tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61242484147428824762024-03-12T15:55:05.720-07:00Dear Dad, Dear GillianClyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-76453551656868483622015-11-23T15:30:00.000-08:002015-11-24T18:29:15.411-08:00Goodbye, my friend.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NEDUZsu_jg4/VlOd4Yrlb5I/AAAAAAAAB34/4z_qXLizWHA/s1600/eyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NEDUZsu_jg4/VlOd4Yrlb5I/AAAAAAAAB34/4z_qXLizWHA/s200/eyes.jpg" title="" width="172" /></a>Dear Gillian:<br />
<br />
When a dog gives you her love, it is without reservation. No matter that you are at times grumpy or a slob or simply oblivious to what she offers – her warm nose and wagging tail revive your heart.<br />
<br />
And when she is gone, she leaves a hole in your soul.<br />
<br />
Saffron, the beautiful white whippet that shared our lives for 15 years, died Sunday morning this Nov. 20, her head lovingly cradled by your brother. She could outrun the wind, turn on a rabbit’s footprint and jump like an Olympian. But she couldn’t beat the cancer that wore her away.<br />
<br />
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Saffron wasn’t my dog; she was very much the dog of my son Garrett. But she and I had a special relationship based on unspoken words. I’m a professional communicator, a journalist, a man of words. But I’m in awe how another species can tell me exactly what she wants, guide my footsteps or tell me I’m better than I think merely with a wag, a glittering eye or a warm nose laid in my lap.<br />
<br />
We bought Saffron in Oregon as a present to a boy who had put up with the indignities of student housing while I worked on my degree. You had grown up with Maggie, that beautiful English springer spaniel. Garrett deserved his own chance to feel the love of a good dog.<br />
<br />
At the kennel, Saffron was the little white puppy who left the litter to come cuddle him. There was never a doubt about their bond.<br />
<br />
She owes her name not to a spice, but to Tom Cruise. Hot cars and “Days of Thunder” were the rage of junior high school boys at the time. “I’m just mad about Saffron,” was an ode to high speed.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6fi6PDKV89Y/VlOekpEckLI/AAAAAAAAB4E/AGsQjL6rWXs/s1600/P1000738.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6fi6PDKV89Y/VlOekpEckLI/AAAAAAAAB4E/AGsQjL6rWXs/s320/P1000738.jpg" width="320" /></a>And Lord was she fast. She delighted in running down a cottontail or squirrel. She would embarrass sweating joggers by flying past them at a gentle lope. She was once attacked by a mean cur at the dog park. She let it chase her, slowing to let him near her tail and then jetting ahead again. Eventually, the bully dropped to its belly panting and whimpering. His good ol’ boy owner ran over the help him, muttering “Damn, no one has ever done that to him before.” I swear that Saffron grinned.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G6u1xoi3dsk/VlOhSQsryWI/AAAAAAAAB4s/p_pVdBdEq6A/s1600/creek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G6u1xoi3dsk/VlOhSQsryWI/AAAAAAAAB4s/p_pVdBdEq6A/s200/creek.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
When Garrett finished school and move to his new career, Saffron went with him. Greta, a pretty little brindle whippet, became the new warm spot on my lap. On her frequent visits, Saffron never let Greta forget who was the queen hound. The two were my fishing buddies at the creek behind our house. Greta tiptoed around the edges of the water or splashed across the shallows at high speed. But Saffron loved to swim. She would slip into a deep pool without a splash and glide around in long loops in her doggy version of water ballet. When she had enough, she would find a sunny spot to bask until her fine short hair dried.<br />
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<br />
That hair was so fine that you could see freckles on her skin through it. It was closer to fur than dog hair, so silky it would startle people who petted <br />
her. And she love to be petted. A walk downtown with her was a parade – she posing for adoring fans and they clamoring to stroke her back. You were never short of company with Saffron on a leash.<br />
<br />
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As she grew older, she just watched the rabbits bound away and spent more time in a sunny spot near the window. Her eyes were still bright and still eloquent, but we all could see she was slipping away. When Garrett and Brittany moved to Knoxville, I watched her age, text-messaged photo by text-messaged photo.<br />
<br />
Last week the vet said the time was near. But yesterday, she perked up as if to take one last tour of her world. She ate, she cuddled and even trotted a few feet on a walk of the neighborhood. Then she quietly said goodbye. <br />
<br />
Pet your dog Nigella tonight, Gillian Look into her eyes for those words that only a dog can say. Be loved.<br />
<br />
Thank you, Saffron. You, too, were loved.<br />
<br />
<i>-- Dad</i>Clyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-7330984753049428572015-09-07T12:46:00.001-07:002015-09-07T12:47:36.360-07:00Sunday Evenings with Edward Gorey<a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcST3wZrtK-DvZVUpv0p7oFrtbfcTmVu8L0HBX-7djeCyL9UMMaS2w" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcST3wZrtK-DvZVUpv0p7oFrtbfcTmVu8L0HBX-7djeCyL9UMMaS2w" /></a><br />
Dear Dad,<br />
<br />
I don't really think of myself as a creature of habit. I don't eat the same lunch every day. I don't take the same route when I walk the dog in the evening. I don't want to go to the same vacation spot year in and year out. I like new things. I enjoy different.<br />
<br />
There's an exception, of course (as there is to every rule), and that is Sunday evenings. I think, even if I was lost in the wilderness or trapped on an island and I'd totally lost track of days and months and even years, I would know when Sunday evening rolled around. Because almost without fail, as the day fades into evening and the weekend draws to a close, the urge to watch Masterpiece bubbles up inside me, and I find myself craving a cup of tea and a good episode of Inspector Lewis or a nice costume drama. And it's totally your fault.<br />
<br />
I'm sure there was a point in my life when I did NOT love a good BBC/WGBH mystery and/or lengthy period saga, although I can't really remember it. Masterpiece Theater and Mystery are, along with my accidental viewing of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, the earliest memories I have of watching TV. Names like Morse and Forsyth and Jeeves seem to have always been in my scope of understanding. I don't even remember when I started actually watching Masterpiece and Mystery (although I remember that it was BEFORE they became one show) but I have very vivid memories of my evenings ending right about the time that either Vincent Price or Alistair Cook came on the screen to give a few hints about what events were about to unfold. I was allowed to stay up and watch the introduction long before I could understand the show that followed. I liked Mystery best. The travelling shot of what I supposed was meant to look like an old fashioned gentleman's library (Alistair's?) was ok, it had a catchy tune, but it had nothing on Edward Gorey's art, or for that matter, Vincent Price's creepy voice, still audible as I lingered on the stairs on my way to bed. I loved the fainting lady best of all, but the spiderweb fan in the ballroom seen was pretty awesome as well.<br />
<br />
I still find myself a little shocked when the old, longer introduction doesn't play before mystery. It's been shortened and shortened again I know, but I always expect to hear the whole thing because that's how it plays in my head round about the time the kids go to bed on a Sunday night. It's like an internal alarm. Sunday evening has arrived!! Cue the Masterpiece! Make the tea!<br />
<br />
More frightening still is that this disease seems to be catching. Last weekend Will suggested we rewatch an episode of Lewis "Because it's Sunday." I wonder how long it will be before the kids catch it? Evelyn is most likely to fall first, being, already, a fan of Miss Fisher and Jane Austen. It's contagious, or possibly genetic. Either way....<br />
<br />
Bah Bah bum bum bum bum ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-bum bum bum ba-bum bum bum<br />
<br />
Who's making the tea?<br />
<br />
-GillianGillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03865699765857833549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-11636826103884615552015-09-04T12:43:00.000-07:002015-09-07T12:47:19.158-07:00A Masterpiece of memoriesDear Gillian,<br />
<br />
In a round-about way, Masterpiece Theater gave you to the world.<br />
<br />
My history with television was much different from that of your mother. You professor grandfather insisted his five children limit watching to an hour a day and then only to “quality” shows without violence.<br />
<br />
At my house, we glued ourselves to the television for every slapstick humor or macho action series the three networks offered. I could sing the entire theme song to both The Beverly Hillbillies and Rawhide and knew every dogface serving with Sgt. Saunders in Combat.<br />
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<br />
One of my earliest memories was going to the appliance store in Los Angeles to pick out our first TV – a huge mahogany-doored, black-and-white sporting the Victrola dog on its base. We must have put it on layaway, because I can remember being bundled up for a walk where we stood outside the closed appliance store and stared at “our” television through the window. I could not have been more than 4 years old at the time.<br />
