How to survive a weekend alone with your kids

My wife left Friday morning for a long weekend at a scrapbooking retreat, leaving me with our son and daughter. From this and other experiences, I’ve learned some valuable strategies for surviving these kinds of weekends and I am going to share them with you. The most important thing you can do is make a plan. Don’t leave things to chance and by all means don’t let your kids determine what happens. If you do, you run the risk of having to interact with them, do things with them, and maybe even share some fun. To avoid that, try some of the things I list below:

Adopt Other Children for the Weekend

This sounds counterintuitive because you actually have to be responsible for more kids. Believe it or not, there is some kind of reduction effect that happens. I’m sure there is a mathematical formula that explains it with multivariate statistics and a logarithm is in there too. If you introduce additional kids into the mix, then your kids will get along better, be happier, and, most importantly, won’t look to you to pay them attention, entertain them, or even feed them very much. So far, we had one friend over yesterday afternoon and she lasted until my kids fell asleep. Now today (Saturday), we’ve got another friend over and she’ll be here at least until after dinner. If I wasn’t writing this blog, I could get some work done—could being the most important word here.

Drive Them into Submission

If you can’t find other kids, get yours in the car and drive them into submission. We did this yesterday. We literally drove over 100 miles just in the local area. The trick is to convince them that the driving is in their interest—even if it is really just to kill time and keep you from having to actually do something. We drove to the grocery store where we got some popcicles, sugary cereal, and frozen lemonade. Then we drove to a small gift shop, where my daughter bought a change purse and my son bought rock star plastic bracelets—a small price to pay to avoid real engagement with my kids. Then, we did the big one. We drove about 25 miles each way to go pick up a friend. We must have spent more than half the day in the car and all I had to do was sit on my ass and play songs on the radio!

Find Safe and Educational Home Activities

If you have to be at home, and it is impossible to avoid it, find some new things to do or put a unique twist on familiar activities. This will make life seem new, interesting, and fresh…and they’ll leave you alone. For example, my kids and their friend are all on our trampoline right now--a nice, healthy, safe activity. The cool twist is that each of them is wearing just one roller skate on their foot. Oh sure it’s a tad more dangerous than just jumping on the trampoline, but danger is exciting, fresh, and fun. Yesterday, my kids and the visitor de jour set up a lemonade stand—good clean American fun. They learned about the pleasures of capitalism. Now here’s the twist. They did it at night! It was a starlight lemonade stand. Sure, it’s hard to sell lemonade at night in March, but it taught them important lessons like perseverance, innovation, and failure. And it allowed me to bust some platitudes on them, like “success doesn’t come easy,” or “hardship builds character,’ or my favorite “capitalism is an inherently unfair system where labor is exploited by capital.”

Meals are another opportunity to make the usual unusual. If you work it right, any meal can become a time-consuming event. Breakfast is one of my favorites. If you let the kids actually mix up the pancake batter, pour it in the pan, sprinkle the chocolate chips on, and do their own dusting with powdered sugar, then breakfast can take hours and they will have done all the work. And they will have themselves a wonderful, healthy (sugary) meal. Sure there is extra clean up, but the time to sip coffee and read the news kid-free is priceless.

Dinner is good for this, too but it requires one critical element—fire. It is a well-known fact that no kid can resist an open fire. They are drawn to it like moths, not to fly into it but to shove things in, to burn stuff. Sure, they burn themselves sometimes or even household tools, but it is all in the name of learning. Dinner is a homeschool lesson in fire management and sometimes first aid. The great thing about fire is that it makes really good man food, too—meat!! Tonight we’ll be having steaks, burgers, and crab legs (probably not grilled) along with baked potatoes and a salad (lip service to healthy eating). I’ve been dying for a steak cooked over a real fire for quite a while. My son wants to try crab legs and the girls just want to get past the meat so that they can play with the fire and make the mother of all kid treats—smores! Sure, smores will sugar them up and keep them awake, but they will also keep them busy during an important period—digesting. While they are burning marshmallows to a crisp, dropping chocolate bars in the fire, and getting melted sugar in their hair, I’ll be lingering happily over the remains of my fatty meat feast.

Electronic Parenting

When all else fails or when you fail everything else (because you are too full of fatty meat to do anything else), the crucial fall back is electronic media—a new movie, taped episodes of Tom and Jerry or Scooby Doo, or just good old cable TV. This actually is a good evening finisher. After the sugar from the smores wears off and before they get too engrossed in something more active, plop ‘em in front of some good, passive entertainment. We’ve got a variety of mind-numbing Disney classics, including a really new one that some kids haven’t seen yet. We also just got Robin Hood in the mail. I know my son will dig that, but I have a feeling that the two little girls won’t.

This is where I am afraid my perfect plan has a hole. You really need to avoid these holes because it leaves an opening for your kids to figure out something to do on their own. This is dangerous! If they go off your carefully crafted script, then they may find something to do that actually requires participation from you. Just as bad, they may find something so active, so stimulating, so fun that they actually get caught up in it and stay awake longer. So be careful—one little hole can tear a good night apart. If you time the electronic media right, you’ll have your kids asleep early enough that you can actually watch something you want to watch.

