Showing his oldest how to use an online reference tool, Da-da did a dictionary.com/thesaurus search for, “American,” and it said: “No thesaurus results. Did you mean marijuana?”

[techno-overhead: FF9PG59VXAMC YGWUGAG3SFSQ]

Where were you 10 years ago today? I’ll throw you a bone, it was a Friday and the world, according to some country singer, was still turning. America was unattacked and the majority of its citizens were far smarter than the president. My children were still years away from being born and loved ones were still years away from dying. Things were different then, but the times, according to some folk singer, were a-changin’.

I woke up that Friday morning and set straight to pacing. At some point friends showed up and we set straight to drinking. Then we dressed like penguins and stood in the Arizona heat hoping that the ice didn’t melt. Finally, the sun went down and the music went up. My life would never be the same.

And then there is a montage of moving trucks and pitchers of margaritas. There are new jobs and blurred faces and babies crying and moments frozen in my mind forever. Ten years is a short time spread over something that stretches out further. It bends and tangles. It mends and loves and never once breaks. In the spring it drives along the coast with something great on the radio and the windows open.

Ten years ago we wed. Since then we’ve made mistakes and excuses. And we’ve done wonderful things. Ten years is something strong to build upon.

Happy Anniversary, Tricia. I hope you’re enjoying the ride.

Please note, that last line is about the roller coaster of life — not sex. Of course she’s enjoying that.

And this is what we danced to.

“I want to show you something,” I said. “It’s not a kid thing.”

The boys were in their pajamas and whatever they were watching was full of smiles and hugs and had been sanitized for their protection. I turned on CNN and started a conversation that I had long avoided. Their eyes were on the screen behind me and they widened as they took in images that they couldn’t comprehend — images that have haunted the rest of us for nearly ten years.

“I’m showing this to you because this is history, and someday you may want to remember where you were when it happened. Assuming you want to remember it at all. I want you to know what is happening.”

And then I started to justify actions to my children that went against all of the words I had ever told them.

I explained to them that a man was dead and that he deserved it. I compared him to the villains from their storybooks. I compared him to Hitler. I told them that he had done evil things for evil reasons and that his death was a means to help end those deeds.

I said that many people would feel a sense of relief. That many people would feel a sense of joy.  I explained the concept of closure.

Hanging in the air was an unspoken thought, a quote from The Iron Giant that had been repeated often in our home, usually by me:

It is bad to kill, but it is not bad to die.

I could say that and I could believe it, because I knew how to make exceptions to the rule. I left that part out. I also left out the part about how many of the people they know and trust would have killed this same man with their own hands had the opportunity presented itself. I left out that I may be one of them.

“Why are the people singing?” asked my oldest son long after his brother had gone to bed.

I didn’t answer him. I saw what the people were doing. On some level I understood it. However, the death of one evil man in a world of evil men did not inflate my patriotic pride with song, rather it emphasized my silence. I thought of the losses our country has suffered over the past ten years, the lives, time and money that have been wasted. It reminded me that things are far from over.

“I know why they sing,” he said. And then he fell against my lap, first quiet, then asleep.  The TV stayed on for hours. Their song carried on the night like a lullaby.

Of course another theory is that China is purposely making clothes that shrink as soon as they touch the sweat of freedom, but that would suggest capitalistic tendencies, of which Mike Tyson’s tattoo would not approve.  It would also suggest that American kids are actually breaking a sweat, but as far as I know there isn’t an app for that. However, it does explain why I no longer need a belt (I tend to sweat freely).

No, I blame the children. They’re growing faster than they should. Granted, it’s most likely due to milk hormones, but I also think there might be something to the old adage, time flies when you’re getting old as shit and you have young children. Pardon me, I paraphrased.

The point is, my little boys spend far too much of their time being big boys, and frankly, I’m against it.

That’s not to say that I want their growth, be it physical, mental or emotional, to be stunted. I just want them to pace themselves. Where’s the damn fire?

Each day, assuming I bother to stop and smell it, is full of rose-tinted milestones. Sure, it’s also full of a bunch of crap, but the moments are there, and I’m fully aware that it is only a matter of time, very little time, until they are not.

That’s the part about parenting that sucks.

It’s also what makes it so fucking glorious that life would pale without it.

