The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, or so they say. Of course, like most sayings from the ubiquitously anonymous “they,” that doesn’t always get to the core of the truth. Take pictures (pun intended, unapologetically), f’rinstance. Especially when a photo causes a family kerfuffle. Not a huge kerfuffle, mind you — more like a kerfuf. The dispute is over time: I contend that my son, Brendan, was 6 months old for this particular photo shoot, because I distinctly remember that he couldn’t hold up his head. So the photographer put the softball under his chin, propped up his head for a split second, shot the photo, and caught his head before it flopped over, his neck broke and his noggin rolled across the floor. Brendan doesn’t remember, for obvious reasons. His older sister, Annie, doesn’t remember, either, but she probably would disagree with me just to be contrary. His younger sister, Allison, wasn’t even on the scene, obviously, so she doesn’t get a vote. His mom, Susan, contends it was more like a couple of weeks, perhaps 6. I suppose that fits the floppiness of the neck angle, but as I recall, it was 6 months: That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I have no idea how to track down the photographer, who very well might be dead, for all I know. What I DO know for sure is that it’s my favorite photo of the lad, to this day. That’s why I carry it in my billfold. I’ll let you be the judge:
So, does that look like 6 months or 6 weeks? Oh, WHATEVER. Comes now Brendan, with his own offspring. He and/or Erica — I don’t want to start a family kerfuffle, so I won’t try to nail down which of the copious shutterbugs wielded the camera — shot a photo of their Avery that is reminiscent of the softball bob. Sans softball, of course:
The time isn’t in dispute because even now, Avery is only 6 weeks old, and this was shot when he was just a few weeks, if that. The thing I do know is that they bear a striking resemblance to each other. I always have trouble seeing family resemblances twixt kids and their parents, so if I can see the likeness here, it must be obvious. OR, if I can see the likeness, perhaps it proves that I’m right about the 6 months, too. At any rate, even if anybody still questions my math, the photos prove that the apple doesn’t fall from the tree, in looks. Or DO they? What if we toss in another photo in our quest for a trifecta. I don’t think this little lad, in a photo shot when he was older than a year, but younger than 2 as near as I can figure, looks like either Brendan OR Avery.
So who might he be? Perhaps a poor, redheaded stepchild from the era of black and white photos. I bet he’s grayed a bit over the decades, so he’d be as hard to track down as the softball photographer. And so another angle appears in the family kerfuf.
Also in the hopper, for coming weeks, are photos of Avery's auspicious meeting with a handful of his cousins, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, when they ventured from the flatlands of Florida to the hills of Minnesota, in a quest for snow.
I’m gonna be an escargot and hand this over to the boyz.
Oh, I know escargot is just a fancy word for slug, but try to convince Kate of that when I tell her eating that supposed delicacy is the same thing as eating slugs outta the garden. She thinks that reflects a lack of sophistication on my part; well, I’m not the one with slug slime running down my chin, masquerading as garlic butter.
On the other hand, I will be a slug and let the kids do the work for Easter. Why try to be glib and entertaining, when the lads have created artwork that’s far more entertaining?
The backstory: Traveling to different ends of the country means we won’t be seeing them on Easter, although there’s an outside chance that we might be able to wave at them in their plane coming east as ours goes west. So we had a little Easter exchange in advance, in which they gave us handmade Easter cards and get-well cards for Kate, who’s been under the weather.
