Green Dragon, Purple Dragon

As a rugby player, I have both a social and moral obligation to disdain soccer.  The drama, the flopping, the stretchers, the silly airplane celebration ... they go against the core of my being.  And yet.  I have a Brasilian wife (= soccer) and two small children (= more soccer), and somehow this equation has left me as the head coach of Dylan and nine other little third, fourth, and fifth graders.  We are the Green Dragons.  My first question as head coach was, "How many players are on a soccer team?" which was followed by, "What the hell is offsides?"  Obviously, I was the right man for the job.

Grady, too, is a soccer player and his team is the Purple Dragons.  I know, the lack of creativity in the naming of teams around here is disheartening.  After one match, we asked the team we just beat what they were called, so we could do the "2, 4, 6, 8, who do we appreciate?" cheer.  Their coach replied, "I don't know, you choose."  All I know is that you're supposed to throw a "United" or "FC" after any name to gain a little authenticity.  Between Green and/or Purple Dragon practices and matches, our fall has been soccer-full.  Dylan plays on Saturday mornings.  I can tell where you're from by your reaction to that last sentence.  If it was, "Oh, Saturdays are perfect," then bless your heart, you're not local.  The correct reply is, "Wait, during buck season?  Is that even legal?"  It's not, I checked.

Grady's games are at least on Thursday evenings.  Usually they're on a field that is crowded with deer that have become accustomed to six-year olds booting soccer balls at them.  They barely flinch.  Grady's coach is a spunky Camp Wrangler who greets everyone with, "Howdy!"  She yells positive things at her players and cheers whenever anyone, on any team, scores a goal.  Grady's games are a joy to watch.  No one remembers the score and sometimes there are extra snacks after the game for parents.  Dylan's are the opposite.  They're contests in which parent can cheer the loudest for his/her child and for me to ponder all the decisions I've made in my life.

We are nearing the end of the season and, looking back, I've learned a few things about soccer, and, well, about me.  Here they are:

1)  I channel Coach Snell -- the Welshman who coached my college rugby team -- when I coach soccer.  We work on aggressive soccer and yell a few kid-friendly rugby chants now and then.  I haven't introduced them to "Shoot the boot" or any bawdy songs, but neither did Snell, we learned that on our own.  If I get to sub into a game for a few minutes and leave the field with one less ear than I started the day with, then I'd really do Coach Snell proud.

2)  Grady does an awesome hoppity-hop dance when he's the guy elected to kickoff.  The ball goes nowhere, and he just jumps up and down beside it, but it's fun to watch.  Besides, the tactic is so confusing to the opposing team that I might incorporate it into my game plan.

3)  I don't handle girl problems well.  The Green Dragons are 80% girls, and they're girls who don't always get along.  When in-fighting happens, I yell, "Get along or run a lap."  Guess what doesn't work?  Yeah, yelling "Get along or run a lap" to nine-year old girls.  Luckily, I have an assistant who A) knows the rules of soccer, and B) handles those problems well.  Wait, what to I bring to the table? Not much.

4)  Boys poop in urinals.  This has nothing to do with soccer; I just noticed it when I was taking Grady to one of my practices.  I can't un-see that.

5)  I've taught Grady a valuable soccer lesson: follow the big kid.  He has a buddy on the team who is a bit larger than most other players.  Anyone in his way generally lands on his/her back.  I've taught Grady to get behind that action.  At some point the ball is going to squirt out Grady's way, or at lest he'll be the first person there to celebrate a goal.

6)  We've had to institute a "no cowboy boot" rule for our practices.  It hasn't worked.  At least one player per practice has forgotten her cleats and plays in boots.  It's usually Dylan.  No one has been kicked too hard yet, but it's bound to happen.  One parent calls them "Siskiyou County Cleats."

