Get Behind Me, Satan's Pillow!

Ever have one of those "I think we built our house on an Indian burial ground" moments?

Yeah, well I blame that confounded doll Eric brought into the house last night.

And I'm not talking "Prom date." Though, in dating terms, this doll really was a cheap date, setting Eric back a quarter or two at most.

Even Eric realized his mistake, shortly after the awkward introductions.

She was, after all, downright creepy looking, with that pinched pink face peeking out of the pillowed frame that imprisoned her. Not a one of us could imagine resting our heads on such a pillow without suffering some kind of eternal damnation. And, as if that were not bad enough, he'd left behind her twin, up and abandoned her on some table at St. Teresa's Thrift Shop just around the corner from us.

Has anyone ever known a set of twins--evil ones, nonetheless--who willingly parted ways?

An hour later, when I stopped into Eric's room to say goodnight, I scanned the perimeters, making sure it was safe to enter. Fortunately, she was nowhere in sight.

There are just some things you don't want fresh in your mind when sleep is on the horizon. Eric understood this, having already stuffed the baby pillow from Hell into an unused overnight bag at the back of his closet. I found his act to be only mildly reassuring.

Sure, she has no fingers and probably couldn't work a zipper from inside, but who really knows?

I'm having trouble shaking that scene from "Poltergeist," when Carol Ann turns to the creepy little Tangina lady and utters: "They're HEEEEEERE!"

This does not bode well for the easygoing Holt household.

Trying to Measure Up

When Mark started working at Duncan Aviation, he was told to bring his own tools to the site. The night before he started, he spruced up his Craftsman tools, packed a good combination square and called it good.

When his coworkers saw the square, though, they called it downright hilarious.

Mark's square measured things in 1/16" increments. He soon found out that, at Duncan, woodworkers have been known to measure projects to the 1/1000th of an inch.

I can't tell you how many times in the past month alone that I have found myself without the right measuring stick.

Take Egypt and Libya, Bahrain and Belarus, for example. The other night, Allison and I were watching the world news, seeing Tripoli unfold and explode before our eyes.

"I would never do that," she said, as she watched protesters clash with the military. "I would stay hidden in my house until it was over."

I told her I would like to think that I'd be willing to take to the streets, if so many important things were on the line.

But, really, what do I know? I certainly don't possess a measuring stick of any worth when it comes to wondering aloud about such things.

The closest measuring stick I've found in all of this was the night the Egyptians took to the streets, celebrating the resignation of Hosni Mubarek. It is utterly irresistible to see a group of common-place strangers hug each other as they realize just what they've managed to accomplish with nary a bomb or a knife or tank. I kind of understood how they felt, flashing back to the raw joy that filled me when the majority of U.S. citizens chose a black man to lead them.

Even then, though, my measuring stick looked measly next to the crowds of Egyptians, many of whom had never known a day of freedom in their lives.

And then there's my friend, whose wonderful, smart, sharp-as-a-tack daughter is struggling mightily with some serious health issues. It is a day-to-day battle for this family, and I can't help but think that they must feel like they are on an isolated island, even with all the other folks out there who would like to build some bridges for them.

Even those who desperately want to help this family quickly realize that their measuring sticks seem both paltry and useless in this situation.

How can I understand a language I have never before heard?

. . . and where can I pick up some new measuring sticks, so that I might start getting to work on these important things?

Snoop Dog's In The House, er, the Kitchen

In twenty-plus years of cooking, I've made some memorable meals much like Snoop Dog has written some memorable lyrics.

"EeeyiyiyiyiyahtheDoggPound'sinthehou-owwse (the bomb)
EeeyiyiyiyiyeahtheDoggPound'sinthehou-oww-owse"

There was the time that, with mere spoonfuls left in her bowl of chicken rice soup, Allison discovered what, at first, looked like an uncooked grain of rice. In fact, it was the exoskeleton of the artist formerly known as "meal worm." What's a family to do, once they've reached the bottom of the proverbial bowls, except to wonder silently to themselves if meal worms might propagate in one's stomach lining?

"Snoop Doggy, Do-owww-ohhhh-oggg (the bomb)
Snoop Doggy, Do-owww-ohhhh-oggg (Dog)"

Years ago, I decided to battle my "mushroom" issues with a big potful of mushroom bisque. In the culinary world, this move was the equivalent of planting the flag at Iwo Jima, bold and brash and completely against the grain of all that is reasonable. Still, I managed to carefully wash and slice pound upon pound of my newfound fungal friends, adding handfuls into a pan of dancing butter. When the bisque was ready, Mark and I poured two bowls of the brown stuff and brought it to our quavering lips. About 45 seconds later, we tossed the remaining quarts down the alley, hoping no strays would come along and lap it up.

