Photo credit: Denise Chan / flickr.com

If you’re a new parent, like I once was, you’re likely to be asked to pronounce words that were never intended for everyday conversation. No, I’m not talking about variations on “poop”; I mean dinosaur names.

Every academic specialization has its quirky jargon: words only the specialists are supposed to know. Dinosaur names are no different. They clearly originated as a kind of naturalist argot of a bygone era. On my low days, I sometimes wondered if those naturalists were just trying to show off their superior classical language skills.

Imagine! You find a dinosaur that looks a bit like a crocodile. What do you call it? Suchomimus. Sure, because everybody calls a crocodile a “suchus.” I admit, I can say that one (now), but can you? (Sook-oh-MY-mus) Or say you find a dino skull with a huge hollow tube on top. What name comes to mind? Parasaurolophus, what else? Never mind that the average word in English these days is two syllables. This one has six, and no one seems to agree on where to put the emPHAsis. (Para-soar-OHL-ih-fuss, or Para-soar-uh-LOW-fiss) Good luck.

To make matters worse, not every kid’s book gives pronunciation guidance on the names. Some, no doubt, assume everybody has it down by now. Well, we don’t. But publishers can’t always be bothered.

So here’s the problem, in a nutshell. There’s a good chance you’ll be asked to pronounce one of these behemoths without any help. What could be worse? Your child stares at you, wide-eyed, innocent and trusting. Your spouse listens in from the other room. What will you do? Fudge it? You could try; but if your child is like mine was, the moment they see “Dinosaur Train,” your credibility is shot.

Here are my survival tips.

1. Study some Greek. Since most of these words are based on Greek words, you’ll be saved some embarrassment. For instance, “deinos” means “terrible,” and “nychus” means “claw.” In Greek, the “ch” is pronounced like a hard “k.” This salvages the second half of “deinonychus” for you, and gives you a clue as to the word’s meaning.

2. Forget your Greek. Once you’ve brushed up on your Greek, selectively forget your knowledge of Greek pronunciation, especially of vowels. In Greek, “ei” is pronounced like the “ei” in eight. Also, in Greek, the emphasis would fall on the second to last syllable. But after years of saying “Dei-no-NIGH-kuss” we got a book that insisted on Die-NON-ih-kuss.

3. Ignore common sense. Which brings us to tip #3: For best results, place the emphasis in the most unnatural place imaginable. No right-thinking person would see deinonychus and assume the emphasis should fall on that measly, despicable “o” in the middle. But that’s apparently where it falls. So forget your instincts. These are dinosaur names. They’re supposed to be terrible.

Now that you have these tips, see how you make out with the following gems of pseudo-Greek contrivance:

Diplodocus      (dih-PLOD-ih-kuss) NOT dih-plo-DO-kuss

Chasmosaurus (kaz-muh-SAUR-us) NOT chaz-mo (think “chaos”)

Giganotosaurus (Jig-uh-note-uh-SAUR-us) NOT Jie-gan-tuh-SAUR-us, because that would have been too easy.

Pachycephalosaurus (pack-ee-sef-uh-lo-SAUR-us, because the “ch” imitates the Greek “k,” while the “c” in the middle imitates what English, not Greek, would do)

Ankylosaurus (an-KIE-luh-SAUR-us) NOT AN-kee-luh-SAUR-us. The Greek “y” is often pronounced as the “y” in “by.” Except when it isn’t, as in, I think, the following one:

Hypsilophodon           (Hip-sill-OFF-uh-don)

I guessed on that last one: it came from a “Visual Encyclopedia of Dinosaurs” we bought my son, and the editors chose to give no pronunciation guidance. On the same page one finds the word “Ornithischian.” (Deep breaths. You can do this.)

4. Know your dates. There is one more rule. Try to develop a sense of how recently a particular dinosaur was discovered. You’ll need this, because more recent species are named after their discoverers or, in some instance, the places where they were discovered. They have to be pronounced as though they were surnames or place-names with “saurus” or some such thing attached to them. Oh, and don’t forget that lots of dinosaurs are being found in China now.

So here are a few examples of that sort:

Lambeosaurus (Lam-uh-SAUR-us, named after somebody named Lambe, so it’s NOT lam-be-uh-SAUR-us)

Efraasia (I have no idea. It’s named after E. Fraas. Likely that would be ee-FRAHZ-ya)

Beipiaosaurus (from the Chinese city “Beipiao,” hence I’m guessing: bay-pyow-SAUR-us)

Xuanhanosaurus (your guess is good as mine; let’s say shooan-AHN-uh-SAUR-us)

Now you’re as ready as you will be. You’re sure to fail, but keep trying. And if your child gets to a point where she can rattle off those names better than you (as mine did), take your lumps humbly. It’s training for all the technology they’re going to understand before you do.

Giving Tuesday began with a simple thought: we designate Thanksgiving as a day for gratitude and Black Friday and Cyber Monday as two days for getting deals. Wouldn’t it be great to have a day for giving back? As a Giving Tuesday partner, World Vision, is challenging Americans to take part in this new national movement on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving by showing they can give as good as they get.