They’re growing, and they’re finding themselves, and we’re pushing them, guiding them, holding the net, holding them back, and letting them fail, depending on the mood, on any given day.  You know what I’m talking about.

They say that the body grows while it is sleeping. I’m not a scientist. Hell, I didn’t even stay at a Holiday Inn last night. I’m of no authority to dispute such claims.

But I know what I’ve seen.

For all this talk of growth, time and the fleetingness of it, there are those wee small hours, aptly named, where darkness and silence work in perfect unison with a late glass of water or the lingering echo of movie monsters, and for a moment, one precious moment when you stir from a dream-soaked sleep, children shrink.

They appear at the foot of the bed, hair disheveled, cartoon-covered pajamas taut with the tininess of their stature, and their voice a whisper soft and wanting. They know nothing but need and trust, and there was never any doubt of whom to turn to.

Maybe it’s the abrupt awakening and the adrenaline that accompanies it, or perhaps there is something between the strength of a hairy back and the phases of the moon, but standing there in the still of the night with a bundle of love wrapped tightly around you, they will never feel more light. And nothing will ever be more clear.

You could dance together in small, slow steps somewhere along the hallway, just shadows, breaths and lullabies. No one would ever know, but for you and fading starlight.

I was born in Tucson, Arizona. I lived in the area for over 28 years. I ran barefoot through the green-spotted desert as it turned from the square quilts of cotton fields to the oval patches of over-watered golf courses. I rode my bike on gravel-lined dirt roads that grew overnight into car-filled highways. I shot a BB gun in my front yard and waved at passersby, calling to each by name.  I remember when that Dairy Queen was the only thing out there.

The majority of my youth was spent in Marana, a town just north of the city that my family helped to settle and govern. My father has served the town of Marana through seats on the council, and now as the mayor, for over 30 years. Unlike the indigenous vegetation in the area, the roots of my family have grown thick and deep into the clay-baked soil of the Sonoran Desert.

I attended the University of Arizona and graduated without honors. Somebody has to. I met my wife on two-for-one night in a bar just off campus. I was drunk on whiskey, and I’m still hearing about it.

Many of my family and friends remain, meaning my ties to Tucson are more than just margaritas and sunsets, although both are fantastic.

I grew up in a conservative home. The earliest jokes that I can remember had Jimmy Carter as a punchline. We went to church every Sunday, and on holidays my uncles would sit in the shade of my grandparents’ porch, sip iced tea and wrap themselves in layers of racism, homophobia and laughter. I didn’t know innocence from ignorance, and I laughed just as hard as they did, happy but to be there.

My parents taught me things that transcended politics. They taught me how to be happy with very little money, and how to treat people with respect, courtesy and humor.  They never suggested that I consider violence as an option, and when I outgrew religion they never tried to tether me to it.

Ours was built firmly on trust and understanding.

I left Tucson as an adult, and although I’ve returned for weddings and funerals, each visit made it more and more clear, you can’t go home again.

It used to be the heat that kept me away.

And then technology went forward as technology is prone to do, and suddenly I found myself looking into metaphorical windows, staring into a world that I had left behind — a world where many never noticed that other paths diverged, and so they continued along the only way that they had ever known, easy and slow and bending forever backward. The path most traveled is paved without thought, and it has made all the difference.

I found that I missed it less and less.

Days ago a young girl was shot and killed. A judge joined her. The tally rose to six innocents dead and many others wounded. The target had been a congresswoman, full of courage and reason.  The shooter had been a boy, full of madness and confusion.

I blame the line between fear and reason. It zigs where we are told that it should zag.

Of the victims, know that their story is not here. I am not qualified to write words on the victims or their loved ones. I cannot comprehend the depths of their loss, nor will I cheapen their memories by attempting to do so. Just know that I grieve like we all grieve. I anger like we all anger. I can only wish things weren’t as they are and think thoughts of better days for those they’ve left behind.

I once thought of Tucson as a beacon of light in a state of gray and darkness, but in the years since my absence I have watched it grow overcast and haunted. Or, I thought, perhaps I am only now seeing how it has always been.

That’s not to say that there are not stars there. They are many, and I reflect upon them fondly. But the night is bold, loud and howling. It twists words like the wind and wrings sweat from the brows of the misguided. It is spreading swiftly.

I feared that the Tucson I knew, or thought that I did, was on the verge of disappearing forever.

