My World Was Shaken to the Core

For a day in which the earth did not tremble, and the sky did not dim, it was an earth shattering event for me.

It was a day like any other day, except we had been up all night with my wife in labor. At just after four o'clock in the morning, I held my first child.

There had never before nor since been anything that had such a profound impact on me. Obviously, I knew we were going to have a child. I had been in much deep meditative thought on the gravity of my responsibility. But I did not anticipate the sudden overwhelming sense of vulnerability.

A man can live fearlessly until he has a daughter. If he remains fearless after that, he is either supernatural, or a blithering idiot.

For me, the realization that I could not protect my tiny, beautiful, fragile daughter from every danger on planet Earth was unsettling in the extreme. With the birth of each of my children, I have recaptured that sensation, but not with the same ferocity. Becoming a grandfather was a close second, except with age has come the realization that I can control very little of anything in life. Back when I was twenty-something, I had the delusion that I was invulnerable.

You may ask yourself why I am writing about an event from thirty years in the past. Well, because it was thirty years ago today, in fact, that my first daughter was born. I am not certain how three decades has eluded capture. Time slips by at seemingly increased velocity each year.

Hug your precious little ones an extra time today. Todays tend to become yesterdays in rapid succession.

Not to Overstate This Momentous Event

There is an old saying, “Good fences make good neighbors.” It sounds counterintuitive, but there is actually a good deal of truth in that. The fence is not intended to keep the neighbor out of your yard, it is designed to keep your dog in! The principle is to agree on what is appropriate in advance, rather than wait for a difference in expectations to escalate into a dispute.

You may be puzzled by the dog and fence metaphor, so let me get straight to the point.

The picture below is of me and Shawna Apps signing some papers and having coffee and cookies. It may not look important to the average onlooker, but, my dear reader, it is very important.

This is a photo of author and illustrator signing a collaborative agreement regarding the book series, The Adventures of Boathouse Mouse. There are a lot of things in that agreement that I never gave thought to before seeing it in writing. The agreement defines how things get done. When we have to make those big decisions, there is already a framework in place.

This actually goes way deeper than a business deal. Shawna and one of my daughters are good friends. It is my intention that long after I am gone, they will remain as friends. What you see here, folks, is history in the making!

In all fairness, there have been a many collaborative agreements throughout history that were this important. Well, maybe dozens. Certainly a few, anyway. Actually, only The Declaration of Independence comes to mind. Whew! Being a history maker is exhausting!

We Can't Seem to Channel Normal

I don't normally cross over purposes here. But this weekend has been filled with a lot of interesting personal experiences. It has been exhausting, unnerving, and actually even uplifting.

My wife and I run a small non-profit that builds and sends work boats to missionaries in third world countries. Mission Navigation is a tiny operation, as I have a day job building yachts for the rich and famous. So, I am essentially a weekend missionary, of sorts. We have sent one boat to a mission in Haiti, and a second, for the same mission, is nearing completion. We have been doing this as volunteers for about five years and feel led to work at it full time.

Normally, when someone begins to raise support to enter the mission field, they circulate within the safe confines of their church affiliates. Somehow we can't seem to channel normal.

This weekend we have begun promoting our mission and introducing ourselves, with the intention of raising support, at a boat show. Sounds innocuous enough. Except there are strangers everywhere. For a hard-wired introvert like me, that is exhausting. But it has been fascinating as well.

We have met some very crusty individuals who can't fathom the concept that our faith motivates us to labor for insignificant and forgotten people. We have had complete strangers affirm us. And we have met some genuinely nice, down-to-earth folks.

We have not asked anyone for money. We believe that is a private decision between an individual and God. But we have had a few people who acted alarmed that we would try to pressure them into giving. Evidently there was another non-profit up the way from us that was calling out to people to donate as they walked by. Personally, I thought that was tacky and a bit presumptuous, but I suppose it is effective.

One of the coolest things is, we have encountered people who seemed to be inspired by our mission work. I would not go so far as to say that I am an important part of someone's life, but that is pretty cool.

