Flight of the Humble He

Look ma, no hands!

After three weather aborts, the weather was picture-perfect enough for my 2008 Christmas present (procrastinate? moi?) WWII-era fighter plane ride.
Dad came out to watch the fruit of his depleted bank account, while Ryan and Erin did their best to drive their mother nuts while I danced around the western Virginia sky at about 4500 feet. After a bit of orientation, the pilot even let me climb and bank and do some slow 360-turns, then treated me to a couple barrel rolls.

What a barrel is doing at 4500 feet, I'll never know.

Note the clouds off in the distance...the pilot said they weren't around all that often, so he swooped and swayed the aircraft through them, dancing a slow waltz with the wings. Just heavenly.
After about an hour in the air, we found Erin Firma.

Ainsley took the kids to spend four days at the barn while Dad took me home -- I had a million and four things to do around the house, and I got to ... four. But at least I'm chopping away at the list.

Dangreen

1. You have been diagnosed with a paronychia.

2. A paronychia is an infection in the skin on the side of a fingernail.

3. The tissue next to the nail is usually warm, red (or purple and green), swollen, painful, and may contain pus.

4. Treatment usually involves making a small cut (incision) in the skin next to the nail to drain the pus.

5. In your case, however, we'll have to force the pus out by pressing on your five-day sore finger in the most painful manner possible. Think about trying to squeeze a potato out your nostril by pushing your ears together. It'll be a bit like that, only with electrical shooting pains ripping out your fingers and down your arms like the Emperor at the end of "Return of the Jedi".

6. To add insult to your obvious injury, since you're in the Air Force and wasted our precious time in this here Army Emergency Room, we'll wrap your gauze in the pinkest bandage we can find.

7. Have a nice day. Here's 20 red pills that might help keep the swelling down.

8. In the meantime, keep the dressing on your index finger for at least a dauy even if yuour thyping suyffers in thje process.

Semper Fife

Ainsley invited the entire fam to a B&B-worthy spread of eggs, soy fa-con and snotsages

ew. trying to combine not and sausages there. Poor choice.

fruit salad, biscuits, coffee, tea, juice, and some yummy pecan maple pillsbury breadlets that made one lick one's fingers and anyone else's that happened to be close by.

We were going to try and see the Udvar Hazy Museum, but decided that everyone was a bit spent from traversing all over Northern Virginia the last 3-5 days, so we just relaxed at our house, watched our Wedding Video for the two who hadn't been able to come, then went down the street to feed Occoquan geese. Rick & Jeanie said their goodbyes, missing out on the evening's festivities -- a picnic dinner by the Iwo Jima Memorial to watch the "Commander's Own" Marine Band and Silent Drill Team (only held on Tuesdays).

Ryan and Erin seemed to appreciate the music (particularly the drums) but we were a bit too far away for them to appreciate the squad that came out and did the drill with their rifles. We'll just have to scope out better/earlier seats next time.

We said our goodbyes at the top of the long hill where we'd parked, with congrats all around for a successful, albeit down-a-man, reunion. We were bushed.

So thank god we have kids. Ryan and Erin kept us entertained with their back-and-forth, as Ryan encouraged his little sister to say every single word he could think of or that came into view. "Can you say 'cloud'?" "Cowd!" "Good job! Can you say...'building'?" "Bing." "Close! Can you say... 'Red Winged Black Bird?' "........." "Can you say 'Red'?" "Rad." "Wing?" "weeeng." "Black?" "Blak." "Bird?" "Bode." "GOOD JOB YOU DID IT!"

Also learned that Ainsley was teaching him about syllables. How many syllables in "Ryan", "elephant," etc. He seemed to be getting it, and his head didn't explode when I asked him how many syllables in "syllables."

Did I mention Uncle George thought he was 7?

Seeing Things

Up bright and early, banana/PB wraps in hand, to pick up everyone at the hotel to convoy up to DC for a guided tour of the Pentagon. It was shorter than I'd hoped, as we didn't get anywhere near my office, but I guess reg'lar folk don't need to be hanging out with the 4-stars. Still, the folks seemed to enjoy the trivia and history of the building. The kids did relatively well, especially once Mommy busted out the lollipops.