In my case that would be the taped replay of the first stage of the Criterium International. I’m hoping I might even get more than 6 hours of sleep, too. I’ll need it because I’ve still got one more day to fill and no new kids to bring over, no new movies to watch, and no new meat to scorch. This leads to my last piece of advice:  Make sure your plan covers the entire time you are to be alone with your kids. Otherwise, you might have to play with your kids. Sure that sounds like fun, but don’t be tempted. If you do it once, they’ll expect it. They’ll tell their friends and their friends will expect it of you, too. Before you know it, your kids and their friends will like you. Remember that sage piece of advice from the days of yore: Your kids don’t need another friend, they need a father!

What I Lost

OK, it is official. I've lost 10 lbs. That's right 10 whole pounds. That is one-third of the way to my goal. To put that in perspective, here are some things that weigh 10 lbs. I can now live my life not carrying things like that around on my gut:

Two of These (mmmm)

A small one of these (tasty)

A slightly larger than average one of these (stringy, I hear)

A good sized newborn baby

A big bass

A slightly larger than average human head

 

 The skin from two people (lightweight, durable, but really who needs more than one?)

About 3 human brains (really, I can't eat one in a sitting)

Three dozen of these beauties (one dozen is plenty)

About five of these (my mouth waters when I look at it)

And my all time favorite thing I am glad I am no longer carrying around with me:

T-Pain's Big Ass Chain

To Y'all or Not to Y'all

My weight has been down to 196 or below for enough days running that I can officially announce that I’ve lost 10 lbs! As excited as I am about that milestone, my recent spring break trip brought me to another realization. I have lived in the South so long that I’ve lost my street cred in Yankee land.

I am a Yankee living in South Carolina. Actually, I am what is referred to as a Damn Yankee…because I came from the North and stayed! Being a DY, I had to teach myself to say an important Southern contraction—y’all. It is more than just a contraction; it encapsulates an identity, a way of life. Saying y’all hasn’t come naturally to me. It has taken a lot of hard work and an important mental shift—an identity shift. I grew up in places like Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. I’ve said you guys my entire life. In college, I knew lots of guys from Pittsburgh and so I got used to youns guys, too. That rolled off my tongue as easily as you guys. Y’all has always been in my vocabulary, but it has never come easy to me. I usually said it mocking southerners and the stereotypical slow drawl.

When I went to graduate school I left the green woods of rural Pennsylvania for the Classic City—Athens, GA. Before I started school in Athens, I had spent two summers in Georgia so I was familiar with some aspects of Southern culture. I wasn’t really a participant, though—just a knowledgeable observer. I fit in reasonably well in school. There were enough kids from foreign places who had funny accents (like Atlanta and Charlotte, even Richmond) so that I really was able to blend in to the cosmopolitan university culture unnoticed. Sure, the people who knew me well knew I was a Yankee, but they accepted me anyway. They even tried to teach me the cultural ropes.

I did fine in Athens. When I got outside of Athens, things got hairy. I spent many weekends and school breaks with a friend excavating a Middle Woodland mound and village near Hawkinsville, GA. Hawkinsville is deep in the heart of South Georgia, in the Big Bend of the Ocmulgee River. It is a small town, off the beaten path. It is the kind of place where foreigners are easily spotted. The residents of Hawkinsville are fine, tolerant people who wouldn’t hold a grudge against a DY such as me. But they can spot a DY after just a few words and will make sure you know that they know what you are.

The excavation I worked on drew the attention of locals. We were out in a field and easily visible to those driving by. And, well, Hawkinsville is a small town so it didn’t take long for word to get out. Friendly, curious people would come out and watch us digging in our square holes. They’d ask us perfectly logical questions like why the Indians dug square holes and why we were digging them back out. Or they would ask if we’d found any gold yet. Others wanted to know why we were digging on that particular spot when they knew of much better places. The problem for me was that I couldn’t understand them when they came to my pit to talk to me. They would appear at the edge of my unit and speak in a tongue I couldn’t follow. I would try desperately to listen to every word in the hopes that I could recognize enough to come up with an appropriate response. It usually didn’t work and I would end up looking to my friend who was a native of Georgia (well, Atlanta) for a translation. I suppose I must have appeared to be a mute to most visitors. I would listen intently, look at them, then look to my friend and shrug. I suppose they thought we were running some kind of program for special needs adults.

In a way it was a special program and I was a special needs adult. I was in a foreign land trying to learn the language and culture and this was an immersion program designed to teach me those things. Like other immersion-type programs, it was challenging for all of us (me and the residents of Hawkinsville), but we all learned and we all grew.

