I am Your Child….

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Recently I was witness to a disturbing public display of poor parenting.

Whatever the toddler did, it did not warrant the assault of verbal abuse he received from his mother.

It so affected me that I wrote the following.

Unfortunately, the one who needs to see this won’t and probably wouldn’t understand it anyway.

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I am your child.

Whether through love or accident, I’m here because of you.

I didn’t ask to be here.

I was born without preconceived notions. I had no basis of comparison.

My mind was a blank slate.

You are my first and most influential teacher.

I will learn most of my lifelong behaviors from you, but not by what you tell me.

Your actions will speak to me and teach me more than your words ever will.

I will watch what you do and hear how you speak to others.

If you practice love, I will likely love. If you practice hate, I will likely hate. If you forgive, I will likely forgive

If you hug, I will hug. If you hit, I will hit. If you abuse, I will abuse.

Prejudice and violence can be learned and become a vicious cycle.

It is up to you to raise me, teach me right from wrong and show me how to fit in society.

It is up to you to set my boundaries.

It is not the neighbor’s job. It is not the school’s job.

I am not the government’s responsibility.

I am your responsibility and no one else’s.

I am your child.

I owe you nothing, but I offer you unconditional love.

I will push boundaries; I will test your patience and try your nerves.

Not because I’m bad, but because I am a child and I’m still learning.

How you react to those times is your choice, not mine.

If you yell at me in public it will humiliate me, make me feel small and unwanted.

Disciplining me should be done in private; with the respect you would have me show you.

I will look to you for emotional support for as long as I live – even after you’ve passed on.

I will spend most of my life trying to please you, yet I will likely never feel that I make you happy.

In my younger years I will rely on you for food and protection.

In my adult life I will marvel at the sacrifices you made in my behalf to provide them.

I am your child.

Alexander Dean Haler

Some of my distant friends have expressed an interest in learning a little about my son, Alex.  While  like any proud parent I’m able to talk for hours on end about who he was to me and all the wonderful and funny, sometimes dopey things he’s said and done, I’d rather provide the narrative and let Alex show you who he was through photos. Many of those being shown here were taken by him.

A little background: As early as age twenty I wanted a son. I always pictured a tousle-haired towhead much in the image of A.A. Milne’s Christopher Robin (I grew up having all the Pooh books read to me and “CR” was kind of a hero to me).  In his younger years, Alex was the perfect embodiment of the son I had always imagined and he was my Christopher Robin. He came to us on September 28th, 1989.

Alex loved his family-all of his family. We knew that he would clear his calendar to spend time visiting his grandparents, cousins or older brother Jason. He was always present for our big family get-togethers and always engaged with everyone.

Family get together

His school life was a little different than for most. In fourth grade he selected, read and surprisingly understood much of Dante’s Inferno. After fourth grade he was nominated, tested and approved to take part in an advanced learning program titled “CATS” (creative and talented students). He remained in that program through eighth grade.

While in seventh grade he took first place in his school science fair and went on to clinch first place at the state level in the Inventions category. His was a device that let you know in any room of the house if your garage door was left open. His inspiration was having a bike stolen out of our garage after school one day proving that bummers are the real mother of invention.

When he entered high school he was thrown back into the standardized teaching/learning model of oversized classrooms,  hours of homework and very little attention to actual education. For whatever reason, the CATS program wasn’t supported in high school (neither were things like Honor Rolls, Dean Lists or any other acknowledgement of scholastic achievement). It was difficult for him to adjust back to “regular” schooling.

Alex had strong artistic streaks in him. He enjoyed photography, writing and music. He wrote and did photography for his high school newspaper, mostly about modern music and band updates.

Though I tried to get him to follow me and play guitar, he chose to play drums instead even though everyone knows that guitarists historically get more girls (at least that’s what I told him….).

Al competed in his high school “Battle of the Bands” except it really wasn’t. Somehow, the winners ended up being the very young kids of the guy that ran the soundboard….

He was an amazing drummer. He played mostly heavy metal focusing his goals on the talents of Mike Portnoy (then of Dream Theater), Terry Bozzio(independent), Neil Pert (Rush) and others. While heavy metal wasn’t always my favorite, Alex impressed me with his ability to follow and repeat the drum parts of songs that had truly difficult and complex time signatures. Dream Theater is known for songs that often break the twenty minute mark in length. Alex often practiced these, note for note, playing along while listening to his IPod, often for hours on end.

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Alex had a love for photography. While he occasionally did pictures of people his real interest was for photographic symmetry in what might be termed “industrial” subject matter.

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His photo of downtown Phoenix at night was featured as the cover pic on the Cronkite “E-newsletter”.

A few of Alex’s friends have approached us with stories of their times with him. Some of them had demon battles going that they were losing and were on the brink of committing suicide. Alex was able to listen and ultimately talk them “off the ledge”. Even with these artistic gifts and the love both of and for his family and friends, he had his own struggles and demons. Eventually he lost his battles with them and took his own life. He was twenty two when he left us. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t make me proud to be his dad. I’m still proud.

Tumbleweeds(?) and Christmas

Well, it’s soon going to be that time of year when our town Tumbleweed tree is fully lit.

Yes, a tumble weed tree.

Right here in downtown metropolitan Chandler, Arizona.

Every year, after outfitting himself properly with a large cage, a tumbleweed disguise and a wild tumbleweed call, a very civic minded citizen (same guy every year) goes out gathering up loads of one Arizona’s more prolific resources: the tumbleweed.

