A Father's Angels

Here’s the deal, I am just fine with a turkey having a wattle, but must I?  Up until about a year or two ago, the term wasn’t really on my radar screen but then I have a teenager and plain old aging to thank for this.  From what I gather, male turkeys use their wattle, that nasty red skin or pouch-like thingy under their beaks to cool themselves by expanding it or also as a means to attract mates.  Lately, however, my sixteen-year-old son has got into the impolite habit of grabbing the ever-growing loose skin under my chin in an effort to goad me into wrestling with him. Because of this annoying and insensitive activity (add this to a long list of other teenage indiscretions), each time it provokes me to bite or gobble or put into plain human terms: engage in battle.  Self-admittedly, this response is temporary, for I have calculated that I have less than a year before the tables will turn and I will no longer be able to pin him down and require the requisite verbal apology.  Soon enough, however, he will be too big and likely even more insensitive and grab the growing mass under my chin with more frequency and reckless abandonment, and then what am I to do?

At his annual Christmas party, I secretly studied my brother’s wattle.  Although he is four years older, we now pass for identical twins.  The spot-on similarities are shocking to both of us as we age.  Even our mother now jokes that she was unaware that she delivered twins all those years ago.  At my brother’s party, there were lots of guests and as the host he was busy, but occasionally we stopped and talked or more accurately he talked and I observed.  The good news, for both of us, is at certain angles, his wattle is unpronounced and barely visible, at least for now.  But, it does exist and as a result it officially confirmed another unsightly step in the aging process.  Furthermore, as a result of my son’s continual and unrelenting pulling and tugging, I am further convinced that my wattle is more pronounced than my brother’s.  Perhaps the wattle is why so many people ask my partner upon first meeting if there is a large age difference between the two of us.  Of course, it could be my baldness.

No doubt, with the many advancements in cosmetic surgery there must exist a new and cutting edge wattle removal procedure, but with my current unemployment status, this will have to wait.  And, what to do with my son over the next year as the tables do indeed turn? Well, there’s always withholding the car keys.

“How’s it going Eric?”  I ask the high school senior as he rushes by me and a group of other dads who have gathered in the girls dressing room of the Theater department at Thunderbird High School.  All of us are fully engaged in painting something.  “Stressful,” he yells over his shoulder as he searches through the closet for a fan.  One or two of the younger Scouts are complaining about the paint fumes that are resting heavy in the cramped “green rooms” used by the student thespians.  Somewhat like a bar mitzvah, this is Eric’s big day.  As an Eagle Scout candidate, Eric must demonstrate leadership throughout, while effectively directing the large group that has gathered to support him in his goal of painting two dressing rooms.  His Eagle sponsor watches from a distance providing the occasional reminder that he must lead the large group and not micromanage or attempt to complete the many tasks by himself.  In the dozen years or so I have been involved in Scouting, I have come to appreciate this is not an easy task, not for parents and certainly not for teenagers, especially those Eagle Scout candidates who must accomplish a large project in short order.  The school has allowed Eric access to the theater facilities for this one day during Christmas recess, and as a result, he has a limited time to successfully complete his Eagle project. As a result, I see pressure written on his face.

“Mr. Waldron, there are sharp saws and tools in the shop area so younger Scouts aren’t allowed in there,” Eric says in a serious parent-like tone.  “I am allowing a small number of theater students access to the room but if you see anyone else entering, please let me know right away.”  Eric is busy assigning a long list of essential tasks to the restless volunteers.  He is fully occupied accounting for drop cloths, masking tape, paint brushes and the large number of green and blue paint cans, all the while keeping close tabs on the younger Scouts who seem impossible to corral.

Having taped off electrical outlets and light fixtures, I am now knee-deep in bright green paint.  Next door, a group of Scouts, including my youngest son, paint the boys’ dressing room bright blue.  I hear them laughing yet they appear on task; this is no small victory.  Over the next several hours, my son comes into the girls dressing room to compare the progress between the two groups.  There appears to be an informal, if not friendly, competition growing between the two rooms of volunteers. With each visit, my son’s body is marked with more and more bright blue paint and it stands out boldly against his brown skin. On his last visit, he has toilet paper dangling from one nostril and his shirt is streaked with blobs of red, indicating the remains of a vicious bloody nose.

About halfway through, Eric’s dad works on the logistics of lunch, not that there is any question it will be anything other than pizza.  Anything but would be sacrilegious among this group of rowdy Scouts and could risk serious fallout.  During the project, dads discuss impending holiday plans while Scouts talk about pretty much everything.  Voices bounce off the narrow walls, yet surprisingly I hear few complaints.  Both big and small among us appear committed to complete the project.

Throughout, Eric remains steady.  This kid has grown up before our collective eyes. He is, as good as any, an example of the power of Scouting. Just like both my two boys who are now Eagle Scouts, Eric was a handful when he was younger.  Unfocused and off the wall, he lacked discipline.  He, and his fellow Scouts, enter as 5^th graders, still in elementary school and lacking any real goals or ambitions.  Now, several years later, Eric and his peers are capable of clearly vocalizing the music they like, the clothes they prefer and sharing views on real issues.  In short order, they are growing up and developing into responsible citizens.

