Catch

One time while dropping off my daughter at elementary school, I stood and watched an impromptu game of kick ball that some of the kids had started. I was standing in the outfield, along with a bunch of parents and teachers. The kids were taking their kicks quickly so they could beat the morning bell.

One of them kicked the ball flush and it shot into the air. The players instinctively looked up to watch the ball. Parents were chattering among themselves and smaller kids were yelling in the playground but for these older kids, the game was their sole focus.

The ball began its descent and I was directly under it. In a flash, I recalled my own outfield heroics and miscues. I remembered catching a monster fly ball off of one of the better athletes in grade school, but I also recalled botched and misjudged fly balls during my college years playing softball.

I measured the ball in the sky, and shifted a few steps. I raised both my hands and watched the ball come in. When it arrived, I drew it into my chest to secure the catch. The sound returned to the playground. "Here! Here!" I saw a kid waving his hands for ball, and I tossed it to him.

"Out!" he yelled.

I turned around and went to work with a smile on my face.

U-Haul People

I refilled a propane tank at a nearby U-Haul, where people seem always to be in transition.

I saw a woman alone, her car filled with belongings. Was she returning a truck? Or scouting one out? I imagined that she was moving away. The stuff in her car was the gear she needed when she got to where she was going. Maybe she was making the last trip to her new place.

I saw a bunch of people that looked like a family. One or two parent looking types. One or two sibling looking types. They were hugging each other, in front of a U-Haul truck whose hatch was still open, allowing me to see what looked like an apartment's worth of stuff. It's early for students to be arriving in Boston, but maybe it's not too early to make a trip to a Midwest or West Coast school?

I saw a young couple, proceeding slowly from the office, papers in hand. "They've got each other," I said to myself. Maybe they're moving in together, and they needed a truck to consolidate stuff.

The attendant made the propane tank hiss. The odometer read three gallons. He capped the tank, and gave it to me. Did people at the U-Haul look at me, and deduce that I was the local?

I drove away and at the first stoplight, I realized how familiar I was with this road. I could go left, right, or straight, and it wouldn't matter: I could get home. The familiarity is comforting and suffocating at the same time.

When the light turned green, I went straight.

Memories of Holding a Baby

The last time I held a baby was November 2013. The baby was my wife's cousin's child, a boy just a few months old.

My wife's cousin was in town for a reunion, and there was a mini-party at her parents in Connecticut. When her twin baby boys woke up from napping, they were passed around to adoring uncles and aunts and cousins.

I was thrilled when I had a chance to hold one of them. I was slightly terrified, but I had been hoping for a chance to try. Did I remember how to hold them right? Would the baby start crying?

The heft of the child was incredible. How does 8-10 pounds of baby feel so heavy? The little boy grabbed one of my fingers, and began to gurgle. I made some coo-ing noises. He began to squirm. I put him up on my shoulder. I felt like I might cry.

"I'm getting emotional here!" I said, smiling before handing him back to the father.

I remember that my daughter was recording some of the festivities on her iPod that day. My daughter! Fourteen years ago I held her for the first time, when she was born.

This past week, I asked her if she had video from that party in November 2013. She found it on her computer. We watched a few seconds of my wife holding one of the twins. No video of me, though (I looked for it later). The memories will have to do.

Praising the Turkey Terrific

My favorite sandwich of the past many years is the Turkey Terrific from Neillio's in Lexington, MA.

To describe it simply, the Turkey Terrific is a Thanksgiving dinner made into a sandwich. It's turkey, stuffing, cranberry and mayonnaise, all lovingly arranged on French bread. The turkey isn't deli turkey, but rather sliced turkey that's precisely measured. At the deli, these pre-measured slices are wrapped in thin wax paper, and arranged in a small mound on their counter.

The deli servers may not have lee-way with the turkey, but they seem to have discretion with the application and proportions of the other three ingredients. Some seem to throw in a little more cranberry, some seem to throw in little more mayo. I've grown to enjoy the varieties. The deli servers will make it any way you want, as I have seen people request this sandwich with cheese, or without cranberry, but I've always ordered it straight. One time I tried it with wheat bread, but it wasn't the same. The heft of the French bread really ties the sandwich together.

