Tri, Tri, Tri Again
I haven't posted in months, as you can see, but that's going to change. I'm getting stoked about Half Vineman—a mere 17 weeks away!—and intend to use this space to maintain a solid record of the run-up to the event. Starting ... oh, later today.
Sunday, January 26, 2003
Big Lessons
Before bed, Niko and I always hang out upstairs by ourselves for a while. I help him get dressed. We read or make a burrow for him to hide in. Tonight, just out of the bath, Niko plopped down on the big bed with a towel wrapped around him. He looked straight at me, his elbows on the bed, each hand on a cheek holding up his head, each eye as big as the harvest moon, and said, "Niko's doing a little thinking."
I asked him what he was thinking about.
"Baby"—that's our bird—"is old but not very old," he said.
I said that was right.
"Daddy," Niko said, "when is Baby going to die?"
I told him I didn't know, but that Baby was happy and healthy and he would probably live for a long, long time.
We talked more about Baby. About how he was 25 and parakeets can live to be 40, which means we have thousands and thousands of happy days to spend with Baby.
Then Niko asked about when Sammy, our cat, would die. I tried to explain that we don't know for sure, we can never know, but that most people and most animals get to live for a long time. Gradually, Niko asked about the most important people in his life—about his grandma Oonka, about me. Notably, there was one person he couldn't bring himself to ask about. Yep. Mommy.
We talked more about when people die and why they die. Then Niko said: "Somebody died. Somebody we like."
So I told him.
"Yes, Dorothy died. She was very old and after a long, full life, she died. We're all very sad that Dorothy died, but we're also happy that we get to have the memory of Dorothy, who was so nice and did so many great things for people."
Niko thought long and hard about all the things I was telling him this night, and he thought long and hard about this. He said, "Sombody else died. Somebody else who Mommy loves."
Mommy came upstairs just then, and Niko asked her what person who she loved had died. She said that Dorothy had and talked about Dorothy.
"Somebody else died, Mommy. Who else died who you loved?"
Rebecca said her Grandpa had, and she talked about how that made her sad, but she always felt happy that she had the memory of her wonderful Grandpa with her.
It was then that Niko began to cry. He was sitting in my lap. My eyes had filled with tears several minutes ago—for Dorothy and her friends and loved ones, for those of us who now missed Dorothy, and for Niko who now knew about death.
Now Niko was crying. "Curt is very sad," he said, referring to Dorothy's husband, who indeed is very sad. His sobs were gentle. We held him, touched him. Told him it was OK.
"Crying can help the sadness go away," I said after a while. I took a deep breath. "And a deep breath can help you relax." Niko took a deep breath. He yawned and rubbed his bleary eyes. It was time to go to bed.
Post script: The Napa Register published a very nice piece the day after Dorothy Searcy passed. You can read it here.
Before bed, Niko and I always hang out upstairs by ourselves for a while. I help him get dressed. We read or make a burrow for him to hide in. Tonight, just out of the bath, Niko plopped down on the big bed with a towel wrapped around him. He looked straight at me, his elbows on the bed, each hand on a cheek holding up his head, each eye as big as the harvest moon, and said, "Niko's doing a little thinking."
I asked him what he was thinking about.
"Baby"—that's our bird—"is old but not very old," he said.
I said that was right.
"Daddy," Niko said, "when is Baby going to die?"
I told him I didn't know, but that Baby was happy and healthy and he would probably live for a long, long time.
We talked more about Baby. About how he was 25 and parakeets can live to be 40, which means we have thousands and thousands of happy days to spend with Baby.
Then Niko asked about when Sammy, our cat, would die. I tried to explain that we don't know for sure, we can never know, but that most people and most animals get to live for a long time. Gradually, Niko asked about the most important people in his life—about his grandma Oonka, about me. Notably, there was one person he couldn't bring himself to ask about. Yep. Mommy.
We talked more about when people die and why they die. Then Niko said: "Somebody died. Somebody we like."
So I told him.
"Yes, Dorothy died. She was very old and after a long, full life, she died. We're all very sad that Dorothy died, but we're also happy that we get to have the memory of Dorothy, who was so nice and did so many great things for people."
