The Haasienda on Shroyer…

This afternoon has been full of God-winks!

Griffith and I delivered enrollment papers to Alter High School in. We did not realize two of the administrators would immediately clear their schedules to welcome us with such tremendous warmth, and enthusiasm.

As Griffith said when we were leaving, “this just feels so right.”

Yes, indeed it does.

And in the van, he turned to me: “I really like having you as my father.” 

I love those winks!

Ok. Maybe not a chef, but the boy can certainly grill delicious BBQ pork. 

Griffith has made BBQ pork, twice, and it’s delicious.  I am not a fan of pork, but I’ve enjoyed it immensely. 

I can cook.  I can cook delicious meals.  

I loathe cooking.  It’s stronger than loathe!  I simply do not enjoy it, and find it to be a mere necessity.  

My neighbor, Brendan, encouraged me, and shared tips which I use.  However, it was not enough to instill an enjoyment of cooking. 

I make a lot of soups, use the crockpot, but other than that, I’d much rather clean the bathroom than enter the kitchen on a mission. 

The boys always complimented my cooking, but I just figured I had dulled their taste buds.  

So, for the time being, it’s nice to have a son in the home who enjoys cooking!

MIAGD: make it a great day

“Grandpa CooCoo? Why’d you call that old man that name?”

Standing in front of Leesons Department Store in Elwood, painting windows for the Panther Band’s trek to the Indiana State Fair, fellow band member, Phil Lynch, chastised me for calling an old man, “CooCoo.”

It was one of my favorite terms of affection for this adorable man, and his wife, who passed away in 1969 when I was four and one half years old. 

When I was a baby, Grandpa Garrett would carry me to his hanging cuckoo clock, wind it so the bird would make an appearance, and he would echo the sound. 

As I learned to talk, it was only natural that my great grandparents, John William Garrett Clary and Mary Belle Jones Clary, would affectionately be dubbed Grandpa CooCoo and Grandma CooCoo.

I explain the story to Phil who seemed to pardon me after learning the facts. 

John William Garrett Clary was born just outside  Elwood Indiana on August 31, 1898, The fourth son of John William Clary and Mary Frances Noble Clary.

Of all my great grandparents, I knew this great grandfather more than the others since he lived only a few blocks away after retiring from farming in 1966.

Great grandparents, for the most part, or generally quite older and not as much fun. That definitely was not the case in my life. 

Grandpa Garrett was never one to shirk practical jokes, a good laugh, a good story, and even a playful wrestling match.  You could not stand within a few feet of Grandpa Garrett without him poking you, initiating a playful round of wrestling.

The Grandpa CooCoo stories are timeless, and endless.  He was a treasure, and an inspiration for role modeling how to live a full, generous life, abundant in laughter and fun!

Happy birthday, Grandpa CooCoo!

Family Genealogy:

1. Darin Jolliffe-Haas
2. Diana Barmes Haas
3. Donna Clary Barmes
4. John William Garrett Clary

Enrolling a child in a private school is far more extensive than public school.  For a moment, I wondered if I was buying property overseas, or going through another adoption home study. 

And after five hours of solid paperwork, while juggling several other items on a very full plate, I believe I’ve finished everything.  

My head is spinning, and I am trying to catch my bearings before my first student. 

But, it is done!  

Now, for the folks on the school’s end to complete their items.  

The week was fully charged.  

As I’m on the threshold of my next week, I’m a mixture of elation, slightly fatigued, and eager to move on to the next phase of the adoption process: finalization. 

After a whirlwind week of emails, texts, lack of communication from Texas, persistence of friends and our dynamite caseworker, Angela, the pieces of the adoption puzzle began falling swiftly into place.  

I’ve now experienced five adoption placements, and a total of four additional near-adoptions that did result in placement due to one county supervisor changing her mind (the boy I was to adopt and his three sisters, to be adopted by two other families from my agency, were returned to foster care at the last minute), and three Navajo brothers who decided they wished to remain with their friends, and family. 

Each adoption process was different.  

I do not comprehend how the truly competent, capable case workers navigate their way, day in, and day out, through the heavy mire of a strained, bogged-down system that offers, rather than a smooth, straight-forward highway, a Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote curve-filled, pothole dotted, and detour-laced road with entrance and exit ramps reeking interuptions and havoc. 

It’s insane. 

I also feel for the prospective adoptive parents who battle confidence in tackling he system, or the lack of understanding.  It’s a world you cannot enter lightly, nor can you stand idly by, even with the best of the best social workers I’ve known all these years.  It’s a team effort. 

And it is NOT for adventureless, faint hearted souls.  It’s the Indy 500 of documentation mixed with a zoo of red tape where all animals have escaped their areas, and piranha-filled lakes of slow progress at times.  All the adoption placements and “almosts” were far from slowed progress, but they each contained bites of the noted buffet. 