The taste of the turkey, mixing with the cranberry, mixing with the stuffing is a heaven on earth sensation.  I'm always filled with gratitude and satisfaction eating this sandwich. By the end of the sandwich, I'm actually somewhat tired, just like I had eaten a real Thanksgiving meal. It's a belt loosening sandwich, except I've made it a rule to only eat it on the weekends, and I rarely wear a belt on the weekends.

It's a little over four miles from my house to Neillio's, and the whole way I'm smiling. The servers will mark "TT" on the paper in which they wrap this glorious sandwich. Some will only use three lines, concatenating the two Ts into a symbol that looks like pi. My wife's sandwich (she'll vary her order more than I will) is nestled next to mine in the brown take-out paper bag, along with a cookie for our daughter. I count my blessings eating this sandwich, and a sandwich that can elicit this feeling deserves all the praise it can get.

An Immigrant's Gratitude

Typhoon Haiyan ripped through the Philippines, devastating the city of Tacloban on the island of Leyte. It was a worrisome time because I do have close and distant relatives in various parts of that island nation. After the storm passed, and our relatives were accounted for, I was left with gratitude.

I was at the barber recently, and the person who cut my hair casually asked where I was from. "New Jersey," I said. "Were you born there?" he asked. "No, I was born in the Philippines."

He listened as I told my immigration story (I was born in Manila, and I came here when I was three years old) , and I listened to his own immigration story (he was born in Italy, and he came here when he was thirteen). We both became American citizens when we were young: me before high school, and him before joining the US military.

"I think immigrants like you and me are more grateful for what we have here in the US," he said.

That is probably true.

The last time I visited the Philippines, I was ten years old. I was boy running, swimming and playing in the hot sun every day. My memories of that long vacation are wonderful, but I also remember how very different it was from the United States. I knew I preferred the "comfort" of Jersey City, New Jersey.

Being an immigrant means you or your parents have come from someplace else. Being an immigrant is to be aware of two ways of living, and awareness is at least one ingredient to being grateful.

Tomorrow, the people of the Philippines will continue their lives, as best as they are able to. My Mom said that it doesn't take a lot to make a Filipino happy. I'm grateful for this trait.

Tomorrow, I'm going to sit down to the most American meal possible. My wife said she has enough cranberry sauce. I'm grateful.

Ice Skating: Paul Nunes

When I think about ice skating, I often think about my college friend Paul Nunes. We were freshmen in the same dorm, and in our later years we were roommates. Paul and I shared an obsession with ice skating. I don't remember how we came to this, but it was there, and we somehow recognized in each other a kindred spirit.

In the spring semester of our freshman year, Paul and I took a physical education course called "Skating". The class was taught by a sprite of a woman who was an incredible ice skater. Towards the end of our class with her, after all of us had improved our skating, she challenged us to a relay race across the length of the ice. "To even things up a bit, I'll skate on one leg," she announced. My first reaction was "that's crazy", but my second reaction, as she repeatedly beat skater after skater on her one leg, was "how do I do that?"

Through our years in college, I grew to admire Paul's methodical approach to getting his ice skating fix. He was the person who hunted down the ice rinks in the Albany Area. He was the one who figured out the various differences between ice skate brands. He was the one who found ways to sneak in ice skating even during the summer. When I look back on it, Paul was showing me, by his example, how to approach our skating interest. His steady and deliberate manner would eventually become my own guiding principles.

After we graduated (him moving to New York, and me moving to Boston), my desire to learn ice skating and play ice hockey began to disappear. Maybe the ice dream just got too hard, or too old. Maybe I became realistic.

Paul visited me one weekend in the summer of 1991. When our conversation turned to ice skating, he told me how much he'd done since graduation. He upgraded his ice skates, and acquired hockey gear. He discovered Laura Stamm's book on ice hockey skating techniques. He told me about all the rinks that he found, and how he began to hang out there after public ice skating. He read the bulletin boards at the rink, and learned about "recreational" hockey leagues. He joined a group of players in "pick-up ice hockey" sessions. He was consumed by the sport, playing a good number of times even during the spring and summer. He was living the ice dream.

Later in the winter, Paul visited me again. I had begun ice skating on my own, charged by his last visit. He had given me his old hockey skates and I had been using them. I took Paul to my secret ice skating location: the small lake at Boston's Public Garden. In the late evening, the darkened lake presented free ice skating to those who dared. I skated there a handful of times, the ice perfectly frozen thanks to weeks of temperatures below freezing.

