My Son The Calvin

In the amended words of Braveheart: “I give homage to Bill Watterson.” Anyone who has read Calvin and Hobbes and watched Braveheart will understand these references.

My son is Calvin. In the actual words of Braveheart’s girlfriend “He declares it to me, I swear it.” My son plays in the backyard. He comes inside with grass stained knees. He manipulates me to maximize his time outdoors. He has a vivid imagination. His hair sticks up at odd angles. He even has a Calvin-esque face.

My son is Calvin.

Just today we were outside digging a hole because we had nothing better to do. It began to thunder and my daughter said, “We should prolly go in ’cause thunder is scary.”

I said, “Yeah. Let’s go in.”

My son said, “Can I do one more dig?”

I said, “OK.”

My daughter and I headed for the house while my son scooped his last shovelful of earth. As is his adorable/frustrating custom, he then scooped and second, third and fourth shovelful. We were close to the back door when the most ridiculously close thunder strike I’ve ever borne witness to struck our general vicinity. My Calvin ran from his dig spot, eyes tightly shut, toward the house.  He was on a collision course for the door frame. I grabbed him and, with fatherly concern for his safety, yanked him backward.

When we got in the house he was screaming and sobbing all at once. “You left me!”  He screamed.

“No.” I asserted. “You had your eyes closed! I didn’t leave you. You kept digging even though I told you not to. I was here. You almost ran into the house with your eyes closed!”

“OK.” he said, sobbing heartbreakingly.

I held him close in what I hope was a reassuringly fatherly hug.

He agreed that I had not left him; rather I had helped him. He hugged me tightly and soaked my shoulder with his needless tears. My heart broke.

He was so scared I could barely contain my shame. At the same time I blamed him for not listening.

I do my utmost to insure his safety. He is the sweetest disobedient boy that anyone could ever dream. His cheeks are consistently darkened with dirt. His knees remain green. He always has a cut, bug bite or friction burn somewhere on his little body.

He is my Calvin.

He scares me to death, but I love him to death. He is the world’s greatest, most cliché little boy.

Calvin and Hobbes may be a reminisce from the past, but my son is a continuation of the classic little boy spirit.

I love him, and my two daughters, with a love that rivals the love of chosen Deity for the creation of faithful subjects.

Calvin and Hobbes is a deep, heartfelt and spiritual classic and my son is a continuation of this beautiful legacy.

He is my Calvin.

He is a consistently filthy, imaginative and tiny creation of the Great Architect.

I thank the Creator for this tiny, vulnerable and OK with who he is miracle  of the Milky Way cliché on a daily basis.

I  bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…enjoy your children for who they are.

A don’t…judge them for their foibles. They are doing the best they can in a broken and confusing world.

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The Railman and Involuntary Manslaughter: A Bit of Fiction, Perhaps Going Nowhere

Here is a bit of fiction I felt inspired to write. I bid you enjoy, or, if necessary, I apologize in advance. Thanks for reading.