One night, while I was still in training, my friend and I had worked late and were in search of a place to eat dinner. It was winter time on a Saturday night is a sleepy town in South Georgia. There wasn’t much to eat outside of the local Hardees. Since we had been patronizing that place for weeks, we went in search of something different or maybe, better. We pulled up at one of a very few local bars and my friend said to me, “Hop out and go ask if they are still serving dinner.” I looked at him incredulously. I was still in training. Yoda was afraid to let Luke go before he was ready. Was I ready? Would I come out alive?

It was one of those local places where the same four people go there every night and everyone knows everyone who could or should walk through the door. I was not in either of those categories. I walked in and all five faces (four patrons and the bar tender) turned and looked at me. I confidently walked up to the bar to ask if dinner was still being served. I meant to say, “Are y’all still serving dinner?” The problem was that I couldn’t get the word y’all out. I honestly tried to say the sentence three times, tripping over y’all each time. I finally gave in and said, “Are you guys still serving dinner?” I so wanted to at least get that y’all out, but I couldn’t do it. I hadn’t been in the program long enough. I got a curt, no sir. The other heads turned away and I walked out embarrassed, but unharassed. I am sure that locals to this day talk about the Yankee archaeologist who tried to say y’all. We dined at Hardees again that night before retiring to the Eastman motel (where a friend got ringworm from sleeping on the floor).

After 22 years in the special needs program, I have been able to integrate y’all into everyday speech. There are certain Southern phrases that I still haven’t embraced, like responding to an utterance that I don’t understand with “do what? Or saying I am going to carry my kids to the store instead of take my kids to the store. For better or worse, the word buggy has replaced shopping cart in my vocabulary.

Recently I had the distinct pleasure of spending part of spring break back in Pennsylvania. Now when you think of Spring Break, I know you do not automatically think Altoona, PA. But that is your mistake! Getting a hotel was amazingly easy and there were no crowds, except at the Sheetz gas pumps. We got a great hotel with a pool (indoors, thankfully) centrally located to all the important sights in Altoona: Galactic Ice skating rink, Garvey Manor nursing home, and Dunkin’ Donuts.

The mall was right there too, but we just ran out of time. We spent most of our time ice skating and swimming at the hotel. It was interesting being back amongst the people of my native land. Despite my years of exile, I didn’t have much problem blending back in, but I wore my Penn State t-shirt for extra camouflage. Still, I think people could tell there was something funny about me. I moved a bit too slow and seemed maybe a bit too nice.

While at the skating rink, I patronized the stromboli stand a number of times. You just can’t get good pizza and strombolis in the South. It’s the dough. At one point, I went up to the counter to ask about a stromboli I had ordered a half hour before. I was a bit impatient because it had taken a really long time for it to cook. Still, I waited in line politely (noticeably too politely, I let some little kids in front of me) until it was my turn. When I got to the counter I intended to say “do you guys have my meatball stromboli ready yet?” The problem was that I tripped over the words you guys three times and finally blurted out, “Do y’all have my meatball stromboli ready yet?” Needless to say, I got a double take from my stromboli customer service specialist and I was instantly outted as a foreigner, a false Pennsylvanian.

I am a victim of the Southern immersion program I’ve been in for over 20 years. It has worked too well. Now, I don’t fit in anywhere. I am not a Southerner, I am a Damn Yankee. That will never change. My kids, they were born in South Carolina so they are native Southerners. I am an outsider. But at this point I am not a real Yankee either. I say y’all reflexively and am uncontrollably polite and patient.

I am a man without a home, a misfit adrift on the sea of regional identity, destined to be an outsider where ever I go. I guess at this point I might as well move to France where I will be identified instantly as an American and assumed to be an idiot. The swiftness and certainty of judgment will be a great comfort.

What I Would Do

The road cycling season is heating up. The Spring Classics are coming up and there have been a few tours already. The media is already building up a rivalry between Astana and Radio Shack—Lance and Bertie. I, of course, am rooting for Radio Shack. It won’t be long before we’ll be stumbling head long into le Tour. That means I’ve got to get losing weight. I think I still have a good 20 lbs to go. While I try to shed those pounds, it is time for me to start thinking about how I can get on Team Radio Shack for le tour.

Just what would I do for the team? What could I do for the team? I am pretty sure that an archaeologist wouldn’t come in particularly handy on the tour. As far as I’ve seen, there’s precious little digging that goes on during a bike race. Given this reality, I’ll need to dig deep (pun intended) into my big bag of skills to see what else I can do for the team.

Bike Maintenance
OK, so I really don’t know anything about maintaining a professional road bike. I am sure they need WD40 and some tightening here and there. I could get a kick ass leather belt with holsters for the WD40 and some key sockets and allen wrenches. I’d be ready for anything. Maybe I could be a human tool belt. I’d carry all the stuff the real mechanics need to fix a bike. Or maybe I could just wash the bikes…or wash the cars of the guys who wash the bikes.

Food
I am really good with food. I really like to eat and spend a lot of time thinking about food. I could hand out food bags in the feed zone. That would be pretty cool. I could stand along the roadside and see all the pros go by. I suspect that you have to work your way into that job, though. Maybe this year I could start out filling the bags that others hand out on the road in the feed zone…or getting the bags that others fill so that others can hand them out on the roadside.

