I took Rosa out for an afternoon on the town this past Sunday. We appeared together in the Albertville Friendly City Days Parade, representing Knights of Columbus Council 4174, with fellow KCs and Catholic youth (including Bren, Gabe, Rose, and Trev) passing out Tootsie Rolls to the crowds.
Parade rest.
She drew a lot of looks and compliments, particularly among gentlemen of a certain age, who might have known someone like her in their younger days. The younger men took notice of both her beauty and her age and were respectful, save one young hoodlum, still red-faced and drowsy from the previous evening’s festivities, who bellowed, “C’mon, light ’em up! Let’s see what kind of power the old Ford’s got.”
Rosa ignored him entirely in favor of a little boy waving enthusiastically from the other side of the street. I leaned out the window, smiling, and said, “She’s got a 240 straight-six. This is about it.”
Show some respect, young man. She’s forgotten more miles than you’ve travelled.
Another young man, clean-cut with Buddy Holly glasses, looked her up and down and said, “’66?”
“Yup,” I said, and he nodded appreciatively.
Were she a woman, guessing her age would be considered uncouth, but for a pickup, it’s a compliment. What might be an adulterous attention to her curves and lines were she human is for Rosa a sign of her authentic, ageless beauty – she is noticed, not because she’s hot, but because she’s classic.
To that end, when we were preparing for the parade, I flew the flags and hung the KC emblems on the side, then grabbed the box of streamers, spangles, and bows left over from last year’s float. I looked from the box to pickup and back, then returned the box to the garage. She’s impressive enough in her own right. Who doesn’t love a modest girl who’s comfortable in her own skin?
Every year for the past five or so, Jodi and I and the kids have joined 30 or so families from St. Michael’s and St. Albert’s parishes at a camp near Upsala, Minnesota, called Camp Lebanon. The first year I didn’t want to go, a) because with a dining hall, water toys, and showers, it wasn’t really camping; b) because I was going to be surrounded by kids not my own; and c) because I didn’t feel like I knew enough people and wasn’t looking forward to being “on” all weekend.
All true observations…none of which had any impact on my actual enjoyment of the weekend. We’ve been going back ever since, and even organized it a couple of years.
No time to do a complete recap of the weekend, but here are the Top 10 Highlights:
10. Not My Job! I had hoped to be done with my work early on Friday so we could be on the road by 3 p.m. or so. Not even close, and when 4 p.m. rolled around and I was still packing, my blood pressure started to rise.
Then I remembered: We’re not running things this year. We can get up there any time before tomorrow, and it’s all good.
Turns out we made it in plenty of time for Friday evening activities — and with Lily this year, it’s a good thing we weren’t the organizers! Kudos to Sustaceks, Duerrs, and Fredricksons for a great weekend!
9. New Faces. We missed a number of dear friends who weren’t there…but there were so many new families, too, that you couldn’t help but make new connections. I met potential homebrewers, Axis and Allies enthusiasts, future KCs, and just all-around good guys — hopefully next year the old and the new will all show up, and then some!
8. Albany Invasion. Albany, Minnesota, is the last stop for food on the way to the camp. A gas station just off the freeway houses A&W, Subway, Godfather’s Pizza, Taco John’s, and Chester’s Fried Chicken counters under one roof — and Friday afternoon, it hosted nearly every family bound for Camp Lebanon in constant rotation. I’m sure the locals had to be wondering about the volume of strangers greeting each other with hugs and handshakes.
7. Has Anyone Seen… Once we settle in at camp, the kids are off and running with their friends. Jodi and I ate with grown-ups and Lily, and generally soaked up the weekend, only rousing ourselves occasionally to ask around, “Has anyone seen [CHILD’S NAME HERE]?” And we were hardly the only ones.