As soon as we stepped on the ice, I knew that skating was somehow different for Paul. He skated exquisitely on the pond that night. He glided effortlessly. He was able to skate turns in both directions, his legs crossing over perfectly. He didn't fall. He pivoted and skated a circle around me backwards. I stood there dazed by his abilities, by how far he had taken himself. He was skating as smoothly as that skating instructor from college.

I fluttered around him, awkward and stuttering in my own skating. We talked about skates, and about techniques. It was clear that everything Paul said about ice skating was coming from his own deliberate experimentation on the ice. He was the very personification of the slogan "just do it." My admiration for him swelled, and at the same time it made me realize how little "real" effort I put into this desire of mine.

I was still only dreaming the ice dream, not living it. I was all talk, but no walk.  That all changed after Paul's visit. Everything about ice skating that happened next for me came from that evening skating with Paul.

For the month of January, I'll be blogging about ice skating, and my love for it.

College Reminisce: BOHICA

Rensselaer kicked my young academic ass.

I was a high-flying, straight-A student in high school. I took great pride in my grades. I was always on the honor roll. I did very well in math and science. My SATs were nothing to brag about (below 1200!), but I'm convinced my class rank (top five) coupled with the academic rigor of my high school got me into Rensselaer.

I remember how cocky I was that I had taken calculus my senior year of high school, but in the first week of math at RPI, the teaching assistant derived in one afternoon's recitation everything that I had learned in my entire year of high school calculus. I had one thought when that recitation finished: this was going to be hard.

I thought I had developed good study habits in high school. I thought I understood time management. I thought I worked hard. My grades in college said "there's room for improvement." Instead of A's and B's in my tests, I started receiving C's and D's. I was prone to procrastination. I didn't fail or drop out, but I felt under water nearly all the time.

My sharpest memory of the difficulty of our courses comes from my first finals week. The freshman dorms were quiet with nervous last-minute studying. Every now and then, someone would open their window and let out a primal scream, which would be answered by further screaming as people began to crack under the pressure of cramming a semester's worth of material in one evening. I discovered coffee during this period.

Even after feeling the relief from completing one final, you couldn't rest because another was scheduled the next day. In our dorm, someone bounded out of his room and announced "it's BOHICA time!" Here it comes again, indeed.

The rest of my college academic experience followed a similar arc. Difficult courses, precious few moments of relief, and the constant sense that I was always behind. By sophomore year, I began to accept that I wasn't going to make the Dean's List every semester. By junior year, I began to embrace the mantra that "D" stood for diploma. By senior year, I justified not finishing projects with the grim calculation that project work didn't "count as much" as the final exam.

I did eventually graduate. After a summer and an extra semester, I put together enough classes and passing grades to get a diploma. Just to be sure, however, I rummaged around my attic to find my college transcript. It turns out that I was on the Dean's List four times, and I only had 3 D's and one "incomplete" (for that class in which I skipped the project). My final GPA was a respectable 2.72.

Seeing the transcript makes me sigh with relief even now. I still drink coffee, but I haven't had to scream or think about BOHICA since graduating.

I'm attending my 20th college reunion this month, so I'm posting some college memories.

My Dad the Barber

I'm bald, so my trips to the barber shop are buzz cuts (3-metal). No fuss, no muss. But back in my hair days, back when I was growing up, I had hair, and the person who cut that hair was my father, my Dad.

Was it the expense of cutting hair for three boys that led my Dad to this? If so, I certainly wasn't aware of it. What I was aware of, and what I most remember was discomfort. Other boys were talking about trips to the barber shop. Even my Dad got his hair cut at a barber. Me? My "old man" was my barber.

During the summers, when I most needed a hair cut, Dad would cut my hair outside ("al fresco hair cutting?"). There we were, in our backyard, people walking by, watching my hair getting cut. It felt mildly embarrassing. For a smock, to cover me during the hair cut, Dad would use a garbage bag. He would cut out slots so we could "wear" it over our head.

My first trip to a barber other than my Dad was in college. I had no idea how to talk to a barber. "Uh, make it shorter?" I had no clue about blocking versus tapering, buzz versus styled. I felt a mild frustration: my Dad didn't prepare me! Of course, over time, I learned the lingo, and developed a rapport with these barbers.