Publicist
I spend a lot of time talking in front of people. Maybe I could be one of the publicists for the team. On the upside, I am good in front of an audience. I can be colorful, genuine, snarky, aloof…whatever the team needs. On the down side, I don’t really know that much about cycling or the team, and I don’t speak French. I could learn the first two pretty fast. The whole French thing may be out of my reach before July. I am really sure that publicist is a job that you have to work your way in to. Maybe I could be the guy that gets lunch for the publicist? I like lunch (maybe not as much as breakfast) and think I am pretty good at getting lunch for myself and others.

Chef
The team needs a chef. I don’t have any formal training, but I cook for my wife and kids all the time. I am really good at cooking pasta, which is important for cycling because those guys carbo load like crazy during races. At least, that is what I hear. I am really sure that chef is a job that you have to work your way in to. Maybe I could start out as the sous chef for the chef? I am equally sure that sous chef is also a position you’ve got to earn. My family owned a restaurant when I was a kid and I cooked burgers, cut French fries and washed lettuce for salads. Maybe I could cut French fries and wash lettuce for the team? Someone on the team must like French fries and salad. Maybe I could be someone’s personal salad maker? I’d do it if I got to go to the Tour de France.

Masseuse
I know those guys get really tired and sore riding for 3 weeks straight. I also know that teams employ people to massage riders each evening. Again, I don’t have any formal training. More than that, I really don’t want to touch other men’s bodies. That sounds a little uptight, but I really just can’t do that. I don’t think I could do it even if Johann Bruyneel promised me I could ride in the team car during the entire race. I’d wash the masseuse’s car, bring him/her lunch, even serve as a human tool belt carrying oils, rocks, melted chocolate, mud, whatever the masseuse needs.

Just About Any Other Menial Job
I really just want to go and I don’t care all that much what it is I do that gets me there. I’ll make and carry coffee, do laundry, fetch sandwiches, make copies, clean bathrooms. It doesn’t matter as long as it doesn’t involve kneading man flesh.

Today is my brother’s birthday. He’s more than a year older than me, which means he is turning 46 today. You know, there is something about 46 that 45 doesn’t have—46 sounds like the downhill slide to 50, but 45 is just there in the middle of the 40s. I am glad I am not there yet. There are benefits to being the oldest, but you do get old faster.

He went through the fat stage that I am going through now and he got himself back into shape. He bought a weight machine and put it in his basement. He generally lives a more active lifestyle than I do. He has 25 acres on which he’s got a barn with horses and sheep or some other small critter. He does a fair amount of gardening and outdoor work. He always was more industrious.

In honor of my big brother’s birthday I’ll tell a couple of stories.

You’ll Scare the Deer Away

We lived in New Hampshire until I was about 10 and my brother and I spent most of our early years wandering around the woods. Being the younger of the two, I am sure I was a pest. He had to take me everywhere and had to watch out for me. My brother has two very admirable but sometimes conflicting qualities. He is very independent. He likes to do things his way, on his time, and often by himself. At the same time, he is very committed to his obligation to family and friends. That obligation often manifests itself in the form of doing things for other people, on their time, and with them.

When we were kids, we did most things together. Most of the time that went fine, but there were times, especially as we got older, when he didn’t want to have to take care of his little brother. He was and is the oldest and to the oldest falls the responsibility to watch out for the younger. My brother resisted and rebelled the best he could.

One day he decided he wanted to go for a walk in the woods. He has always been a creature of nature. We both would go tramping through the woods and see different animals, beaver ponds, etc. On this occasion he didn’t want to have to drag me, but I wanted to go and my mother made him take me along. It was spring time in New Hampshire, which means it was cold, wet, and there was still some snow on the ground. I wore my rubber boots. We had walked only a little ways (I remember clearly that I knew he wasn’t happy I had come along) before he insisted that I was scaring the deer away with my boots and that I should take them off. I was generally a compliant kid (read gullible), so I took off my boots. We continued to walk through the wet and sometimes snowy woods—me in my stocking feet.

I wasn’t wearing thin cotton socks; I was wearing those heavy wool socks for winter. I don’t remember that my feet were particularly cold. I do remember that they got wet—especially when we walked across the beaver dam. I dutifully plodded along behind my brother over hill and dale. We eventually made our way back home, but it wasn’t by the same route that we left by. That meant that my boots still stood somewhere in the woods. Needless to say, my parents weren’t happy with my brother. They made him go back out to the woods and get my boots and bring them home. I am sure there was more, but I don’t remember.

That story is a favorite of my kids. They love the comic vision of me plodding through the woods in my socks, walking through mud, snow and across a beaver dam. Like all good stories parents tell kids over and over, it has some lessons built into it. One of the important things this story does is ask them to is to take a look at how siblings treat one another. My brother and I were no different than other brothers growing up or my kids growing up now. I think it is good to shed some light on how they treat one another. The other important lesson is particularly for my youngest, my son. Listening to the story, it sounds ridiculous that I actually would listen to my brother and take my boots off. I hope it lodges somewhere in his mind that he doesn’t have to do everything that his older sister says to do.