I find sibling smackdowns fascinating, partly because, I suspect, nothing has changed since the beginning of time. Indeed, I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that Cain’s sending Abel to sleep with the fishes started one day when Abel yelled, “Cain’s on my side of the outside of the garden.” And Cain said, “Am NOT!” Abel: “Are TOO!” Until Adam finally yelled, “DON’T MAKE ME COME OUT THERE, because I’m already chuffed that Yahweh kicked my naked butt out here,” and Eve said, “Careful, dear, the boys are getting big, and you know how delicate your chest is where you lost that rib.” Next thing the first parents — or even Yahweh — knew, Cain whacked Abel upside the head (or, perhaps, Dutch-rubbed him to death, although obviously the Dutch weren’t even born yet) and got in even more trouble than his folks had. Fortunately, most rivalries don’t reach the Cain-Abel phase, but there’s still plenty of caterwauling in the perennial jousts with the simple goal of irritating the HELL out of each other. It’s just a tradition of the human condition — some might attribute it to Adam’s fall, while some wags might refer to it as a trap that Eve sprung lo those many millennia ago, and her sisters have been repeating ever since. (I’ll not get into THAT theological/psycho/social argument here.) Oh, tactics may change, but they all boil down to variations on the jousting over who’s on whose side of the back seat, who’s touching whom, and who has to wash (vs. dry) the dishes (yes, grandkids, there was a time before dishwashers, even before my era of dishwashing, which history records as Pleadwithparents Period, based on the most common whine, “I did the dishes LAST night”). Of course, it’s easier to observe the smackdowns these days, now that my kids are grown and I don’t have to settle their tiffs when they’re raising Cain against each other. (Hmmmmm, disadvantage is that, once in awhile, I’m in the line of fire as a direct target instead of collateral damage. That could be to work out frustrations they developed when Dad was king and they were mere serfs, heh, heh, heh.) Also, the rivalries I’m talking about don’t reach the furious stage at which one smites the other, as Cain did in a fit of mommy and daddy envy. Yea, verily, rivalries now usually shred egos instead of skin. Vincent, being the oldest, at 8, often is the shredder, while 6-year-old Jack often is the shreddee. Being the second child myself, I can identify with Jack, except that my elder is a girl, so it was even WORSE for me, heh, heh, heh. And so it was the other day, when the lads stayed overnight, and Jack was waxing eloquently about how much he enjoys Jazzy and Dewey, whom he lovingly was calling his “cousins.” This was just a few hours after they had reduced him to fearful tears when they greeted him at the door. Oh, did I mention that the recent additions to the household are dogs? Jazzy and Dewey get incredibly excited when people arrive, barking and jumping and, well, Dewey’s tail gets a wagging so blamed fast I could swear his butt’s gonna fall right off. Jack’s making strides in overcoming his fear of the canines, so much so that, by the end of the visit, he bravely petted them and relaxed on the couch. That’s when he was calling them his cousins. And that’s when Vincent’s sibling superiority kicked in, as he said, “JACK! They’re DOGS! Only PEOPLE can be your cousins.” Appropriately chastised, Jack continued to call them cousins. I think it’s OK, even endearing — as long as he doesn’t start sniffing their butts to greet them instead of jumping out of his skin. Speaking of, I found this interesting little video on YouTube:
So far, though, he just sits on the couch with his cousins, Dewey in top photo and Jazzy, next:
Returning to dogs' sniffing habits for a minute, I'll note that, if you’ve ever seen a dog in a barn where horses hang out, you know that canines have a different idea of what constitutes a delectable food chain. Speaking of that, I’ll note an interesting Jack fact: He’s a jabber jaws who can talk on any subject at great length. The endearing part of that is that, when he doesn’t actually know something, he just makes it up with such authority and confidence that it’s tough to separate fact from fiction. Indeed, he is so convincing that I often find myself believing him, even when I know that what he’s saying is flat wrong. We — Jack and I and Vincent and Kate and Jazz and the Dewster — were watching something on the Animal Planet about predators. I can’t remember exactly which predators were eating which prey, but Jack the dinosaur genius was waxing eloquently about how they could absolutely devour humans. Vincent threw a damper on his lecture by proclaiming, “JACK! Humans are at the top of the food chain! We’d eat THEM!” I laughed right out loud because the only observation I had was that I didn’t even know there WAS a food chain when I was 8. The only chain I knew about was a bicycle chain, because mine was breaking. Of course, that was back in the dinosaur age, even before Jurassic Park.
Kids today, the things they know, and the things they can make up when they don’t know. It makes me rivalrous with them.