My Dad and I didn't have much of a hair cutting rapport. He was "the strong and silent" type when I was growing up. But to make talk, he'd always ask after my friends. I wouldn't be surprised if I offered only vague responses. When I think back now, I imagine how the answer to that one question would have changed over the years, from grade school, through high school, and yes, even through college.

A whole young lifetime has gone now. Him quietly cutting my hair. Me growing up.

I worry now whether I ever properly showed my gratitude. Parents do things for kids without them even knowing the effort behind it. I know this now as a father. From the food on their plate, to the clothes on their backs, a child can take it all for granted. They should.

Thank you, Dad, for all those hair cuts when I was growing up. You know I don't need them anymore, but sometimes I wish I did.

The Middle of Parenthood

My daughter Mia turned nine years old a few days ago.

My wife jokingly said "we only have another nine years to go!" I smiled. In another nine years, Mia will turn 18, technically an adult. Do I really have that little time left with my daughter as a "child"?

Sometimes I find myself staring at her. How did that little baby we had nine years ago become this big girl? I look long and hard at her face, picking out my features, my wife's features. I watch her while she reads or plays video games or sits at the computer, and I think I can see her adult demeanor. I hear Mia talking and I think I can hear her all grown up. I hold her hand, and I imagine it the size of mine.

Mia has an interest in the adult world. We drive by the middle school and high school. When we go into town, we point out where Jenn went to college. She's been to my office. There's a very interesting future waiting for her, and she seems up for it.

Maybe this is the middle of parenthood. A fond remembrance of the baby she was, but an eagerness for the adult she will become. Nine more years. It almost seems too short.

Stairwell

Last month, my office building held a mandatory fire-drill. When the insistent alarm began its ringing, it took some of us by surprise, and people had to be reminded that this was a mandatory drill. Everyone located the stairwell exit, and my floor began to descend down the stairs.

I work on the fourteenth floor, with only four more floors to the top. The stairwell was filled with office workers making the usual jokes and remarks. I was no exception. I quipped that the exit stairwell should have murals to break the monotony. The buzz of people talking seemed louder in the enclosed space. In a few minutes, the slow-though-steady walk took me down a few flights.

I think it was around the tenth or ninth floors that I had a flash recognition: this is what it was like in the towers, in the World Trade Center, on 9/11. Once that thought entered my mind, my imagination filled in the rest: How silent the stairwell would be. How quickly we'd be walking. Maybe we'd hear the building beginning to groan under the strain from the crash.

At this point, I couldn't get out of the stairwell fast enough. All of a sudden, I felt slightly claustrophobic. What floor was I on? These floors need some labels! The narrow stairway opened up to a slightly larger hallway. More floors. Then the first floor. Then outside.

I stepped away a few steps, then looked up. Of course the building was still there, intact. I was reminded of that terrible day, which has its sixth anniversary tomorrow.

Scene from a Marriage

This past week, a small Nor'easter blew through. The mixture of icy rain and heavy snow produced a thick layer of ice on my driveway that I had to pick apart. The ice was quite hard and thick, and with the vicious cycle of thaw-then-freeze, I was picking at the ice all week. I used a heavier and older garden shovel. It has a solid steel blade, and its true purpose is for moving soil. (My snow shovels are all plastic.) I worked the ice by reversing the blade, and driving it into the ice, breaking the ice apart. The weight and the blade make for a great ice breaker.

One night, after dinner, after another session of ice picking, I began to feel a small sharp pain in my right hand. When I turned it over, I saw it. Somehow, while working the old shovel, I managed to get a small splinter in my right hand. My gloves didn't prevent the splinter from piercing me. It was a burr, no larger than a thorn of a small rose. It was in the fleshy part of my palm, under my thumb. It seemed to get more painful now that I knew what it was.

We have a first aid kit, and I found some plastic tweezers inside it. I worked without glasses, wishing that we had one of those magnifying monocles. I couldn't get it out, despite my careful work. If I pinched the area where the splinter was, I saw that I might be able to get it, but I'd need a third hand. Would I have to peel back my skin, like an onion, to get at this sliver of shovel wood?

I went to Jenn, and told her my woe. She was in bed, reading. (She goes to bed earlier than I do, so I was glad she was still up.) She took my hand, saw my splinter, made a face, looked at my plastic tweezers, and said "get the ones that I use." I fetched hers, and gave it to her. She pulled my hand close to her face, and she worked the wound.