"It's the bow to the wow, creepin and crawlin
Yiggy yes y'allin, Snoop Doggy Dogg in
the mother(BEEPIN') house like everyday"

Last summer, during World-Cup fever, but just before we'd had two thousand vuvuzelas crammed noisily up our wazoo-zoolas, Lynn Ireland ran some sumptuous-sounding African recipes in her weekly Journal-Star column. I quickly cut out one, in particular, that caught my eye. Combining extensive spices, ground beef and bananas, and spreading it all out on a plateful of rice, this one had my name all over it.

I am, it turns out, a sucker for fruity meat dishes. Turns out, my family is not. There is an unspoken rule in the Holt household. Its unspokeness speaks volumes, though. Here is what a panning looks like at our dining-room table: Ten minutes into the meal, most of Mark's food is on his plate, though it has been shoveled around to new positions. It is about then when Mark and the kids share unspoken glances across the salt and pepper, each wondering when I'll ask if they like it. While silence is usually the kiss of death for a recipe in the Holt household, I really liked my African friend. And so we repeated the experience one more time, until I called "uncle" and tossed the clipping aside like so many vuvuzelas after a loss on the field.

"And let the Bizzow Wizzow ride the trizzack, ha ha
How you feelin'? I'm up to dealin', ridin' like a villan
Makin' a killin', thrillin' the crowd wit my new hairdo"

My cooking has a long and sordid history. There was the half-cooked hamburger I served to my soon-to-be vegetarian friend Allison...the 10 pounds of brisket I cooked down to something the size of a charcoal briquette, though slightly more flavorful...the innumerable chicken breasts, still tickled pink and viscous...flopped Indian cuisine that bore more resemblance to a papier-mache project than to food...apple-puff pancakes that lacked both puff and flour...

And yet, and yet. Like Snoop, that hip-hop genius, I know you's gots ta break some mother[BLEEPIN'] eggs to makes a [BLEEPIN'] omelette.

"Woof! motha[BLEEP], Woof! motha[BLEEP]
Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yay (Jeah, [BLEEP], I can make ya say)
Woof! motha[BLEEP]r, Woof! motha[BLEEP]
Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yay (yeah, tank doggs, let me hear ya say)
Woof! motha[BLEEP], Woof! motha[BLEEP]
Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yay (all my real rap niggaz say)
Woof! motha[BLEEP], Woof! motha[BLEEP]
Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yay (yeah, Mystikal, where you at?)"

Like Daughter, Like Mother (I Hope)

I awoke yesterday with little more to do than get a haircut and grade some papers. With Scrabble out of the picture, then, I decided to be generous with my time and spend it with Allison. We headed to South Pointe with plenty of time to do a little shopping and get a bite to eat before succumbing to Bieber Fever.

At one point, she steered us to Victoria's Secret. I harrumphed and moaned, my breathing becoming both audible and sporadic and Allison chastised me for being such a noisy bad sport. She had a point. When we walked through the doors of Victoria's Secret, I was shocked that I had not set off the alarm, my ruse--and my cotton briefs--obvious from 200 yards away.

Where, at Victoria's Secret, does a stodgy mom look while waiting for her daughter to try something on? Everywhere I glanced, there were lacy slivers of material in flashy, bright colors, many imprinted with R-rated promises of trysts and temptation. More than once, I had absolutely no idea what I was looking at. I finally settled on a rack of PG13 sweat pants, their waistbands spattered with tamer taunts.

I am a knucklehead of the highest order. I know that this does not come as a surprise to others but, for me anyway, such a realization carries with it the weight of lost opportunities.

In my sloth-like transformation from "Jane" to "mom," I have spent far too much time looking through my own life's lens when trying to understand what it is my children are seeing through their lenses.

All of this I realized halfway through yesterday's viewing of the new Justin Bieber movie, "Never Say Never."

Never say never, indeed.

Maybe it was hormones. Maybe I was still recovering from some lousy sleep earlier in the week. For whatever reason, though, I was utterly taken in by the movie. Before he'd even set foot on stage, I had already cried two or three times, my awkward 3D glasses pooling the salty evidence against the bridge of my nose.

And then, it struck me. The realization that I'd been doing "parenting" all wrong, when it comes to Allison.

Ever since going through a serious dress-wearing phase in preschool, Allison has set herself apart from me. Not on purpose, mind you. Rather, that's just who she is. More complex and aware than her mother, Allison has lived her life with equal helpings of athleticism and girlishness.

