Origin Story: Read, kid

This is the seventh installment in a series of entries about the arrival of my first child.

Dear Bethany,

Your great-grandma thought your grandma was crazy.

I was the crux of it — newborn, helpless, unable to escape her grasp as she read me Beatrix Potter stories about a young rabbit who doesn’t do what he’s told and the curmudgeonly gardener he torments.

Obviously I remember none of this. I was like you then. I stared at the pages and drooled as your grandma’s voice sounded in my ears. Your great-grandma was not impressed, said I didn’t understand a word. Your grandma contested that. On some level, she knew I did. A scholar lurked behind all that drool.

Whether that’s true — news flash — it’s going to be the same way with you.

Here’s why: Because for you, I want reading to be the norm.

This isn’t a PSA on the benefits of reading to kids at a young age. I’ll leave the advice columns to the advice columnists, the mass-literacy encouragement to the librarians and English teachers of the world.

All I know is that when it comes to you and how often you have a book open, I want it to be almost like breathing; consistent, frequent, vital. The way Superman needs sunlight.

Forget all the other positive attributes of being a lifelong reader. You make memories along the way. Really. I know this from experience, from the fact I still remember the when and where of some of my favorites.

Your grandpa read me “The Hobbit” when I was 6 or 7 years old. And when I say “read,” I mean “channeled his inner Orson Welles.” His voice caught fire. I took over with “Lord of the Rings” a couple years later because of his delivery. Then I did it again.

“Frankenstein,” the first book I ever loved that I had to read for school, sticks out, too. I reread it coming home from a recent trip. I’m hoping you’ll understand how demented and lovely it is someday.

I could devote another letter entirely to every Dennis Lehane book ever written. His characters have clear distinctions when it comes to who’s good and who’s evil. But he never forgets the shades of gray, those murky characteristics that add dimension and have made me self-examine more than once.

Then there are the stories writers didn’t have to make up. My two factual favorites have the word “devil” in them. “The Devil in the White City” by Erik Larson introduced me to a world where nonfiction could be interesting. “The Devil’s Highway” by Luis Alberto Urrea opened the door even farther. I read it straight through as I journeyed through three different airports. I’m still jealous of how every word, every sentence is arranged. It’s less a true story and more of a jazz record.

When it comes to you, Bethany, there are a few basic things I’m hopeful for: that you’re happy, that you feel safe, that you’re kind, that at least one thing in life fascinates you to the point where you’ll never stop chasing it. And that you’re always reading and making linguistic memories along the way.

The end.

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Grandfather box

The Rubbermaid tote makes my small home office all the more cramped.

It’s heavy, too, a sturdy block of plastic weighed down by contents that could be a door stop for iron gates.

I’ve scanned through them a few times: worn letters, photographs, a few sketches, a lunch menu, sheets of 6-cent stamps, newspapers.

It’s basically a diary that lacks cohesion, a just-opened 1,000-piece puzzle. It’s my grandpa’s. He fought in the African and Mediterranean theaters during World War II, tasked with cataloging and burying the dead, and writing to their families.

I’d all but forgotten it was there until I heard a familiar bit of information on the radio this morning: World War II veterans are dying, and a lot of them still aren’t talking about what they experienced.

My grandpa, who has been dead for seven years, was just like that. I only knew the basics of what he did because of my mom. His unit was called the Graves Registration Service or Mortuary Affairs. He fought at Anzio, got seasoned with shrapnel during a firefight. That’s all I had to go on.

Then he died. His letters, newspaper clippings, and other WWII-era artifacts got passed on to me. I even have his Bronze Star. It’s magnificent to hold and know the distinction it carries.

But beyond this writing and a few scattered others like it, I’ve done nothing to keep his fading memory alive.

And in thinking about today, what it means in terms of real bravery, real sacrifice, it’s terrible that’s the case. I can’t offer an excuse, not even just outright laziness. Why I haven’t opened the box of my grandfather’s weathered belongings is as unplumbed as it is.