It’s a very mysterious field. 

But, at 2:00 PM, today, Saturday, August 27, 2016, my newest son was placed with me for adoption.  

This was my “surprise” child.  My parent-retirement was short lived, and I am fine with this detour.  Sometimes, we find ourselves too complacent with our favored highway, and the journey needs some brighter scenic trails. 

Now, the final push for both my son, and I to speedily sail far away from the beleaguered foster care system is at hand.  G has been imprisoned in The System for nearly thirteen years.  While I am motivated to finalize his adoption as quickly as possible for his sake, I’m determined to hasten from the dove with fractured wings, and missing tail feathers.  For me, the cooing dove of contentment and peace has morphed into a hawk that preys on the beauty of nature.  The System can barely limp, and would be paralyzed if not for the selfless, underpaid, overworked social workers who give tirelessly of themselves.  

In some ways, I feel a little sad that our new journey leaves behind so many other teens who need families and homes.  My cockeyed optimism cannot breach the reality of what will remain. 

This afternoon, and evening, I was reassured by the cheerfulness, and elation of a seventeen year old boy who is one step away from The System.  His attitude about life is uplifting, and his bold determination to succeed is contagious.  

And, his fun, sarcastic wit shall keep me refreshed, and young.

Unlike the Titanic itself, playwright Luke Yankee‘s brilliantly conceived, THE LAST LIFEBOAT, produced by the ever reliable Dayton Theatre Guild, not only stayed afloat, it lifted out of the water. 

All the planets and stars were aligned: playwright (who was in attendance), director, cast, artistic team, DTG, and a first class audience.  It just felt “right.”

The much maligned owner of White Star Lines, Bruce Ismay, who escaped in the last lifeboat, was finally afforded the opportunity to vindicate himself through Mr. Yankee’s tight, adept voice, and finely tuned pacing, both in writing, and the direction.   

By intermission, I was Googling Luke Yankee, Ismay, and other characters, too impatient to await the next act to fill in the gaps my brain craved.  The playwright molded such a 3-D character that my chest and stomach tightened when I feared Ismay might put to use a family heirloom (no spoilers from me!).  

One particular character, Ismay’s wife, Florence, held me in her grip as she evolved so smoothly, yet powerfully, throughout the two 50-minute acts.  The awkward debutante, early in Act One, transformed into a confident, warm butterfly, much like another woman of her era, Eleanor Roosevelt.  I truly loved this character. 

Jeff Sams led a tight, ably dedicated troupe through a concise maze of scenes, that for a less capable director might have proved disastrous.  Mr. Sams, a theatrical staple throughout the Miami Valley, demonstrated his director’s mettle. 

My only concern was in the use of the thrust stage when actors did not utilize the space as with theatre-in-the-round.  At times I felt cheated that I’d paid admission to see the sides, and backs of heads as they addressed the center audience section. 

This was my first visit to the new facility since DTG moved from its long held Salem Avenue location.  The facility is outstanding!

Seeing the assembled talent, strong direction, extraordinary costuming and wigs, and the sense of professionalism not always comprehended by most community organizations,  it made me miss the fine work of DTG.  In the busy years of raising sons, followed by a three-year hiatus of focusing on my self, I allowed DTG to disappear from my neglectful radar, and for that I apologize. 

The highlight for me was the Q&A with the playwright and director immediately following the production.  Mr. Yankee is one of the most interesting, engaging fellows, and I loved listening to his speaking voice as much as I did his description of his process of writing this play.  Marvelous. 
And on a side note, I learned Luke Yankee is the son of famed, Oscar-winning actress, Eileen Heckart. 

How captivating was this production?  

My seventeen year old son spent the short drive to Tanks, and then a good 45 minutes discussing the characters, the plot, and tidbits from the Q&A.  

As a fellow thespian, thank you!

As a dad of a new son who loves theatre, THANK YOU!!!

MIAGD: make it a great day

Several times throughout the night, I feel one of the dogs rearrange their position.  Before long, the search for a new position ends with a slight body-slam against me, or a head draped across my neck.  

I love these moments.  I love knowing they feel safe, and loved.  

And, I know I, am loved. 

I’ve always been amazed at how quickly Logan, Flyer, Chief, Navi, Bailey, and Harrigan each immediately knew they were my kids.  This particular instinct is an incredible mystery.  

The first night with tiny Logan, 8 weeks, she crawled onto my chest, kneeded her prickly claws into my chest, curled up, and slept.  I also thought she had a respiratory issue until Mother educated me about “the purr.”

Flyer, at 9 weeks, sat in the front seat of the car, too small to see out the windows. After a short while, she moved over to me, laid down, snuggling her head on my thigh. 