To help those affected by Superstorm Sandy during the week of November 26th, any gift of food, clothing or school supplies for children in the U.S. given through World Vision’s Gift Catalog (www.worldvisiongifts.org) will be designated for the Christian humanitarian agency’s Sandy relief efforts.  World Vision relief teams have been distributing much-needed supplies in some of the most vulnerable communities hit by this devastating storm on the East Coast.

“Giving Tuesday is intended to open the holiday season on a philanthropic note and put heart back into the holidays.” says Sarah Renusch, World Vision’s Gift Catalog Director. “World Vision is encouraging Americans to dedicate this day to getting back to the true meaning of the holidays. It is about community not commercialism, giving not receiving.”

There are many ways to participate in Giving Tuesday:

• Volunteer Virtually: Not everyone is able to take off work to physically volunteer, but you can volunteer virtually by donating food kits online through World Vision. Each ‘kit’ contains enough food to feed a family of five for one day ($16 per kit). During the week of Giving Tuesday (November 26 – December 2nd) food kits, clothing and school supplies in the U.S. given through World Vision’s Gift Catalog will be donated to those in need impacted by Superstorm Sandy.
• Give a Meaningful Gift: Share the spirit of Giving Tuesday by giving a gift that can change a life. World Vision’s Gift Catalog has hundreds of gifts such as goats, fresh water wells, and life- saving medicines that can be given in the name of a family member, teacher, co-worker or child and help one of more than 825,000 people around the world who benefit from gift catalog items. Gifts range in price from $16 to $39,000, and there are more than 250 items online to choose from. After purchasing a Gift Catalog item, the person whose name the gift was given in, can receive a special card describing the gift and its impact.
• Teach Generosity: Giving Tuesday is a great opportunity for parents, grandparents, and teachers to help children understand the importance of generosity and giving to others. World Vision’s Gift Catalog can be a helpful educational tool. The Pendleton family, of Colorado, adopted their son from Kazakhstan. When he saw the Mongolian Ger in the catalog, he immediately wanted to buy one for people in his homeland. “I didn’t know how to explain to a 10-year-old that $1,862 is a lot of money, so I didn’t,” said mom Amy. “And sure enough, he raised it all!”

“Americans have a glorious tradition of philanthropy,” says Renusch. “It’s my hope Giving Tuesday will become a new, sustainable American tradition that we will celebrate every year.”

Over the summer, I was given a challenge by the folks at Dove Men + Care: write about what it means for a man to be comfortable in his own skin.  I accepted the challenge, sure, but I didn’t know what in the world to do with it.  I don’t even think of myself as comfortable in my own skin.

Later this summer, I had the privilege of having “the talk” with my 10-year-old son.  He was old enough, and with my wife due to deliver our fifth child, the timing was right for explaining the birds and the bees.  We had a good time together and enjoyed a wide-ranging conversation.  The evening actually went very smoothly.  At one point, though, as we were talking about the awkward teenage years that lie ahead for him, he asked me a question that made me stop to think: When did I become comfortable telling girls about my feelings?  That’s not a question I had anticipated.  The answer was, “I didn’t.”

As a boy with three sisters, my son has already realized that there are some differences in the ways girls and boys relate to each other.  In a neighborhood where most of the kids his age are also girls, he’s gotten to experience a fair share of drama and giggling, and of course a couple of girls, who at this age are naturally a bit further along in the development cycle, have already had “crushes” on him.   He’s managed just fine through all of this, but he’s already recognized that there are challenges in communicating with the opposite sex.

The path to finding comfort with who I am was not a short one.  In some ways, I still haven’t arrived.  Yet, I have made progress here.  Looking back, I can clearly see some of the aspects of my own journey to comfort.

I am loved.

My parents loved me, and they demonstrated that in many ways, and I knew and accepted it.  However, it was my wife who helped me truly understand what it meant to be loved.  It was she with whom I could safely be emotionally vulnerable.  Her love for me allowed me to drop my facade and be genuine.  In so doing, I was able to get to know myself in ways that were previously unavailable to me because I had kept my guard up.  Being in a genuinely loving relationship was (and is) a key part of finding comfort with who I am.

I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

I was raised in a God-fearing home and taught from an early age that God had made me who I was.  The idea is expressed well in the Bible in Psalm 139, which is a prayer that speaks of how well God knows each of us individually.  The key verse is Psalm 139:14,

Who I am, every part of me, was wonderfully and marvelously made by God.  Knowing that is not a challenge; accepting it, on the other hand, is not so easy.  As my children have come along, though, I have experienced in my own small way the wonder of observing God’s creation, and it’s easy for me to look at them and say, “Marvelous are Your works, and that my soul knows very well.”  The awe of my children’s creation gives me pause and forces me to reckon with my own existence.  As a father, I can step back and recognize that my own wonder and pride at who my children are is just a sample of how God must feel about His creation — including me.  Coming to terms with that has had an incredible impact on how comfortable I am in my own skin.

I am self-determined.

