Thank You, Harry Potter
Young muggles have united for the past 10 years in one of the oldest forms of entertainment and perhaps the keenest building block for learning - by reading. Most specifically by tucking in to the thick-paged and mysterious and magical world of a bespectacled, charming young wizard, named Harry Potter.

With the recent release of J.K. Rowling's last installment in the Harry Potter series ("Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows"), many accounts that I have read and watched on the television have featured the testimonies of teens and 20-somethings - as well as their parents - extolling the virtues of the books and how they aided in the child's love of reading. Harry not only captured imaginations,but he guided young readers into the wonderful world of books.

My 9-year-old niece in Wyoming has a hard time putting her Potter books down. She reads in the car - a feat that always turns me deathly nauseous - for hours in her bedroom, at the dinner table while waiting for the main course, and even on trips to the banks of the Snake river. Her example prompted my son Jack to begin his summer sixth grade reading assignment by gobbling up the pages of two Harry Potter adventures in two weeks! I thought it would be a struggle to get him into reading a book on his post-camp vacation, but blessedly I have been proved wrong.

Summer is such an easy time to introduce young children to reading without the pressure of book reports or quizzes or peers perhaps reading at a faster pace. They can get a jump start before September. They can discover that there is just as much fun to be had between the covers of a book than a video or computer game, or t.v. show, or even dashing about the yard. It is welcome down-time and the opportunity to learn without realizing that's what is occurring.

My husband rarely, if at all, reads during the fall, winter or spring, but finds himself absorbed in a good book or two or three during the summer months. I, too, will devour novel upon novel with a greater pace in the warmer, lazier months, and I think our example lends itself to the kids' reading a tome of their own.

"It's reading time," I have announced while sitting on the beach with Jack and Janet, or hanging out in our unit in the wilds of Wyoming. Sometimes there is protest, but mostly it is welcomed and my suggestion is taken to heart and mind. And it goes without saying that the quiet time is very apreciated indeed.

Observing the types of books the kids choose is a fascination for this parent as well. Blake has always gravitated towards works of military fiction and non-fiction as well as spy thrillers; Kenny as a young boy read each and every one of the "Goosebumps" books and now chooses more short how-to's regarding entreprenurial works; Janet has only read one of the Potter novels, and instead spends time with the pages of various girlfriend-themed series (although I have been pressuring her to read my 30-something year old, dog-eared copy of "The Catcher in the Rye"), and Jack predictably loves books on sports, especially baseball, plus Harry's trials and triumphs at Hogwarts.

With a month remaining until the trill of the school bells, there is still time to get your child immersed in a book be it Harry or Mary and her little lamb. I'm sure DandyTales and Elm Street Books will reveal more than a treasure of titles for everyone, both the newbie young and older, seasoned readers.

Wave the magic wand of the written word in front of your son or daughter and watch the wizardry of reading take hold.

Kids, the Country and Freedom

Yesterday we celebrated the Fourth of July, the birth of our nation and all that freedom stands for. Every year, I am hoping that my children gain a keener understanding that the initial freedom of these United States of America wasn’t “free,” and that even today, there is a price.

Given the times in which they are living – especially the years since September 11, 2001 – and the older brother who took an oath to “support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic,” I believe they are getting the gist.

The kids have been fortunate enough to have visited London, Paris and Rome (that sounds like they’re some upscale store, doesn’t it?), as well as Northern Cyprus, the place their Evans’ grandmother now calls home. These trips have provided a taste, a peek, into other cultures and customs outside of their own, and have perhaps supplied a growing appreciation of the differences between our country and others. But I think a good look at some of the United States is in order for them as well.

Two summers ago I loaded up the car with Janet, now 14, and Jack, now 11, and drove from Connecticut to Wyoming, where Janet has been attending camp, and where we spend a chunk or chunkette of the summer each year. Primarily we saw more amber waves of grain then we cared to, until we reached the purple mountain majesty of which we are already familiar. I dashed so fast across the Midwest that they really didn’t get much of a taste for what lies between sea to shining sea.

This year I hope to allow for more than a snippet of America.