Niko thought long and hard about all the things I was telling him this night, and he thought long and hard about this. He said, "Sombody else died. Somebody else who Mommy loves."
Mommy came upstairs just then, and Niko asked her what person who she loved had died. She said that Dorothy had and talked about Dorothy.
"Somebody else died, Mommy. Who else died who you loved?"
Rebecca said her Grandpa had, and she talked about how that made her sad, but she always felt happy that she had the memory of her wonderful Grandpa with her.
It was then that Niko began to cry. He was sitting in my lap. My eyes had filled with tears several minutes ago—for Dorothy and her friends and loved ones, for those of us who now missed Dorothy, and for Niko who now knew about death.
Now Niko was crying. "Curt is very sad," he said, referring to Dorothy's husband, who indeed is very sad. His sobs were gentle. We held him, touched him. Told him it was OK.
"Crying can help the sadness go away," I said after a while. I took a deep breath. "And a deep breath can help you relax." Niko took a deep breath. He yawned and rubbed his bleary eyes. It was time to go to bed.
Post script: The Napa Register published a very nice piece the day after Dorothy Searcy passed. You can read it here.
Thursday, January 16, 2003
1200 Jefferson Street
Yesterday was my last day at Balzac Communications. On Monday I'll start at Paterno Wines International. That'll be my third job in Napa, where we had moved exactly three years ago hoping to find a pot of gold at the end of wine.com's rainbow.
That really wasn't what it was all about, but I like to torture myself with the idea. Thought you'd strike it rich, eh buddy? Ha! Shoulda stayed up north… There's something awfully attractive about regret, isn't there? But in fact, one of the theories behind the move from Oregon back to California for the wine.com job was that if it didn't work out, I'd probably be set up for some interesting job in the wine industry. Which is precisely what happened.
Balzac was a great experience, but ever-so-slightly not the perfect place for me. At heart, I tend toward sullen, sensitive, impolite and sincere. Balzac is the opposite on all fronts. You really do have to be ready to chat. And joke. A solid 90 percent of the verbiage thrown around in large-group settings amounts to nonlethal darts. And whether you actually know or care about something doesn't matter because, after all, we're all PR professionals! It's not a matter of faking it. It's about doing it, having a take, being glib, being part of the party. All of which is perfectly reasonable and not that different from how the rest of mostly white, college-educated American culture comports itself. Or, in other words, yes, I know, I'm the weird one. Anyway, the point is that despite my great affection for pretty much everyone at Balzac, I always felt as though I were on the outside looking in. Now I move on.
Coming this weekend: Where I'm going
Yesterday was my last day at Balzac Communications. On Monday I'll start at Paterno Wines International. That'll be my third job in Napa, where we had moved exactly three years ago hoping to find a pot of gold at the end of wine.com's rainbow.
That really wasn't what it was all about, but I like to torture myself with the idea. Thought you'd strike it rich, eh buddy? Ha! Shoulda stayed up north… There's something awfully attractive about regret, isn't there? But in fact, one of the theories behind the move from Oregon back to California for the wine.com job was that if it didn't work out, I'd probably be set up for some interesting job in the wine industry. Which is precisely what happened.
Balzac was a great experience, but ever-so-slightly not the perfect place for me. At heart, I tend toward sullen, sensitive, impolite and sincere. Balzac is the opposite on all fronts. You really do have to be ready to chat. And joke. A solid 90 percent of the verbiage thrown around in large-group settings amounts to nonlethal darts. And whether you actually know or care about something doesn't matter because, after all, we're all PR professionals! It's not a matter of faking it. It's about doing it, having a take, being glib, being part of the party. All of which is perfectly reasonable and not that different from how the rest of mostly white, college-educated American culture comports itself. Or, in other words, yes, I know, I'm the weird one. Anyway, the point is that despite my great affection for pretty much everyone at Balzac, I always felt as though I were on the outside looking in. Now I move on.