<br />
(You still have a piece of that TV, by the way. Dad later made it into locker boxes for Mark and I. I passed mine along to you.)<br />
<br />
By the time I got to college and met Cecile, I was a die-hard fan of junk TV. Then that beautiful coed with the dimples said we could cuddle on their couch while watching a new show on Educational Television.<br />
<br />
I didn’t really care what was on the old black-and-white set in the Gibbs’ family room as long as I could have my arm around Cecile as we sat on the Naugahyde couch on a Sunday night.<br />
<br />
But I was absolutely enthralled when a silver-haired English gentleman eloquently explained that there was so much more to Churchill than “Never in the field of human conflict…” My mom was one of the so few in RAF blue to whom so much was owed by many.<br />
<br />
And thus began Episode 1, Season I of Masterpiece Theatre: The First Churchills. Throughout the winter of 1971, Sunday was my day of joy. Not only did I get to cuddle up to my sweetheart on a winter night, but I got to watch how John Churchill, the Duke of Marlborough, fend off his 17th Century political rivals as skillfully as he did the French invading Ireland.<br />
<br />
I was hooked. We haven’t always spent our Sundays with a Masterpiece, but there were many memorable ones. As young marrieds, Poldark was almost a shared vice. We were, of course, swept up in the global excitement of Upstairs, Downstairs and we could not get enough of Lord Peter Wimsey in The Nine Tailors.<br />
<br />
You should be able to speak Latin for all the hours Mom and I rocked you while watching I, Claudius.<br />
<br />
There were other favorites, of course. Danger UXB is still, for my money, the most gripping wartime drama ever filmed. Jeeves and Wooster is among the funniest. Prime Suspect defined the woman detective genre.<br />
<br />
We now get most of our British dramas on Netflix and have a Masterpiece-like addiction to the Swedish mysteries on Mhz network. Masterpiece is now split between Mystery and the dramas, so we dive in and out to taste what we like.<br />
<br />
In my mind, though, there is only one Masterpiece Theatre. I can close my eyes now and feel the warmth of your mom’s head on my shoulder as the melodious voice of Alistair Cooke bids me “Good Evening. I know in an instant he will tell me some bit of history that I never knew I would want to know so much.<br />
<br />
<i> -- Dad</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Clyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-51550273245904367922015-08-28T17:26:00.001-07:002015-08-29T17:53:22.647-07:00Back in Action<style>
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<br />
Dear Dad,<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
The end of summer was, I’m not going to lie, a little anticlimactic at our house. This whole Mom-is-a-full-time-teacher thing is a whole new world for us. All sorts of things are different. There’s no one to pick up groceries in the middle of the day or make sure the laundry gets put in the dryer right away so that it doesn’t get stinky on hot days sitting in the wash. Calenders are fuller, dinner is later, and the first day of school came after two weeks of getting up and going into school during school hours, only instead of spending the day with me in the library, they actually went to class, which was probably a nice change for them. So it’s been a little bit of a weird week, for all of us. Maybe me most especially. <br />
<br />
It’s been a long (long, long) time since I started the first day of school as a teacher. Last year about now I was accidentally signing up for grad school. And for the decade plus before that I was one of the moms dropping kids off with a sigh of mixed relief and anxiety. In fact, the last time I started the school year as a teacher I wasn’t yet a mother. I thought my life was full to the brim then. Little did I know how much crazier it could get. <br />
<br />
I didn’t know then that the evenings would be full of extra kids over for dinner and homework and chores and golf lessons and swimming nights and did-anyone-take-out-the-trash/walk-the-dog/remember-to-turn-on-the-crockpot-oh-crap-I-forgot-that-thing-at-school-I-needed-to-do-tonight. (Thank goodness for GoogleDrive) It’s a satisfying kind of busy. I’m tired in that way where your arms feel heavier than normal and your eyes are blurry even with glasses on. But it feels good to be back in the library, to get hugs and notes and hear my favorite question, “Gillian, do you have any ideas for a good book?” <br />
<br />
We’re back. School is in. Life is good. And now? A glass of wine and a good night’s sleep. <br />
<br />
-Gillian<br />
<br />Gillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03865699765857833549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-18187173585528036372015-08-28T14:18:00.003-07:002015-08-28T14:20:29.579-07:00Back to school and the University blues<style>
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<br />
Dear Gillian, <br />
<br />
Why is it that no matter how much I plan through the summer, I’m never ready for the start of school? <br />
<br />
It’s Friday as I write, and the first week of classes just ended at the University of Missouri School of Journalism. I’m sorting through the debris now and trying to decide what I will teach next week. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zMPkG52OTH8/VeDQHBUiITI/AAAAAAAAB2o/kH3mBUu8wPI/s1600/schoolme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zMPkG52OTH8/VeDQHBUiITI/AAAAAAAAB2o/kH3mBUu8wPI/s320/schoolme.jpg" width="194" /></a></div>
<br />
I know there is no need for concern: I have a Ph.D., 25 years of journalism experience and a big mouth. I could talk for an hour on astrophysics if I had a few PowerPoint slides and a darkened classroom. <br />
<br />
Every year, however, I panic that the magic is gone. I’m over the nightmare that I will go to school without my pants on, but I still wonder if anything sane will come out of my mouth as those students stare me down. <br />
<br />
Sane I was and gracious the students were – even when the AV equipment followed tradition and broke down. That was actually a great kick start for me because I had to wing it while the technicians tinkered in the background. <br />
<br />
The first week of school at a university is a wonderful cacophony of expectations, surprises, posturing and hiding. The parade of new clothes is entertaining – especially the fashion fails that will disappear next week. Hormones rage among the freshmen, who three months ago were high school students but are now living away from home for the first time. <br />
<br />
On the opposite end of the spectrum, the doctoral students knit their eyebrows, dash head-down from classroom to library and wistfully recall when there actually was a summer break. <br />
<br />
And there is me. I always start the term with a bright tie, a snappy dress shirt and a sports coat (even though it is invariably hot). It’s a power play, sure, but the students get the impression I’m a pro and I get to reassure myself that I’ve lived through this before. By next week the jacket will be back on a hanger and the tie will come and go. <br />
<br />
Once I get going, I enjoy the first lecture. I scan the arc of chairs for the usual suspects: the big guy in a reversed baseball cap who may doze off, the intense young lady bent to her desk and taking notes on everything (including my jokes), the dazed international student blankly looking at me like I’m speaking gibberish. Which to him, I am. <br />
<br />
Some professors speculate that they could give a grade to their students on the first day and it would hold true at the end of the term. I’ve thought of that, but it’s really just an admission of failure. The A student in, A student out is a classroom pleasure. But the students who start totally lost but whom you coach to at least a B is a button-bursting victory. They are the ones who will pop up on your Facebook five years later to thank you. Even if you don’t remember their names. <br />
<br />
So my jitters are gone, I have notes for next week in one of these piles and I’ve already had one student I vaguely recognize stop me in the hall to say “hello.” Why did I ever worry about the first day of school? It’s going to be a great semester. <br />
<br />
Again. <br />
<br />
-- Dad<br />
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Clyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-31648030568058063702015-07-17T18:55:00.000-07:002015-07-19T19:07:12.010-07:00Small Town GirlDear Dad,<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
Last weekend was, as you know, my 20th High School Reunion. We'll just skip over the unbelievable fact that high school for me was 20 years ago, though -- it tends to remind me that I'm old. But in the midst of the inevitable "So where are you living these days?" and "Where are you working now?" I overheard Will commenting to somebody that while yes, we live in Portland, that I was still a small town girl at heart. Actually, I think what he said was that I had a split personality- part of me loved the city, the rest of me craves a small town.<br />
<br />
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He's totally right. I appreciate living in a city. I like the access to culture, the choice of shopping and parks and activities, I enjoy the diversity, but I'm really a small town girl. I want to know everybody, I want familiar and cozy and predictable. I loved being a part of village plays and town hall meetings.<br />