In all, it is has been exhausting. But it has been a great way to take some vacation time.

Did I Actually Invent the Beard?

Back in the day, there was no such thing as No-Shave-November. There wasn't really a socially acceptable form of facial hair, with the possible exception of a well trimmed mustache. Most polite folks considered a beard to be a sign of rebellion, anarchy, or any other anti-social heebeegeebees that one might imagine.

Naturally, I had a beard. When I say naturally, it wasn't because I fit into any of those above mentioned categories. I say naturally, because that was what grew on my face.

Just as naturally, the “little old ladies” at church were alarmed by my choice of face. I never felt like the victim of profiling, but then I may have just been glibly ignorant. More than once I was offered financial help to purchase a razor. I was also offered free aftershave. And I was frequently quizzed about my motivation to wear a beard. Even my own grandmother joined in the crusade to get me to shave.

Perhaps everyone thought I was turning to the “dark side.” Interestingly, no one ever asked if I was trying to emulate Jesus.

The truth was, I broke out with acne when I shaved. After dealing with that bane during my teen years, I found the cure. It was simple, 100% natural, and completely harmless. End of conversation. Only, as I have related, it was not the end of the conversation. At that age I was not comfortable discussing it, so I patiently endured their prying and never revealed my reason.

Now that I am old and no longer care what people think of me, I find the whole scenario amusing.

But it does bring up a few really important questions. Did having a beard way before it was cool make me a Hipster? Or worse, was I serendipitously a fashion trendsetter? And even worse yet, am I still that precursor?

Let's hope not. Otherwise the next big thing in men's grooming fashion could be out-of-control eyebrows! Yikes! We may all look like Gandalf in the near future!

Who Doesn't Love a Good Spelling Bee?

Me!

I never even knew such a thing existed. Oh, I knew all about spelling bees. There just are no good ones.

In my early years the scenario would inevitably play out like this: A normally kind-hearted, sincere, respectable teacher would inexplicably decide to torture us children. She would select the two smart girls in the class as team leaders, and they would in turn each select a team. I was always the second to last picked.

The spell down would ensue as follows:

Teacher: Spell “ape”

Smart Girl: a-p-e

Teacher: Spell “bat”

Other Smart Girl: b-a-t

Teacher: Spell “cat”

Next smart kid: c-a-t

Teacher: Spell “dog”

Next kid: d-o-g

And it would go like that until the kid before me. Then she would turn the page and, as it fell with an ominous thud against the prior page, the teacher would casually comment, “Well, it looks like we're out of three-letter words.”
Inside she was transforming into Darth Vader. I am certain I heard the epic theme music. The air in the room would choke off and the lights would begin to pulsate with the rhythm of my heart. Darth Vader was still ten years in the future, but I knew it would be bad. Between the labored breathing, her voice became deep and she would say,

“Mr. Hodge, spell 'obsequious'.”

My throat would go dry and my tongue would become leaden. “Could you use the word in a sentence please?” I would croak out.

The smart kids in the class would begin to snicker and the teacher would reply, “Your lack of attentiveness is disturbing. 'If you were more obsequious, you would get better grades.'”

And the moment of truth would crush down on me. I would reason that it must be a four-letter word and, in desperation, I would try, “Ob-see-kwee-us.”
The room would erupt into chaotic laughter and the teacher would rage, “None of those are letters! If you never learn to spell, how will you ever survive in life? Are you to become a hermit and live in a cave?” Or something that sounded similar to my stinging ears. I would take my seat along with the derision of my classmates.

Then the teacher would instantly transform back to her sweet self and call on the next kid, “Spell park.”

I'm not sure who invented the spell checker, but that person is one of my all-time favorite heroes! The spell checker ranks right up there with peanut butter in my mind. If you should ever get a hand written letter from me and it is neatly done with all the words spelled properly, it's a fake.

There are several ways to determine an original RV hand written letter. First, the writing is really bad. Second, there will be something misspelled. Third, there is likely to be a serial number. I think I'm on about twelve.