Monthly Archive for August, 2008

Whew! Hey everybody. I know it’s been forever since I’ve updated, and for that I apologize, but blogging after a long delay is a little like balancing your checkbook after Christmas, the sense of growing debt kind of keeps you at bay. You may rest assured that Corelyn and I are safely and happily in Los Angeles, California, in our gorgeous new apartment, which I must confess we’re both head over heels for. It has some eccentricities, because the building itself used to be a hotel, but the high ceilings, sun-soaked tan color of the walls, and spacious living room sell us pretty well.

Or, at least, they would, if we could manage to unearth them from the sea of detritus that is post-moving trash and boxes. There, again, is another thing that keeps you in a stall because of a looming back-tax. My wife is a woman who likes to get herself “nested” in an environment as quickly as possible, so normally she blitzkriegs her unpacking process and has the place looking somewhat like her home in about 24 hours. In this case, though, that just didn’t happen, mainly because we had a lot of stuff and hardly any furniture, which makes settling in a little tricky. This state of affairs came to an emotional head last night, when it was clear that my wife could not tolerate things as they were any longer, and we kicked into high-gear to get everything somewhat organized. It took hours, but it was surprisingly satisfying, and we were both happier afterwards.

I guess I’ve never told you all officially about how the move went. It was…ugly. We had just Corelyn and myself, an entire 5×8 trailer full of heavy stuff, a seventh floor apartment to get it to, and a loading zone with a ticking time limit. Do the math, my friends, it was unpleasant. By the time it was over, we were emotionally and physically aching. It didn’t help that as soon as that was done, culture shock set in heavily on us both. Where are we? We’d never lived in the heart of a city before, especially on the other side of the freaking country. I can honestly say I’ve never been so terrified in my entire life, it felt like a hand was gripping my lungs everywhere we went, and it only made it worse to see plainly that Cor felt the same way.

The next day, at the behest of an earnest prayer of Corelyn’s for some “help,” the Lord delivered us a real blessing in the form of an old friend from high school, Becca Lear. She swooped down in a white SUV without air conditioning, hands full of a dozen mapquested locations she thought we should know, and whisked us around LA and the surrounding cities in order to make us feel more at home. It worked like a charm. I could almost feel the weight begin to lift off of my wife’s shoulders, and when you’re married, how the lady feels is how you feel. Then, because the Lord is generous, we met up with Becca’s little sister, Rachel (sometimes affectionately called “Lil’ Lear”), who was in the process of moving in to her apartment for her sophomore year at USC. Rachel sternly lectured me on USC etiquette: you never call it “USC,” you call it “SC.” That’s just how it is, don’t rock the boat on this one.

It turned out Mamma Lear was also in town, helping her daughter get situated, so she generously took us out for a delicious dinner at the California Pizza Kitchen. When we arrived home, exhausted but refreshed, things were a little different. Make no mistake, dear reader, this is still a scary change, but the Lears were really God’s way of patting us on the back and winking slyly. “It’s gonna be fine,” the Big Guy seemed to be saying.

But He wasn’t done yet. A day or two later, the roving momster-and-dadster arrived, sporting their A-Bus and a “can-do” attitude. They took us out to dinners, helped us shop for furniture, and repeated over and over that we were making the right decision, relating tales of their own uncertainty when they first struck out into a big city. It was clear to Corelyn and I both that the Lord had a support structure ready for us, because He knew we’d be scared. He is something else.

Bad news, though: we missed Matt and Kelly’s wedding due to our new friend Gustav cancelling our flight. We’re both disappointed, but the newlyweds had the foresight to arrange for a reception in Atlanta a few weeks after the wedding, so we’ll get to see family and congratulate them after all. Still, we’re deeply annoyed, and believe me when I tell you, we tried for HOURS to book another flight that would get us there in time. It just wasn’t in the Big Guy’s plan, it seems.