In 2011, when my son and I drove left Indiana with 10 week old Chief and Navi in tow, as well as Flyer, Navi snuggled in my son’s arms. Chief, on the other hand, was in the back of the car, vomiting.  However, once they arrived at The Haasienda, the snuggling with the humans began. 

While driving back to Dayton with 8 week old Bailey and Harrigan, I had originally placed them in a laundry basket in the middle of the van.  While chatting with Mother on the phone, I turned to check on the girls… they were not in the basket.  Panic. As I began pulling over to the side of the road I spied them snuggling next to my seat.  At home, after being introduced to Chief, we went upstairs to bed.  The minute I laid down, the two tiny puppies scurried over to me.  Within minutes, they were asleep with their heads buried against my neck and chin, where, two and a half years later, they still snuggle.

Trust is an interesting thing.  Sometimes we have immediate trust, while other times, trust must grow.  

But there’s nothing like a loving, snuggling dog…

Make it a great day, Folks!

August 24, 1814, the prominent buildings of the still fairly new country was set ablaze by the British. 

It had been a miserable, hot August day, and President James Madison was out with the troops observing the nearby battle of Bladensburg (MD).  Mrs. Madison, while overseeing the preparations of the afternoon’s meal, kept an eager eye for her husband’s return. 

Reports of the United States embarrassing scattered retreat trickled in, and several messengers urged Mrs. Madison to vacate The Executive Mansion. 

The First Lady, maintaining a calm mind, secured state papers – The Declaration of Independence and The Constitution – as well as a few precious items from the household.  In her reticule she packed a good deal of silverware.  

As she prepared to exit the mansion, she spied the Gilbert Stuart full–length portrait of George Washington.  

This is where fiction and legend meet, cluttering the much romanticized scene. 

Legend stages Mrs. Madison pausing before fleeing the mansion with the British nearing the mansion, and spying the Washington portrait.  “The British could not conquer him in life, and they shan’t conquer him in death.”  The portrait was to be removed and taken to safety.  The frame, bolted to the wall, was broken, and the canvas removed from the stretcher, rolled up, and securely packed into Mrs. Madison’s carriage. 

Romantic. 

From the various accounts I’ve read over the years, it seems plausible, from biographers, but mostly from the letter Mrs. Madison wrote her sister throughout the day, that The First Lady did order the portrait to be secured, and the frame destroyed; however, it seems the canvas was hidden in a barn outside the city. 

Modern researchers believe Mrs. Madison’s letter was actually written twenty years AFTER the dated letter of August 23-24, 1814. 

The British, after setting fire to the capital building, marched to the President’s House.  Soldiers dined from the Madison’s table, supposedly exchanged underwear for President Madison’s clean drawers, and moved furniture to a heap before skilled javilon throwers sent blazing poles through the windows. 

Video of White House set afire: 6:30 (I doubt Mrs. Madison was that decked out for an ordinary day, but who knows?)
The mansion was probably spared complete destruction had it not been for the fortunate arrival of a thunderstorm with torrential rain, and hurricane force winds. 

Regardless the facts surrounding the destruction of The President’s Mansion, or Executive Mansion, not to be officially renamed The White House until the Twentieth Century, an iconic relic of our nation’s early history was preserved. 

For more reading… British burn The President’s House

MIAGD: make it a great day

It’s A beautiful day here in the Miami though. 

We are all enjoying the gentle breezes, sunshine, jolly sound of the wind chimes, cicadas, and birds. 

Sometimes, you don’t have to make it a great day. It just happened. But we should always make sure to keep making each day great, even when you dribble toothpaste down the front of your shirt.

Just do it: make it a great day!

MIAGD: make it a great day

Ahhhh….  It’s not often the world gets to hear some of the truth when it comes to what foster/adopted children and parents experience. 

The other evening I somehow tripped across a video by Josh Shipp who spent most of his time in the foster system.  

This video of Josh Shipp describing his experiences in foster care just won’t exit my world.  It’s honest, and it’s real. 

I had some older sons just like him.  Some worse.  Some not.  But they each possessed strong manipulative skills to pull others into their web of control, mostly for sympathy when they couldn’t bulldoze me with manipulation.  

It was refreshing, and quite reassuring to experience Josh’s testimonial.  

Please find that one kid who needs YOU.  It doesn’t have to be your child as the world is filled with children needing just one strong adult in their lives to make that difference. 

And don’t forget to make it a great day!

MIAGD: make it a great day

Walgreens has tagged their stores as “on the corner of happy and healthy,” but here in Kettering, Ohio, we have one particular corner that is particularly happy and healthy!

Yes, I know. Darin is talking about Awesome Yogurt.

Again.

