Science and Progress

I've never enjoyed connect the dot games because my monkey brain does nothing but connect dots. Like the other night. My Lovely Bride had (D)runco at our casa which meant no penises on the premises. I took the Boy(s) to the dollar (fifty) movie to see Ice Age 3: Dawn of the Dinosaurs. Sitting across the aisle from our seats was a young mom and her small boy who laughed, hard, every time the Scrat did his thing.

Since we were pretty much the only ones in the theatre, after one outburst I pointed at the kid and said to the Boy(s), "Ethan loved the Scrat when he was that age. He called Ice Age the pecan movie because that is what he called the Scrat and his acorn."

"Really?" Ethan asked.

"Yeah. The only part you wanted to watch were the parts with the Scrat. You'd say, 'Where pecan?!?!' over and over and over. We had that movie on tape. The old VCR. I had to rewind and forward. You had no patience. I didn't either. It was funny. Not so much then. But now."

"Where was I at?" Wy asked.

"You weren't born yet."

"You were still in his junk," Ethan interjected.

"Nice." I was impressed with the Elder Boy's Simpsons reference.

The Younger Boy was feeling left out though so I said, "Actually Wy, you were born now that I think about it. But you were an infant. Really little."

"What's junk mean?" E asked.

"Penis and nuts." I answered. "It's slang."

"NUTS!" Wy shouted. "LIKE A PECAN!"

We all laughed at Wy's bad joke when the toddler across the aisle laughed at the Scrat again. Such a sweet sound. It made me wistful sitting there trading junk jokes with my two big Boy(s).

"You know what else Wy," I asked. "You saw your first movie theatre movie here. Chicken Little. You were the same age as that kid over there."

I got nothing. Both Boy(s) went back to eating their candy, so I said to myself, "That seems like yesterday."

The rest of the movie I sat there thinking about my recent decision to end this here BLOG and the weird coincidence that I had re-read the 'Where pecan?!?!' post about Ice Age a few days before.

Odder still was the realization that the first entry on this here BLOG, way back on January 11, 2004, was a goofy test post with a photo of Scott Baio and Erin Moran. Granted, my predilection for Joanie and Chachi is strange, but it pales in comparison to this. I made the decision to pull the plug at the same time that I saw Scott Baio on bad late night TV telling his celebrity ghost story.

This is where it gets tricky. Unless you are in my head.

At what was then, now, however, I had yet to look back at the Team Tinsley archives. I only realized that my first post was a photo of Scott Baio and Erin Moran when I looked back while writing the beginning of the end entry on Friday, October 16 and Saturday, October 17. That's an important detail. Even though I posted the beginning of the end post on Monday, I wrote it earlier.

Another important detail is that Ruby the Dog's plastic container of dog food we keep in the casa ran dry on Saturday, October 17. It happened when I was messing around with the beginning of the end entry that I posted on Monday. Which is when I realized that the first post on Team Tinsley was that Scott Baio and Erin Moran photo. Which made me think of that Scott Baio ghost story. I also re-read the 'Where pecan?!?!' post even though at that point I had no idea the Boy(s) and I would end up going to see the latest Ice Age movie on Wednesday, October 21. At that point in our story we were planning on seeing 9.

This is where it gets spooky, In a connect the dot orgy of coincidence.

Refilling Ruby the Dog's plastic food container is a beating. We buy her dog food at Sam's, which means the main bag we keep in the garage is colossal. It being Saturday, and that I was in the middle of BLOGGING the last thing I wanted to do was drag my ass out to the garage and wrestle with the ginormous bag of dog food. Which is why I ignored My Lovely Bride's subtle hint to fill it up (she sat the empty container on our bar which is tantamount to putting it in front of the front door) until Sunday Morning coming down (which if you've been paying attention and/or chasing the links you know was the very first thing I ever typed on the Team Tinsley BLOG.)

I was half way through the tedious job of filling up Ruby the Dog's plastic container, bent over and struggling with that colossal bag, when out of nowhere something hit me on the top of the head.

"SHIT!" I exclaimed, dropping the bag on the ground. I looked around, thinking it was the Boy(s) messing with me. But I was alone. After I realized that I was by myself in the garage, I looked around more closely to see what hit me.