A number of people and experiences during my childhood instilled in me the notion that I could be anything I wanted to be, but it was my career that made that concept real to me and impacted how I see myself.  Starting with college and continuing through a number of different career paths, I’ve recognized that at the end of the day, I alone am able to determine whether or not I will be successful.  I am the only one who can choose my attitude and how I will respond to the challenges each day brings.  Putting this into practice forces you to come to grips with how you feel about yourself.  After all, if you question your own value, you will doubt your ability to achieve your goals.  You will be your own biggest obstacle.  I embraced the concept that I was responsible for determining my own success, and as a result I became significantly more comfortable in my own skin.

This challenge has proven to be a useful thing for me.  As I mentioned early on, I don’t tend to think of myself as comfortable in my own skin — part of that teenage uncertainty that has never been fully expelled, I guess.  The process of thinking about my life, though, and especially the thought-provoking question from my son, have helped me to realize that I actually am comfortable in my own skin.  That may be the key: to find comfort, you must seek it.  I searched through my life for points where my own comfort was increased, discovered more than I expected, and in so doing became even more accepting of who I am.

Her situation was intriguing given that so many parents worry that their kids can support themselves, even after college, let alone finishing up high school without supervision. I had to know more so I invited her for coffee, expressing my sincere interest in her story. Following are excerpts, in her own words and vernacular, from my interview with Brittney. Please note that this interview rambles:

Bruce: I still have a hard time believing that your parents would allow you, at 18, to come up to a partying ski resort on your own to finish your senior year of high school!

Brittney: They have trust in me and I want to do something with my life and prove to them that I can make it on my own without needing support, really. And, make something of myself without doing the normal college away thing.

Bruce:  Okay, but how did it all happen and what are your plans?

Brittney: I was doing homeschooling because of my acting and modeling. I did musical theatre for 11 years. Shows such as “Annie,” “The Wizard of Oz,”  “Grease,” and “Les Mis.”

Bruce: Did you like acting?

Brittney: I loved acting, so I started going to L.A. more. I was 15 when I started doing that. My mom took me. I did a lot of Independent and Short films.

L.A disillusioned me. It was so materialistic and hard to find someone that wanted to be your friend. I also didn’t like how you had to be skinny – you had to be super super tiny. I like to eat and it shot my self-esteem.

Bruce: So, after you left L.A., how did you end up here and what are your plans?

Brittney: My plans are to progress in snowboarding – competitions to get money to pay for rent and whatnot and to get sponsors. I want to get on the media side (of snowboarding). Going to get my Associates degree in web design.

Bruce: What did you think of what I said, on the chairlift, about the girls and boys who are transient workers at ski resorts?

Brittney: It’s completely true. All boys who are snowboarders are stoners or alcoholics, especially in a mountain town and they just think they are, like, the cat’s pajamas.  So, they don’t necessarily go for the girlfriend – they just want to fool around. Many of the girls up here don’t have a lot of respect themselves so they just go with the hot snowboarder dudes and get dis-respected and it’s like fine or normal to them.  Because the girls think it’s normal if you just hook up with some dude ‘cause MTV and all those TV shows are just about having sex and getting drunk.  And it’s just trashy.

Bruce: How about you?

Brittney: I’ve gone through that path before of drinking and, like, and meeting guys and hooking up and whatever, but I’ve matured. I want others to respect me and not think of me as a slut ‘cause I want to be respected as an adult ‘cause I want to do things with my life.  I want to be taken seriously.

Bruce: Do you believe in God?

Brittney:  My friend said I’d be “rocked by God.” And, so, I went to his church to make him happy. I know I have lots of “evil” inside just because I’ve gone through a lot of mental disabilities and depression and I’ve been on lots of medications for that – I was like “clinically insane” – and, so, I never wanted to believe in God because if a God was so mighty and powerful why would he give me those problems.

That night I had the worst nightmare of my life. I was staying with my friend and I fell asleep in bed with him and I dreamed that beetles and centipedes were coming to get me.  And, like, umh, he said I was moving around like crazy and it seemed like I was possessed in my sleep.  I was bawling and he couldn’t sleep ‘cause he was so worried about me.  He tried waking me up and he couldn’t.  I was sitting there and freaking out.  He put his hand on me and then I was completely fine.  He took his hand off me and I was bawling again. I researched my dream and what it meant.  Bugs in your dreams mean you’re having complications in your life.  Beetles and centipedes means that your inner consciousness, the devil and angel on your shoulder, are battling each other, like your soul, your brain, continue down the bad path or go and follow God, like you know.

So, to me, it was like heaven and hell was battling inside of me. It was weird.

Right now, I believe fully in God and bring my bible everywhere I go with me.

Bruce: You said there was much more to your story than I got from our short first meeting. What were you talking about?

Brittney: The showbiz and like my depression and how it affect myself in everything I do, like my confidence and I have no self-esteem. It’s just hard for me to go up and walk up to people and be their friend as I’m afraid of being judged. I’m just very negative on myself in everything I do. The chemical imbalance inside my head forces me to not be happy.

Bruce: Have you found any differences between the boys and girls and their commitment to working and supporting themselves?

Brittney: Boys don’t try hard enough for jobs; they dress normally (not good), don’t ask for the managers…don’t follow up – I dress up, I ask for the manager; I let them know I will benefit their work. I talk what they want to hear – brown-nosing in a sort of way. In the Bible it says, if you work, you eat. If you work as hard as you can, you will eat.  If you work, you eat, it’s just the way of living. You can’t half-ass something and expect to get something and then be bummed out if you can’t do it.