As an Eagle candidate, Eric knows he is a role model to younger Scouts.  He now drives and talks of college and possibly majoring in Theater at NAU.  He uses words like “anarchy” and “fascist” correctly in a sentence to demonstrate his independence.  Throughout the day, he has done a good job getting a disparate group of volunteers across the finish line.  Duly impressed, his acting teacher complements him on the transformation of the once shabby dressing rooms.  More importantly, Eric is proud of his accomplishment and rightly so.  In the next several months, he will finalize his Eagle report which will summarize the learning lessons from his project.  Then, he will submit it to a discerning group of retired men and fellow Scouts, who will scrutinize and question Eric, challenging him to verbalize the life lessons he has gained from his Eagle journey.  No doubt, he will pass this test.

Because today, he proved he deserves it!

It may have been one of the most selfish Christmas gifts in all history.  We bought a ping pong table, under the guise of a family gift, for all to enjoy.  And, I convinced my partner that it should be set up immediately so that “we” could all enjoy it.  No need to wait until Christmas morning, I mentioned to him more than once, “you know,” as I told him, “to ensure we get full use out of it.” Of course, this completely violates our long standing Christmas tradition regarding present opening. That is, nothing is to be opened prior to Christmas morning.  I will have none of this — pick one present under the tree to open early – not in our household!  How is this even possible when Santa hasn’t officially come to town yet?  However, this year would prove to be different, and candidly it’s because I couldn’t wait to play on that damn ping pong table.  There was no way I intended to sit by idly looking at that huge box in our garage, which required us to borrow our neighbor’s pickup truck, and not open it shortly after its arrival.  So open it, we did.  Well, actually my partner opened it, and at times I did nothing more than hold the pieces in place at varying points during the four hour assembly.  “Those are a bitch to put together,” my neighbor screamed across the street sometime during the tenuous process.  To my partner’s credit and perhaps because it was Christmas, I didn’t hear one “F-bomb” come from the garage during this incredibly difficult building process. One glance at the intricate renderings was enough to reduce me to the role of water boy, at which time I drove up to Circle K to get us soft drinks with the primary objective to keep my partner happy during the assembly phase of “our” gift.

Although he comes in a distant second to his father, my youngest son loves playing ping pong.  For that matter, my partner really enjoys playing, as well.  That’s the real beauty of this gift.  For the first time, in my fifteen years of parenting, with all the gaming systems, sports equipment, Legos, Erector sets, art projects and multiple volumes of The Guinness Book of World Record,  finally, there is a gift for me, I mean for “us,” that “we” can all enjoy and get excited about.  And, as a result, play has been nonstop in our garage.  Yesterday, I relented after a day of incredibly selfish behavior and let our three neighbor kids play on the ping pong table.  At first, I had told them that the table wasn’t fully assembled and that they would have to wait until we had things “locked down.”  After a couple days of the “lock down” excuse and a nasty disapproving look from the nine year old who lives across the street, I finally broke down and let them play.  This was not easy, but a small act of Christmas kindness on my part.

Until he can play at least one game with me after school, my son refuses all homework.  Of course, these after school sessions lead to four or five games.  And with all of this play between father and son, a day of reckoning looms. To date, my son has yet to win a game off his dad.  If he was still in elementary school, perhaps I would let him win a game or two, but now that he is turning sixteen – not so much.  However, soon the chips will fall and he will win that first game; my son is a natural at it.  In the couple of weeks left before Christmas, he will beat me and I am already preparing for the inevitable.  Translation: I am preparing a long list of excuses about why something as incredulous as this could occur.

So in the end, everyone is playing ping pong.  At times, this means the neighbor kids have to pry the paddle from my hands, but, yes, they play too.  And rest assured, “we” are enjoying the fact that Christmas came early!

“Let’s not do it today, how about tomorrow?” I say to my partner.  We are both in agreement that our Rat Terrier named Lipton must be put down but neither of us can pull the plug, so to speak, not today. A month earlier, Lipton had been diagnosed with a collapsed trachea by a very young and caring veterinarian specialist who gave us little hope that the recommended yet extremely involved surgery would improve his quality of life, which had been reduced on good days to snorting and wheezing in an effort to push just enough air in and out of his lungs to carry on.  The decision to put him down was eating away at me but it hadn’t always been this way. In fact, I was the last convert in the house, the last one to be a fully certified Lipton Lover.

Agreeing to a dog in the first place, took years.  “No, not until the two of you are old enough,” I repeatedly told the boys, always feeling like my back was against a wall. The last thing we need right now is a dog!  As a single dad in those early days, I did everything to avoid committing to a date, but I knew this strategy wouldn’t last long. “How old is old enough?” my son smartly asked sometime in the fourth grade, this after years with no serious push back.  No longer would our single goldfish be enough. Friend after friend now had a dog and he and his younger brother wanted theirs.  And, so began an unrelenting campaign.

“When?…When?…When?” both boys peppered me for months with the same question. My response would come after my partner wisely reminded me that if I kept holding out on the dog issue that there was a good chance our pet could outlive the both of us. “Not until you are in sixth grade and are old enough to take care of a dog.” There it was, finally blurting it out and totally arbitrary, but unmistakably a timeline nonetheless.

