Digital Sunday

The advent of the digital camera has allowed teens to take endless pictures of themselves without serious repercussions. I remember, in my Polaroid/Kodak generation, we were forced to stand in front of the mirror for hours, wondering what we truly looked like, what we would look like in the future, how others thought we looked. Now I think this function has been served by digital images.

I just got through Thanksgiving, the first of the "don't worry, be happy" holidays that no sentient adult can really live up to. We had two Thanksgivings, thanks to a traumatic divorce during my wife's childhood. The first was at our house, and pretty enjoyable, all in all. (See yesterday's post, which my cousin Paul claims tempted him to relapse.) The second was at my father in law's home.



My father in law is a remarkable man, very bright, self-made, capable, a little clueless about relationships, particularly with women, and 80 years old. He has done right by me and mine and I have no complaints, and am willing to come to his home for all the "second holidays" he provides: Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter. Also at his home are the children of his second marriage, and this year the relatives of his 2nd ex wife. The tradition here involves dry turkey, small talk, long afternoons snoozing in front of football games (which I couldn't give a rat's ass about), and, eventually the traditional draggin out of ultra conservative, Fox-flavored, Limbaugh tainted conservative positions delivered with a pride which denies the possibility of conscious thought. At this point, I usually drag my liberal butt to the car and escape, muttering.

When I have to move, or my wife goes to the hospital, or my kids have an event, many of these people show up to help, check in, or applaud. Not the 2nd ex brother in law, but most of them. So I eat dry turkey three times a year and mutter.



I wonder who my son thinks he is. He's that age when he no longer tells everything he thinks. His view of his mother and I is more critical, measuring us against the things we told him, things his friends told him, things he learned in school and at the mall. He catches my inconsistencies and jams them up my nose. He is brilliant, capable, witty, busy, obsessive and relentless. He understands relationships pretty well for a 13 year old, and is a good friend. In many ways, I'm already finished raising him. I know who he is intimately but none of us know who he'll be.



My grandfather descended into madness at age 40. My father fought with the madness and broke even. I seem to have avoided madness, which was my earthly generational mission. My son has not pondered whether he will become mad, wondering if he'll be a sports-writer, athlete, architect, lover and father. I don't think he fears madness as I did. That's an accomplishment my father would be proud of.



It's Sunday. Time to put up Christmas lights, to get some winter clothes for my mother, to get ready for another busy week.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. . . and we'll look up in a while and again the world will have morphed. It's a hell of a ride.