It is sometimes difficult for me to truly understand the younger generation. After this interview, I’m certain. I don’t understand them.

Dear Howie,

Howard Ludwig at 18

If my math is correct, it’s your first semester at college. You’re sweating out a philosophy course. And worried that flunking out will mean returning home and being handed a shovel for rest of your life.

I’m writing this letter from 17 years in the future. I don’t want to get too specific, but everything works out. You are happily married with two kids, a modest home and an aging minivan. And that fear of returning to the family landscaping business with your tail between your legs still drives you.

About now, you are also contemplating pledging a fraternity. You won’t regret it. Those anti-fraternity folks who claim, “they don’t need to pay for their friends” – they don’t know what they are talking about. Some of the guys you meet through the fraternity will be standing beside you in tuxedos on your wedding day.

You’ll make other lifelong friends in college too. And your high school buddies are still hanging around. In fact, those are some of the first guys you call with news that your children have been born.

Having kids completely changes your life. I know people say that all the time. But it particularly holds true for you. Just go with it. This is another one of those things you won’t regret.

You are probably curious about the mother of these looming children. I won’t tell you her name. This is largely because you learn important lessons from the women you attempt to woo along the way. As a clue, I’ll say that often it’s the people closest too you that are the most difficult to see.

Speaking of which, take a look in the mirror. That’s about as good as it gets pal. It’s not like you are grossly obese at age 35. In fact, you’re in decent shape for your age. But if you are holding out hope for a ripped stomach and buff arms, it’s simply not going to happen.

If memory serves, you’re scheduled to have shoulder surgery soon. The good news is that the surgery works. The bad news is that it works so well you forget you have bad shoulders and attempt downhill skiing. Unless you’d like to have your “good” shoulder dislocated, stay away from anything marked Black Diamond.

I’d like to give you some stock tips and Super Bowl scores too, but that seems like cheating. I will say that e-mail and the Internet aren’t just passing fads. And if you think the price of gas at $1.87 per gallon is exorbitant, just wait.

I almost forgot but congrats on writing the front-page story for the college newspaper on your first try. Never mind that nasty letter to the editor, most freshmen don’t land on page 1 out of the gate. You might be on to something there. Keep it up.

Overall, I’d like to tell you not to worry about the future, but I realize that’s not really an option considering your personality. So go ahead and worry, just take solace knowing that everything works out. You are happy and healthy at age 35.

Keep up the good work.

Sincerely,

Howard A. Ludwig
November 2012

In recessionary times, money can’t help but be on most people’s minds and affect their lives, their kids, and in some 10% of American families, their employment.  How we deal with our finances is indeed a paramount subject and we all look at George Washington and other presidents that appear on our paper bills differently.  Personally, on this subject I prefer Benjamin Franklin.

One of my repeated mantras about parenting is that our children see everything we parents do.  So, how we handle money and how we speak about it, our children see and therefore we are modeling attitude and behavior that they are learning about.  It is our obligation to go a step further than modeling good fiscal habits and teach good fiscal behavior directly, starting early in our children’s lives.

I was blessed with parent’s who taught me about money, from an early age.  In fact, I don’t remember not being aware of money.  In no way, was it treated in an onerous way, but rather something our family was cautious, prudent, and smart about.  We were decidedly middle-class, as my dad was a hard-working, blue-collar worker, having never graduated from high school.

My earliest memory was a simple mathematics one in which I was always given the bill at a restaurant and entrusted with the task of checking the addition to be sure it was accurate.  On occasion, I did find an error in the total and my parents would let me point it out to the server.  In every case, the server would apologize profusely and exclaim admiration at my mathematics skill at such a tender young age.

So, I received not only praise from a stranger, but the lesson of saving money in an honest manner.  Plus, I earned respect from my parents.  These sorts of lessons were imbued in me to a degree that they became second nature.  All money I received from birthdays and other occasions were distributed between my savings account, of which I was given access to watch it grow very early, and a certain amount that I was allowed to spend on things I wanted for myself.

Thus I learned to save and spend wisely, from early childhood.  These lessons I imparted to my boys in a similar manner.  When they were still in their single digit years, we tried an interesting summer spending plan.  Both boys had, thankfully, become avid readers.  And, a favorite outing was to our local bookstore.  I would often buy them books on those outings.  At an age at which I felt they were old enough to begin to learn about money, savings, and patience, I allocated a “book allowance.”

It worked simply with each boy receiving a weekly book allowance of, let’s say (as I don’t remember the exact number) $10 a week.  They could save it for couple/three weeks and buy, for example, a $25.95 book, after 3 weeks, or buy a book under $10 each week.  They had to learn to factor in the cost of tax as well.  It became such an interesting summer for them.

Will, my older son, had more patience since he had three more years on his younger brother, and on one occasion he wanted a particular book that cost nearly $40.  He waited four weeks for that book while his less patient brother David bought a book each week with his $10, rather than save for a more expensive book.