6. Holy Spirit at Work. More than once, someone stopped to share that the weekend itself, or something someone did or said, was just what they needed — that the Holy Spirit was at work last weekend. But the most striking example came on Sunday morning, when one of my own overextended children decided to disobey Jodi and run off to play with friends. I confronted the child and had a long talk about the responsibilities that come with being family — and I thought it sunk in. Only a few minutes later, a local seminarian, Paul, offered a scripture reflection in which he talked about how family is diminished when one person acts selfishly — and I looked over to see wide, staring, glassy eyes. I asked about it later, and was told, “I heard him and I was like, “Seriously?!” Wow.
5. Zip Line! I watched two grown men race over a wooded ravine, brazen in their talk but white in their knuckles. I watched our priest and seminarian zip through the tree tops — Father was pounding his chest; Paul was all smiles and thumbs up. But best of all, I watched Emma nervously strap up after watching the men, whimpering and sighing a bit under her breath; watched her set out across the ravine tentatively, and watched her slide back over, screaming and giggling, barely able to speak “That was awesome!” to the camera. She is the only Thorp to have done it so far. She deserves applause.
4. Dating Survey. A few friends began asking an unofficial survey question of the couples at camp: “Do you and your spouse go on dates?” Jodi said, “Not really.” I said, “Occasionally.” Then we both said, “Unless running errands or getting groceries alone together count.” The ruling came back: if we are specifically going together and leaving the kids behind, it counts. Oh, yes, we are still romantic!
3. Early Morning Run. Brendan rose at 6:45 a.m. on a Saturday to go running with a few of the guys from school — and a few girls. I rose a little after 7, and when I emerged from the bathhouse, they were coming the hill from the lake: four or five girls, graceful and light on their feet, and two clomping boys bringing up the rear. Turns out the girls were all cross-country runners, and the two wrestlers were the only boys motivated enough to get up that early. What motivated them to keep pace with the fleet-footed young ladies over two or three miles? I’m going with sheer stubborn pride…though at that age, who can guess? (For an alternative explanation, see the video below…)
2. Family Prayer. Family rosaries each night, and Saturday evening mass with sunbaked parents and waterlogged kids doing their best to be reverent. Families praying together with families. There’s nothing better, except…
1. Serenading Lily. Every year we listen to The White Stripes on the way to the camp. This year Lily was fussing until the guitars and drums kicked in, and, to a person, all four of her siblings began to sing to her.
Wish I could’ve recorded them doing it — leaning over her car seat, almost in harmony, and her grinning, gasping, laughing face. She’s pretty good-looking (for a girl).
Years ago, I read Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land. I remember only a handful of details about the book — the concept of grokking, the story in broad strokes, the religious aspects — and I remember realizing, at the end, that I had read my first mature science fiction book. Not mature in the Rated M sense (which actually is quite immature, when you think about it) — although the book has its moments and is not for kids — but mature in the sense that it wasn’t a space adventure with rocket-ships, robots, and ray-guns.
Now, some of you know that my middle-school son aspires to the Naval Academy, followed by the Marine Corps. Awhile back I ran across a supposed “required reading” list for our military academies, and nestled among The U.S. Constitution and The Art of War was a surprise title I knew only from a movie preview: Starship Troopers. Thinking it might be a sci-fi book to interest Brendan, I googled it; seeing it was written by Heinlein, I thought I’d better check it out first. We borrowed it from the local library, I skimmed it thoroughly for adult content, then let Brendan have a go.
He devoured it, though he struggled with the rapid fire dialogue and military jargon. I finished it last night, and again discovered that I read a mature science fiction novel.