Oh! I have another good story for you, but this one is not particularly uplifting. A few nights ago, I decided to head out to the Arclight Theater, a somewhat famous LA spot that, allegedly, sported assigned seating, rigorous in-movie silence, way expensive tickets, and the absolute best in picture and sound quality. Excited to break the joint in with a viewing of “The Dark Knight,” I arrived about five minutes late with a ticket I’d purchased online, and found myself the stunned recipient of a “no” from customer services. “We don’t do late seating.”

“What?” I asked.

“I’m sorry,” the manager said calmly, “We don’t seat late.”

“But I bought the ticket!”

“I know,” he nodded sympathetically, “And we’ll give you a voucher for it, you can see anything else you want, anytime. But we just can’t disturb peoples’ movie-watching experience.”

I huffed furiously. I don’t like being denied my precious Bat-fix.

“Look,” he said, seeing my displeasure, “If it makes you feel any better, we refused to seat Quentin Tarantino late.”

“Really?” I gasped.

“Yeah. That’s why we weren’t allowed to have ‘Kill Bill,’ he never forgave us.”

I know it’s stupid, but that made me feel better. To treat a celebrity exactly the same as me gave me a sense of fairness, so two points to that customer relations guy for picking the right anecdote. I got my voucher and went to see “Tropic Thunder” instead, which was in their SUPER huge theater (so massive it’s in a different building). The theater itself: bangin’. The movie: awful. I do not understand why everyone is giving this movie such great reviews, it’s got the attention span of a 12 year old sucking down pixie dust. I wish this thing had been made by the Coen Brothers, who would’ve understood how to let subtlety and nuance into the thing. All due respect, Ben Stiller, but I can’t stand a comedy that thinks it has to wham me over the head to get a laugh. 

In all likelihood, “Tropic Thunder” is probably the illegitimate offspring of Stiller’s (and everyone involved) bottled-up frustration with the moviemaking business. Shooting this thing must have felt like scratching a decade-long itch, and on that level, I can appreciate it. There’s also a fake trailer in the beginning with Robert Downey Jr. and a surprise guest star in a blatant rip-off of “Brokeback Mountain,” now relocated to 12th century Christian monks. “Hilarious” is not a strong enough word, I nearly cried.

Speaking of Downey Jr, he is unquestionably hilarious, but his character is written in such a bizarre way. The plot, as you may or may not know, involves actors dropped into the jungle to shoot a war movie “guerilla style,” who are gradually becoming aware that what they perceive to be set pieces might be actual combat. Now as the plot develops, it becomes clear that Stiller’s character holds fast to the belief that everything must just be a part of the set, whereas Downey Jr, the Australian method actor whose fanatical devotion leads him to get pigment-altering surgery to play a black man, becomes sure that they’re actually in real trouble. This didn’t make any sense to me. Wouldn’t Downey Jr’s character, who is helpless to pull himself out of his own character, be more likely to get hopelessly immersed in the delusion of making a movie, even if it was clear they were in real danger? And wouldn’t Stiller’s character, feeling competitive with his Oscar-adorned co-star, hesitate to believe this, but go along to prove he could be “method” as well? Isn’t that what would make sense for the characters? Maybe it’s just me.

Anyway, that wasn’t even the story! Here’s the story!

So I pulled out of the movie theater, and was waiting to make a right turn onto Sunset Boulevard, when I noticed a loud shouting noise on my right. I looked over and saw a young couple coming out of a nightclub, trailed by two seething Asian women, who were screaming insults at the back of their heads. The guy turned around and tried to make peace for awhile, but when it didn’t work, he decided to remove himself and his girlfriend from the situation. This did not work, the Asian girls kept coming, eventually getting violent with the dude’s girlfriend. Angry and a little drunk, the guy shoved them both over, and they landed hard on the concrete.

Now my bells went off, and I parked my car to spring out and intervene, but two things stopped me: 1) Pushing women is never okay, but there was no question this guy was trying to protect his girlfriend, nor was there any doubt that these two girls were going to hurt someone if left to their own devices. They were being insane, even following them across the street. 2) I noticed a few cops around, and decided they’d have more pull to intervene in this scenario than I.

