Dad of 10

Stranger Danger!

2012-01-11T21:42:00.001-05:00

In 100 Words Or Less

Lisa and I taught six-year-old Zach to not talk to strangers, and he took this teaching to heart. Woody, a trusted seventy-something-year-old neighbor was talking to Zach one day. Woody asked Zach what his name was. Zach, mindful of our admonition, but not wanting to appear rude with a flat refusal, replied, "I don't know!" and ran home.

Photo Ops Extend Visit to Grand Canyon

2011-10-22T09:14:00.002-04:00

Originally published in the Columbus Dispatch.

Photo Ops Extend Visit to Icon

The cliche holds true: The essence of the Grand Canyon cannot be captured in a single photograph.

The length, breadth and depth make a representative shot impossible.

Not that I didn’t try.

In fact, during an adventure-filled 25th-anniversary trip with my wife recently, every moment seemed to become a photo opportunity.

Lisa and I spent one day hiking on the Grand Canyon Rim Trail before eating dinner in the Arizona Room of the Bright Angel Lodge.

After a last twilight look at the canyon, we slowly turned to head back to our car.

I remembered parking (about 10 hours earlier) next to a building named Rosecliff — the name of a street in the neighborhood where I grew up.

We left through the lodge and came upon the Grand Canyon Depot. Though famous, the spot was unfamiliar to us. We hadn’t entered that way, but I knew the general direction in which we needed to go.

Looking across the tracks, I saw some kind of animal.

I alerted Lisa: “I see some kind of animal.”

My wife, who has spent much more time out West than I have, immediately recognized the creature as a female elk.

I considered the moment the best photographic occasion of our vacation — Sedona, Montezuma Castle and the Grand Canyon notwithstanding.

I took several decent shots of the elk from about 100 feet away.

My photographic appetite sated, and daylight fading, we resumed our trek to the car — or at least where I thought the car should be.

Next we came upon a barn and an empty mule pen — neither of them familiar, either.

We were feeling anxious when Lisa heard two elk calves whistling for their mother. They still had their spots, but they were as large as the white-tailed deer in Ohio.

I began following my wife around the pen to get what would surely be the best photo. For some reason, though, I turned around — and saw an elk, with antlers, much larger than the female seen earlier. It was heading for the calves.

Because I was standing directly in the elk’s path, Lisa and other tourists suggested that I get out of its way. I couldn’t miss the chance, though. I did move a bit — so that my back was against the mule pen. If the elk charged, I figured, I could slip through the pen to avoid it.

Instead, the elk glided past me, filling my viewfinder with its head and antlers.

I got the photo.

I was again ready to join my wife and the ever-growing group of onlookers on the other side of the pen when I looked back across the road a final time. Then I saw what truly was the photo opportunity of the trip.

About 100 feet away stood a huge elk whose antlers seemed to be more than 3 feet across. This one unsettled me a bit, as it looked at me while flaring its nostrils.

It slowly crossed the road on its way to the calves — and was almost hit by a compact car. The driver slammed on the brakes, making the tires screech; the elk sauntered on, unconcerned.

Sensing that I wasn’t a threat, the elk ignored me, too, as it passed within 20 feet. I took a few photos, then caught up with my wife.

We followed the growing herd — numbering eight and apparently scrounging around the mule pen in search of a free meal.

Finding none, the elk soon dispersed. So we did, too.

Night had almost fallen, and Lisa was becoming concerned about getting to the car. I even considered relinquishing my “man card” and asking for help.

But what would I ask?

Have you seen a white Dodge with Arizona plates?

So we kept walking toward where I knew the car should be.

It was only a matter of time before the buildings we passed sounded familiar: They were named after plants.

And, finally, we were sitting in our car, parked in front of Cliff Rose — our adventure complete.

Randy Imwalle, 49, of Hilliard suggests that, when visiting large national parks, travelers carry a camera — and write down where they park the car.

From the Columubus Dispatch, October 22, 2011.

The Crib

2011-10-02T16:28:00.002-04:00

I took down the crib yesterday. My wife, Lisa, and I have had a crib in our home for 23 years. I believed that removing this tangible sign of the near constant obligation to care for infants and toddlers would have little effect on me, but my feelings were surprisingly mixed.

Luke, the youngest of our ten children, turned three a month ago. He never climbed out of the crib, so we could have left him in it a while longer. But we decided it was a good time for the transition. One Saturday morning we told Luke we were going to take down the crib and put up his big-boy bed.
His siblings talked up this event, and Luke was excited. He happily ran in and out of his room several times while I disassembled the crib. Then I assembled his toddler bed. Luke agreed with his siblings that his new bed was “cool.” Luke will do anything his older brothers do, a trait that is helpful for potty training or learning to pick up after himself.

It is not such a good trait, though, when you realize he is probably your last child. Some children develop faster than others, and Luke is one of the quick ones. I know that Lisa has been struggling with this no-more-babies feeling for some time. Having a baby or toddler around has been one of the constants in her adult life. It is part of her identity. It was never a core part of me though, or so I believed. Babies are great, but I have stronger memories of my older children - seeing one of my daughters beat my best 5K time or watching one of my sons hit an over-the-fence home run in middle school. I always felt that watching your kids mature was the best part of the deal. Each milestone was to be briskly approached and passed with satisfaction and excitement.

I was not sentimental when I moved a high chair to the basement, or when I took the training wheels off a bicycle. I enjoy watching my children getting stronger - physically, mentally and emotionally.