But, on that fourth week, Will proudly took that $35.95 big hardcover book and his $40 to the checkout counter and bought that book he’d waited nearly a month for while his younger brother, David, looked on in awe.  It was an invaluable lesson for both of them.

These examples are just some of the many kinds of lessons parents can use to teach their children the value of money and the value of savings.  Now that my boys are 14 and 17, we’ve established a monthly allowance that is based on an annual clothes allotment and a monthly chores schedule.  They are each responsible for doing certain daily chores and get paid at the end of each month, for doing these chores, or not, and get 1/12th of their annual clothes allotment each month as well.  They then have to budget each month this money for clothes, spending, entertainment, etc.  We pay separately for any family outings.

It’s been quite entertaining to observe their behavior as some months, one of the boys will run out of money early in the month and be limited on what they can or can’t do for the rest of the month.  And, the beauty of it is we’re very sympathetic while whichever boy is financially challenged that month can’t point a finger at us or blame us.  Consequently, they’re learning how to budget and suffering the consequences of a foolhardy or impulsive purchase.
Money, money, money…makes the world go round.

• 

  Photo credit: Daniel Mayer

  Austin, TX – This heart of Texas city is known for its neighborhood spirit. The grassroots feeling of Austin makes residents proud and means every family will find a place where they belong. From the peacocks in Mayfield Park to the watering holes at Barton Springs, the kids will never be bored.

• 

  Columbus, OH – Columbus is an affordable city with Midwestern values and some of the top public schools in the nation, offering opportunities for all children. This city abounds with themed play parks both indoor and outdoor, and boasts an Audubon designated park, Pickerington Ponds, where you can hike, bike and explore 260 species of birds!

• 

  Photo credit: fcn80

  Dallas, TX – Children living in Dallas have endless attractions and learning experiences in their own city – from zoos to parks to children’s theater. Sportier family members will enjoy cheering on the city’s many top sports teams including the Cowboys and the Rangers!

• 

  Photo credit: refractor

  Denver, CO - Denver has the largest public parks system of any U.S. city – perfect for active and outdoorsy families. One of the fittest cities in the nation, Denver is big on sports so get ready to cheer, go Broncos!

• 

  Photo credit: Shannon Ramos

  Omaha, NE – Outstanding public schools, a consistently low crime rate, and a lower cost of living make Omaha a great city, especially for parents valuing education. With many museums and performing arts, the Old Market historic neighborhood and the Heartland of America Park, Omaha will keep your kids engaged.

• 

  Photo credit: public domain

  Phoenix, AZ – While Phoenix may have a reputation for attracting retirees, the warm weather is also perfect for kids, with attractions like the Phoenix Zoo, the Children’s Museum and a multitude of outdoor activities, including hiking and biking trails through the Sonoran desert.

• 

  Photo credit: Jami Dwyer

  Portland, OR – With a low crime rate and high graduation rate, the statistics are in Portland’s favor for families. This Oregon city is also known to be a haven for green living. Portland is a great combination of culture and the arts with beautiful scenery from the mountains to the coasts of Oregon.

• 

  Photo credit: Whoismanu

  San Diego, CA - Families with children are never bored in San Diego! From beaches to family-friendly attractions downtown, there’s plenty to keep the kids busy. A major tourist destination with fantastic weather year-round, San Diego also boasts many interesting theme parks, zoos and aquariums that will capture kids’ imaginations.

• 

  Photo credit: Team San Jose

  San Jose, CA - Parents with kids will appreciate the convenience of living in San Jose, known for its public transportation and cultural attractions. From the largest outdoor Monopoly board to the Children’s Discovery Museum and Happy Hollow Park, there is plenty of fun (and learning) to be found in the tech hub.

• 

  Photo credit: Daniel Schwen

  Seattle, WA - A high graduation rate and reputation for academic excellence, Seattle is a great place to settle down with children of all ages. Surrounded by the beauty of the Puget Sound and the Olympic mountains there is plenty to explore in this science and technology center.

Top 10 List Methodology

Rent.com developed this list in 2012. Metropolitan markets were ranked based on availability of rental inventory, cost of living, violent crime rate, and graduation rates. Based on the top 50 markets by rental availability, we ranked performance against the national average for cost of living, violent crime rate per 100,000 inhabitants, and graduate rate for the principal school district serving the city. Crime rate was given double weight relative to the other statistics. Sources: Bureau of Labor Statistics, Federal Bureau of Investigation, U.S. Department of Education, Rent.com.

the Jackson family

Sunsets come and go in life, sometimes in the blink of an eye, until they blur into years. Now 45, I routinely find myself taking inventory of those years. I think – often strain – to remember the details of those bygone days, back when the mysteries of my future still offered enchantment.

Bills and taxes can take a toll on a man’s dreams.

Sometimes I’ll close my eyes to frame those old pictures. I’ll mentally peel away the layers of time, sifting past the piles of adult responsibility, in search of those special childhood memories. The sights, sounds, smells still remain with me, as if buried in a treasure box deep within my soul. There, they wait to be rediscovered.