So I waited. But the cops didn’t do anything. I also noticed that the car in front of me had a green light, and absolutely was not budging. What was going on?

I looked closer. There weren’t a “few” cops, there were tons of them. Their cars splattered all over the road forming a barricade. Their guns were drawn, and I don’t just mean pistols, they were packing shotguns as well. A helicopter was buzzing angrily around overhead, beaming a spotlight down on a white SUV parked about 200 feet from the front of my car. What the hell?

“Step OUT of the car!” A cop yelled angrily into a loudspeaker. Holy crap. I was in the middle of a freaking stand-off. Meanwhile, the violence was still threatening to escalate with the four party-goers across the street. The cops were there, but they had their hands full, and now the four of them were wandering into the middle of an armed stalemate without even paying attention to where they were.

“Step OUT of the car!” Finally, a young woman emerged, and then a man from the back seat. They were both taken down, and then several LAPD officers dove on the situation I’d been monitoring and sent the participants off before any harm came to anyone. Whew. Thank God.

Rest assured, this all took place a pretty fair drive away from where Corelyn and I live, but nonetheless.

Welcome to LA. 

Greetings to all from a Days Inn in Albuquerque, where the wife and I spent the previous evening. We’re both in agreement that New Mexico is some of the most beautiful landscape anywhere in America, which of course was little shock to yours truly, since I had been blessed by parents who hauled me across this great nation in my younger days. For Corelyn, however, this was all quite new, and I have to admit I’ve scarcely seen her so giddy and excited as when we pulled in to grab gas and found ourselves looking out on to a wind-swept desert, layered with tumbleweeds and distant mesas. Adding to the splendor, the wind was cooled by an oncoming thunderstorm, so the air temperature sat at a perfect mid-70s. It was gorgeous. “I could live here!” Corelyn giggled.

Turns out, though, that God was just cracking his knuckles on that one. A half an hour later, as I-40 snaked its way through the desert, the sun began setting on our right, splashing the low-hanging clouds with gold and red, while at the same exact moment, an elegant but fearsome thunderstorm whipped itself into a frenzy on our left, shards of lightning cracking the sky and cold wind snapping the air. It was, without question, the most beautiful sunset either of us had even encountered.

On another subject, there really are three passengers in our road warrior of a Toyota Avalon, not two. Sure, there’s myself and Corelyn, but we’ve also adopted a strange new tagalong, whom we have dubbed “Cassie.” She’s a feisty thing, with very opinionated views about how our journey should proceed. She perches herself like a gargoyle on our windshield and barks orders fervently: “Keep left! In two miles, make a U-turn! Re-calculating! Re-calculating!” Cassie, of course, is named for Cassandra, the Greek woman with a gift for prophecy that was spiked with an awful caveat: her words of warning would never be believed. Our Cassie must often feel that she is in this same predicament. When we tell her we need to stop for gas, she seems to believe that this process will take a mere fraction of a second, and begins stubbornly ordering us back onto the road before we’ve even parked the car. Don’t even get me started about her feelings on us eating. To her, there is only the road, and these “stops” we keep telling her about are heretical and time-consuming.

Anyway, we’ve grown quite fond of her. Using Bluetooth, she can function as my phone in almost every way, even uploading my address book into her memory. She has an MP3 player, an incredibly detailed summary of the journey so far, a helpful guide to local attractions, and even provides a database of phone numbers for upcoming hotels and restaurants. She’s quite a wonder. But, like all geniuses, she comes equipped with a fiery temper. Deviate from her plan, and you’re going to hear about it constantly.

