In Their Words

     As a kid, I enjoyed Family Circus comics. The convoluted ways the cartoonist's kids went about carrying out the simplest assignments such as fetching the newspaper or mail as depicted by dashed line routes and diversions—birds nest, garden hose, mud puddle etc.—were some of my favorites as well as when Bill Keane's son supposedly filled in for Dad as cartoonist-for-the-day (even though it was obvious no such thing happened and Dad just wanted to do the strip as if through Billy's eyes). Following his lead, then, here are my kids' writings. (No, joke, they did them themselves and I didn't change a thing except for a few added line spaces for readability.) The only ground rules were minimum word counts of a hundred for Jaren, four hundred for Penelope, and five hundred for Braden. And they had to be works they'd feel proud of and wouldn't later regret for bad spelling, grammar, or punctuation. 
     Braden and Penelope asked, Can we do it on computer? 
     I said, Okay, but you have to touch-type, you can't look at the keys. 
     I caught Braden looking at his hands while typing, so I covered them with a dish cloth. He seemed amused, but continued so I guess he knows the keys well enough. 

Flu + Virus

     Now here's a question: which is better a flu or disease? Any ways, Do you know if there's a new flu and/or virus? Yes or no? I do. If you do than whats the flu? ________________________ If you didn't catch the flu - than your lucky. AND helpful to the hospital workers and medicine-makers. Getting back to the flu question did you answer it? If not, please do. Here's another question: Have you seen the inside of an hospital? Yes, I have No, I didn't. (and please answer this once you see it!) And by heart I find it troubling that a new flu is here and there is no vaccine for the flu.

                                Best wishes for you,

                                Jaren 

(Penelope essay)

Just Something To Think About

     Living in Honolulu, HI isn't all that's it cracked up to be. As a not-so-typical teenager, it definitely has it's ups and downs. But it isn't necessary to go into that, since that's not what I'm writing about. I want to tell you a story. A story about someone that's maybe a bit like you. 

     You know what drives me crazy? When people act like they can control their life. And maybe they can-to a certain extent. But things won't happen just because you say so. Reality check-in people. For instance, when I was little, I announced to all that cared to listen that I would never have to wear glasses. And now in the year of 2015, here I am with-you guessed it-glasses. Morale of the story? Don't tempt fate that way, people.
     Another thing that drives me nuts are my siblings. I'm writing a little bit about them even though they won't be happy. It's my essay. I'll write what I want about them. And they can't stop me. Hah! But to prove that I'm not totally heartless, I'll stop writing about them.
     I'm a reader at heart. I read and dream and (occasionally) take the pen to the paper and write. I've read tons and tons of books. Books that make you cry and books that'll make you laugh and some very solemn and silly books. But I won't read just any book, just like you won't read anything your parents set before you. I have a criteria for my books. Every time I pick up a book, I run through a mental criteria, as shown below:

My Criteria for Books

1. Is the book fiction? If no, then I probably won't read it. Refer to #4. If yes, keep going.
2. Is the book a series? Is the series recent? Keep going if yes or no.
3. Is the book weird in any way? If yes, then return to shelf. If no, keep going.
4. Does it have any basis in history? If nonfiction and no to last question, return to shelf.
5. Does the synopsis scream absurd? If yes, return to shelf and us

     And what I don't like about reading so much is that my teachers keep pestering me to read nonfiction. I despise having to read nonfiction. It's so, so... dull. Like the other week when my English teacher assigned us an article on this website called TeenBiz300. It consists of nonfiction articles that supposedly prepare us for our standardized tests. Do I look like I want to waste my time doing some standardized test?! 
     Anyways, the article I mentioned earlier is about this art collector who bought this relic of a painting and paid some money for it. Then later these guys find a fingerprint and decide that the painting was worth three times as much money than the retail price was. Blah, blah, blah. Incidentally the article was soooo very boring that I nearly fell asleep doing it. I told my teacher that my score is determined by my interest level because she was lamenting the fact that so many of her students did poorly on it. But she scoffed it off. However, I'm positive that its at least a bit true. Back to the article, another reason why I don't like it is because I wasn't the one who was ripped off. I mean, sure I have some sympathy but in the end, I don't care. Bad luck for the retailer. Do you understand what I mean about nonfiction?
     While we're on the topic of school, you might be able to empathize when I say that I detest standardized testing more than nonfiction. I feel that standardized testing is ridiculous. To what extent do colleges check what you got on a test that you did in elementary and middle school? It's a complete waste of time to take those tests, but in the end you still have to take them. Sigh.
     Alright, back to the other things or else I'll just keep on ranting. As you know I like fiction books and dislike nonfiction books. I also like movies, comics and trivia books. When it comes to comics, my family enjoys Peanuts. Really, what's there not to love about Snoopy? He'd make a great person, but a horrible dog. Such is the irony, since Charlie Brown, Snoopy's owner, would make a wonderful dog but a horrible human. 
     When the kids were little we would read Peter Rabbit and Winnie the Pooh. Winnie the Pooh and his friends are now the source of countless very naughty jokes, like: Why did Tigger look into the toilet? Answer: He was looking for his friend Pooh. ( Get it? Poo, Pooh) But something interesting I was told by my older brother was that everyone in those books had a human-like trait. Tigger can't sit still, Piglet is always afraid of everything and is timid, Eeyore is constantly depressed, Kanga has OCD, and Rabbit is always upset about something or someone. Go figure.
     I also read trivia books (as mentioned before) that are usually filled with interesting and (pretty useless) facts. So, actually, I do read nonfiction, just not the type of nonfiction my teachers want me to read. I learn quite a few different things. Things like:

• the secret recipe for Coke isn't so secret
• all of the numbers share a letter with the numbers that follow (one, two, three, four, etc)
• there is no speed of sound
• bulls don't get angry at the sight of the color red
• camels don't store water in their humps.

Interesting, no?
     My reading has it's ups and downs. I can't tell you who won the football game but I can tell you what is a good book. I can't tell you what my favorite video game is but I can tell you something I think I know about the states. I think. Maybe you should try to read a book. See how far you get. 
     How did you like my story? Perhaps I'll come back another day and tell you more. But for now, I think you have enough to think about. Aloha!

(Braden essay)

The Different Benefits of Computers in School

     Computers are very useful tools. They can be used for an almost endless amount of things, from word processing to sending information across the world in the blink of an eye, to solving equations that can take humans countless days to solve to cracking complex codes. All of these things can prove very useful for students to use. Of course students probably will not be solving super hard equations that they will need a computer to solve nor will they be cracking complex codes.