We then took a gander over at the Pentagon 9/11 Memorial, a simple, serene park along the side of the building that got hit, before agreeing on a light Mexican lunch that made us all go "Ba-ja."

Ainsley took the kids home to perhaps nap, while the rest of us got past the bad directions from the Metro employee to eventually find the Newseum, the new media-centric six-floor glass-enclosed museum in some prime real estate on Pennsylvania Avenue between the White House and Capitol. Interesting history of the US media, TV, journalists, newspapers. The mangled radio tower from the World Trade Center sits on one side, while hundreds of video screens of all sizes tell different stories (or today's news). Finished off with a "4-D" movie, basically your standard (but cool) 3-D movie with shaking seats and wind effects. PG-13, what with the 'rats' crawling around your legs.

Little did we know that two different Metro trains were crashing into each other in the northeast part of town, our Blue Line train took us back to our cars so we could go pick up the refreshed lot to hit my favorite jaunt, the Japanese Steak House, where the chef didn't just make a volcano, but an inverted one, too, sticking on top of it, to make it look like a train! How cool! Erin, don't you think?
Okay, she didn't like the fire exploding in her face. But still.
And Ryan was an untraumatized trooper trying to catch pieces of shrimp in his mouth while the guy shot it off his spatula, hitting him smack in the eyeball the first three times. Better than Aunt Patty, whose misplaced maw forced a rebound into her glass of water.

Uncle Pancakes

This is my child.

My wife let me sleep all the way until 7:33 for Father's Day, and made me my favorite breakfast. Toast. What a woman. So I felt right getting her the Happy Thank-You-For-Making-Me-A-Father 's Day flowers.

I spent the morning putting together some Father's Day/Retirement patio furniture together in my Dad's backyard (Ainsley's wonderful idea), necessary since A) he was going to be hosting a lot of people, B) he didn't need to spend the Golden Years breaking his butt on those plastic 4H club chairs and C) Ainsley demanded it. It only took me 3 hours to put everything together, so only about 245% longer than I'd expected!

Back in time to greet the extendofamily to head over to the local single-A baseball stadium for some cheap and simple entertainment. Only when we got there, we learned that they were just finishing up the 1st game of a doubleheader since there was a rainout the day before. So we watched the other team walk home the winning run (1-0!) and then had to stall for a half-hour while they recombed the baselines and rotated the air in the bases or whatever they did.
The second game was about as dull as the first, with the too-occasional hit not letting Ryan learn much about the game. He just lay down on Grandad's leg for a few innings with a hat over his head, sometimes popping up to munch on a pretzel or go say hit to the mascot "Uncle Slam", whom my relatives kept on referring to as Grand Slam. Must not have had a very good breakfast.
But at the end of the game (thankfully only 7 innings), the kids got to run around the bases, so Ryan and I got in line while I told him what to do (basically: follow everyone else). I was a little worried that he'd freeze once he got into the great expanse, but when it was our turn I let him down and he darted towards first...a little too far to the right of first, so someone had to guide him back to the base. "Go, Ryan, go!"
So he started running diagonally towards the pitcher's mound.
He was again pointed in the right direction, while I heard my family cackling in the stands.
He was so adorable, huge grin on his face, a leisurely hop and skip in his step almost, and he looked so little way over there in front of second base (he wanted to stick to the grass). It occurred to me that this was his first time doing this, but he seemed to be in the moment. He cut off the route way in front of third, and then hesitated about halfway home. Uncle Slam encouraging him along the way.
"Ryan! Touch the plate!" I'm pointing.
So he started looking for dishware in the infield. Because of course that's what a plate is to a 3-year old.
"No, Ryan, that!" Uncle Slam and I pointed. I was going to say "that Pentagon" but it's not really a Pentagon, more a rectangle with a hat, and I didn't want him to learn bad habits. A little girl crossed the plate. "Run to that thing that girl just stepped on!"
So he ran to the plate...and stopped.
Three kids crashed trying to avoid stepping on him, and I finally got him to run to me before Uncle Slam pulled him off his blue furry self.

Highlight of the week for me.

