Four-day lifestyle change shock

   

        As I watch, Owen is standing at the glass door to the backyard of his home, looking out. He’s watching his dog Gretta, but he’s taking everything in – fallen leaves, a black squirrel, an overturned sandbox lid.

       He is dragging a toy tape measure, which I roll up for him, so he can pull it out again. We play the simplest of games, and my 15-month-old grandson is enchanted and entertained. As am I.

       When I’m with him, I remove my wristwatch a dozen times each day and place it on his forearm. He admires it, takes pleasure in it, but it drops to the floor a moment later. Thank goodness my watch is as durable as my cell phone.

       I babysat with my wife Jan for my two grandsons for a few days this week. I was reminded of why I love my boys so much, even as I faced radical change in my lifestyle during this time.

I drove a high-tech large SUV with a backup camera, a blind spot warning system, navigation. The fuel tank filler door was on the wrong side. It seated seven passengers.

I moved among the swells along Woodward Avenue in Birmingham and Bloomfield Hills, pumping gas, buying coffee, groceries, dropping my oldest grandson Noah at preschool.

Some of the men wore suits and ties, en route to their job; many of the women on their way to work looked like Connie Britton. Speaking of Britton, I got a chance to re-connect with the first few episodes of “Friday Night Lights,” to this day one of my favorite TV shows.

The homes were grand, some majestic – several thousand square feet. They were nestled gently into wooded areas.

The cars they drove were predominantly European or high-end Japanese. I saw Porsche, Mercedes and Fiat dealerships lined up on Woodward.

On our way home from school on our last day with the boys, Jan worked with Noah on store signs with the letter “N” in them. As I drove south on Wo0odward, it was amusing to hear Noah shout as he recognized the first letter of his first name in large signs on storefronts. Jan is a teacher through and through.

But for as much as he enjoys games of learning, he is head-over–heels for animated superheroes. We bought him a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles outfit complete with mask, bandanna, turtle shell and sword.

Jan warned me not to take the sword to preschool, familiar with the schools’ widespread rules regarding even toy weapons. But as we arrived at the school parking lot, sans Amma, Noah begged to bring it to school and I thought, there’s no harm in asking, right?

To my surprise, his teachers said yes, and he was allowed to bring it into school. He brought it the next day as well, but one of the teachers said that they had had a request to not bring the sword to school anymore. We stopped, although he continued to bring the rest of the outfit.

The increase in responsibility with young children for several consecutive days was a bit enervating. With no dependents at home any longer, we’re not used to it. Jan said she was on full alert every moment she was there.

I’m a punctual person, but I’ve become accustomed to arriving at work between 8 a.m. and 9 a.m. If I’m running a little behind, it’s OK except for meetings and assignments with a short fuse.

But with Noah at preschool, he had to be dropped and picked up at a certain time. And I was dependent on Noah and Jan to get him ready – backpack, warm clothing, cap, TMNT garb, and water bottle. Technically, I wasn’t late, but I like to be a few minutes early in arriving.

It’s good to be home – I know where things are – and it’s easier to relax. But I miss the smiles, the laughter, the goofiness we share with them. In another day or so, I’ll be missing them again.

Under the gun

On Monday, I covered the Van Buren Township Work Study meeting. The agenda was packed with interesting stuff, and it ran for almost three hours. The exchanges among township officials and over 20 people in the audience were civil and constructive. It was, as they say, a good meeting, despite its length.

But I noticed a recurring theme, one to which we're all subject, including our elected representatives: dealing with important issues when you're running out of time.

Included were the following:

• A contract with Romulus Animal Shelter - at a $200 savings per month, this was a good deal, and it was said that we'd better act quickly, lest another community replace us as their customer. But, at other points during the meeting, I heard that the shelter would easily be able to expand.
• A couple of outdoor projects, including completing a bike path in Van Buren Park, and an expansion of Bethany Bible Church; gotta launch these this year, it was said, before the weather turns.
• Avoid losing $49,000 of a federal government grant that expires at the end of the year. Purpose is to upgrade Beck Road ballfields, but officials decided to wait until after a lease agreement between the township and EQ, which owns the ballfields, was agreed.
• Two incomplete subdivisions, including Country Walk Phases Three and Four at Martinsville and savage Roads, and the Victoria Park subdivision at Ecorse and Morton Taylor Roads. Representatives of SR Jacobson had proposed acquiring the land to build out the subs, but township officials weren't satisfied with all the terms of the deal. They decided to do further research, negotiate further with the potential buyer, and to return to subsequent board meetings this year to reach a decision.