I didn't see it at first, since it had ended up behind me. I only saw it out of the corner of my eye when I went back to grab the gargantuan bag of food.

"What the..." I said jumping back as if it were a snake.

I couldn't believe it.

After what felt like a minute I reached down and picked up the thing that had hit me on the head, one of the surfboards Mom had bought the Boy(s) in Galveston.

"Fuck me," was the only thing I could think to say since that surfboard had hit me on the third anniversary of Mom's death.

Later that morning I told the Team about my experience on the way to the Texas State Fair. I told the story as it happened and then went through things that could have caused it. Like the wind. I did have the garage door open, even though it wasn't really windy. It could also have been that My Lovely Bride had placed a few bottles of wine from Sam's on the shelf below the boards the previous day. And in doing that maybe she caused the surfboards to shift enough to fall on my head the following morning. That sounded plausible. Even though those boards haven't moved an inch to my knowledge since late August.

What I didn't tell the Team was the Scott Baio dead Dad ghost experience part of my story. Or my decision to end the blog. I didn't mention that first Scott Baio and Erin Moran post. All of that had played out in my head and I didn't want to influence their reactions since I was curious what they'd think.

Before I even finished telling all of the story, E let out this moan, which meant he was scared or freaked out which pissed me off.

"Dude!" I said. "If it were a ghost, it was the ghost of your Granny. Do you think she's going to do anything to hurt you?"

He shook his head no.

Wy on the other hand wasn't scared. He looked at me and started this little head shake thing he does these days and rattled off all the reasons why it wasn't Granny.

My Lovely Bride was split. More on Wy's side of the fence, thinking it was an odd coincidence. But that I was connecting dots that only existed in my mind. She must have been somewhat unnerved by it though, since she told a co-worker the story a few days later (that co-worker as an aside, had no doubt, she said it was Mom.)

After hearing Wy and My Lovely Bride's point of view, E opined that it was odd and probably a coincidence, but he didn't know one way or the other. He also still looked freaked out even though he was trying very hard not to.

As for me. It depends. Some days I sound exactly like Wyatt who sounded a lot like me when he rattled off the reasons why it wasn't Granny. Especially the, 'She's dead.' part. Then there are times when I'm more open like Ethan. Not quite sure what to believe and creeped out by it all.

Later that afternoon we all sat at a bench eating our respective Texas State Fair lunches. Quesadillas for my Lovely Bride. A Henry the VIII turkey leg for the Elder Boy. Wy had a caramel apple. And me with my overpriced cup of swill beer.

I was taking that final, slightly warm drink of beer when my phone went off in my pocket. Fishing it out I heard the customized ring tone I have for my Dad so I answered, "Hi Pop."

"Hi Bub. What do you know?"

"We're at the fair." I said.

"Oh, I don't want to keep you then, I'll talk to you..."

"It's ok. We're sitting around eating lunch."

"Oh," he replied.

There was a slight pause as he took a deep breath and in that instance I knew what he would say seconds before he said, "You know what today is..."

"Yes. I know what today is." I answered brusquely. "It happened three years ago at 1:26 which was just a few minutes ago."

"Oh. Yeah. That's right," he said. "I guess you'll probably never forget."

"Probably is about right." I thought.

A few minutes before that call Wy and I were walking back with his caramel apple to the Food Pavilion to meet My Lovely Bride and E.

"Is it good?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said as he took a toothy bite.

After a big drink of my over priced shit beer I said: "We're having an awesome lunch, you and me. I wonder what Mom and E are getting to eat?"

Nothing. Just a blank look as he took another toothy bite.

"You know what else?" I asked looking at the time on my cell phone.

"What?" Wy's curiosity was enough that he actually took his attention off of the caramel apple and looked me in the eye. I held the moment until finally he implored, "Dad!!! What?!?!?"

"It's 1:26 right about now."

"Oh." He said.

I smiled a sad smile at him. Sad enough to make him uncomfortable so he returned his gaze back to the caramel apple and took a small bite.

We walked a few more feet until Wy stopped and turned to me with a serious expression and said: "Dad. It wasn't her. It wasn't Granny."