Considering the bravery these people had, memorabilia like that deserves at least an attempt at assembly and being shared.

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Origin Story: Superparenting

This is the sixth installment in a series of entries about the arrival of my first child.

Dear Bethany,

Congratulations: You’ve just set the record for the youngest child ever to be grounded. Take a bow.

And don’t think I can’t see you rolling your eyes either, kid. The “What To Expect” app says you can open them now. Rolling usually follows suit.

I thought I’d have some lag time to build up to this. I mean, no father expects he’s going to have to ground his kid until they’re in at least, what, third grade? Fourth grade?

(I never got the best practices memo on grounding someone.)

Oh, so you’re pretending you don’t know why you’re grounded now? We’re seriously already doing this dance, the My Dad’s Just A Jerk Waltz?

Fine. Let’s recap then. You’re grounded because you kicked me. Completely unprovoked, I might add. I’d only knelt to say “Hi” after your mom told me you were awake and moving. That was an understatement. You let your little foot fly, pushed out your mom’s stomach just far enough to where it clapped me across the right cheek.

“She just kicked me,” I told your mom.

“Yeah,” she said. Like I should have known. Like people the size of cucumbers being ninjas is common knowledge.

No, you’re not really grounded. Grounding is about restricting privileges, and there’s not much to be restricted when it comes to infants. Still, the Kicking Incident got me thinking about discipline and how it’s basically the tax season of parenting: regular, dreaded, necessary, avoided altogether by many.

And I’ll let you in on a little secret: it’s the topic of a lot of the conversations between couples without children.

“When we have kids …” is our frequent kickoff phrase pertaining to statements about misbehaving children we witness. We all have our go-to anecdotes we like to share when it comes to them.

Mine goes something like this: Once upon a time I was in a Wendy’s when I saw some dumb teenager drop his beverage cup on the floor. It was close to empty but for the ice. Dozens of pieces skipped across the tile.

The kid stared at them for a few short moments, picked up his dropped cup and threw it away; he left the ice right where it sat. The adult with him didn’t say a word. Fearing another restaurant patron might accidentally slip and break something, I walked over and cleared away what pieces I could, kicking some beneath the nearby garbage can and throwing others away. He stood idly by the whole time, talking to his friends.

The end.

Dear wretched teenager: If you’re reading this, you know who you are. I’m sure your parents are proud.

I’ve heard dozens of stories just like this. We not-yet-parents promise ourselves our children-to-be will never behave that way. We draw up battle plans and protocols on how they’ll be raised, what consequences will look like. TV and video-games time, nutrition, what happens when you get bad grades, manners, please and thank you, ma’am and sir.

There’s a Spider-Man story arc called “Superior Spider-Man” where Spidey’s adversary Doc Ock crafts a plan to switch minds with the webslinger. He pulls it off, his mind inhabiting and eventually taking over Spidey’s body. But instead of going dark, he sets out to improve the wall crawler’s heroics. He wants to be the hero, just better, more efficient.

“With my unparalleled genius and my boundless ambition, I’ll be a better Spider-Man than you ever were,” he says.

OK, “unparalleled genius” and “boundless ambition” aren’t among the lexicon of phrases I’d choose for my dreamed-of parenting style. Still, I have to think many first-time parents approach the ordeal believing they can do it better when compared to the countless examples they snarked at previously.

But here’s the part that scares me, Bethany, the part that keeps me up at night: What happens when I get to the point of actually having to carry out these delusions of superhero parenting? Expectations versus reality and all that.

I know I’m going to have to be strong. You’re going to have a powerful weapon; the curl of your lower lip and a bit of mist in your eyes, a Kryptonite expression that could defeat this once ready-to-parent figure.

Luckily, your mom will be here to give me her own expression if it starts to look like I’m backing down. Because really, all this talk of discipline and parenting is fine, but let’s be realistic here: I’d be a hopeless pushover without her when it comes to you.

