Rolling Money Pit Update.

Note: Not actual family vehicle. Too new, for starters.

My father is technically a "Baby Boomer," but was born in rural northern Michigan to parents who had struggled through the Depression. None of that hippie crap for him.

What happened is that he acquired scrounging skills necessary to survive in a part of the country that hasn't seen a boom since logging was a thing.

Also, my wife thinks Dad's a Jedi with persuasive powers beyond those of normal mortals.

The short of it is, I will be able to get the 5000 pound paperweight's transmission replaced for $1100, parts and labor included.

"Those labor costs are too high. You want to charge less."

Family and good neighbors--now more than ever, we need each other. And I thank God for having both.

The difference between observing our lives and living them.

Hilary puts it beautifully in this essay. Read it all.

I have the same problem, taking pictures of my kids' activities instead of merely watching them. Sure, they're great keepsakes. But was I fully there? A good question.

This is probably why we are so irritated with tourists who take pictures of everything in sight. We instinctively know there is something wrong with it. I stopped taking pictures several times in Florence because I realised I was trying harder to save Florence for later than I was trying to actually be there at the time.

It is only in the here and now that life can actually be lived. When you are thinking about doing an act of charity or committing a sin, you aren't actually doing it. The act itself is the meritorious or culpable thing, not the contemplation of it. Humans in the West have been retreating from The Real for a long time. The reason Twitting is so popular is that it offers us a new way of doing what we have been doing for decades, pulling back and becoming observers rather than participants.

If my daughters and sons can display the same kind of heroic dignity in difficult circumstances that Luke Russert did...

...then my life will have been a success.

I know a lot more about Tim Russert now from having watched his son, and all of it good.

Learned an interesting lesson on Saturday.

Madeleine and Trip have been attending a dance class for the past year. Maddie's been on the ballet track and I think D3 was inspired by the Nicholas Brothers to take tap dancing lessons.

The inspiration is understandable:



Cab Calloway and the Nicholas Brothers in Stormy Weather.

Well, he's not quite to that level yet. But he was happy to take the class (after a few weeks) and is now determined to continue.

Here comes the lesson. I wanted the kids to know Dad was supporting them, so I bellowed out "All right, Maddie!" and "Way to go, Dale!" for their respective performances. Maddie says she thought she might have heard me. She was a graceful as an angel during her performance.

Unfortunately, Dale heard me loud and clear and gave a puzzled reply, his hands shading his eyes:

"Where are you?"

Fortunately, he went ahead with a fine performance, and I sank into my seat.

I for one have welcomed our new infant overlords.

Fact-finding mission from the European Union discovers a subjugated America.

Our sparkler.

Dinner was finished, and the kids went outside to play in the backyard. Rachel was the last to leave. She walked out on the deck, then paused and said "Oh."

It's an all purpose word for her--declaration, question, understanding, discovery. This time, discovery. She'd found the ready-to-seed dandelion left by her older brother at the door.

As I watched her through the screen door, she breathed on the dandelion, scattering some of the fluff into the air. A delighted giggle, and a pause as she watched the fluff go skyward. Another puff, more dandelion seeds scatter, and more giggles. Eventually, the seeds are gone and she moves on to something else.

But a quiet, magical moment is etched in my memory. I'm so happy and honored she is a part of my life.

Something more positive.

Sunday was a red letter day. D3 and I attended a father-son breakfast sponsored by one of the parishes in our K of C cluster. Every year, they have prizes and every boy walks out with something. This is our second year going, and we had the pleasure of sitting with the same group of guys from last year: Frank, Ronald and respective sons.

You have to buy raffle tickets to win the big prizes, which are the bikes.

Frank's ten year old son Josh has some kind of energy field around him which bends probability in his favor. For the previous four years, he's won a bike. A good kid. Ron's is a nice guy too, but older--about 18 or so.

Anyway, the drawings start and I'm gazing intently at my 18 tickets. Time passes, prizes are doled. Josh gets a 3D kite, a $20 gift card to ToysRUs, and a basketball. Nada at our end, but Dale's holding up well.

Josh walks over and gives Dale the basketball, which Dale thanks him for. Like I said, Josh is a good kid.

The bikes vanish, one by one.

"Now we'll have another drawing for a bike." He reads the numbers. I blink.

Yep--Dale wins a bike! He barely blinks as he gazes at the sleek blue mountain bike. One problem, though no one is complaining: Dale won't be able to ride it for another four years, at least.

So be it--he's delighted.

The drawings continue and Josh wins another couple of things, but his bike streak is broken--to the open relief of Frank.

Near the end, another father walks up and whispers--"Do you think your son would be willing to make a trade?" An eleven year old won a much smaller bike (16 inch wheels) which he isn't going to be able to do much with. "Bring it over and I'll ask," I say.

It's nice--a BMX-like Magna, red and mean looking. And much more likely to be a steed within the next couple of years.

"Dale, would you like to trade yours for this one?"

No hesitation--a dazed nod of delight. A big smile and thanks from the 11 year old. Everybody goes home happy.

Heather has to pick the bike up with the minivan, though, but she's almost as happy as I am.

Wars and rumors of wars.

The Republic of Georgia warns that it is teetering on the brink of war with Russia.

Oh, and soft plastics used for kids' toys mimic estrogen, with all that entails for young children who handle them. A rare thumbs up to the Governator for putting the kibosh on this latest parental nightmare.

Letting your kids win?

My post over here at Catholic Dads.

Good food for thought from the commenters. Feel free to comment there or here.

BTW, I will be scarcer than a passenger pigeon for the rest of the week. Best to you and yours.