     However students can use computers for other things, such as accessing a countless amount of useful websites, sending information to each other and even using it to revive information.
     All of these thing can be done with a simple computer. Now, one does not need a top of the line high speed processing computer to do this, a simple basic computer will do that. With that computer they can do all of this and even more. In fact, the usefulness of a computer is only limited by one's imagination and one's open mind.
     Because of all these possible things to do with computers I believe students can greatly benefit from being issued a computer to use for his or her studies. Like I said it does not have to be some top of the line name brand computer, a simple inexpensive laptop will be useful and very helpful as well.
     Other than the educational reasons, computers can be used for other things a well. Taking care of a computer will teach students responsibility. They can also learn other life skills as well such as the ability to use technology effectively and efficiently. Also, with the internet, they can learn about what other common people think about a matter and not just a group of “experts” said in some textbook students can benefit from this by learning to keep an open mind. Other benefits can include, being able to use technology in a way that will keep the interest of a student and by using technology a teacher can teach students in new ways. Also, using a computer can also teach important and necessary skills that people will need to have in the future.
     Of course there are many downsides to using computers, but they can be neutralized. Probably the most common thing that will come up is the fact that the computers can be abused and not used properly. To counteract this all you have to do is to put some tracking program in the computers and insure that the students know about it, to eliminate secrecy issues (you can also set up an firewall to prevent students from accessing inappropriate sites. Another concern would be the security issue but, a good firewall should be able to prevent hackers form making trouble.
     (Another thing to think about is the fact that the exact same thing can be said about the teachers and the computers that they are issued.)
     For all of these reasons a computer should be given to each student to use for educational reasons. I strongly believe that students can and will benefit from using computers for school.

     It's I again. 

     It's my belief that good writing is imprinted with the soul of the writer and like a finger print, can not be replicated by any other. My kids' above writings, though not good—in fact, they repulse me—are fair and indicative samples of their current psyches. 
     My inside observations: All three went about their assignments without complaint and even with marked enthusiasm, which alone made them worthwhile. 
     Jaren speaks and writes sloppily. He can do well when he tries, but seldom bothers. 
     Rather than produce quality, Pene went for quantity.
     Braden at age fourteen knows it all including my error in thinking computers don't make kids smarter. 
     All three did age appropriate work, especially considering I gave them only one afternoon and evening to complete their assignments because I wanted them to enjoy them and not feel burdened, for writings often reflect the author's feelings. And I wanted their essay tones to be fun and light, not serious and heavy. (Based on what came out, perhaps next time I'll tell them to try a lot, lot harder and force them to edit again and again and again! Even though I, at their ages, couldn't have done any better, they, by now, should be able to do lots better considering they're far more studious at their ages than I ever was because of today's foolish academic more-is-always-better attitudes toward student achievement. Deanne blames their poor writing on their schools' deemphasis on writing. I blame it on society's over-emphasis on standardized tests, which forces schools to teach-to-the-stupid-tests as opposed to sticking to the tried and true fundamentals—reading, writing, and arithmetic.)

The $735 Popsicle Stick Wound

     The United States health care system is broken largely because of patient fears of cancer and other horrible diseases and practitioner fears of getting sued for missing serious diagnoses.  Such fears then drive seemingly endless series of expensive followup appointments, referrals to specialists, and diagnostic tests for things as simple as wounds that take a bit long to heal, curious lumps, or headaches. 
     For example, after completion of Braden's recent regular dental cleaning the dentist called me in, shone a light on the soft palate toward the back of his mouth, and said, “I don't know what it is,” about a dime-sized whitish-gray lesion with a small poke hole in the middle. He said, It's probably nothing—perhaps a wound from a fork or pizza burn—but I want to see him again in two weeks because if it's not healed by then, I'd like to refer you to an oral surgeon. 
     Normally I blow off such follow-up appointments if I feel the doctor is being overly cautious and instead monitor wounds/sores myself for obvious signs of improvement such as reduced size and improved color. Absent other symptoms such as fever, swelling, puss, loss of appetite, change in sleep patterns, lethargy, pain, etc., with obvious improvement I'll assume its healing and cancel the visit, which is what I did for these very reasons after a week-and-a-half of monitoring. But a few days later, the wound had not improved and looked even worse, with an additional new poke hole beside the original. 
     When we went back to the dentist, he said, It still doesn't look serious, but I'll refer you to an oral surgeon who'll know better what it is and how to proceed. 
     To his credit, he didn't charge us for this follow-up examination. 
     Before the appointment with the oral surgeon, Penelope and Jaren had annual check-ups with our pediatrician, so we asked him to also examine Braden's wound. He said, I'm not sure what it is. To me, it looks like a Popsicle stick wound or something like that. The oral surgeon will know or possibly order a biopsy. If he wants to do more, see an E.N.T. (Ear, Nose, Throat doctor) for a second opinion.  
     The oral surgeon was a bummer because he refused to accept our medical or dental insurance coverages, obviously because he can charge more that way, so we had to pay out-of-pocket and settle for a puny fifty percent reimbursement from our carrier. After taking a look, the doctor said, I don't know what it is, though it's not likely to be cancer as that usually strikes older patients age sixty-five and older who've smoked all their lives. We can either wait two more weeks and see if it heals on its own or do a biopsy now if you prefer. 
     He did point out a new purplish, dime-sized blemish closer to the front of the mouth that concerned him even more as the back one appeared to be a typical wound which sometimes takes months to heal.
     Because of the low likelihood of anything serious with the back wound and because the front wound was recent and looked like a simple bruise to me, I opted to wait and see. 
     Before the appointment, both things looked a lot better, the back one nearly healed, but not quite. However, when the doctor shone his light on it, the back wound obviously had a ways to go. He said, We can wait two more weeks and do a biopsy then if it's not fully healed or do a biopsy now. Since two months have already passed since it was first discovered, time will be of the essence soon, because for serious things, the sooner we act, the better. 
     Because I knew it wouldn't fully heal in two weeks I said, Go ahead and biopsy it now. 
     After the surgery when I looked at the wound I noticed a neat, half-inch incision with a couple stitches, which surprised me as being much larger than what I'd expected given a minimal biopsy sample. Braden said that the doctor said that rather than take a small sample, he decided to take out the whole thing. I felt he should have at least told us of this beforehand, but he did do a good job, so I let it pass.  
     To his credit, the oral surgeon called us at home the following day to see how Braden was doing. 
     In the coming days, the surgical wound opened after the stitches self-dissolved and appeared dime-sized like before, but a lot cleaner, and the holes and purplish blemish which the doctor hadn't touched were gone. 
     At the follow-up visit, the doctor said, Queen's Medical Center's report shows the biopsy is normal. That means something poked or burned it. I'll see Braden again in two months to check its progress. 
     At that point I was relieved, but sick of doctors' visits. As long as the wound continues to improve I have no intention (having already had to pull Braden out of school early twice) to see any more doctors about it. 
     When I was a kid, my dentist would not have made a fuss over such a thing, perhaps only saying avoid aggravating it and call him if it gets painful or looks worse after a few weeks.
     Today, four doctors (including the one that analyzed the biopsy), on six separate occasions, had looks at it before the one that looked at it beneath a microscope finally had the courage to say in essence, It's nothing; don't worry about it.
     A couple years ago, I had a lump on the floor of my mouth looked at by a dentist, an oral surgeon, and an E.N.T. The E.N.T. said it wasn't a tumor, just a trauma wound that would heal on it's own, but ordered a CT scan to check for blockage in a salivary duct which wasn't even a concern of mine. I blew that off and things returned to normal in a couple weeks.
     I had a friend with minor headaches and his doctor ordered a half-hour MRI brain scan. This was a couple decades ago when MRIs were perhaps even more expensive and high demand than now. I knew his headaches were minor—probably tension or diet or lifestyle-related—and the MRI found nothing. 
     In short, our health care system seems to lack common sense judgment because it is obsessed with ruling out the often one-in-ten-thousand worse case scenario lest an error in judgment be made that comes back to bite everyone. And no one wants that to happen. Thus, it's no wonder health care costs continue to rise unabated as doctors milk the system with more and more follow-up visits, expensive procedures, referrals (do they get referral fees? Or reciprocal referrals?), and tests. My doctors are good and responsible, but even for something as simple as a Popsicle stick wound, we and my insurance carrier sure paid a lot.