Although I had a dog when I was young, likely by the first grade — I never really grew attached to her.  Muffy, our Cockapoo, received a fair amount of my attention when she was a puppy; however, this was long before her ultimate decline and more than a decade after I was appointed to regularly clean poop from her anus by cutting encrusted hair from this very delicate area with a pair of household scissors.  No doubt, this task alone was reason enough to send my older brothers off to college several hours from home.  Rightly so, Muffy would growl and bark at the mere sight of anyone with scissors in hand.  To this day, I remain skittish encountering a dog for the first time.

Lipton’s arrival was a whirlwind. We had just returned home in what was becoming an annual summer San Diego vacation.  We were in the habit of timing these beach visits in early August once summer sports leagues and Scout camps ended and right before the start of a new school year.  It was early Sunday evening; we had just completed the seven-hour drive home, unpacked and I was completely focused on getting the boys to bed early. Unbeknownst to me, my oldest son had retrieved the classified section from the large Sunday paper in which he circled the very first ad under the header, “Rat Terrier.”  “Here you go,” he said plain and simple, as if he was fully entitled to this moment.

Before this night, it wasn’t so much what kind of dog we would get or what we would call him but rather when.  The boys already knew that they wanted a Rat Terrier after one their teacher’s got one.  To me a Rat Terriers looked a lot like a Jack Russell and by all accounts had the same high energy and temperament and appeared a good match for two rambunctious boys.  As far as what to call our new arrival, we had landed on it years before, after my youngest son asked me who made iced tea.  On the spot, we agreed Lipton had a good ring.

“Dad, I start sixth grade tomorrow and you need to keep your word,” my oldest son said pushing the paper closer to my face.  No one could argue that his execution was anything but clever.  As a parent, I had spent much of my waking hours preaching the importance of keeping one’s word.  “You promised,” he added for emphasis on the very night before the start of sixth grade.  It all was incredibly effective, not to mention well-timed based on the previously established timeline.

Once the van door slid opened I knew we would not leave empty handed. Ten adorable Rat Terrier puppies ran around a makeshift pen.  How this elderly couple, who lived some forty miles away in a tiny community called Tonopah, just happened to be “in the neighborhood”  with a litter of Rat Terrier puppies on that Sunday night I may never come to fully understand; however, fate is as good as any explanation.  Very quickly the boys agreed and picked the smallest, the “runt” of the litter, and did indeed name him Lipton after seeing a brown patch over his left eye which looked like the color of tea.  This was followed by a late night run to Petsmart, with my older son and our complete reliance on the high school kid with the Petsmart polo shirt who recommended a boatload of puppy supplies, ensuring each item was essential to Lipton’s smooth transition.  Three hundred dollars later, which included Petsmart puppy lessons, we returned home to find my youngest son positioning Lipton on a piece of newspaper so he would not tinkle on the tile.  My boys played with their new dog well into the night.  This would be the beginning of the end regarding my indifference to dogs

Later, there would come potty training, Lipton’s first road trip and numerous nights where he would be hustled into bed with one of the two boys, which I would only later discover the next morning when I would find the two, a boy and his dog, sleeping side by side.  There would be a second round of puppy lessons after the instructor discreetly explained that as a result of Lipton’s “exuberance” he would benefit from more remedial instruction. Over the years he would win over all who met him.  How could you not love a rugged little dog who wanted nothing more than his belly rubbed and a chance to chase a tennis ball over and over.

When it came time, it was difficult and sad. I had underestimated Lipton’s impact on each of us.  My partner and oldest son volunteered to take Lipton to the vet.  I wanted nothing to do with his final moments; I wanted nothing to offset the positive memories of a dog that I never thought I would come to love. In the final days leading up to this, all of us spent extra time with Lipton as a result of his labored breathing and sniffles and snorts, clearly reconfirming what we already knew – his time was near.  My oldest son would stay with him until the end, emerging from the room in tears. In many ways this is how it should have been since Lipton was really his dog.  He fought for him and more than any other, Lipton became his tried and true companion. While they were away, I gathered up Lipton’s toys throughout the backyard, coming to rest on a large boulder and unexpectedly I cried.  Over the last week, we’ve all heard familiar noises throughout the house that remind us of him, not to mention the box of tea bags that sits in the cabinet with his name on it.

I sit under a ramada at Indian Steele Park in Central Phoenix at the lake’s edge eating a to-go salad and drink iced tea.  It’s lunchtime on a Friday in early October and the weather has finally cooled.  It’s still in the high 90’s, but in the shade, in the middle of the day, my underwear is only partially drenched from sweat; this is a relief from what would certainly be full saturation just a month earlier.  I sit alone until a school bus with the words Acclaim Academy on the side rumbles up and drops sixty school children off in the parking lot.  They hit the ground running, screaming for joy that they are no longer confined to their seats.  They wear school uniforms with green polo shirts and khaki shorts — my best estimate is they are third graders.  All are Hispanic; one is cuter than the next as they run in every which direction.  Two female teachers in their forties and one male teacher in his late twenties shepherd the rambunctious children to various picnic tables and direct them to start eating their sack lunches.  In both Spanish and English, they clarify that no one will play until lunches are first eaten. The teachers, along with several parent volunteers, keep order before finally dismissing the group to play in the nearby grassy field.