Spent the evening over at Dad's with BBQ leftovers and a couple pizzas, while Uncle George played ball with Ryan and Erin, careful not to drop his cigarette on any of them. We then watched the digital equivalent of old home slide shows (thanks, Tim!) and made fun of Grandma's -- their mother's -- pastel clothing and hairdos, while we all lamented the loss of our youthful bodies.

I must have only weighed like 35!

Family Fuud

Dad spent Friday with his twin siblings and Uncle George, taking a 2.5-hr sightseeing tour of DC in the top of a doubledecker bus (no hats, no sunscreen), but got back to Woodbridge in time for us to show them Hard Times Cafe, the local chili place that probably qualifies as our hangout. Only the Stlaskes got theirs with beans and the Californian got his with parmesan cheese instead of cheddar. So you can't bring these people anywhere.

Saturday I took the kids to run some errands while it rained on and off, before it stayed in the "off" long enough for us to hold the family reunion BBQ officially, courtesy of the Boivins' presence as well as another Gottrich Uncle, Rick and his wife Jeanie. Hadn't seen them since 2001. They haven't aged a flake.

Despite the fact that I seem to have lost the ability to successfully cook hamburgers (0-for-2 this season), there was still plenty of food and gifts for Dad, still dead chuffed that his family had come all this way to celebrate with him. We stuck some candles in Mrs. Boivin's bundt cake and sang Happy Birthday to the twins for good pile-it-on celebratory measure, before finally breaking the kids away from all the madness to let them* get some sleep.

*all the old people, I mean.

Out to Pasture

So Dad is slowly retiring.
First in spirit -- he stopped the daily drive into work the last Friday in May, but is using up some of his leave through the month of June.
Second in ceremony -- Wednesday his boss threw a lovely dinner for him and a coworker retiring together, after having joined the company at about the same time 19 years ago, and commenting that they were in fact the first two people to stick around long enough to retire from his company. Their loyalty was well rewarded. With crab cakes.
Third in blood -- I'd been working with my Dad's family since January or so to try and arrange coming out sometime in June to celebrate along with us. One of his brothers, Dennis, flew in from California, and his sister Pat with her husband George came down from Chicago to surprise him yesterday. Of course, when they made their reservations months ago, we didn't know it would be the day after his dinner, so what a great week, timing-wise. Haven't seen Dennis since 2006, and while I saw Pat & George earlier that year on a trip from Ohio, they've not met the kids, who were in rare ham-it-up form.
Unfortunately, all this family relations is hard on a three-year-old's cranium, as Ryan asked after his bath, "Can I go downstairs and say g'night to Grandad's kids?"

Buy me some pinot and caviar

Business has been good, it seems, in the Integrated Security and Threat Management field.
My dad had gotten Nationals baseball tickets from work before (see September 21, 2005 post), so it's pretty much what I was expecting again. Fair seats, but free, so who can complain?

Turns out the Company Seats are a in the primo club-level section 20 rows up from the field, with an inclusive $25 all-you-can-eat buffet available in the restaurant behind the seats, unless you just want to have your standard fare (dogs, beer, fries, nachos, hummus) delivered to your seat. This implies that the buffet was non-standard fare, and that implication is correct. Broiled angus brisket. Moroccan baked chicken with curry rice. Six kinds of cheeses along with four italian meats, fancy flatbreads, barbecue chicken, fried plantains in some sorta sauce, seafood paella, two kinds of sausages, and don't even get me started about the dessert table.
I commented that this was the reason why the stadium looks empty on TV half the time -- everyone's inside eating brownies.
The game was a bit of a snooze-fest, with sporadic rain turning to a deluge in the bottom of the 9th inning that ended up delaying the game over two hours, when the Nationals tied it up at 2 a piece...then lost in the 12th.
Or so I learned the next morning, as we were not any of the 37 people who stuck around past midnight.
Still, I've never been so pampered at a ball game, so now I'm trying to have my Dad re-think this whole 'retirement' deal. Until we at least find out what his company's Redskins seats look like.