It takes a Justice League to raise a child.

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Origin Story: Mom tidings

This is one in an occasional series of columns as I document the impending arrival of my first child. Other installments in the series can be viewed on this blog.

Dear Bethany,

It’s only fair that I tell you about what’s on the other side of your lifeline. I know you’re probably curious.

Yes, it’s been keeping you alive, giving you blood and oxygen. There’s more to it than that, though. Past all the semidarkness and warmth is the greatest person I’ve ever known, the woman you’ll be calling “Mom” soon.

You’ve heard her, I’m sure, that gentle voice that echoes around you while you float and turn in your temporary cave. She’s the one who gets the wind knocked out of her when you kick. She’s the reason you feel as safe as you do; why, in a way, I speculate you already know what it feels like to be loved.

She’s difficult to describe, your mom, even more so to one who’s never heard the word. Maybe it’s important to explain moms, give you a head start on knowledge. I’ve already got you picked for the 2036 Olympics, so I may as well start pushing for early graduation and lots of scholarships, too.

I need to tell you a couple of quick stories to do that. Hope you don’t mind. Not that you’re going anywhere.

I’ll start with the one where I sprained my ankle in high school.

It was my senior year, the week before the regional cross-country championships. And, like the idiot teenager I was, I went to a rock concert. It was a band called Alien Ant Farm. Someday I may play them in the car while you roll your eyes and call me ancient.

My injury happened while crowdsurfing. I came down too hard on my ankle. It swelled up, felt like a balloon filled with fire.

We’re talking a few scant days before a race that either qualifies me for the state race or sends me packing. I was horrified, naturally.

So was my mom — your grandma. But she didn’t panic. At least, she didn’t let it show. She put me to work instead. Per a doctor’s instructions, I was to submerge my foot in a bucket of ice water, wait until it went numb, then walk around on it until the feeling returned.

Repeat. Ten times a day every day until the race. It became part of my day. Wake up. Eat. School. Come home. Ice torture. Sleep.

But guess what? It worked. The ankle swelling died a swift, painful death. I swear I could hear it screaming. I qualified for state that year, made first team Colorado. Because your grandma knew I could.

Moms have faith in their children, Bethany — even when their idiocy almost costs them the big race.

My next story is about your other grandma — your mom’s mom. Your mom and I had been dating for just a few months when your grandma had to have surgery. I visited her hospital room to find her rather out of it because of her medication.

We’ll talk about what “rather out of it” means when you’re older. For now, just know her doctors had given her something to put her in what seemed like a more honest mood. We started talking about your mom.

“So, Ryan,” she said to me at one point, just above a tired, post-surgical whisper. “You think she’s pretty great, huh?”

I said yes. I was pretty sure I saw her smile a bit at that response.

“You take good care of her,” she said.

She didn’t have a gun in her hand, but her tone, gentle as it was, suggested one was nearby and loaded. I got the message, even with her newfound haze: Treat my daughter right or your ticket’s punched. And your face.

Moms protect, Bethany, and the ferocity that goes with that instinct is beautiful and frightening.

One more story.

You know how much you move. I previously wrote to you about how the first movements your mom felt were comparable to miniature hand flutters on a tiny piano, almost tickles.

That’s changed. She’s started to have occasional moments where it sounds like she’s just been punched in the stomach. Your hand flutters are developing into knockout punches and Chuck Norris kicks.

Don’t tell her I said this, but “Atta girl.”

Recently, though — for about a day — you stopped, went completely quiet. Your mom hardly ever worries. She is an oracle of logic and calm. Until you stop moving, it seems. You’d think a break from your recent fascination with using her as a punching bag would be welcome. It wasn’t.

“I want her to move,” she told me, panicked.

Her tone was desperate. She missed you, wanted to know where you’d gone. You were a few feet away and she was ready to call the police. I think your little intermission is the most concerned I’ve ever seen her.