So what was going on here? With a twinge of nostalgia I remembered going to the hardware store when I was in graduate school at Ohio State. We were moving in fall semester, and I had the hand-me-down crib assembled but for one bolt. The missing nut was unusual; I’d never seen one like it before. I can’t describe it even now. But I found one in a bucket of miscellaneous hardware. I was very satisfied with myself. In a small way, I felt that I was providing for my family.

I smiled recalling the many times I lowered or raised the mattress because a baby was getting older or a new one was moving in. I remembered the seemingly endless hours of patting a crying baby’s bottom in the middle of the night, or trying to calm a toddler with night terrors. I laughed to myself thinking back at my solution to a problem faced only by a middle-aged dad. My right ankle sometimes pops loudly when I walk, especially if I have not walked on it for a while, like at 3 a.m. This noise has disturbed a newly-patted-to-sleep baby many times. One night I discovered that my ankle wouldn’t pop if I walked out of the room backwards – so that’s what I did from then on.

I did not believe my professed preference for handling the older kids was a front, or undue deference to Lisa’s expertise with the babies. But I realized that I’ll never again take a nap in the recliner with a newborn on my shoulder, and I will miss that.

Just Like Harry Potter and Voldemort

2011-08-15T22:21:00.003-04:00

They hurl the words at each other like Harry Potter and Voldemort casting spells. Seven-year-old Sam shouts, "Blood!" at five-year-old Daniel. Daniel counters, "Bwack eye!" They throw the words back and forth, each cringing when hit.

Daniel shares his fear of blood with many other children. He does not want to see it, talk about it, or even think about it. Sam's fear of black eyes dates from the time I told him to quit fighting with his brothers or he would "end up with a black eye." That stopped him dead in his tracks, even though he did not know what a black eye was. Ever since, the mere mention of a black eye causes him to flinch.

These wars of words go on until either they are both too weak to continue, or the headmaster (or headmistress) ends the duel.

Cap'n Crunch

2011-07-01T23:43:00.001-04:00

Five-year-old Daniel was recovering from a mouth injury that required several stitches. He overheard the conversation with the oral surgeon in which the likely loss of 2 - 4 of his baby teeth was discussed.

Daniel was eating breakfast. His twenty-year-old sister Rachel was sleeping on the couch in the next room. Suddenly Daniel hollered, something had fallen out of his mouth! He picked it up, ran to the next room, and woke Rachel up. Practically hysterical, he showed Rachel what had fallen out of his mouth. He asked her if it was his tooth. Rachel looked at the soggy piece of Cap'n Crunch cereal and smiling, told him that it wasn't. Reassured, he flicked the cereal on the floor, walked to the table and finished his breakfast.

Who Says Teachers Aren't Powerful?

2011-06-11T15:56:00.001-04:00

In 100 Words or Less

Zach was a first grader. The family was eating dinner. I told Zach that there was a U.S. President with his name. Zach thought I was pulling his leg, as I often do. Lisa confirmed my story, though, saying that the president's name was Zachary Taylor. Zach did not believe her either. We insisted it was true, even offering to look it up in the encyclopedia. With a nonchalant shrug, he told us not to bother, he would ask his teacher at school the next day.

The Brown Pelican

2011-05-16T15:34:00.002-04:00

I held the 500 foot reel of string while my nine-year-old son Matthew restrained the tugging kite. At my signal, Matthew released the kite and it leapt out of his hands. Matthew and I took turns letting the kite fly higher and higher until almost no string was left on the reel.

I bought the kite on my family’s first visit to North Carolina’s Outer Banks in the early 1990s, and I have flown it on each return trip. This was a perfect day to fly a kite. The wind coming in off the ocean was steady; there were a few high clouds. The air was warm and the sand was not yet hot.

Scanning the skyline I saw that the pelicans were flying parallel to the shoreline, as usual. Unusually though,
they were flying over the beach instead of the ocean. I noticed one flock of pelicans was gliding in our direction. Who had ever heard of a pelican flying into a kite string? I jiggled the line to make it more obvious. But they kept flying straight toward it. I wondered how they would avoid the line, flying in wingtip-to-wingtip formation as they do. They couldn’t. Despite a last minute course correction, one of the birds’ wings grazed the line, jarring the bird out of formation. Within a few flaps of its wings, though, the pelican was back on course.

Several minutes later I saw another flock of pelicans gliding south to north over the beach. This flock continued in our direction, seemingly oblivious to the kite string, a common hazard. I later counted nine kites flying in the four miles of beach I could see. These birds were also in a tight diagonal formation. It was clear this line of birds would cross my line. At the last moment, the bird closest to the ocean veered, but it was too late. Its left wing struck the string solidly. The pelican pivoted 180 degrees while the string wrapped around its wing. Unable to control its flight, the bird’s momentum forced it beak first into the sand. I froze for a moment, then dropped the reel and ran toward the pelican.

The teenaged lifeguard climbed off her perch, but offered no assistance. She looked more discombobulated than I did. I approached the stunned bird. It was much larger than it appeared in the air. Its wingspan was at least six feet. The pelican was very upset. I watched as it as it struggled to flap its wing and then throw up a half-eaten fish.

The string was wrapped ¾ of the way around the wing. I believed I could unwrap it without too much difficulty. I approached slowly. When I got close enough to unloop the string, the bird hissed and snapped at me. Apparently no one told the pelican I was there to help it. I jumped back and reassessed my plan. I did not have anything to cut the string. None of the many onlookers had any suggestions, so I approached again, quickly this time, and unlooped the string. The bird stood there a few moments, and then hopped into the ocean. It floated there briefly, and then clumsily flew about 50 feet away. It rested there for ten minutes, gathering its wits and its strength, then flew off for good.