And yet, the stars shine brighter but for the darkness.

Last night I watched a memorial for the fallen. The president spoke. My father was in the stands. There were tears as far as the eye could see.

For the first time in a long time I saw a glimpse of what I once took for granted. What has always been there, only hidden too often by levels of bureaucracy and the sad fact that ignorance and hate sell more papers than rational quotes and the good deeds of everyday people.  Amid the pain and loss of a country I saw the courage and strength of a city, and from its collective diversity came a roar of passion that the media couldn’t comprehend. I saw Tucson’s heart and it was sad, but strongly beating.

For the first time in a long time I saw the place that I used to know.

I saw Tucson, and it felt like home.

About the Book
In The Fullness of Time is a new, exciting novel based in historical fiction. I would be happy to send you a copy for review, and can also arrange for book excerpts or interviews with the author about his experience or about the interesting aspects of President Harding’s life that inspired the book.

On Monday, November 25, 1963, President John F. Kennedy was buried in Arlington. During the stillness of this momentous day, Tristan Tecumseh Hamilton begins a long look back at his life and times, and at the life and times of his neighbor and fellow townsman, President Warren G. Harding, who died mysteriously in San Francisco forty years before.

Throughout this final week of November 1963, the assassination and burial of President Kennedy becomes the mirror through which the now aging Tristan views the storied and long-buried past as it rises all around him.

Power and love, ambition and loyalty, war and the devotion to home these universal themes weave through the rich and intricate tapestry of this magisterial American epic that encompasses the world from the vantage of home.

About the Author
Born and raised in Marion, Ohio, in the middle decades of the twentieth century, Vincent Nicolosi grew up in an era when Harding lore, like Indian lore, was still in the air. History and legends lingered on rumors too. These he absorbed from stories told by those who knew and mixed with Warren and Florence Harding, who shook hands with Babe Ruth, dined with Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, exchanged points of view with Henry Ford, and with those who labored to build the town, run the railroads, and construct the steam shovels that dug the Panama Canal.

Nicolosi’s own life has led him to far-flung places including, years ago, the mountains of northern Nicaragua and to John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York City, where he has taught for many years and where he currently serves the students as coordinator of the Writing Center.

My Take on the Book
I enjoy historical fiction and the author has definitely provided a good read for anyone who also finds this genre to be engaging.

I found the intertwining of the deaths of Presidents Kennedy and Harding to be fascinating. He tkes the facts and the rumors and weaves them into a tapestry of good fiction. He also shows how these deaths impact the American way of life which for me, was interesting as I did not live through either of these deaths so reading about it (even in fiction) brings these deaths closer to real life for me.

The author does a great  job at making the reader think and ponder their own beliefs as well as his style of writing is such that draws you as a reader in and makes you want to continue reading page after page.

I recommend this book to anyone interested in historical fiction in general but also those interested in American History in specific as the facts and myths that the author provides will definitely entrance you!
 If this book sounds like something you would like in your own library you can find it on Amazon!

All opinions expressed in this review are my own and not influenced in any way by the company.  Any product claim, statistic, quote or other representation about a product or service should be verified with the manufacturer or provider. Please refer to this site’s Terms of Use  for more information. I have been compensated or given a product free of charge, but that does not impact my views or opinions.

——————————————————————————————-
New to the Divadom?
Please Subscribe to my RSS Feed! Subscribe in a reader
Questions?Drop me a line at dadofdivas@gmail.com

The parade announcers, including Mr. Roker, were dressed smartly in their free Macy’s wardrobe, and the song numbers were lip-synced to near perfection. It was how Thanksgiving was supposed to start; family, coffee, the parade, and then football, turkey, and six bottles of wine. We had much to be thankful for.

About midway through the parade Katie Couric said something that I will never forget. They were cutting to commercial and she was telling us which balloons were making their way up the street, and she said, quite casually, to stay tuned for Jesusauros Rex. Yes, Jesusauros Rex.

“What did she say?” we asked each other even though we all knew the answer. There was a balloon coming, somewhere between the high school band from Alabama and the 27th boy-band float of the morning, that encompassed everything that we wanted, that we needed. That America needed. It was a monster, a dinosaur of the Rex variety, the kind that devoured its enemies. And America has enemies.

