Dad Book – Bryan's Blog

Guitar Hero

Mom and Dad got married when they were 19 years old and they lived in the married dorms at the University of Florida while they both went to school. It was a small efficiency. A single space with a kitchen, living area, and bedroom all in one. It had another feature typical of low-cost housing, very thin walls.

One night, as Mom and Dad were going to bed, they heard a guitar blaring through the wall. It was the early 1970s. Everyone was into rock & roll and the college kid living next door was no exception. It was well past midnight, so Dad banged on the wall to hopefully let the guitar hero know that he was being too loud. No response, other than continued guitar slaying. Dad banged again, harder. Nothing. Then a third time, he really hammered and banged against the wall. The only response was obnoxious shredding like there was no tomorrow.

At this point in the story, one common reaction would be to call the police with a noise complaint. That’s happened to pretty much every garage band kid practicing at their parent’s house, including me. Dad wasn’t one to call the police though. He was someone brought up in a time when neighbors knew each other personally. Neighbors didn’t just live next to each other, they were a part of the same community that shared life with each other. In that context, calling the police was reserved for the most extreme situations, so Dad was someone who always tried to resolve conflicts in person. We have continued this in our lives, so when we saw 2 pigs, 2 goats, and a cow trotting around our front yard one night, we knew exactly which neighbor to call.

In this instance, in a college dorm, Dad had the same mindset. Repeatedly hammering on the wall hadn’t worked. It was close to 1 AM. They were trying to get to sleep and it seemed like Greg, the neighbor, was of a mind to “rock and roll all night.” There was only one option. Dad had to go next door and loudly knock until the door finally opened. “Greg, it’s late! We’re trying to get to sleep. Can you tone it down?”

As is usually the case, talking man to man resolved the issue quickly. Greg was extremely polite and apologetic. “No problem Rob, but hey, next time I’m too loud just bang on the wall.”

I Am Not Left Handed

For as long as I remember, one of Dad’s favorite sports was racquetball. I think he picked it up in the Navy. The first courts I played in were in a standalone building on base. A sidewalk along one side, with little hobbit doors, opened into dark, cavernous spaces. We’d choose one and he’d turn on the fluorescent lights. Once they flickered into luminescence the door shut behind us and we were in our own world. Dad’s world. The court was his domain. He reigned supreme. I played him countless times. I never won.

When he was on active duty he played multiple times per week. The Navy gave him 2 hours for lunch if he used it for PT (physical training.) He became a good player with all those hours on the court. After he retired he would go to the base or the YMCA and play pickup games every week. He delivered and received his share of donut shaped bruises from getting hit in the back with the ball. One time the ball hit a guy right at the base of the skull so hard that it knocked him off his feet. The guy said he felt paralyzed for a second. A few minutes later he was back out there like nothing had happened. Ah, the good ‘ole days.

Oftentimes, he’d leave before 7 am and be gone all morning. He’d play for 2 hours, and then talk for 2 more. Those folks were part of his community. Racquetball was a big part of his life. He even coaxed Mom onto the court quite a few times to play. His social media feed was filled with racquetball tidbits, like this:

Racquetball in the early morning hours is a good thing. We need to do things that pump the heart and move the body. God made us that way.

Dad was able to see lessons and truths in everyday life. He saw God’s hand at work in the way bees organized their hives. His student’s curiosity was an example of how God designed us to learn and grow. Racquetball also had some truths to teach us.

Racquetball has a mental aspect to it. If you think you can win, that mindset helps you go forward. Got to watch out for pride though.

He was so skilled that it created a problem for him. One of the primary reasons he enjoyed playing was for the exercise, but he wasn’t able to get much of a workout when he played against mere mortals. So he devised a handicap for himself. He started playing left-handed.

That’s how he played against me and my brothers at first. We were all racquetball weaklings, not fit to strap on goggles compared to his unrestrained power with the ball and racquet. Eventually, we got good enough that he would play us right-handed because he didn’t like to lose. I beat him at the Regent University gym. He switched hands and destroyed me. I never beat him right-handed. Grant doesn’t think he ever beat him one-on-one either. Mark, the young stud of the family, claims that he was winning 30%-50% of the time when Dad played right-handed. Mark also makes dubious claims about his Crossfit prowess, so take that with a grain of salt. Clay thinks he won a few times when Dad was in his 60s. Great job beating down an old man riddled with cancer, Clay.

From what I can tell, based on Dad’s tweets from 2009, Clay wasn’t always so successful.

Racquetball at the YMCA Riverside. Will whomp up on Clay some.

Next tweet.

Playing racquetball. Beat Clay 3 X

Dad’s best racquetball story stemmed from an encounter at the YMCA. They had a challenge court set up. You signed your name on the sheet and played whoever was next. Dad was playing someone he’d never seen before and the other guy didn’t look very athletic. Dad decided to play left-handed but found himself falling behind. In between points he stopped play, smiled at his opponent as he slowly took off his left glove, and said, “You are quite good, but I know something you don’t know.”