The Mt. Marcy Odyssey

Lest you think that my relationship with my brother is defined by sibling torture, I’ll relate another story. This one is more representative of our relationship. We’ve had many an odyssey, from a 50 mile Boy Scout canoe trip to a 25 mile hike on the Appalachian Trail to “white water” canoeing. In fact, our childhood was really one long, fun odyssey.

This particular one was an attempt to climb the highest peak in the New York State. Mt. Marcy is in the Adirondack Mountains in New York’s upstate. My brother did his undergraduate degree at Syracuse and I did mine at Penn State. I am certain that it was his idea to take a weekend and camp at the base of Mt. Marcy and hike to its summit. I happily agreed.

We arrived at the parking lot at the base early in the evening. By the time we had packed our food and gear into packs and started hiking to the base camping area, it was getting dark. In fact, it wasn’t long before it was pitch black. It was so dark that you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. All we had were those tiny little disposable flashlights. They let you see a few feet in front of you, but that was it. We stumbled half blind with our loaded packs up the trail. After a time of hiking we could see just enough to know that we had come to something of clearing.

We thought this was the camping area so we dropped out packs and starting taking out gear to camp for the night. We had been at it for a few minutes, laughing and joking the whole time, when a bright light suddenly came on in front of us. It was coming from the window of a cabin that we were no more than 15 feet from. An angry voice from the inside shouted, “Get the hell out of my yard, the camping area is up the trail!” We had started to set up camp in the side yard of one of the park ranger’s houses. I suppose we weren’t the first to make this mistake. The ranger made it clear that we were stupidest idiots he encountered that day.

We quickly packed up and moved on. We eventually did find the camping area and set up our tent. The plan was to wake up early and make the 7-mile hike in time to each lunch at the summit. That way, we would avoid the summer heat and also celebrate the triumph of our singular achievement with a meal at the top of the world.

The morning came, after the usual night’s sleep from camping. We packed water and some food for lunch—I took a can of beans. I didn’t want to burden myself with anything too elaborate. The climb was hard. There was a trail, but much of it was a steep washout. Along the way there were logs placed to slow erosion. We made decent progress and eventually cleared the tree line. The view opened up at that point and the temperature continued to drop. As we crested the summit, the view was amazing. We could see for miles. We could see other summits, lower summits, and great treeless vistas. We settled to feast in the solitude of our achievement. I cranked open my can of beans using a Swiss Army knife. As we ate, we walked around a bit. Up over a small rise on the summit we made a discovery. We saw people picnicking with wine and cheese; infants, small children and people in wheel chairs all on the summit of the highest peak in New York State. Feasting as we were feasting—well, I was eating cold pork and beans and they were eating cheese and crackers. Theirs was a feast, mine was…hobo fare.

Needless to say, a bit of thunder was stolen from our triumph by the fact that anyone could get to the highest point in New York State. A bit crestfallen, we hiked back down the 7 miles to our camp site. We got back in time to start a fire and make some dinner. I remember having a long conversation by the fire with a nice Canadian guy who was puzzled by American politics. How was it that we could elect George H. W. Bush after so many years of Ronald Reagan? It was a great trip and we came home with a really great story. The views really were spectacular and climbing to the top the way we did made it special whether others could drive up there or not.

That story does a much better job of capturing my childhood with my brother. We did a lot together and a lot of it was outdoors and involved some kind of adventure. Since we finished college and graduate school, we’ve gone in different directions. I guess that is inevitable. The same shared past is still part of each of us, but it has been shaped in different ways by different life experiences. Still, some of the best experiences and some of the things I am most proud of happened with my brother.

Happy Birthday to him!

Baby Piasa Caught in Ocmulgee River

Newshound and all around scholar at large, Robert V. Sharp (also director of publications at the Chicago Art Institute) tracked down this story and it is worth re-reporting and amplifying. The headline is “Baby Piasa Caught in Ocmulgee River.” Here is the photo to go with it:

Some background is in order on this one. The Pisa (Pie-a-saw) is a Beneath World creature of Native American beliefs. Also known as the Underwater Panther and Mishebeshu, this creature—or more accurately, being—inhabits the realms of the cosmos located beneath water and beneath the ground. To most Native Americans, the cosmos is divided into three realms.

Drawing by Jack Johnson, courtesy of Kent Reilly 

This World is the world that people inhabit. It is conceived of as a great island floating on the primordial sea. Above it is the Above World. This is thought of as a rock dome where the Sun, various bird-like beings and other forces live. This World is attached to the Above World by ropes or some other method at the cardinal directions. The third Realm is the Beneath World. It lies beneath this World and also under water. At night, the Beneath World rotates to become the night sky and then as the sun rises it rotates back down. While the Above World is generally a place of order and moral purity, the Beneath World is a place of chaos and death. The Piasa is an inhabitant of the Beneath World and sometimes called the Lord of Death. The presence of the Piasa is evidenced by various eddies and whirlpools that are created by his tail and serve to pull living things down to the realm of the dead.

