Tag Archives: Children

Simple Vacation Pleasures: A Pictorial Essay

Climbing volcanoes and hiking across obsidian landscapes and seeing grand vistas and rafting rivers and riding horses are all fine activities, of course. But everyone knows that the best vacation pleasures are the simplest ones, such as those depicted in the pictorial essay below:

Alaska plate Counting License Plates. So far this trip we’ve seen Alaska, Arizona, California, Colorado, Oregon, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Montana, Nevada, New York, Oklahoma, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, Wyoming, and British Columbia.

Making a PuzzleMaking a puzzle…

Finishing Puzzle…and finishing it!

ReadingCurling up with a good book.

Drinks

TennisAnd finally, perhaps the greatest pleasure of all, sending the children off to a tennis clinic for a couple of hours to give their parents a little time to themselves.

Please note: We’re off to the Columbia River Gorge and Portland tomorrow, and I’m not sure if I’ll have time to do any more vacation postings. If so, thank you so much, dear readers, for your patience and understanding in this perhaps self-indulgent enterprise, and I look forward to resuming my normal blogging activities shortly.

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The Daring Quest: Growing Sunflowers, A Photo Essay

Sunflowers are such calm, quiet, peaceful things, unlike boys. But my two boys, Hank and Gabe, are raising sunflowers in our backyard as part of The Daring Quest, and we want you to see the results so far, beginning at the, well, beginning.

Adding Fertilizer

Saturday, May 9, the day before Mother’s Day. Here are Jennifer and Gabe preparing the soil and planting the seeds. Each of us has our various jobs: Jennifer and I shovel dirt and mix in chicken manure to improve the soil in the bed, Hank stays inside the house working on his Alaska state project for school, and Gabe occasionally wields the shovel but mainly collects bugs that he finds in the dirt.

Handful of bugs

Lured by the prospect of seeing something gross, Hank comes outside to see Gabe’s bag of bugs. “Dude,” he says, “that’s awesome.” “Do you want to feel them?” Gabe asks. “No,” says Hank. I confess during the shoveling that in all my life I have never planted anything before-not one fruit, not one vegetable, and certainly not any sunflowers. “That’s amazing,” says Jennifer. “I’m so happy to be part of your first experience.” Hank adds, “I’ve never planted seeds in chicken dung before.”

Thursday, May 14. Gabe and I water the sunflowers. Like the American economy, no green shoots are visible yet. Watering the sunflowers quickly turns into watering Gabe. He starts running around the lawn giggling and exulting as the spray from the hose soaks him like a spring shower.

Hank picking off seeds_1

Sunday, May 17. Success! Here, Hank explores the eight to twelve tiny shoots that are suddenly bursting from the chicken manure soil. This is a testament to the wisdom of The Dangerous Book for Boys, our guide for The Daring Quest, which recommended sunflowers because they grow very fast and children (and their parents) can see immediate results. Afterward Gabe and I go up to my office to download the pictures he has taken, and I teach him how to use the Kodak photo editing  software. He quickly catches on and crops the photos and saves them to the desktop without my help. “I can do it,” Gabe says. “I know you can,” says his father.

In a moment Hank follows us into my office and learns to use the photo editing tools too. The two of them take turns editing photos, and it occurs to me that while the boys are ostensibly growing sunflowers, they are also learning some of the skills I hold dear: writing, editing, photography, design, publishing.

Tuesday, May 19. Before the finals of “American Idol,” I water the sunflowers and the other plants in the beds, something I’m doing much more than I ever have in the past. I feel more connected to the sunflowers because I helped plant them and they’re part of The Daring Quest. This seems a good lesson for teaching children as well: A thing that is done for them will never matter as much to them as when they do it themselves.

Saturday, May 30. I am brushing my teeth when Gabe runs into the bathroom to tell me something. This is not unusual. It is almost impossible to take a shower without Gabe coming in to tell Jennifer or me-whoever is in the shower at the time-his latest breaking news about how he can’t find one of his Warhammer toys or how he had a dream last night about a peanut butter sandwich. But this is truly a dramatic development. “I have good news and bad news about the sunflowers,” he says. “The good news is they’re growing. The bad news is they’re being eaten. By snails, I think.”