I don't talk about it much, because I don't want to ruin my rugby reputation, but soccer is really growing on me.  The joy of a youth soccer game is really a thing to revel in and watching Grady run around the pitch just makes me smile and laugh.  My Green Dragons are an awesome group of kids and are as fierce and tenacious as any burly rugger I ever encountered.  "Be Brave" has become our motto and I've stolen a few of the more appropriate rugby chants for us to yell before matches.  So if you're not out buck hunting on a Saturday morning and find yourself in Etna, don't be surprised to hear "Saturday's a soccer day!"  You're not hearing things, it's just the Green Dragons getting ready to rumble.

Fun For the Whole Eastside Gang

This year's theme for the Siskiyou Golden Fair was "Fun For the Whole Herd" but will forever be known by the Eastside Gang as The Beginning of the End.  Sure, we've been going to the fair since the dawn of man, but we were merely interlopers, drifters rolling through the carnival with the tide of parolees.  This year we pulled back the curtain and saw, really saw, what's to come.

The first shift in perspective came on Day 1 when we realized that Dylan already knows how to work the system.  Dylan ditched us and hit the carnival with her friend Peyton and Pey-Pey's dad, Robert.  Both Dylan and Grady have always worn my old Director IDs on lanyards -- as a cool fashion accessory and also as a talisman against bug-eyed carnies.  The "badge," as one director once told me, will get you in anywhere at the fair except for the women's bathroom.  When we tracked down Dylan later that evening she and Peyton were having a blast.  Dylan had also figured out the power of the ID.  She gets a bracelet that allows her on all the rides, and Peyton had bought a day pass, but Robert was left to buy tickets on his own or stand by and watch.  Dylan gave Robert my lanyard and told him, "You don't need to buy ride tickets, just show this."  Of course it worked, and the three of them rode nearly every ride in the carnival.

After Day 1, Dylan had nearly exhausted the carnival, but there were 3 rides that she hadn't gone on yet: The Zipper (which she's too short to ride, and even the Badge won't get her on that one), The Gravitron (which we call the Barf Centrifuge and thought she could wait a year before she gets in that one), and the Death Drop (not it's real name).  When we realized even Grady was tall enough for that ride, we didn't hesitate to buckle in.  On the Death Drop, everyone gets his/her own seat and you slooowly rise to the top of a spire.  The view from up there is spect.....shiiiit.  The bottom drops out and you freefall back to earth.  Just before your legs get crushed under the chair, some magical force steps in and the chairs stop, just a few feet from the ground.  Everyone either laughs or cries.  Our family was split 50/50.  Grady, surprisingly, loved it and wanted more.  Dylan cried and wouldn't even walk near the ride for the rest of the week.

Our big step into the 4th dimension of the fair was PeeWee Showmanship.  Dylan's been raising 3 calves since last winter and Biggie, the mellowest, was her fair calf.  She took him for walks twice a day and learned to set him up with a show stick so he'd look his finest.  Grady brought El Chapo, the renegade goat.  Grady walked Chapo twice all summer and usually the goat broke free from his grasp.  They all did amazing.  Chapo didn't live up to his name and try to escape and Grady led him around like a Westminster dog.  Dylan and Biggie were perfect.  I thought the big crowd would rattle her, but she wasn't bothered a bit.  Her hard work paid off and she's already strategizing for next year's calf.

Regina and I did the math and figured we only have about 12 more years of this.  By then, all of Dylan and Grady's friends will be wearing old Director IDs on lanyards, and I'll be camped out in the livestock barn, telling anyone who will listen about the time I rode the Death Drop and wasn't scared, not one little bit.

An Open Letter to Florida

Dear Florida,

I owe you an apology.  I've been bad-mouthing you behind your back.  I may have even called you the worst state in the Union once.  Man, was I wrong.  You're pretty cool.  You're shaped weird, but I won't nitpick.  Plus, you have to admit, you do have a public image problem.  Have you Googled yourself?  Don't.  It's embarrassing.  Retirement community STD outbreaks, bath-salts fueled cannibalism, 2 Live Crew ... and those are your fun headlines.  I won't go into the really horrible stuff. You know, like Pitbull's rapping.  I'm just throwing this out so you can work on it.