After sneaking up on, capturing and caging hundreds of the wily specimens of desert flora, he spray paints and stacks them in a large upside down cone shaped wire form and strings lights on the whole affair.

Our local officials are very enamored of this annual display of kitchyness, because they allow this monument to be built in our city rectangle. We would have had a city square but someone in the city planning department thought it would be fun to think outside of the box…..(rim-shot, please).

People gather by the tens to stand around this desert version of a Christmas tree and sing carols as the switch is thrown illuminating a conically shaped stack of painted dead brush.

In ninety-degree heat.

Surprisingly, none have ever spontaneously combusted.

We also humiliate our otherwise regal Saguaro cacti by adorning them with Christmas lights

…God, I love life in the desert

Gotta’ Love The Kid….

When my wife and I went out-of-town for a few days to celebrate our 25th anniversary a few years ago, we asked my son Alex  – at the time a college student at the Cronkite School School of Journalism and all around good guy (most of the time), that he stop by and water the lawn, garden and cats (the cats really hate being watered), while we were gone. We also asked him if he was planning a party in our absence to which he replied that no, that while he had too much to do on break to plan a party, he would come by and take care of the watering and the cats.

We left on Thursday. Friday afternoon I got the following text message:

“Hey! Decided to have a small kickback at the house. 15 total people. Will clean up any and all messes. Love You.”

I didn’t respond, he knows it’s OK with us that he invites his friends, especially the “total people” ones.

Saturday 9:30am I get from him:

“When are you guys coming home?”

Me: “Why?, Wazzup?”

Him: “Oh nothing. Just wanted to see how long I had to make the house spotless.”

My wife and I have tears running down our faces from laughing so hard. At least mine were caused by laughter.

Me: “Just how ‘spotty’ is it???”

Him: “Not at all really. Mainly just cans and bottles to pick up. Very relaxed group last night….you’re not answering my question.”

I suppose they were relaxed. Curious as to what was in those cans and bottles. OK, no I’m not…

Me: “Monday”

Him: “Cool, Have fun.” (audible sigh of relief from somewhere far away)

When we arrived home there was little to complain about. I am curious, however, as to why the recycle bin and garbage cans were  empty. Too bad, they might have told a great story….

My Wife: “Imelda Winchester” or “Steve” for Short.

My wife’s name is not really Imelda. Neither is it Winchester. Nor is it Steve.

Do you remember Imelda Marcos? Is it because she was the beautiful wife and confidante of Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos, or do you remember her for her purported love of shoes?

“What’s wrong with shoes? I collected them because it was like a symbol of thanksgiving and love.” Imelda Marcos- Associated Press article, in The Eye, November 1997.

It’s the shoe thing I remember. And I am reminded every time I try to wedge my way into our closet. It’s not really a small closet by any account, but my “half” is really only about a quarter of the space and currently being threatened to further reduction by a growing pile of shoe boxes.

When questioned, my Imelda informs me that “these go so much better with my taupe skirt than my other shoes”. Apparently none of the other 453 shoes don’t work.

Being a guy, sometimes the nuances elude me.

453 shoes??  All my shoes add up to an even number, you know….divisible by 2…

So I’m not always fond of the “Imelda” side.

The Winchester tag comes from the famed (and somewhat looney) Sarah Winchester. Wife of Oliver Winchester, inventor of the legendary Winchester Repeating Rifle.

After Oliver passed away, Sarah spent a boatload of her mammoth inheritance on a home improvement plan of truly epoch proportion. She was obsessed with trying to fool the ghosts of all the folks that had met their maker(s) through the assistance of the Winchester rifle. Check out the site: www.winchestermysteryhouse.com. I toured the house several times while living in the area.

Now I feel that I’m living in my own version of the place. We bought a BRAND NEW home years ago and like the Winchester house, it’s been undergoing an endless series of remodeling projects since. My Mrs. “Winchester” has an endless supply of ideas for changes that she envisions.

My problem comes from the fact that I’m a pretty good carpenter, plumber, painter, electrician, etc., etc.  I’ve installed marble tile, brick pavers, baseboard, new outlets, new staircase railings, new kitchen layout…..you get it… Next it’s 980 square feet of hardwood floors…… I’m spending more time on my knees than a prom queen.

I’m not always fond of the “Winchester” side either.

Calling her “Steve” comes from some silly thing said by my then teenage son, Alex, that, while the context has long since been forgotten, the nickname has stuck around. The Steve is funny, warm and my very best friend. Steve has stuck by me through everything imaginable. Steve holds my hand every minute of the day, even when we’re miles apart.

Steve is really the best person in my life. I can’t imagine life without her.

However, I wouldn’t mind it if those other two took a hike.

But It’s A Dry Heat**..

Life in the Arizona desert is certainly different than the one I knew back east. Not just because of the heat or lack of humidity, but because of all the  other “little” things that make up these surroundings.

People, events, places, the government and nature’s provisions all contribute to the unique and sometimes baffling place I live.

They have also played a large part in my curmudginess.

This blog is about all of those things and more.

 

 

**(That’s one of those lines that gets used in the same way as “the check’s in the mail” or “temporary tax” or even “I’ve had a vasectomy”, so don’t put a lot of faith in it. It’s just a sugar coating to help excuse the harsh reality that it gets damn hot in the Sonora desert. Somehow, hearing someone declare “dry heat” when its 113 degrees makes me want to chuckle, but I can’t because it’s too hot to expend the energy.)