<br />
In a small town you have to participate. Because unless everyone participates, there aren't enough people to make anything happen. Cities afford a sort of anonymity that makes it too easy to just not participate. Because someone else will organize the festival or the blood drive or the clean up days.<br />
If I could wave a magic wand and create the perfect place for us, it would be a small, vibrant, bikeable village where I could still walk to work and the grocery store and the park but where I knew everybody. My family would all live nearby and, hey, this is a dream town, right? I could easily hop on a train and get to a larger city and several other countries within a few hours. So basically I need to be living in a pre-war, pre-border check English village.<br />
<br />
The reality is that being married to an urban designer does not go hand in hand with rural village living. And, as I realized after a few hours back in my small home town, the politics of small town life can seem close-minded to me after years in big and small cities (not to mentions wildly liberal New England villages). And so my solution is to live in the parts of cities that feel village-like.<br />
<br />
Neighborhoods that are dense and well defined, where almost everything you need on a daily basis is within a few minutes bike ride or walk, or in a stretch a quick drive. in Dublin it was Rathgar, in New York it was Morningside Heights, in Portland its Hawthorne, an identity beyond the city. A homemade village. I love Portland precisely because living in the part of town that we do is as close to small town life as you can get in a city, so it satisfies both sides of that split personality of mine.<br />
<br />
-- Gillian<br />
<br />Gillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03865699765857833549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-10122205357453476612015-07-15T19:00:00.000-07:002015-07-19T19:08:47.615-07:00Small town life in the heartland of America<div>
Dear Gillian,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Garrison Keeler would have been proud. Prairie Home, MO, has everything Lake Woebegone has only in dreams.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Vv5utsoaVk/VaW7Ifn4SzI/AAAAAAAAB1Q/Bqg14jj5WdQ/s1600/prairie%2Bhome.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Vv5utsoaVk/VaW7Ifn4SzI/AAAAAAAAB1Q/Bqg14jj5WdQ/s640/prairie%2Bhome.jpg" width="528" /></a>Saturday, Mom and I took a winding ride to the 100th annual Prairie Home Fair – an event unlike most of us have seen for decades. It’s not one of those cows, pigs and jelly jars fairs.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is community celebration of games, songs and good times. And it is all the better for what it doesn’t have.</div>
<div>
<br />
Like mobile phones. The grandstand was full and there were the requisite number of bored teenagers. But not a one was texting, not one was playing a game. And none of the adults were checking email. Their eyes were on the arena.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We arrived just as the kids bicycle races were hitting their mark. About 75 kids from 5 to 12 raced by the handful around four orange cones on a bare-dirt lot. First peddler to make two circuits ahead of the crowd could coast over to a wooden shed and collect $5, cash.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A few more things were notably missing: Bicycle helmets, clinging parents, knee pads – and lawyers. When kids spun out at that tricky first turn, they rubbed their knees got back on their bikes and peddled like crazy.</div>
<div>
But one of those wipe-outs left me a spectacular memory. Two 12-year-old boys who were obviously friends jockeyed for the pole (or cone) on their small-wheeled bikes. Inevitably, one tumbled and tumbled hard. He got up, but spilled at yet another corner.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
His friend coasted to the booth for his five $1 bills. But as he walked away, he stuffed the bills into his fallen friend’s pocket.</div>
<div>
<br />
Ain’t that America?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i> -- Dad</i><br />
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Clyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-76832656914557406432015-06-21T20:10:00.002-07:002015-06-21T20:13:47.035-07:00My Own Personal SuperheroDear Dad,<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XbqtjWnlzQE/VYd6-_TQbQI/AAAAAAAAJvI/bQ1QJvg_XL0/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XbqtjWnlzQE/VYd6-_TQbQI/AAAAAAAAJvI/bQ1QJvg_XL0/s320/photo.JPG" width="240" /></a>You probably don't know this, but when I was little, I thought you were magic.<br />
<br />
Ok. It's not terribly surprising. I had, as you know, what might be termed an "overactive" imagination. I was sure there was something that lived behind the woodpile in the basement that would jump out and grab my ankles if I had to go down the stairs in the dark. I thought that Lucille Ball was actually Grandma Diane, and that everyone else had just forgotten to mention that to me. And I knew, just knew that you had magical powers.<br />
<br />
I suppose lots of kids think their parents are in some way, magical (mom could definitely see through the back of her head, for instance) but this was different. This went beyond the preschool belief that the coin dad pulled out from behind my ear really <i>came</i> from my ear. This was not blind belief that my father could solve any problem. You could, of course. But there was more. Because you, dad were not far off from Superman.<br />
<br />
Not only could you do amazing things like ride you bike with no hands and fix broken toys and find my missing, precious, blanket when it went missing. There were several indicators at your work that you were, in fact, a superhero.<br />
<br />
For example, the fat, waxy pencils that magically sharpened themselves when you pulled on the string that protruded off the side, causing layers of....something that was not wood...fall away to reveal bright red or deep black lead. Or there were the machines that turned a full sized, pasted up version of the newspaper into a tiny metal version of the newspaper which were then turned, somehow, into the newspaper. You could type on a typewriter with a cat balanced on your shoulders. I had seen the photo! And the line tape, although not really magical, was really cool. I'm not sure if you ever noticed, but I plastered the underside of your desk with it every time I spent visited you at the paper.<br />
<br />
And then there was the magic portal. A tiny round room into which people (sometimes you!) walked, sliding the door shut behind them and then they were gone! It was better than a magician's trick to see you evaporate into the darkroom, especially before I knew it was just a light block to keep the photos from being exposed during processing. Although even after I realized what was beyond the magic door, I still thought you had superhero like powers. After all. YOU COULD TURN A PIECE OF WHITE PAPER INTO A PHOTOGRAPH DAD! No matter how hard I tried, I could never replicate the spell in the sink of my toy kitchen. (That is how, you might recall, I almost torched the house, trying to recreate the powers of the darkroom by draping Strawberry Shortcake's red dress over the bare bulb in my closet. The red light, after all, might have been the missing ingredient to make the spell work.)<br />
<br />
There came a point, inevitably, when I realized that these mysterious and wondrous things were standard newspaper procedures. That the door revolved, developers and negatives were responsible for photographs and those awesome peel-away marking pencils were, well they were still pretty awesome, but not magic. <br />
<br />
It didn't change the fact, however, that you still had superhero-like qualities. That you still DO have superhero qualities. I mean, you should listen to your grandson tell other people about the GIGANTIC fish his poppa can catch or how you once rode in a car with that guy who made chili and fast engines and he drove so fast that your face nearly peeled off (except it didn't, because, duh, even Carroll Shelby couldn't peel the face off a superhero. By the way, did you tell him that story? Because he tells it to EVERYONE).<br />
<br />
So Happy Father's Day, Super-Dad (aka Super-Poppa) Not everyone get's to have a superhero for a dad. We all love you so much, me most of all.<br />
<br />
-GillianGillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03865699765857833549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-87985965850296106742015-06-20T18:05:00.002-07:002015-06-20T18:09:28.386-07:00Father's Day thanksDear Gillian, <br />
<br />
The Hallmark people got Fathers Day all wrong. Instead of getting gifts, I should be sending thank you cards to you and your brother. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9oiG2GJvk58/VYYOIhQFI5I/AAAAAAAAB0U/wa6brUbUFMQ/s1600/DSCN0456.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9oiG2GJvk58/VYYOIhQFI5I/AAAAAAAAB0U/wa6brUbUFMQ/s200/DSCN0456.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Garrett, me and Dad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Women enjoy a physical and intractable bond with their children, something of which all men are secretly jealous. We instead must cultivate our connection with that squirming little bundle of life. <br />
<br />
But you make it easy. I earned my “Dad” the first time you looked up and smiled as I held you in my arms. I’m forever blessed that neither you nor Garrett ever stopped smiling. Thanks to you, happy Fathers Day to me! <br />