We have only a few true Mom & Pop businesses. I grew up in the 60s and 70s learning, and appreciating the value of having neighbors and hometown citizens with their own businesses. There are several in my hometown of Elwood, Indiana that are still going strong even if the owners have changed.

For one hour every week, while her sons were in piano lessons, Naomi Anderson Fogel, sat on my sofa, an emptied basket of paper work scattered about, diving into the details of running her own future business from the ground up. It was fascinating to hear Naomi discuss this future business, and with a ton of excitement despite the headaches and hoops.

Four years later, it’s hard for me to imagine when there was not Awesome Yogurt on the corner of Dorothy Lane and Far Hills Avenue. It’s become an icon in our community, and surrounding communities. I’ve heard many parents ask their children, after lessons, “Would you like to go to Awesome Yogurt?”

(Oh, the cruelty of hearing those words and I’m ready to teach my next lesson!)

So what is it about Awesome Yogurt that makes me happy?

The product is yummy. No doubt. And it’s healthier than the competing venues that use powered mixes (barf) rather than the pure ingredients.

The store is always cheerful, and one cannot help being pulled into the fun atmosphere. It’s kind of an experience.

When you scour the toppings buffet, the items/containers are always full, and the area is always neat. And, the selections are plenty, and great!

The best part about Awesome Yogurt?

The people Naomi and Jason bring on board to make sure the experience is never less than what it was the time before (which, sometimes for me, is the following day). I’ve watched a number of these high school employees graduate high school, and return during their college breaks.

That, alone, says plenty about what it’s like on the other side of the toppings buffet: employees want to return, therefore, the Fogels offer a great experience for their staff, just as they do their customers.

It all goes right back to PEOPLE. When you focus on PEOPLE, customer service and product quality is guaranteed.

While you are out making it a great day, just go ahead and bump it up a notch by adding some awesomeness to the day by filling a little cardboard cup with the best froyo in The Miami Valley!

Improv and inspiration rounded out Friday.  

We began the day early with appointments, and some errands.  I worked from the deck the remainder of the day, and when I felt the need to prep my strawberry pancakes, the deck was the place. 

With sodas and snacks in a small cooler, we hit one of Dayton’s best kept secrets, and gems, The Black Box Improv Theatre.

Griff and I attended a show last Thursday, and he loved it. When he asked if we could go see the improv-musical, the tickets were promptly ordered.

Justin Howard is genius.  He’s the Walt Disney of creativity, the Robin Williams of comedy, and the Seth MacFarlane of cleverness all rolled into one dynamo of physical energy. 

I always love watching true masters at work, and at Dayton’s own Black Box Imrov Theatre, I am invigorated by the enormous talent engaging on the small stage. The stage is large enough for their improvised staging, but not nearly capable of measuring up for the overabundant collaborative talent, and artistry. 

Griffith is absolutely enamored with BBIT. In fact, all the way home it was, “Ok, give me another word.”  Upon receipt of my word choice, he’d launch into a song just as the improv players did. The more I learn about this newest son, the more impressed I am with the talents boiling and bubbling within him. 

Back at The Haasienda there was a good deal of wiggling and excitement. Not just from the three dogs, but from me, as well… I had to pee. 

On the deck, Griff requested we watch DEAD POETS SOCIETY.  It was already after midnight and I was beginning to lose my fourth-wind.  However, I’ve always refused to accept being busy, or tired, when one of my sons initiate spending time with me. 

This movie, while tragic in the end, is so inspiring.  
One of the neatest moments came toward the end when Griff nudged my leg with his foot, and said “Robin Williams’ character reminds me a lot of you when you’re teaching.”

Damn!  I will accept, bow, and give an acceptance speech for that compliment promoted by a 17 year old.  And, what is more, he was sincere. 

So, having been inspired by two great pieces of art, all in one evening, I am seizing my day by taking a nap at 10:35 AM!

One of my favorite plays, THE MIRACLE WORKER,  also made into an Oscar winning 1962 motion picture and a 1979 made-for-television movie, each featuring the wonderful actress, the late Patty Duke, has one of the most incredible scenes in which Annie Sullivan literally fights and rolls all over the dining room floor, trying to teach her blind and death pupil, Helen Keller, to use her fork.  

Exiting the dining room to the porch, Annie is approached by Mrs. Keller.  Annie’s brief account concludes with a very satisfied, even proud, “She folded her napkin.”

My newest son, at 17, is brilliant, possesses a tremendous personality, and freely shares a tender, loving heart.  Still, there are a lot of loose ends. 

One of the loose ends: table manners. 

All previous adopted and foster sons arrived with a deplorable understanding of table manners, and G is no different. 

Mother and I discussed my favorite mantra of knowing “which hill to die on,” and I explained it just didn’t seem to be as crucial with G as it has been with the previous boys.  Mother agreed, supported the other items on which I’ve chosen to focus, and cheerfully added that the table manners “will come.”