Because moms love their children, Bethany — every quirk and mislaid angle. It doesn’t matter how hard their kicks are. When they’re gone, they want them back.

I’ve always known these things about moms, but there’s something about seeing your mom become one that helped me understand it. There’s a difference, I think.

These qualities await you, Bethany. How does that make you feel? To know that your current home also adores everything about you, thinks about you all the time.

There’s a scene in “Man of Steel” when a young Clark Kent — not yet Superman — flees to a broom closet at his school and locks himself in, overwhelmed and terrified of the powers he has yet to control or understand. His mother gets called, and she kneels in front of the shut door, tries to coax him out. He refuses.

“The world’s too big, Mom,” he says.

“Then make it small,” she says. “Focus on my voice. Pretend it’s an island out in the ocean. Can you see it?”

“I see it,” he eventually whispers.

I’ll give you that same advice, Bethany. Your eventual departure from your cave may be loud and bright and frightening, but know there’s a gentle voice and presence waiting for you at the end.

Her name is Mom, and she’s nuts about you, kid.

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Origin Story: Secret identities

Dear Bethany,

Take a knee, kid. It’s time for a little advice.

I’m going to take advantage of moments like this for as long as I can, when I know you can’t roll your eyes or run away from my sage tidings. Which, by the way, I have in spades. Just ask your mom.

You’re a captive audience for now. Nearly six-month-old fetuses usually are, chained by a lifeline and hibernating in weightless, warm dark.

So here goes. Are you ready?

Know this: Watching your friends grow up is a beautiful oddity, a Tim Burton film brought to life.

Also know this: Sometimes it takes shock value to make you realize their transformation.

There’s an iconic scene in ‘Batman Begins’ where the Caped Crusader’s childhood friend suddenly realizes Bruce Wayne, a sad, orphaned billionaire, lurks beneath the constant scowl and expensive Halloween costume.

“Wait,” Bruce’s friend Rachel Dawes pleads as Batman prepares to jump off a roof and soar into a fear toxin-fueled Gotham war. “You could die. At least tell me your name.”

“It’s not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me,” the Dark Knight hisses, a nod to advice Rachel gave him earlier in the movie.

Message received: “Bruce?” Rachel whispers as Bats leaps from the ledge.

She’s blindsided by this notion, this sudden, unexpected proof of maturity in her lifelong pal.

I experienced this recently, Bethany. I watched four friends – two to-be moms and dads – go from Bruce to Batman in the blink of an eye. Their respective announcements that they had their own children on the way alerted me to this.

Not to say this hadn’t been happening in front of me. It’s just easy to miss the steps leading up to the moment, I think. Friendships in your late 20s/early 30s are like that. People you’ve known for years and have built a considerable memory resume with can fade into the complicated painting of careers, marriage and distance.

But it’s the oddest thing: when friends like that make their own announcement that someone like you is on the way, it inevitably touches up their corner of the canvas and makes it shine.

Such notifications have happened to me twice over the past few months, and both came with those primitive-looking ultrasound maps where doctors point at a human-ish looking shape and swear it’s a baby; both out-of-the-blue revelations came from friends I’ve known for years.

I was roommates with one, and we still attend superhero flicks wearing superhero shirts. It’s nice to know there’s someone out there who’s comics appreciation is DNA-deep. His wife was the first friend I met at college. I’m glad she stuck around. You should hear them sing together.

Still another was the first person I latched onto in my first newsroom gig. There’s a movie called ‘Superbad’ you’re not allowed to watch until you’re older we can quote every line from. His wife and I are at least in the top 10 when it comes to biggest fans of narrative non-fiction in the free world.

I stood with both couples on their wedding days, honored on a Knights-of-the-Round-Table-caliber. Proud. There we were, pretending we knew what we were doing.

I don’t know, though; there was something about their respective “baby-on-board” announcements that made me see them in a different light; made me tilt my head, squint my eyes, and whisper, “Bruce?”

