Father's Day: T+96 hours (plus)

At some point I suppose that "hours" is no longer the appropriate unit of measure, and should be replaced by "days". I'm not sure where that point is, officially, or even if there's an officially recognized protocol for unit-shift. Maybe an even 100 hours is where that divide should occur. Or should it occur on an even-day boundary? Like, say, 96 hours. Maybe 120 hours, since that's a nice even number and falls at the 5-day mark. Yeah, I like that notion. Especially since at this point, "hours" are still what I'm counting, still the measuring device that I draw my feeling of success from. Every additional hour I go smokeless, I call a small victory. I can't yet think of it in terms of making it another "day" yet. So maybe I'll stick with hours for a while longer. Even if it's cumbersome once it gets into the triple-digit range.

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But today was a little easier than I thought it might be. I was concerned how I'd handle the weekend since there wouldn't be work to occupy my thoughts for two whole days. And as I've mentioned in the Ghosts of Blogs Past, I've talked a few ears off in the last several days (@JC: I'm s-o-o-o sorry.), and really really don't want to abuse that outlet any more than I already have. Today though, is Father's Day. I lost my own dad 8 years ago in July, and my last remaining grandparent in 2002. So for the last 6 years I haven't had to remember this paternal observance. That duty now falls to my sons. I don't see so much of them now that they're "all growed up". One is still in school and until recently in an out-of-state school at that. The other works in a job that means he's usually working when 9-5 types like me are off, and vice versa. But I got to spend some time with both of them this weekend, which is always restorative in a lot of ways.

My eldest is 25 now, but was a rising senior in high school when my dad passed away. The loss affected him more deeply than I realized at the time. It didn't become apparent until I saw an essay he'd written for one of his classes during his senior year. The prompt for the essay was to write about a person of influence in the 20th century. And among the usual collection of JFK's and Martin Luther Kings and other civil, military and political leaders of great fame and importance there stood one lone university guidance counselor; my son's grandfather. My dad.

You must understand, this is not my academically-inclined son. At least not when it comes to formal education. This is the son that is the mirror image of his father. The incarnation of the Parents' Curse: "When you grow up I hope you have one just like you." Well the hex worked on me, and I can pick any point in his life, rewind 22 years from there and see myself.

But that's not to say he hasn't deviated from my path at various intersections. Which is something I'm eternally grateful for every day of my life. And the latest divergence is one I discovered when he was here for Father's Day. He was standing on the patio, and through the sliding door I could see "something" on the inside of his left forearm. I've never been painted or perforated. But that's a choice I make for myself, and for my own reasons. Still I was curious as to what my firstborn might have thought important enough to have stenciled on his arm more or less permanently. And then I got close enough to see the one-inch letters rendered in some, as of now, indeterminant color. My dad's initials, "J.E.B.".

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This came as one of those Fw:Fw:Fw: emails we all get when somebody tells a joke that somebody thought was great and sends it to everybody they know in this world. Some of them are actually amusing. I thought this one was, YMMV.

At one point during a game, the coach called one of his 9-year-old baseball players aside and asked, 'Do you understand what cooperation is? What a team is?'
The little boy nodded in the affirmative.
'Do you understand that what matters is whether we win or lose together as a team?'
The little boy nodded yes.
'So,' the coach continued, 'I'm sure you know, when an out is called, you shouldn't argue, curse, attack the umpire, or call him a pecker-head. Do you understand all that?'
The little boy nodded again.
He continued, 'And when I take you out of the game so another boy gets a chance to play, it's not good sportsmanship to call your coach 'a dumb ass' is it?'
Again, the little boy nodded.
'Good,' said the coach. 'Now go over there and explain all that to your grandmother.'

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From the "PS Desk". Yesterday's rant-on-Washington garnered a couple of comments about our esteemed Commander in Chief. While I agree with the assessments of "W" at least 100%, I must -- for accuracy's sake -- clarify that the post was actually about his would-be replacement John McCain. Not that you can tell much of a difference between them -- hence the amalgam "McBush". I thought "McCheney" was actually more accurate, but field testing proved that even though accurate, the term confuses people.Stumble This!