I did touch upon chewing with the mouth closed, and how to use a napkin properly; however, it was more of an introduction. 

Several times, I’ve noticed G observing, and following my lead when we’ve been out to eat with others.  Otherwise, it is wadding up the paper napkin after wiping his mouth, and tossing it onto his plate.

While I remain patiently hopeful with this particular skill set, I’ve been successful in setting the stage that meals are for relaxing, and discussing a plethora of interesting topics.  G now seems to look forward to these chatter sessions at the table.  While I insist the day’s closing meal to be eaten together, I also insist on laughter, chatter, and sharing. 

This morning, after an early appointment, we went to breakfast at First Watch.  It was like a complete transformation!

The silverware was removed from the napkin, and separated to the appropriate sides of where his plate would be placed; the chewing commenced, and continued with lips together; and the napkin was used properly, not wadded up, but folded, and left beside his plate. 

Like Annie Sullivan, I rejoiced over the fact that his napkin was folded. 

A little thing?

Not at all. 

This was a small step, yet, a major one. 

After we arrived home, I praised this accomplishment while he was composing music at the piano.  The smile that wanted to curl the side of his mouth was subdued, but he nodded acknowledgement. 

Tonight, we went out for dinner at his new favorite haunt, and the first words out of his mouth as we were seated, “Thank you for bringing me here, again.”

This is a really good kid!

And, he folded his napkin, again.  

11:30 PM, Wednesday night.  

The deck is comfy, though dampness fills the air from five straight days of heavy rains.  Crickets and cicadas are producing a chorus of varying timbres and rhythms. 

Tomorrow is my last day of teaching for the week, ending the first week of the academic year’s schedule. 

It’s been a great week of lessons, but there’s been the underlying stress of the interstate adoption compact’s conclusion, as well as doctor visits, and getting my son’s medications adjusted.  

While I am not terribly worried about the interstate compact, my self, I’m infuriated to see my son’s anxiety caused by bureaucratic ineptness.  I’ve absolutely no faith in governmental personnel in the foster care/adoption world.  I’m disgusted that so many children in foster care slip through the cracks, but now they are dangling my son’s future, but more importantly, his peace of mind, and the sense of security I’ve built for him.  

I honestly believe children in foster care are merely numbers and dollar signs to a great many involved in the process. 
Tomorrow is an early day with more doctor visits, and a lengthy day of teaching. 

Think positive!

Every August, my thoughts, and heart,  always return to my hometown, Elwood Indiana, the home of Wendell L. Willkie, Red Gold, and St. Clair Glass. 

A small rural town right in the heart of Hoosierland, Elwood has held its place in history, agriculture, and productivity.  Once a nationally known community boasting a successful, but short lived gas boom, Elwood maintained its foundation, and integrity through the tenacity and generosity of its citizens who’ve never wavered in their belief of its people. 

I’m always proud of my hometown, and it’s resilience from disasters, political corruption, economic decline, and wading the typical ebb and flow of life.  I suppose Elwood is not any different from other small towns throughout the country, but it’s my hometown. 

1940 GOP presidential candidate, Wendell L. Willkie, is one of my heroes.  August 17, 1940, Willkie returned to Elwood to accept his candidacy for president.  That day is still known as the lengendary, Willkie Day. 

I have several hand blown glass pieces throughout my home, and often give hometown glass pieces as special gifts. Elwood celebrates this art with The Glass Festival every August. 

And, Red Gold products are my only tomato-based purchases.  I have no idea how Red Gold stands up to other national brands, but it matters not.  It’s from Elwood, Indiana!  Even Kings Island is a proud carrier of Red Gold’s products.  For a number of years, Elwood was the tomato capital of the world and celebrated every August with The Tomato Festival. 

About this time each August, the delicious smell of spices being added into the products wafts across the town.  Unless you’ve experienced this delightful, comforting sensation, it’s truly hard to describe. 

Elwood, Indiana: gas, class, and glass!

MIAGD: make it a great day

If you grew up in Elwood Indiana, you were more than familiar with tomatoes, blown glass, and the name, Wendell L. Willkie. 

Wendell L. Willkie was born and raised in Elwood, and ran against incumbant, running for an historic third term Franklin Roosevelt in 1940. August 17th, 1940, 77 years ago, today, marks Candidate Willkie’s return to Elwood to declare his candidacy. 

Until 1972, there was Wendell L. Willkie High School, a fierce basketball and marching band competitor throughout Indiana.  

On North Anderson Street, there is a small park with a stone monument to WLW. 

In the city’s Calloway Park a plaque reminds us of the monumental historic moment in time when Wendell Willkie claimed the GOP’s nomination.

 

The “triumphal arch” under which a young Willkie entered school is preserved at the entrance of the high/middle school’s auditorium. 

