How Much Should They Know?

We all like to tell tales.  Whether they are of good times or bad, of triumph or spectacular defeat or of general youthful jackassery, it’s all great fodder.  I enjoy few things more than being with a group of good friends exchanging stories.  Some I’ve heard (and told) dozens of times, and some are brand new.  Briefly living vicariously in those spinning yarns feels pretty darn great. 

There is a point, however, that I think the stories either need to wait or even be buried completely.  And that’s when it comes to my sons.  I don’t know if I can put a finger on exactly why, and maybe the reason is different depending on the content, but my instincts tell me to either tone down, delay or completely suppress certain telling of adventures of my younger self.   And this is conflicting a bit.

I don’t want to portray my life as different than it actually was/is, but there are certainly some things they don’t necessarily need to know.  It may be obvious, but that’s the way it was with my dad as I grew up.  The older I got, the more I learned about his past.  I never felt that was anything but right.  And I think it served a purpose.  It harkens back to a previous article (Hammer Away, My Friends).  Just as you don’t need to be best chums with your adolescent kids, your children don’t necessarily benefit from knowing everything about you.  I’m not suggesting living a double life or being overly mysterious, just that little Timmy knowing your every dark secret is probably not the greatest idea until he’s old enough to understand all the necessary context.

As parents, our past is a great teaching tool.  My mistakes have made for fantastic guidelines with which to steer my boys.  Thankfully I have NO end to the list of mistakes from which to refer.  I mean, who hasn’t strapped on a ball gag and snorted a shot of tequila out of a strippers navel while being ritualistically whipped by a….oh, hehe.  That might just be me, but live and learn I say.

See, there is no context I can envision in which my kids would need to hear that story.  If they did, it would only start to break down whatever respect (stop laughing) they might have built up for me.  And it’s not even that I don’t want them to get it in their head that they shouldn’t do that.  Weird as it might be, it would be OK with me IF, and it’s a big IF they were old enough to get into such a thing.  But one, I don’t want to hear about it; and two, I don’t want them to think I would openly condone or suggest they go out and try it.  At the right age and maturity level they’ll get to those sorts of things on their own.  No good comes from putting my tacit stamp of approval on certain things until I think they are ready for it.

There is a built in filter that I have developed, distilled from years of hearing and not hearing my parent’s escapades.  I think back about my perception of them as I grew up the dynamic that was established in my home.  It worked and it was comfortable, so of course I’d like to replicate that for my kids.  I think that doling out my past judiciously is a good way to keep that dynamic within a range that works for me and the kids.  Someday they’ll get to hear the rest of the story I started above, that is if the hypnotherapy can dredge it out of my repressed memory.  In the mean time, we’ll exchange more appropriate anecdotes and hopefully make some together that they may or may not tell their kids some day.

RALSTON HAS SPOKEN

Reflections on Simple Pleasures

     As I sat on my deck after a wonderful weekend I found myself content in what I once would have considered almost ridiculous pleasures. This happens to us all, I think, as we get older and mature. Although I'm not sure that's always a good thing. Our tastes change, to be sure, but there's something to be said for one's internal consistency. Would it be so bad if my aspirations rose "only" to wings and beer? Certainly not, since sometimes that's exactly what I want. But by and large, I find myself in a more adult world. A world of leather bound books and rooms at smell of rich mahogany.
     Last night I had myself a large (nearly perfectly made, thank you very much) gin and tonic. I'll point out, since I find myself becoming kind of a snob about it, that it's Sapphire gin...just adds a bit more taste. Of course I served it in an Eagles pint glass, but that couldn't be helped. Along with my nearly perfect drink I had an Oliva Series G. That's a cigar...told you I was becoming a bit of a snob. A fantastic smoke that I relish more and more, especially with a cocktail or (more often) a good stout or lager.
     Even just a handful of years ago, I would have viewed that last paragraph as a load of pompous crap.  But the development of these different tastes has been a pleasure that I'm glad has happened.  More so because they are in addition my original set of preferences, not a replacement for them.
     Of course all this is really just common sense.  Tastes change.  Almost always will over time.  But it begs the question, "Am I happy about it?"  The simple answer is yes, especially since I derive so much pleasure from this more, I'll call it refined, palette.  However, there are a couple things I consider when pondering this about myself.
    First is that I find that enjoying the new pastime of cigars and gin comes with more alone time than I'm used to.  That's not a bad thing at all, I like it actually.  But it feels strange to choose something that may limit time with family and friends.  I suppose that says something about my true nature, but I'll let you judge me on that point.  As I imagine it, there are fewer things better than hanging at a shot-and-a-beer joint with a group of friends, playing shuffleboard and generally carousing.  Feels funny to so easily put that aside.
     Second, and harder to come to grips with, is the feeling of growing ever so slightly pretentious.  Not sure pretentious is the right word, since the feelings are genuine.  I'm not trying to put on airs, it's just the way things are.  Unless left with no other option, I can't bring myself to intentionally choose a light beer.  I find myself with a taste, generally, for cigars a bit beyond my financial comfort.  Although I haven't been able to get past paying too much for something I'm going to burn and inhale...just wrangles me a little.  Also, give me Tanqueray or better.  I actually have no idea if that is a "great" gin, but I know lesser ones when I taste them and I turn my nose up at them.  Geez, I sound like an ass-head just writing that.
     I suppose my point here (is there one?) is that it's nice to embrace these new directions.  Don't go quietly into that untested night.  When you ponder things, anything, having had these new experiences and growth, you'll have a wider perspective.  Wrap your arms around that which you once eschewed.  You don't know what you might be missing.  It'll feel unnatural at first, but you might just be finding your next favorite thing.