The next day, one of our condo neighbors asked where my kite was. I grinned and replied that I had packed it away since I had bagged my pelican limit for the year.

A "Real" Cake

2011-05-11T20:17:00.000-04:00

In 100 Words Or Less

Three-year-old Luke asks Lisa what she is making. She says that she is baking a rainbow cake for Katie's birthday. Luke replies that Lisa should get a "real" cake. Lisa explains that she is baking a real cake. Luke insists, "No, a real cake from the store!"

The Weather Forecast

2011-05-03T23:08:00.005-04:00

In 100 Words Or Less

Ohio just completed its wettest April on record, and May started off just as soggy. Lisa and I were having our regular lunchtime phone call to discuss the evening's activities and cancellations. (Two scout meetings and track meet to be held as scheduled, two soccer practices and baseball game cancelled due to rain.) Five-year-old Daniel, listening to Lisa's side of the conversation, consoled her by saying, "It (the newspaper) says it will be sunny tomorrow tomorrow," meaning in two days.

The Noodle

2011-01-15T16:00:00.002-05:00

In 100 Words Or Less

Seven-year-old Sam is a picky eater. His preferred diet consists of crackers, butter bread and McDonalds cheeseburgers. Lisa and I often struggle to "make" him eat what is served. Last night we had goulash. Lisa encouraged him to eat two forkfuls. Sam exclaimed, "But I ate a noodle!" Lisa responded, "A noodle?" Sam queried hopefully, "The noodle?"

Luke and the Tornado Siren

2010-09-18T15:38:00.001-04:00

In 100 Words Or Less

The local authorities test the tornado sirens every Wednesday at noon. The wail is easily heard, even indoors. Yesterday, at 4:00 in the afternoon, the National Weather Service issued a tornado warning. The sirens sounded for real. Three-year-old Luke, with a concerned look on his face, asked Lisa, "Is it time for lunch?"

Being "Unselfish" Essential

2010-01-02T09:29:00.008-05:00

Originally published in the Columbus Dispatch

Being 'Unselfish' Essential
Saturday, January 2, 2010

By RANDY IMWALLE

Most people have heard of Raiders of the Lost Ark and Pirates of the Caribbean, but I hadn't heard them mentioned at Mass. Deacon Andrew, a young man studying for the priesthood at the Pontifical College Josephinum, began a homily back in 2006 by relating a story about the monkeys used in those movies. Hunters capture such monkeys by making a trap that allows one of the animals to reach inside and grab a nut or a shiny bauble. The hole isn't large enough, though, for the monkey to pull out its nut-laden fist. The monkey could drop the nut at any time and run away, but it doesn't - even when the hunters return. It can't bear to let go of the treasure.

Tying the story to his life, Deacon Andrew told the congregation at St. Brendan church in Hilliard that what he found difficult to let go was the idea of a wife and children. He knew he wanted to become a priest, but
the idea of a family had held him back from committing. Finally, he just let go and began receiving the blessings that God meant for him.

We each have our own vocations, he said - a nice insight, relating well to the Gospel reading about a rich young man who asked Jesus what he needed to do to enter heaven. Jesus replied that, because the young man already followed the Ten Commandments, all he needed to do was sell his belongings, give the proceeds to the poor and follow Jesus. The rich young man was crestfallen: He was unable to let go of his things.

But what really impressed me about the 25-year-old not-yet-a-priest was his next insight: Deacon Andrew explained that he'd had many conversations with married men and learned that many had held onto something - something that was theirs alone. The something could be participation on a softball team or in a poker night. The men held onto the something even when it caused difficulties in their marriages and prevented them from receiving everything that God intended for them.

Once they finally let go, though, and made the sacrifice at last, their marriages had greater joy. (And, usually, they were still able to indulge in their something from time to time.) The message is simple - something that a newlywed should quickly figure out. I had been married 20 years at the time, but the message clearly applied to me, too. What was the nut, though - the something that I wouldn't let go? At one time, the answer was clearly beer. (Just ask my patient wife, Lisa.) Reviewing my life at the time, though, I thought it could be Buckeye football or Irish music, but it didn't really seem to be any one thing. I left Mass without an answer.

Two weeks later, the Tony Hendra book Father Joe: The Man Who Saved My Soul helped nudge me closer to the answer. Hendra had held himself apart from, and above, everyone around him, including his family. Such an attitude hadn't allowed him to grow truly close to anyone. "Be unselfish," urged his mentor, Father Joe - not "Do not be selfish," a negative proscription, but "Be unselfish," a positive action that requires giving. I am still a work in progress, but the soulsearching instigated by the young seminarian pointed me in the right direction.

Randy Imwalle, 47, of Hilliard begins the year recalling a memorable homily by someone who recently indulged his "something": The Rev. Andrew Trapp (ordained in 2007) competed in a poker tournament in hopes of winning $1 million for his South Carolina parish.

Daniel and the Crying Chair

2009-11-05T18:37:00.003-05:00

In 100 Words or Less

Daniel is 2 1/2 years old and whines constantly. When he whines, he must sit on "the chair" until he stops. Sometimes he'll sit for 10 seconds, sometimes he'll sit for 10 minutes. When he decides he's done, he'll holler, "I'm done crying," and he is allowed off. This strategy works even when we are not near the chair.