Because these people I care for, as much as I have always respected them, have – at least from my perspective – thrown on capes and taken it to the next level. Their happiness and anxiousness and general difficulty in finding words to describe their love for a little person they’ve never met personify that. They can all but fly. At the very least, they’ll have to learn.

We’re all trudging the same route, step by nervous, excited step to the fabled Land of Parenthood. Two of them are a bit further ahead, the other pair still catching up. You and their children are all due within four months of each other. I think you planned it that way.

These ideas may be a bit beyond you for awhile, I get that. Friendship during childhood is different, more day-to-day. For me there were a lot more Legos and RC cars involved. I promise you that’ll change someday, that it may even catch you off guard.

And when it happens, when you realize your friends are more Batman than Bruce, it makes you want to be the same way.

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You can’t spell ‘Winter Soldier’ without ‘win’

My patriotism is documented, hieroglyphs embedded in the worn tape of a VHS video.

It shows a Christmas morning. It’s 1987 in Colorado Springs. Robe-clad and mussy-haired, I reach into my stocking and pull out two comic books. The excitement is palpable as the pages flap and crackle in my tight fist.

Side note: Little Me needs to take better care of his comics. God’s sake, kid.

“Spider Man!” I shriek, the hoarseness of morning still not quite gone from my voice. (I hadn’t discovered coffee yet). Then comes the main event, a comic book cover adorned with the smiling visage of red, white and blue-clad Captain Steve Rogers.

Captain America to you.

“Captain America!” Little Me squeals. “Just what I needed!”

Twenty-six years later, that video is still track 1 on the Pfeil Home Video Greatest Hits Catalog. There are additional reasons for that – I also got a music box in my stocking I referred to as a “baby maker,” and the resulting laughter nearly put my parents in the hospital with chest pain – but that high-pitched approval for a superhero is the highlight for me, anecdotal evidence of my affection for the coolest cat in the Marvel Comics universe.

This past weekend, moviegoers seem to be coming around to my way of thinking. “Captain America: The Winter Soldier” set an opening weekend record for April, raking in more than $96 million.

It’s well-deserved.

Like every Marvel movie since the first ‘Iron Man,’ it is, of course, sardine can-loaded with marvelous action sequences. Gunplay. Knife fights. Shield hurls. Acrobatics. Hovercraft aerial battles reminiscent of World War II U.S. Navy newsreels. All phenomenally-paced and sequenced. In an industry where it’s getting tougher and tougher to suck the wind from ticket holders’ lungs, ‘Winter Soldier’ has plenty of steroid-fueled battles to deal out.


Then again, it’s the story of a runt-turned-superhero fighting a mysterious assassin and all other things terrorist/espionage/explosivo, so why wouldn’t it have that element?

But there was a whole other layer to ‘Winter Soldier’ that impressed me even more: the movie’s heart.

When it comes to this character, it’s key. How much depth and fear does a brave, sickly boy turned into a red, white and blue powerhouse during the days of Hitler have? Think about the strength and struggles that come with a responsibility like that. Then freeze this kid in ice and have him lost for 70 years, only to defrost and wake up in a world of iPhones, Justin Bieber and a government that has admitted to spying on its own people. Oh, and almost everyone you love is gone.

Rip Van Warrior.

Talk about feeling lost and adrift. Imagine the amount of will and gumption you’d need to soldier on. ‘Winter Soldier’ addresses where strength of that magnitude is found, that you need to dig deep to find it. Historically, Marvel movies have been rich, visual feasts, but this is the first time I’ve felt one of their films emote on a level comparable to Chris Nolan’s recent ‘Dark Knight’ movies.

You get a salute from me for that alone, Marvel. Here’s to many more.


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Origin Story: Great powerlessness

Dear Bethany,

The first time your mom felt you move happened on April Fools Day. No joke.