Heinlein supposedly caught a lot of flack for an overtly pro-military (and some say fascist and species-ist) book. I found it a very compelling read, especially considering it was written in 1959. It’s set in the future, and tells the story about a teenager who volunteers to join the military against his parents’ wishes, mostly because his buddy (and a pretty girl they both know) is doing it. The world has changed since the 20th Century — Earth is part of an interplanetary federation, and ruled as a democracy of sorts…except that only those who have served a full term in the military can vote. Apparently in the late 20th century, things on Earth went downhill: parents ceased disciplining children and were no longer considered responsible for the actions of their children; children, as a result, looked to their peers for security and guidance, joining gangs and engaging in selfish (and ultimately criminal) activities. The criminal justice system ceased holding criminals reasonable beyond a fairly comfortable period of isolation with other criminals, followed by early release and frequent re-incarceration. And citizens young and old became so self-involved that they voted only in their narrow self-interests, for policies that padded their pocketbooks, kept them comfortable, or made them feel good about themselves. Vision, long-term impact, and responsibility to others fell by the wayside…
I’m elaborating a bit. Can you tell the book struck a nerve?
The seductive thing about Starship Troopers is that Heinlein seems to have glimpsed the future, and he paints a picture of the aftermath that is un-American in so many ways and yet makes me shake my graying head in agreement that yes, that’s exactly the problem. Only veterans can be entrusted with vote because only they have shown by their actions — by their service and sacrifice — that they will put the long-term interests of the nation and the public good ahead of their own interests, or even their own lives…un-American, but almost makes sense…parents of juvenile offenders are held partly responsible for the crimes of their progeny and share in the flogging…un-American and brutal, but who hasn’t read a news story and said, “They oughta lock up the parents, instead!”
I recommend the book as a good, quick, and thought-provoking read. I can’t recommend the movie, one, because I haven’t seen it, and two, Denise Richards. (Seriously? She’s the wrong kind of of “cute girl” and Carmen was mostly an emotional presence in the book, not a physical one.) Gonna have to read more Heinlein (and maybe re-read Stranger in a Strange Land). Maybe you should, too.
Before supper tonight, I received a variety of homemade and store-bought Father’s Day greetings. After supper, Trevor says, “I wish there was a Trevor Day, when everyone in the world named Trevor could do what ever they wanted, and if they wanted to play with their brothers’ Legos, they could for as long as they want.”
Our youngest is six tomorrow. Happy birthday, Trevvy!
[Blogger’s Note: This is kind of a dark post. Really did see the two crows today, and heard a story like the latter one once. But where exactly this came from, I don’t know…]
Midwinter morning. Atop a threadbare shrub along a littered suburban artery, two young crows jaw above the din. I speak no Crow, only English, and my windows are rolled against the cold, but I imagine their daring: the double-dog, the triple, the triple-dog, the dark humour hot in the veins of each, the guffaws and squawk of chicken! They cheat death daily, these two, walking the yellow lines for bits of salted flesh. It passes the time.
The light goes green; on cue, they darken my windshield, chasing each other with unexpected agility, rolling and climbing alongside the oncoming delivery van, sweeping past truck and traffic to frolic like fighter planes before a rumbling Ford moving too fast for conditions along the service road. They bank and ascend to a high bare branch, laughing breathlessly.
They eat death for dinner, these two. From a far tree two houses over, their mother calls. They flap slowly away.
I think of them now, in the long night. I think of a summer day, and two black-clad bikers crossing the plains, winding through the hills and narrow canyon roads, wind in their hair and devil-may-care, the sun warm on their leathers, the dark humour hot in their veins. They eat danger for breakfast, these two. They take turns riding the yellow lines with their feet on their pegs, boot toes turned outward to the oncoming cars, egging each other closer, closer. They play this game for long miles and hours. It passes the time.
The end was not monotonous. High in the mountains on a narrow switchback, the winner’s toe caught a fender at fifty. His leg turned to jelly. With unexpected velocity he took to the air, rolling and climbing, darkening the windshield of the car behind the one he clipped. He bounced from glass to pavement, pavement to rocky shoulder. Leather did little; flesh did less. Bone met stone and gave way.
The paramedics came and went. The volunteer posse cleaned up as best they could. The dark humour stained the pavement even after the crows paid their respects. From far away, the cries of a mother.
Archangel Stomp 