At the start of next week Janet, a friend of hers from camp, my son Kenny, 22, and I will climb into my SUV in search of America. (Okay, so I exaggerate a bit; we are driving to Wyoming to pick Jack up from camp and deliver Janet to same camp for her session, and kick back in Jackson Hole for a month). But a good part of America will be searched! I want the kids to see that the diversity of America isn’t only present in the landscape but also in her citizens.

I’d like to have a leisurely lunch near Pennsylvania-Dutch country, so that they might see an Amish village, a buggy, a Lancaster county family up close. To witness in the flesh that not all teenage girls feel a need to, nor can they, dress head-to-toe in Abercrombie or Hollister or Ralph Lauren. Stop for gas and a soda in Illinois, catching a few rays of sun beside a corn field where somebody’s father works the land with nary a Blackberry in sight. Kenny and I want to drive down a piece of the infamous Route 66, starting probably from south of Chicago and then through part of Kansas. And then we’ll ramble up back north towards the Rockies and our destination state.

On the drive back with just Janet and Jack as passengers, I hope to take another meandering, spacious skies route and visit Mt. Rushmore and the Badlands, then veer off into a bit of Wisconsin and Minnesota before heading back to the fruited plains and final density of New England.

“Turn off the DVD player, kids! Look out the windows! Look at America the beautiful! We are so lucky to live here!” This is the land of the free and of the brave. This is the country that was and will always be worth fighting for, that young men and women have died and will continue dying for if they so choose to join our armed forces.

“Don’t be afraid,” I will also tell them. “That doesn’t mean your brother Blake will die, too, but if… If God forbid he did… it will be because freedom isn’t free, but it still merits defense whether it’s on our soil or another’s.”

My children already know from history lessons and from current events that not all wars make sense, that America’s involvement in battles isn’t always clear and evident. Yet I want them to understand also that a country that values liberty and justice for all is a precious place in which to live and that it is worth preserving. As corny as it may sound, I hope for them to be proud citizens.

If I can show them as much of their country as is physically and financially as possible, then maybe they’ll have a fuller picture. After driving through a dusty desert town without a national retailer or a fast-food chain in sight, maybe they’ll not take for granted the area in which they live. A big home in leafy New Canaan, filled with state-of-the-art electronic devices isn’t a right; it’s a privilege that must be appreciated.

Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. We give these to our children at their birth and all we can anticipate is their understanding for and of the latter two.

The search for the source is priceless.

You and Me
by Michael Turpin

The spring sun hesitated for what seemed an hour or so, crouching just under the highest ridge of the valley. Everywhere, denuded trees seemed ready to burst an early season feathered green. With the twilight, came cool air that settled down into the draws and creek beds in the great Frost Valley. In the distance, there was movement like a restless breeze as hundreds of The People from every great Indian nation descended onto a gentle slope that fell easily to the edge of a midnight blue lake.

A great fire roared, crackling and swirling devils of smoke that twisted and chased away those who drew too close for warmth. The hillside slowly changed colors from deep green to restless sienna as Princesses and young Guides gathered for the final ceremony of the season. Chippewa, Omaha, Mohegan, Pequot - - the list went on and on. Each chief gave thanks to the Great Spirit and passed the mantle of leadership to another while the braves and princesses looked on in admiration, wonder and anticipation. The Nation was one and gratefully, the land still provided what the Nation needed to survive. Everyone mingled in deep appreciation and slowly retreated to their lodges, long houses and teepees for reflection and revelry.

It was my last trip to Frost Valley and Y guides with my youngest child. For the last ten years ( not withstanding a three year hiatus in London ) , we had been a link in the YMCA Princesses and Guides chain forging precious time together – “just you and me time” as my older son used to say when we would make our trips together. This annual pilgrimage to the hidden valley deep in the Catskill mountains was each boy’s favorite rite of passage - - the long drive, the cabins, the hiking, the recreation, the ghost stories and the entertainment all combining for a deeply etched memory of companionship and caring. It was the Y at its best.

The YMCA of New Canaan is rumored to have the most successful Y Guides program in the entire country. Guides and Princesses begin at kindergarten and create opportunities for time together during those tender years between ages 6 and 9. These are the years where you are still the center of the universe for your child. This is the time preceding a parent’s steady decline from sun, moon and stars to distant planet in the galaxy called “Whatever”. Growing up in Southern California, the YMCA was in many ways the center of my universe for sports, outdoors, summer camp counseling, work and midweek recreation. It was a safe and important oasis.