We took the kids on a 9-day spring break extravaganza and I wasn't too confident Florida would pull through for us.  When I told people our plans they said things like, "Florida, in Mexico?" or, "That's nice."  We woke our kids us at 2:00 AM and told them, surprise!, we're going on vacation.  We might not have gotten the enthusiastic reception that we anticipated, and the look on their faces was just ... sleepy.  But 12 hours later when we loaded up into the biggest pickup Enterprise owned, they started to pep up.


First stop, Disney World.  Not just Disney World, Disney World during spring break.  I expected it to be a lot like the theme-park scene in Zombieland.  It was everything I dreaded: crowded, hot, and princess-y.  But, it was also (ug, the cliche) magical.  Disney employees do not half-ass anything and their positive energy is contagious.

The next stop was my biggest fear: Daytona Beach.  I've seen MTV Spring Break specials.  I expected mobs of wasted college students beer bonging off the balconies of their hotels as Vanilla Ice jet skied by.  Ok, I haven't watched tv in a while.  The only mobs we ran into were kids from a cheer competition practicing their routines on the beach.  And mobs of dolphins.  And mobs of fun.  Oh, stop it.

So we did everything we thought tourists in Florida should do (read: everything from the opening credits of Miami Vice). We took the kids to the dog races, we ripped around the everglades on an airboat, we petted gators, we wore white linen suits with turquoise undershirts and no socks with our loafers, we ate too many Cuban sandwiches, we crashed a Cigarette boat into a manatee, and we blew past toll booths in our Silverado. Yeah, about that, Florida. You need to get your act together on that one. $1.25 toll in coins ONLY? Who carries that many coins? No one.

We were also fortunate enough to have a couple of reprieves from toursit-ville.  An afternoon with our cousins in Orlando and some time with an old friend of Regina's who just happened to move to Daytona was just icing on the cake.

But we had a blast.  Florida, I'll say it: you're great.  Just lay off the bath-salts for a while and update your toll road system to 1990 levels, and we promise we'll be back.  You can even keep Pitbull.  Seriously, keep him there.

Kind Regards,

The Eastside Gang

Tupac, Biggie, and the Happiness Machine

The first time Tupac got his head stuck in the fence, Dylan told me that she prayed to God about it and pretty soon he got unstuck.  He's gotten his head jammed between the heavy gauge wires of the stock panel fence five times since then -- mostly because of his lust for fresh grass -- and today I had to use a hacksaw to get him out.  Dylan worries to the point of tears about Tupac, but Biggie just stands back and watches.  I'm sure he thinks Tupac is a dumbass.

I'll explain.  Dylan's been feeding three bottle calves all winter.  The orphans -- Biggie, Tupac, and Timmy -- came to us under different sad circumstances and Dylan has logged hours and hours taking care of her boys.  She and Grady hand-feed fresh grass to them daily and Dylan can now lead Biggie (the friendliest) around with a halter and twice she's climbed on his back.  Orphan calves, we call them leppys, are pretty common on ranches and usually resemble pregnant dwarves.  Their growth is stunted a little and they get big bellies.  But Dylan dotes on her babies and these calves look the opposite of pregnant dwarves.  Sterile giants?  Maybe.

While Grady's eyes light up when he gets to run the levers on the backhoe, Dylan's heart is belongs to animals.  Odd for a child whose first
three years were spent tormenting our cats so badly that she looked like she'd been tossed into a blackberry bramble.  She still has a decent scar from one especially pissed off cat.  Somehow that crazed toddler affection has turned into genuine care.