Kite Flying

     All my life I've enjoyed flying kites. Contrary to Peanuts comics it's something anyone can do and can be as involved as intricate dragon trains with over a dozen matched kites spaced several inches apart, difficult to construct and balance, and nearly impossible to fly in Hawaii's fickle, shifting winds, to a five dollar preassembled sled kite with string included that can be flown with ease in minutes.
     Kapiolani Park is the best place in town to fly kites because of its expansive fields sans telephone lines and reliable winds, though gusts do tend to ebb and flow so that smaller kites on shorter strings will eventually get grounded on most days.
     Our kids have loved it along with me, my goal usually being to string them in a train, the kites spaced at thirty yards or more intervals, to see how high they'll go. The first time I did it was on my birthday over a decade ago with our two most reliable kites at the time: a premade sled, and a conyne (triangular box kite with wings) I constructed from mailing paper and barbeque skewers which happened to be the best flyer I've ever made. 
     Note:  building kites is fun. I've used bamboo barbeque skewers, thin bamboo poles, split bamboo strips, tape, string, and Tyvek paper from envelopes. I've reshaped bamboo strips using a candle flame and constructed lantern, box, and dragon tambourine train kites, none of which flew for lack of sufficient lift and imbalances that caused them to gyrate or dive. My advice is unless you're very motivated to study the craft and hone flying performance, if you want to fly a kite high and well, don't build, buy. Even premade kites vary in flight-worthiness because the physics are just so complicated. Some beautiful hand crafted and prepackaged kites (one shaped like a sailing ship, another like a biplane, and a regular box kite) that I purchased either flew poorly (the last two) or not all (the first). Our best purchased flyers were a sled, a delta, a diamond, and a mini-delta. The first two were expensive nylon “performance” kites received as gifts, the last two were on sale and free from school. In short, expensive or fancy don't assure good flying. 
     For entire family fun, have at least one kite per person, with each person choosing which kite he or she wants to fly, and lots of string that won't easily tangle. All my kids have learned how to get a kite airborne on their own by standing still, letting the wind carry the kite up, and loosening line as the kite pulls high and tight and dances about. The only thing I need to remind them sometimes is, “Let more line out! Don't you want it to go all the way up?” because a high flying kite train is easier and far funner to assemble with their help. 
     I read as a kid in a Guinness Book of World Records that a kite flown in a train will fly far higher than a lone kite on a string. I later reasoned that the weight and drag of a very long string can only be lifted so high by a single kite way at the end. Having multiple kites along the way to help lift the string's dead weight enables the last kite to lift that much higher. A kite book suggested putting the strongest puller at the far end of the train. An experienced kite flyer advised that for each kite added, the string strength should be doubled such that the kite at the end requires only a single string, whereas the string held in hand may need double, quadruple, or more strength depending on how many kites there are. 
     I've always purchased inexpensive cotton or nylon cord or string from drug or hardware stores and never had trouble with breakage or even much tangling. To get the train started, I just tie the end of a cord to the plastic handle of the highest flyer, let it out, then do an overhand knot on a doubled over length of line to crate a loop to attach to the handle of the next kite attached. 
     The most I've flown in train was about four. It was fun and beautiful. The kite book recommended that all kites be of the same variety (i.e. delta or box), but all our kites have always been different and I think it's funner that way—they're all dancing about pulling this way and that, diving and recovering at their own leisure like kids doing their own things, with their unique looks and personalities. 
     I lost our high flying delta years ago when trying to add a kite to start a train while holding at the same time the main line. It slipped my grasp twice. The first time I sprinted and ran down the trailing cord. The next time the kite carried the cord end ten, twenty, then thirty and more feet off the ground as I sprinted to try to catch up, the weight of the string and cord sufficient to keep the kite strained taut against the line's inertia. I stopped and watched like a kid who'd just lost his balloon as it all sped away far beyond the park, above and over nearby hotels, and toward the beach and ocean beyond. It looked beautiful on its way and I just hoped it wouldn't get sucked into a jet engine and cause a crash. (I should have stepped on the line while tying it!) Since there was no aviation disaster that followed, it's a fun and happy memory to recall with the kids as the kite did serve us very well for years and numerous joyful outings and that is about as much as can be hoped for from a cheap, inanimate object.