Coming this weekend: Where I'm going
Thursday, January 02, 2003
Wednesday, December 25, 2002
Thursday, December 12, 2002
Wine Education
Today at work I led a tasting of the five wines that are now in barrel in my garage. I love tasting with my colleagues at Balzac. The range of wine experience is great, and the views from all points of the spectrum are always interesting and helpful to me as a winemaker. People relatively new to wine have no idea how fresh and insightful their thoughts about a wine can be.
In order, we tasted:
2002 Pinot Noir: Surprisingly good color, loads of cherries in the nose along with a bit of mushroom/earth/funk character. Light bodied but with a fairly soft, rich mouthfeel (I think it's finally through ML). Not a Pinot that will knock your socks off, by any means—but it's got clear, enjoyable varietal character and should be a very nice wine to have around the house. It sits now in a 2000-vintage 100-liter American oak barrel. I suspect I'll bottle from the barrel (to avoid oxidation) in late May, nine months after the grapes were picked.
2002 Zinfandel: A lighter-colored Zin, but a very fragrant, berry-ish nose. Very zippy acidity, just a hint of tannin. Like the Pinot, this is a wine made to enjoy with food—bistro food, I'd guess at this point. Yum! This wine is in a 1998-vintage 60-gallon American oak barrel.
2002 Carignane: Oops. Something went wrong here. Cloudy, stinky, no acidity. I guess the fact that it's pH was at 4.15 (seriously) post-fermentation was a suggestion that this wine would be problematic. I'm going to dump in some tartaric to get the pH in a fairly workable place, maybe 3.8, and see if the wine might clean itself up with a racking and a winter in the barrel.
2001 Sangiovese: Dark ruby and brilliantly clear. Pretty floral/cherry nose. Firm in the mouth the way a good Sang ought to be. Some have said this wine is suffering from too-high acidity (pre-fermentation I bumped the acidity up every-so-slightly, by .5 g/L). But I'm still not certain. It is, after all, Sangiovese. May or may not do a very light egg-white fining before bottling later this winter.
2001 Cabernet Sauvignon: This is my favorite wine of the bunch. Dark and brooding. Lipsmacking dark fruit and tannins. After tasting the '02s, this wine seemed finished and perhaps slightly hard. But it's not finished and it will soften, I believe, and gain complexity. It's in a 2001 French oak barrel, and needs more time in the barrel. I think I'll rack it in March and then may wait until late-summer/early-fall to bottle.
Big thanks to the fellow Balzacians for allowing me to share these works-in-progress with you!
Today at work I led a tasting of the five wines that are now in barrel in my garage. I love tasting with my colleagues at Balzac. The range of wine experience is great, and the views from all points of the spectrum are always interesting and helpful to me as a winemaker. People relatively new to wine have no idea how fresh and insightful their thoughts about a wine can be.
In order, we tasted:
2002 Pinot Noir: Surprisingly good color, loads of cherries in the nose along with a bit of mushroom/earth/funk character. Light bodied but with a fairly soft, rich mouthfeel (I think it's finally through ML). Not a Pinot that will knock your socks off, by any means—but it's got clear, enjoyable varietal character and should be a very nice wine to have around the house. It sits now in a 2000-vintage 100-liter American oak barrel. I suspect I'll bottle from the barrel (to avoid oxidation) in late May, nine months after the grapes were picked.
2002 Zinfandel: A lighter-colored Zin, but a very fragrant, berry-ish nose. Very zippy acidity, just a hint of tannin. Like the Pinot, this is a wine made to enjoy with food—bistro food, I'd guess at this point. Yum! This wine is in a 1998-vintage 60-gallon American oak barrel.
2002 Carignane: Oops. Something went wrong here. Cloudy, stinky, no acidity. I guess the fact that it's pH was at 4.15 (seriously) post-fermentation was a suggestion that this wine would be problematic. I'm going to dump in some tartaric to get the pH in a fairly workable place, maybe 3.8, and see if the wine might clean itself up with a racking and a winter in the barrel.
2001 Sangiovese: Dark ruby and brilliantly clear. Pretty floral/cherry nose. Firm in the mouth the way a good Sang ought to be. Some have said this wine is suffering from too-high acidity (pre-fermentation I bumped the acidity up every-so-slightly, by .5 g/L). But I'm still not certain. It is, after all, Sangiovese. May or may not do a very light egg-white fining before bottling later this winter.