Another neat thing that happened on our trip took place in the least likely area: Arkansas. I’ve known a few people from this state who attended William and Mary, and all of them spoke about it much the same way you would describe a prison, so my feeling was that we should simply blaze through it. My wife, however, wanted an authentic “Western trip” experience, and she gently encouraged me to find us a local place to grab lunch. Despite my misgivings, I chose for us the “Ole Sawmill Cafe,” a very “Cracker Barrell”-esque locale with a buffet and a gift store. The buffet was delicious, home-cooked food, adorned with a stern warning that every plate not fully consumed comes with a $2.00 surcharge. It was also incredibly reasonably priced and the service was friendly and old-school. This in and of itself was victory enough, but lo and behold, the gift store happened to have a few vintage “Batman” comics from a line that was published well over a decade ago, and in spite of the fact that these collector’s items would now fetch a much higher price, they were being sold for their printed value: $3.00. I snatched one right up and read it in the car, then carefully wrapped it up and saved it for addition to my collection.

I must confess, I had never been a big fan of this particular Batman storyline before, but this little comic book was one of the best-written Bat-adventures I’ve experienced this year. I am now anxious to get my hands on the entire line, which was collected into a graphic novel called “Knightfall.”

Okay, okay, enough Batman talk. Corelyn has been reading up a storm on this trip, as you might imagine. She audio-booked a very popular teenage vampire novel called “Twilight,” which is making its way to the silver screen as we speak. Her feelings on it could best be called “mixed enthusiasm”: she reported that most of it was cliched and over-girly, and as such kind of a guilty pleasure, but on the other hand it held her attention very firmly, and offered an interesting take on vampires. In particular, I was stunned by the author’s very inventive excuse for making the blood-suckers so darned physically attractive, which is normally a kind of “roll your eyes” moment in these things. Not so here, the author brilliantly proposes that vampires function much like Venus Fly Traps: they are meant to look appealing to their prey, because they want to get close to them.

You have to admit, that’s way clever.

The title of this blog is a reference to the lilting refrain from the Madonna/Justin Timberlake song “4 Minutes” that I have rigorously stuck in my head. Do you laugh at me, dear reader? Go listen to it, I *dare* you. It’s audio crack cocaine.

The state of the LA Allens is pretty hectic right now, as we’re literally hurling our most prized possessions at ragged brown boxes and the rest at the Salvation Army, feverishly eyeing our launch date of August 18th. Some of you have probably heard that we have indeed secured an apartment in Los Angeles at long last, and we’re very pleased with the results. The rooms are spacious, the neighborhood has very low crime and high quality of life, etc. It seems like a good place to be. 

I spent the previous weekend in Alexandria saying goodbye to the many friends I’m leaving behind there, and I admit the process was hard for me. For the most part, we elected to spend that time like any other regular weekend, but towards the end I found myself more and more emotionally vulnerable as I became aware I was clocking my last few hours with these wonderful people for quite some time. It’s amazing how the Lord has blessed me with the likes of Billy, Zach, Mike, Chaney, Mommy Cover, Kristy, the Generalissimo, Mark, Brendan, and so on and so forth (there are more). I never thought I’d find a group of people so amazingly complex, diverse and utterly fantastic, and it’s quite a sacrifice to give up the ability to see them whenever I like. Whenever the thought bothers me, the Lord gently reminds me that His plan for me has always required giving up things I want in the name of something more, and even though he doesn’t say *what* exactly, He seems to hint that I’m heading for something big. It is that thought that keeps me strong.

And also having Corelyn. My goodness, what would I *do* without the woman? She and I had a long conversation today reflecting on the differences in our, ahem, styles of accomplishing things. It is a well-known fact, learned by myself by viewing my wife do everything from study for a test to planning a wedding, that her style of overcoming obstacles is made possible by an acute ability to worry about them intensely; mine is not. Contrary to what my immediate family might snickeringly imply about me, I am quite capable of exhaustive stress, but when faced with “tasks” such as getting everything packed, I compartmentalize down to one thing at a time. If I get all of my clothes packed, then great! There’s an accomplishment, good for you, Rew. I am aware of the sum of my troubles, insofar as I lay out a plan to surmount them, but I take them apart a piece at a time, focusing only a single thing until it’s completed.