The children can hardly contain themselves with excitement and are chasing one another, squeals come from all directions.  Why they are here or if this is a lunch stop before a field trip I don’t know, but I fully enjoy the unbridled enthusiasm that surrounds me.  More than two decades ago I spent close to two years substitute teaching in the Los Angeles area while earning a Master’s degree.  Back then, I too enjoyed recess and playing basketball or kickball during breaks from the classroom.  Third and fourth graders were my favorite.  At this age, kids are old enough to work independently while young enough to still enjoy the innocence of life and the excitement that comes from playing with something as simple as a Frisbee.

“Mr. Lopez!  Mr. Lopez…Me!…Me!…Me!” the children shout to the young teacher who is filled with a similar boundless energy as he throws a handful of colorful Frisbees out to the crowd of children.  I see bits of myself in Mr. Lopez as he runs around gathering the Frisbees and re-launches them.  Over and over again he throws the discs high into the sky.  The two female teachers watch closely under a shaded ramada and seem very content to let their younger colleague take the lead as ringmaster over this group of boisterous children.   “Mr. Lopez, here!…here!…here!” the chorus of munchkins shouts over and over again.  Children laugh as they wait for the circling Frisbees to finally land.  At some point, Mr. Lopez has ten discs airborne at one time as children circle everywhere in anticipation.  Once they hit the ground, boys dog-pile one another as they attempt to grab the colorful plastic ovals. The young teacher wipes his brow but is undeterred as he throws them again and again keeping pace with his young followers.  Sending the Frisbees in all directions, he makes special efforts to include everyone.   He underhands several to a group of girls who have parked themselves in the shade, apparently less excited about running every which way on a warm day.

In the midst of this uninhibited chaos, several Frisbees get lodged in the same large tree.  Mr. Lopez attempts to throw other Frisbees up only to get additional ones stuck.  Eventually, the teacher scurries up the trunk and dangles on branches to free the discs.  His colleagues laugh at him, calling him Tarzan as the kids scream in joy at the sight of their fearless teacher dropping Frisbees on their heads.  “Mr. Lopez, you’re our hero!”  One of the boys shouts up to his teacher.

Before long, the two female teachers and parent volunteers are gathering the children, directing them to throw away what remains of their lunches.  They require each child to pick up several pieces of litter on the ground before they dismiss the shrieking group of youngsters.  Just before the students arrive at the bus, I hear the driver start the noisy engine and soon after the large door swings open as the pack make their way toward the yellow bus.

In no time, the children are gone and it is once again silent.

The sights from the eighth floor are impressive.  There’s a hip feeling to Unit 8C, which has recently undergone a contemporary remodel.  The twenty-two floor building was designed by midcentury architect Al Beedle and the whole place has a fun retro feel to it.  From most floors of The Executive Towers you can see Piestewa Peak and Camelback Mountain in one direction and the skyline of Phoenix from the other.   Best of all, the place is located in Midtown and just a couple blocks from the light rail and the Willo District, where my brother and sister-n-law live.  A long list of great restaurants are close by and now that the weather is finally cooling off an unending array of Fall and Spring festivals will soon kick off practically a stone’s throw from the lobby.  The building’s residents are some combination of seniors and gays, who relish the close proximity to hotspots and hospitals, and all appear to live harmoniously together.

This is my mom’s new life.  Her new home on the eighth floor in a condo building in the middle of downtown Phoenix in what feels like a lifetime away from her home of some twenty five years in a North Phoenix suburb.  You see, it wasn’t long ago that we weren’t sure there would be this new journey, a new lease on life following a dire diagnosis of esophageal cancer and then an eventual full recovery, not to mention the newly signed lease of 1,165 square feet of elevated bliss. After her miraculous recovery came her decision to move downtown.  She arrived at this life-changing event from her hospital bed on an upper floor of St. Joseph’s hospital, looking out over the lights of Phoenix, sensing the energy and vitality just beyond the sterile boundaries of ICU.

While other seniors have tucked themselves away in Active Adult Communities on the far outskirts of Phoenix, my mom, on the other hand — not so much.  She regularly reads the Entertainment section of the newspaper in hopes of uncovering fun, hip new places to visit with friends and family.  She is not so much interested in shuffle board but more so Yoga, not to mention spending time with her good friend who sings with two bands  in-and-around Phoenix-area dive bars with names like Darwin’s and the The Rhythm Room.  I’ve been to both establishments, and trust me, my mom mixes up better than most people half her age.

Seeing the joy she experiences on her balcony is unmistakable, as is her gratitude for life.  From her journey up and out of poverty from a tough Newark, New Jersey neighborhood, to raising three boys in Phoenix, to a lifetime of hard work, she always demonstrates the same unyielding attitude of optimism.  Ultimately, this is what has led her to unit 8C.  Those of us who are lucky enough to know her, work to emulate this positive outlook in life. “I wish I could be just like your mother!” So goes the chorus of just about everyone who meets her.

For when it’s all said and done, it’s not about how high up you are, it’s about appreciating the view.