 For me, Willkie Day, a long-established commemorative title for the event, has always been a special day, not only for the historic moment that cast my hometown into the national spotlight, but for the motivation it offers the citizens of Elwood. 

We oft believe that success stories can only come from prestigious families, or larger cities.  Willkie Day is a cemented fact that a small town’s boy or girl can grow up, step to the town’s threshold, and realize their dreams.  The only thing holding them back is their own fear of taking that step across the threshold. 

I was born 24 years after Willkie returned to Elwood, and in my early years, it didn’t seem quite so historic.  It was very epic, heroic.  

I was bred in the stories of the events preceding, and during the celebration, and through my work at The Elwood Public Library, received an extensive Willkie Day education, and experience. I also had the advantage of knowing many who either knew Wendell Willkie, or shared their memorable, exciting experiences of Willkie Day. 

For me, Wendell L. Willkie ranks high with my other heroes: Joshua Logan, Walt Disney, Oscar Hammerstein II, Abraham Lincon, John Adams, and Harry Truman.  These personal heroes were not about celebrity, or financial wealth.  These personal heroes went beyond the odds, either in their personal or professional lives, or both, and became great servants in many areas.  

I am proud to have been born, and raised in the same town that raised Wendell L. Willkie, and so many other wonderful folks who’ve made a direct, or indirect impact on my life. 

Yes, Wendell L. Willkie is one of my heroes. 

Don’t just make every day a great day, make it a Willkie Day where you stand up to odds, square your shoulders, and charge ahead.  

It’s moving in on 1:30 AM, and I’m still wired from a very long day. 

My deck time was diminished due to the first round of appointments for Griff.  We had a brief retreat at home before venturing out for more appointments, visiting the pharmacy, and a very late lunch.

Due to a scheduling conflict my last lesson was over by 8:30PM, and Griff and I enjoyed an animated chat with a student and her mother.  What fun!

I closed the day on the deck.  Before long I heard the gentle tapping of rain drops hitting the tent.  This turned into another steady rain.  Everything just feels damp. 

Still no word on the adoption’s interstate compact.  Government, red tape, and lack of communication… sigh…

MIAGD: make it a great day 

When we moved into our Shroyer home in 2003, it was the first time I’d shared a bathroom with my sons, and I quickly discovered a new teen malady: the inability to replace a roll of toilet paper. 

When they had their own bathroom at the larger Centerville townhouse, I can only assume they understood the practicality of this challenging dilemma, and acted accordingly.  

Alas, sharing a bathroom in the new Kettering home revealed my worst fears: the boys did not understand the mechanics of the contraption to hold the roll of toilet paper.  I gathered them around the object protruding from the wall for a tutorial.  

That did the trick. 

But it revealed their next handicap: replenishing the rolls of toilet paper. 

Outside the bathroom is a closet in the hectagonal hallway in which toilet paper is stored, in abundance, on the top shelf.  In the bathroom’s lavatory are three drawers, one of which is used for holding three spare TP rolls.  

Once the rolls were used to replenish the empty roll on the mysterious contraption (which they’d actually mastered), the boys had not considered adding more TP to the drawer. 

I inserted this note in the drawer:

It worked, but there was the occasional “I forgot.”

A month, or so, ago, I spied the note in the bathroom drawer, and considered removing it.  Nah.  The note card was some of the home’s history like the fire pit built by the boys, the height-chart on one door’s frame, and encouraging notes taped to the inside of cabinet doors. 

The note card remained. 

Then, my unexpected son arrived, and I am glad the note card remained. 

Throughout the house are other note cards to assist in helping him remember things.  Perhaps those notes will remain, too, like the height-chart, the encouragement notes, and the toilet paper refill reminder.  

It’s obviously provided a good chuckle, even when there was a break in having sons in the house. 

Make it a great day, Folks!

MIAGD: Make it a great day

The arts – music, theatre, dance, motion pictures, fine arts, writing/reading – has a magnetic magic on so many levels, but one of the neatest elements is to see how the arts brings folks together.

Yesterday, there was an adjustment in my schedule, and a number of students, who had worked together on a production last month, were reunited.

While I quickly fed the dogs, I rejoiced in the sounds of squealing, and excitement coming from the living room.  The students were so thrilled to see one another.  I was smiling, inside and out.

This is what it is all about.

Yes, there is the need to have a truly wonderful performance, and to train the young performers, but nothing beats the friendships that are forged when involved in a performance, or an arts project of some kind.  There are many areas where others are brought together, but the arts, especially the performing arts, can bring masses together.

After every production, or major concert, I ask the involved students: What were your three most enjoyable things? What were three items with which you were not as excited? What did you learn most about theatre/music through your involvement in this production? What did you learn most about your self.  (I built upon these questions oft asked by my Ball State University choral director, Douglas Amman.)