Corelyn finds this approach to be something on the border of insanity, she must worry about the big picture. Because her mortal nature forces her to, she also does things one at a time, but she proceeds through them with a violent intensity, constantly reminding herself not to be happy that she finished one thing because there’s ten more coming. In her eyes, I am a grinning fool, content to thoroughly stomp out a burning leaf while a forest fire rages behind me. By my perception, on the other hand, she is a kamikaze pilot whose desperation to achieve their goal will necessarily extinguish her ability to enjoy its completion.

You cannot fathom how endlessly frustrating it can get, trying to make her enjoy what she accomplishes. It’s true, Corelyn’s renegade problem solving style does actually get more done than my “one-piece-at-a-time” approach, but the delicious irony of her situation is that she never actually feels victorious, whereas I feel like a champion the whole time. When the wedding was over, I tried vainly to make her think about how happy she was that it all went off without a hitch, remembering her honeyed promises of how much more pleasant she’d be once this gigantic ceremony was “out of the way,” but of course it didn’t work. “Isn’t it great how the wedding went perfectly?” I’d ask, “Aren’t you so thrilled?!”

Her reply was exactly the same one I always get in these moments: a stoic “yeah,” followed by a slow darkening of her face with worry, a quick breath, and then “But now we have to do [insert looming task].” Sigh. Well I tried.

Anyway, the point of this is that our conflicting managing styles are at war again on this project, but we’re so good at merging them into a cohesive team by now that we hardly notice. I’m confident we’re going to get everything done in ample time, but of course when I tell my wife this, she replies with a fervent, “How do you know? You can’t know!“ 

Moving to a different topic, I noticed that Uncle Dwight (or “D,” as he signs his emails, which I think is just about the coolest signature out there) engaged in a long theological debate with himself over the nature of God’s relationship with Satan. He referenced the Book of Job extensively, pointing out a central theme of that Biblical masterpiece: that evil takes place with God’s permission. He found this difficult to swallow, wondering how a being who literally taught us the meaning of “good” could participate in evil on any level.

A good question. I’d like to volunteer, if not an answer, perhaps some thoughts in return, because I have spent some time in a college atmosphere studying the Book of Job, and I’m ardent in the opinion that it should be taken seriously to the utmost degree by all civilizations ever.

Ahem.

First off, there is no question that Job’s story is fictional, and the author intends us to be aware of that fact. Its bombastic and exaggerated nature aside, the scribe behind Job gives us exact recitations of extended dialogues between several men, God, the Devil and angels, and even in a time with tape recorders, we expect that level of omniscience to be a tell-tale sign of fiction.

So, moving on, I think Job forces one of atheism’s most ardently pursued complaints against God into the forefront of our minds: why the heck does God let evil stick around? We Christians pretend we get that one wrapped up in “Jesus 101,” but truthfully as soon as real tragedy hits us, we find ourselves grappling with it more than we’d like to admit. When you look at the situation with even the most basic common sense, you inexorably come to several conclusions: nothing happens without God letting it be so, so God must permit evil, so God has some kind of hand in evil happening.

Don’t think so? I don’t blame you, but Job knows better. You’ll notice that even though Satan is the guy doing the destroying, the actual text of the story makes no distinction between the Devil and God being responsible; both are blamed, and this is never pointed out to be incorrect. God is not a person, remember, He’s totally omniscient, so He has the power to stop any act of evil whenever He decides. As such, any act of evil that does happen anyway, He must and does take some level of responsibility for. He didn’t do it, and He doesn’t like it, but He’s going to allow it.

I think the reason this gets friction from many people is that they have an image of God as completely incapable of participating in evil. He’s kind of a white sheet in this depiction, beyond all stain or reproach. Now I agree with the notion that God is perfect, in fact I think it’s a fundamental truth of life, but the idea that He’s also (for lack of a better term) a prude is, I think, where the understanding goes a little awry. People will frequently shake their heads vigorously at me and say, “No. No. God can’t be part of any evil, ever. He can’t.”