We were walking to the car and Daniel started up. Mere mention of the chair stopped Daniel mid-whine, even though his older brother Sam helpfully remarked that he didn't see any chairs around.

Boy Cheese Sandwich

2009-09-24T19:15:00.006-04:00

In 100 Words or Less

A favorite family story concerns a five-year-old Ben. When ordering a grilled cheese sandwich, I would wink at the waitress and order a "boy cheese" sandwich. I explain that Ben would not eat a "girl cheese" sandwich.

Eleven years later, Lisa and I have noticed similarities between young Ben and now six-year-old Sam. They both eat like chipmunks, holding their food in both hands and gnawing it. I laugh out loud though when I hear Sam ask Lisa why they are called girl cheese sandwiches when they are for boys too.

The Father Who Had Ten Children

2009-09-24T18:57:00.004-04:00

Lisa and I, and eight of our nine children have just finished eating at our local pizza joint. Lisa pulls a present out of the diaper bag and hands it to me. I feign surprise, and ask why she is giving me a gift. It is not my birthday. She smiles and says to open it.
The younger children jostle for position. The older ones shift in their chairs to get a better view. I ask Lisa if she is sure the present is for me. The kids repeat Lisa's request - just open it! I begin to tear away the wrapping paper very slowly. "C'mon Dad!" the little ones cry. When it is finally unwrapped, I ask, "A book, what is this for?" I hold up a copy of Benedicte Guettier's The Father Who Had Ten Children. Our two teenage daughters shriek, "OMG!" in unison. Seven-year-old Katie takes the book and reads it. Frowning a bit she declares, "But we only have nine kids." Her frown changes into a smile when Lisa explains that we are having another baby.

Hiking in the Great Smoky Mountains

2009-08-23T19:25:00.005-04:00

“I’m done walking,” Sam declared solemnly, and he stopped. After mountain hikes the two previous days, the prospect yet another overwhelmed him.

On Monday, Lisa and I, and seven of our ten children hiked to the summit of Clingman’s Dome. At 6643 feet, it is the highest point in the Great Smoky Mountains. To be clear, we drove most of the way. 90 minutes after leaving Gatlinburg, we were standing at the beginning of the trail. To the observation tower is a walk of one half mile – and the path is paved – so how difficult could it be? Serious hikers with sturdy boots and walking sticks jockeyed for position with parents in running shoes pushing strollers and teenagers in flip flops.

I carried two-year-old Luke in a back pack; sixteen-year-old Ben carried three-year-old Daniel on his shoulders. Six-year-old Sam was the youngest one required to climb the mountain under his own power. Half way up, Sam looked at his feet, not as if they were part of his body, but perhaps as a pair of small puppies in his care. With a sad hound dog look, he announced to Lisa that his feet were tired. So, like a puppy on a string, Lisa led him the rest of the way. Taking two breaks, we made it to the top without further incident. True to their name, the mountains were partially shrouded in clouds, but in places you could see the beautiful views that bring millions of tourists here every year.

I was responsible for choosing Tuesday’s hike. Though less than three miles there and back again, the trail to Grotto Falls was a true test of the younger children’s mettle. The trail is not paved. It is full of large rocks and tree roots that resemble the bleached bones of some large prehistoric animal. Seeing our struggles, groups of descending hikers encouraged us, “You’re half way there.” The problem was that we had been hearing that for twenty minutes. It felt like we were walking up a down escalator. Luke began to get crabby. Katie and I sang Old McDonald Had a Farm to distract him. He returned the favor by singing Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer. Finally, we heard music of a different kind. It was soft at first, but grew louder, and then was unmistakable - the sound of a waterfall.

The “grotto” in Grotto Falls is not as large as the recessed cave behind the waterfall in Last of the Mohicans, but the kids did enjoy being behind the waterfall. Here, as everywhere, the little boys could not resist throwing rocks into the water. I do not know what primal urge this satisfies, but even Sam was refreshed on the way down, managing to scamper down the few small straight-aways with his older brothers.

Lisa chose Wednesday’s excursion. The Laurel Falls trail is about as long as the trail to Grotto Falls, but most of the trail is paved. Lisa and I thought this would be an easy day. But Sam did not know how “easy” this hike would be. So when we piled out of the car and started up the trail, Sam, hands at his side, made his declaration, “I’m done walking.” He was not loud. He was not crying – but he was not walking either. His brothers’ challenges to race did not move him. Threats did not work. Finally, the promise of Goldfish crackers and my firm grip on his hand got him started up the mountain.

We often exchanged encouraging looks or words with hikers going in the other direction. But about half way up we began to get warnings – rattlesnake on the trail. Five minutes later, we saw a knot of people stopped on the trail. Easing into the crowd, we saw the five-foot-long rattlesnake in the middle of the path. Rattle shaking; it slithered slowly across the trail, then down the slope. All of the kids were fascinated, watching from about twenty feet away. This diversion perked everyone up, and the rest of the ascent went well. The kids ate the Goldfish, threw rocks in the water, and trotted part of the way down – even Sam.

Hiking at Conkle's Hollow

2009-08-13T21:02:00.008-04:00

Conkle’s Hollow is a gorge – 200-300 feet wide and half a mile long. Its Blackhand sandstone cliffs rise almost vertically, 200 feet straight up. The wind and rain have created many recesses and small caves in the sandstone.