2001 Cabernet Sauvignon: This is my favorite wine of the bunch. Dark and brooding. Lipsmacking dark fruit and tannins. After tasting the '02s, this wine seemed finished and perhaps slightly hard. But it's not finished and it will soften, I believe, and gain complexity. It's in a 2001 French oak barrel, and needs more time in the barrel. I think I'll rack it in March and then may wait until late-summer/early-fall to bottle.
Big thanks to the fellow Balzacians for allowing me to share these works-in-progress with you!
Sunday, December 08, 2002
Niko News
Ah, yes, the Picture of the Day. It was great while it lasted but c'mon, it couldn't last! But now there's hope for all you Niko fans who've been moping through life wondering if there's even any point any more. It ain't daily. It's weekly. Way to go, Rebecca!
Ah, yes, the Picture of the Day. It was great while it lasted but c'mon, it couldn't last! But now there's hope for all you Niko fans who've been moping through life wondering if there's even any point any more. It ain't daily. It's weekly. Way to go, Rebecca!
Monday, November 25, 2002
Chapter Six: In Which Daddy's Psyche Goes on an Expotition
Man, being Daddy to this complex and stupendously brilliant little creature is a trip. Mommy, too, of course. Hell, even more so, inasmuch as she's the one home all day bringing the kid up (and doing a beautiful job of it). But I can really only speak to my own experience and my own experience the past couple of days has been very intense.
On Sunday we met some friends at the playground. Niko doesn't play like most kids. He doesn't tear around furiously. He doesn't jet up the stairs and throw himself down the slide. He checks out the scene. He's interested in kids doing things. He sees a kid by himself playing, say, with dinosaurs and he runs up to the kid, sits down beside him, smiles hugely and tries to imagine a way to become part of the game, whatever the game might be.
On Sunday this kid playing dinosaurs had placed all four of his beastly beasts on the spine of the park's giant concrete lizard. One fell down. Niko picked it up and put it back. The kid knocked it down. Niko, standing behind the kid, took three soft, looping swipes at the kid's back. Only one brushed the kid. No big deal.
No big deal except to Nazi Daddy.
I rushed in, grabbed Niko, picked him up, darn near flung him over to his mom, and barked, "Niko hit that boy!" We were on our way home within minutes. Rebecca was trying to explain to me how she handles such scenes: stay cool to deescalate; firmly tell Niko that hitting is never acceptable; and ask him to say he's sorry to the other kid.
This made sense to me. It made perfect sense. It was so sensible, I took umbrage. Of course. But after a while Pride and Ego stepped aside. I cried a bit, feeling sorry for myself for being such a shitty dad. Rebecca at first felt as though I was questioning her commitment to discipline. Then she saw I was just being a fool. She softened up, gave me a little room to see the confusion of my ways, and everyone calmed down. A half-hour or so later, when the waters were placid, smooth as glass, she said, "You know you're a great dad, right?"
For her, it was a statement—one that by quirk of the vernacular included a question mark at the end. I knew that, but I couldn't help but ponder the question.
Am I a great dad? I think I'm pretty good most of the time. Too often, though, I push too hard for perfection from the wee lad and fear that unless each and every transgression is met by fierce scolding, he'll go bad on us.
To which you are saying, quite sagely: He's 3! Yep. He's 3 and he's going to do crazy and stupid and wrong things. He's going to lose his cool. Which is all the more reason for me not to.
Stay calm. Stay in control. Stay in charge. Stay in love.
Well heck, that sounds like the end of this entry. Can we all hug and take a break until next week's episode, same time, same channel? But I mentioned today being tough as well, so a quick word on that. Thinking about it a little more, today 'twas nothing—but for a while, we couldn't be sure. Every half hour or so Niko was running and doubling over in pain. It was clear he needed to poop, and he always runs before he poops. However, we'd never seen anything like this. I mean, he was in agony. Crying hysterically. Wailing. And in the intervals between these episodes he was slightly delirious, babbling, moving from topic to topic, unwinding strange and complex tales. Which, to be sure, is not too far removed from normal. And yet there was an emotional element to it all—tears were just an interjection or even suggestion away.