But already there is danger in that statement, before we even dissect it further. God can’t? I know some Christians balk against this idea, but I staunchly believe that the ol’ I AM can do absolutely anything. There is no such thing as “God can’t.” It’s just a ridiculous concept. Some people say “God can’t go back on His word,” but of course He can! If He couldn’t, the fact that He never does would be less impressive. More than that, in a strictly hypothetical sense, God is so powerful that He could promise one thing, do something completely else, and still not be breaking His word. Your knee-jerk response here is no doubt something along the lines of, “That makes no sense,” but I urge you to remember that your system of logic is defunct on the level God plays at. Where He is, reason as we know it simply does not apply.

What binds God? What force can hold Him accountable if He chooses to do one thing and then changes its nature? What will tell Him, “No. That cannot be done.” As humans, prohibitions on our abilities are such a basic part of our experience that we forget to let the concept go when dealing with a sovereign deity.

My point is simply this: God can be in contact with things that are evil, and indeed the Bible makes it clear that He is. This should not surprise us, God is not a fair-weather dandy who hides in Heaven, pinching His noise crying, “Eeeewww! Evil!” That picture gives “evil” too much credit. Remember what C.S. Lewis so wisely pointed out about the Devil: he is not the “opposite” of God, because that implies too much equality. There is no opposite of God. Evil as we know it is an askew splinter faction, neither strong enough to really stand against the Divine for a second longer than He permits nor novel enough to be an actual counterpart to “good.”

All evil things are done for some kind of “good” end, whether because the perpetrator believes it will achieve a noble end, or simply to experience a pleasurable sensation. We, along with the Devil, only do wrong if we like it or we think it is somehow for the best, and try as some of us might, no one can create evil for evil’s sake. That is a mark of its utter weakness. Good, on the other hand, can simply render itself as both a means and an end; it is so incredibly powerful that it justifies itself.

Now, the next point I want to make is going to really boil a little blood: God created the Devil. He did, and He did it on purpose. You just have to deal with that, people. I know we don’t like to think about it, but it’s utterly ridiculous to assume that Yahweh either A) didn’t make him, and he came into being on his own, or B) somehow created him by accident, which implies a God in far less control of the universe than any of us should be comfortable with. Unless I am prepared to call my creator a fool or incompetent, I must assume He’s got this whole “existence of everything ever” in check, and that it’s all going the way He has decided it will. The Devil did not sneak up on Him, guys, and we look like we don’t know what we’re talking about if we tell people that’s what happened.

So now you have to face an ugly fact: God created the Devil, knowing he would become the Devil. Does that make God evil? No. Wrong. Evil is not an infectious disease, people, you don’t “catch” it just by touching Satan. God created the Devil for a reason, and that reason is being played out right now, and it is for *good.* The Lord’s plans for us are for *good,* we just can’t see how yet. Fundamentally, some people will never believe that, and some people always will, but there is no way to prove it. You either buy it or you don’t, it can’t be argued like some kind of scientific theory. 

Do we understand all of this? Not fully. But there’s no question that Satan’s tempting influence grants us the ability to freely choose where our loyalties lie, to actually decide we love the Lord and thus be in a free and complete relationship with Him; perhaps that freedom comes with a terrible price. Personally, I think it’s worth it, and God seems to as well. Evil things have happened, and they’ll keep happening, but remember that the scope of human suffering only seems awful now. If we could talk to Paul, or Peter, or anyone else who has been martyred in the service of the Lord, I guarantee you they’d smile and insist it was not only worth it, but a small price to pay for the glory ahead.

Also, and I can’t prove this one, but remember that we have a God who is all-powerful. Maybe, once we’ve all gained whatever experience He desired for our eternal souls from these trials, He’ll simply wipe the bad parts from having ever happened. He never mentioned anything about that that I know of, but it’s nice to know He could. 

A few things to mull over. It’s late and I need some sleep. 