Legend has it that one of these recesses still contains the booty of a Shawnee Indian raid of an Ohio River paddleboat. After the Shawnee relieved the passengers of their valuables, they made their way north. A posse trailed the raiding party straight into the dead end cliffs of Conkle’s Hollow. The Shawnee cut down a giant Hemlock, and let it fall against the cliff wall. They climbed up the tree and hid the loot in a small recess. They climbed down and pushed the tree over. The plan was to return when the posse had left, fell another hemlock to use as a ladder, and take the loot at their leisure. But the small party was captured just outside the hollow. They were hanged without telling anyone where they hid the loot.

It is November second, but the weather is spectacular – mostly sunny and 73 degrees. Lisa and I, and our youngest seven, pile out of the Excursion. I strap on the baby backpack and Lisa loads Luke in. The other kids have already dashed to the beginning of the trail.

The kids are fascinated by the scenery. A small creek meanders from one side of the trail to the other, and back again. The ground is covered with many varieties of moss and ferns. But it is the scene above that captivates them. The hemlock and birch still have most of their leaves. The trees tower overhead, but still reach only half way up the gorge. Through the canopy you catch glimpses of the sandstone cliff face. The slowly swaying trees filter the light, hiding some things normally seen, highlighting others normally hidden. The low sun reaches in and illuminates many of the small recesses, perhaps even the one containing the hidden treasure.

The trail is almost all handicap accessible, so we let the younger kids attempt to keep pace with the older ones. Lisa and I follow slowly. The worst that can happen on this part of the trail is that they drop off into the bracken and fallen leaves. We stroll along the path until we catch up to the kids. The trail ends at another bend in the creek.

Luke has been a patient passenger. But seeing his brothers and sister again reminds him that he would rather be walking. He wants out and loudly lets me know. I scrunch down. Lisa pulls him free and plops him on the ground. The boys throw rocks into the creek for a while, then we turn and retrace our steps – there is only one way in and out.

Before we load up, we send all able bodied peemen to the restroom. Daniel and Luke need fresh diapers. Lisa takes Luke. I take Daniel and attempt to better my world record in the stand up diaper change. I set the current record of 14 seconds in North Carolina last summer. The keys to a quick change are preparation, short pants, and a willing changee. First, you need to unfold the fresh diaper and open the fastening tabs. The changee should hold his shirt up out of the way. Quickly pull the changee’s shorts down to his feet. Unfasten the tabs on the wet diaper, pull it off, roll it up and fasten the tabs to make a little wet-diaper ball. Then place the fresh diaper on, pull it up snugly and fasten the tabs. Pull the shorts up and yell, “Time!” Valuable seconds can be lost if the changee is ticklish or bashful.

I complete my prechange preparations. Daniel is an old hand at stand up diaper changes, and I believe we have a good chance at lowering the record. Sadly, the tabs on the fresh diaper stick to each other when I pick it up. We finish in 19 seconds – respectable, but not near record time. The older kids return from the latrine. Five-year-old Sam excitedly exclaims, “It looks like you are going in a regular toilet, but you are really going in a big hole in the ground!” Thankfully no one fell in. We get back in the truck, it is nearly dark. I ask the kids if hiking isn’t better than playing video games. All but Ben quickly agree. He is too much a teenager to admit to having fun with his family, but I know he did.

Ben Thinks I'm A Jedi

2009-07-25T23:54:00.004-04:00

In 100 Words Or Less

Our family was discussing the latest Star Wars movie. I mentioned that I was a Jedi Knight. Six-year-old Ben excitedly asked if I was a Jedi Master. I told him no, but I did know a Jedi mind trick – I could send mental messages.

Staring into my daughter’s eyes, I raised my left eyebrow. I asked if she received my message. Smiling she said, “You want Zach to clean his room.” “Correct” I confirmed. Ben had difficulty receiving his message though. After several attempts he finally said, “Dad, can you send me an easier message?”

A Buckeye In Need Finds A Friend, Indeed

2009-07-16T21:37:00.003-04:00

I planted the sapling with little ceremony but much love. I watered and fertilized it under the supervision of the family arborist — my wife, Lisa — and directed our children not to play around it. It is a special tree, I told them — a buckeye. Despite the care and warnings given, the tree barely survived its first year. Somehow, the leader — the branch that the next year would become the trunk — had broken off. The sole clue to the damage: a blue and
yellow ball lying next to the branch. The kids said they hadn’t seen the ball before. Everyone knows how resilient a buckeye is, though. And so, with at least a bit of hope, I spent a long, gray Columbus winter praying that the little tree would survive.

When the redbud blossoms finally broke winter’s grip, I realized that the little tree had sprouted a new leader. It had lost a year’s growth in height but otherwise seemed to be flourishing. (I secretly told myself that
the tree was even stronger because its roots had had an extra year to grow without the strain of a taller trunk.) The next three years passed slowly and uneventfully. Between the less frequently needed waterings and an occasional "Shoo!" to the children, I could only watch the little tree grow — 12 inches one year, 16 the next, then 22.

Finally, the tree’s fifth year in my backyard yielded real excitement: flowers — four or five clusters of creamy-white flowers, 25 blooms in all. I cannot recall a more beautiful, inspiring sight in nature. Then came the wind and rain of spring, when half the blooms were blown or washed away. Summer’s heat, too, took a toll, claiming half of those that remained. The week of the first Ohio State football game last year, I picked the surviving buckeyes: 10 in all.