Is he coming down with something? Is there a fever? Is it his appendix? Is it merely constipation?
We called the doctor at two minutes till 5 (thank you Lord for getting that call in two minutes before 5 instead of two minutes after). Karen the nurse called back immediately. Karen the Greatest Nurse in the World, I mean. We went through the symptoms. She was neither dismissive nor alarmist. Some of the possibilities were serious, but the probability was he was just constipated. She told us what to look for over the next hour or so, asked that we call back if any alarming signals were sounded at any point, and insisted that we call back if things weren't better within two hours. She also recommended no food but clear liquids—water more than anything, with, maybe, a bit of apple juice mixed in.
Well, by the time I got back from the store with the Martinelli's, Niko had (as we used to say) Dropped the Chalupa. And a rather large clump of you-know-what it was. The delirium faded as evening turned to night, but he still seemed high strung. We eased him into bedtime mode, using every inflection and pat and prod we had learned over the years. Moo Cow (the hand-puppet cow) led the way upstairs, into the bedroom where the scary furnace lurks. Moo Cow was ready to get that furnace if it tried anything, I assured. Moo Cow bit Daddy's nose and Daddy's toes. Moo Cow helped turn the pages of the heffalump chapter. Moo Cow got into bed with Niko just before good-night kisses.
Man, being Daddy to this complex and stupendously brilliant little creature is a trip. Mommy, too, of course. Hell, even more so, inasmuch as she's the one home all day bringing the kid up (and doing a beautiful job of it). But I can really only speak to my own experience and my own experience the past couple of days has been very intense.
On Sunday we met some friends at the playground. Niko doesn't play like most kids. He doesn't tear around furiously. He doesn't jet up the stairs and throw himself down the slide. He checks out the scene. He's interested in kids doing things. He sees a kid by himself playing, say, with dinosaurs and he runs up to the kid, sits down beside him, smiles hugely and tries to imagine a way to become part of the game, whatever the game might be.
On Sunday this kid playing dinosaurs had placed all four of his beastly beasts on the spine of the park's giant concrete lizard. One fell down. Niko picked it up and put it back. The kid knocked it down. Niko, standing behind the kid, took three soft, looping swipes at the kid's back. Only one brushed the kid. No big deal.
No big deal except to Nazi Daddy.
I rushed in, grabbed Niko, picked him up, darn near flung him over to his mom, and barked, "Niko hit that boy!" We were on our way home within minutes. Rebecca was trying to explain to me how she handles such scenes: stay cool to deescalate; firmly tell Niko that hitting is never acceptable; and ask him to say he's sorry to the other kid.
This made sense to me. It made perfect sense. It was so sensible, I took umbrage. Of course. But after a while Pride and Ego stepped aside. I cried a bit, feeling sorry for myself for being such a shitty dad. Rebecca at first felt as though I was questioning her commitment to discipline. Then she saw I was just being a fool. She softened up, gave me a little room to see the confusion of my ways, and everyone calmed down. A half-hour or so later, when the waters were placid, smooth as glass, she said, "You know you're a great dad, right?"
For her, it was a statement—one that by quirk of the vernacular included a question mark at the end. I knew that, but I couldn't help but ponder the question.
Am I a great dad? I think I'm pretty good most of the time. Too often, though, I push too hard for perfection from the wee lad and fear that unless each and every transgression is met by fierce scolding, he'll go bad on us.
To which you are saying, quite sagely: He's 3! Yep. He's 3 and he's going to do crazy and stupid and wrong things. He's going to lose his cool. Which is all the more reason for me not to.
Stay calm. Stay in control. Stay in charge. Stay in love.