For a town like ours that is often stereotyped as “type A” and “self absorbed”, the community and commitment demonstrated by its consistently successful YMCA programs contradicts those labels and speaks volumes about our possibilities - - as parents, as teachers and yes, even as tribal chiefs! Each Y tribe is unique. Some tribes frankly have issues. In California, one of the Indian Princess Dads in our tribe had an affair with another Dad’s squaw. Both men stayed in the tribe. We renamed the one Dad
“Steals Another Man’s Horse”. Our New Canaan tribe, The Mohegans, is known for its games of chance, inventions, sarcasm, extremely poor nutrition and speed in which we can break camp on the last day of a sleep over. There are other tribes who are known for things such as gathering nuts, making beads and eating filet mignon. There are some that enjoy little dominion over their own tribe and descend into chaos and Game Boys whenever they gather as a group. There have been rumors of firewater in some longhouses but like so many legends of the Nation, it is hard to separate fact from fiction. Some tribes are apathetic, prone to logistical mayhem and always seem to lose their headbands. There are those rare but powerful tribes, guided by strong leaders who insist on a strong identity, loud war cries, animal skins for every season and an ice chest in every teepee. Yes, there is diversity in this Indian Nation. Although by day, the Princesses and Braves appear quite homogeneous, by night they revert to an odd panoply of behaviors stimulated by the fact that there is no squaw within a hundred miles.

As we walk along a path padded with brown pine needles, the boys stomp through dark, brackish puddles of muddy rain water, swinging walking sticks like swords and trading exaggerated stories of what might lie around the next bend of the trail. We traverse a V shaped cable bridge that hangs precipitously above a rushing stream. The trail takes us towards The Devil’s Hole - - a destination shrouded in mystery and hyperbole. Older siblings have already relayed the story of “the counselor who drowned “when he fell into the hole of rushing water. That story has now distorted into the slaughter of an entire family from Michigan. “ Wha-wha-what exactly is in the hole, anyway ?” I overheard one boy ask another. “ I think it’s a deep pool of water and there may be something down inside of it that will grab you if you get too close” said another.“ Nervous laughter and the half hearted swing of a hiking stick. “Whatever it is, if it tries to get me, I will c-c-cut off its head!” declares the bravest of the bunch as he slides back closer to his Dad. The forest is beautiful here with the path paralleling a wide trout stream that cascades down a pitched canyon. Later, we discover The Hole but upon witnessing no blood or bones, the boys lose interest and vote for returning to the campsite to catch newts.

“Look I caught two newts at the same time” screams one of the boys. Unfortunately for these amorous amphibians, it is mating season and their conjugal bliss is constantly being interrupted by nets and squeals of delight as they are lifted from the water, dropped into a plastic containers and then tossed back into the water. More hiking, and then dinner. Our tribe settles down for a dinner of hamburgers, hotdogs, chips and sodas. Later, a medicine man mercifully offers me an antacid. A fellow tribe sharing our longhouse unleashes an intimidating display of BBQs, marinated steaks and civility that makes us feel like pagans. Our boys are oblivious and have once again disappeared into the woods to satisfy some latent genetic need to sharpen sticks, throw rocks and soak their only clean pair of shoes in mud. As silky twilight gives way to night, I rest on the hillside, exhausted but content watching our great nation of people. A small hand slips into mine and a warm, exhausted little boy leans in and lays his head on my lap, “Dad ?”

“Yeah, buddy?”
“Today was my best day, ever.”
“Me, too, pal”
“The best part - - was it was just you and me.”

The Dangerous World of Boys

If you’ve recently given birth to your first son, or if you’re already a mom of, say, an infant or toddler boy, this is a cautionary tale, a primer, a “buckle-your-seat-belts-you’re-in-for-a-bumpy-ride” introduction to being a mother (or father) of the young male of the species.

Boys and bumps, bruises, breaks and bloody cuts seem – in my experience – to go hand-in-hand.