Duuh-Duh....Duuh-Duh

I couldn’t have been more excited.  It was finally time to sit down with my sons to watch one of my all time favorite movies.  JAWS.  I couldn’t wait to see their reactions to some of the pivotal scenes, to the appearance of the shark, to the watery terror that still resides in a small box at the back of my brain.

I first saw Jaws in the theater with my dad and a younger cousin.  We were about 10 and 8, I think.  Not sure exactly how old we were, but I remember with absolute clarity the moment Chrissie Watkins gets yanked under the water for the first time shrieking in terror.  I can recall precisely our reaction when the fish smashed into Hooper’s cage; and when Ben Gardner’s head rolls into view through the hole in the bottom of his boat, our asses clenched so tightly we both levitated off our seats. 

It’s been more than thirty years since that first viewing.  I bet I’ve seen Jaws a hundred times, and I still consider it when I go in the ocean.  Every shadow is a toothy killer.  Everything that brushes my legs is finny death.  It was that affecting.

OK, back to the present.  Both boys loved the movie, but I suspect it won’t scar them as it did me.  I was sure of that when the aforementioned head rolled out of the boat, my younger son yelled “Ah, zombie!!”  I know it shocked both kids, but for any number of reasons they saw through the robotic shark.  They appreciated the movie, my older (12 year old) son even proclaiming Spielberg a genius when the movie ended, but they were already beyond the psychological horror.

I know it’s cliché to compare our (40 something’s) childhood to our kids, but this weekend made it more clear that kids today really are a little more jaded than I was.  Whether it be from television content, more intense video games, internet access to everything, round the clock doom and gloom news coverage, their small psyche’s have had to absorb, filter and deal with much more than I remember having to.

The moment the credits were done, we talked about their favorite parts and the special effects…they always like creative special effects.  Then they quickly moved on to requesting another movie viewing.  Now they want to see Alien.  That one is a little more intense, but I’m considering letting them watch it.  Part of me wants them to be scared like I was at these movies but part of me doesn’t want them to go through it.  Either way, I’m more than happy to sit and share the experience with them.  And if I’m “lucky” one of these days, I’ll have to deal with a couple kids who can’t sleep afterward.  If nothing else it taught me a lesson in not living vicariously through my kids, but instead to enjoy living with them.

RALSTON HAS SPOKEN

THAT IS ALL

You Say Potato, I Say Solanum Tuberosum

I had an interesting thought this week.  Why do we (read: I) care about other people’s practices?  I had this thought about religion specifically.  There are certainly many different ways to answer the question, but when it comes right down to it, it shouldn’t matter to me one way or the other how/why anyone observes their particular religion/philosophy/spirituality/etc.

For the record, I was raised catholic.  Church every Sunday until I was an “adult”, baptized, communion, CCD and confirmation.  Christmas was a birthday and Easter was a resurrection.  As soon as I was old enough to make my own decision, I was out.  I can’t put my finger on exactly when, but it was around the first time my parents didn’t force me to church when I was away at school.  As I grew and learned and formed an intelligent view of nature, the world and its people, there was a point when a bell went off in my head.  That bell signaled the end of organized religion in my life.  It didn’t make sense any more.  I grew out of it – thankfully.  I say thankfully, because I can’t imagine being one of the lemmings any longer.

Now hold on a second.  Before you start your hate mail because I just insulted you, consider that this is my choice.  Just because I see it as silly doesn’t mean it shouldn’t work for you.

For the longest time I viewed adults, especially those I would consider intelligent, who stuck to organized religion as sad, weak sheep.  But, in the spirit of live and let live, I think I could actually be wrong about that.  Not about the religion being bunk part, but in the looking down my nose part.  I understand how silly it is to believe in an all powerful god/creator and a virgin birth and resurrection.  But I suppose some people need to cling to that faith.  I can’t imagine why, but as long as they don’t try to force it on me or my family, why should I care?

I know it sounds like a simple thing, but coming to this acceptance wasn’t easy for me.  Respected friends and family fall into the above categories, and I don’t like thinking any of them as being so naïve or needy.  However, since I’m absolutely pro choice in all aspects of life I needed to let myself relax and allow others to do as they wish without judgment (when possible – hehe).  You may choose to have faith that there actually is a heaven where people go when they die.  That’s cool.  You may believe that we constantly come back as other beings for eternity.  OK.  I can’t prove otherwise, so until I can I guess wll just agree to disagree.

So as a shepherd to my sheep I say, “Go to you fields, graze as you like, where you like, when you like.  But don’t let anyone shear you while you’re out there.  At the end of the day we’ll all be together again in the barn.”

RALSTON HAS SPOKEN

THAT IS ALL