In Memoriam

Today was the burial at Arlington Cemetery for my friend Lt Col Mark Stratton, killed in Afghanistan two weeks ago at the cowardly hands of a dumbass in a bomb-strapped car. He was about a month out from going to a dream job near his hometown, as the squadron commander of a Lackland AFB unit training basic military trainees. Who better to lead new recruits into the service than someone who had just spent a year as part of a Provincial Reconstruction Team, in the fight, doing good, making a difference? He left behind an amazing woman (whom I'd never met) and three kids, who, tragically, could not see fit to let go of the casket at the end of the ceremony. It made your heart thump in your throat, seeing that.

Sunday was a memorial service, attended by several hundred friends, family, and work colleagues (in uniform), as well as the USAF Chief of Staff to present a Bronze Star, Purple Heart, and two other medals for his service. After a coworker and a college roommate said some words, Mark's wife Jennifer took the mike, with a courageous, touching, funny, and inspiring speech.
Monday was a wake at a neighbor's house, with people out on the driveway on a warm night telling stories, toasting with scotch, debating the merits of deer chili, etc. Saw some friends I hadn't seen in years, from Colorado and Florida, good to see them, crappy reason why.

And today, the full honors. Caisson pulled by horses, twenty-piece AF band playing solemn music, a rifle salute and bugler playing taps from a row of headstones fifty feet up the hill. We heard the crack of two more salutes, for two other burials around the same time... it's my second funeral in as many years, and these honor guardsmen deal with a dozen a day.
Here's hoping they soon stop putting the young into this sacred ground.

I am a Daddy

It's official. No, no, not biologically. I mean, I already knew that. I've got that paperwork here somewhere and the IRS is savvy.

I just mean that we have crossed the final "da-da" threshold, and Erin has found her eeee. Like Ryan still does, she sometimes calls me "Mommy" first, then realizes she's not getting anywhere and switches to "Da-dee?"

We've also determined that we should keep her away from nuns or social workers if she ever sees a frog, since when she says it it sounds like a different four-letter word beginning with f.

Not to be outdone in the cute department, the other night Ryan was flirting up a storm with a waitress at Uno's. Winkin' at her....smiling....eating everything on his plate....being bold enough to even say "I think you're cute!"
However, he might have blown any chance at a future prom date later in the evening; I had to pop next door to buy something so Ryan, Erin, and Ainsley hung around out front, but soon went back inside.

Waitress: "Did you come back to see me??"
Ryan (loud and proud): "Nope, I gotta go poop in the potty!"

D-Day

Yes, really.

I am seriously starting to hate that pink syringe at the Vet's.

For the second time in less than six weeks, we had to put down one of our dogs. Dover was suffering immensely from rapid onset kidney failure. He was around 10 years old.

We got him in Colorado Springs in 2002; Ainsley offered to anonymously foster him at our place while his owner was admitted to a home for abused spouses, but the lady's case was so severe that they let her stay more than the usual 8 weeks ... by the time she got out, she'd decided that whoever was fostering Dover had had him longer than she had, so she asked Ainsley to check with the owners to see if they wanted to adopt him. Griffin and Bailey said yes. Besides, his color matched.

Dover was the 'safe' dog. Loud when he wanted to be, susceptible to bee stings that made him swell up and look like Winnie the Pooh, but he didn't need the electric fence (though he was the first to find a hole in the real one) and would have been happy his whole life just lying down next to someone or another dog.

He was in so much distress it was again morbidly easy to make the decision, but it was so different from Bailey. With her, we knew her time was coming, knew the meds weren't working, and planned it out for a particular day, knowing this was her last time walking down the back steps, this was the last time she'd be in our back yard, etc. For Dover, I went to work stupid and happy and by 3:30 got a call from the Vet saying words like "chronic" and "severe" and "walking on the edge".
Hell, is there ever a good time?

So now it seems silly about Dad coming over to help "walk dog." And Griffin seems to be consciously acting on his best behavior, folding his napkin after dinner, sticking out a paw when I open the door to let him out and going, "No, no, after you." and refusing to get anywhere near a car. "No, no, I'm good. In fact, can I mow the lawn for you?"

G'night, Dover Doodles. Thanks for hanging with us for a bit.