Comfort Zones and Learning Curves

                When you’re introduced to something new, you can welcome it, resist, turn away, manage some sort of response, worry over it; but you will respond in some manner.

                The nature of your response is affected by your comfort zone. That zone governs how you react to changes in your life. And after you first respond, you climb aboard a learning curve, in which you hope to improve your response with each additional attempt. 

                Example: My wife Jan and I joined a gym about a month ago. It has a delightful large area for all sorts of water activities for young and old, including a lazy river. This is where you often find the older folk early in the morning, before the sun rises.

There is a large window to the east where you may witness the sun rise, and arriving and departing flights from Metro Airport. The image of a lone plane against a slowly-emerging natural backdrop is something that gets to me each morning I visit. I want to show it to my grandson Noah, who is a big fan of airplanes.

                Jan and I have joined the folk in the lazy river – we have to leave the gym by 7:30 a.m. to get to work on time, but I think many of our new friends are retired – we’re still getting to know them. I was talking in the locker room the other day with a retired gentleman who was 82.

Ultimately, I’d like to begin swimming laps in the separate lap pool, but never having swum competitively and being out of shape, I would be leaving my comfort zone. So I’ve approached it slowly. I’ve watched others in the lap pool, and jumped in myself last week to swim a lap.

I swam poorly. My breathing as I swim is more a sideways gasp for air, and I begin to build an oxygen deficit. On my first lap, I had to stop swimming after completing two-thirds of it, but I thought: no big deal. I’ll simply stand on the bottom, head above water, catch my breath, and continue swimming.

I was wrong, and was briefly shocked. As I looked down for a place to put my feet and rest my body, I could see for the first time that the bottom of the pool was several feet below me. I collected myself, rose to the surface, and swam the rest of the lap. And, after a brief rest, I added a second lap.

Earlier this week, after my first experience, I left the lazy river, and walked over to the lap pool. I sat down with my towel over my shoulders, and watched a man swimming laps, very comfortably, it seemed.

As I watched I noticed his motion was slow, strong and consistent. He was in no rush.

And, as he swam, he lifted his mouth well above the water’s surface, using a swimming motion that overextended the twist in the torso as you reach for oxygen, permitting him more time to grab a good, relaxed breath, not the desperate gasp I had done.

And, as I went to the locker room, I thought, that’s what I’ll do next time. I had expanded my comfort zone, and had begun a learning curve. I’m interested to see where I go with it.

We face comfort zones and learning curves each day. Where are your comfort zones? What is outside your comfort zone?

Among those activities where you’ve expanded your comfort zone, where are you on the learning curve?

In Memoriam: Ernest Edward LaVaute, Jr.

To this day, if I tell a corny joke, my wife Jan will say one word that says so much: "Ernie."

My father, who died in 1991, enjoyed what most would describe as cornball jokes or sayings.

"You've got a face like a can of worms" was among his favorites. And for good measure, he would add the adjective "frozen."

Or the authors of books: "I.P. Freely," or "Hoo Flung Dung?"

My parents separated years before he passed, when I was still growing up. Every Saturday, he would come to the house, chat with my mother about this and that, often practical matters involving money, and he would help support us.

He used to love to take us out to fancy restaurants. I remember my wife Jan's first experience with this at the Springside Inn, in Auburn, N.Y. He fancied himself a bit of a gourmet, ordering exotic appetizers like escargots, or Dewar's Scotch with a twist.

In his day, he was quite a good athlete, and was handy with tools. Like many in our neighborhood, he built a recreation room in the basement, complete with a bar and a three-dimensional illuminated case of Utica Club beer, that rotated electrically from the ceiling.

He was a WW II veteran, a staff sergeant in Communications and fought at Saipan and Okinawa in the Pacific Theater. Years later, he would teach me Japanese words like "Banzai."

We played games of catch in the backyard quite often. He would back up to the back of the house, and I would be farther out in the backyard. More than once, I threw a wild pitch past him and broke yet another basement window.

When I became a father, I looked forward to playing the role that he did.