Dylan's love of animals and Grady's love of heavy equipment somehow comes together in the form of  our newest pet, Lardo, a St. Bernard puppy I got Regina and the kids for Christmas.  Last fall, when Regina told me that "someday, maybe in a couple of years" she'd like another St. Bernard, all I heard was, "Go buy one now, please and thank you."  Lardo is, essentially, a happiness machine.  He puts on more weight than a feedlot steer and takes about nine naps a day.  When he runs at full speed it looks like he's in super slow-motion.  He brings us nothing but joy.  And slobber.  And sometimes rotting squirrels.  The kids beg me to let them bring him into the school nearly every day, and it's hard to say no.  Who doesn't want to see a puppy?  I have a theory that if you aren't interested in, at a minimum, petting him, then you're an alien.  Or a psychopath.  Or an asshole.

We seem to be in the business of acquiring ride-able pets.  If you're cruising Eastside this fall, don't be surprised to see Dylan riding a calf, Grady riding a puppy, and, for once, Tupac and Biggie living together in perfect harmony.

And I Would Walk 585 Miles ...

It took us 8 years to return, but this winter Regina and I loaded up the kids in the truck and drove the (nearly) 1200 miles to our favorite spot in Baja.  I hate to tell you exactly where, because what once was grueling 16 hour trek through the desert is now an easy 2 hours and can be done in a Prius with bald tires.  Such is progress.

It was a perfect trip.  The kids fell in love with a stretch of beach I've been going to since I was an infant and Regina has already started her list of things to bring when we return.  I couldn't of been happier.

So, when you spend that much time in close quarters in the Baja desert, you learn a few things.  I learned that the kids can manage the 2400 mile drive, especially with screens for them to gape at; that Grady can eat beans and rice 3 meals a day and be perfectly happy; that Dylan's terrified of Trigger Fish; that we need a bigger boat; that even without maps, Regina is a great navigator; that military checkpoint stops are a great time for the kids to run around and stretch their legs; that Highway 3, the "wine and cheese" road, while a beautiful drive, is more of an "occasionally you'll see a vineyard and dairy, but mostly you'll see interesting road-kill" drive; that I sunburn while the locals are wearing beanies and down jackets; that adventure-drives through the desert in search of abandoned gold mines are best left to 4-wheelers and jeeps; that a Christmas tree in Baja can be just as great as a silver-tip here; and that Santa can still deliver internationally.

And I would walk 585 miles more.

Sometimes the best vacations don't need a lot of explanation.  Enjoy the photos.

Nothing Says Christmas Like Rifle Fire

Part of the fun in having children is resurrecting Christmas traditions from your childhood.  Loading up the kids and driving random logging roads in search of a Christmas tree, NOT opening gifts until Christmas morning, mistletoe belt buckles, these are the traditions that Regina and I grew up with, or at least we agree on (okay, maybe I made up the belt buckle one, but it ought to be everyone's tradition).  Part of the fun of Christmas is creating new traditions with your kids.  After we had kids,  we started going to the Ft. Jones Christmas Parade and the Callahan Christmas, and they've become part of our Christmas routine.  Also, part of the fun of having children is you can blame your farts on them, but that's neither Christmas-y nor relevant.

A few years ago we started going to the Ft. Jones Christmas Parade because Dylan was in it.  I had no idea what a big deal it was.  People pack the sidewalks and lately I've heard stories about guys riding their horses into the bar after the parade and fistfights.  Ah, Christmas.  I've really only been to the elementary school's Halloween parade, which is fifteen minutes of cuteness, or the rodeo parade, which mainly is a lot of people on horseback.  The Christmas parade has everything.  From bagpipers to backcountry horsemen, from renaissance nerds to Harley badasses.

My favorite entry is the Mountain Men.  I think I include them every year in my Christmas blog, and they deserve the attention.  They seem to be a loosely formed group of men and women who dress in pelts and wear moccasins.  They pack black-powder rifles and fire them off as they walk down the parade route.  The gunfire gets pretty loud and all of the mounted entries have to follow them, or there would be a lot of runaway horses and general carnage.  It's hilarious (to me) and terrifying (to Grady).  For some reason, watching the kids flinch every four seconds when a rifle goes off has become my favorite Christmas tradition.