We sat in a Mexican restaurant finishing our food when she fell into her trance, what looked like one anyway. Someday you’ll learn about the phrase: “1,000-yard stare.” It means that your eyeballs look like they’re frozen and unfocused. It was like we were inside a TV set and someone had hit pause, but just for her sight.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

Un-pause. A  grin stirred on her lips; mischievous, the smile of a rookie poker player who got dealt a straight flush on their first hand.

She told me she thought she felt you move, couldn’t tell but was pretty sure. Adrenaline mines ignited in my veins and turned my breaths into post-marathon oxygen gulps. I leaned in and asked her what she felt. It wasn’t stomach-related, she said. More like she had a tiny piano in there and someone had just fluttered the keys for a few seconds.

Could be the baby, she said. Could be.

Moments like these are key into understanding your mom and I. She’s practical and logical. I’m 30 and read comic books. She said maybe, maybe not. I said absolutely. It was you, kicking and creating little in utero tsunamis. I can’t wait until you’re old enough to tell her I was right.

It’s odd to think someone who’s currently the size of a coffee mug created such a sensation, that a likely flutter from a pea-sized hand can remind you that you’re powerless.

There’s a Green Lantern story called ‘Secret Origin’ that tells of ringslinger Hal Jordan’s beginnings in the days before he joined the Green Lantern Corps.

“I was Captain Hal Jordan,” he says at one point. “Now I was just Hal Jordan.”

Yes, great power yields great responsibility, but great responsibility tends to weaken at first glance. Here, life says, you’re in charge of this important facet. Don’t screw it up.


So what do your mom and I do until that day comes? Prepare as best we can. We bought you your first books last weekend. Your mom found them in a couple different used bookstores on the Oregon Coast: some Winnie the Pooh stories and ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar.’ The latter is a story about a tiny, quiet creature that eats a lot, wraps itself in a cloak of warmth and emerges as a butterfly.

Sound familiar?

We’ve also got the baby bath and are starting to amass some all-too-tiny clothes. Among them are a three-pack of Green Bay Packers onesies and some Denver Broncos pacifiers. I imagine one of the biggest divides in our house in the coming years will be over your NFL loyalty.

Joke’s on us if you don’t care either way. That may be healthier for everyone.

Not that I haven’t gone completely delusional in the midst of all this planning. I understand you’re going to shatter any and all preparatory steps we take, a bull in a best-laid plans china shop. Still, we’ll keep it up, I think. At least a couple of our safeguards have to stay standing.

Hopefully all this hasn’t swayed you from future movement. That will never be my intention. Never stop dancing, Bethany. Never stop cartwheeling, somersaulting, running. I’ll chase you as far as I can when you get here.

“When you get here.” Man, no four words have ever brought quite so big a smile to my face. I can’t believe I get to tell you all this in just a few months.

Then again, I likely won’t be able to say anything at all.

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Origin Story: First contact

This is the second entry in a series on first-time fatherhood. Read the first entry here.

Dear Bethany:

I want to tell you about the first time I heard your heart beat, how it made me think of submarines and how I didn’t believe it was real.

It was February. Your mom and I sat in an examination room. I could feel her nervousness, despite her calm. She’s able to smear this layer of jam-like zen over her panic. It mimics actual peace pretty well.

My mind drifted, caught in a lazy tide of ways this meeting could go wrong. I can’t remember when anxiety and pessimism didn’t cloud my vision or flare up to Vesuvius intensity when it came to worrying about people I love.

Like you.

Not that you were tuned in to our worry and curiosity. You were a hybrid at that point, a blend of fact and theory. There but not. Three months of growth to your name. There’s a Captain America story arc called “Reborn” where he’s basically lost in the space-time continuum, straddling reality and conjecture while he tries to become whole. That’s been you in a way, slowly waking from the dream of non-existence as you try to find your way home.