He began balding in his late 30's or early 40's. But I was never clear when, and being a little nervous about inheriting the trait, I would ask him when the hair loss began.

Without hesitation, he would pick the same age that I happened to be when I asked. Happy Father's Day, Dad. I miss you.

The invitation

Last Saturday, my son Matthew and my grandson Noah and I traveled to South Bend, Indiana for the 84th annual Notre Dame Blue-Gold game, the final football scrimmage game during spring training.

Yes, Noah was with us, for the first time in a rather long tradition among the LaVautes.

It's a fun trip - getting a glimpse of what the Irish may look like in the fall, often springlike weather (although on Saturday the temperature at game time was 34 degrees), walking around ND's beautiful campus as trees and flowers begin to bloom, visiting familiar sites like the Sacred Heart Basilica, the Grotto and the nearby lake.

The official name of the place, by the way, is : "Notre Dame du Lac."

The big excitement for Noah was seeing the Golden Dome, the famed gilded roof atop what is called the Main Building on campus. Still in the car, we pointed it out to him in the distance as we exited I-80/I-90, and he asked about it the rest of our stay. When he pronounced it, it sounded like "Dolden Dome." I'm not sure he knows what gold is.

At halftime, we three left the game and walked toward the main part of the campus. We directed Noah to the golden dome shining in the distance, slowly growing closer, larger and brighter.

The roof is gilded with gold, not painted. After a fire in the nineteenth century, ND founder Father Edward Sorin was encouraged to consider simply painting the famous dome. No soap, he said. It gets gilded.

When we arrived at the Main Building, before we entered, I pointed to the top of the dome and asked Noah, "Who's up there?" No response. I said "Mary's up there - Jesus' mother." Notre Dame = Our Lady.

Noah nodded, filed this away somewhere (if I asked him today, I bet he would remember), and three generations of LaVaute men clambered up about 20 steps to enter the building. Once inside, I headed toward the center of the interior. Its interior rises three or four stories, to where the dome is. I pointed up, and Noah looked. Such glorious paintings on the ceiling, well above us.

Down on the floor, a few tables and chairs, an ambo and a microphone (still live)  suggested there was earlier a small gathering to whom someone spoke. I noticed someone taking a photo of a friend behind the ambo, as if speaking to the public.

Ah, I said, there's an idea. When the others were done, I grabbed one of the folding chairs, moved it behind the podium, lifted Noah to stand atop the chair, and Matthew began snapping photos. The podium had the seal of the University of Notre Dame on the front, and it was an amusing scene.

Noah seemed to enjoy it, and grabbed the microphone, which we pulled away. Ya gotta stop somewhere, I thought.

When I put him back on the floor, there were a couple families who had joined us on the floor. He said to me, I swear, "I want to say hi to some people." And I said, sure.

He walked over to three of four strangers of varying ages, stood before them and looked at them. The mother noticed him, smiled and said hello. There was a young boy with them, probably eight years old, who was a bit shy and uncomfortable with Noah's approach.

After just a moment, however, the young  man relaxed and extended his hand to Noah to shake it. At this point, Noah turned shy guy and hesitated. Whereupon I reminded him that when a hand is extended, you reach out to grasp it, and shake it. Whereupon he did.

Later, we visited the small lake on campus, and watched ducks, geese and white swans hang out, waiting for food. And shortly after that, after visiting the basilica and Grotto, we left for home. But I won't soon forget Noah's enthusiasm about saying hello to people, about greeting them and making them feel welcome.

Because if you boil down the ND visit to one thing, that's it: making people feel welcome. And without fully realizing it, Noah had grasped the truth that we've known now for 25 years. "Welcome to Notre Dame," the ushers say as you enter the football stadium. It's of a piece with my own experience of a delightful place, and my grandson realized it immediately. Welcome to Notre Dame, Noah.

Valve replacement? I'm supposed to write a story about valve replacement?

Late yesterday afternoon, I looked at the Belleville City Council's meeting agenda for 7:30 p.m. that evening, and I saw a single item for general business: valve replacement.

Valve replacement? How am I supposed to write a story about valve replacement? I mean, it's pretty mundane. I wondered what my angle would be. How would valve replacement affect Belleville residents' lives?

I'm being a bit facetious - there is an angle, and I knew it would become clear during the meeting. But I had to laugh.