In the 90s, Mike Tyson hired a guy, Crocodile, as a hype-man.  He'd walk next to Mike and motivate him by yelling odd phrases like, "Guerrilla warfare!" and, "Bring the noise!"  Last night, at Callahan Christmas, I was Crocodile and Grady was Mike Tyson.  I wanted Grady to get over his Santa-terrors and so I talked up the big guy.  I started up the hype machine right after dinner.  "Santa's coming, buddy, are you ready?  Yeah, you're ready, he's nice.  He has presents.  Let's get ready to rumble."  Sometimes I say the wrong thing.  Grady's spent the last three Christmases looking at St. Nick like he was John Wayne Gacy in a Santa suit.  No way, no how was he going near that red-clad freak.  But this year, my Crocodile impression worked and pretty soon Grady was sitting on Santa's lap and shaking his hand like a gentleman.  We couldn't believe it.

So, while most kids have sugar-plum fairies dancing in their heads around Christmas time, ours hear the sharp crack of rifle fire and the soothing shouts of, "It's fight time!" in their ears and can only dream of Christmas.

Eastside Bellagio

Ahh, fall.  If it weren't for that smug look on Martha Stewart's face whenever she tries to get me to make pumpkin spiced ... everything, it'd be my favorite season.  The kids are back in school, baby calves are hitting the ground, and the layer of Halloween candy blubber I put on is easily disguised by a terrible beard and heavy vests.

As the daughter of two English majors, Dylan is following her nerdy parents' footsteps.  Along with baby calves and fuzzy cats, she loves reading and writing.  I've caught her, more than once, standing at her bedside, reading a dictionary.  She reads to her brother at night, and whenever I'm on the computer, she tries to read everything that pops up.  When I wanted to figure out what Elmer Fudd's daughter was trying to sing in "All About That Bass," she tried to read along.  "It's aww about dat bass, no tweble."  "What's it mean?" she asked.  Nobody knows.

And when Dylan's not reading, she loves to write essays about the cool things she's done, like cow feeding and buck hunting.  She was my official "meat package marker," for a buck that I processed.  I let her have free-rein on the butcher paper, so the packages are marked in second-grade phonics (Rost.  Meet), with drawings of flowers and rainbows.  It'll make dinner prep a lot more exciting.

Grady seems to be in school mostly for the social aspect.  Kindergarten has been awesome for him and every day is a big party.  This year was his first for soccer.  Somehow, the Tigers ended up with the fewest number of players, and since it's a team of four and five-year olds, those players are often drifting on and off the field during the match.  The games I saw looked like cute versions of the movie 300, with a small handful of kids in orange getting overwhelmed by hoards of opposing players.

Here's something I probably shouldn't tell you, but I will anyway.  We have a bidet.  No, not in the "fancy French separate appliance that's 60 feet from the toilet" way, but in the "attached to the toilet, utilitarian, Brasilian" way.  And here's why I'm telling you: 1) it's awesome, go get one.  It's better than sliding up the the jacuzzi jets at the Hilton's spa, and 2) it's not a toy.  Our kids know the latter well.  In fact, I've cranked it on when they've sat on our toilet (for laughs), and they hate it.  The look on their faces alone is worth getting one.  But say you have a few five-year old boys over at your house for a post-season soccer party.  That knob on the side of toilet?  Yeah, it's a fountain machine.  And, after our end-of-year soccer party, Regina came out of our bathroom with a horrified look on her face.  She told me that little boys are disgusting creatures and have terrible aim when they pee.  I investigated.  It wasn't a misdirected stream that soaked our tile floor, but a bidet that must have put on a water show that rivaled the Bellagio's in Vegas.

As long as Regina and I can raid the kids' Halloween bags and listen to the soothing sounds of a child reading a dictionary, we'll cozy up to the fire and enjoy the season.  And if you happen to swing by the Eastside, pause in front of our house, every fifteen minutes we have a spectacular water show.