Well heck, that sounds like the end of this entry. Can we all hug and take a break until next week's episode, same time, same channel? But I mentioned today being tough as well, so a quick word on that. Thinking about it a little more, today 'twas nothing—but for a while, we couldn't be sure. Every half hour or so Niko was running and doubling over in pain. It was clear he needed to poop, and he always runs before he poops. However, we'd never seen anything like this. I mean, he was in agony. Crying hysterically. Wailing. And in the intervals between these episodes he was slightly delirious, babbling, moving from topic to topic, unwinding strange and complex tales. Which, to be sure, is not too far removed from normal. And yet there was an emotional element to it all—tears were just an interjection or even suggestion away.
Is he coming down with something? Is there a fever? Is it his appendix? Is it merely constipation?
We called the doctor at two minutes till 5 (thank you Lord for getting that call in two minutes before 5 instead of two minutes after). Karen the nurse called back immediately. Karen the Greatest Nurse in the World, I mean. We went through the symptoms. She was neither dismissive nor alarmist. Some of the possibilities were serious, but the probability was he was just constipated. She told us what to look for over the next hour or so, asked that we call back if any alarming signals were sounded at any point, and insisted that we call back if things weren't better within two hours. She also recommended no food but clear liquids—water more than anything, with, maybe, a bit of apple juice mixed in.
Well, by the time I got back from the store with the Martinelli's, Niko had (as we used to say) Dropped the Chalupa. And a rather large clump of you-know-what it was. The delirium faded as evening turned to night, but he still seemed high strung. We eased him into bedtime mode, using every inflection and pat and prod we had learned over the years. Moo Cow (the hand-puppet cow) led the way upstairs, into the bedroom where the scary furnace lurks. Moo Cow was ready to get that furnace if it tried anything, I assured. Moo Cow bit Daddy's nose and Daddy's toes. Moo Cow helped turn the pages of the heffalump chapter. Moo Cow got into bed with Niko just before good-night kisses.
Saturday, November 16, 2002
Be Careful What You Ask For (and Give)
When I was 7 years old I desperately wanted Electric Football. Remember it? Though pricey, Electric Football wasn't much more than a metal board painted to look like a gridiron. A motor made the board vibrate. The vibrations caused the players, who stood on plastic stands, to move.
It looked awesome in the commercials, where some incredibly lucky bunch of kids were duking it out, gleefully guiding their teams in pitched battle.
In reality, it sucked.
The players moved aimlessly. Guards were liable to head out on post routes and wide receivers were as likely to dive straight into the mass around the center as they were to go out for a pass. Not that it matter. The quarterback, when he let fly with the little "ball," was as accurate as your great aunt after too many glasses of wine on Turkey Day.
Apparently, a shitload of kids liked Electric Football because you never heard a bad word about it. Me? I thought it was ridiculous. From Day One. I used it several times, trying hard to get over the shock at how stupid the whole thing was. Then it found a place under my bad and there it stayed … for months … and years.
Somewhere along the way, my Electric Football game disappeared—probably at one of our periodic garage sales. But the heartache at wanting and getting something that was clearly outside the usual Christmas-gift price range, well, that only grew. And amazingly, it's still there. What kind of ungrateful son rejects the generous gifts of his hard-working parents? Me. I do. Loathsome piece of dog poop. What kind of son doesn't know better than to want such an asinine gift? Me. I don't. Wretched louse.
Now Rebecca and I are buying gifts for Niko after receiving his input. Earlier this fall birthday money from grandparents resulted in purchase of a little box with four musicians atop it. The box plays a few tunes and asks, repetitively, a short set of far too simple questions about who among the characters is playing what instrument. The minute I saw it, my heart sank. I knew it would fall by the wayside within weeks. And it has. I worried. Was this the beginning of a trend? How do we navigate between his toddler wanna-gotta-have wishes and our adult no-its-a-clunker wisdom?
"But it's what he wanted," Rebecca said, and a pain shot through my heart. I explained my fractured psychology and Rebecca, wise as ever, said that the important thing was that I never let Niko feel bad about not liking a gift he asked for. I said I wouldn't, but thinking about it now, I'm not sure that will safeguard the lad against emotional damage. After all, my parents never said a peep about me not liking Electric Football. All the guilt was self-inflicted, and not just after the gift was revealed to be so idiotic.