Out of my three sons, so far my son Kenny takes the prize in the becoming wounded department. When Kenny was age one, Blake chucked a Matchbox car at him resulting in a butterfly stitch to the forehead. At age four, Kenny broke his tibia, and repeated that break a scant two years later. At seven, Blake accidentally (yeah, right) slammed Kenny’s fingers in a door, resulting in yet another break and half a dozen stitches. At 11, he broke his arm falling off a swing. When he was 15, he sprained that same arm, and at age 19, badly cut one hand after a freak fall on his way back to his apartment after class.

Some boys are more accident prone than others. Blake survived childhood with only a few stitches and bumps, and – considering he has been in combat three times since 2003 – has emerged with only the most minor of injuries. But the first time your child, your son, gets a bad boo-boo it’s almost as painful for you.

The first sign of a break or of blood gives new meaning to the term “adrenaline rush.”

If your son is an athlete, well, try and prepare yourself for the inevitable injury, although admittedly, I’m not entirely sure how one prepares oneself. The least of it may be a bad bruise. But there, lurking in the air on the field of play, may be the breakage of a limb, an errant ball flying into your son’s nether regions, a bloody nose or blackened eye; momentary unconsciousness. Now these are the worst cases and should not in any way, shape or form mean you prohibit sports from your child’s agenda. Because – trust me – even the most seemingly ordinary of moments at home may cause temporarily traumatic injury.

Case in point: On this past Easter Sunday evening, as I was folding laundry and my husband, Jon, was paying bills, a blood-curdling scream emanated from our garage. Janet began yelling for us: “Mom! Dad! Jack’s hurt! Jack’s hurt!” As I ran into the garage, there was Jack holding his left hand, blood spewing from one of his fingers. “I closed it in the door! Omigod! Help!” As he was going out the side door of our garage, he had accidentally slammed the door shut on his fingers, specifically, the middle finger (pretty appropriate for how he felt at that moment). We bundled his hand in a towel and ice and Jon dashed him to Norwalk Hospital. By the grace of God, I decided to immediately begin cleaning up all the blood in the garage and as I did, I looked down and there staring up at me was the top of Jack’s finger! We had no idea that it had been severed. Bottom line is that most of it was stitched back on and I’m sure he’ll be playing baseball in no time. But, mercy me – dashing part of my kid’s finger to the hospital resulted in a billion new grey hairs and a heart that nearly popped right out of me and out of my car and onto Route 123.

Ah, boys. Here’s what you need to do as soon as you birth one: Stock your medicine cabinet with bandages, gauze, Neosporin, hydrogen peroxide, a finger splint, an ace bandage, several ice packs and arnica. Stock your liquor cabinet with whiskey or wine, or load up your freezer with pints of your favorite ice cream (pick your poison) for you to ingest after the accident, Keep in mind that you should probably breathe while the initial ouchiness ensues. Don’t let your boy catch you crying, and keep reminding yourself that things will be okay; this too shall pass.

Until the next time.

Waiting to Exhale

The nature of the business of being parents means that we must often endure, wait out and try to help when our child is caught up in the grip of emotional, social and/or physical pain. We gasp, we hold our breath, we pray, and we wait to exhale.

Our child may be diagnosed with a disease, an illness or an injury, and after doing all that we can possibly do to support them and aid in their recovery, often the results are left in the hands of those more knowledgeable, or in something/someone greater than ourselves. Many times it is up to our child to help themselves, and it is the waiting for that to happen which takes our breath away. The expression, “Time takes time,” is both a balm and bewilderment.

A child may impulsively quit their job with no prospects on the horizon. They may decide high school isn’t for them and we watch as their grades plummet. An undiagnosed learning disability derails our eight-year-old. As mothers and fathers of teens we pretty much have to inhale and suck it up for two, three, four years, especially if teenaged angst makes them implode. In preschool or in elementary school our child may be one of the bullies or the bullied, and we wait both patiently and impatiently for this too to pass.

A son goes to war and the anxiety is unbearable at times, yet bear it we must.

Blake has been deployed since last September, and was in Iraq for the last five months. We learned late last week that he had arrived in Kuwait. He will be there for a couple of weeks until the naval ship arrives to begin the journey of bringing the Marines and Sailors stateside. And so on that score I have begun the exhaling process, which isn’t fully complete until I can wrap my arms around the big lug sometime in June.

During a shopping trip to Bob’s Sports this week, I received a hug from owner Rob Mallozzi upon hearing the news. He commented on my big smile and the look of relief in my face.