And, as the rivalry continues, Vincent happened to be adept enough to get BOTH dawgs in a picture with him:
If the Olympics are teaching us anything, it’s that perseverance pays off. Or that what goes up must come down, as in a skier who leaps from the big jump and lands upright (most of the time). Or what comes down the pipe, or in Shaun White’s case, the halfpipe, takes some twists and turns. I don’t have to tell that to daughter-in-law Erica, who I’m SURE was tired of persevering when her due date passed, and thought the kid never would land, and learned that a baby holds on for dear life instead of hitting the slalom on time (or as slickly as the Flying Tomato [I know he doesn’t like the nickname, but he can put it in his halfpipe and smoke it] does with his snowboard). And I’m sure that son Brendan learned patience as he stood at Erica’s side wondering whether she’d be doing a short program or a long one, as ice skaters do in their quest for gold. (Truth be told, I bet he felt like an Olympic skater’s coach, too, nervously wondering whether labor might make Erica so edgy that she’d cold-cock him in the middle of a triple Lutz, with a toe loop.) And now, you’re learning patience, waiting for the verdict on whether the entity I previously have called blot because Brendan and Erica (well, Brendan, mostly, but Erica indulged him [as far as anybody knows]) didn’t want to know the gender swept into the world, albeit like a curling rock, as a boy or a girl. But first the facts, ma’am, and man: 8 pounds, 9.6 ounces and 21.5 inches. No WONDER the infant was late coming through the bobsled run. (For the record, that’s only 19.8 percent of what a curling rock weighs, so what’s the fuss? It’s not like the lad or lassie came out carrying a curling broom, sideways, while also wearing slalom skis.) Name: Avery. I like the name, and it’s got some cool background, I discovered at http://babynamesworld.parentsconnect.com. For instance, I never would have guessed that it has both English and French ties. Fortunately, it means the same thing in both: Elf counsel. That seems like an odd meaning, but it’s got this bonus: Elf can be interchangeable with leprechaun, which is Irish, which means the child has Irish blood AND an Irish name. (Hey, this is my blog, and I can make up the rules.) Bigger bonus is that these Irish eyes are smiling because I can kick the Brits and the Frogs off the island. Another bonus: Not only are several towns and counties in the United States named Avery but also a crater on the moon sports that moniker. That’s only fitting, because entering the world was one small step for Avery, but one big step for the Tighes. At any rate, it’s only fitting that the baby arrived during the Olympics, albeit without those ubiquitous, and irritating, cowbells, because you can bet Erica and Brendan will put their firstborn on a podium. I’d wager that Erica and Brendan are glad it’s over, and they’ve got the gold, and ESPECIALLY that babies aren’t in the womb for four whole years. Of course, that doesn’t mean they can’t start preparing for the next Winter Olympics, in four years. I’ve found that four years between kids is about PERFECT, because they can kind of take care of each other when they’re little, and a guy can take a nap. Of course, it’s their life … P.S.: If you’re under the illusion that Avery is a girl, you’re in for the agony of defeat, as the ski jumper experienced in the immortalized video from 1970:
DOH! Avery not only can be EITHER a male or a female name but also is more common as a male. With that, and noting that Avery’s middle name is Michael to acknowledge Brendan’s middle name and that of his late uncle Michael and, well, I guess, MOI, I introduce you to: Sir Avery Michael Tighe. And, of course, his co-stars, Erica and Brendan.
Jack’s got his life all figured out, at the ripe old age of 6. I’m jealous of the lad, because he knows what he wants to be when he grows up, and WHY, so he’s got nothing to worry about for the rest of his born days. Hell, I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, and I have trouble rebutting people who contend that I’ll never grow up, anyway. I guess that means you can call him Pollyanna and me, Peter Pan.