<br />
Biology being what it is, I’m not only a father but also a son. So I’ve puzzled through the Fathers Day gift from both sides. Mothers Day gifts were always easy – something pretty, something clutzy I made myself or just flowers. Hugs, kisses and joyful tears guaranteed. <br />
<br />
But what to get Dad? <br />
<br />
If flowers are the default for Mothers Day, tools are the norm for Fathers Day. But you’ve seen Dad’s shop. Buying another tool for him was something like buying another reindeer for Santa. <br />
<br />
Not that he minded. An extra screwdriver or pair of pliers can always find home on the workbench. He was a Dad, after all. The real present was the smile and gleam in his children’s eye. <br />
<br />
Some of the best presents you and Garrett gave me were the little trinkets you made yourself. And I actually love getting ties. My favorites are the two you made for me with handprints of your own children. Grandkid chic. Those ties also marked my graduation from mere “father” to “grandfather.” <br />
<br />
Son-to-father-to-grandfather. Some men never make it or don’t appreciate it if they do. But I find it wondrous. My dad’s genes became my genes, then yours and Garrett’s genes, the Briton and Evie’s genes. Garrett is next in line to move up from sonhood. <br />
<br />
Fathers Day reminds me that I have a responsibility to the future and a legacy no one can take away. I see my dad now only in photos and the Bentley nose. But I feel him in the things I do and the words I say. Sometimes it is the way I stand or the way I walk. The Father of All Fathers Day gifts is catching those same mannerism in you, Garrett or even Evie or Briton. <br />
<br />
So thanks, Gillian. You made my (Fathers) Day. <br />
<br />
--Dad <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Clyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-29198607230445926692015-06-10T11:35:00.002-07:002015-06-10T11:57:39.546-07:00Gardening: or, My Favorite Bedtime Reading<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-el6DCxjAaVU/VXiFjT-4ETI/AAAAAAAAJto/fWiU-yR36YM/s1600/jGCB3HzAZxEdtV2X9USWyM5t7TulKLVcmwKQAlGEQUpJSK-duEYl2rnsum2UPTLhwg38mAQulzWxxn6zNwkT2wlxXZKXwYhCkISi_OioNpgcQO6liFsv7jqW-iMle1N9NKbUzgJReXBrz6im8cP_wAEwe_KjdKg3_KrhZ2eJ2PnTU4ghqovn1JOOXd0m4GmGmdIRhtDFUlqUmPNVhtKe8lkyaz.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-el6DCxjAaVU/VXiFjT-4ETI/AAAAAAAAJto/fWiU-yR36YM/s320/jGCB3HzAZxEdtV2X9USWyM5t7TulKLVcmwKQAlGEQUpJSK-duEYl2rnsum2UPTLhwg38mAQulzWxxn6zNwkT2wlxXZKXwYhCkISi_OioNpgcQO6liFsv7jqW-iMle1N9NKbUzgJReXBrz6im8cP_wAEwe_KjdKg3_KrhZ2eJ2PnTU4ghqovn1JOOXd0m4GmGmdIRhtDFUlqUmPNVhtKe8lkyaz.jpg" /></a><br />
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</style>Dear Dad,<br />
<br />
It wasn’t until I was almost an adult that I realized not everyone had John Seymour’s The Complete Book of Sufficiency read to them as a bedtime story. It came as kind of a shock when I realized my error. Other children didn’t daydream with their father’s about how to turn a 1-acre plot of land into enough food to feed a family of four? (or better yet, a five acre plot, because then, as you know, you can grow enough food to also feed your cow instead of having to buy in hay. Or resort to having a goat for your milk-producing needs). Really? They just read Narnia? I mean, we read Narnia and loved it. But how did other kids learn how to double-dig a garden bed?<br />
<br />
I was fascinated by that big brown book, which always seemed to be hanging around our house. I’m still fascinated by it. I keep my copy on the coffee table. You know, just in case I want to re-read for the hundredth time his witty commentary on the lost art of basket making, or how his kids ate all of his home grown poppy seeds hoping (unsuccessfully) to get a buzz off of them. <br />
<br />
Or if I have a pig butchering emergency. It could happen.<br />
<br />
I can close my eyes and see the charts about when to start growing what, which only apply if you live in his particular part of England but which I still look at every spring. I can picture the pages about weaving a skep for keeping bees and the different layouts of garden beds for maximum food production. <br />
<br />
That book has led me down the crazy path many-a-time. And I’m sure it<br />
<a name='more'></a> will again. I have a hard time resisting the siren call of wanting to live off the land. It’s one of the main reasons we ended up living in the woods in Vermont and responsible for more than one far-too-big-for-me garden. Like the time I planted a whole packet of tomato seeds in little pods and all of them came up. I couldn’t bear to throw any of them out, which led to the great tomato hedge of my junior year in college, a massive jungle of vines and tomatoes that took over one of my already over sized garden beds and filled our fridge, counter, table and more with piles and piles of tomatoes. (Who has a giant garden while they are in college? People who read John Seymour as children, of course! Remember when I planted winter rye in that garden, as per the book, for a cover crop and then almost killed the rototiller trying to work it into ground? Ah, good times.) <br /><br />
<br />
This year I’m being quite sensible. Between work and school and traveling this summer, that fantasy I have of plowing up the whole front yard Victory-Garden style just isn’t practical. Nor are chickens. Or a goat. At least, not this year. This year we are keeping things small. Just a wee (17 foot long- but only two feet wide!) raised bed that we’ve divided up to try out square foot gardening. And only three tomato plants. So far. I mean, three is enough! Three is plenty (but I might need a few more because you can never have too many tomatoes!)<br />
<br />
<br />
-Gillian Gillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03865699765857833549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-18715063368969094912015-06-08T17:43:00.002-07:002015-06-10T11:58:55.822-07:00Gardening: Thankfully, there is no cure for the Green Plague<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DTdA8qL2FLE/VXY2OMryCkI/AAAAAAAABz4/CcsqYXBL1T0/s1600/Deck%2Bgardening.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DTdA8qL2FLE/VXY2OMryCkI/AAAAAAAABz4/CcsqYXBL1T0/s400/Deck%2Bgardening.JPG" width="248" /></a></div>
Dear Gillian,<br />
<br />
It would be overly polite to call the place where my father grew up a “dirt farm.” Dirt, yes. Farm, no. It was more of a divot in the vast forest of northern Idaho with enough bare ground that you could coax cabbage, potatoes and other hearty vegetables through the brief mountain summer. <br />
<br />
The 10 Bentley kids did the vegetable coaxing at the end of hoe handles, but only because my notoriously stern grandfather had and used a bigger stick. There was no way in the world he was going pay good money for undistilled consumables. <br />
<br />
Dad, then, had a hard time seeing gardening as a hobby. It was a chore that put food on the table. He planted gardens during the leanest times of my boyhood, but treated them a small farms that would ease the grocery budget. He even tried to introduce us to a frost-fighting, north country favorite – Swiss chard. My brother and I drew the line there. We would hoe the weeds, but not eat something with the culinary appeal of pond scum. Or kale.<br />
<br />
But when I was in about seventh grade, I caught the Green Plague. I was a voracious reader who became fascinated by stories of farm life, huge vegetables and loan between your toes. Dad thought I had gone mad when tilled and planted a plot near the house. I’m sure he chuckled, however, while I was learning that pulling weeds and <br />
<a name='more'></a>watering is no where near as fun as planting. <br />
<br />My new love affair with gardening even survived my freshman year, when I came down with appendicitis a few weeks after planting what had to be the biggest and most boring garden in the county. I wasn’t very good at planning harvests, so I just planted two entire packets of Big Boy tomato seeds, a couple of net bags full of onion bulbs and everything in the bonus-size of packet of zucchini seeds. <br />
<br />
The vast rows were just looking magazine-perfect when my innards invited me to the hospital for a week. Mom ensured me that my brother “volunteered” to take care of the garden through my lengthy recovery. Mark’s translation of that was he would turn the sprinklers on a couple times a week. <br />
<br />
By the time I was well enough to amble out to the garden, the Johnson grass was taller than anything I had planted. Still, I could see the tomato plants poking through the grass and the onions were holding their own. For the life of me, however, I couldn’t figure out where zucchini went. <br />
<br />
I ended up with so many onions and tomatoes that I sold several crates to a restaurant. Right about then, I also found the zucchini. One morning there were dozens of bright orange, rock-hard and inedible gourds laughing at me. <br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I no longer let zucchini plants congregate, but I’ve never recovered from the Green Plague: </li>
<li>I spent more time and money on my first drip irrigation system than I ever did at the supermarket.</li>
<li>I spit in the face of northern Idaho’s chilly summers by running electrical heat tapes under my tomato bed, which was planted with a “storage” variety that could be picked green and ripened inside.</li>
<li>I scratched out a garden bed in the rocky Sierra soil when we lived at Lake Tahoe – then wept like a baby when it snowed on Father’s Day.</li>
<li>I was damned-Yankee aghast to find that all of the garden stores in San Antonio closed after Mother’s Day. Then I watched my new garden burn up in the Texas summer. </li>