When Ben Samson stepped into Lucky’s with his two compadres, it hadn’t been his intention to stick the place up. The mechanism on his belt was loose and it was clacking even louder than his spurs. He had been trying to tighten it up as Wiseman burst through the batwing doors. The hinges screeched and the heavy clomping of The Railman’s footfalls as he followed Wiseman undercut the shrill squeak with a menacing staccato bass. Samson barely noticed. He was accustomed to the brashness of the other members of his small posse. He continued messing with his mechanism, stumbling when the doors swung back and smacked him in the chest. He tilted backward; surged forward to regain equilibrium; shot through the doors clumsily, expecting tighter hinges. The toe of his boot caught in an uneven floorboard and he stumbled forward again, still fiddling with his belt. The latch on his calf released, allowing the barrel of his rifle to swing upward from its perch perpendicular to his leg. The barrel came to a rest jutting forward from his hip at a ninety-degree angle, driven and finally supported by the same infernal mechanism Ben had been performing maintenance on in the first place.
The man behind the bar was unaccustomed to being robbed. His establishment was not a bank, after all, but the severity of the trio’s entrance convinced him in an instant that a robbery was indeed occurring. He began filling the bar with anything of value he could find, spilling whiskey and beer over paper and coins in his haste to comply with orders that had not yet been given. He was so caught up in this task that he failed to notice Samson distractedly trying to wrestle his rifle back to its original position.
No one but The Railman noticed the batwings flying open again. He trundled forward noisily, drawn by the sudden movement. He now stood face-to-face with a tall, bearded man whose eyes widened at the sight in front of him. The bearded man drew a revolver from his hip and loudly ordered everyone onto the ground. What happened next happened so quickly that no one participant was able to recall the entirety of their own actions. The following account is pieced together from the combined memory fragments of everyone present, excepting, unfortunately, the bearded man:
The bartender ceased dumping valuables onto the bar. He froze in place with a bottle in one hand and a bowtie of bills crumpled in the other. Samson spun toward the sound and the rifle he had just secured came loose once again. It swung back up to its hip-fire position. The bearded man swung his aim from The Railman to Samson. Wiseman chortled and began digging through his pockets for his eyeglasses. The Railman swiveled to face the bearded man again and began to make a strange noise that was somewhat gurgle with a bit of wheeze thrown in. The bearded man’s eyes stopped bulging and his mouth dropped open. He flapped his lips a few times, but any words that may have been formed were lost in the growing noise coming from The Railman. It now sounded something like a tea kettle coming to a boil. The bearded man covered his left ear with his left hand. His right never wavered but held a steady bead on Samson who had once again nearly secured his rifle against his leg. The Railman’s whine increased steadily in pitch. Somewhere outside a dog yowled. Wiseman clapped his glasses across his nose then clapped his hands. The Railman began to emit a less ear-piercing but no less frightening noise that sounded like a train whistle muffled by dense fog. As he emitted this sound, a cloud of steam poured from his mouth. The bartender thawed out and hit the floor, his shirt sopping up spilled inebriants, his head and back assaulted by falling bottles. The steam hit the bearded man square in the face, reddening his skin and then peeling it back. It filled his open mouth and the screams he tried to scream were realized only in his own head. The bearded man fell backward. A bit of steam chuffed from his mouth and nostrils when his head bounced against the floor planks. His revolver fell from his hand and his overcoat fell open to reveal an iron star pinned to his vest. Wiseman stopped clapping. The Railman stopped emitting steam and his noises quickly cycled down to silence. Samson’s mouth dropped open and his rifle again sprang up to hip-fire mode. The bartender made a pathetic whimper and vomited, adding a new element to the soup of liquor and broken glass behind the bar. Samson passed out and fell backward, firing his rifle into the ceiling when his head bounced against the floor planks.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…watch for more of this if it was something you enjoyed. I may post future bits as I write them.

A don’t…hold your breath for the next installment. A lot of times my stories start out strong (meaning that I write a lot when I start a new story, not necessarily meaning that the stories themselves are strong), but peter out before I get to a conclusion.

Perfection Mis-Realized

Human tendency seems to be to meddle with perfection. We find something great and we immediately begin to formulate plans to make it better. Take, for instance, my back yard. When we first moved in, it was perfect. My house sits on 3/4 of an acre, which isn’t massive, but it is fairly huge. The house is on a small hill that slopes away to a beautiful flat meadow of lush, green grass. A large pecan tree stands to the northwest of this, shading a bit of less lush grass which gives way to a stand of bamboo in the far corner. To the north of the meadow is a raised pond planted with waterlilies. Below this, at ground level, sits another pond with waterlilies and lotus flowers. It was beautiful.

And then I decided we should drain one and fill it with sand to make a dig pit for my son. We threw up a swing set and a trampoline for good measure and I cleared off some beautiful grass for a garden. The garden is now a weed patch with a fence around it and it somehow sprouted a few vegetables. It looks like crap.

We mess with perfection. We find something nice and think “Hey, I can spruce this up a little bit.” And it ends up being crap. Either we are too ambitious and do so much stuff that the result is a cluttered mess of half-completed projects or we have no idea what we are doing and we end up turning something beautiful into an eyesore. This is the case with me, at least.

And this is the case with a certain shall-remain-unnamed chocolate sandwich cookie with mysterious white creamesque filling. These cookies have been perfect ever since I ate my first one at some tender young age I cannot quite fully recall. But I remember the cookies. And now they’ve changed. They’ve been changing and I hadn’t even realized it because I discovered the single positive change this particular cookie has made, the one which has been stuffed twice as full of the mysterious creamesque filling. I was buying some of those the other day and my laser focus was distracted for a moment by an equally addicted child asking if it would be acceptable to open the package in the car. I turned to assure him excitedly that we would most definitely be exploring the benefits of his amazing idea when I spotted the absurd abomination.

The white creamesque mystery ambrosia wonderful what-not pictured on the package adjacent to the one I wanted was a garish orange color and proclaimed to be candy corn flavored.