The first time it happened I was scared to death.  I was thirty-seven, a single dad with two kids with a maxed-out loan on my 401K to finance an international adoption and no job.  I was out of work due to a merger or acquisition or whatever corporate message point was used to describe the firing of hundreds of employees who worked for a company that had been in business for more than fifty years.  As senior level executives left giddy with golden parachutes I was terrified that my small severance package would not stretch until I landed my next job.  Quickly, the house went up for sale and we moved into a small condo across from my kids’ school.   Sleeping was impossible and patience was a rare commodity in our new midget-sized condo.

Now, a dozen years later with three mergers and one downsizing under my belt, things are different.  By now, I can write the corporate playbook regarding these company acquisitions.  No longer do I believe the talking points about “positive synergies” between two companies or how “nothing will change,” because in the end everything does.  The more important question I have learned to ask at the very hint or whisper of merger is:  Who is buying whom?  Because, regardless of the rhetoric and company president’s assurances that it’s business as usual, it never is.  It becomes all about who is driving the deal – who is acquiring whom.  If you’re lucky enough to be on the acquiring side of the house you are likely to be around in six months; if not, probably not.  I am not so much bitter these days as pragmatic.  Once I understood this very basic concept, I was able to move on more quickly and leave my loyalty with family where it belonged all along.  At times with promises of large bonuses and stock options, I lost this ever-important lesson!

Now, at forty-nine, I have been once again offered a package and outplacement services.  Outplacement services often mean little more than some one-on-one time with a perky human resource professional hired to critique your resume and provide you with a list of networking meetings.  Networking meetings are usually hosted by another perky HR professional who facilitates a group of unemployed individuals who are desperate to network with anyone in an effort to gain valuable connections with an impossibly small group of Phoenix area companies who might actually be hiring in the worst economy since the Great Depression.  However, now that I am more “tenured” or “seasoned” and in my late forties, my outplacement company has taken the liberty to place me in a group of older displaced managers and executives.  In fact, I have begun to attend several of these executive networking meetings just for “seasoned” professionals.  Here in Phoenix, all of these executive networking groups have one common denominator:  old white guys.  Okay, there are some “tenured” women in these meetings and I did spot an Asian man in the last one, (who, by the way looked great for his age) but by and large it is white guys, many of whom are scared to death this is it…the end of the road..a final farewell to their upper middle class lifestyle.

Bridging fifty, I am one of the younger ones in these groups.  However, undeniably I am white and getting older, at least according to my two teenagers and any number of HR outplacement counselors. Most of these so-called networking groups are filled with unemployed men who used to be mid-to-senior level managers who all are working desperately to appear upbeat about their prospects of landing another high paying job with great benefits.  Many need another five or ten years to tie them over until retirement; all are concerned about healthcare benefits and preexisting medical conditions.   Others, like myself, need another twenty years of work and purposely avoid the word retirement in an effort to remain realistic.

Sitting on the backend of the Baby Boomers’ generation, my colleagues in these meetings look more like my dad than my peers.  A number of them sport Sansabelt polyester knit trousers and hairstyles that look like they have just visited Duke, the neighborhood barber, who has been cutting hair since the Korean War in a strip mall by the Fry’s and Big Lots strip center.  The faces in the room look more like those on the floor of The National Republican Party Convention with similar looks of desperation, clinging on to something that no longer exists.  Collectively we all wear eyeglasses to address our faltering vision and the power point notes from the guest speaker who talks of incubators and angel investors.

Rest assured, I can crank out an “elevator” speech, as they refer to it in these meetings, better than most.  One is encouraged to recite this short sales blurb, at the drop of a hat, to elicit curiosity about one’s professional background and future career goals.  The talk of “transition” and “next opportunity” is used frequently to hide alternatives words like “desperation” and “screwed.”

After six months of unemployment and no real prospects, ironically I am less worried this time around. Each time, things have worked out better; each time I have landed a better job or at least one that led to a better opportunity.  Unlike some Americans, I do believe our best days are yet to come.  I do get the fact that the world is in a financial meltdown, not one that is isolated only to Americans.  When I hear fellow Americans ask what is our president doing for us, I think it is only fair to remind them of John F. Kennedy’s famous quote about individual responsibility.

Through all of this, I am staying busy.  Along with my partner, I have bought two investment homes and I am helping my mom get settled after a move from her home of more than a quarter of a century.  And, lest I forget my kids, there is always a long list of to-do items to tackle each day on the home front.  Thankfully, my partner is gainfully employed and his employer provides health care benefits for domestic partners and their children.  Without this simple corporate act of progressiveness, I would be in a very different mindset.

So, in the end, I move FORWARD.