That was what Jacob declared with a mischievous grin when I told him that his father had just bellowed “bed time!” from downstairs. Corelyn and I had arrived in Nash-vegas (as Brady likes to call it) a few hours before, only to find ourselves headed off by a minivan full of hungry Allens (plus a George) on their way to Maggiano’s. The food, of course, was delicious, but it severely delayed the niece/nephew play-time that Uncle Rew had been so craving, so as soon we got back, a sort of “hide and seek” Olympics commenced. Unfortunately, Jacob and I discovered that Natalie has a propensity for leaping from her hiding spot with a wide grin, unable to await her capture. To make matters worse, she was also fond of pointing a tiny little crooked finger towards wherever her supposed teammate was trying to stay concealed. Many a golden hiding spot was relinquished by this tiny, cackling menace.

The games could only last so long on Thursday night, but come Friday morning a more exhaustive regiment of classics such as “Run Around the Pool Table” (which J-man’s father is wary of, since his son is beginning to utilize his short stature and boundless energy to great effect) and “Tag” was implemented. Although huffing and wheezing, neither Jacob nor myself was man enough to admit we were exhausted, so we mutually feigned boredom and moved onto “Hide and Seek.” An otherwise nonplussed Natalie now joined into the action, and although her uncle could not silence her attempts at conversation when Jacob was “it,” her older brother began (without my suggestion) bravely hiding in the same spot with her whenever I was on the hunt, quietly talking her through the procedure of the game: “Stay quiet, sissy! He’s coming!” She still couldn’t resist hopping out a few times with a wild smile on her face, leaving her brother squeezed behind a couch, smacking his forehead in frustration.

But the day was young, dear reader! And children, you may recall, are limitless in their energy. After a delicious lunch of Italian leftovers, a trip to the pool became inevitable. Upon arriving, Jacob made it clear to me that he wanted to jump into the pool from the side, and I agreed, having caught him several times in the past without difficulty. However, as he shed his arm-floaties and backpedaled steadily away from the side of the pool, his dear old Uncle Rew’s eyes grew wide with fear. “Uh, Jacob, I don’t…” He wasn’t listening, already halfway through a “One Two Three GO!” Before I knew what was happening, he was flying off the side of the pool into the water, sustained in the air by momentum from a ferocious running start. He landed with a mighty splash, finding my attempts to catch him in mid-air completely unnecessary, giggling all the way. Snatching him anxiously out of the water, I turned around to discover his parents equally startled: “Did you just do a running jump, J-man?” Holly asked, alarmed. Apparently, a meager four days of swimming lessons produced some spectacular results.

We lost all track of time at the pool, and by the time we packed up our caravan to return to Bronwyn Manor (if I’m saying the Dadster’s nickname correctly), feats of daring and heroism had been perpetrated by both niece and nephew alike: Natalie was being launched ten feet into the air without hesitation, Jacob was snatching toys off the bottom of the pool, and the supposed “adults” in charge of this expedition were clobbering each other in pursuit of a ball that was being tossed around. We returned, exhausted, to discover a mortified Boomer, tapping his feet angrily; he could tell fun had been had without him.

Speaking of Boomer, my sentimentality for the canine species mixed with a fond reminiscence of the dearly departed B-tar inspired me to invite the shaggy one into bed with me, which the wife tolerated gamely. Now Boomer picked a spot early and fell right to sleep but unfortunately, his human friends were demanding different ratios of covers, switching sleeping positions, and watching television, and about halfway through the night B-town couldn’t take it anymore, resigning to the foot of the bed. “How uncivilized,” he seemed to be saying.

Cor and I are both quite excited to have finally met little Brady, but at this point his interest level in anything that does not…ahem…provide certain nutritional value is limited. I caught Holly referring to the young Brado as “grumpy girl” once, after which she sucked in a gasp and exclaimed: “Whoops! My last infant was a girl! It’s just force of habit!” Understandable mistake. Jacob has also referred to me once or twice as “Dad–er…Uncle Andrew,” politely explaining right after that the mistake originates from my family resemblance being augmented by wearing the same kind of sunglasses. 

You’re pretty much up to date now, but there’s plenty more left in today and tomorrow. Stay tuned!