If you pick a buckeye before it’s ripe, it might wrinkle (or "prune") as it dries. But I’d seen squirrels eyeing the buckeyes, and I couldn’t risk losing my first homegrown crop to those creatures. A few days later, I allowed my children to "hatch" them. Woody must have been smiling down on us: They were all perfect. Because a homegrown buckeye carries enhanced power (everyone knows that, right?), I combined one homegrown buckeye with 10 or 12 from other sources and made a necklace for each of my 10 children. This year, the tree, which stands 10 feet, produced 14 clusters of flowers in the spring. The wind and rain did their usual damage, as did the hot summer. By Aug. 31, though, I was looking at a crop of about 45 buckeyes (a memorable number) with just one foe as yet unvanquished: the bluish-gray squirrels that infest my otherwise peaceful neighborhood.

This battle was nothing short of war: I’d see a squirrel jitterbugging left and right, trying to disguise its target, but the shake and bake didn’t fool me. Initially, I sent my old beagle to defend the tree. With his bad back, though, he just isn’t quick enough. Then I dispatched my 4-year-old to repel the assaults. At first excited about the duty, he lost interest after two or three skirmishes. This, apparently, was a man’s job — so I assigned myself to it. Whenever I’d see a squirrel around the tree, I’d open the back door and make loud animal noises. Surprisingly, the tactic worked fairly often.

Finally, a week before OSU’s opener this month, harvest time arrived. Waiting to be picked were 27 survivors (another memorable number). I returned from work the Friday before the game and, before setting out to reap the bounty, scanned the yard for miscreant rodents. Sure enough, I saw a squirrel near the tree. The critter wasn’t on his way to the tree, though; he was running from it — with a big, fat buckeye in his mouth. I ran out the back door at full speed, making some type of animal noise. The little creature ran straight for the fence, climbed up and over in a blink, then tried to hide in a silver maple. Not to be denied, I charged through the gate and toward the maple. The squirrel scurried down the maple and scampered to a redbud — but, in the process, lost its prize. I spotted the huge buckeye on the ground between the two trees and wasted no time scooping it up.

I carried the spoils, raised triumphantly over my head, back through the gate, across my yard and into the house, humming Across the Field the whole way. My wife and kids, dazed, were slack-jawed as they watched me. "Yes," I said to no one in particular, "everyone knows that the buckeye is a nut. And here’s the biggest one!"

This essay originally appeared in the Columbus Dispatch

Katie's Corner

2009-06-29T18:36:00.007-04:00

by Katie

Luke runs onto the field of my older brother's baseball game for the 2nd time. My mom is not fast enough to catch him, so she calls out “Coach, oh no, coach!” He manages to stop Luke in time for my mom to catch up to him. We all try not to laugh at him because then he will do it again. That would not be funny. Well, then again, maybe it would.

The Odyssey

2009-06-19T23:48:00.005-04:00

I am marked with the red ring of death. My five comrades know I am mortally wounded, and beyond the healing my comrades can supply. The leader of my comrades, barely a young man, and my younger comrades, just boys, all of them, are disconsolate. But the leader of my comrades has rumor of a community of restorers that can give me new life. So my comrades enshroud me in a soft white covering, and then place me in a rugged caisson for the journey. It is said that this community of restorers resides five hundred or more leagues distant, far to the south, where it is ever warm, and even hot. My comrades do not know the way however. And even if my comrades did possess such knowledge, my comrades could not undertake such a journey. The masters of my comrades will not permit my comrades to forfeit training, the masters of my comrades not regarding my restoration as essential as do my comrades.

There is extant the brown travelers, a guild of professional conveyors, dressed all in brown, shod always with sturdy footwear, and the brown travelers offer to convey me south to
the community of restorers. The recompense of the brown travelers for such a lengthy conveyance is great, but the community of restorers agrees to pay the recompense of the brown travelers, I being still young when marked with the red ring of death.

Thus an agreement is struck with a minor chieftain of the brown travelers. I will be delivered to the community of restorers, and returned by the brown travelers after my restoration. I am thus handed over to the minor chieftain for conveyance.

The leader of my comrades has learning enough to be able to conjure information concerning this journey from an oblong of glowing glass that is located in the dwelling place of my comrades. Each night the leader of my comrades conjures information concerning my journey, his tense face illuminated by the oblong of glowing glass. My comrades fret over the slow progress of my journey. The leader of my comrades attempts to assuage the concerns of my younger comrades, and occupy the attention of my younger comrades with games of strategy played with small carved figures on a patterned board of sixty four squares, alternating light and dark. This activity distracts my younger comrades but little, and the thoughts of my comrades come ever back to my restoration and return.

After a passage of some time, the passage of time seeming much longer to my comrades than to the masters of my comrades, the oblong of glowing glass finally tells of my restoration, and my handing back over to the brown travelers. Alas, it being the season of long nights and cold, my journey north is even less quick than my journey south. Exceptional accumulations of snow and ice hinder the advance of the brown travelers. These exceptional accumulations of snow and ice also prevent my comrades from attending training, and not being thus occupied, the thoughts of my comrades come ever back to my restoration and return.

After another passage of some time, the oblong of glowing glass tells of my imminent return. On the day of my imminent return, my comrades keep constant vigil for sign of the brown traveler, lest the brown traveler pass by the dwelling place of my comrades thinking it unattended. At all moments, one or more comrades survey the approach to the dwelling place of my comrades. Well after the evening meal, a brown traveler appears out of the darkness at the dwelling place of my comrades.