I remember that she had picked out a splinter from our daughter's hand one summer. Mia was crying, no doubt from this new feeling of pain, but Jenn was gentle. I felt like Mia just then. Minus the crying.

Jenn peeled back a bit of the flesh, which stung a bit. Then she squeezed the tweezers, trying to clasp the splinter. She got it out in a few tries. My hand felt immediately better. Funny how a foreign object in your body makes you uncomfortable.

"Go wash your hands," Jenn said. I kissed her goodnight again. "Thank you," I said.

Go Daddy

Last Saturday, I took Mia to the park. Some boys were playing basketball, and while Mia went up and down the slide, I cast a look at those boys. All tough. Slam dunking the eight foot rim. I was a boy once, but sometimes it's so hard to remember. I used to spend whole days playing, pausing only to eat.

"Look at me!" Mia will yell. I'll turn to her. She's walking up the slide. Did I ever do that? Now she comes back down. Over and over again. My mind hovers between distraction and attentiveness.

"Let's run, Daddy!" And there she goes, running to the other slide, across the empty parking lot. "You'll never catch me, Daddy!" she shouts.

I slow jog after her, saying the lines that she knows I will say. "I will catch you, Mia!" She laughs and runs. I will catch you.

At the Beach

Today, thanks to a company outing, I was at the beach.

I went swimming. The water was chilly, but after a few teeth chattering minutes, I got used to it. I swam alongside the coastline, and away into the deeper water. I haven't been swimming in probably many years. (Coincidentally, I was at this same beach for another company a few years ago, and it was probably then that I was last in water.)

I marveled at the feeling of suspension, just at the ledge of the beach where I couldn't touch the bottom with my feet. I waved my arms and legs trying to stay afloat, and then my body remembered that all I had to do was lie down in a relaxed prone position to stay floating. The water was murky, and it was salty (I didn't open my eyes underwater). But I put some of it in my mouth and squirted it out, like I was some sea animal.

There was a buoy probably a hundred or two hundred yards beyond the beach. A boat was settled next to it. From land, the buoy seemed reachable, but in the water, my amateur swimming stroke only got me a third of the way there. I didn't trust myself to get back to shore even if I could reach it.

The company party largely stayed on the beach, but a few of us die-hards romped in the New England water. There's the bigness of the water that is both comforting and mildly terrifying. Someone nearby reminded me not to panic. Don't flail. Relax. Your body is naturally buoyant.

The longer I stayed, the stronger the pull of the water. The tide was coming in. Near the surface, the water was warmer, but at my feet, at my legs, were fast moving streams of cooler water. Nature at work on me, around me. I was in her element. I could see the crest of the water rising above my head, the strength of the water. I tried to catch the modest waves as they began their break into the beach.

I clambered out onto the beach, exhausted, elated, and feeling all rubbery. I was experiencing gravity anew it seemed.

"I can't believe you went in there!" some people said. I looked back at the marvelous water. How could I not?

Some Kind of Monster

There's one scene in Metallica: Some Kind of Monster, in which James Hetfield, the lead singer, openly wonders whether the filming of their own documentary should even continue. When the directors (who appear in the film) ask whether Hetfield remembered his motivations for doing the documentary, he said (I'm paraphrasing): "I figured 'We're Metallica'; we're supposed to have a documentary."

This at once sums up the nature of "the monster" that is Metallica. A heavy metal icon, the band has been around for over twenty years. They have sold an immense amount of records. Their fans are loyal and legion. Should this band have a documentary? That's a silly question. Of course it should have a documentary.

I enjoyed watching Metallica's creative process so openly documented. The song writing, the riff conjuring, and the music making process is depicted as awkward, frustrating, and hardly glamorous. Their efforts in the studio and in the mixing sessions seem to yield precious few rewards.

The core band (Hetfield, outspoken drummer Lars Ulrich, and guitarist Kirk Hammett) have accumulated much wealth, and it is in full display, but throughout the movie they yearn for things that money can't buy: the love of their families and parents, the time and space to think, the opportunity to become better versions of themselves.