The student body president, articulate and well-dressed welcomes the overflowing crowd to the annual Parent – Teacher night, signaling most throughout the auditorium to quiet down.  Front and center, the ROTC is impressive as uniform-clad boys and girls align themselves and their respective flags for the Pledge of Allegiance.  Following a brief overview of the night’s logistics, the principal announces to the hundreds of parents seated and now standing out into the lobby that our neighborhood public high school has again been ranked by U.S. News and World Reports as a top performing high school in the country.  She mentions the school has again received an “A” rating from the Arizona Department of Education and ranks sixteen on statewide exams.  She talks about the many Honors classes offered as well as additional federal funding received to create new programs to help special needs kids.  She caps off her talk highlighting that more than three million dollars in scholarships were awarded to last year’s graduates.  Before I meet the first of my son’s teachers, I am already sold on this place.  I had this same rush of enthusiasm last year when my son was a freshman.  More importantly, I have failed to mention — this is the same high school I attended more than thirty years ago.  However, there is little to recognize of Thunderbird High School from all those years ago and not due to the fact of my advancing age, non-existent hairline or initial signs of memory loss.  There is plenty of talk these days about the decline of our youth and their lack of ambition and drive.  However, I see no evidence of this on campus tonight.

My son is now on the stage playing saxophone, one of fifty or so kids in the band performing the high school fight song while cheerleaders encourage the crowd to sing along.   Immediately, parents are up on their feet, clapping along.  Although I still remember the words, I don’t dare shout them out by the very remote chance that my son sees me and claims I have scarred him for life.  Next up, the dance crew, sprinkled with several boys, performs a contemporary dance number, something you might see on So You Think You Can Dance, or at least along that caliber.  No doubt, thirty years ago, these same male dancers would have been taken to the field behind the auditorium and beaten up, this being the same infamous field where kids smoked pot before and after school and gathered to watch students fight.  Thankfully, a Subway and Chinese take-out restaurant have long taken the place of this forsaken gathering spot.

Next up on the program, five kids from the Theater department perform, reviewing the 10 things that students don’t want to hear from their teachers.  “Dress Code, Dress Code, Dress Code,” tops the list delivered deadpan by one of the female thespians.  With little fanfare, parents are then released with maps in hand to meet instructors and hear them talk about their teaching philosophy and course syllabus.

There are no two ways about it.  This place is impressive and not because the school’s mascot is a really cool looking Indian chief.

Well, after thirty years I still think he looks pretty cool.  But more to the point, Thunderbird High is not some prep school or private Catholic high school but rather our neighborhood public school.  And yes, it’s free!  Okay, well maybe I paid a couple hundred bucks loading up my son’s lunch account as well as some minimal fees for band and tennis.  And yes, we bought a yearbook and some activity cards.  But that’s all she wrote; a bargain by anyone’s standards.

I now sit in the new Science building listening to my son’s Honors Chemistry teacher and tour the wiz bang science lab next tour, one of four.  The teachers all talk of college and what it takes to excel after high school.  Thirty years ago, there wasn’t much talk of college or advanced placement classes.  If there was I certainly wasn’t listening.  I was too busy wanting to go off campus for lunch or petitioning my parents for early release.  Later, I am completely impressed with my son’s Business Technology teacher and his talk of wanting kids to Innovate, Collaborate, Motivate, Administrate and Advocate.

Equally impressive are my son’s Honors Algebra and English teachers.  Mr. Patrick talks of his reading list for the year which includes Beowulf and Julius Caesar among many others.  I lean over to another dad and confess I was never required to read these same books in college let alone high school.  I nod along with Mr. Patrick as if I even know who or what Beowulf is!  After refreshments in the cafeteria, I am off to Advanced Placement History where my son has the opportunity to earn college credit by passing a proficiency test at the end of the school year.  Finally, I meet the Spanish teacher who is committed to making her class hands-on and fun.   In two hours, I have met six teachers; each is as equally impressive as the next.

Is the world going to hell in a hand basket?  I think not!

It took two grown men to hold him down.  I never needed reinforcements in the past but times have changed — big time!   We have just finished a long weekend in San Diego visiting friends who were down from L.A. for a yearly get together.   My youngest son and I have several hours to kill at the Sand Diego airport before returning to another unbearable and searing Phoenix summer night.   Now, sitting next to me at the airport, he punches me hard on the arm, another sure sign from my fifteen year old that our weekend vacation was a success.  It’s just the two of us this year.  It is a rare treat to spend the weekend with my youngest son who will once again have a full plate of high school activities, friends and video games all of which serve as an ample excuse to avoid one-on-one time.  My oldest son had to work and attend welding school while my partner volunteered to stay back and hold down the fort.

Each day, once the sun broke through the marine layer and washed bright light over the green lush hillside of Point Loma, we made our way to the hotel pool.   The Kona Kai sits at the end of Shelter Island, directly across the mammoth naval base on Coronado Island.  During the day, we watched large naval vessels channel their way past us; at night; we heard the yelps of sea lions and dolphins through the open sliding glass door.  It will be months before we can open the windows again in Phoenix.  Along for the weekend are my friends Steve and Kathleen and their two girls, now 12 and 9 (the oldest is pictured in the right column of the blog with my youngest son ten years ago).  Our two families have spent the last decade seamlessly vacationing together; in amazement, we have watched our two sets of kids grow up before our eyes.

