Father-daughter relationships can survive without football

Having a daughter has been enlightening. 

I never thought I could lose a moral argument to an eight-year-old, but it’s possible. Now she’s fourteen and I struggle even harder to hold the moral high ground. 

“You’re going to have a second glass of wine?” she said the other day, looking at me with raised eyebrows.  

To relent at that point would mean relinquishing all parental authority. I had to have the second glass, although the look on my wife’s face made me momentarily reconsider. 

It’s not that I don’t offer my daughter sage advice, but quite frankly, it’s often quite trivial. Fatherly proverbs like, “Don’t sing at the table” or “Stop doing so much homework” or “Who cares what your teacher thinks!” are not exactly life-enhancing words of wisdom. 

I understand, things can change pretty quickly in the teenage years. But for now, I see a maturity that didn’t exist when I was her age. 

I don’t know exactly what develops slower and later in the brain, but boys seem to lack it in fully developed form until they’re at least 25. Teenage boys literally die because of poor development in this part of the brain. A notable news story brought this to light a few years ago, when two teenage boys were killed after tobogganing down a closed bobsled track in Calgary.  

Interestingly, it’s this lack of brain in boys that sometimes appeals to girls, or at least to some of them. They may be enthralled at how fearless boys can be; how utterly ignorant of the consequences of their actions.  

It’s when the relationships begin that boys come to see the disadvantages of an under-developed brain. That’s when an understanding of consequences becomes so much more important. You may think you know what you did wrong, but trust me, you’re only guessing. 

For this reason, girls often date older boys in high school. As a young male, I understood this completely. Don’t even try dating girls your own age, unless you enjoy getting burned. You need someone who at least thinks you have it all together, and when you’re in grade 12 and they’re in grade 10, this illusion can work for a time. 

As a fully matured 25-year-old, I could get away with marrying a slightly more mature woman, which also has advantages. As a man, the last thing you want is for your spouse to die before you. This may be over-generalizing, but a man’s chances of surviving on his own are dismally low. There’s only so much canned food one can eat and only so much sports on TV. 

I failed to hand off the football gene

            Speaking of football, it’s the one thing I can’t get my daughter interested in (sigh). How I’d love her to follow with anticipation the drama of the NFL draft; to yell at the TV with me each time a game is on; to be my drinking buddy after a tough loss (that would have to wait until she’s legal drinking age). Instead, she’s ambivalent. Even worse, she mocks my team’s star quarterback, Aaron Rodgers. So what if he’s a narcissistic anti-vaxxer – he’s the league’s MVP! 

Fortunately, our interests collide in other nerdy areas like Star Trek, video games and political musicals. We share an obsession with things over long periods of time – like listening to Hamilton’s 47-song playlist over and over again, and making Star Trek references every couple hours.

Sure, we may disagree on whether Rodgers is redeemed for his vaccination deceptions by his superior quarterback play, but at least we concur that Jean-Luc Picard is the best captain ever to command the Starship Enterprise. 

For a father-daughter relationship, that’s something. 

Car stories, old and new

 

Five years ago, we bought our first new car. Sure, we had the choice of buying an older model for a lower price. That’s always the question – should I save money or splurge on something new and shiny? 

We got the new and, as with any new things we purchase, we immediately found things wrong with it. The seats were a little stiff. There wasn’t the same leg room for me, a long-legged driver. And there weren’t enough storage nooks! 

But... It had Apple CarPlay. Nothing beats Apple CarPlay, my friends. All my podcasts, messages and music at my fingertips. I never really understood pleasure until I got Apple CarPlay... Shall I go on? 

So yes, it was worth getting a new car. We paid a few thousand more for that new car smell (and Apple CarPlay), but I can’t say I’d change my mind in retrospect. I’m driving this one to the ground, or at least until the Apple CarPlay stops working. 

All that said, I'm still open to buying a used car in the future. In years past I bought cars with at least 100,000 kilometres on them. The savings can be substantial.  

The only downside is that you’ll hit 200,000 kilometres a whole lot faster. I know, some of you can only dream of hitting this milestone, but we’ve done it a few times. That’s the mileage when your car says, ever so subtly, “Are we done yet?” 

The repairs gradually mount. Oil changes turn into long maintenance bills. You may suddenly realize that car payments are now a part of life again. Rest assured, these repair costs will be less than what you’d pay in finance payments, but at least a new car won’t stall in the middle of nowhere. 

As our last vehicle neared the 270,000-kilometre mark, we experienced a few breakdowns right before our summer vacation. That was not ideal. 