It is easy to think of the Piasa as the bad guy of the cosmos. To Native Americans, it is really not quite that simple. The Beneath World is gendered female and is associated with both death and creation. Water gives life and is fundamental to the existence of life on This World. Death is part of a natural cycle of opposites that includes night and day, male and female, creation and death, water and sky, etc.. For the world to work properly these oppositions need to exist and they each need to do their own thing. The key for Native Americans is balance of these opposing realms, beings, and powers. If you take the Piasa out of the equation, then that balance disappears and chaos overtakes everything.

The Beneath World is the place where the dead go after they die. It is where the ancestors live and it is where life comes from. When the Beneath World rotates to the night sky, the Path of Souls becomes visible—it is the Milky Way. The dead take that path as they travel to their ultimate home. In some versions of Native American belief, the Lord of Death is part of that path and plays a key role in getting the souls of the dead to where they need to be.

A great place to read more about the Piasa is in a paper by George Lankford called "The Great Serpent in Eastern North America" and it can be found in a book edited by Kent Reilly and James Garber with the title Ancient Objects and Sacred Realms.

There are many descriptions of the Piasa and even more images of it in European written history, Native American oral history, and Native American art. Probably the most famous image and description comes from Father Jacques Marquette. While traveling among Native Americans of the Mississippi River in 1673, Marquette encountered and described two images of the Piasa painted on a limestone bluff overlooking the Mississippi River near present-day Alton, Illinois in 1673. This is his description:

"While Skirting some rocks, which by Their height and length inspired awe, We saw upon one of them two painted monsters which at first made Us afraid, and upon Which the boldest savages dare not Long rest their eyes. They are as large As a calf; they have Horns on their heads Like those of a deer, a horrible look, red eyes, a beard Like a tiger's, a face somewhat like a man's, a body Covered with scales, and so Long A tail that it winds all around the Body, passing above the head and going back between the legs, ending in a Fish's tail. Green, red, and black are the three Colors composing the Picture. Moreover, these 2 monsters are so well painted that we cannot believe that any savage is their author; for good painters in France would find it difficult to reach that place Conveniently to paint them."

Here is a reproduction of the image Marquette described plus one done by his cartographer:

Here are some examples from Mississippian period (Native Americans from around AD 900 to 1600) art:

Engraved shell cup found at the Spiro site in Oklahoma

Carved stone pipe

Engraved shell gorget from the Moundville site in Alabama

Embossed copper plate from the Hollywood site, Georgia.

Carved stone bowl from the Belle Mead site in Arkansas

The key qualities seem to be the cat aspects, wings, and the long, forked tail.

Now this may sound like a quaint Native American myth, but it is not. I personally know people who have seen a Piasa. It gets a lot harder to dismiss something when you know somebody who believes.

Back to Robert’s photo, is it a baby Piasa? Is that what Native Americans thought and continue to think is the Lord of Death? Probably not. Native Americans, both in the past and today, know what at catfish is and know it is part of the natural world. The Piasa is a supernatural being. It is other worldly and therefore doesn’t have a counterpart in the animal world. Is that giant catfish one of the minions of the Lord of Death? I don’t know, but it’s worth asking.

Taking Stock

A week into March and I thought it would be a good idea to take stock of my adventure. It has been almost two months since I started my semi-public quest to become non-obese. When I started, I weighed just over 203 and then went up to 206. I am now holding steady at 198 so depending on where I start counting, I’ve lost between 5 and 8 lbs. Liking greater achievement as I do, I’m going to say I lost 8 lbs. At one level, it is good that I’ve lost anything. At another level, 8 measly pounds over the course of 60 days is nothing to write a blog about. Since I am not one to be deterred by reality or facts, I’ll keep writing.

When I started, I said I was going to weigh myself every morning, exercise, and keep a food journal. The food journal went out the window within a day or two my public promise to do it. It was just too much work and I am fundamentally opposed to too much work. It’s a lifestyle choice that defines me and giving it up is like giving up my authentic self. Too many books have been written about finding your authentic self. Since I’ve found mine, I’m not going to get rid of it!

The exercise thing is going OK. I am doing it more consistently than I have since High School when I played sports. That said, I go in fits and starts. I can’t seem to string together a consistent week of exercising. Most weeks, I get in about 3 days of pretty hard walking for at least 45 minutes. Being more consistent seems to get high jacked by other stuff, like work and family. I am seriously considering quitting my job and starting a reality blog all about me. I’ll use our video camera and just video myself all day as I try to exercise and lose weight. I think people without jobs, social opportunities, or anything better to do would really connect with me and my attempt to lose weight. I am certain I could gain a large and loyal following and the advertising money would make up for my lost income. I’ve also considered renting the kids out. Don’t get me wrong. I love them and they make me proud. Still, they take up a lot of time. Sure, babysitting might be a good solution. The problem is that the money flows the wrong way. Why pay to have someone take my kids when I can think of a way to get rid of them and get paid. Unfortunately, I still haven’t cracked that one. My subconscious works on that one while I sleep. I’ll let you know when I figure that one out. On second thought, if I do figure that one out I’ll sell you the idea through my blog.