Why?

We have candy corn for candy corn flavor. Remaining unnamed chocolate sandwich cookies with mysterious white creamesque filling are perfect. We buy those when that is what we want. When we want candy corn flavor, we buy candy corn.

There are other abominations in the cookie world, but I am too disgusted to talk about them. The cookies were perfect. Why mess with them?

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…enjoy what you enjoy, even if it is an abomination.

A don’t…mess with something perfect. It cannot be made better and alterations take away from the original. It would be like cookie flavored pickles. We have two separate food items to fulfill both of those cravings. Eat the one you want. Exceptions are made for pregnant women or the severely depressed.

My Moon Rock

I used to have a moon rock. I found it when I was a kid. It was sitting on the side of a dirt road in New Mexico, approximately 30 miles from the Mexican border. Of course I took it home, bragged about it constantly and placed it in a prominent spot on a shelf in the living room. I loved my moon rock. It disappeared shortly after I discovered it and perhaps no event in my pre-pubescence has been so influential on my adult emotional status.

The previous paragraph likely left you asking a few questions. I imagine you may be wondering things like: “Where did it go when it disappeared?”, or “How do you know it was a moon rock?”, or “Why am I still reading this?”

I’ll answer all three of these in no particular order. Leave any additional questions in the comments and I’ll answer those too.

How did I know it was a moon rock? I know it was a moon rock because it looked just like a butt. It had two well-rounded cheeks with a crack between them and two little nubs that resembled the beginnings of stubby legs. It looked perfectly able to wear a small pair of pants, which I was in the process of making when I discovered the rock’s disappearance. My master plan had been to put the pants on it and then carry it around and “moon” people with it. Certainly the greatest plan I ever devised as a child; likely the crowning point of my life’s achievements to date had I been successful. Still, having the idea has to count for something.

Where did it go when it disappeared? I am honestly unsure. It is possible that it was an actual rock from the moon, or was a living creature from the moon, and the Mooners rescued it. This scenario is fairly doubtful. I’ve known only one out-of-the-closet Mooner, and it was no alien from the moon. It was my brother who climbed upon our trailer one day, mooned all the other trailer park kids and subsequently got us kicked out of our home. A more likely scenario is that my easily-offended-by-references-to-normally-pants-covered-body-parts father found it offensive and chucked it into the yard somewhere. Now its probably either slowly eroding in the New Mexico desert again or is in the pocket of some other ingenious kid who thinks its the funniest thing he or she ever found.

Why are you still reading this? This one is really on you, but I’m guessing you’re still reading because we are near the end, you’ve stuck it out this far already and you figure you might as well let morbid curiosity carry you through to the end. Spoiler alert: There are really no further revelations forthcoming. It was just a rock that looked like a butt and I’m still sad because I don’t know where it is.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…enjoy the irony of nature. I love it when nature mimics humanity and vice versa. Ad nauseum.

A don’t…be too proud of moon rocks. The Good Book says Pride goeth before a fall, or, amended and paraphrased to fit this case, pride preventeth the fall of tiny pants which would have revealed a charming geological derriere.

 

Lazy Survivalist or Urban Genius: You Be The Judge

I call myself an urban survivalist. This means that I read survival books, daydream of survival situations (knowing that I certainly would not flourish) and try (unsuccessfully) to start my fire pit without matches.

I have a bamboo patch in a corner of my backyard. I have been fascinated by it since we moved in, but it is not suitable for heavy duty use; tables, chairs, various what-have-yous, but this afternoon I decided it might make good little-weight-bearing clubhouse walls. I’ve been promising my kids a clubhouse since we moved in. Today I decided to begin making good.

I grabbed my hatchet, pocket knife and roll of twine and set to work. I crafted one wall frame, complete with cross braces and sharpened support posts that could be driven into the ground. It took nearly an hour and I lost heart because twisting twine around the various pieces and tying nearly thirty knots and blistered two of my fingers.

My daughter and I began to toss a frisbee around and during a short lull, I had an epiphany. I looked at my daughter and said, “Why am I doing all this work? I have zip ties!!!” Apparently the look on my face implied that I, in my own opinion, am rather stupid for just realizing this. My daughter cracked up and continued to reenact my facial expression all through dinner.

I grabbed the ties and produced another wall frame in less than half the time, pain free.

Either I’m a slow-burning genius or just a lazy aspiring survivalist. Either way, zip ties are going into my bug-out bag.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…make use of what you have around you.