Retirement and College Savings

     Saving enough for retirement and kids' college expenses are two of the three things (the other being affording long-term health care insurance) virtually impossible for average middle class Americans with multiple children to do.
     For this and other financial topics I draw upon my college and professional training, which has helped us with these impossible tasks. Here's what I've found: 
     Believe the oft stated advice that the earlier you start the better because of the “magic” of compounding. Simply stated, invested money grows more money the longer it is kept invested. Socking away a little at a time is all it takes.
     Have a cash bank account or equivalent emergency fund that will cover at least two months of living expenses. (For me, that's far too little. I keep a disproportionate share of non-retirement and non-college savings in credit union CDs 'cause I hate the thought of losing fifty percent if it's all in stocks come the next stock market crash.)
     Saving for retirement is a far higher priority than saving for kids' college educations. My friend Norm took a huge financial hit by cashing out all his accumulated 401K retirement savings to pay for college tuition (plus other current expenses) to pursue his second career as a nurse. I asked what are your plans to retire (he's almost fifty) and he said I'm in a work-until-you-die plan. His health is less than stellar so in essence he's saying “I don't care right now about my long-term finances, I'll deal with it at a later date.” He's a smart guy and knows the realities of what he might one day face (as he's witnessed in his nurses' training—he's on the verge of graduating), even so, I'm concerned (though comforted about his education, engineering background, and loving, smart, and hard-bitten tough kids and siblings that could help out if necessary).
     Take advantage of employer 401K matches, or even better, employer defined benefit pension plans that guarantee lifetime payments upon retirement (I am blessed with just such a plan with the state). Be sure to first consider life expectancy and expected rates of return to determine reasonableness of cost. Also consider the financial health of the payer—whether employer or annuity insurance company. Some annuities contracts, especially those offered by independent agents, are blatant scams. Ask lots of questions, get everything in writing, and hire a CPA if necessary.
     For middle class Americans with kids, ROTH IRAs are a good alternative if the above are not available or as additional investments 'cause current federal income tax rates are so low and seem likely to me to rise. For such ROTH IRAS (that you contribute to after-tax, but get to withdraw tax-free) it's wise to invest in diversified portfolios such as mutual funds that hold stocks of lots of different companies or bond funds that can substantially lower risk, though current returns are exceedingly low. (Deanne and I both have ROTH IRAs with investments in stocks and bonds mutual funds.) 
     Avoid high fees, loads, and all other trading and holdings costs that'll steal your investments' earnings.  
     Avoid get rich quick schemes that'll steal your investments even faster.
     Avoid trading individual stocks and bonds unless your employer offers great discounts (or employer matches) on company stocks.  
     Avoid derivatives such as futures, options, hedges, swaps, short sales, and other complex instruments. Banks, cities, and tons of “smart” investors have gone broke thinking they knew what they were doing when in fact they didn't. 
     For higher earning tax-payers, invest in tax-deferred 401K plans, regular IRAs, or deferred compensation plans. These may also be attractive to average income tax-payers for lowering current federal and state taxes or because of investment options not available elsewhere. (We have a substantial portion of our retirement savings in our state's deferred compensation plan because of a stable value option that has given us steady returns.) The downside of these is that withdrawals upon retirement are fully taxed at a time when tax rates may be a lot higher (especially if retirement income exceeds working income, which my retired uncle and Mom suggest are quite likely, improbable though it seems to me).
     Select investments based on what you're willing to lose as opposed to what you hope to make. This is a way to stay within your risk tolerance profile. The riskier an investment, the more it's price will tend to bounce around. If such price jumps bother you, find less risky investments. For some, even the S&P 500 is far too nerve wracking. (When I first started saving after college, I put all my funds into bank savings accounts, than CDs. Only slowly after I had a huge cushion did I venture into mutual funds, the minimum thousand dollars investment at a time. I still approach stocks by adding a little at a time and waiting and seeing before making larger moves to, say, rebalance my portfolio. It's served me well through the years with slow, steady gains and no spectacular losses.)
     When an adequate retirement cushion is established so that perhaps forty to sixty percent of retirement needs will likely be met, not counting Social Security benefits, start saving for college right away! (I told you it's impossible, but try we must, I suppose. Maybe our kids will get rich and cover all our retirement needs?) One of the best deals for this (which isn't even that great) is 529 college savings plans offered by all states for residents of any state. (It's weird, it doesn't make much sense, but it's legit and works.) Money goes in after-tax and gets withdrawn tax-free. In essence, tax-free earnings is its main direct financial benefit. Some states (not Hawaii) offer plans that allow before-tax contributions that may be far better deals. Be sure to research and crunch numbers before deciding. 
     When comparing states' 529 plans and investment options (almost unlimited choices in unlimited states may be held—I told you it's weird) consider costs and fees, your risk profile, and expected returns as described above (as saving for college is similar to saving for retirement, only shorter term in outlook meaning we hope to far outlive the day all our kids graduate college, right? If so, college funds ought to be depleted far before retirement funds). 
     Vanguard (I rarely do endorsements) is one company with terrific offerings and ultra low (I especially like their index funds) fees and their funds have done super for all my ROTH IRAs and my kids' 529 college savings plans, though some much better than others. (I own 529 plans in three states (that begin with the letters U, O, and V), each with some of the lowest admin. fees around. Hawaii's 529 plan stinks so they get zilch from me.) 
     My Hawaii State Federal Credit Union is fantastic, by the way, far superior to any of the local banks, so they get virtually all my personal financial banking business. (I don't dare venture to Internet banking because it just feels far too sketchy to me.)
     Impossible though the task to average middle class Americans may seem, saving sufficiently should be approached like exercise whereby in general, the more the better, every little bit helps, and small steps can lead to big gains.

Temptation

     Every third day I run three-and-a-half miles mostly through a nice nearby neighborhood instead of ours because it's more runner-friendly with even sidewalks, gentle slopes, and less traffic.  There's been a shrub along that route's sidewalk, however, that's annoyed me due to its below six feet overhang so that I have to duck for a few strides to avoid painful scratches on my face or ears, or having my ball cap scraped off my head. 
     Frustrated, I once stopped mid-stride and broke off a few branches to raise the overhang so that I and others might traverse full height. I felt no guilt as the owner was negligent in maintaining his plant and a blind pedestrian or bicyclist could get poked or scratched or a stooped runner or a senior could get a back injury. 
     Only last year did I discover it's not a shrub at all but a tangerine tree, its fruit ugly brown-orange and uninviting, spread in scrawny bunches across several patches.
     This year, however, starting from a couple months ago, the tree has been flush with dozens of luscious full fruit, many within easy grasp of passing walkers. I must admit I was more than once tempted as they appeared so juicy and sweet, perfect for breakfast. But I refrained from taking because there were no fallen fruit or leaves, suggesting the owner cared enough to tidy up and harvest.
     I thought if I saw the owner, I might ask for a few or maybe even suggest a purchase or trade for star fruit, for our landlord's tree has been similarly abundant with far more than he or we could ever want or need. But after weeks of running the only possible resident I saw was a young woman coming out of her new white Honda Accord parked streetside before the property, whom I sensed would feel awkward and probably say, “I don't know, you have to ask my dad,” or, “I guess it's okay,” or worse, “We have grocery bags full, let me get you one!”—as I didn't want to create a bother, especially if she got in trouble with her dad for doing the “wrong” thing.  
     Then about three weeks ago, I noticed several tangerines on the sidewalk, a few with holes in them as though pecked on by birds. On subsequent runs, it appeared that some of these had dried out and shriveled and that the scattered accumulated fallen leaves and fruits had grown. So on one of these runs, sensing that the fruit were now "fair game", I stopped at the spot, looked up into the dense foliage, and removed from deep within two of the ugliest, most mature, mottled, and dull brown fruit within easy reach, fruits I assumed would be sweet but that the owner would be least likely to miss. 
     When home, I shared my story with Deanne and my rationale for helping myself. That in college Business Law, I learned that “wind falls” describe fruit fallen onto adjacent property that may be legally kept by recipient neighbors. That county ordinances require property owners to maintain their plants so as not to obstruct nearby public walkways. That I hadn't trespassed to get the fruit. That no cop would arrest or cite me over two silly fruits. That any judge would throw out such a frivolous case. And that I intended to confess to the owner the next time I saw him. 
     To my bemused disappointment the fruit's flesh was sour and its membranes were bitter, yet they were edible enough so I shared them with my family in our oatmeal breakfast the following day. 
     Just last week, I saw the owner beside a ladder for the first time pruning the (still laden) overhanging branches. He was wearing earbuds and seemed distracted as I approached, slowed to a walk, and with a goofy smile and hand gesture said, “I hope you don't mind, they looked so good I got tempted and took a couple.”
     “That's fine, help yourself,” he said with an open smile, engaging himself the moment I addressed him. “They're a bit sour.” 
     “I'll trade you. We've got a star fruit tree with tons more than we could eat.” 
     “Like ours. No thanks, we're good,” he said and went on pruning.
     “Do you mind if I take four?” I asked.
     “Sure, go ahead.”
     “Sure you don't want some star fruit?”
     “We're good.” I wasn't sure if he didn't like star fruit, or perhaps didn't want to burden me or have to deal with me again.
     “Any difference which fruit I take which are sweeter?”
     “I'd avoid the more mature ones.”
     From the cut branches on the ground, I chose more youthful, bright shiny tangerines, including two already broken open. “Last chance, sure you don't want star fruit?”
     “We're good.” He smiled and nodded.
     I waved and ran home (dropping one and damaging near half of its wedges in the process). This time the fruits were sweeter and juicer and had pleasanter tart, bitter bites, although two were somewhat sour, but still edible. 
     During dinner, I explained to everyone the entire story that including Internet research I conducted that seemed to suggest that such fruit overhanging public space in Honolulu were gray areas, ill-defined by law whether they may or may not be taken by passers by, though credible authors suggested to always ask first.  I sensed this intuitively and would have recompensed the owner had he requested a reasonable sum such as a dollar per fruit, though such stinginess in Hawaii is seldom seen. Yet my main reason for approaching wasn't to appease my guilt (which I didn't feel) or seek forgiveness (which I didn't feel was necessary), but rather to establish friendly contact, have some fun, and put a positive close to my (some would say) criminal, naughty, or selfish act. As an aside, three days following my “theft”, I saw during a run a pleased-looking pedestrian walking toward me and away from the tree munching on something held hidden in his fist that I suspected was a tangerine.  As I passed the spot on the way home, I noticed the clean picked shell of a fresh fruit on the ground which suggested that I hadn't been the only one to succumb to temptation.  Had I been in Adam's feet, I have little reason to doubt that I'd have done the same thing, especially had the tree's debris been just as untidy.