Recently I’ve been hungry pretty much all the time. I do my best to eat a little bit every few hours, but sometimes I eat more than I should. This constant hunger thing is new and I am thinking my body has reached some kind of critical point. My fat memory (I made that up) is realizing that I am trying to get rid of it (the fat) and it has unleashed and counter offensive. It has convinced the rest of my body that I am going to starve to death unless I punch up the eating. So it’s game on! I am in charge of my brain here, not the fat. If it wants to play rough, then I’m ready to go. I am convinced that I won’t lose any more weight until I pass this plateau and break the tyranny my fat memory has unleashed on my body.

So today I decided to play a little torture game with my body. I want to kick my own ass! Now using the term epic for this is probably overkill. In fact, in the world of cycling any use of epic seems at this point to be overkill. Still in my little world of inactivity, any hard exercise pretty much can be described as epic. Epicness, then, is on a sliding, relative scale. Anyway, today I went on my usual 45 minute walk. I am assuming it covers around 2 to 3 miles. I haven’t clocked it yet. On that route there are a series of hills that I go down and then back up. Today, I ran up all six of those hills. It hurt. My shins tightened pretty fast, but the worst was my breathing. By the time I reached the top of each hill, I was really sucking wind. By the time I got home, I was pretty beat. This may sound strange, but I am really looking forward to some muscles hurting tomorrow. Take that fat memory! Your Jedi mind tricks don’t work on me. This is my body. I’ll do the torturing here.

Those of you who follow professional cycling know that the new season is really starting to heat up. Since I only have a few friends and only one follows cycling (and he has a real job and a life so he’s probably not following every race like I am), I assume this statement doesn’t apply to anyone I know. Still, it was a good way to open the paragraph and transition from talking about me to talking about something I like.

The Tour of Murcia in Spain wrapped up today. Team Radio Shack sent Lance and Kloden along with a pretty strong team. Kloden finished just off the podium and Team Sky’s Wiggins was on the podium. In the media, Lance said he was suffering a bit and having a hard time adjusting to the speed and uncertainty of the peloton. He said he wanted to finish the time trial within a minute of Wiggins. He ultimately finished the race in 7th place and was about 30 seconds behind Wiggins. The team boss Johann Bruyneel has been talking about how Lance is progressing this season but really sort of playing it all down. I think this is all mind games that Lance is playing with the rest of the contenders. His one goal is the Tour de France. He is the master of building his season toward that goal and also the master of underplaying his potential in order to mess with his rivals.

Paris-Nice starts today. That is a big race and a bunch of the big name teams will be there. The Shack’s B team will contest that one. Leipheimer and Horner are on that B team, which is a pretty damned good team. Look for Horner to be the guy, with Levi building for the Tour of California and le Tour. Then next week the Tirreno-Adriatico starts. That also will have many of the big European teams as well as Garmin and HTC’s Cavendish back in action.

I’m really looking forward to the cycling action. It keeps me focused on my goal of losing 30 lbs by the Tour de France in July. So, I’ve only got 22 lbs to go.

My New Disney Job

When I do move to Disney, as my son dreams of, my new job will be…well, I have some great choices and I haven’t narrowed it down yet. I received my renewal letter from the Dean the other day, so my job here is secure for another year. Plus the word in the street is that institutes won’t see budget cuts because we’ve been cut as far as we can go. Still, I want to think this Disney job thing through so I am ready to move should the opportunity arises. As I’ve said, Disney doesn’t seem to hire archaeologists, so this company move will be a career change as well.

Looking at the Disney employment page, I can see a lot of really appealing choices. There are things I will rule out immediately because they just don’t sound magical enough. I mean, if I am going to give up a career I love then it better be for something magical, right? I am really not interested in working away from Walt Disney World, so I don’t want to work in the airport or in some kind of reservation center. I really hate doing housework at home and I am pretty sure I’d hate doing it just as much for Mickey so anything in housekeeping is out. Plus, I don’t speak Spanish and that is a prerequisite for doing housekeeping at Disney.

A front desk, concierge, or bellman’s post could be good but they sound just a bit too mundane and customer service oriented. I really don’t like dealing with people all that much—that is why I study dead people! I am really not young and fit enough to be a life guard or go for other recreation-related jobs, and I just don’t have the fashion sense to have much to do with cosmetology and costuming (Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique Hostess or spa positions). Merchandising doesn’t sound that thrilling to me either. Sure, it could be fun hawking princess dresses, instant cameras, and sun screen at any one of a whole variety of on-property establishments. Somehow, being a Disney convenience store clerk just doesn’t sound magical, though…it sounds depressing.