Like a spring, my mind will push forth fresh remembrances to bottle and taste. The smell of Grandma Nina’s chicken soup … Aunt Florence and Uncle Herb paying for me to descend in a miniature sub on the Monterrey Wharf … Our dear family friend Paul yelling “Mother Chicken!” after I hit a go-ahead home run on my electronic baseball game. Or my cousin Lisa and I watching a hired Santa and his elf pull up in front of my house in a Toyota. Each moment is framed in love.

Family, I learned long ago, is one’s true wealth in life.

As a father, I try to build memories with my own children — Joseph, Ashley, Tristan and Missouri. I have no idea what they will remember, or what they will consider special. Only they know, thus making their treasure truly unique.

As I travel the back roads of my childhood I’m carried past many unforgettable places and people. I can still remember the elation of climbing aboard a horse for an hour-long, trail ride at the Ponderosa Ranch in Lake Tahoe. Or the freedom I felt as I leapt down a sandy mountainside behind my great-grandfather’s tiny home in Greer, Idaho. Or the grand lesson I learned from the firmness of my Great-Uncle Billy’s handshake.

Each memory is a piece of who I am today.

Tangerines remind me of Christmas dinners at Grandma Hazel’s, where I listened intently as my father and Uncle Jim recalled “the good ol’ days.” Disneyland reminds me of my mother. And, naturally, chicken soup reminds me of my late Grandma Nina. These days I make lots of chicken soup.

I suppose there are many memories I have never even spoken of, perhaps none more cherished than one night in the summer of 1977. At the time I was 10 years old. We lived in Livermore, Calif. My world consisted of primarily two things back then: baseball cards and baseball games. I marked my days by the daily schedule of the Oakland A’s – the only Major League Baseball team that mattered, of course – and my next haircut. The latter I tried to avoid as much as possible, especially if I were to emulate my long-haired heroes of the “Swinging A’s.”

My father understood my obsession. He should have. I think he was entranced by the same spell. He too loved baseball, and although his experience went no further than the sandlots of Oakland, he knew the game as well as anyone. He studied the game by reading the books of some of baseball’s greatest minds, such as Los Angeles Dodgers’ skipper Walter Auston or cutting-edge, hitting guru Charley Lau. Mostly, he watched games.

Watching baseball with my father was both enjoyable and educational. He’d analyze plays with me, pointing out subtle nuances that could often mean the difference between winning and losing. He even taught me how to keep score properly, something I imagine he taught himself. My father – a Teamster and warehouseman – was also a studious man. Years later, as a young sports writer cover the Oakland A’s, I would realize that the soundness of my father’s baseball philosophies rivaled even that of future Hall of Fame manager Tony LaRussa.

Thankfully, I was the beneficiary of this knowledge. My father took me to the local ball yards in Livermore and later Vacaville on countless occasions to hit me grounders or pitch me batting practice. He hit and pitched as long as I wanted, or until the setting sun called us home for dinner. Once, he drove me to another town just so I could field grounders on a grass infield. My mind drifted that day, and several grounders uncharacteristically slipped beneath my carefully shaped glove. Finally, my father barked, “Let’s go! You’re wasting my time!” Even then my father was teaching me a lesson. Baseball was as much mental as it was physical.

Those days were magical for me. I went from playing catch with my father in our two-car garage to playing catch at Granada Little League fields in Livermore, where my dreams often transported me to the Oakland Alameda County Coliseum and the home of my beloved A’s. I just knew I’d some day don the uniform of the green and gold, just as my childhood heroes did in winning three straight World Series championships between 1972 and 1974. I was raised on championship glory, having attended one World Series game in 1972 at age 5 and even a couple downtown victory parades in which my father hoisted me atop his shoulders. My father was all too willing to take me to A’s games to watch Reggie Jackson swing for the fences or Jim “Catfish” Hunter spin his mastery on the mound. By the summer of 1977, free agency had snatched most of my A’s heroes. Still, the magic remained in the game.

I remember my father coming home one day, and hinting at how he would like to take me to the A’s-Angels game that night. The mere thought of attending a game usually sent me scurrying for my worn A’s cap and baseball glove. Only this night was different. I sensed a hesitation. My father didn’t push the issue. Then my mother approached, speaking quietly in what I could only assume was grown-up talk. I bounced anxiously nearby, hoping to sway the outcome of the conversation.

“Are you sure?” Dad said.

“Yeah,” Mom replied. “Go. Have fun.”

Before my father could speak, I was rushing to get ready for the ballgame. As we drove to the game in our faithful, red Volkswagen, I remember my father telling me money was “tight.” There would be no souvenirs on this night, he declared, just the game. I nodded happily.

Prior to the game, I went through my customary pre-game ritual of pestering visiting players for their autographs as they emerged from the clubhouse runway behind home plate. I knew them all by face, thanks in large part to my collection of baseball cards – Rod Carew … Ralph Garr … Brooks Robinson … Dick Allen. I also schmoozed with the visiting bat boy, who had the power to dole out cracked bats as he desired. I had watched other boys successfully make their pitch for one of those coveted, game-used bats, although I was still learning the hustle which usually involved a fist full of cash. How could I compete? I was 10. The bat boy usually ended our conversation with a polite, “We’ll see.”

So I held out hope, however slim my chances may have been.