But you were about to send a signal, a sign that you were still on course. Our doctor brought in a fetal doppler — it’s intended to pick up tiny heartbeats like yours — and pressed the microphone against your mom’s stomach, began drifting back and forth, slowly.  It wasn’t just a search for a heartbeat. This felt more like hailing a spaceship.

Do you copy, Fetus One? Come in.

You did. The sound was subdued at first; static in a tunnel. Then the sound of your tiny heart expanding and contracting came in clear.

Wub wub wub.

It made me think of sonar pings and deep water. You had rhythm, kid. I could set a metronome to your tiny ticker.

“You hear it?” the doc asked.

I leaned in to listen, skeptical. Nothing could sound that perfect, that sculpted. Wub wub wub wub.

“And that’s definitely it?” I asked.

“Yes,” doc said.

There was a hint of verbal eyeroll in her voice. Sort of an “I-know-what-I’m-doing” tone. And I was OK with that. When it comes to you, I want to be sure. Doctor was positive.

Wub wub wub. First contact. A “Wish You Were Here” postcard for the ears.

But there was still a link missing, even with a heartbeat. We still didn’t know what you were. You were still “Chip,” the gender-neutral identity we assigned to you when you were the size of a chocolate chip, just getting started with your Lego-like self-assembly of cells.

For that, I need to tell you one more quick story: about the day you stopped being the ambiguous, genderless “Chip” and started being my daughter.

I’ve known you were for some time. You could say I had a hunch, one family and friends tried to squelch beneath their boots. Girl, I said. It has to be a girl.

No, 98 percent of the general populace responded. Boy. But I stood my ground. You’ll soon learn I’m right about everything, even when I’m wrong.

You made finding out the answer difficult when we went for an appointment this past Wednesday. The ultrasound pressed against your mom’s stomach and showed a defined, human-looking you. You squirmed and thrashed, legs cycling in roadrunner whirls. Images of you slashing through finish line ribbons while a cheering crowd of track meet watchers jumped to their feet flashed in my eyes.

We got the gender confirmation after about 20 minutes of searching.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a girl,” nice health professional said.

Doc confirmed it. Yes, Ryan; it’s going to be two against one very soon. You’re toast, bub, doomed to say yes to every request, so long as she bats her beautiful Bethany eyes and makes her bottom lip pop out.

“Please, Daddy?”


But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, I suppose. Until then, I still have that heartbeat to look forward to. That wub wub wub that reminds me how strong and beautiful you are and how hopeless you’re going to make me.

I’m already thinking about the next time I’ll get to hear it, Bethany. I swear…it sounds like you’re saying hi.

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In honor of my workplace, I’d like to share two of my recent watercolors.

Here’s the Mail Tribune building during a sunrise.

And here’s my boss’s hand while taking notes.

I’m pretty proud of them.

Now it’s time for the confession: they’re not actually watercolors.

They’re photos. Yes, photos. Run through one of the coolest iPhone apps I’ve come across yet.

Here are the originals:

The app is called “Waterlogue,” available for $2.99 in the iTunes Store. I discovered it through a ‘Wired’ magazine story, had to have it as a recent hobby convert to the beauty of the art form.

But, like most upgrades in the Convenience Factory, such ease at producing beautiful watercolor/photo hybrids comes with a price. Namely, laziness. I wonder how many make-a-buck schemesters will attempt to utilize this app, print the resultant photos and charge $500 for a “piece” they spent less than 500 seconds on.

Should art be this easy? I’ve recently begun a series of actual watercolors – all the classic Winnie the Pooh characters – that I want to frame for my first kid when they arrive in August. Here’s one:

I think it’s an anecdote as to why real paintings shouldn’t feel threatened. There was love and dedication that went into this, a goal I set out for myself that I wanted to see through. There was excitement when it was finished.

I mean, the watercolor/photo crossbreeds are cool, but there’s a difference between tapping a few buttons on a screen and holding a brush. That connection and fulfillment we get from art isn’t going anywhere.