Showers of Blessings

     When Braden was in first grade, Deanne told me one day with a smile and gurgle of restrained laughter that there'd been an incident at school. His teacher had told her that during class the students began laughing and pointing out the window at Braden, who was walking around in his blue dinosaur underwear with his shorts wrapped around his ankles. (The boys' restroom was located just outside class. At home after using the bathroom he walked around half nude and took his time getting dressed, so he must have forgotten his place, which the teacher attributed to absent-mindedness. I thought, “He lives in his own world.” At least it never happened again: embarrassment can be a great teacher.)
     Jaren, who just turned seven, has been in the habit of pulling down his shorts and underwear to just above his knees to pee. At home, its fine. But in public restrooms he's getting a bit too old to do that when tip-toeing to reach the urinal.
     I tell him it's gross to allow his penis to touch the urinal (although I remembered having done so accidentally countless times as a kid his age), to use the toilet stall instead, and to pull down only the front of his pants if he's going to keep the stall door open. He mostly follows my instructions but sometimes has trouble with aim as I sometimes hear Deanne scream at him to stop peeing all over the floor and outside the toilet! I even forbade him not to use our restroom toilet ever again unless he sits down every time, so upset was I to have to clean up after him. (I forced him to clean it himself but of course he did a sloppy job so I had to go at it for fifteen more minutes to eradicate the urine smell.)
     Part of the problem stems from his holding it in until the very last second. Outside in the garage, him playing and me in the midst of a messy refinishing project, he'll stop and ask me to let him in the house (we lock the door) to use the bathroom. “How bad do you have to go?” I'll ask. “Bad,” he'll reply, shifting his feet and squirming like roaches were building a nest in his anus. 
     In the past, I've let him pee in bushes, a laundry room sink, and down a storm drain. But when I've felt generous (and responsible) I've opened the door in haste and watched him dash in and in a flurry lift the toilet seat, pull down his shorts and underwear, and unleash a torrent somewhere in the vicinity of his intended target. By “vicinity” I mean depending on how long he waits; whether his slippers come off cleanly; whether the toilet seat is already up or down; whether the seat gets fumbled on its way up; how cold the floor is; whether there's a cool breeze wafting in from Penelope's room; whether his thumbs catch the insides of his waist bands cleanly the first try; how well his thoughts and body coordinate; and his aim, hand control, attentiveness, and playfulness, his pee may end up either in full or in part: 1) In the toilet (good!), 2) On his clothes (bad!), or 3) Elsewhere outside the toilet (worst!). In short, lots of factors (including mid-pee adjustments) affect where his pee ends up. (Once it ended up in the bathtub because I told him to use it as both toilets were already occupied.)
     (As an aside, boys underwear don't have peekaboo holes in front. Mens underwear do but no one but the most persnickety use them as they're ill designed for that purpose. I won't elaborate except to say there are far more convenient and reliable methods to pee than by first having to navigate through a ridiculous contortionist's wet dream labyrinth. So what're they there for? My guess: expansion, ventilation, aesthetics, and sex appeal, the last being the same reason why lots of guys love their female companions in peek-a-boo underwear.) 
     After church one day, Jaren and I stopped off before leaving to “relieve ourselves of that uneasy burden” (quote from Gulliver's Travels). Jaren was in the toilet stall beside the urinal before which I stood, and as I finished I heard the sound of splashing in inappropriate places and saw upon the floor beside me a puddle form and grow from four to eight to twelve inches in rapid succession. “What are you doing?” I asked in alarm and went over to see Jaren holding a cupcake (for his birthday) and church bulletin in one hand, while his other hand in front of him was hidden from my view. All appeared in order, yet the stream outside the toilet on the walls, floor, and porcelain continued unabated for sickening seconds longer as he appeared to fumble to adjust its errant course.
     One hand peeing can be tricky for the best of them, especially with an uncooperative pants front that flicks out in the line of fire. “Next time ask for help if you want me to hold something,” I said, mentally noting that at least he was peeing big boy style by pulling down his pants and underwear fronts only and not exposing his butt. 
     Upon his finishing (clothes front, floor, and walls saturated), I gave him paper towels to sop up the mess. After several tries, the puddle on the floor was not much smaller, so I dismissed him and went after it myself, with not much better results. I then remembered seeing as we'd entered, the door to a storage room nearby open, so I checked inside and found a mop, wringer, and utility sink, which made my job far easier. As I cleaned, still irritated, I realized that he'll learn in time to pee properly, that some things are just messier to clean than others, and that cleaning up after him wasn't so bad as just a once-over would suffice. And I knew in my heart then as I do now that despite such irritants and inconveniences, I always have and always will love being a dad.