<li>I tapped Cecile’s artistic eye to design and build beautiful beds for our expansive new home in Missouri. </li>
</ul>
<br />
Then came the big shock. When we decided to downsize, I told Cecile that I didn’t really need a garden anymore and we could buy that wonderful hillside house with no lawn – and no garden. <br />
<br />
I lied, of course. What is a life without soil under your finger nails. You just must be creative. I am very satisfied to grown my tomatoes in large clay pots – set up on a railing where the groundhogs can’t get to them. But the squirrels still can. <br />
<br />
I also have a 4x15 raised bed on the south side of the house. Not much grows in the shade of the adjacent oak and black walnut, but I get to watch a few beans, squash and zinnias reach for the sun just before that groundhog comes home for dinner. <br />
<br />
That’s OK. Despite my heritage, I will never see gardening as a larder-filling chore. It’s an opportunity to share. Share a meal with friends or family. Share your crop with the wildlife. Share your experiences with other gardeners. <br />
<br />
But most of all, it is an opportunity to share a piece of your soul with Nature. <br />
<br />
<i> --Dad</i><br />
<br />
<br />Clyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-54691185908949674972015-05-29T17:02:00.001-07:002015-06-08T15:48:47.139-07:00Car Stories: The Little Green Fiat and Me<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Dad,</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6zPfMARCjF0/VWj827JK6-I/AAAAAAAAJss/dG530hv9uTs/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-05-29%2Bat%2B4.55.54%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6zPfMARCjF0/VWj827JK6-I/AAAAAAAAJss/dG530hv9uTs/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-05-29%2Bat%2B4.55.54%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not Oliva, because Will has her at work today, but you know, for size comparison</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I’ve never really been much of a car girl. I find them more of a necessary evil than something you love.<br />
<br />
I dislike driving, more and more the older I get, and I’ve never really seen the appeal of cars as objects of affection. In fact, I remember a certain 16-year-old Texan showing off his new-to-him BMW and thinking “It’s ok I guess.” (he still talks about that car, 25 years later, so I suppose it was probably more than ok, but what did I know?)<br />
<br />
Other than a love affair with a Landcruiser named Ramona, whose <br />
<a name='more'></a>chief qualities were that I could haul a toddler, two dogs and anything I needed for renovating a house in her all at once and that she ran no matter what I did (or didn’t do – being a not car person means I tend to not do more things to my car than I’m supposed to – like check the oil, or change the oil), I’ve never had more than a passing interest in the cars I’ve owned. <br />
<br />
Until Oliva.<br />
<br />
When we moved back to Portland, it became immediately clear that our enormous Honda Pilot – so necessary in Vermont when we might be hauling four kids and ski gear up an unpaved and unplowed road for six months of the year – was not going to be very functional in a city where bikes are a main mode of transportation, parking is tight and driveways narrow. We test drove the kind of practical cars our neighbors had – a Honda Fits, a Nissan Leaf and a Toyota Prius being the main contenders. We considered the official car of Portland, a Subaru outback (it’s true what they say, this town is littered with them) but having owned, and paid for many repairs for two Subarus in my driving life, I wasn’t keen.<br />
<br />
And then I saw a little green Fiat 500 and fell in love.<br />
<br />
When people see my car, they have one of two reactions. Either they laugh, especially when we all pile out, clown-car style, or they say “Oh, a Fiat, I would love to have one of those” Which is often followed by “except I have kids/a dog/a tall spouse.” Actually, sometimes people just pet it too. And they almost all say, “Boy I bet that’s fun to drive!” and it is.<br />
<br />
It really is. And coming from a girl who detests driving, that’s saying a lot.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t a practical choice, perhaps. It only has four seatbelts, which means we can’t haul a bunch of kids around. But then again, it also means we can’t haul a bunch of kids around. <br />
<br />
If/when we renovate another house, it won’t be super handy, but by then, I hope Ercell the '55 Chevy truck that’s taking up half the driveway will run for longer than a minute and we can use that for all the two by fours and sheets of plywood and clawfoot tubs that I’m sure we’ll be hauling. But it’s surprising what we can fit in it.<br />
<br />
As someone who has kids, a tall spouse and a dog, I can attest to the fact that, TARDIS-like, my wee Fiat is bigger on the inside. We’ve hauled home a surprising amount of stuff in it. And truthfully, it could be smaller.<br />
<br />
Oliva is, in fact, my second Fiat. Sort of. When I was an exchange student on that weird and wonderful island of Sardinia, my family, which included three teenagers before I arrived on the scene, drove a Fiat 500. And that was the older, smaller model. So fitting a tween, a dog and an almost 9-year old in the back of Oliva is a piece of cake compared to four fully grown teens squished together in the back of a truly tiny Fiat driving 80 miles an hour down winding Italian country lanes while Mama and Papa yell at each other about (I think) how to get where they are going.<br />
<br />
And also, Fiat has great commercials. I mean, how can you not love a car that comes with an Authentic Italian Family?<br />
<br />
-Gillian Gillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03865699765857833549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-35249333348051842442015-05-29T16:05:00.002-07:002015-06-10T11:52:19.878-07:00Car Stories: The litttle cockroach who could<br />
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<br />
Dear Gillian,<br />
<br />
I think my car may be a cockroach. If Armageddon ever comes, it won’t be the meek who inherit the Earth. It will be all those unkillable cockroaches – driving Geo Trackers. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--2SN1VYwI1c/VWjwt_LDcfI/AAAAAAAAByk/F3iize03nvQ/s1600/1990%2BTracker.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--2SN1VYwI1c/VWjwt_LDcfI/AAAAAAAAByk/F3iize03nvQ/s400/1990%2BTracker.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
I fell in love with my 1990 Tracker almost the moment you and I spotted it at the dealership in Pendleton, Oregon. No worries that it was seven years old. It was tiny, it was bright white and it was four-wheel-drive. And best of all, it was a convertible.<br />
<br />
Well, I suppose the best of best of all was that it was cheap. We didn’t need a limousine, just a snow car. This one might actually qualify as a snowmobile.<br />
<br />
I loved it, but only expected to see it around for a couple of years.<br />
<br />
But it didn’t die in the eastern Oregon snow. And when<br />
<a name='more'></a>we moved, the rain in Eugene couldn’t wash the smile off of its grill. (I know, it’s not a smile. But the little thing always looks happy. It was, after all, made in Canada).<br />
<br />
Every year since then, I’ve expected it to die. Then I change the spark plugs, get a new battery or have it tuned up.. Away it goes again. Even when Garrett and I used it to tow a trailerful of our lives halfway across the country to Missouri, it didn’t balk.<br />
<br />
It’s a cockroach, I swear. You can’t swat it with unabridged dictionary. <br />
<br />
That said, it is 25 years old. It still looks sharp in the driveway, with its black knobby tires in contrast with its still-white sides. But it take a minute or two of cranking to fire up the engine in the morning and the broken parking brake cable is unavailable at any price.<br />
<br />
So just as I start seriously thinking about trading it in, what do I see?<br />
<br />
Cockroaches. Green ones, red ones and familiar white ones. Cecile commented that there seem to be more Geo Tracker’s on the road now than ever. I think its just the immortality factor. It doesn’t matter how insignificant you were when you started, being the last one standing puts you at the top of the heap. Or in this case, heaps.<br />
<br />
So who knows, another year for my little cockroach? Maybe a shot of Canadian Club in the tank . . .<br />
<br />
-- DadClyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-79173402899560827662015-05-18T18:47:00.000-07:002015-05-18T19:27:31.829-07:00Academic Seasons: The Sour with the Sweet<style>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a9eM4PTPecw/VVqVyVL2LnI/AAAAAAAAJq8/w5xRPaGwgd0/s1600/photo%282%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a9eM4PTPecw/VVqVyVL2LnI/AAAAAAAAJq8/w5xRPaGwgd0/s320/photo(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Dad, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I always look forward to summer vacation. That sounds
obvious, I realize, but for ten-plus years, I haven’t really had “summer
vacation” from work. In fact, summer means more work, because the kids are on
vacation, which is not, by its very definition, a vacation for a mom.<br />
<br />
But
despite the days filled with entertaining/feeding/keeping track of the bands of
kids that will come and go from my house this summer, despite the heat – which
I despise, and the humidity – which I despise even more, I do love summer vacation.