I don’t remember much from when I was 6, beyond the victorious, warm sensation that enveloped me when I sneaked a kiss from my girlfriend, Jeannie Bartek, on the playground. Until she gave me a fat lip to go with my loose lips. Turns out she was my girlfriend only in Mike’s World, which apparently wasn’t even in her galaxy, so she knocked me back into my own. And I don’t recall pining for careers like kids always do, daydreaming about being a firefighter or a policeman — or even lawyers and teachers and bakers, oh, my. Well, I did like to pretend I was in fights like the cowboys on TV. (Of course, back then, they never bled, and even if they had, the TV picture was black and white, so there wouldn’t have been any red all over.) But mostly, as far back as I can fetch a memory, I was going to be a priest, although I still can’t figure out whether it was because I wanted to or because other people thought I should and I let that sway me. (Oh, I did have good times at the vocation evenings the Knights of Columbus sponsored, complete with enticing films about how cool seminary life would be [i.e., fun playing hockey, basketball and football, but not a HINT that philosophy, which seminarians had to major in until right before I entered, and minor in when I was a student, is the spawn of the devil]). However, I do remember a shaky moment a few months before I went to the seminary when I asked myself, “Do I really want to do this?” But I figured it was too late to change my mind. I already had let my college scholarship go to somebody else, and I figured Jody didn’t like me all that much anyhow, and I already had bought my cassock and collar, so inertia propelled me to the sem. Although I had a great time in the seminary (pay no attention to the coffee cup perpetually attached to my hand or the occasional nip of vodka it concealed [nobody suspected, because the cup was like an appendage at all hours, and everybody figured it always contained just coffee]), the mistress of journalism eventually wooed me away from the altar. So here I sit, still journaling, all these decades later, after wearing out my soles as a reporter pounding the pavement before detouring into editing instead of saving souls as a priest who was bound for Rome, as S’ter Reparata envisioned things. Of course, that’s not to say that other pursuits haven’t beckoned. At various times in my life, I’ve wanted to be able to: · Write music and sing as well as Gene Pitney. (Fat chance.) · Play the guitar as well as Dwight Yoakham. (Small hands.) [Dadgum YouTube disabled most Yoakham videos by request, but here’s a URL to what I consider his best: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A2qo1x9rcCc And here’s one that matches ME: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eQcGkzXmPjY ] · Moonwalk as well as Michael Jackson. (Big feet.)
(Obviously, the only thing I have in common with Michael is the name, and I prefer Mike. Only nuns and old ladies are allowed to call me Michael, so watch yourself!) · Moonwalking is not to be confused with walking on the moon, like the Buzz that Neil Armstrong got first. (Scared of heights.) · Own a charter fishing boat. (Saw "Jaws" and realized I’d need a bigger boat than I could ever afford.) · Play golf like Arnold Palmer. (Can’t get past bunker mentality.) · Do stand-up comedy like George Carlin’s. (Oh, I can be plenty sarcastic, but he’s LOTS funnier.) Speaking of the late, great, Carlin, even though I can’t do stand-up like him, I’m getting up in years so that someday I might be an Old Fart, like he talks about, except he uses a different F word from fart — as you can imagine he would. Etc., etc., you get the drift. My dreams are the stuff Walter Mittys are made of. But enough about me. This is about Jack, and my envy of his life plan. To celebrate the lad’s recent sixth birthday, Kate and I took him out to dinner. I immediately discovered two facts that placed him at opposite poles: · Jack was a little miffed that the restaurant didn’t supply crayons with the kids placemat with fun activities such as coloring on them (what part of practical don’t you understand, national chain whose name I won’t use for free advertising but is the opposite of hot?). · Even though he wanted to take advantage of the juvenile placemat, he opted to order from the adult menu. (Thus, the price of his entre skied immediately from, like $4.95 including dessert, to, like $12.95 for the sirloin steak PLUS the 6 or 7 bucks for the molten chocolate lava lamp cake he ordered. At any rate, though, I was impressed with how adult he was, and Kate was stunned at his encyclopedic knowledge of dinosaurs, which surface as he perused the dinosaur book we gave him. He not only wiped out the steak but also nearly demolished the cinnamon apples he had opted for instead of fries on the side. (How many kids would pick fruit over fries at a restaurant, when Mom’s not around?) And, when the waitress asked about dessert, before I had a chance to ask whether he still had room, he ordered the bazillion-calorie cake. Well, it was his birthday, and he polished most of it off himself, although Kate and I helped a little. During a lull in his dinosaur lecture, Kate asked him what he wants to be when he grows up. With little hesitation, he replied, “A bagger at Publix,” a ubiquitous grocery store chain here in Florida. I was taken aback, as I expected him to say a paleontologist or some such animal-related occupation. Kate pressed, as she is wont to do, asking why he wanted to be a bagger at Publix. “Because then I can just go home at the end of the day and not worry about work,” he said. What a brilliant observation from such a young man, eh? Oh, I suppose he based it partly on the fact that he sees his dad work a lot at home, because part of his job is home-based. But STILL, it made this Silver Fox envious, because I’ve spent my whole LIFE taking work home. On the other hand, TELL me: Would you let THIS guy bag your groceries?
