a little more bent than usual, which made me feel a bit guilty, yet proudly in-the-know.

     Just the other morning the Tooth Fairy had a close call with our youngest son Jaren. And it was only his second lost tooth, too. Good thing he slept in late.

     Then, two days after that (he lost four teeth in seven days)--she again neglected to collect a tooth! Jaren took it in stride, saying, “Now I'll get double the usual amount.” I told him, “We'll just have to wait and see.”

     The following morning he was sullen. I asked him did anything happen last night? He said the Tooth Fairy came and left him double the amount. I asked if she left anything else? He teared up and in a quavering voice said, “A note.”

     “Why are you crying?” I asked.

     He wiped his eyes on his collar and said, “I don't know.”

     “What did the note say?”

     “She wasn't feeling well.” Wailing sobs followed, unusual for him who mostly only cries from owies and time-outs.

     “You're sad because she was sick?”

     “Mrphel...”

     “What? I can't hear you.”

     “Yessss.”

     I opened my arms and we embraced, which offered a quick remedy. “Go show Mom,” I said. He ran to show her to her great surprise. Mom, by coincidence, just happened to be sick, too.

     Later that day, during a clean-up battle, I ordered Jaren what to do to straighten up his play corner of the living room. After three tries, he finally got it right, except for a sole misplaced paper on his play table.

     “What's that?” I snapped, fed up with his constant need to be told everything.

     “My note,” he said in a low quivering voice.

     “What note?”

     “From the Tooth Fairy.” His sobs convulsed his tiny, but strong frame.

     “Put it away,” I said, still impatient.

     He cried and put it in an insecure play box on the table.

     “Don't you want to put it in your money box?”

     He nodded, settled down, and ran to put it away.

     I'm certain he was afraid I'd order him to throw it away, as I often do with innumerable of his useless pack-rat junk (such as wrappers, no longer needed instructions, stray unused game cards, etc.)