The brown traveler approaches the threshold of the dwelling place of my comrades, and returns me to my comrades. Though the duties of the brown traveler do not permit him to tarry long, the brown traveler regales my comrades with a small number of stories similar to mine, and gives counsel on ways to keep me well.

And then Ben, Andrew, Matthew, Sam and Daniel thanked the UPS delivery man, and ran to the basement to connect their Xbox 360 console.

In 100 Words Or Less

2009-06-14T22:33:00.005-04:00

Sam and the Cookie

Almost six-year-old Sam has a chocolate chip cookie, a glass of milk, and a problem. He tells me that the cookie is too big, and he cannot dunk it in his milk. I tell him to break the cookie in half. He does, and grins. I know what is coming. Looking at me, he attempts to put the wide side of the cookie in the glass. He giggles, "It still won't fit!"

Katie and the Sore Throat

Poor Katie. She was six at the time, and had two sisters and six brothers. Worse, the five siblings surrounding her are brothers. Aggravating Katie is the boy's mission. Being aggravated is Katie's job, and she fights back with (mostly) verbal punches.One night, Katie tells Lisa that her throat hurts, "When I scream at the boys real loud." Lisa replies, "Don't scream at the boys real loud." We should have known that her sore throat was not caused by screaming, though, since she does that constantly. Two days later, the doctor tells us Katie has strep.

Father of 10 Turns Bath Time Into A Career

2009-06-08T22:12:00.007-04:00

I was sitting recently on the side of the bathtub, studying my knees. Were those calluses? Before long, the answer dawned on me: The hardened spots had resulted from kneeling near the tub while bathing my children.

Early in our marriage, my wife, Lisa, and I tacitly agreed that I would be responsible for baths. Through the years, the chore became another task I do with little introspection. I still don’t tend to nearly half the work at home, even when I’m there, so I’m not complaining.

The calluses did make me wonder, though, how many baths I might give in my “career” as a father. (I’m a baseball fan, so statistics intrigue me.)

I bathe the kids about every other day (with Lisa pinch-hitting for me when I am on the road). Conservatively
speaking, then, let’s say I give each child 162 baths a year from ages 6 months to 7 years. Six-and-a-half multiplied by 162 equals 1053 baths. And 1053 baths multiplied by the number of our kids – here is where my lifetime stats will diverge from the average – yields 10,530 total baths. I’m not one to overanalyze the work that needs to be done – I just do it – but the estimate seems daunting.

Yet there is good news in the figures: I am nearing the twilight of my career. Although, I’m still batting an average of 14 baths a week – tied with my career best pace – Matthew, my seven year old, will soon go solo in the shower league. With that “call-up,” the only players remaining will be (soon-to-be) 5-year-old Sam, 2 ½-year-old Daniel, and almost-1-year-old Luke.

The math, coming a bit quicker now with more use, goes like this: 324 baths to go for Sam, 729 for Daniel, and 972 for Luke – for a combined 2,025 baths remaining. Now 2,025 baths still sound like a lot of behind-the-ear scrubbing and shampoo lathering – and I suppose they are – but the number reveals that I’ve already given 8,505 baths. Put another way: I have completed more than 80 percent of my total estimated career baths. (In the words of Joe Nuxhall, the late Cincinnati Reds broadcaster, I’m “rounding third and heading for home.”)

While deep in thought about my stats, a tidal wave of warm water jolted me from my reverie: Duty called. I got the boys out of the tub, helped them with their pajamas, brushed their teeth, read a book, said prayers and got them to bed. I will spare you the calculations, but the teeth brushings were career Nos. 13,851, 13,852 and 13,853 of an estimated 18,250 total.

I felt my mind and body begin to relax as I walked downstairs, anticipating a little quiet time with Lisa to discuss the day’s events as well as the next day’s schedule. With luck, I might even catch the final innings of the Reds game on television.

The plan, however, quickly fell through. Meeting me at the bottom of the stairs, Lisa declared, “We’re out of diapers.”

Preparing to head to Krogers, I couldn’t help myself: “So let’s say eight diapers a day for . . .”

Randy Imwalle, 46, hopes for a new baseball glove on Father’s Day.

This essay originally appeared in the June 14, 2008 Columbus Dispatch.

Outer Banks Vacation Photo Tips

2009-05-19T23:21:00.016-04:00

Here are four simple tips for taking better beach vacation photos.

Get up early. The Outer Banks summer sun rises very early. You must too. Be in position to capture the scene before the sun breaks the horizon. To capture the sunrise over Currituck Beach Lighthouse, you must be out of bed by 5 a.m. To memorialize a flock of pelicans skimming the surf at Hatteras, you must be out of bed by 5 a.m. To record the human flotsam and jetsam of a midnight clambake on Ocracoke, well you get the picture.

Use the setting sun. The midday sun is an unflattering light source. Landscapes appear flat. The lack of shadows eliminates detail. Portraits are worse, unless you like wrinkles and squinty eyes. Though the early morning sun can be effective for lighting outdoor portraits, the evening sun is warmer and lends a nice glow to the human face. Plus, if your family is like mine, you do not see the teenage faces until lunchtime anyway, so plan on an early evening beach portrait session.

Take a chance. I took one of my favorite vacation photos at the end of a marathon three lighthouse daytrip. We began our trek at noon, making a brief stop at Hatteras Lighthouse on our way to the Ocracoke ferry.
This ride affords many opportunities to photograph sea gulls in flight. While Blackbeard never saw the Ocracoke Lighthouse, you should. (The lighthouse was built in 1823, Blackbeard was killed in 1718 just west of Ocracoke.) It is impossible to get a bad photo from the boardwalk that leads to the lighthouse.