I began to imagine that I would call Belleville Clerk Lisa Long and harangue her for the paucity of the agenda. How, pray tell, does she expect me to make a living writing stories about valve replacement?

And I thought no, that kind of humor can unintentionally be hurtful or at least a little odd, and I like Lisa too much, and she takes her job seriously, to have a little joke at her expense. Although I still rather like the idea. Valve replacement?

And I thought about Lisa, and how helpful she's been over the last couple years, after the Belleville City Council became one of my reporting beats in since 2011. And Diana Kollmeyer.

And I decided to write this column in lieu of covering the meeting, step back, take stock and say thank you.

Sharing information is the journalist's stock-in-trade. And drafting stories may beg questions in the reader's mind that yearn to be answered. And newswriting has deadlines. So it's gotta work quickly in most cases.

So prompt, helpful responses to my questions are a must, a big factor in doing my job effectively. I can't do it without their prompt assistance - a response within 24 hours is normal, but the sooner the better.

And I have to say, that I am so pleased with the responsiveness of government officials to me throughout the tri-community, some for almost a decade now: Lisa Long and Diana Kollmeyer are just a start. Kerreen Conley, Carl McClanahan, Darwin Loyer, Dan Besson, Greg Laurain, Kathleen Cline, Linda Combs, Cindy King, Sharry Budd, Paul White, Leon Wright, Todd Knepper, Richard Smith, Debra Greene, MJ Dawson, Tom MacDonald, Dan Swallow, Bryce Kelley, Terry Carroll, Johnny Vawters, Mary Jo Suchy, Rick Dawson, Esther Hurst, Jim Glahn, Mike Van Tassel, Karen Moffitt, Kathy Kovach, Martha Toth, Angela Stroud.

And other journalists. We help each other from time to time, confirming what we thought we heard someone say during a meeting, snaring extra copies of documents for each other, chatting about stories, joking with each other: Richard Jenkins, Rosemary Otzman.

The best thing about this job is taking a story, writing it so that it's clear to the reader, and ensuring the reader grasps how the story may affect her or him. And maybe get them to think about that.

But the second-best thing is the people with whom you work to get that done, without whom it's impossible to do your job effectively. A brief list is above, and I apologize to anyone I may have missed mentioning. Thank you so much.

A moment of rapture

Except for a few penlights about 100 feet away, my world was dark. I could see in the shadows in the sanctuary a few people I recognized, barely: a cantor, another reader, the three celebrants, perhaps an altar server. It was hard to tell. The pews were filled with hundreds of worshippers, dressed to the nines.

And to the left of this scene, the choir. A fully-staffed choir this evening - bongo drums, guitars, including an electric bass guitar, a horn section, about 50 vocalists, well-prepared to celebrate the central fact of Christianity: the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

I stood alone in the darkness just inside the entrance to the church, next to the baptismal font which would get a workout later that evening: the full-immersion baptism and welcome into our church to several folk. Dressed in full-length robes, they looked happy yet a little cautious. I couldn't blame them.

I was portraying the voice of God as three readers told the story of God's love to the Israelites, as fickle a people as ever there was (they reminded me of how we sometimes behave), and His occasional impatience with them.

I had just finished a reading, and had stepped to the side of the microphone so as not to have my voice heard when I sang the responsorial psalm. Best to leave it to the professionals, I thought.

To my left was a microphone in a stand, two small reading lights attached on the shaft of the stand, and an ambo upon which sat my readings.

I stood before the baptismal font, and drank in the scene. Hundreds singing in semi-darkness, the magical night, the reaffirmation that, yes, there was no one in the tomb in which a dead Jesus had been laid just a few hours earlier, at 3 p.m. on Good Friday.

But this was the Easter Vigil. The rock had been rolled away from the tomb, and the women who had come were told that Jesus was gone. What to make of the mystery?

Like Father Tom asked later during his homily: what next? And that, he said, is up to us.

I stood next to the baptismal font, relaxed for a moment, and surveyed the scene. I leaned on the font just a bit because I had stood for a while, and my left thigh was burning.

I thought about how lucky I was: family, health, love, fun. And I thanked God for my great good fortune. I had earlier that day completed a 60-day marathon of decisions and to-do's: filing income taxes, physicals, financial decisions, making plans for this or that, and the attendant paperwork.

God, I thought, I'm lucky, in a brief moment of rapture. Happy Easter, everyone.