No, I think I overreached in ever asking for Electric Football. A new football—a real genuine NFL imitation rubberized-material football—would have been worn to its inner liner before it was discarded. Much joy would have been derived from it. But I wanted something fancy. Something cool. That was the problem. Fancy and cool, where simple would have done the trick. Now, all we have to do is get Niko to understand why he NEVER gets anything that's fancy and cool.
I'm sure "It's for your own good, son" will do the trick.
When I was 7 years old I desperately wanted Electric Football. Remember it? Though pricey, Electric Football wasn't much more than a metal board painted to look like a gridiron. A motor made the board vibrate. The vibrations caused the players, who stood on plastic stands, to move.
It looked awesome in the commercials, where some incredibly lucky bunch of kids were duking it out, gleefully guiding their teams in pitched battle.
In reality, it sucked.
The players moved aimlessly. Guards were liable to head out on post routes and wide receivers were as likely to dive straight into the mass around the center as they were to go out for a pass. Not that it matter. The quarterback, when he let fly with the little "ball," was as accurate as your great aunt after too many glasses of wine on Turkey Day.
Apparently, a shitload of kids liked Electric Football because you never heard a bad word about it. Me? I thought it was ridiculous. From Day One. I used it several times, trying hard to get over the shock at how stupid the whole thing was. Then it found a place under my bad and there it stayed … for months … and years.
Somewhere along the way, my Electric Football game disappeared—probably at one of our periodic garage sales. But the heartache at wanting and getting something that was clearly outside the usual Christmas-gift price range, well, that only grew. And amazingly, it's still there. What kind of ungrateful son rejects the generous gifts of his hard-working parents? Me. I do. Loathsome piece of dog poop. What kind of son doesn't know better than to want such an asinine gift? Me. I don't. Wretched louse.
Now Rebecca and I are buying gifts for Niko after receiving his input. Earlier this fall birthday money from grandparents resulted in purchase of a little box with four musicians atop it. The box plays a few tunes and asks, repetitively, a short set of far too simple questions about who among the characters is playing what instrument. The minute I saw it, my heart sank. I knew it would fall by the wayside within weeks. And it has. I worried. Was this the beginning of a trend? How do we navigate between his toddler wanna-gotta-have wishes and our adult no-its-a-clunker wisdom?
"But it's what he wanted," Rebecca said, and a pain shot through my heart. I explained my fractured psychology and Rebecca, wise as ever, said that the important thing was that I never let Niko feel bad about not liking a gift he asked for. I said I wouldn't, but thinking about it now, I'm not sure that will safeguard the lad against emotional damage. After all, my parents never said a peep about me not liking Electric Football. All the guilt was self-inflicted, and not just after the gift was revealed to be so idiotic.
No, I think I overreached in ever asking for Electric Football. A new football—a real genuine NFL imitation rubberized-material football—would have been worn to its inner liner before it was discarded. Much joy would have been derived from it. But I wanted something fancy. Something cool. That was the problem. Fancy and cool, where simple would have done the trick. Now, all we have to do is get Niko to understand why he NEVER gets anything that's fancy and cool.
I'm sure "It's for your own good, son" will do the trick.
Sunday, November 10, 2002
The Good Kind of Graft
We're planning on putting a small vineyard in at my parents' house. They have a huge backyard that's rather empty, I love to make wine, so what's to stop us? (Oh, about a thousand technical and logistical matters, but we're going ahead anyway.) In preparation, I've been bopping around grapevine nursery sites, most of which aren't too hot. But the folks down at Tablas Creek, in the Paso Robles area, have tons of cool info. If you're into wine or horticulture (or both), you'll enjoy the page that explains how they produce their plant material.
We're planning on putting a small vineyard in at my parents' house. They have a huge backyard that's rather empty, I love to make wine, so what's to stop us? (Oh, about a thousand technical and logistical matters, but we're going ahead anyway.) In preparation, I've been bopping around grapevine nursery sites, most of which aren't too hot. But the folks down at Tablas Creek, in the Paso Robles area, have tons of cool info. If you're into wine or horticulture (or both), you'll enjoy the page that explains how they produce their plant material.
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