Today's topic offers so many angles I don't know where to begin. I didn't know whether my oldest, Annie, was playing Truth or Dare with me when the thirtysomething sent me a photo of baby Amelia that BEGGED to be shared — along with a command that I don't post it. (That surprised me, especially in the Facebook era, when people post all sorts of private things.) OR, could it be that Antonia Leigh still has a little of the teen defiance from the Brat Pack era in which she grew up, before even pagers existed? Speaking of the Brat Pack era, I STILL love "Don't You … Forget About Me."
Back to the topic at hand: Did NO mean YES, in this instance? After all, if Annie posted it, somebody might say, "How DARE you post a nekkid pic of your daughter!" But if I did, the worst that could happen would be somebody clucking and asking what more to expect of a doddering old granddad. Yup, Annie could have been trying to make me the fall guy, to have me do the dirty work of publishing a photo that might haunt my granddaughter if she ever tried to run for Senate or even president. (That’s assuming, of course, that these ancient Web archives even exist when she’s of an electable age.) I can just see the news story now: “The wheels fell off of Amelia XXXXX’s campaign applecart today when photos surfaced of her posing nekkid in the tub … ” Back from the future to the present: I thought Annie had left me some wiggle room, the way she phrased the warning: “This better not get posted on any blogs! But I thought it was cute so I'm sending it!” I think a guy could read between the words to find the hidden message: “This better not get posted on any blogs (unless YOU want to, Dad)! But I thought it was cute so I'm sending it! (AND, it‘s OK if you want to post it, Daddy Dearest.)” See, the message was in there, when I squinted. On the other hand, what if she were serious, but I've still got enough parental p--- and vinegar to embarrass my kids once in awhile, as all parents do? In their youth, they all seemed to think I was pretty embarrassing, even though I didn't try and I don't recall ever picking my nose or farting in front of their classmates. Evidence: * After I went to a special event at Annie's school when she was in, oh, seventh or eighth grade, she stormed into the house that night, pitched a fit and banned me from wearing my elephant pants in front of her friends ever again. (I was thinking about those pants just the other day; DAMN I miss 'em.) * When Brendan was in high school, he routinely told me he was playing at baseball field "A" when he actually was playing at field "Z," which was a bazillion miles away from "A," so I would go to the wrong field and wouldn’t have time to get to the real site. Once in awhile, I'd trip him up and get there on time. I never could figure out why he didn't want me to show up, especially since you'd think he owed me some loyalty for getting him out of bed at 5:30 a.m., trekking through the Minnesota north to the ice rink and putting on his skates from the time he was 6. (Back then, his main gripe was having to get up that early; my gripes were legion, from bundling up dead weight and carrying him through the cold into the car, trying to force ice skates on the floppy feet of a sleeping kid, and then trying to stay warm myself during practice.) After all, I didn't ever upbraid a ref or an ump or scream, "Brendan Michael Tighe," if he made a slip-up, like my stepmom hollered, "Michael Joseph Tighe," across the field in our small Nebraska town, loud enough to be heard on both coasts, one day when I let a ball scoot twixt my legs at shortstop. * When Allison was 12 and I would take her to the mall, she insisted that I walk 20 or 30 feet away, or just disappear, so nobody would see that I was with her. Or she was with me, depending on your perspective. Sooooooooo, if Annie were serious, how could I blunt her anger, if she didn't buy into fact that I've always been a source of embarrassment? Spread it around. Since this involves nudity, would it be fair, for instance, to recall the time the neighbor across the street called and asked me whether I knew Brendan was running up and down the sidewalk. Nekkid? Well, to tell you the truth, I had to tell her no, that I didn’t know where my son was, but I wished it was dark instead of broad daylight. He was only 4 then, but I also recall the time, when he was 16 or so, and his sisters burst in on him while he was taking a bath on Christmas Day and shot a picture of him. Even though nothing showed, and it not only wasn't the era of instant gratification but also wasn't these days of Facebook, in which it could be posted worldwide, he was furious. How mad? Well, as siblings will do, even though Annie had instigated the photo session, he nonetheless joined her in an unholy alliance and proceeded to eavesdrop on a phone conversation Allison was having. This was before cellphone era, right smack dab in the beeper period of antiquity, so they were listening on a phone extension. When Allison heard them giggling, she blew a gasket, ran into the living room and turned the air of Christmas Day blue, and FROSTY, with a string of invectives that included words I never had heard and didn’t know you could combine. So, if I revealed all those — how mad could Annie get if I posted the photo of Amelia bathing? It’s soooooooooooo cute. And, as I mentioned before, there also was the chance Annie actually WANTED me to post the tub photo. After ALL, the rubber ducky was placed strategically. Until she told me that no, in this case, DEFINITELY meant NO. (Sadly, part of the reason is that, these days, all sorts of unsavory characters are cruising the Web, looking to prey on children’s photos.) So, I heed her wishes, and you’ll just have to be satisfied with a photo of Amelia playing with Miss Kitty.
