Return of the Prodigal Son

Our Older Boy Returns from Wild Outdoors: Is a Launch In Sight?

If he read this, he'd have my head. So be it. I'm his father and proud of it.

Alexander is 19 and recently returned from a set of outdoor expeditions that put him squarely in the "student" class. Negotiating tent arrangements, food and gear with twenty some other adventurers, he was gone for almost four months.

National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS), a program I'd never heard about, shuttled his group from the desert south of Tucson -- backpacking and rock climbing -- to British Columbia: sea kayaking and sailing. I couldn't have handled it but...he was just fine. Probably the youngest one there but...we won't know because he tells us so little.

No pictures. Few stories. "What do you want to know?" he asks us when he invite him to lecture us of his crusades. Pulling teeth is easier than eliciting information.

What now? we're asking ourselves. Will he be with us forever? He has no plans and is not the college-bound type. Bright, articulate, arrogant, brash even. He understands the hyprocrisy and state of brokenness of most of our systems. What can you do with someone with that wisdom at such an early age? Hopeless and depressed? No. Realistic, yes.

So, our older son is back (he has older siblings from Patty's previous marriage) but he's the lead guy for the next one who is, thankfully, a hand full too. How do we interact with him now? He's an adult. Or, should be. I love being a father.

Powered by ScribeFire.

I'm the Turd Man: A Case for Neuro-plasticity

It's A Better Job Than You Think

Some people might cringe at this but...I've been picking up dog turds for more than 25 years.  I shudder to think of the total number that I've collected in my simple way: a small garden shovel and a non-descript dark brown office garbage pail.  I'm sure, just before I die, I'll recall the smell of all those piles of...dog poopy and think fondly of all of the animals I got to care for. 

It's not as easy as you think, to look among the detritus of oaks, redwoods and sycamore leaves and find small brown ropes of 1 inch sized turds.  I believe this work has done wonders for the "plasticity" of my brain.  Yes, that's the new science that many researchers are exploring these days; as we age, it would appear that stimulated, engaged brains are expanding brains.  I'm looking forward to the possibility of my next 30 years (my grandfather lived until 100) with my role as "Turd Man" or more accurately "Turd Pickup Man."

I have tried, my best mind you, to entice two sets of children -- my stepkids and my biologicals -- in this "art" of, what I've called for a long time, the "dooper brigade."  Alas, none has seen fit to take up the family mantle (I wonder what a "coat of arms" for me might look like: forget the trident -- you can't pick up anything with that device.)  I am it as far as picking up goes.  "Are you sure you don't want to learn how to do this?" I tease my kids once in a while.  They smile.  I think about that smell I'll recall on my death bed.

There are some unique aspects of the enterprise: I get to see when my dog has been going off our "strict" nutritional intake program and eating cellophane or some small plastic child's toy; yellow is the easiest color to spot: nice contrast. I haven't yet found tools but, one time, with my previous dog, I do remember seeing a twisted leather finger from a work glove; except for the stitching, it didn't look that damaged.

California, I must say, is a better place for the activity than Illinois: the drier climate helps with the excavation from the ground.  And, the composting process is faster.  (I haven't used it for any plantings just yet but...I'm thinking hard about it.)

The job is, often, a wonderful one because I don't have a schedule for it.  So, the work stems from inspiration: "Oh, look there, some turds...hmm, where's my bucket, my shovel?"  I'm completely absorbed, too; it's akin to the intellectual enterprise of writing this piece: I must immerse, figuratively, myself in the task.

Henry, our beloved 13 year old, 92 pound golden retriever, is quite effective at supplementing his expensive diet with cat food, decomposing garbage items and compost remnants.  I love him dearly and feel very close to him.  But I'm clear that he has no understanding of this task of mine; once in a while he'll watch while I'm picking up his poo and give me one of those looks that says, innocently of course, "I have no idea what you're doing...I didn't ask you and...oh, did you know that searching for those turds is good for your brain old man?" 

Powered by ScribeFire.