"I know," I said.

"It just fell." He said.

"I know."

"It wasn't a ghost."

"I know."

"She's dead."

I know.

Three years ago I wrote about watching my Mom die in a post titled Living in Perfect Symmetry. Like most of my titles it comes from the lyrics of a song. That particular lyric, from Coldplay's Low, were stuck in my head because I kept coming back to the fact that I saw the person that give me life, die. And I was amazed and troubled by the symmetry of it all.

The same way I'm both amazed and troubled by the rambling orgy of coincidence written above.

It's weird. And like so many other coincidental experiences I've documented in this here BLOG over the years I still don't know what it means. That's the thing. You never have all the answers. Not when you are young. Not when you are old. But that's ok. Because often what you know isn't nearly as important as what you believe. And you Dear Reader can always believe in this: I love you.

Until I BLOG again...Must speak as loud as my heart.

Ain't necessarily so

The beginning of the end starts now Dear Reader. My first in a series of posts that will culminate in what will be the final Team Tinsley BLOG entry. It's hard for me to believe I've been at this since 2004. When I started the Elder Boy was just shy of the two year mark. And Wy Wy. He wasn't even two weeks old!

Back then this BLOG was intended to be a way to keep the growing Team Tinsley connected with family and friends that didn't live in the messoplex. A few months in, I had my a-ha moment and realized that what I was writing could serve a greater purpose. It could be saved for posterity. This goofy ass BLOG could be a chronicle for the Boy(s), who short of some serious therapy, wouldn't be able to remember these stories from when they were so young. Like Neil Gaiman said, "You forget the things you were certain you would always remember, especially the tiny things, and all too often they're the things that matter." That quote in many ways beget the Team Tinsley BLOG which is simply: my remember when, for then, then being the Buck Rogers future.

Since 2004 the style and format of this here BLOG has changed considerably, as have the readers. I'm amazed by everyone who has taken time out of their day(s) to read anything here. It's nice to hear you've touched people with what you've written. Especially when much of it is very personal. But that's the wild part for me. Even though I love that people have read this here BLOG, the two people who it has been written for have yet to read a single word. I most often refer to them simply as Dear Reader. Because I'm both goofy and supersticious. But make no mistake. Dear Reader has always been, Ethan and Wyatt.

So today, I sit here, staring down the endgame, and navel gazing as it were. Trying to make sense of it all. Only ending it is harder than I would have ever imagined. The Team Tinsley BLOG has taken on a life of it's own. Which is why I've been procrastinating the inevitable. Putting off this post. Because it makes me sad. Partly because I enjoy writing. It is cathartic. Then there is my ego. I love the fact that I've touched readers with our stories.

But those reasons are small in comparison to the real reason that it makes me sad. That can be traced back to what I consider my first good post. For those that don't want to chase that link, let me cut to the chase. Change. And the cold hard fact that my pulling the plug is a tangible admission that the Boy(s) are growing up fast.

It is time. Wy will be six soon. Ethan will be eight. They are old enough to remember their own stories, and have their own memories, and the last thing I want of this BLOG is for it to turn into some crazy-ass Rashoman sort of a thing. For my memories to overwrite their memories. I also don't want to write anything that would embarrass them as they get older. Which with me, is a very real possibility.

Which brings us to the end.

I'm not exactly sure when it will come. I have a few more stories I'd like to tell. And I'm toying with listing some of my favorite entries as a way of organizing the glut of posts (261 to be exact.)

And then there's the greater issue of that final post. What I'll write. How I will end all of this (picture me gesturing toward the archives on the right of your screen?) Not to mention what song I'll end it with in my goofy Until I BLOG again...link thing I always do. Navel gazing I know. But when you've invested as much time as I have, and recorded the kind of stories I've put down here, it has to be a fitting ending. Which is why I'm writing this entry. Laying it out there. I hope those that follow us will stick around for the final posts. I welcome anyone (including those that lurk) to shout out, in comments, which are on and ready. You can also email me if you are shy. Have a favorite post? Want to say something? Don't be bashful. Now is the time, for the end is nigh.

Until I BLOG again...I laugh when I can and I live with the rest, I've learned that holding on means letting go.