Yet, it was Jesus. Jesus is kind and understanding. He turns cheeks. He forgives. He makes a mean Merlot. Jesusauros Rex was everything we were feeling. Everything we wanted. Revenge and understanding. War and peace. Rage and reflection. Not to mention the endless bottles of wine. We looked at each other and waited his arrival like it was the Second Coming.

He never came. There is no such thing as a Jesusauros Rex. There is, however, a Cheesasauros Rex, a giant dinosaur that encompasses something else America needs- pasta and cheese powder in a nice blue box. Kraft had a balloon and it wasn’t a giant smiling cigarette. We had much to be thankful for.

So Cheesasauros Rex came and went, followed by the two oldest men alive, Tony Bennett and Santa Claus. It was really a nice parade. Al Roker was great. Katie Couric was cute and perky. Yes Katie, there is a Cheesasauros Rex.

The funny thing is that when the parade was over I couldn’t shake the message it had sent, even if I had imagined it. Love and mercy. Revenge and redemption. These were things that I needed too, and so, as I always do in times of trouble, I turned to the Beatles. After all, they were spiritual and blasphemous, revolutionaries and pacifists. They were eggmen, fragile (fra-gee-lay) and hard-boiled.

I am the walrus. Koo Koo Kachoo.

But football was on, so I forgot it all. Again. As if it hadn’t happened, and I had never known the kind of pain that I had. The pain that was but a pinprick to the pain they had felt. Still. They lost their wives, husbands, children and friends, and they kept their cool.

Those people gave new meaning to the word hero, and the old guard, like our professional athletes for example, could do nothing but say thank you, salute, and dry their tears. Sure, the Lions can’t remember the last season they had that wasn’t filled with pain, but it doesn’t matter. It is a game, football, like so many other things we elevate onto pedestals it may not deserve, but it’s okay. It keeps us sane and entertained. Football is a great game. An American game.

The Beatles, however, are not American, yet they are as much a part of our culture as any force in entertainment could possibly be. And then some. They are Beatlemania. They were bigger than Jesus for God’s sake! John Lennon said that, not me, but he had a point. They were selling out much bigger stadiums than God.

On September 11, 2001, Paul McCartney sat in an airplane on a runway in New York City and watched the world burn down. He saw through a first-class tinted window what we saw on our TV sets. He saw hate.

But for us it was Thanksgiving. We had each other. There was wine in my glass, football on the TV, and in the next room my wife and my sister sang A Hard Day’s Night on the karaoke machine. We had much to be thankful for. And it was bittersweet.

It came and it went, tethered heavily upon our heartstrings, floating like a giant balloon. Yes, Katie, there is a Jesusauros Rex, and he loves you.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours,
Whit

Seriously? Drawing? Star Wars? The video with the noise and the force and the I. WANT. THAT. Well, you got it, kid. Also, you’re all clear.

It’s Draw Star Wars: The Clone Wars and Atticus is beside himself. Zane would also enjoy it if his brother let him anywhere near it. This is something that will never happen. Ever.

Here’s a rundown of what’s inside (via Klutz) – … filled with tips, techniques, practice space, and translucent overlays to make you a master of drawing. Start with stick figures, move onto basic shapes, and finish up with the details. Use the included double-tipped metallic-colored pencils and black marker to make 20 Clone Wars characters come to life.

Here’s the part where you come in. I’m giving away five (5) of these bad boys. Just in time for whatever you do in December! Also, birthdays!

The contest is open to anyone in the United States with a mailbox. Everyone knows that only the dark side uses P.O. Boxes or lives outside of America. These rules are set by the PR company that is supplying the prize. If you live in a galaxy far, far away you can always have the prize sent to an American friend and work out the shipping from there. I know, it’s not easy, but do you think blowing up the Death Star, twice, was easy? There is no try. Do. And all that.

To enter: Leave a comment with your favorite Star Wars story. It can be something from the movies, books, comics, rides or your life. Keep it short, people. On December 1st I will announce the winners, which will be picked at random.

May the force be with you. Always.

__________________________

Behind the curtain of the great and powerful Whit:

Compensation: No
Products Received: 1copy of “Draw Star Wars: The Clone Wars” for review. Prize copies will be sent from PR contact.