Nine hours after our journey began, I spotted the double flash of the Bodie Island Lighthouse. Braving the wrath of my tired, hungry and thirsty clan, I veered off Highway 12. Leaping out of the van into a cloud of mosquitoes, I set up my camera and tripod. I composed the shot with care, making sure that the blinking lights of a nearby water tower were hidden. When I had the film developed I saw that I not only captured the flash of the beacon, but the hidden water tower lights cast an eerie red glow on the low hanging clouds.

But know what risk you are taking. In the early 1990s, my three year old daughter Erin and I were in the keeper’s quarters of Hatteras Lighthouse. Looking out a window, I noticed that it had a perfect view of the lighthouse, without the electric lines that had marred earlier photographic attempts. I did see the sign asking folks not to mess with the windows, but did not believe it applied to those in the pursuit of “art”.

The window was different than I was used to. The sashes were very heavy and difficult to move. Resting on the sill were two short pegs. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure the coast was clear; I heaved the bottom sash up until it stuck in place. Erin came over to look out. Her chin just reached over the sill as her fingers curled around the frame. I began composing my shot, and WHAM! The sash slammed down on Erin’s fingers. Erin’s screams and the sound of the window brought several tourists and a park ranger to our aid. The window had slammed down so tightly that it took both me and the ranger to lift it.

The rest of the afternoon was a sweaty blur. The Outer Banks urgent care facilities were few and far between back then. We drove for what seemed hours before we found a doctor. Fortunately she has no permanent damage. Her fingers were small and only her finger tips were in the frame, so that they were squeezed on the inside of the frame rather than smashed underneath. While it was a terrifying experience, every Outer Banks cloud is silver lined. Three good things resulted – we have an interesting story to tell, Erin received an official National Parks Service Junior Ranger patch, and I learned that the little pegs are to hold the window open.

So remember, get up early, stay up late, and take a chance to get that special shot - but obey all warning signs!

2009-05-16T22:54:00.013-04:00

EVEN NON-IRISH BLESSED WITH GOOD FORTUNE
By Randy Imwalle

Originally published in the Columbus Dispatch on March 14, 2009.

No Irish blood runs through my veins, but I have long considered St. Patrick's Day special. Luck seems to find me. When I was younger, I looked forward to the holiday as a continuation of my birthday (on March 16). Later, I learned about the real St. Patrick and developed a passion for Irish music.

Patrick was born in Scotland to Roman parents about A.D. 387. As a boy, he was kidnapped and taken to
Ireland, where he was enslaved to tend sheep. He escaped and returned home when he was 20. He became a priest, returning to Ireland after dreaming that the people of Ireland begged him to do so. Patrick spent the last 40 years of his life preaching and converting thousands to Christianity.

Did he have the luck of the Irish?

Patrick later wrote that, as a shepherd living outdoors, he was sustained by prayer against the weather. And he learned the language -- another tool that served him well. His luck, in fact, was the result of faith and perseverance -- requiring one to keep one's spirits up and one's eyes and ears open.

A few years ago, I was disappointed when my St. Patrick's Day plans were spoiled by the need to attend a daylong business-related meeting in New York. My plane landed late that March 17, and the cab ride to Manhattan was nerve-racking. When I finally arrived at the meeting, I was surprised by the pleasantness of the small talk of those already there. And I was astonished when, three hours later, we concluded the meeting. Unexpectedly, I had a few hours of free time. I knew that New York had a parade, but I didn't know where. No problem: Outside the building, the unmistakable sound of bagpipes filled the air. I was only two blocks from the parade route. There were scores of bands, with hundreds -- maybe thousands -- of pipers. I watched and listened for hours.

Although the St. Patrick's Day parade in Columbus isn't as large as that of New York, central Ohio is blessed with one of the world's premier Irish cultural events: the Dublin Irish Festival. From the traditional sounds of Cherish the Ladies and the General Guinness Band to the rock of the Prodigals and Young Dubliners, the annual summer festival (scheduled for July 31 to Aug. 2 this year) has it all. With seven stages and myriad cultural and historical exhibits, the event requires a visitor to plan precisely if he wants to enjoy everything.

In 2007, the event required perseverance, too. Three of my children and I planned to attend Mass (in Irish Gaelic) at 10:30 a.m.; eat lunch on the way to the 1 p.m. pairing of Seven Nations and the Columbus Symphony; then dash back to see Gaelic Storm, my all-time favorite band, at 2:30. The problem: We'd probably have to stand outside the tent for the Gaelic Storm performance because the group is so popular. Mass went well, and we had good seats for the Seven Nations show. Even before the music began, a problem blew in: the weather. The Dublin police announced that the festival grounds would be evacuated. Patrons could wait out the storm in the Dublin Community Recreation Center or go home. We moseyed over to the rec center -- the last ones in. The storm blew over, and we were the first ones out. Where to go, though?

The delay forced adjustments in the performance schedule, but the changes weren't announced. Not wanting to risk missing Gaelic Storm, we decided not to return for the Seven Nations show. Instead, we headed to the Gaelic Storm stage, where we secured front-row seats for what turned out to be a fantastic show -- as unpredictable as that day's weather. Because of the delay, the band threw out its set list and took requests from the audience.
Luck of the Irish? You bet!

Should he miss you Tuesday, on St. Patrick's Day, Randy Imwalle, 46, offers you a hearty "Slainte!"