“Yes,” I beamed, for the first time in a long time. “The breathing out is welcome.”

We all want our children safe, sane and secure. When bad or uncomfortable news visits our child, we must hang onto hope – that the cancer will go into remission; that the ADD will become under control; that he can play ball again or that her leg will heal enough so may she dance once more; that their heart will mend or their lost soul will be found; that their disability won’t impede success, or that self-destructive behaviors can morph back into self-love; that combat will not offer the ultimate sacrifice. As tempting as it is for us to run for the bedcovers or self-medicate, we must remember that what is happening is happening more to them than to us. We need to get out of our own way and try to be present for our child.

That feeling a mother gets as she watches her five-year-old first board that big yellow bus for kindergarten is repeated over and over as the child ages. It’s the “Omigosh-omigosh-are-they-going-to-be-okay” mini panic attack; the big intake of air, the flutters in the belly, and the pounding of the heart so full of love it hurts.

Holding on to hope is the tool we can use when these moments present themselves (and they will). Hope and choice: Will we let this situation crush us or our child, or will we choose to gain new strength and perspective? Will we inhale so tightly that we can never again breathe easily?

C.S. Jung once said, “I am not what happened to me; I am what I choose to become.” That is a lesson, a mantra, that we can teach our children and also, of course, ourselves.

Centerfield
By Michael Turpin

“Well, beat the drum and hold the phone - the sun came out today!We're born again, there's new grass on the field.A-roundin' third, and headed for home, it's a brown-eyed handsome man;Anyone can understand the way I feel.
Oh, put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;Put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;Look at me, I can be Centerfield.”
~John Fogerty, Centerfield

At one point during a game, the coach called one of his 9-year-old baseball players aside and asked, "Do you understand what cooperation is? What a team is?" The little boy nodded in the affirmative. "Do you understand that what matters is whether we win or lose together as a team?" The little boy nodded yes. "So," the coach continued, "I'm sure you know, when an out is called, you shouldn't argue, curse, attack the umpire, or call him a butt-head. Do you understand all that? Again the little boy nodded. He continued, "And when I take you out of the game so another boy gets a chance to play, it's not good sportsmanship to call your coach 'a dumb ass' is it?" Again the little boy nodded."Good," said the coach. "Now go over there and explain all that to your dad in the stands".

It’s baseball season and for the first time in many years, my schedule has finally succeeded in not allowing me to co- head coach one of my son’s teams. I am already having withdrawals and have started to behave oddly at home. I yelled “ slide” to my eight year old as he was running to greet me at the door the other day. I asked my wife if it would be ok if we buy a radar gun. “We could clock all kinds of things - - how fast the kids get out to the bus in the morning, how quickly they come to dinner when we call. We could increase their allowance when they beat certain time thresholds …” She gave me that “you are a very troubled person” look. The sad truth is my job has finally gotten the better of my April and May and it looks like I would be too unreliable to once again become platoon leader for a small squad of budding eleven and twelve year olds. Anyone need an assistant?

Coaching is a catharsis. It’s the ultimate opportunity to be of service and help shape kids. It is also a mirror that one can hold up for self reflection. If done improperly, it can be a demoralizing experience for a child, a source of constant tension for parents and a Greek tragedy for the fatally flawed but well intentioned coach. When Reverend Joe Ehrmann came to New Canaan last fall, many coaches were introduced to the book about Joe, Seasons of Life. For some, it was given to us either as a gift or a stocking stuffer. For others, it was left surreptitiously on a front door step and in a few cases, tied to a rock and hurled through a living room window.




Joe’s message is priceless: each kid is a treasure trove of possibility and sports is a stage where we can discover each child’s potential. Coaches can cultivate each player to become a more confident and engaged citizen of our community and can help preserve and build self esteem which is the oxygen that fuels adolescence. I realize this is innate stuff to a lot of people who work with kids. Yet for others, including myself, Ehrmann’s talk was a great reminder of the gift that is coaching kids.