She wears makeup that she tastefully applies each morning. She does nails with the precision of an Old Master. She straightens her hair and owns more products than the neighborhood drug store down the block. She can set, spike and serve like a testy tiger. She likes pop music and dancing. She thinks it would be fun to be a cheerleader.

Turns out, Allison and I are very different people. And those differences can absolutely flabbergast me at times.

But I realized, right there in the middle of Justin Bieber's film, that this is my problem, not Allison's.

For someone who fancies herself to be both open minded and curious about the world, I have spent too long scratching my head about the differences between Allison and me, rather than relishing in all the things she has to teach me.

And so, I vow to leave my lens at home, when it comes to my daughter's life. It is, after all, woefully inadequate equipment to use when exploring a world that is so much larger, so much richer than my own.

It's time for me to be a student again. And Allison's leading the class.

Here's to Kids Who Came from Other Women's Wombs!

Odes, in general, should be read with a wary eye. After all, the fuel that powers them is love and adoration, two things which blur the lines like literary Vaseline.

Praise that flows from a mother's lips, however, is the most suspect of all forms of adulation. How, pray tell, does one filter out the shared genetic codes, the familiar blood types, the way each head of hair swirls in the same direction, and end up with something that even vaguely resembles the truth?

(That said, I'm convinced that I am completely capable of writing a spot-on, unbiased love song to my children, one that rings only of truth rather than unmet, outlandish dreams.)

This ode, however, is one not muddied by a single, shared womb. Rather, this ode, sung to other people's children, is that rarest of the breed, one that is 100 percent true.

The impetus for this ode was found in a pile of homework that was staring me down, not the typical source of such flowery praise. As I dug in, my editor's pen sharpened and at the ready, what I found was not last-minute cat scratchings meant only to appease the minimum standard, but gently unfolding gems, not a one of them written with me in mind.

That is the real power of teaching journalism. If my students succeed in telling a good story, it is not because of anything I do. Rather, their motivation is heightened by the thought of their peers perusing the work. And that is a powerful motivator not to be underestimated.

And so, yesterday, while the birds tweeted and the sun shone, each tempting me to leave my abode for greener pastures, I tied myself to the proverbial mast and ignored their siren songs, committed to getting through at least a handful of student stories written for our upcoming magazine. This issue's theme is fighters, and the kids tackled that subject from perspectives both concrete and symbolic.

At one point, I thought I was reading the New York Times. That's how wonderful these stories are.

Here, on a page stained with the remnants of an after-dinner snack, was the story of Elsie Eiler, Monowi, Nebraska's sole resident. Mayor, town-council president, tavern owner. It was a story my editor sought out on her own. She even skipped a speech tournament so she could make the three-hour drive to Monowi, where stories beyond my imagination sat patiently in the tavern. I felt like I was reading really good fiction.

When the topic of "fighters" was revealed to the staff, Kelsey knew immediately that she wanted to tell Chad's story. A super senior in his fifth year of high school, Chad does not have the burden of saving a town on his shoulders. Rather, he is simply intent upon saving himself. In the past two years, he has watched both of his parents die from cancer. Although two generations separate Chad and Elsie, the wisdom that peeked from the pages of his story made Chad and Elsie seem more like contemporaries.

And then, having tasted two such terrific stories, I turned my back on the sun and the birds and the lure of a Friday afternoon and gave myself over to stories of roller derby athletes who have discovered their feminine mystique, teen boxers who have found a way out of lives they do not want to lead, ghost chasers who take on the more invisible enemies of this universe and adoptive parents who have--almost literally--traveled to the moon and back for their foreign-born children.

I am happily befuddled by this place I find myself in, surrounded by a newspaper staff whose members seems to feed off of each other's enthusiasm, nudging themselves to operate outside of their comfort zones. This motley crew of teenagers have introduced me to zombies and firefighters, Winnebago elders and former South-Omaha gang members. They have spent the night in a 24-hour diner and spooked themselves in a haunted Omaha park. They have asked the tough questions--and the silly ones--and have made all of us better people as a result.

It is to them, then, that I sing my love song. To these kids who wake up each day, putting one foot in front of the other, the kids who find the courage to seek out stories worth sharing, especially from those whose voices have too long gone silent. They are some of the bravest people I know.

A Little Night Music

It is 2:30 a.m.

Nothing good happens at 2:30 a.m. Except a meteor shower. Or maybe a flying dream.

And nothing says "on the downhill side of life" quite like a bad night's sleep. These are the nights punctuated not with dreams so much as with watery-thin lists that wisp their way through my head, one dull line melting into another.