I love the dirty, sweaty kids bursting into the house in search of Kool Aid and
popcorn. I love the long nights, movies in the park, schlepping to the pool
craziness of summer. It’s both laid back and chaotic <br />
<a name='more'></a>all at once. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This year, the start of summer is bitter sweet for me. I’m
looking forward to spending more time with my kids. I’m excited about the
various trips and expeditions we have planned, even the slightly dreaded high
school reunion that happens this summer. I can’t wait to not have to worry
about getting people, including myself, up and out the door. I love Portland in
the summer. Beach days, movie nights, shaved ice from the guy who has two side
by side food carts – shaved ice and macaroni and cheese – and dashes back and
forth between the two. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the same time, I will miss going into work each week.
I’ve only been at this school for not-quite six months, but I already love it. I
love my job, I love my library, I love the kids. Today marked the beginning of
the closing of the library for the year. Last days for check-outs, last
bulletin boards hung up, reports going into boxes telling teachers what books
they still have out. I have a group of fifth graders, a little book club - they
call themselves The Library Foxes - who come in at recess and take turns
reading Watership Down while the others color or make signs for me or just
lounge around the library listening. I love them. They are so eager and excited
about books and … sweet. They are trying to figure out how to keep the book club going
over summer which …. gosh, it just melts my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of them are moving on next year to a
different school, others will<br />
stay through 8<sup>th</sup> grade, either way,
they will change so much over the summer, and next year they will be middle
schoolers, with all that implies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And they aren’t the only ones. All the kids, even the ones
who accidentally stick gum between the pages of books/leave them out in the
rain/can not sit sill for a ten-minute story, they have all inched their way
into my heart, and much as love the idea of summer vacation, I know I will not
want to say goodbye when the last day of school rolls around in a few weeks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today when I got to school there was a note from a first
grader on my desk. “Can we have 2000 more minutes of library PLEASE
Gillian?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I wish I could say “Heck
yeah we can!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t remember feeling that way as a classroom teacher. I
don’t remember wishing we had just a few more weeks, time for one more book, a
few more silly projects, a couple more recesses with the Library Foxes. By the
end of the year I was always so DONE. So ready for a break. It feels weird that
I’m kind of not ready to let go of this crop of kids, that I’m as sorry to see
the year end as I am excited for the summer to start. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lucky, lucky me. I’m a happy camper either way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Gillian </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Gillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03865699765857833549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-24437478383650669982015-05-18T17:59:00.000-07:002015-05-18T19:26:43.234-07:00Academic seasons: Growing a crop of graduatesDear Gillian,<br />
<br />
No one likes to say goodbye. But twice a year I do it with a wistful smile. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S45DT1IjqfI/VVlchy5X0DI/AAAAAAAABx8/WTqEZWfjKNo/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-05-17%2Bat%2B10.27.20%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S45DT1IjqfI/VVlchy5X0DI/AAAAAAAABx8/WTqEZWfjKNo/s320/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-05-17%2Bat%2B10.27.20%2BPM.png" width="284" /></a>For graduation week at the University of Missouri, I put on my bright green doctoral robe, cocked my tasseled tam and made march of pomp with my professorial colleagues. <br />
<br />
With us on the arena floor, scores of black-robed students laughed nervously. In the bleachers around us, parents looked on with that special mixture of emotions: pride in accomplishment, relief in completion and worry in a yet-unsettled future. <br />
<br />
I understand those emotions – mine are just as mixed. But let’s step back a few months. <br />
<br />
Professors could trade their fancy robes for bib overalls. What we do<br />
<a name='more'></a> is very much akin to farming – with a 15-week crop cycle. <br />
<br />
We do an awful lot of plowing the first few weeks of the semester. We dig up the bits of knowledge students picked up from other teachers, turn it over repeatedly and mix it well with composted lectures. <br />
<br />
When their brows are properly furrowed, we plant the seeds of knowledge and cultivate intensely. Somewhere around midterm, they sprout. Or at least the lights go on in their eyes. From that point on it's a race to keep ahead of them. <br />
<br />
Then at the end of each fall and spring semester, we harvest the best of them. <br />
<br />
Watching the students you impatiently tended walk across the stage and into their future is the greatest reward of teaching. It comes with a cost, of course. By the time they get to caps and gowns, they have a piece of us with them. And as proud as we are, it hurts when that piece goes away.<br />
<br />
There's a secret to making the most of academic life, though. It's the same tip that a student speaker gave to his fellow fledgling citizens of the world:<br />
<br />
"Keep moving. Just don't stop moving."<br />
<br />
<i>Dad </i><br />
<br />Clyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-15582933233104458422015-05-08T14:59:00.001-07:002015-06-08T15:49:45.589-07:00You Get a Gold Star or, My Week in Three Paragraphs<style>
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Dear Dad,</div>
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It’s amazing what a gold star can do to make even the most
strenuous, tiring, or boring work worthwhile. Last month I gave my students a
Dewey Decimal number each day to go hunt for, and if they could find it and
tell me what was there, they got a gold star. Honestly, I wasn’t sure they
would buy it, but boy did they. A whole group of fifth graders even came in
during recess on their non-library days to earn their stars. In fact, even
though we’ve moved on to a new activity in the library, they are still asking me
for a number to go hunt for to earn another star. </div>
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I totally get it. The past two weeks have been a blur of too
many things in too little time. My days have been spent running from one thing
to the next to the next. But this week was teacher appreciation week and man,
even though I know most of the little notes I received were parent-driven
(having sent my own kids off with cards and treats for their teachers), I
enjoyed getting my gold stars. I love my job all the time, but this week,
despite being in the middle of mid-term madness in the grad school end of my
life, was a gold star week. How can you not smile when you get a note that says
“I love books! I love reading! I love you!” from a smiling five-year-old? Also, I found out that wearing your hair in mini (messy) victory rolls earns you cool points with middle school boys, mostly because they can't understand how you make your hair do that. Who knew?</div>
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<br /></div>
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And now it’s Friday. And sunny. (And Mother’s Day weekend) And
other than the normal child-centered weekend activities that come with
parenthood, I am taking the weekend off from that pile of things to do in my
head so I can enjoy the sunshine and the city and my family. I heard a great
expression today “First I have to contend with the assholes who control my
brain.” Well, I’ve told them to can it until Monday. I’ve turned in my papers
and answered my emails and shelved all the books that are going to get shelved.