Working in food service sounds equally bad—unless I was a chef. Before I score one of those jobs…I need to become a chef. Honestly, I’ve considered culinary school. I like to cook. It is one of my few creative outlets. Being a chef could be kind of cool. Unfortunately, I’ve worked in just enough kitchens to know that it is hard, stressful work. On top of that, I’d have to go back to school. I was in school from the time I was 6 until I was 31. If you subtract the few years that I worked between stages of graduate school, I spent about 22 years in school. I am not anxious to go back.

Really, I want to be where the magic is. I want to be where the escape happens. That means I really need to be in the parks or resorts somehow. That really narrows the list down to just a couple of key possibilities. Here are my top three:

Character
Of course, who wouldn’t want to be one of the characters? You are right there making the Disney magic. Adoring kids come to you for autographs, photographs, and attention. You, the character, make the Disney magic come alive. What a great thing to do.

I know what you are saying. The people who play the characters are actors, thespians, people with training and stage aspirations. Am I any of those things? No, but I am more than qualified. Sure it takes a certain amount of acting training and the ability to put that training to work in front of a crowd. I have never had any formal acting training. I was in my high school senior play. It was a minor role…OK, it wasn’t even a real role in the play. It was created just to give me a chance to participate. I have to admit that I killed that role. Anyway, I don’t need any more formal training. I have been teaching college students for almost 20 years. I have lots of experience playing a character in front of a crowd…I’ve played the wise, knowledgeable, compassionate professor for years. I can do emotion…I’ve acted interested, I’ve acted like I care, I’ve acted like I know the answer, and I’ve certainly acted like I meant to say that a whole bunch of times. At this point, I am supremely qualified to pretend I am someone else feeling emotions that I am not feeling.

I think I would make a great Captain Hook. He’s “older” like me. I might need lifts in my boots though, because I don’t think he’s traditionally shorter than Mr. Smee. I don’t think I’m right for any of the princes. Oh sure, I believe I am a prince, but I don’t really look the part. I could do Geppetto with some make up…too bad they don’t have Geppetto walking around the parks greeting kids. I wonder why? Maybe I am best suited for one of the characters that appear completely covered. No, not any of the ones in tight clothing like the Power Rangers, but maybe Balloo from the Jungle Book.

Of course, you and I both know which part is perfect for me. Mickey Mouse. He’s short, like me and the suite hides any morphological imperfections (multiple chins, man boobs, protruding abdomen). I am sure there are lots of openings for Mickey. After all, he is at every park all the time. Disney must employ a veritable army of Mickeys. I am ready to take my place as a loyal soldier in the Mickey army.

Character Handler
If I can’t be a character, then I am sure I could make an excellent character handler. They are the secret service agents of magicalness. They have the radio buds in their ears and have the critical job of making sure the magic is distributed evenly. They guide characters through their duties and also make sure their adoring fans keep their appropriate distance. I have a friend with a fancy for Jasmine. We’ll call him Buddy, although that isn’t his real name. Buddy waited in line to get his picture with her. When it was his turn, he tried to put his arm around her. Two handlers came out of nowhere, jumped him, twisted both arms behind his back, and quickly whisked him behind closed doors in Agrabah. His wife found him hours later in a heap near the cave on Tom Sawyer Island. He didn’t recall anything, but found a note on his pin lanyard that read, “Go near Ariel’s grotto and your dead.”

Nothing keeps fun safe like the threat of violence. I like the paradox of using force to make the magic happen!

Monorail Driver
If they won’t let me in the parks to keep the magic happening, then the next best thing is getting people to the magic. Buses may get more people to the parks, but the Monorail is the shit. It is space age technology. It is quintessential Disney! Sure the Monorail is kind of elitist. It only serves the most expensive resorts and therefore takes only the wealthiest guests to the magic. Still, the Monorail drivers are the royalty of the Disney transportation system. If I am going to give up my life in the academic spotlight—my life as a rock star of academe—I am not going to take a step back. Becoming a Monorail driver is more of a lateral move.

These are all fine looking options for a potential move to a Disney career. On their career page, Disney also lists the starting salaries for these positions. Would you believe that character performers start out at $8.75/hr? That’s crap wages. For a full time gig, that comes out to roughly $18K a year. The people bringing the magic directly to you are paid less than the friendly soul you buy your beer from at the local Stop and Rob. Hell, at that rate I’d have to put my wife, kids, and pets to work to make ends meet in the happiest place on earth. The handlers must do better, huh? After all, they are the brains of the operation. Nope, they make $7.50/hr. That stinks! At that rate, I wouldn’t get any joy out of forcing the magic to happen the Disney way. Even the Monorail peeps start somewhere between $7.35 and $8.25/hr. I can assume that transportation royalty—the Monorail driver—gets paid more. Would you believe that the bus driver makes more than all of them? The role I looked down upon. It pulls in $10.25/hr—that is around $23K a year.

Where’s the magic here? I couldn’t support my family working at Disney. I can’t make magic and feed my kids.