Swimming with teenagers equals one thing:  rough housing.  Steve and Kathleen’s girls look forward to this more than just about anything on these yearly trips and can’t wait to get into the pool with my boys who are not afraid to wrestle and throw them about.  However, before the first official chicken-fight can take place, my youngest son challenges his father to a wrestling match in waist deep water.  In years past it was easy for me to put him in his respective place.  It was a breeze to reinforce the natural pecking order.  It took almost no effort to teach him who was boss by twisting his arm into a pretzel until he was willing to yell “mercy” at the top of his lungs.  Although desperate to break free from one of my less than fancy impromptu wrestling holds — he could not.  Year after year, I was able to reinforce this rightful hierarchy.  However, this is no longer the case.

With another twenty pounds on his frame and the swagger and pronounced confidence from a successful first year of high school under his belt, the dynamics have changed.   No longer can I subdue my youngest son and submit him to dunking and pool “tortures” of the past.  He no longer lets this happen without serious resistance.  Where did all this strength and muscle come from?  At some point, after he successfully executed a full nelson and flipped me off my feet and my head went under the water, I resorted to calling over Steve to help in double teaming my son.  “It’s not fair,” he yelled while laughing as Steve pulled his arms behind him leaving his stomach open for some quick jabs.  Quickly, he broke free and began swimming after me – clearly focused on retribution.  We both laughed as we struggled to take one another under water.  No matter what tricks I applied from the past, I could not easily dunk him.  In the blink of an eye, he was now able to stand his ground.  He was no longer interested in retreating.  He wanted nothing more than to land several punches.  While blocking out the girls’ calls to come and participate in a chicken fight, he remained focused and staked his claim if not also a few good punches to my upper arms.  From the velocity and sting of his blows this kid is definitely growing up.

Later that night, we relaxed watching the Olympics, just the two of us.  My lanky teenager with his long legs took up the full length of the queen bed opposite me.  He played video games while regularly looking up to see the progress of the women’s Olympic marathon.  I was fading in an out of sleep, exhausted from our day in the pool.  “You’re getting old,” he said just before I crashed for the night.

We have another hour before our flight and the two of us say next to nothing as he plays video games and I read the newspaper.  Not unlike the Olympics, I want the games to last forever.

I remain a holdout.  I am one of the few folks I know who still carries around a “monster” Franklin Covey day planner.  That’s right, no smart phone or tablet to keep it all organized.  And, I am not talking the compact pocket size either but the full blown portfolio version.  The oversized calendar and daily inserts better suit my messy scribbles and large calendar notations.  I chalk this larger size day planner up to the fact that I am “creative” as if somehow this justifies me carrying around a small suitcase-sized planner for the last decade.   I just received a new day planner shipment for the next twelve months including the 2013 calendar and a sense of immediate calm came over me as I began putting it all in place.  As a single dad, raising two boys with a long list of interests and activities, not to mention my own schedule has made me reliant on this behemoth relic to keep us organized.  All these years later, I am still committed to making daily lists of activities at the end of each day, crossing off completed tasks and then listing the next day’s priorities.  Business and personal commitments are interwoven and equally important to keep harmony in our hectic lives.  This attention to time management may be the sole reason I still have my sanity if not my hairline.

However, along the way something has changed.  In the midst of all of the lists and dutiful cataloguing of appointments, practices and play dates — somewhere between two different first communion celebrations, a rat terrier and the recent announcement of a first girlfriend, my boys have grown up.  I don’t mean as in ready to leave the nest, but they no longer need the same level of attention they did when they were small.  Not only do they want more space, but they demand it.  On Thursday afternoon, my eighteen year old son announced that he would return home at 3:30 a.m. after the opening night showing of Batman: The Dark Night Rises.   I found myself breathing deeply, while chanting “let go…let go.”  When the rhythmic breathing failed me, a cold beer did the trick.

There’s no denying it, my boys are growing up.  Even my youngest has made this crystal clear. “Stop embarrassing me and STOP telling people I’m an Eagle Scout,” he recently texted me.  I made the grave error of disclosing his Scout rank in passing to his new high school band teacher.  This, coming from the same cute kid pictured in the right column of this blog.  This picture, by the way, was taken ten years ago after a tee-ball game when he was walking with the daughter of a good friend.  The operative words of course are “ten years ago.”

It’s hard to let go.  As my partner graciously reminds me, I can’t control their worlds as teenagers anymore, although I get scared and try.  At times, I desperately want to steer them from harm or making wrong decisions.  This is the hard and painful part of parenting, especially after the tragic news in Aurora, Colorado and the killing of so many innocent young people.   But at the end of the day, I have to let go.   I can’t stop my boys from growing up.  Although I have to be reminded of it often, I know my kids have to learn from their mistakes.

There is an upside to all of this attention on scheduling.  Now, that my sons are older they pretty much are able to keep track of their own schedules, which at one time seemed impossible.  Perhaps this is just the motivation I need to embrace a new smart phone and its whiz bang calendar app.   Hell, even my mom and my kids’ last babysitter, who is a grandmother six times over, have iPhones that store their pictures and social calendars.

“Be safe,” I tell my oldest son at 10:30 p.m. over the phone as he stands in line for Batman with a group of his new friends.  Especially now, with all that went down in Colorado, I worry.  But, in the end, it’s time to let go.