There are some inadvertent references to Spinal Tap, but Monster proves that art does imitate life. You see their children parading around in their studio. You see the band whining about their group therapy sessions. You see the rehabilitated Hetfield quitting "work" at 4 so he can catch his daughter's ballet class.

During the documentary, the group constantly struggled with the fear of being considered 'yesterday's music.' The ending suggests that they're still as vital as ever, but we've learned that it takes a lot of work to stay vital. It's a lesson worth seeing through this movie.

A Walking Commute

My commute home begins with the walk from my office to the Kendall Square "T Stop". From Kendall, I take a train to the bus stop at Alewife. The train ride from Kendall to Alewife is about fifteen minutes. The 6:25PM bus gets me home in about twenty minutes.

The key factor to making the 6:25PM bus is the walk from my office. I leave work by 5:50PM. It takes a few minutes for the elevator to rise to the eighth floor office where I work. By the time I'm street level, it may be 5:53PM or 5:54PM. The walk from my office to the train can be done in ten or eleven minutes at a leisurely pace.

But I don't go at a leisurely pace. I walk heads down, long strides, taking a criss-crossing path that gets me to the T in about nine to ten minutes. A few days ago, however, I walked to the train with another person who went a completely different way. She said her route was faster, and I was amazed when we got to the T in slightly over eight minutes!

The new route crosses fewer streets, and when it does cross a street, the intersection is less busier, so I don't have to wait. The new route also cuts an angle. The sidewalk on this new route curves away from the T, but she cuts across this curve, going straight, making the walk seem even faster. The new route also avoids traffic lights, whereas my original walk crosses at least three lights.

We go through life accepting things as being 'set'. "That's the way I always walk." "That's the turn I always make". I was starting to get 'set' with my walk. It's rewarding to reexamine old habits, and to make new discoveries about them.

Now if I could only call up the elevator from my desk.

Commencement

The news is peppered with commencement speech summaries. Famous and notable people are making their way across college campuses, dispensing wisdom, proclaiming advice, exhorting action. I sometimes imagine myself addressing a high school or college graduation.

I'd remind students that commencement isn't about endings, but about beginnings (the word commence means 'to begin, to initiate'). I'd tell them to look back with pride, but look forward with excitement.

I'd advise them to listen to their hearts these next few tender years. What does your heart want to do? Don't question it! It doesn't know why. It wants what it wants. What do you want to do? You can listen to your heart when you're thirty or forty, but the chances of following your heart are strongest now.

I'd tell students what they don't want to hear: that time is short. You're only young once. Someday, you'll be weighed down with "practical matters": job, marriage, mortgage, children. You'll be ordinary like me, and you have to make the best of it, by being the person you want to be.

I'd ask parents to truly let go at this stage. I'd also ask the same of old friends. We have to let them go. We have to let them fly. We've given them our money, our support. Now let's give them their time.

People of accomplishment are favored speakers at commencement exercises, but living a good life is an accomplishment itself. And a good life can be had with simple lessons: listen and know yourself; be positive; be good. It shouldn't take a famous person to remind graduates of this.

Now, Discover Your Strengths

I have spent a few evenings reading Now, Discover Your Strengths, and through the website for this book, I discovered that I had the "Learner" theme. I love to learn. This isn't news to me, but it's comforting having it validated. But the description of this talent contains this: "The subject matter that interests you most will be determined by your other themes and experiences..."

What interests me most? The book doesn't explain how to answer this, but it does state "You will need to find your field ... by listening to the yearnings that pull you and then seeing what moves you." What pulls me? What moves me? It's something that I've thought about because I am reporting this after my first day at a new job. That's right: I switched jobs.

Over the past several months at my previous employer, I slowly began to lose my interest with their "subject matter". Yes, the work involved computers, something that has fascinated and intrigued me since grade school. The work specifically involved multi-computing hardware and software. The problems I faced were multifaceted. But after a year or so, I was becoming despondent with how difficult the subject matter was. It was an area of computers that ultimately didn't engage or thrill me.

So I stayed in my "comfort zone" amidst all this technology: I focused on software tools, not the hardware that was the mainstay of the company. But even in the comfort zone, I found myself in areas that I wasn't completely comfortable with. More importantly, I was in areas that I didn't find myself desiring to learn.

I was productive, but I was aching to "do more", to "be more". Which leads me to another strength identified by that website. I have the "Maximizer" theme. I have a talent for measuring myself against excellence. I don't want to fix what I lack. I want to increase what I already have.