Indoor Games

     One of my fondest childhood memories was my Dad teaching my siblings and me card games such as cribbage, hearts, and bridge. It wasn't normal for him to spend an entire evening interacting with us as it was his nightly habit to instead watch TV, read the paper, and listen to the radio with an ear bud, often all at once. So when he got on a teach-them-a-new-card-game kick, it was special for us all, including him, as his eyes would light up and his hands would quiver whenever he got an exceptional hand. 
     He probably acquired his fondness for cards from his dad, a loving old chatterbox in our eyes, who taught us poker, Paiute, black jack, and craps, and how to liven these games by wagering chips. All his grandkids looked forward to playing cards with him for he had a way of creating excitement by saying “First knock, double!” or “Eieee! How can you raise me on a hand like that?” or “Best position is right hand of dealer because he gets to bid last,” or “Never count your chips at the table. Always wait until afterwards to figure out your winnings or losses.” He was knowledgeable and shared with us all his secrets.  
     To date I haven't taught my kids many indoor games other than checkers, chess, Hanafuda (with yaku), and a limited amount of poker. It hasn't interested them much, probably because we don't make a big deal of winning or losing as it's all about the fun. 
     Of course, we have some board games such as Life, Monopoly, Connect 4, Yahtzee, Scrabble, Trouble, and Mancala. It's mostly Jaren that's enjoyed playing these with me and I seldom say, “Okay, who wants to play a game?” perhaps because I so much prefer doing things outdoors that involve physical activity. Even walks at night can be beautiful and peaceful, with the air soft and cool and sometimes chilled.
     It was a surprise, then, that we had such a raucous grand time playing Pirate's Dice in Seattle with Norm and his kids. The simple bid or call game, last man with dice wins, involved mental probabilities calculations and psychological considerations (Who's bluffing? Who's bidding safe based on what they have?) for optimal strategy. The only certainties are a player's own dice, total dice remaining, and how many dice each player has. And bidding is based on all dice in play. (A die is lost in each round—either by a bidder, or a caller. Bids go around in a circle, each bid higher than the last, which reduces the probability of each successive bid's success. A “call” in lieu of a bid ends play at which point all dice are revealed.)
     Norm's kids are very competitive and bright so they advised on strategy in general terms: “Fifteen dice remain. That means there should be about five of any number other than one.” (Ones are wild.) Of course a player with a disproportionate share of ones or any other number may feel emboldened to bid aggressively.
     Most of the kids bid conservatively such as, “Two threes,” or “Three twos,” so to speed things up I bid aggressively such as “Five fives,” or “Six threes.” Norm's daughter and Braden got eliminated first, which left Pene, Norm, his son, and me left. Pene held the lead while Norm's son and I got eliminated. Norm and her—both highly competitive—went head to head, four dice to two in Pene's favor. Pene lost a die. Norm lost one. Pene lost two, leaving them with one each. Norm bid, “One four.” Pene bid, “One six.” Norm bid after a loooooong pause...., “Two sixes.” Pene, after a longish pause (What was she thinking? She couldn't possibly bid Three of anything) called. He showed a four; she showed a six. “I won,” Pene declared while onlookers screamed mock horror and delight.
     I said, “You don't have to say that. You should say, 'I got lucky.'” The build up had been so intense with shrieks, cries of alarm, groans, and laughter that she was just relieved to be done with it I think. (It seemed like she would have had difficulty swallowing, so intense was her concentration beneath Norm's show-me-what-you-got smug scrutiny and barrages of cheers (for her) and jeers (at Norm) from the partisan (everyone was rooting for her) crowd.)
     Later that evening after things had settled down, Norm's son said he needed to get more board games for his apartment (where he lives with a girlfriend and two others) because in the past, they just didn't get into the few that they have. 
     I noticed at recent church games nights a plethora of board games, only a couple of which were played at most, the adults mostly opting for Hanafuda, poker, and Scrabble, the kids opting for ping pong, pool, and Heads Up.  My daughter and her friend were the only ones to play traditional games Jenga and Candy Land but only for brief interludes when not much else was happening. I think it's sad that whereas my friends and I could spend dozens of hours across countless days playing Battleship, Monopoly, Life, Yahtzee, Chess, Checkers, Kings Corner, Clue, Risk, Stratego, Chinese Checkers, War, Speed, Trumps, and Poker, today's youth seem uninterested in such diversions, instead preferring electronic games that only seldom are played with others in person. Though traditional indoor games won't cement social bonds, they nonetheless beat out many of today's repelling do-it-yourself-while-with-others forms of hand held entertainment, so prevalent among youth I see in restaurants, buses, and public settings.
     In a couple years when Jaren's old enough (he surprised us by how well he did in Pirate's Dice) I'll teach the kids trumps—a good game to learn probabilities and strategy, and how to count cards and play cooperatively with a partner. I never mastered the game though I suppose I know its rudiments sufficiently well. And I won't more than mention the not-so-secret signals for strong suit, weak suit, high versus low, “I got boss,” hit again, pass the lead, etc., for sportsmanship—not cheating—is just as important as having fun, as there's never much fun if the most proficient cheaters always win, or if all luck, hope, and surprise are eliminated because everyone knows everyone else's cards, for to me, not knowing is half the fun.