Springing into action,  I go down to the garage, find a bag of snail-killing pellets, toss some handfuls in the dirt, and create a snail Maginot Line along the edges of the bed. Take that, you pesky varmints!

Wednesday, June 10. The sunflowers are growing, and growing. According to Gabe’s measurements, the tallest is more than twenty inches high, and there are a bunch of other plants that are nearly as tall.

Growth!

Thursday, June 18. Gabe measures again and the tallest is now two feet high. Two feet! It’s a miracle!

Big Growth!

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Eat a Peach: A Day in the Life of a Work-at-Home Dad

Peach Can For a work-at-home dad, the two most frightening words in the English language are: Summer vacation. The boys are out of school now, which means that the “work” part of “work-at-home” pretty much disappears. Here is one day in my life this week:

7:41 a.m. Kiss the wife goodbye as she leaves for her blessedly steady job with salary and benefits.
7:42-8:00 a.m. Race upstairs and take shower. Do morning stretches. Run back down to fix double-bag English tea. Transport tea back up to my office, turn on laptop.
8:01 a.m. Sit down to check my e-mail and possibly do some writing before the boys wake.
8:02 a.m. Boys wake. Both visit me in my office. Start turning things on, pulling things out of drawers, telling me their dreams. To get them to leave, I agree to fix their breakfast.
8:20 a.m. Take Hank to swim practice. Also mail a book order at the post office, which makes me feel good because at least it has something to do with making a living.
9:50 a.m. Return to pool to get Hank. On return trip home, announce to the boys that we are seeing “Up” this afternoon.
10-11:15 a.m. Boys actually play contentedly without fighting or yelling, I suspect because of the movie carrot I have dangled in front of them. This gives me a chance to check the e-mails I didn’t get to earlier.
11:30 a.m. From upstairs I hear the boys ‘ voices getting louder, a clear signal that the peaceful calm of the morning is about to turn ugly. Rush downstairs to put food in their mouths.
11:45 a.m. During lunch I do not notice that Gabe is eating peaches out of a can. But I do notice when he starts drinking the peach juice out of the can. I tell him how disgusting this is, and he stops.
11:59 a.m. I drink the rest of the juice from the can when the boys aren’t looking.
12:07 p.m. Gabe accidentally pulls the toilet roll dispenser off the wall and hands it to me asking me to do something with it.
12:24 p.m. Pack snacks for the movie. Find leftover Gummy Worms to throw into the snack bag with the Pirate’s Booty white cheddar puffs and Capri Sun juice drinks. Offer the boys a box of raisins for a “healthy treat.” Both emphatically turn it down.
12:44 p.m. Grab snacks and 3D glasses and we’re off. Nope, not quite. I ask Hank to make sure the front door is locked. He says it is. I walk back and check the door. It isn’t. I lock it.
1:12 p.m. Stop at Costco before the movie to look at bicycles. While there, we walk past the Books section and I think wistfully of all the authors who are home at this very instant working hard on their writing.
1:45-3:35 p.m. See “Up” in 3D with our 3D glasses (totally recommended, by the way, a terrific movie for kids and adults). Note with pleasure the references in the movie to snipe hunting, showing that Kevin Nelson, Writer is on top of the latest Hollywood trends. (See our recent post on snipe hunting.)
4 p.m. Return home. Gabe leaves to go ride his bike on the court, complaining that the other kids are making fun of him because his bike is too small. Hank asks if he can have some peaches. I say yes.
4:05 p.m. I notice that Hank has poured entire can of peaches into a glass, not a bowl. Gabe walks in the door and copies his brother. Oh well, at least they’re not eating from the can.
4:36 p.m. Count the seconds until 4:45 p.m. when my wife returns from work and I get to take a walk.
4:46 p.m. Oh no, she’s a minute late! Where is she? This isn’t fair. Doesn’t she know I’m home with the kids all day and…Ah, there she is. “Tag you’re it, honey.”

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More Work-at-Home Dad: Why Children Learn to Read. So They Can Work the TV Remote

KN with flipperIn my never-ending quest to prepare my sons for the real world, now re-branded The Daring Quest, I have spent countless hours teaching them how to operate a television remote. Holding the flipper in the palm of your hand and manipulating the controls with your thumb while stretched out on the couch watching “Man vs. Wild” or “The Brady Bunch Movie”-this is a lifelong learning skill I feel confident my sons will use all their days. And my daughter too. Now in college, Annie can handle a remote with the skill of an expert.