There are coaches, and yes I am one of them, that occasionally forget that it is really just a game and become a little obsessed with winning. It’s sort of like Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom where two alpha males make eye contact across the watering hole (in this case the baseball diamond). I can almost see his antlers growing. I scratch the ground with my cleat. He picks up a bat and takes a few half swings. The rut is on. It’s a curse, really, thinking that the other coach is going home at night and instead of catching up on bills or reading to their four year old, he/she is calculating batting averages and comparing first to second base sprint times. Each season there is always one coach that “challenges my objectivity. “ Whether it is having their runner steal second while enjoying an eight run lead or invoking some double secret rule like the “Speed of Play” clause from the Cal Ripkin Official rules book that I get handed every year but never read.

At this point, I have to beg forgiveness from my pastor who views me as a “work in progress” as he preaches understanding and tolerance. There’s just something about that mixture of red dirt, chalk, and eye black that makes a guy a little, how should we say, less spiritual? I have had to learn the key to being a good coach is to realize that it is not about me. It’s not about the parents. It’s about every kid that I have been entrusted with- - every single one. It means taking pride in each kid’s progress and teaching them something new. It means telling them the story about when I was a kid and how I pretended to go to football practice but would instead hide in the bushes, in full pads , smear dirt on my pants and wait for two hours before going home, hoping a passing dog did not lift his leg on my hiding place. It’s me remembering when my son makes an error or strikes out and looks at me that I do not cringe, shake my head or make a face but smile and clap and say “ go get ‘em “ It’s finding humor in everything. Whether it is a food shack that is listed in Zagats and is rumored to be selling foie gras or the way people park their cars at Mead Park as if they have spilled an extra hot latte in their lap.

We all want our children to respect one another, try their best, work hard, and come back to play another year. We need to remember that great television commercial that appears during most NCAA games that says, “There are 30,000 athletes in American universities and most of them will major in something other than sports after college.” It’s a great time of year - - the smell of freshly cut grass, chalk lines faithfully edged around a red dust diamond, and the sharp ping of a well hit line drive mixing with the roar of a hometown crowd. Somewhere a kid rounds third base and tries to beat the throw to home while another player tugs on his/her coach’s arm and says, “Hey coach, put me in. I can play centerfield!”

Party On, Dude!

Today is my youngest child’s 11th birthday (Jack). Last year I figured that after 22 years of throwing parties for my one to four children, we were done. But apparently the rumors of their birthday parties’ demise were greatly exaggerated.

Over the years, I’ve thrown parties where magicians appeared, both young (age 13) and old (a 75-year-old magician). Barney, a Ninja Turtle, Captain Hook and Blue from Blue’s Clues have attended, as well as various clowns. We’ve had baseball themed parties, basketball parties, worker truck parties, Ghostbuster parties, 1950’s themed parties, gold-mining parties, pony rides, bowling, karate and manicure celebrations, and parties held at My Three Sons, Discovery Zone, the late great Mattie’s, and a semi-professional ballpark. Parties, parties everywhere and no relief in sight!

When publishing County Kids magazine, I began to feel like so much the party “expert” that we began putting out an annual party guide called “Partyline.” The tips and trends therein served to give me more fuel for the birthday party fever and fervor of my children. Over the years I practiced insanity as far as these age celebrations were concerned (the definition of insanity as doing the same things over and over again, expecting different results). I expected the events to be quieter, more manageable. I also expected my children to stop desiring them.

Kenny and Blake eventually conceded around age 16; Jack and Janet have yet to give up the ghost, no matter how hard I plead. And it’s probably because they have grown up with the myriad party people, places and things that have always existed in their world.

Last year when Janet turned 13, she had 30 of her nearest and dearest friends over for a swimming party. She had told us she was inviting 20, but that number morphed by party time and Jon and I sprouted more grey hair instantly.

“That’s it!” I cried insistently after the big to-do. “No more birthday parties!” I’m done, I thought. Put a fork in me, totally justifying – however – that Jon had thrown me a 50th birthday bash two months earlier.

But no… Jack’s wanting a gathering of buddies this year and all of my whining hadn’t stopped the planning.

Gone are the days of girls in starched party dresses, boys in blue blazers, a home-baked cake and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. In are paintball and laser tag parties; girls and boys in shorts and t-shirts wild with cake-induced frenzy. Goody bags cost a small fortune and are considered de rigueur; the quest for a new and different party venue is exhausting, yet always do-able. It’s frightening.

So I guess it’s party on, dude time once again.