I earned my gold star for the week. Now it’s time for the weekend. </div>
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-Gillian</div>
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Gillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03865699765857833549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-50673672846634250122015-05-08T13:14:00.001-07:002015-06-08T15:50:28.756-07:00Having it both ways , or life in three paragraphsDear Gillian,<br />
<br />
I feel both old and young today. Very tired but very invigorated. It’s one of those days when nothing seems as it appears.<br />
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<br />
The spring semester ends this week. But while classes are over, I’m faced with a pile of complex final projects. The constant parade of bright students young enough to be my grandkids reminds me of how gray I am – but the mere fact I am around them puts a bounce in my step. Even the weather is contrary – sunbreaks between rain showers.<br />
<br />
But I’m happy. The love of my life smiled to me when I awoke. I had breakfast looking out over a rapidly-greening forest viewed from our one-of-a-kind house. I walked onto a gorgeous campus to do the work I love. Tonight I will dine perhaps too heartily and later kick back and read notes from the two no-longer-children who make me proud. I will have sweet dreams. Guaranteed. <br />
<br />
-- <i>Dad</i>Clyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-24257805769964468102015-04-26T19:22:00.005-07:002015-06-08T15:50:43.913-07:00Earth Day Every DayDear Dad,<br />
<br />
So here's the horrible truth, I totally missed Earth Day this year. I know, I know! You marched in the first Earth Day. You taught us about doing right, or as right as you can, by the environment before it was cool. We were composting things and reusing things and recycling things long before there were green and blue bins for that. But hear me out.<br />
<br />
I remember being a kid, probably around Briton's age because, like him, I was full of righteous indignation over things, in this particular instance, the fact that Earth Day was just once a year. It should be Earth Day everyday, my twelve-ish year old self wanted to shout at the world. Why should there be just be one day when we worried about what harm we are causing the earth? Why should it be only once a year that we want to fight for the planet we live on? It should be all the time, right?<br />
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A part of me wonders if that's why I ended up in Portland. Where, not only is the dream of the nineties alive (both the 1990's and the 1890's, of course) but where it's Earth Day everyday. Where the city gives us wee tiny trash cans and great big recycling and compost bins for curbside collection to encourage (well, force) us to reduce our trash output. Where you can buy recycled paint, recycled clothes, recycled fur teddy bears (it's a thing) recycled art and recycled houses and no one thinks that's odd, ok, the bears are a little odd, but you know what I mean. The trash can in the library is one of the few in the whole of my (Environmental) school so that the middle schoolers bring down weird leftover bits of things that they've taken apart and stripped all the recycled bits off of until they are left with bits and bobs of trash to put in my can. Which is fine because, as payment for the use of my trash can, I make them listen to me tell them about a book they should read, so it's a win-win.<br />
<br />
So while I definitely recycled all the paper scraps from my library that day, plus a couple of highlighters, and probably found myself eating something organically grown and sustainably harvested, while I downloaded something rather than printing it and put my food waste in the compost bin instead of the trash. While I walked past kids tossing snack scraps to the school chickens on my way home (because that's how we roll, school chickens), I didn't notice that it was Earth Day, it was just a normal day. And that's not a bad thing. In fact, it means that Earth Day, the Earth Day that was dreamed up all those year ago, it worked. Sure, it's not like this everywhere (although I highly recommend school chickens, because there's nothing like going to the staff room to heat up your lunch to the dulcet tones of hens clucking on the other side of the window), and yes, we still need to use less, recycle more, drive less, bike more, consume less and keep pushing ourselves to do a better job of protecting this planet we are the current stewards of, but it worked, that march you went on 45 year ago. It worked. It got the ball rolling. It started the trend. Not every crazy, hippy dream can say that, can it?<br />
<br />
Happy (belated) 45th Earth Day Dad.<br />
<br />
- Gillian Gillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03865699765857833549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-54303653679028125702015-04-26T19:21:00.000-07:002015-06-08T15:50:54.920-07:00What goes around, comes around Dear Gillian,<br />
<br />
The Columbia Earth Day celebration was rained out last week. Seems fitting, in a way.<br />
<br />
Rain is the epitome of recycling: Raindrop to stream, stream to ocean, ocean to cloud, cloud back to raindrop. Repeat for a million years or so.<br />
<br />
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Earth Day is very special to me. I was a freshman in college in 1970 when θ -- the Greek letter theta – began appearing on bumper stickers and posters. Theta on a green field was the new symbol for ecology, which itself was a term that never made it into my textbooks.<br />
<br />
By April, I was wearing the symbol myself and part of the organizing team for Earth Day 1 at Shasta College in my hometown, Redding, CA. I have seldom felt so proud as when I carried the giant θ-emblazoned flag as we marched through downtown.<br />
<br />
I tell that story to my students now and their eyes roll. Few know what “Earth Day” means – nor do they care. I suppose I should be upset, but I’m strangely pleased. Their ambivalence means that hippie-haired gaggle of protesters in 1970 succeeded. We changed the world.<br />
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Earth Day did not arise to promote hemp seed, belly dancing and henna tattoos. It came on the heels of warnings by Rachel Carson, Paul Ehrlich and others that we might not make it to our dotage unless we started taking care of our world.<br />
<br />
In my hometown, the lumber mills burned their waste in huge “teepee burners,” which likely were not as bad as the noxious clouds from the burning garbage dump. Clear Creek, near my home, was anything but and lined by 20-foot-high rows of gravel left behind by the dredges that plowed the valley for gold nuggets.<br />
<br />
The national picture was bleaker. I remember my eyes burned and I hacked up brown gook while visiting Los Angeles. The Potomac in our capital was known as the river you could smell before seeing. Bald eagles were fantasy creatures – on the verge of extinction from the effects of DDT pesticide.<br />
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So we marched. Better yet, we voted. And year by year, life not only went on, it got better.<br />
<br />
Now my students watch bald eagles glide over the Missouri River, put their cans in city-provided recycling bags and think DDT is a rap group. Blissfully.<br />
<br />
And Earth Day? Just a rain delay. The anger was mostly gone, replaced by gardeners, solar panel salesmen and kids with face paint. But you can’t keep a good movement down.<br />
<br />
Like a raindrop.<br />
<br />
<i>--Dad</i>Clyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-16328389680837838282015-04-19T11:36:00.000-07:002015-04-20T19:10:23.097-07:00From One State to AnotherClyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-39694675879951712172015-04-19T10:49:00.000-07:002015-06-08T15:52:00.878-07:00Oregon to a MissourianDear Gillian, <br />
<br />
Spring is just starting to peep out here in the Heartland. The trees are budding and the bulbs are blooming. In a week or two it will be honestly green. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8isrxIFl92w/VTP1ZROudiI/AAAAAAAABus/954k1hthx-o/s1600/Clyde%2Bcolumns%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8isrxIFl92w/VTP1ZROudiI/AAAAAAAABus/954k1hthx-o/s1600/Clyde%2Bcolumns%2B2.jpg" /></a>But Missouri is not Oregon. I think the real green every time I glance down at my right hand and see the sparkle of my UO ring. After 14 years as a professor here at the University of Missouri, I’m a loyal Mizzou Tiger. But in my heart, I’ll always be a Duck. <br />
<br />
Oregon is a mystery to most Missourians. I asked a few of my students this week what they though of when I said “Oregon” or “Oregonians.” I was met with puzzled looks and a couple of “I can’t even imagine it.”<br />
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From here, Oregon is a lifetime away – almost a dream. It’s always been that way for Missourians. The Oregon Trail started here and wound 2,200 miles to some odd place where the trees stayed green all year. The Midwesterners in those covered wagons were not gamblers like California’s ‘49ers. But the Oregon dream was so strong even sensible folk who lived by the Show Me creed packed up for a land they couldn’t comprehend. <br />
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Even today it’s beyond the imagination of many Missourians. Oregon is the land where you watch the football team change uniforms 20 times, pull into the station to let someone else fill up your VW bus so you can drive over to Washington and buy marijuana, then come home and turn your beer bottles in for deposit before getting a doctor to help you kill yourself. All with no sales tax. <br />
<br />
Nothing weird about that. Except sandals, of course. Wearing sandals before May 1 is a Class B misdemeanor in Missouri. Wearing sandals with socks can get you exiled to Kansas. <br />
<br />
But I know Oregon and delight in both its eccentricities and wonders. It’s Mount Hood popping out of the clouds after a month in seclusion. It’s Multnomah Falls seeming to spill a wisp of water from heaven. It’s the amber waves of grain east of the Cascades that shock outsiders into realizing more of Oregon is high desert than high evergreens. <br />
<br />
And it's the people. Oregonians are less eccentric than they are pragmatic – their ideas make so much sense the rest of us think they must be crazy. Low voter turnout? Cast you ballot by mail. Attendant-pumped gas to expensive? Ride bikes (lots and lots of bikes). Drizzly rain never-ending? Just pretend it isn’t there. Gor-Tex is fashionable for any occasion. <br />
<br />
But most of all, Oregon has you. If my daughter, my grandkids and my son-in-law are so very happy there, it must be magical. <br />