Without hesitation, students will list making new friends or spending time with friends they’ve not seen from other productions.  

I hear this most often from students who participate in Epiphany Lutheran Church’s summer productions.  In fact, the elongated squeals yesterday afternoon were due to Epiphany’s most recent production.

As a teacher/director, I do love hearing how students have grown in the art, or how they now wish to branch out, but like the students, I completely understand how friendships rank at the top of the list.  I am so blessed to have a treasure trove of friends from the past 35 years of performing, and the past 40 years of band/music.

Whatever the journey, make friends, and make it a great day, Folks!

MIAGD: make it a great day

I have six students who, he graduated this past spring, preparing to leave for college. While they are excited for this new adventure, there’s also the hesitation, and a bit of anxiety.

33 years ago, as I was preparing to leave for Ball State University, I suggested to my mother that I live at home, and commute 20 miles to campus. Even with scholarships covering everything, I figured that by commuting, we could save more money.

Then, Mother delivered one of her all time best lines for which I shall always be grateful: “As much as I would love to have you at home, if you stayed here, you would not get a true college experience. You would not get to meet all the people in the dorm, or spend time with people in your chosen area of music.”

Damn! She was right on the money.

Now that I’ve experienced parenthood, I can appreciate the courage she manifested to push her eldest a baby bird out of the nest.  However, at that time in my life, it was one of the most wonderful things she could’ve ever done for me.

I was forced to spread my wings, and begin the new adventures. And, boy did I ever spread those wings and fly.

I think I want my students are experiencing, just like I did 33 years ago, has everything to do with fear. What a dreadful, imprisoning feeling fear can be.

Leaving the comfort zone can be terrifying, or aggravating.  But, in order to grow into our full selves, and to scour new paths of knowledge, adventure, and excitement, we’ve got to fly from the nest. 

While you are spreading your wings to soar, don’t forget to make it a great day!

It’s been two weeks, today, since the arrival of my newest son, and it finally feels like the house is coming together. 

The family schedule is still a bit sporadic since my summer schedule is approaching its final week, but it’s also a part of the summer atmosphere at The Haasienda. 

The day began with deck time, showers, and a family counseling session.  Compared to previous appointments with older sons, this seemed to be a success. 

Lunch, errands, and some household items were completed, tying up some loose ends I’ve not had the chance to complete.

The trio of fur tends to hang with G rather than joining me on the deck.  He plays with them more, and they hold a vigil outside his closed door until he awakens each morning.  

The house, no longer silent during what was normally my reclusive time, is filled with tons more piano playing, clips of musicals blaring from on You Tube or iPods, regular/non-documentaryesque style movies, and tremendous laughter. 

The boy does make for terrific entertainment, and can have me howling for hours on end. 

The evening will be capped off with the Muse Machine’s summer concert at The Victoria Theatre, and perhaps some ice cream.  

What a nice day this has been….

MIAGD: make it a great day 

Fear can come in many different forms, and can resurface in countless ways. 

Having raised adopted sons, and a number of foster sons who passed through on respite stays, I noticed how their past fears were not a thing of the past, but very real.  Their hesitations were sometimes overcome, but not always. 

We all have something that nibbles and gnaws at our sense of security.  Sometimes, we can get back in the batter’s box to tackle those flying balls in order to hit those home runs in life.  

However, sometimes we cannot get past the root of those fears because they’ve been buried so deep, and for so long. 

Teaching and parenting has allowed me the opportunity to coach, encourage, and model how we get past our fears.  There’s nothing more exciting than to see young folks reach out to the “oncoming baseballs” that once produced fear, and to swing the bat.  Sometimes they miss, sometimes it’s a hit. 

But they still got back into the batter’s box.  

If we can, it’s important we all return to the batter’s box.  I always live that feeling when I recognize what I once feared was nothing at all to fear.  It’s freeing!!!

While you are out there fighting your dragons, don’t forget to make it a great day, Folks!

Summer is winding down.

I hate seeing summer come to an end as I love my longer days of teaching, and having an additional day off to go have fun.

However, the upside: I have my morning writing and research time restored, and will not have a child around so I can accomplish more things.

This is the time of year where many of the plants begin sagging and looking a bit drab.  They seem to perk up a bit before the frosts arrive, but I am still enjoying being surrounded by flowers.

Sunday evening we watched GOOD MORNING, VIETNAM.  Most of the historical references that had me rolling, were beyond G’s comprehension.  Ah… the process of life: when we move further away from current events, the moments, and common phrases become a part of history that is oft forgotten by that generation, and never learned by the new generation.

It’s a long, long day of teaching with only one break.

Here we go!

It was a productive, yet quiet, Saturday. 