Eventually, I sit up and reach down for a book, calling "uncle" quietly enough to let my sleeping dog lie.

Speaking of my sleeping dog, I wish Hobbes would sleep a little quieter. For a guy who never says much, he manages to accomplish quite a bit each night, huffing and puffing, whimpering and scratching his way through what I can only imagine are scenarios involving lusty poodles and overlooked tidbits from dinner.

Some nights, all I can hope for is a well-disciplined fart that possesses both timbre and good hang time, a lone cry calling out to my mate, hoping to instigate one of those strange and funny middle-of-the-night conversations.

Ah, but even Mark is breathing slowly right now, impervious to my mournful, pungent song. And, since 2:30 a.m. is the perfect time for confessions, it's possible that I hate him just a wee bit right now.

I should go outside, I suppose, and reacquaint myself with the night sky. The last few days having ushered in warm, drying winds, I'd probably be able to lay on our patio without fear of earthy dampness. But there is that confounded moon, all cocky and full tonight, all "look at me! look at me!" as it blots out its cousins Cassiopeia and Ursa Major. That's just not a show I'm willing to buy tickets for tonight.

2:30 a.m. is like Lasik surgery, Timothy Leary style. It skews everything. Makes you doubt what you are seeing, hearing. It alters even the most ordinary things, turning patio doors into sinister eyes, the gurgles of a fridge into the shufflings of an intruder.

I'd make a lousy nocturnal animal. I'd be like a blind chihuahua, starting at every rustle of leaves, certain they are signaling my imminent downfall.

Man, I'd really hate to be a chihuahua, for all kinds of reasons. For one, I could not handle a 200-beat resting heart rate. And, then, there are those eyeballs. Mine dry out enough as it is, and they are reasonably recessed in my head, where my brain does not take up too much space.

Then again, if I were a chihuahua, I would not be typing this, would I? No, I would be flat on my back, panting like a frat boy, my bug eyes searching unseen landscapes filled with feral felines and urine-soaked fire hydrants. I would be the very definition of a good night's sleep, yipping at the appropriate intervals, happy to be somewhere else.

Two Cynics Walk into a Bar. . .

Matt was a senior in high school, with far more educational know-how tucked inside his school-issue button down than I possessed in all ten of my second-year-teacher digits. But that doesn't mean I was blind to the facts. Not all of them, anyway.

Also tucked inside this lanky, tightly-wound smart guy, though--bubbling just under the surface, like something you'd find in a Hawaiian volcano park--was enough cynicism to drown a whole town of rats. And, even though I had yet to make it even twice around the "teacher" block, I knew enough to realize that this was no way for a 17 year old to live.

That's when I called in the big guns. Because it was a private school, though, constantly strapped for funds, it is possible that an outsider would not recognize my friend Jim as "big guns" stuff. He is not much taller than me and, I suspect, probably weighs in less than me, as well. Yet, still, we manage to be good friends.

Jim was the school's sole custodian, responsible not only for keeping the place neat, tidy and well functioning, but also--as a kind of signing bonus for the place--the go-to guy for all things magical and positive. He was, without doubt, one of the best parts of that school. Which is why I put him in contact with Matt.

Mostly, I wanted Matt to meet an adult who was completely comfortable in his own skin, someone who could possess both encyclopedic knowledge and child-like wonder. (You can see why I refer to Jim as "big guns.") Jim has a palliative, healing way about him, one delivered not in hushed tones but, rather, in skin-stretching smiles and infectious, well-timed guffaws.

By the time Matt graduated from high school, he had grown fond of Jim and found himself a role model for a different way to live.

Ah, to have a dozen Jims at my disposal.

Some days, I am convinced that cynicism is the 21st-century's version of the black plague, sweeping through and wiping out entire communities with nary a concern about the human waste it leaves in its wake. Unlike the plague, though, cynicism has cleverly cloaked itself in desirable threads, enabling it to lure folks towards it rather than frighten away its future victims. People actually seek it out, as a lifestyle, a label of "cool" to apply to their lapels.

In these circles (circles that tend to all smell the same, for cynics are like in-bred dogs, lacking both the imagination and the nose for those who differ from them), laughter is both costly and rare, and the air is thin and disturbing. It is here, among the cynics, where Dante surely must have resided, penning his phrase "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." They simply assumed he was talking about hell.

I, for one, though, will continue to don my "optimist's" garb each morning, not naive to the hardships of this world so much as rebellious against the black tide that threatens to take away joy itself.

As for those who continue to snarl their lips, pass their harsh judgments and take under their wings those who are wavering, I have some advice, not that they'll take it, of course.

"Abandon hope, all ye who mentor here."