So over the past few months, I searched the meager market for a position involving technologies that I knew well and technologies that I desired to know well. I networked. I practiced. And now I'm at a new job.

I believe I've found subject matter that greatly interests me at my new job. Now it's time to Learn and Maximize.

Childhood Friends

I was blessed with great childhood friendships.

Two weekends ago, I attended the wedding of one such friend, someone I knew since elementary school. He invited a few other childhood friends, so the order of the weekend was nostalgia. Who remembers what happened to whom?

Since I've known some of these people since grade school, the ties are especially strong. In an old diary, I wrote that old childhood friends are like fine leather gloves. Even if you don't wear them for years, they still easily form a natural fit around your hand. The gloves are creased in the right places. They're easy to put on.

I often ponder a theory that as we get older, it's easier to make friends. When you get past college, you've often learned "how to get close" to people. We've learned how to be direct, and how to ask meaningful questions. One long evening of talking is enough to form some good bonds.

Childhood friendships are different from college and post-college friendships. Childhood friendships start out very haphazardly. You're next to someone in homeroom. You live close to them in the neighborhood. These friendships are tested during the high years of peer pressure and puberty. Childhood friendships are formed at an impressionable age, and an age when parents can still be a strong influence. More importantly, they're formed when we all had time; long stretches of time, in which you can learn about your friends playing tag, going over their house, watching movies, or making iced tea.

If you were lucky, you grew up with your childhood friends. You tested one another in your attempts to broaden yourself beyond your comfort zone. You provided checks on one another. And as you made new friends, you "tested" them against your old friends. Before you know it, you pass the mile markers of life with them: school proms, driver's licenses, college, first jobs, marriage, children, baptisms, anniversaries.

I don't often put on the fine gloves that are my childhood friends anymore. But recalling the warmth of those gloves, the warmth of those friendships, is enough to make me smile broadly. I had a great childhood thanks to these friends. I was glad to be in that warmth two weekends ago.

Eating Alone

A few days ago I ate lunch by myself in the company cafeteria.

My group apparently went out to lunch, but I missed them because I was at a meeting that ran late. So there I was in the cafeteria, eating by myself. It was disconcerting.

I think it's one thing to eat by yourself in a fast-food joint where you are often eating in the company of other loners. It's another thing to be eating in a cafeteria at work, where you often know everyone by name, if not by face. Normally if I find myself unable to join my group, I go to a smaller cafeteria to eat alone.

Just like in school, there are the usual cliques in our company cafeteria. The same groups of people, and often the same exact tables. Our group has our own table, but we have second and even third choice tables, in case someone else has taken "our" table. I sat alone, somewhat worried about "what other people are thinking." But of course, I know that no one was thinking anything. It's not school. It's work. I'm grabbing lunch. So what if I'm by myself?

I lingered a bit in my aloneness. When I finished, I headed back to the office, skipping my usual dessert.

Drinking

I don't drink anymore, not like I used to.

In college, the start of my drinking years, I drank beers like soda. By sophomore year, the little refrigerator in my dorm room was jammed with cans of cheap beer, which I consumed as early as lunch. I never felt like I drank too much, but more than once I woke up sick from an evening's excess; more than once I've passed out in some lounge area. I've had grain alcohol, drunk flaming shots, damn near choked while attempting a funnel (only once; maybe twice). I participated in most of the silliness involved with casual but frequent drinking. In my senior year at college, the class gift to the school was a pub and I drank there every night until I graduated. Literally.

Sterling Barrett, one of my post-college roommates, set me straight on drinking. He showed me how to appreciate a quiet drink: gin and tonic, bourbon over ice. He was fond of the Negroni. Even though I didn't enjoy it like he did, I certainly began to enjoy and appreciate this slower drinking.

Tonight I had a Jack Daniels on crushed ice after dinner. I finished it an hour ago, and have been drinking water ever since. I haven't gotten college-drunk since, well, since college. The last drink I had before tonight was probably a few weeks ago, when Jenn and I went out (we had wine).

I sometimes ponder what led me to drink so much back in school. My first attempts to spread my wings while I was away from home? To belong to the "fun crowd?" To escape from my petty miseries? Whatever those impulses were back then, they're gone now. I'm grateful.