A don’t…think inside that “gotta do it the traditional way” box. Some modern technologies will survive an apocalypse and survival is about surviving. Stepping away from tradition isn’t shameful if it produces results.

Mad Science Father’s Day: A Realization of True Gifts

First of all, happy Father’s Day to any other dad who may read this.

Secondly, please note that the attached photo has nothing to do with the mad science. A portion of the mad science can be viewed at Facebook.com/williamennisauthor. The video is very short, but the result is satisfyingly hypnotic. I am too technologically inept to add videos to my blog. Of course, this admission may cause you to question whether or not I should be conducting mad science, especially with kids around.

My wife and I thought ourselves silly trying to decide on a family activity for today. We’ve gone fishing nearly every weekend so far this summer, so we wanted something other than that. Then we thought about some sort of family craft, but for some reason this idea fell through; although there are many good ideas for that sort of thing out there. Then suddenly last night, my wife epiphaned (or whatever the past tense of epiphany is, I believe it’s: had an epiphany, but where’s the fun in that?). She searched some science demonstrations (the website’s term. They were very careful to point out that it is only an experiment if you alter the parameters based on “What if?” type questions). We did several experiments, and the kids loved every minute, as did I and my wife.

We then went on to have a water balloon fight, the ammunition for which I made most of, and I grilled some burgers for everyone.

I remember thinking at one point how much fun I was having doing most of the grunt work for our activities. I’ve been a grunt before, so I’m used to that part. The payoff was seeing the wonder, pure joy and satisfaction in the faces of my children, but this wasn’t the best part. The charming hand made gifts weren’t even the best part.

The best part of Father’s Day 2018 was when my oldest daughter, soon to turn ten, said “Daddy, I bet I know what your favorite activity was today.” Discussing our favorite activity of any fun-filled day is something we do often. “What was my favorite?” I asked. She smiled and said “Spending time with your family for Father’s Day.”

My daughter was absolutely right. As cheesy as it sounds, all the sweat, mad science related sticky hands and the burned thumb from grilling lunch were totally worth it. I don’t want to relax on Father’s Day. I want to family.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…wear gloves if you plan to do mad science.  Some “demonstrations” will leave a sticky on your hands that is hard to un-sticky.

A don’t…let the hard work and sweat dissuade you from family fun. The hardships are worth happy little faces.

Snapchat VS. Superman: A Paradigm Shift in the Field of Nerdology

Ever since I developed a more than rudimentary cognitive ability, I’ve hated Superman. The main reason was that his Clark Kent disguise seems laughable. A pair of glasses and a few hairs brushed off of the forehead? Ludicrous. Of course I reference the derisive descriptive term rather than the well-known rap artist.

But perhaps I am wrong. And perhaps the depth of my mistake goes beyond simple derision. Perhaps there is proof that I’ve deceived myself.

My wife recently downloaded snapchat. Ever since I developed a more than rudimentary cognitive ability, I’ve hated snapchat. I had no reason for this other than that it is just one more way to distract oneself from reality. It now seems, however, that using the app with family can be fun and the app can settle, once and for all, an age-old nerd argument.

When I stare into the app with my glasses on, it doesn’t recognize that my face is a face and refrains from placing cutesy wutesy crap over my features. At first we thought the app was malfunctioning, but it turned everyone else into strangely anthropomorphized and overly-cartooney puppies. It took us several minutes to realize that if I removed my glasses, the app would realize it was looking at a human face and perform its prime function; that of adorable disfiguration of human features.

It took me several more minutes to realize I’d just experienced a paradigm shift. The inability of a software application to recognize me with glasses proved without a doubt the simple genius of the previously laughable way in which Superman disguises himself. No vision restricting Batman-esque mask is necessary. A simple pair of glasses is enough to trick an app designed to recognize faces. Add in the alternate hair-comb, and you’ve basically duped an entire species and its high technology, however menially said tech is applied.

Be at peace, members of nerd-kind. This controversial issue has been settled. Now we can move on to more important questions such as: “Why would anyone want a superhero that can only be defeated by alien rocks?” Not only would this present issues of absolute power corrupting absolutely in a real-life scenario, it seems that it should also lead to severely limited story options. Apparently those limitations have somehow been overcome, but still, I prefer a hero that has to work for the “super” qualifier to be placed in front of his/her hero title.

Go Batman.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…continue to like Superman if you must. Let’s not turn weak fiction into strong statements of opinion.

A don’t…forget that Batman is better.