Griffy’s bedroom is finally 98% completed.  It looks comfortable.  

The kitchen is also about 95% cleaned up. 

I finally got around to arranging the deck. 

My bedroom is fairly tidied, but not quite where I want it.  

The basement?  Sigh…

Griffy stayed on task with his list, and every now and then, I’d hear the piano. He got the jobs completed, and I was entertained. 

We ran some errands, did laundry, and settled on the deck with Robin Williams and Nathan Lane in THE BIRDCAGE.  It was even funnier this evening hearing Griffy laugh hysterically.

The day was filled with work, cleaning, laundry, and tons of laughter and sarcasm.

Yes, this boy understands, and applies sarcasm in some of the funniest places. 

Friday evening, my newest adopted son, and one of my senior saxophone students, and I headed to a nearby high school to watch several of my students in the the marching band’s end of band camp parent show. 

Upon entering, I ran into one of my favorite families that I’ve known for the past 15 years. We met at the adoption agency as we were beginning our journeys as adoptive parents.

Through the years, we commiserated with one another, expressing our concerns, cheering one another on, and simply offering a smile, or a hug to remind the other that we do understand.

Before the end of greetings were completed, the mom began sharing the latest news/updates on two of their children.  My heart began breaking for her.  In fact, it was actually crumbling for her.

The issues they laid out with their teenage son and daughter mirrored so many of the same issues with which I dealt as a parent: defiance, run-ins with the police, stealing/theft, lying, major issues at school, etc. 

Their painful, familiar list continued.

Then, the mom uttered the words that drove a chisel through my heart: “we absolutely failed at adoption.”

These parents are top notch, state acclaimed educators, whose innovative parenting techniques have always captured my attention, and respect.  This claim seemed entirely impossible.

When they each turned to face me, I truly saw their faces for the first time, last night. They each had a look of physical, mental, and emotional battle fatigue. Their eyes, once filled with sparkling, energetic enthusiasm, were veiled with sorrow.  

While they explained their proactive attempts at salvaging these hurt children, we shared the unspoken, yet all to familiar exchange, “there really is no more hope.”

I pleaded that they not look at themselves as having failed at adoption. I stressed that we have given our chosen children so much more than they probably ever would have received with their birth families, or even their foster families. We have given our children new starts at life, brand-new opportunities and experiences, a chance to excel academically, the connections to develop socially, and all the love and affection in the world.

They each agreed with me, but they were too battle weary to fully acknowledge my reminders.

 I’ve known that weariness.  

I’ve worn the cloak of feeling adoption failure.  

I swam in the leaden-waters of aloneness while raising adopted sons.  

I ran that race of the standard three steps forward, two steps back, only, in adoption-reality it is actually three steps forward, seven steps back.
Parenting, whether birth, foster, or adopted, has any number of challenges. There always seems to be something that crops up with every child.  Some children are magnets for more than their share of trials. 

Last night, the mom and I muttered, several times, “a large share of the world has no idea what it is like to parent a foster/adoptive child.”  When you take the basic challenges of raising a birth child, it is often ten times the amount of challenges raising a foster or adopted child.  People have no idea.   It’s simply unfathomable.

The abuses imposed on our chosen children, before they came into our care, often project onto to the parents, or primary caregivers.  Eventually, we, the caregivers, are weighed down by our children’s projections of experienced physical, mental, and emotional abuse.  Many of us parents have been physically attacked (I had a knife pulled to my throat which ended up slicing my wrist, choked until a police officer threatened to use their tazer, attempts to push me down the staircase, false allegations, medication crushed and poured into my water bottles, etc.), and a majority endure the mental and emotional manipulation, and abuse.  

My newest son, just a few minutes ago, wanted to show me some photographs of himself and his brother.  He opened up a little of the abuse he went through.  I reminded him it was no fault of his that he had known these former atrocities. 

We enter the adoption arena with dreams, and high hopes.  While there are countless stories of “happy endings,” there are even more that are the opposite. 

There’s always THAT LINE where it becomes the hurt/broken child’s choice to engage in poor, risky behavior.  However, I still believe they need a chance; they need the love and nurturing, that one last chance, so often ignored for older children, to guide them toward a better life, a world of hope.  

Are we heroes?  

No.  We are parents. We are simply doing what any parent would do for their child 

The real heroes are the children, or Bui Doi, “the dust of life” as highlighted in the musical, MISS SAIGON.  

The other unsung heroes are the field social workers who are the first line of defense for foster children.  Their story is another blog post. 

Sometimes, we parents just have to recognize, and admit some things just cannot be fixed.  Sometimes, there are children who simply cannot be fixed by us.  Perhaps, later on in life, they figure it out, but sometimes parents can only do, and give, their best.  

And giving one’s best is never a bad thing.