This morning, while playing on an old laptop of mine, Hank discovered a 2005 journal entry in which I talked about teaching Gabe, then four years old, how to use a remote. Here is what I said:

The flipper is our name for the TV remote. Gabe wanted to turn on the TV and video and I was trying to teach him how to do it. The top of the remote says “Mute” and “Power” and some other words. I said to him, “Find the P. Where’s the P word?”
“The P word?” he asked.
“There it is: Power,” I said. “That’s why you learn to read. So you can work the flipper.”

I actually said that: “That’s why you learn to read. So you can work the flipper.” Around this same time, apparently during a sterling period in my career, I also noted this in my journal:

I mopped the floor this morning to feel useful and productive. That’s how bad it’s gotten for me: I’m mopping the floors to feel useful. I have been developing my floor mopping techniques, however. I’ve used powdered cleansers in the past. Put a heap in a bucket, add water, and mop. But I find that they, or at least the one I used, did not leave the floor with much of a shine. Now I use a liquid cleanser. It seems to give the floors a bit more luster. [AND HERE IS THE RELEVANT PART OF ALL THIS…] I mopped the kitchen and three bathroom floors this morning, while Gabe practiced his reading while using the TV remote.

You’re not sticking your children in front of the TV. You’re giving them a chance to practice their reading while they operate the remote, allowing you to do something else in the house. And I sincerely hope that something else is not mopping.

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Boys Will Be Boys: Snipe Hunting

Travis and his brothers

Here at Kevin Nelson, Writer, we are introducing a new feature: Boys Will Be Boys. It is separate from, but not unrelated to, The Dangerous Quest, my attempt to do every challenge in The Dangerous Book for Boys with my sons in a year. It came about after I put out a call a couple of weeks ago for “inappropriate” childhood activities, and I was deluged with emails from men remembering all the hell-raising they did as boys.

We’ve already discussed 52-Card Pickup and Arm Farts, Pull My Finger, and Competitive Belching. In the weeks to come we will share more of these tender moments of boyhood, such as lighting farts, shooting rubber bands in class, chasing a babysitter with a dead mouse, setting off firecrackers, catapulting water balloons through open windows, and putting a shotgun shell on a fallen log, shooting it with a BB gun, and watching it explode.

Our initial offering is a childhood classic from Travis Roste of Minnesota: snipe hunting. Travis, the father of two daughters who has been mentioned in this space before (see here), grew up in a family of five boys and two girls. Above is a picture of three Roste boys: Travis and twin brother Trevor on the outside, and another brother Chad in the middle. When Travis and Trevor were young, their dad Myron took them into the woods to go snipe hunting. Here is how Travis remembers it:

“I grew up on a hobby farm, out in the country. It was a fantastic place to play and explore. I don’t have a lot of pictures when I was a kid, a couple of dozen, but hardly any of them show my dad. He wasn’t the kind of dad to pose for pictures. You had to kind of get him in a candid shot when he wasn’t looking.  He didn’t want his picture taken if he could help it. He was the old-fashioned type of dad. Didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve. He showed us he loved us by taking us fishing and hunting and things like that. He’s 71 years old now and in great shape; he cuts wood and is active.

“My dad took me and Trevor snipe hunting in the woods not far away from our house. Here’s how you play: Go to a woodsy area when it is getting dark. Tell your boys to hold a burlap sack open to catch the snipe. You turn a flashlight on and put it in the bag, and tell them it will attract the snipe. Then tell them you are going to walk around in a big circle to drive the snipe toward them, but that they have to hold the bag perfectly still. Otherwise the snipe won’t come and they won’t catch any. To make sure they believe you, tell them that you did this as a kid.

“That’s exactly what my dad did told us, and Trevor and I went along with it all the way. We held the sack with the flashlight in it while my dad drove the snipe to us, as he said. We sat there for a long time while it was getting dark. Finally, when we didn’t see our dad anywhere, we went back up to the house, and there he was inside laughing at us. He told us that his dad had taken him snipe hunting too. We didn’t really get the joke too much back then, but of course we do now. It’s a grand tradition in the U.S. and we were glad to be part of it.”