Money was certainly not part of the equation on this night. As I recall, my father had $20. Amazingly, that $20 bill bought us parking, two tickets behind the visiting dugout, a coffee, a Coke, and two hot dogs.

What else did a kid need?

Well, a cracked bat would have been nice. Or so I dreamed.

Baylor’s bat

Later that night I watched the powerful Don Baylor step to the plate for the California Angels. At 6-foot-1, 200-pounds, Baylor was an imposing slugger who stirred the barrel of his bat menacingly in the air as he awaited each pitch. Suddenly, something happened. Baylor shattered his bat into two pieces, leaving only the heavily tarred handle in his clutches. I saw the bat boy retrieve the splintered barrel – perhaps my bat. Or so I dreamed.

“Dad,” I said with wide eyes. “I’m gonna try to get that bat after the game. The bat boy told me he might get me one.”

“Is that right?” Dad replied in a refined drawl, knowing my hope was a long-shot at best. Still, he never dashed my hopes. He even let me stick around for a few minutes after the game to satisfy my curiosity. Finally, the bat boy emerged on the top step of the dugout with Baylor’s cracked bat. My heart pounded.

By then, the sharks were swarming. An older boy – a local ballpark rat who knew the cracked-bat game intimately – was already laying in wait. Still, I desperately made my pitch, reminding the bat boy of our pre-game conversation and how much such a souvenir would mean. Sentiment seemingly meant little in these negotiations.

“How much you got?” asked the bat boy. My heart sank.

Before I could answer, the other boy flashed $14. “I got fourteen bucks,” he said with a cock-sure grin as he leaned over the top of the dugout. I knew the boy would likely take the bat, and re-sell it elsewhere for a profit.

Suddenly, my father dug into his front pocket and pull out the last of our money, “Look, all I have is four dollars.”

The other boy smirked, “Fourteen bucks, man.”

My father looked the bat boy in the eyes, adding, “It’s for my son.”

Moments seemed like minutes. Alas, the bat boy rolled the bat up to my father and snatched the $4 from his fingers. I gasped as my father handed me the bat, the most beautiful piece of wood I had ever seen. The barrel alone seemed as long and thick as one of my legs, and featured a rich, dark stain that highlighted every ring. Engraved in a dark chocolate was the carved signature of Don Baylor himself. And there was still a goodly portion of pine tar on the splintered handle.

I cradled the bat all the way home, thanking my father for sealing the deal. For years I proudly displayed the bat among my collection of Major League baseballs, team bobble heads and other ballpark trinkets.

The Baylor bat has remained in my possession for more than three decades now, surviving my moves away from Vacaville and Dixon, and eventually into my own family’s rural home in Rocky, Oklahoma. My boys – Joseph and Tristan – have glanced at the bat with minor curiosity over the years, having learned long ago how it came into my possession. Sometimes, I still hold the bat in my clutches and marvel at its beauty, although its meaning has changed dramatically with time. Today, Don Baylor’s name is but a footnote to my baseball-obsessed childhood. His bat holds a much greater place of prominence in my heart.

Baylor’s bat represents a father’s desire to give his son a ray of happiness. Even if it cost him his last dollar.

“So what did you do in school today?” I asked.

Natan stared out the window. “Nothing.”

Ok, so I didn’t expect my son to divulge all the day to day going ons of his preschool life – but as a parent, I hoped to know something about the hours that my son spent away from home. I knew from his teachers that he was bright, smart, and advancing well for his age – but as for what he’d learned that day – I had no clue.

And I felt a little left out.

Ok, a lot left out. And not because I wanted to be one of those helicopter parents, monitoring every move my child made. Not at all. In fact, I wanted to be able to talk to my son about his school day at his level instead of always feeling like I’m prying.

I’m a software engineer by day, so my engineer brain started clicking away; trying to figure out if there was something that technology could do to bridge the communication gap between Montessori parent and child. I knew from experience that when parents ask more specific questions about a child’s day, they’re more likely to elicit specific answers.  A few months later, MontesScoring ™ was born. MontesScoring™ is a system attached to Montessori activity shelves that helps record a preschooler’s activity during the day and uploads that information online for the teacher to keep a record of and for the parent to see. Each child gets a nametag to identify them to the system. When I proposed the idea to Natan’s Montessori school, they were thrilled. They immediately installed it for a test run in Natan’s classroom and it was a hit with the kids. They said putting on the nametags made them feel like their parents. And I finally was able to talk to my son in more detail.

But when I brought it to other Montessori schools, not all of them were extremely open to the idea. They said that they preferred not to use technology in their classrooms, in keeping with Maria Montessori’s original vision.

That made me wonder: would Maria Montessori have approved of using technology to educate our children? After all, Montessori herself was very forward thinking for her time. She was a great proponent of using scientific methods of observation to teach our children.

Plus, the more research I did, the more technology for Montessori teachers I found. There’s the popular but controversial Montessorium, which is a group of iPad and iPhone applications based on Montessori materials. There are also online classroom management programs like MontessoriCompass and Montessori Records Express that help teachers stay organized.