Seattle on a Budget

     A huge benefit of living the simple life (see my prior Simple Life essay, regarding) is my kids are easy to please. Since I lived in Seattle for four years in the eighties and “did” its main downtown attractions (Pike's Place Market, Seattle Waterfront, Seattle Center, etc.) numerous times, I wished to avoid these during our recent trip over in favor of lesser know yet equally unique attractions.
           My friend Norm refused to let us shoot his BB gun in his yard, but instead drove the kids and me forty-five minutes due east into some logging roads foothills where empty aluminum cans were already set up on sticks for target practice. Each of us were able to plunk a can or two or hit Braden's hand drawn bull's eye mounted on a bramble. For additional entertainment on our drive over, Norm had blasted degenerate music on the stereo and speeded along at up to seventy miles per hour on unpaved, potholed roads. 
     In response, I described a former old, bald, and overweight scout leader who worked at a hardware store and his reckless driving in his beater Toyota Corolla when he drove us down Mauna Kea's winding, Saddle Road after a camp. While we watched bemused he took a sharp right that fish-tailed the car's rear end one hundred-eighty degrees, corrected with a swoop into the left lane (lucky no cars were there), and jerked the car to a stop. He asked in near panic if we were alright. We said yeah and he drove from then on very cautious. 
     Braden said it must be fun to drive fast even though it's not as safe. (The kids were giggling throughout Norm's driving antics—aiming straight for puddles, dodging potholes, and gunning the throttle.)
     I said it's fun until you get in an accident, everyone goes to the hospital, and two might not make it. 
     Norm slowed after that. (FYI: I never drive reckless or to impress kids other than by driving ultra safe and alert. Norm might mock me for it; I don't care).
     Next day, we visited lesser-known (I'd never been) Kubota Gardens and Seward Park to enjoy the cool, brisk weather and walk in woodsy surroundings. Both offered free, healthy fun, the former with numerous pathways on a huge plot of land, the latter with bald eagles (we didn't see any) and banned-in-Honolulu seesaw and roundabout and a built-into-a-hill playground. Jaren went around the last saying to himself, “This is awesome!” again and again. The south Lake Washington vistas and drive along fancy then funky neighborhoods also pleased. 
     Another day, the Museum of History and Industry cost us seventeen dollars per adult; free for all our (age fourteen and under) kids. It was worth it—something new and interesting with lots of hands-on exhibits (one “hall” with boring wall drawings featured a retro Space Invaders arcade game and ping-pong table free for use that the kids and I had fun fooling with—a nice respite from the more educational exhibits). We ate our home made roast beef sandwiches outside by a large man-made pond with the Space Needle as backdrop. A dozen Canadian geese came gliding in from the lake and slid in on their bellies in long slishy slides.  The kids tried to get near them but they kept their distances.
     Next door at the Center for Wooden Boats we went on a sail boat ride (free!) around South Lake Union. The twenty-eight foot double-masted Sharpie was entirely made of wood (I asked). Penelope and Braden each got to man the rudder, and Jaren and I got to paddle when the gentle breeze abated (I'd paddled a Hawaiian canoe twice before so I knew what to do). The volunteer skipper offered interesting stories and descriptions and a jocularly that lightened the mood. The squeaky creak of boom on mast as the wind turned sail added to the seafaring air as the boat listed beneath our uneven feet (we were all standing—just more comfortable as seating was limited and the boat's gunwale came up comfortably to our waists). After we had landed and left the Center it began to hail (bread crumb size) along with rain for ten minutes—fun to watch the stones dance like fleas on the pavement and coat the ground white. (While living in Seattle, I only saw it hail so heavy twice.) 
     We then caught a bus which took us via the subway tunnel to the International District south of downtown to purchase live dungenous crab and clams, and fresh fish and kai lan from Iwajimaya's to cook up for Norm and his two kids. On the way back, we stopped to look at floating houses along Lake Union's eastern shore. I asked a resident permission for us to look around as he entered the low swinging double doors that separated the unpaved parking area from stairs that led to a long dock that had about ten small houses secured on either side (similar docks extend for hundreds of yards, houses back-to-back, along the crowded shoreline). He was friendly and said sure. The elderly owner of the house at the end of the pier was also friendly and waved after we had enjoyed the night view beside his house. All the houses, some quite cute, others quirky, were surrounded by floating walkways, many of which had a boat or two (kayak, row boat, small motor boat, etc.) hitched up. Further, all were puny, and all were probably (based on previous Internet searches) very expensive. It seems that living on water in a tight-knit urban community was what attracted the owners, not so much the views, as only the two houses at the end of each pier have much to see other than neighbors' houses on all four sides just a few feet away.
     We also played in the snow up in the mountains on a clear sunny day (about twenty degrees cold!), so clear we could see on our way back Mount Rainier to the south as if it were only twenty (not the actual seventy) miles away.  
     On our last full day, after Norm had stepped out to train we scrubbed his refrigerator, stove, floors, windows, slop compost pot, and walls, cleaned his bathroom, and dusted his furniture. I told Deanne it felt good to be doing something productive. Our cleaning after each stay with Norm has become ritual—small payback for all the hospitality and food he'd provided. (We'd shopped for most of our food, though he provided many extra niceties.  And we did eat well, mostly due to his excellent cooking).
     I twice offered to leave some left over cash with him to help cover the cost of his exorbitant heating bill but he said, “No way. And if I find any of your money,”—I alluded to hiding some for him to find—“I'll mail it back to you using a forty-nine cents postage stamp.” Knowing him, he meant it, not caring if it got lost in the mail or stolen by a dishonest postal worker.  (Decades ago, when I was still single, I once deposited thirty dollars on a table before him to help pay for our dinners that he'd paid for via credit card.  He walked away and left it for tip.  Shocked at his nonchalant generosity, I pocketed the cash.)
     Best of all, we played spoons (a speed card game) and Pirate's Dice with Norm and his kids, and shared good times eating, talking, joking, and/or horsing around—all joyful, full of love, and memorable. It'd been a worthwhile way to spend our holidays away from home, one that we'd do again someday, God willing. 

Easy Does It

     For the first time in over twenty-five years one of my works appeared in print (not counting reports I prepared for work) when my prior Rock Fever essay was picked up in part by Honolulu Midweek's Metro periodicals supplement for inclusion in its December tenth issue. (See the online version here). There was even a nice mentioned of it on the issue's front cover. Thank you Editor Christine O'Conner! God bless you a hundredfold! 
     In response to this blessing I submitted a poem (something I rarely write) called Point/Counterpoint in which I contrast mostly “Life is tough” quotes with (easy) responses. Here's a sample of one of twelve four-line stanzas plus the closing line:

“The system rigged!” (A little contentment)

“You should report him!” (A little mercy)
“Who'll know the difference?” (A little integrity)
“Why even try?” (A little responsibility)

(It doesn't take much to make things better, just a little bit of this and a little bit of that)

     One of the wisest observations/principles I've ever heard (from a pastor) was that how we choose to perceive something, thus shall it be for us, such that if we choose to believe, “Oh, life is so difficult and tough, I don't know how I'll ever manage or endure!” then life will indeed be very difficult and tough.  But if we instead choose to believe “This isn't so bad. I can get through this without too much strain or trouble,” then life will be much easier even if circumstances haven't changed. 
      Age and experience helps with selecting positive perceptions as I've seen with my kids and Braden in particular. When forced to look up a word in the dictionary, he used to get so upset he'd hiss and stomp and veins would bulge out with purplish ridges on his temple and forehead. He's since gotten better but still shows some resentment at times. 
     I myself used to detest fixing our car or taking it in for repairs or dealing with minor household maintenance issues such as dripping showers, malfunctioning toilets, or peeling paint. But years of raising our kids and addressing health issues have led me to conclude that these people-related things are the important “real” issues, not the minor material annoyances, so that when now faced with the latter, I don't get nearly so distressed as I once used to. After all, if a nuisance broken thing hasn't hurt anyone, is affordable to fix, and once repaired can be forgotten, why stress unduly? As life's full of such unavoidable burdens we may as well accept them with quiet aplomb rather than let them ruin our days.
     Based on this simple choice of easy vs difficult, then, I'm saddened that so many choose the latter and its concomitant discontent, unhappiness, jealousy, and anger versus the former with its attendant contentment, trust, perspective, and hope. Even among Christians and pastors I see this lack of faith, understanding, or perception  whenever I hear one confess, “It's tough” over relatively simple matters such as forgiveness, spousal relations, child rearing, work, integrity, or faith. Jesus said His yoke is easy to bear and His burden is light. It's not as if He's asking us to cure all the world's ills, die on a cross, work without food, shelter, or rest non-stop for days on end, or add more hours to each day. To the contrary, based on personal experience, He tends to prompt simple and easy things that lead to rest and fulfillment and provides more than ample time, resources, and energy to do them.
     It's our choice then, easy or difficult? For me, laid back lover of the simple life, the choice is easy.  