The guy was perplexed by the theatrical display but responded, “What’s that?”

Dad slowly put on his right-handed glove, gripped his racquet, and replied, “I am not left-handed.”

Unfortunately for the other guy, this isn’t like the movies, and he wasn’t able to switch hands himself. Dad proceeded to dismantle him and of course, win convincingly. I imagine that guy now, regaling folks with a crazy story about the guy he played who switched hands mid-game. Dad was a legend.

Dragon Killers

The 6th year of life is a turning point for many children. It seems like that is the year kids learn how to swim, how to ride their bikes, and they start asking questions that are a little more difficult to answer. I did those things when I was six. I also learned that Dad wouldn’t always be there for me, but that I could find the strength to go on without him.

There comes a time in all of our lives when we have to take the training wheels off. We start by feeding themselves, going to the bathroom on our own, and getting dressed. Eventually we choose our friends, register for high school classes, drive a car, and get a job. Our instinct as parents is to prevent our children from falling and getting hurt as they make these life choices. We don’t want to see our children suffering because of bad decisions. The problem with this is that we humans often learn by doing, and by failing. To learn how to make decisions, we need to make decisions. As parents, it’s OK to be training wheels for our kids, but eventually they need to learn how to ride the bike on their own, even if they get hurt.

When I was 6 years old we lived on Dragon Killer Circle. What a great name for a street! We lived in single family, Navy housing, and Dragon Killer Circle had no through traffic. A perfect place to learn how to ride a bike. Recently, I’ve seen some tiny tykes pushing themselves around on miniature bicycles without any pedals. That’s a neat way to learn, but I didn’t have that. I had the good old fashioned training wheels. They were terrible.

Think about it. They only supported the back tire. It’s as if someone was trying to design an unholy tricycle/bicycle hybrid that was made to tip over. They didn’t teach balance, and if you tried to turn, the training wheels prevented you from leaning into it. The only thing left to do was pedal straight, on a newly paved road. God forbid that a small rock, or a crack in the sidewalk would catch under one of those hard, rubber training wheels.

Fortunately, Dragon Killer Circle was a nice, smooth road with very little traffic on it. I was able to pedal straight, hop off, turn around, get back on, and pedal back, over and over. Dad raised the training wheels a bit so I’d have to balance more. I hacked the system though, and would ride the left training wheel hard, leaning precariously. This made it tough to ride in a straight line, so I’d have to continually adjust, slowly meandering down the street like a drunkard with a shortened left leg. Hop off, turn around, and pedal back. (Hiccup)

Eventually it was time. Dad took the training wheels off. “Don’t worry, I’ll be holding on to the back,” he assured me.

I remember the sun and the wind. I remember the freedom of peddling and knowing that Dad was there to make sure I didn’t fall. I went so fast that it brought tears to my little eyes. I had a huge grin on my face. The grin of a kid experiencing a wondrous freedom for the very first time. I heard Dad whooping and cheering me on, which encouraged me to peddle faster, but something was amiss. In the back of my mind I realized that it sounded like Dad was pretty far away. I looked over my shoulder and there he was in the distance, shouting, waving, and laughing. Way in the distance.

“Dad!?!?” I choke-screamed, as the bike started wobbling. I stopped peddling and tried to control the left and right twisting of the front tire, but fear overtook me. Like Peter on the raging waves, all I could see was the curb and the street racing by so incredibly dangerously fast. Without Dad to support me I couldn’t do it. I crashed spectacularly. I say it was spectacular because Dad came running up laughing and throwing around words like “PHENOMENAL” and “AWESOME.” Plus, there was a lot of blood, and as we all know there is a direct correlation between bloodiness and epicness when we’re reliving childhood adventures.

I felt betrayed by Dad. He said he would be there for me. He claimed I was going “so fast” that he couldn’t keep up. Plus, look how far I had gone without him! That mollified my anger a little bit as I recalled the speed and freedom of the wild ride. I wanted to do it again, and (spoiler alert) I soon learned how to ride a bicycle. I don’t remember any of the other lessons or how many times I fell. I do remember that first crash though, and the realization that I could accomplish something on my own. I was a Dragon Killer.

That is probably my earliest memory of Dad, and it is perfect. It is Dad supporting, encouraging, and telling a little fib, as he helped me work through a quintessential childhood challenge. Lianne just read a book titled, The Gift of Failure: How the Best Parents Learn to Let Go So Their Children Can Succeed. Dad let go. I failed. And because of that failure I was able to succeed. As parents we need to take the training wheels off, let go, and then cheer like crazy as our kids go slay some dragons.

Salute to Service

The Vietnam War was in full swing while Dad was in college. He received a college deferment, but upon graduation, the war was still slogging on and his draft number was pretty low. He was willing to serve, but he didn’t want to be drafted, so he signed up for the United States Air Force as an aircraft maintenance officer. He spent the last two years of college as a member of the Air Force ROTC, so the transition was smooth, and he attended boot camp without incident. The trouble didn’t start until his first duty station where he ended up in a bit of hot water.