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Those books we wish we could just…harpoon

This was the passage I stopped reading ‘Moby Dick’ on:

“Lakeman! – Buffalo! Pray, what is a Lakeman, and where is Buffalo?”

That’s page 292 in the Barnes & Noble Classics edition. Right at the top of the page. I actually shook my head, slammed the tome closed and put it down.

“Nope,” I said. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

I was done. Done done. Monopoly-marathon-game-that’s-still-going-after-seven-hours done. And I was pretty upset about it.

2014 was supposed to be the year of ‘Moby Dick,’ the lauded American classic about a vengeful, disfigured captain and his adversary, an equally-vengeful, disfigured sperm whale. It’s “the” book. “The” classic English and literature teachers place at the center of candlelit altars.

All but one, perhaps. I remember being in high school and listening to my own mother, a veteran public school teacher and college professor, rail against the story. Her main issue was author Herman Melville’s many segue’s, how he often abandoned a compelling narrative about the ocean’s fury and the futility of vengeance for frequent 10-page drivel-fests on nautical terminology, the whaling industry, and other such “data” one might expect to find in an early 19th century textbook.

My father took the opposite route. I remember watching the John Huston-directed film adaptation with him as a kid and liking it, how he always encouraged me to scoop the book up and give it a go.

Talk about being torn.

Fast forward 20 years later. It was time to check the box on reading this elusive tale. I made it my New Years Resolution, scooped it up and got going.

The first 100 pages felt like a honeymoon. Melville paints a beautiful picture of New England whaling towns during the early 19th century. I could see the shipyards and lazy flocks of gulls meandering overhead. I heard their far-off calls and the creak of the anchored boats.

“Huh, Mom didn’t like this,” I thought. “Weird.”

Then the gods of Literature and Irony decided to high five and send a Plague of Yawning Confusion my way. Melville’s focus shifted from narrator Ishmael’s point of view to a homicide investigation bulletin board: pictures, words and incomplete, rambling thoughts all tacked up and poorly assembled with pieces of yarn and angrily-scrawled Sharpie arrows.

There were whole chapters on the whaling industry, nautical terminology, psychology, and more. All departures felt abrupt, like yanks on still-mending stitches.

I was Captain Ahab, and the book was my elusive white whale, ever out of reach.

Like any 21st-century 30-something, I took to social media with my issue, asked if anyone had ever just flat-out not finished a book. If they’d ever just, at some point, looked at the still-unread pages and thought, “No way.”

The online responses were nearly unanimous. Yes, they said. Yes, we have. Don’t worry, Ryan. You’re not alone in this. We’ve all been there. A former editor of mine summed it up nicely, as editors are apt to do: “Way too many books to waste life on ones you don’t like.”

And he’s right. But there’s something frightening about that logic, too. As a librarian acquaintance of mine showed me, a a staggering 57 percent of started books are not finished. That’s a little disturbing to me. I mean…of course, read what you like, but that seems like an awful lot of words to just give up on. Right?

But as the Medford School District and its teachers union recently showed me, you can compromise on pretty much anything. Officially, I have not yet given up on the tale. For now, it’s just getting a bookmark put in it, sandwiched between pages 292 and 293.

At the recommendation of one of my current editors, I’m taking a leave of absence, Mr. Melville. I’m due for a vacation, a siesta, a detox from your eternal abyss of disjointed, drunken diary entries. And I’m not sorry. ‘Moby Dick’ may be considered the holy temple in the Lost City of Literature, but that doesn’t make its interior any less dusty or poorly-lit.

I need some fresh air, to remember that reading for fun isn’t supposed to involve so much work.

But I’ll be back. Count on it. I’ll have my hazmat suit on this time.

My harpoon will be ready.

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    Ryan Pfeil

    This is a blog for southern Oregonians to check in on all things geek. Sci-fi, history, comics, movies, video/photo and anything else that would have gotten you shut in a locker in high school. Have fun. Read Full
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