Our Founding Fathers, whose imperfections often mirror our own, were outstanding role models for men across the ages.  They were political leaders, philosophers, entrepreneurs, patriots and patriarchs of their families.  Most people recognize their individual accomplishments in the Revolution and founding achievements, but how much do you know about their role as family men, husbands and fathers?

Founding Fathers and the Families

George Washington married the widow Martha Dandridge Custis on January 6, 1759.  He was a noble and gracious stepfather to John Parke Custis and Martha Parke Custis.  He was a great example of a man who welcomed the responsibility of fatherhood, regardless of the fact that the children were not his biological heirs.  Later in life, George and Martha also raised two of their grandchildren.  Washington was the ultimate father of America and an outstanding role model for stepfathers around the world.

John Adams married Abigail Smith on October 25, 1764.  This second president was no second-rate father to his five children – Abigail, John Quincy, Susanna, Charles and Thomas Boylston.  Adams lead his family with the same fair-minded reason and rationale as he did the young country, and as he helped our young developing confederation blossom into a nation so too did he help his children find their way from impetuous youth into prosperous adulthood.  His son John Quincy would follow in his father’s footsteps and become the sixth President of the United States.

Benjamin Franklin began a common-law marriage to Deborah Read on September 1, 1730.  Adding to the diversity of our Founding Fathers, Franklin was father to then deemed illegitimate son William.  In spite of the private challenges placed on this prominent family, Franklin never let it get in the way of raising his son to be a leader.  Unfortunately, the Revolution tore this father and son apart, as William remained a loyalist.  Franklin, though, served as mentor and guardian to grandson William Temple throughout the majority of his youth.

Thomas Jefferson married Martha Wayles Skelton in 1772.  The had five children – Martha, Jane, Mary, Lucy and Lucy Elizabeth.  After the birth of Lucy Elizabeth, Jefferson’s wife Martha unfortunately died.  He never remarried, and so he was an early example of a man who achieved amazing success in his career while balancing the responsibilities of being a single father, at least on the surface.  It is widely accepted that Jefferson took Sally Hemmings, enslaved to his family and believed to be half-sister to his late wife, as his companion for the next 40 years.  He fathered six more children with Hemmings, making Jefferson father to one of the largest families among the Founding Fathers.

John Jay married Sarah Livingston in 1774.  This lesser known Founding Father held more posts in more countries than any of his compatriots, and he fathered six children Peter, Susan, Maria, Ann, William and Sarah Louisa born in a variety of countries from America to Spain to France.  While Jay raised his children to have a worldly view, they went on to follow their father in patriotic zeal and commitment to the furtherance of his Republican ideals.  Jay remained close to his children throughout his life, and he was an excellent example of a committed father of both America and his family.

James Madison married Dolley Payne Todd on September 15, 1794, and much the same as Washington, James Madison took on the role of stepfather to a son John Payne.  Madison called young John by the name of “Payne,” but he never acted like being a stepfather was a pain or burden to his prominent political life in early America.  Madison was known as a dutiful and indulgent father, and he remained close to Payne throughout his life.  Even though Payne was known as an irresponsible young adult, Madison sought to provide every opportunity for the boy to prosper in his career and life. Madison tried to impart values, propreity and integrity to Payne, but in the end after Dolley’s death, the spoiled son squandered the family fortune.

Alexander Hamilton married Elizabeth Schuyler on December 14, 1780.  An orphaned and illegitimate son himself, Hamilton vowed to ensure that his 10 children knew their famous father and were provided love and security throughout his life.  Unfortunately, Hamilton’s eldest son Philip died in a duel on the banks of the Hudson River in 1801, which was a sad and prescient precursor to Hamilton’s own death in a duel with Aaron Burr in that same spot three years later on July 11, 1804.  His wife and children lost their father on July 12, 1804, just eight days after the celebration of the birth of the great nation that he helped found.

The Founding Fathers of America represented a diverse mix of traditional and non-traditional husbands and fathers.  Many of them celebrated the birth of a new and great nation alongside their sons and daughters, while some became patriarchs of their own families after shepherding our young country through Revolution and independence.

On July 4, 2009, my family and I will celebrate the birth of America, and I will also give homage to those great Founding Fathers who gave me and my children unprecedented freedom and opportunity.

Happy Birthday America!  Happy 4th of July!

Earn money from your blog or website. Sign up for Never Blue Ads.

©2009 Discovering Dad. All Rights Reserved.

.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.