Storms Blow

I just discovered another way that I’m like my Dad. He hated cancelling activities. Neither snow, wind, rain, or hurricane would stop him. I was unreasonably annoyed last year when the governor cancelled every activity in the state for Hurricane Michael. I’m annoyed again now that so many activities are cancelled for Hurricane Dorian. There are definitely areas of Virginia Beach that will deal with flooding and power outages, but why can’t we play volleyball or go to the Y? It’s a little wind and rain, no worse than a standard nor’easter. Annoying. Dad was like that too, particularly about church.

As pastor he could make the call. If it was Sunday, he would insist on having church, regardless of the weather. Lianne and I lived right around the corner, so we were always there too. One year, 2010, we had a huge Christmas storm. The streets were covered in snow, and it was still snowing on Sunday morning. Dad sent an email telling everyone that the service was a go. It was a very small crowd. In an effort to make the most of the situation, I took a nice snowball into the sanctuary and pelted Dad right in the chest. I figured Jesus wouldn’t mind a little snow on the floor of the church because he loves little kids, and he knows how to have a good time.

It was a motley crew that Sunday, but we had a blast. We sledded in the parking lot, and had a snowball fight. It was the day after Christmas. I assume we sang a few songs and Dad shared a word, but I honestly don’t remember if we had a church service at all. I do remember playing in the snow with friends and family.

Similarly, a few years later, Dad scheduled an outdoor church service in June. It was only a few weeks before Dad passed away. The weather was iffy, but of course he decided to do it anyway. Dad, foreshadowing his own experience, released his turtle from captivity, back into nature where it belonged. The rain showed up, but the people didn’t. Those who did … they remember it.

I don’t know why cancelling things grated against my dad’s instincts. He was big on commitment and keeping the Sabbath. Attending church regularly was very important to him. He was also unfazed by the storms around him. Not reckless, but not careful either. In fact, oftentimes there was joy in the storm. There was shared experience in the struggle. I think that is what Dad enjoyed most. He wanted to exert his will over the circumstances instead of allowing them to push him down a path he didn’t want to go. I can relate, but sometimes the storms are too big for this life.

Storms blow, rain and wind causing a great tree to bow and break.
Storms blow, sickness and disease causing a great man to bow and break.
Storms blow, but we shouldn’t cancel life because of them.

We Bear the Scars

You’ll often hear older folks waxing poetic about the good ‘ole days when kids played outside, climbed trees, and weren’t afraid of a skinned up knee. I’ve slid down my share of impossibly high slides with no guard rails. I’ve spun so fast on merry-go-rounds that I nearly passed out and was eventually launched from the metal platform like a droplet of water flung from a shaking dog. I learned about centrifugal force that way. #science I’ve jumped on trampolines, and get this, there were other people on it at the same time!! Crazy, I know. I’m pretty sure the springs were extremely rusty as well.

Learning to Drive Stick Shift

Fewer and fewer cars are sold with manual transmissions. We never had one growing up. I learned to drive behind the wheel of our full sized family van. So it was kind of embarrassing when my girlfriend wheeled around in a Ford Escort stick shift, and I couldn’t even drive it. My fragile psyche couldn’t handle the emasculation. Dad had pity on me and took me out to the parking lot in Lianne’s car to show me the ropes. It was a trying ordeal, a rite of passage, a gauntlet on my journey to manhood.

Drens and Krods

Mom and Dad didn’t let me and my brothers fight when we were younger. The expectation was that we would get along and actually like each other. When we argued and verbally fought with each other, we got in trouble. I can’t even imagine what manner of wrath would have befallen us if any of our disagreements had come to physical blows. That was simply never an option in our house growing up. For my part, I was such a laid back older brother that not much bothered me and I was nice to my little bros. That turned out to be a smart move because my height and weight advantage quickly disappeared as we progressed through high school. Fortunately I’ve maintained my intellectual edge by a long shot.

Continue reading Drens and Krods

The Good Citizen

Mom and Dad went to high school in the 60s. They told me about greasers, nerds, and a few other cliques. Dad didn’t really belong to any particular group, but Mom said she thought he was a “punk” at the time, whatever that means. I figure he was just a regular kid. He did get in a couple of fights in Junior High, and one of them is a story he wasn’t shy to share.

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The Metamorphosis

I found out recently that my favorite high school English teacher passed away. Cancer. She was a fun and engaging teacher. I really hate cancer. News of her passing brought her class to mind, and a few of the memorable experiences I had there. One in particular revolved around a group assignment on the short story, The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. It’s about a young man who wakes up one morning as a giant vermin, bug, beetle thing. Our assignment was to reenact and discuss a scene from the book in front of the class. My Dad was an entomologist. I had access to all kinds of insects. My high school self saw a perfect opportunity.

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