Discipline—Part III

     There were a couple of fun kids camps approaching during a recent holiday weekend that Braden was excited about: An overnighter at our church and a two-nighter immediately following at Mokuleia. He's a calm sort that checks his emotions for the most part, but sometimes when he knows that he's got a fun, worthwhile (to us) event coming up that we're likewise looking forward to and that we'd be loathe to cancel, the sin that resides within him (and that resides in us all) tempts him beyond what he can bear and causes him to act rude, disrespectful, and aggressive toward his innocent, perfect family members excepting (for the most part) me. 
     To our pleasant surprise, then, Braden was a picture of kindness leading up to The Weekend, but just two days prior he sassed Deanne repeatedly as Deanne snapped back displeasure. 
     As mentioned in my prior Discipline essay, Deanne's not the most disciplined of disciplinarians so I told Braden, “Time out and you better quit now!” finger poised as if to pick my nose. He stomped away, foot falls slamming with such violence that had our football-sized cockroach co-tenants not stampeded clear, there'd be blood (or more accurately cockroach goo) splattered everywhere like Pulp Fiction. I might have let that pass, but then he muttered audible (but indecipherable—lucky for him) invective under his breath, kind of like Fred Flintstone after a dressing down from Mr. Slate, as if daring us (me) to do something about it. I said, “Okay you can't go Friday night.” I felt so relieved that that was settled that I might have smiled (not that I enjoy disciplining, I just hate anticipating further misbehavior.)  
     Braden walked away post-haste before he did something costlier, his breath labored as if he were doing a burst-the-water-bottle muscle man stunt. He hadn't a water bottle handy (or the muscles necessary to over-inflate it), however, so the only thing that appeared on the verve of bursting was his head, purple as a blood blister on a big toe caused by kicking a nearby ottoman after yet another stupid U.H. football play. Not that I watch or care about such games or take out my latent hostility or disappointment on inanimate objects. No, I take out my latent hurts and hostilities on animate objects such as football-sized cockroaches. Love killing them!
     On Friday afternoon, the three kids and I were outside exercising. Penelope, who would be going to the overnighter (but not the two-nighter 'cause she's too young) was riding a scooter around the driveway minding her business when Braden seeing her indifference to his plight took it as a personal affront, a teasing that she, but not he, could go. So he started taking up a lot of space as he bounced a tennis ball on my old Prince Graphite tennis racket and kicked Jaren's soccer ball through the stratosphere when it dared come too near him. 
     “Stop it!” I said, amazed that he'd act up with me sitting right there. “Okay Pene and Jaren you guys can go in.” 
     Pene put away the scooter and disappeared. “Can we play golf?” Jaren asked me.
     “Okay, I'll meet you out front,” I said.
     Jaren and I play putt-putt on our tiny, lumpy front lawn on occasion. While doing so on this occasion (to get away from Braden), I heard the sound of a skittering stone on concrete coming our way from the back of the house. I looked and there was a stone by the living room tottering on edge and up the drive by the garbage bin stood Braden displaying alpha male dominance gestures so I chuckled at his antics and let pass that the stone incident was caused by an “accidental slip” while playing Gorilla. 
     Back to the Masters Championship battle for the green jacket over which all rode on my final putt, I heard a larger, noisier stone come skipping down the drive toward us and this time it passed our level and stopped almost even with our mailbox a few feet away. I backed away from the ball to gather my thoughts to the astonished gasps of the crowd. Up the drive, Braden now stood flexing and heaving defiant like the Incredible Hulk. So I said, “Okay, you can't go to camp this weekend.” 
     Two nixes over three days is much for any teen to take and in his fury Braden whimpered super-nova hot tears, making “It's not fair!” type squeaks. 
     “Get your hat and walk up and down the street until dinner,” I told him, not wanting any broken windows (least not ours). 
     Deanne once asked are we (you) being fair sending him walking up and down the street? I said we (I) let him drink water and use the restroom. When he hikes with Boy Scouts, it's way tougher and longer and he considers that fun. I even told him he can invite Abe (a Boy Scout neighbor) along and they can both blow off steam together, might do them good. (But he has yet to avail himself of that opportunity). 
     He returned from his walk displaying much better submissiveness to the true alpha male in our household (my wife) and has been a fine young companion to me on Costco trips and other stressful outings ever since.
     Being human, though, he weeks later defied my direct order to Leave Penelope alone! (They were fighting over a book.) As he left her room he issued a final threat to her so he got grounded and had to miss working on a plutonium atom (model, not the radioactive isotope) with classmates. 
     Deanne said what's he to say (as a reason for not going)?
     I said the truth. I'm sure they'll understand—if they're lucky. They can brag who has the strictest Dad. 'You think that's bad?' I mocked, 'My dad once sent me to bed without dinner.' 'That's nothing, my dad whips me with his belt every night.' 'Boo hoo, all I got was stale bread and water for a month, just for not fixing my bed.' It's all blather. The silent one's the one that's got it bad. He's the one whose parents don't care, aren't around, allow him to do whatever he wants, and never disciplines him. I'd be very concerned about a boy like that. No, they'll understand Braden's time-out just fine.”
     More recently, during a time-out of Braden's when Deanne inadvertently (foolishly) “rewarded” him with a candy-bar, which I found out about only after he had devoured a few nibbles, I said, “He can't have that. Braden, throw it away in the trash outside,” (because we had already emptied the house rubbish for the day and didn't want basketball-sized cockroach co-tenants emerging after a night of over-indulgence—at least not in our unit), “and don't eat any more!” He left as instructed and on an impulse I stood in our darkened bedroom and supervised (spied on) him. There he was in the dimly lit carport by the garbage can. He looked at me! (I ducked away foolishly behind the curtain). He lifted a hand to his mouth, chewed in haste, not seeming to enjoy himself, then opened and closed the dumpster lid, and left the suspected crime scene.
     When he entered the house I asked, “Where's the candy?”
     “In the dumpster,” he said.
     “Go get it,” (I'd make a great attorney.) He made a motion to leave, so I figured he must have eaten only some of it—smart move. “What were you doing out there? I saw you bring something to your mouth.”
     “I ate some of the candy.”
     “Okay, you're in time-out another week.”
     Tough love? Perhaps. But having a child grow up bad is much tougher. At least in my opinion.