Myron Roste and friend

Myron Roste and a friend.

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The True Story of a Girl Who Shot a Book (1 of 3)

Lillian 1.6.1953 Among the many fascinating things about Lillian Kaiser (pictured here on the year of her graduation from Bryn Mawr), she is the only person I know who has ever shot a book. She did this when she was eleven, in 1942, in the basement of her family home on Summerland Avenue in Cleveland, Ohio. The book was The Past Lives Again, by Edna McGuire, and why she chose this book to shoot I do not know. But shoot it she did, one summer day when her brothers were away and her father was sleeping upstairs in the house.

This last fact-her brothers Chuckie and Alfie being gone-is perhaps the most pertinent because they would have never let their younger sister shoot their .22-caliber rifle had they known about it. It was their gun, and many a time Lillian Smith (her maiden name) had sat at the top of the basement stairs watching Chuckie, Alfie and Bruce, her oldest brother, fire away at a metal target. “I would sit at the top of the stairs desperately wanting to take part,” remembers Lillian, but her brothers never let her, although later on Alfie did relent and show her how to break down the gun, clean it and reassemble it. These skills came in handy when her older brothers went off to fight in the second world war and Lillian, shouldering her rifle, walked around the neighborhood with her mother making sure that all the homes had drawn their black-out shades down during air raid warnings. This was serious business for her, her way of helping in the national emergency, and although she did not really need to carry the gun her mother understood and let her do it.

The basement was perfect for target practice because its concrete walls were “like a fortress,” says Lillian. With her father sleeping upstairs, and her mother off visiting Aunt Suzy, and her brothers off somewhere, Lillian stole into the basement, uncovered the gun, and experienced the thrill not only of using a firearm for the first time, but of doing something that was forbidden to her. “The use of the book,” she explains, “was so that the noise of the impact would not wake up my father.” Her father worked nights at Allied Chemical and Dye and slept days, and he would not have liked it, not one bit, if she had woken him up. Nor would her brothers have liked it if they had found out what she was doing with their gun—”surely would have beat the hell out of me,” as she puts it—but she cleaned it afterward and picked all up the casings and none of them was ever the wiser.

The bullet passed through the cover between the words “Lives” and “Again,” and it’s fascinating to flip through the book and mark its progress: small and circular in the front but gradually widening out as if a person took his thumb and pushed down on the paper and indented it and made a hole in the exact same spot throughout the pages. Shot book coverThe bullet eventually slowed and made less and less of an impression as it went along until on page 397, there is no more trace of it. What happened to the bullet fragment? Lillian may have thrown it away when she was hiding the evidence so her brothers would not discover her and punish her for her rebellion.

As interesting as it is to shoot a book, it is not the best part of the story, however. The best part was revealed when we saw Lillian, now in her seventies, at a Mother’s Day celebration when, as part of The Dangerous Quest, she showed her grandsons Hank and Gabe how to wrap a package in brown paper. The package she chose to wrap was none other than The Past Lives Again, and to learn how she did it, please read on.

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That’s Inappropriate! 52-Card Pickup, Arm Farts, and More

kevin-nelsoncropped1Man, talk about an unexpected turn of events. Last week I stumbled onto the most surprising and astonishing discoveries to date in The Dangerous Quest:

Competitive belching. Pull My Finger. Indian rope burn. Ringing the doorbell of someone’s house and running away, aka Ring and Run or Knockout Junior. Rubberband fights. Spitballs. Prank calls. Secretly placing Saran wrap across a toilet bowl so that when someone goes to the bathroom … aw, you get the picture. Dog poop in a flaming bag (on someone’s doorstep). Lighting a match with your teeth or pants zipper. Riding strips of cardboard not just down a grassy hill, but also down the stairs of your house. Tossing firecrackers into the sewer to wake up the neighbors. Egging houses. Toilet papering a house (a common suggestion). Filling someone’s bathtub with instant mashed potatoes. Letting frogs loose in the community pool. Wet towel snapping in a locker room on someone’s bare bum. And on and on and on.