Critics of Montessori related technology often cite concerns that technology is not interactive enough, resulting in a dumbing down of learning material. I think there’s some truth in that, given a lot of the low quality games there are out there for children that aim to be fun and addicting more than educational. But what about technology to help teachers, parents, and school administrators? Should technology be out of bounds for them as well?

The Children’s Technology Review is of the opinion that Montessori would view technology objectively, like the scientist she was. She would want to monitor the technology to see whether or not the technology was truly helping teachers and parents be more effective in guiding students’ growth.

Which means that technology is not automatically out of bounds for Montessori schools. Particularly since many parents shy away from Montessori schools precisely because they avoid using technology in their classrooms.

And just FYI, the American Montessori Society’s official position on technology is this: “Technology offers us another tool and another method of discovery. Using Montessori’s methods of observing will help us determine the place of technology in the Montessori world.”

Photo Credit: Dizzy Atmosphere / flickr.com

I took my twin ten-year-old sons to a couple of Angels games this week, and I was shocked—shocked!—to discover just how little they knew about baseball.

I don’t mean to criticize my sons. They know an awful lot about things that I’ll never know. Juggling. Magic. Origami. And technology, of course.

But the one thing I knew about when I was their age was baseball. I grew up in New York in the 1960s, and I came of age with Gil Hodges’ Mets teams of that era. So a couple of trips to the ballpark with my sons this week—they each got their own game—brought me back to my own childhood and shed a light on just how different things are today from back then.

For one thing, when my dad took me to the ballpark, the men had the tattoos and the women had the earrings.

The fundamental difference between my childhood and my sons’ is that there were far fewer entertainment options back in the sixties, and there were far fewer screens in each home. You might have had one color TV and then an old black-and-white somewhere in the house. No computer, no computer games, no consoles, no iPhones. The Internet? It was barely a gleam in the eye of Al Gore. We had Yoo-Hoo, not YouTube.

With fewer options, baseball mattered more. We kept score of the games, both at home and at the stadium, in scorecards or in scoring books. I’d be hard-pressed to tell you exactly why we did so, but we did. The first purchase upon arrival at the stadium was always a program for a quarter, and a golf pencil for 10 cents. Learning the art of keeping a meticulous scorecard was a bonding experience between father and son. It also was a cause for conversation with one’s neighbors in the seats around you. Was that double play 6-4-3 or 4-6-3?

Baseball’s greatest positive is its devotion to nuance and detail, two items that have little meaning in the slam-bang Internet era. The game—on any given night and over the course of a season—rewards patience and deep knowledge of traditions and rules. The vicarious thrill of watching a rookie pitcher, newly elevated from Triple A, striking out the side. Seeing a player come back after a devastating injury, or an undesired trade, or a bout with the bottle. It’s soap opera for men and boys. But all that detail is lost if all that matters is the long ball that makes SportsCenter.

W. P. Kinsella, the author of Shoeless Joe, which became Field of Dreams, put it best. The action in an average three-hour baseball game could be compressed into five minutes, Kinsella wrote in Field of Dreams. The rest of the time is spent thinking about what might happen, what could happen, what should happen, what did happen, and what should have happened. So I said to one son, as his game began, “I’d like to point out some things about what’s going on. Let me know when you want me to stop.”

To which he responded, “You can stop right now.”

And then there’s the matter of when to leave. Back in the day, it was a point of honor never to leave a game until the last out, no matter how one-sided the contest might have been. This provoked ongoing family debates, because my father never wanted to stay until the end. He wanted to leave in the eighth, to beat the traffic. But my boys were more than content to pack it in after five innings.

It didn’t bother me any. Both of the games we attended, interleague affairs with the Giants, were incredibly slow-paced. That’s another change from the sixties—just how long it takes to play nine innings. Pitchers seem to take forever to work now. Players are taught to be patient at the plate, to work the count. Just get up there and take your cuts, fellas. I’ve got to get to work in the morning. Leaving early, therefore, no longer indicates weak moral character. It just means you’ve seen enough.

In the 1960s, kids my age were devoted to one team and knew not just the starting lineup of that team but the starting lineups of every team in both leagues. And had the baseball cards to back it up. Everybody knew how many games out, or in front, their team was. My sons’ generation, by and large, doesn’t read the standings.

It’s frustrating. I want my sons to notice the pace of a home run trot and the pitcher busying himself with the webbing of his glove after someone’s gone yard on him, instead of watching the fireworks display. I want my sons to know when to hit and run, when to sacrifice, how to recognize a perfect bunt, and how to tell a wild pitch from a passed ball. But this is lore that may never matter to them the way it did, and does, to me.

When I was in law school, I clerked for two law professors, and one of them, Marshall Shapo, a renowned torts professor, entered the office one day bearing an expression of rapture. He and his adolescent son had enjoyed an entire conversation in the car consisting solely of names of old ballplayers. Van Lingle Mungo. Dazzy Vance. Stan Musial. Pee Wee Reese. I always dreamt of having a similar shared moment with a son, but it would appear that that’s not on the horizon.

I’m sure we’ll find something else to connect over. It doesn’t look like it’ll be Van Lingle Mungo anytime soon. But before I go, does anybody know what the Red Sox did last night.