P.S.: No rubber duckies were injured in taking the photo of Amelia in the tub, I presume.
Grandparents be forewarned: The phrase “What happens at the grandparents’ house STAYS at the grandparents’ house” makes a cute T-shirt slogan, but in real life, a grandkid may not hesitate to throw you under the bus. I’ve known ever since Shep was a pup and, yes, Vincent was knee-high to a cockroach, that Melissa’s rule is the kids can have Coke only on Saturdays. I learned that she’s serious about the rule, back in the day when I thought I could make an exception if the boys were visiting. Ever since that day when she upbraided me, albeit gently, about the subterfuge, I’ve hewn to the rule. Until a couple of weeks back, when I fell asleep at the switch at the concession stand at a movie. Of course, my goal at the concession stand is just to survive, getting the boys to focus long enough to decide what they want so the line doesn’t build up behind us and people start hissing at me. So I didn’t flinch when Vincent and Jack said they wanted Coke in their kiddy trays (popcorn, drink, and candy or cookie, depending on the theater), while Luke opted for a fruit drink. I was just happy to get the trays loaded and be on our way without spilling anything, which I have done before, much to my embarrassment. I’ve done the drill a good dozen times, often having to finish off Jack’s popcorn (Luke’s usually is too soggy because his drink often spills). On the way home, I asked Jack why he never finishes his popcorn. “I don’t like popcorn,” he asserted mildly. “Well, why do you always get it?” I asked. “You never asked me whether I wanted it,” he replied. Ba-da-bump. From the mouths of kids. On the other hand, he HAD asked for Coke, so you can imagine when he said, a few blocks later, “Boy, Papa Mike, Mommy’s gonna KILL you when she finds out we had Coke!!!” Imagine the betrayal I felt, because the lad looks sooooooooooo innocent while sleeping, even in Halloween attire:
Of course, he can be threatening when he's awake:
At any rate, I panicked as the additional truth soaked in that I not only had violated the rule but also had filled ’em with caffeine in the late afternoon of a school night. I was caught on the horns of a dilemma: Should I talk him into lying — perhaps even bribe him — or hope he wouldn’t narc me out? My first inclination was the lying route, but I figured that would only plant the seed for him to become a politician or a golfer someday and fib about his sexual escapades. So I took the high road, ushering them inside when I got them home, pushing them in the door and hollering, “I bought them Coke” as I escaped. But like I said, you can’t count on the little rugrats to cover your tracks. And from now on, when I feel like I’d like to buy the world a Coke, I make sure it’s a Saturday. Speaking of, the many variations of Coke’s World commercials are classics, including this one:
In this case, I’d call upon the polar bears line, too, since I’m trying not to offend Mama Bear, because Mama knows best when to offer her offspring a Coke:
So who might he be? Perhaps a poor, redheaded stepchild from the era of black and white photos. I bet he’s grayed a bit over the decades, so he’d be as hard to track down as the softball photographer.