I plan to talk about all these activities, in all their glorious and inappropriate detail, but first let me explain how I came to hear about such things, and how innocently it started. The other night after dinner Gabe, Hank and Jennifer were playing Fish, and I sat down for a hand. After a few minutes Jennifer asked if we were going to teach her how to play Texas Hold ‘Em because she had missed out on our games a few weeks ago when I had shown the boys how to play poker. (See Playing Poker—And Dress-Up.) I brought out a jar of pennies for gambling, and each boy dealt and shuffled a couple of hands. I drew a terrific hand—a two-to-six straight—and raked in the last pot.

After we were done, just as a lark, I asked Gabe and Hank, “Wanna play 52-Card Pickup?” Both eagerly nodded their young, angelic faces. I had them cold. Two easy marks, aged eight and ten respectively, and they had no idea what I was about to do.

I held the deck in my right hand, bending it slightly, thumb on the bottom, middle finger on top, index finger pressing gently against the back with the top card facing out. Then I let ‘er rip, spraying the cards across the kitchen floor. The joke is, of course, that whoever agrees to play has to pick up the cards. The boys were absolutely delighted, laughing hysterically while Gabe ran around picking up the cards so he could do it too.

I was equally delighted-but also slightly aghast. “Haven’t you ever played 52 Card Pickup before?” I asked. Both boys shook their heads. “Don’t you have any bad influences down on the street corner teaching you these things?” I continued. “No,” they repeated. “Oh well,” I said with a laugh. “I guess that’s my job.”

If I wanted to go all sociological on you, I could talk about the deterioration of our neighborhood social structure and how young boys and girls today don’t play outside as much anymore because of the lure of electronic games and computers and because their parents are afraid to let them out of their sight because they might get snatched by a kidnapper. The idea of “free play”—kids just going outside to play with other kids in the neighborhood—has been largely replaced by “play dates” scheduled and organized in advance and usually being held inside the safety of the home or in the fenced-in backyard. But even if kids did want to play outside, where are they supposed to go? Here in suburban northern California where I live, there are precious few empty lots or open spaces left anymore, because real estate is so expensive and everything has been or is being developed. Even the parks, lovely and welcome as they are, represent another form of land development.

So kids in the neighborhood don’t play with other kids on the streets as much as they used to, and maybe that’s a good thing in some ways because cars and giant SUVs are whizzing by all the time and there truly are poisonous people out there, pushing drugs and destroying innocent hearts. But, on the other hand, when boys in the neighborhood aren’t playing outside with other boys, especially the older ones who teach some bad things but also many good things, how are the younger boys ever going to learn such inappropriate activities as arm farting?

I actually showed Gabe how to arm fart a few months ago, not as part of The Dangerous Quest but as part of the normal teaching that fathers do with their sons to prepare them for adulthood. I guess the experience was touching for me on some level because I wrote about it in a notebook. This is what I said:

“11/14. I showed Gabe how to do an arm fart this morning. Maybe there’s a more delicate way to say that: simulate a gaseous explosion by the use of the arms. Nah, that’s not right. An arm fart. Gabe started it by saying that Hank knows how to make farting sounds with his arm. Always the adult, I said, ‘So do I,’ and proceeded to do it. He wanted to know how, and this is what I told him: You stick your left hand under your right arm and make a sort of cup with your left hand to form an air pocket. Then you flap like a bird with your right arm and this blows air out of both sides of the cup that you’ve formed, producing the simulated gaseous eruption. Actually, there’s nothing gaseous about what you do; it just sounds like a fart. But Gabe couldn’t quite get it. He started out by placing his left hand flat on his armpit, which of course didn’t work. Then I took my shirt off to show him exactly how I did it. Then he took his shirt off too. I showed him how to cup his hand over the armpit, which actually is a natural indentation and thus the site of a perfect air pocket. Gabe did it once or twice but mostly struggled with the concept. He’s young. He’s got a bright future ahead of him. We’ll keep trying. I’m sure he’ll get it.”

Reading this now, I realize that I have not practiced arm farts with Gabe for months and have no idea what degree of competency he has achieved since our first lesson. We may need to work on that. Nevertheless, it did occur to me that there might be other inappropriate things that boys do that I might not know about, and so I decided to ask some of my friends for their suggestions. And, at that moment, things got wild.

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