As an adult, it can be a drag (and embarrassment) to own an old cluncker, but when you're younger, you really don’t care. My parents once owned a 1977 Chevy Malibu Classic that gave me great joy as a teenager. The car was a beast, with a V8 that roared like a lion but, once you hit cruising speed, purred like a kitten (or something like that). 

I recall doing some pretty wild things with that car... Things my parents will only find out about once they read this.

On one rainy day, my 16-year-old friend and I partook in car puddle jumping through our town, plowing through lakes of water along the residential streets. I recall my parents commenting on the car's appearance the next day at church. “It even has mud on the roof!” exclaimed my Mom. I quietly shook my head, wondering too how the roof could get so dirty. 

In high school we would pile into that car with little concern for occupancy limits. This Malibu had a front-seat bench that could be slept on, which meant about eight of us could cram in comfortably. Loaded to the max and lacking in suspension, we would frequently bottom out on the pavement during our late-night excursions. Somehow the muffler stayed intact. 

I won’t go into too much detail about the other times I gunned this silver menace to the max down our rural roads. Let’s just say that if my boy did this today (assuming I had a son), well, I’d have to kill him. I can still remember my dad checking the car’s oil, wondering aloud how it could go down so fast. “You haven’t been driving it hard, have you?” he asked me, peering over the big silver hood. I quietly shook my head, wondering too how the oil could go down so fast. 

How we change... Now I’m a cautious 44-year-old who drives a perfectly practical SUV. It’s not too powerful, but great on gas! It’s kind of bland, but boy can we pack it full of groceries! 

And did I mention it has Apple CarPlay? 

Ramblings of a bird man

  

A woman used to write a column in our weekly newspaper called Ramblings of a Bird Lady. I never understood her obsession with birds and, to be honest, I rarely read her writings. 

Now, 20-some years later, I’d love to read it. I’d like to know how she coaxed all those birds to come to her backyard. I want to know what species, how many, and what she fed them. 

Over the past few years, I’ve become a rambling bird man. I know, that doesn’t sound quite right, but birds have somehow captured my imagination and I can’t stop talking about them. 

It started about seven years ago when I was helping my dad with seeding. For the first time, I noticed the farm was alive with bird songs. My dad was already an avid birder, with many bird feeders in front of the house, but I just didn’t see the appeal. 

These covid years gave me more time to develop an interest. Some may even call it an obsession; there’s rarely a bird I won’t stop to identify before passing it by. 

It can lead to some interesting walks, as my daughter will attest, where I suddenly veer off the trail into the bush because I thought I heard something. Recording bird songs with my phone is commonplace. Listening and re-listening to the recordings afterwards has become the new normal. 

Then I announce my new find to family and friends – It was an American redstart! –  whether they care for it or not. 

And whether you care or not, let me tell you about last spring, when we heard a Nashville warbler from our kitchen window. Not to be confused with the more state-like Tennessee warbler, this is a persistent country-singing warbler, up there with the likes of Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. I can only imagine why it would leave Nashville to sing for hours by our house on an unusually frigid spring day in Regina. But here it was, in Canada, singing as ferociously as Bryan Adams. 

Last year we also spotted the elusive Balitmore oriole. In fact, we ended up seeing many of them. Putting oranges out on your deck is an easy way to attract them.  

My list of newfound bird species keeps growing. I’ve seen yellow-rumped warblers, mountain bluebirds, rose-breasted grossbeaks and brown thrashers.  

A year ago in January, I caught on video a purple finch singing as loud as it possibly could across from our house. I have no idea what inspired it to belt out the tunes in the middle of winter.  

Perhaps it heard our canary. Even indoors, our home is filled with the sounds of birds. Our newest canary has a voice on par with an opera singer. It’s so loud, we can barely hear ourselves talk at the dinner table. “Pass the salt!” must be shouted. 

            We also have a budgie, who tries desperately to copy the songs of our canary but typically fails. Much easier, it seems, to copy our cat’s feeble meow instead. Many times we’ve been tricked into thinking our cat is locked in a room when it’s that cunning bird. 

Birds are unique animals to observe. Descendants of dinosaurs, they look anything but, yet what we have today are some of the most interesting biological remnants of another age. 

This spring, I’ll be out on the prowl again, noting which birds migrate first. Perhaps I’ll spot something unusual like a red-headed woodpecker or a savannah sparrow or possibly even a Tennessee warbler – not to be confused with the less state-like Nashville warbler, the country-singing warbler that’s up there with the likes of Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton...  

Oops, sorry, I’m rambling again.