<br />
And for that, Missourians drop their famous demand and quietly turn it into a plea. <br />
<br />
Show Me. Please.<br />
<br />
<i>Dad </i>Clyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-15318560036330810612015-04-18T11:36:00.000-07:002015-06-08T15:52:32.536-07:00Missouri to an OregonianDear Dad, <br />
<br />
Remember in Eugene when you’d get those rare days in spring where, after dreary skies and an eternity of rain, the sun came blazing out in all it’s summer glory and no one came to class, not even professors because, well, the sun was shining! It’s that kid of day here in Portland. Unfortunately I’m no longer an undergraduate who can just skip a class now and then, and while it is my day off from work, I’m stuck inside studying cataloging, which, by the way, is not the kind of thing you want to do on a beautiful sunny day. <br />
<br />
The western half of Oregon, as you know, is blessed (cursed?) with an abundance of rain. I actually don’t mind the rain. I’m not sure if it’s a gene passed down from our English roots or just the fact that I’ve spent more of my life in the rain than out of it that has made it, for the most part, a perfectly pleasant kind of environment to live in. It means that you spend a lot of time indoors or in raincoats, sure, but it also means that it’s green an lush almost all the year round.<br />
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Missouri, I know, is not like that. I remember when you first moved there, how you would describe the barren beauty of those months after the leaves fell, when you could see houses you didn’t know were there on hills that had been hidden by a swatch of deciduous trees. Coming from the land of evergreen forests, I didn’t really understand the appeal. Forests were dark and mysterious and hushed, any sounds deadened by the heavy curtain of pine and fur boughs. During our time living in Missouri, and then later all our trips to visit, the scenery has grown on me. It took a while for me to see it, because Oregon’s beauty is very in-your face – sumptuous and grand, but now I understand the feast or famine greenness of your state, the wonder of the world outside transforming from lush green to burn orange to stark brown as the seasons roll by. <br />
<br />
Will and I once took Briton on a mountain bike ride, somewhere, I can’t remember where, not far from your house. It was fall and the trees were bursting with bright yellow leaves. The wind picked up, just a little, just enough to send a constant and steady fall of lemon colored leaves, drifting to the ground. Like snow. It went on and on, and we stood under it and just watched. It was, perhaps, the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I still think about it. A part of me wishes I’d gotten a picture, but mostly I’m glad I didn’t, because I’m sure a photo wouldn’t have done the moment justice, and I’d rather have that memory in my head than the memory of watching through a viewfinder and a mediocre photo stored on my computer. Last fall, people here marvelled at the autumn colors changing and I kind of though "meh, I've seen better." Oregon does green better than it does red and orange and yellow. <br />
<br />
According to my phone, Columbia and Portland will both be in the high 70’s and low 80’s this weekend. So far this year we’ve been consistently warmer than you, but in a few weeks I imagine you’ll outstrip us, heading toward your much hotter summer as Oregon dithers back and forth for a few more months about whether it’s spring or winter or summer, changing it's mind on a daily, if not hourly, basis. But for a brief moment in the year, we’ll both be spring this weekend. I’ll sit outside with my tea and think about you, enjoying your coffee on your deck. You’ll watch your hawk, I’ll fill up the hummingbird feeder, we should both probably do some yard work except, eh, it can wait. <br />
<br />
Enjoy spring in Missouri Dad. <br />
<i><br /><br /> -Gillian</i>Clyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-13724141501260731262015-04-14T20:04:00.000-07:002015-04-20T19:10:23.158-07:00Kids, parents and performancesClyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6124248414742882476.post-60380157548648509822015-04-14T20:03:00.001-07:002015-06-08T15:53:22.502-07:00To Watch, To Dream, To LoveOn Friday night I sat in a darkened high school auditorium and watched my girl dance under the bright stage lights. I have seen this particular dance at least a hundred times. I sat through the beginning stages of learning it, listened to the ballet teacher stop and start and stop the music again and again to work on this step or that. I helped with costumes and dress rehearsal and yet, it never got old, watching my beginning ballerina, no less serious for her inexperience than a more advanced dancer, sous-sus, plié and relevé her way through the performance. <br />
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This is the first chance I've had to be the one watching other than school music class concerts. The first time I was the audience to my own children. It's only in the last few months that both kids have discovered the excitement of preforming, Evelyn with dance, Briton with acting. His play is just a few weeks away (which reminds me, I better get sewing on those saytre costumes he promised my time and sewing machine for). And as much as I loved (and I mean LOVED) being on stage as a teenager and young adult, I have to say I am enjoying this audience thing even more.<br />
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It's not just the fun of watching your child do something wonderful, and lets face it, even if things go terribly wrong, I'm still going to think my own children are fabulous. It's seeing them be inspired by their own abilities, seeing that flush of happiness on their face at the end of the dance, when the audience is clapping and they are smiling and bowing, seeing that familiar thrill, the one I remember, sending their limbs jittering with excitement. <br />
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As much as I think to myself "That girl is a dancer!" I've never been the parent who pushes their kids into this activity or that one. In fact, I may have under-exposed them to after school activities simply due to my dread of driving all over town for lessons, classes and practices. I don't expect them to find the thing that drives them now, at eight and twelve. I don't really care much if they stick with dance and drama or float away from them and onto other things. I want them to love life. And if that means dancing four hours a day, well ok. But I'm also ok with building foam swords for a hobby. Watching Evelyn dance was heart-clenchingly sweet. One of the joys of being a parent. And I suspect I'll watch many more dances, and several plays as well for the boy, but even if I'm just watching a reenactment of Jason and the Argonauts in my front yard (it happens) just watching has turned out to be so much fun. <br />
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<i>-Gillian</i>
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Gillian, our oldest, was born with showmanship. Last-minute complication had the nurses excited as they wheeled Cecile into the delivery room. But like the diva she was and is, she simply came out smiling and singing. <br />
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Garrett, our son, had less dramatic but arguably more dangerous natal entrance. He was born jaundiced and spent the next several days under bilirubin lights at the hospital while his mother and I worried. <br />
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Both of my wonderful children have, through the years, provided endless hours of the joy, laughter and even terror only a parent can experience. I never tired of their very different performing styles. <br />
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Our first video of Gillian shows her dressed in a pinafore and belting out “It’s a Hard-Knock Life” from <i>Annie</i>. She and her friend choreographed their act, complete dance steps and hand gestures.<br />
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No surprise, then, that she insisted on going to the Oregon Country Faire to have her ninth-month belly painted or that last week she dressed in the 1920s tweeds of Madame Librarian for a festival. She has never stopped delighting her audience – even if that was just good old Dad. <br />
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Our first video of Garrett showed a toddler pushing a toy shopping basket through the house with fierce determination. Nothing was going to stop him; nothing was going to break his concentration. <br />
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He was destined to become an engineer. He tackles every challenge with focus, energy and forethought. <br />
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The easy part of watching your kids perform is liking it. What’s not to like? Children (your own, that is) cannot sing off-key, fumble their lines or trip over props. It’s all part of the Biggest Show on Earth – parenthood. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-moThaIaNM_M/VS0bWpAnePI/AAAAAAAABs4/Zhw36TC8vBM/s1600/IMG_8072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-moThaIaNM_M/VS0bWpAnePI/AAAAAAAABs4/Zhw36TC8vBM/s1600/IMG_8072.JPG" /></a>Not that they can’t give you the cold sweats. When Gillian announced that she planned to become a drama major and that her boyfriend would be an art major, I had nightmares of supporting them for the rest of my life. Thankfully, Gillian changed both major and boyfriend. <br />
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Garrett specialized in stomach-gripping physical performance. He took up soccer early, but blossomed when he moved into the goalkeeper’s box. A keeper is the masochist at the end of the field who dives on the ball just as other players are kicking it. That is, when he is not diving into the path of a leather cannonball. <br />
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Eventually, Garrett grew out of competitive soccer. So he took up whitewater kayaking. You will never know how long you can hold your breath until you watch your son turn upside-down amid foam-splashed boulders. <br />
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But Garrett always rights himself, just as Gillian always gets deserving applause. And both make me so proud that I would gladly give up anything Hollywood can imagine to watch them perform the miracle of life. <br />
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Bravo, my children. Bravo.<br />
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<i>Clyde</i> </div>
Clyde Bentleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698035325937559931noreply@blogger.com0