Near my home in North Central Phoenix there are lots of retail shops and restaurants that have closed due to the exodus of Hispanic residents from Arizona afraid to remain and face the outcome of SB1070.  Who can blame them?  More thantwo years later, many of these shops remain empty.  Entire strip centers sit vacant with the occasional barber who also buys gold or a liquor store holding on.  The cell phone store with the human billboard standing out front flipping a directional sign in 110 degree summer weather seems to be one of the few businesses thriving.  I am not sure the same can be said for the poor guy holding the sign day-in-and-day-out.  Nearby is a small modest Mexican restaurant serving torta sandwiches, located where my son’s dentist used to be, which does a booming dinner business.  However, little else in this depressed part of Phoenix, known as Sunnyslope, has seemingly recovered.   Food City, Big Lots, several gas stations and dollar stores as well as a long list of other small businesses are long gone.

Several weeks ago I saw construction crews at work on what used to be a Jack in the Box and a Pioneer Chicken that sit side-by-side.  Are residents finally returning back to this community that often times looks like a ghost town?  Although many Hispanic residents aren’t back, some predatory lenders apparently are.  A bold blue sign reading TitleMax Title Loans is now displayed on the building that Jack once inhabited.  And across the street, in the old Pioneer Chicken, is Cash Time Loan Center, which also is preparing to open soon.  About a hundred yards away, in the old Payless Shoe Store, is CheckSmart, a third one of these lenders that has been open for several years.

These car title loan companies rely on consumers who have few other options but to put a lien on their cars for cash.  The TitleMax website is light on specific information regarding interest rates they charge consumers, but heavy on how easy it is to get a loan for up to $5,000.  There are smiling young people who talk of how “easy and fast” it is to get cash.  They seem so happy and carefree.  Holding clear title and having government-issued ID appears to be the only hurdles to jump over to get quick money.  TitleMax claims they have some of the lowest rates, up to 50% less than their competition.  Yikes!

Ignoring the Google paid search area, it isn’t difficult to find a long list of dissatisfied people who have loans with annual interest rates well over 100%.  One post is from a woman who had an initial loan of $1,200 but has since paid $2,400 in interest.  She will likely soon default and turn over her car to one of these loan companies. With so many in and around the Sunnyslope area with very little means, it makes you wonder how all of these car title loan shops can survive.  It’s ironic, with so few resources, just how many of these fast-cash businesses exist.  It’s no coincidence I couldn’t find a peep mentioned about annual interest rates, even buried deep within these websites.

My oldest son is now 18 and still lives at home and he has a brother just a few years behind him.  He drives by each of these storefronts several times a week. Like most of his friends he has a lot to learn about budgeting and not unlike a lot of kids his age he can be impulsive.  With these two stores on the verge of opening I am relieved that the 2001 Honda Accord with the reclaimed title and 125K miles remains in my name.  For the time being, just one more bullet dodged in shepherding my kids into adulthood.

I, for one, want Jack back!

I can’t remember which one was first, I think it was Paulina, but regardless it was definitely one of the babysitters that introduced him to Tajín, a seasoning that includes chili peppers, salt and dehydrated lime juice.  Immediately, he loved this stuff.  My oldest son would sprinkle it on just about everything not to mention dip his finger directly into the small plastic container and eat it plain.  Over the years, his acquired taste for the spicy lime seasoning has only grown stronger.  When it was time to replace that first bottle, I quickly realized there was only one grocery store that regularly stocked this seasoning:  Food City.  The Phoenix area grocery chain caters to the local Hispanic population and the many unique foods from Mexico and Central America.  The store has awesome tamales and tortillas and a tasty Mexican bakery as well as some vegetables I don’t see at any other grocery store.  Rest assured it has all the standard American brands that you find at every other food chain, but a whole lot more.  And most important, it’s cheap!   That first trip, I made some mental notes of food prices and soon I was back buying a large tray of cupcakes for a birthday party for next to nothing and a huge piñata that was definitely cheaper than the small ones you find at one of the chain party stores or Target.  Plus, they were made in Mexico to boot.

Soon after the passage of SB 1070, the Food City by our house closed.  Although there are several stores left in Phoenix, the one nearest the neighborhood shuttered after many Hispanic residents not only moved out of the area but out of Arizona.  Soon after the closure, many adjacent stores closed including the mom and pop ice cream shop around the corner.

My oldest son loved these treks to Food City and it was one of the few times he looked more like all the other shoppers and less like me.  This was a good thing for a young Hispanic kid adopted by a single white dad.  He had no fear asking any of the workers what they were cooking or baking on any given day and many times they would give him a sample just for asking.  Our visits to Food City multiplied when his younger brother was added into the mix.  A favorite birthday tradition included picking out a favorite piñata and a huge bag of candy which we would wedge down into the chicken wire frame.  Early on, time limits were set for our trips because both boys could never decide which colorful piñata, hanging high overhead, they wanted.   Would it be Sponge Bob Square Pants or the classic colorful donkey?  It’s a very hard decision for any kid — not to mention when there were twenty other colorful ones hanging high overhead calling your name.

Several times a week I now drive by the near abandoned strip center with the commercial leasing signs hanging about and miss these trips to Food City, but more importantly, I miss the innocence and excitement.  This genuine innocence came well before video games, computers and cell phones.  Wisely, friends remind me they won’t be teenagers forever.