After God failed to rain on our parade, we headed west about an hour from Manlius to scenic Waterloo (one of several towns that claim to have invented Memorial Day), to celebrate the rest of the Fourth with my wife’s family.  Extended family, actually, with both sets of my in-laws, brother-in-law and family, stepmother-in-laws father, sister and family, as well as several area notables including an Amish couple and the mayor of the town.

(Despite my usual “truth meanderings” when it comes to these missives, this is actually an accurate account of who was there.  At one point, a neighbor must’ve called in a noise complaint, and a police car came driving by, slowed down, saw the mayor, then waved and drove on.  True story.)

We arrived a bit earlier than the throngs, so we leapt at the chance to head out onto one of the Finger Lakes in my father-in-laws’ boat.  This was to be Justine’s first ride in a boat, and we were of course concerned that the ride be smooth and her experience be one of happiness and tranquility, and with my wife’s father at the helm, this was assured. We strapped on her adorable little life jacket, covered her with infant sunscreen, and grabbed an infant water ski should she suddenly feel the need to “shred waves” and headed for the boat.

Naturally, Kim’s Dad decided not to go, and we were stuck with her brother instead, who, while a very competent sailor, seemed to have a little less regard for the health and mental welfare of our first-timer in the boat.  This was not immediately evident, as to get to the lake we needed to travel through the placid waters of the canal, which is classified as a “no-wake” zone probably because sailing through it would not wake anyone thanks to the severely reduced speed restrictions, and evidenced by the ducks that swam by us in a blur, laughing via quacks as they went.

Despite this, Justine was having a marvelous time, looking at the scenery as we floated by, meandering around the boat, tugging at her life jacket, and flashing the wide smile she is noted for on her Wikipedia page. My wife and I, and her mother and father-in-law took turns holding her, leading her around the little deck so that she could see everything that was going on.  Eventually we reached the mouth of the lake, and then things started to head downhill.

It was very windy, and for you nautical types, lots of wind equals lots of whitecaps, and a transition from a placid float to a vomit inducing rocking that has claimed many a sailor’s lunch over the millenia.  Justine was not a big fan of this, nor was my wife, who made the dreaded mistake of heading into a small enclosed compartment near the front of the boat to try and calm here.  Nautical types, shake your head in bewilderment…now. Non-nautical types – this makes things seriously worse for your nausea level.

Our fearless captain’s solution to the issue (correctly I’m assured) was to “gun it” which reduced the swaying side to side significantly but increased our vertical up and down by a factor of ten, as we slammed through each whitecap at what seemed to be a breakneck speed (probably because I thought it would break my neck).  Justine was less of a fan of this (as judged by the screaming), but after a few minutes we seemed to break clear of the whitecaps and then spun around.  With the wind at our back, it was a much smoother ride as we headed back to the canal. Justine calmed down, my wife emerged from the vomitorium (without vomiting) and we headed back to the docks,

I believe that Justine took away a positive experience from her first trip on the waves, or at least will be too young to recall her wild screams barely discernible over the roar of the engine as we parted the waters of the lake.  In either case, with a boat at the ready for us only an hour up the road, the opportunity for once again trolling the waters will beckon to us.

After docking, we headed back to the house to undertake some fancy Fourth of July celebratin’.  We finally were able to relax, throw back a few beers and consume massive quantities of picnic food along with every member of my wife’s family that still lives, along with half the town and several drifters that seemed attracted to the spread.  An epic karoake session extended late into the night, and everything culminated with a nice fireworks show from a nearby neighbor who seemed to “know the mayor” and thus was “sanctioned for firework display.”

Finally, we piled into the car, and headed home, our Justine (and my wife) fast asleep.  A memorable weekend, to be sure.

- MWF -

After getting everyone cleaned up, some failed “laundrical surgery” on my raspberry destroyed shirt, and a relatively good night’s sleep, we were ready to meet our nation’s 233rd birthday head-on.  The plans were simple – a parade in Manlius (about 20 minutes away) and then an immediate evacuation to my in-laws house in scenic Waterloo, NY (about an hour away).  It would be a Fourth to remember, for sure.

The parade itself was scheduled for a 10:00 AM start, so we figured leaving at 9 or 9:15 would give us ample time to stake out a spot along the parade route, hopefully somewhere near the beginning to capitalize on the overzealous candy tossers whose distribution estimation abilities were “not so good.”  Naturally, due to a variety of comedic miscues and temper tantrums (mine was especially bad) – we didn’t get on the road until 9:40ish, leaving us with a mad scamper up the road to the parade.  Thankfully the entire police force of upstate New York were involved in parades and weren’t patrolling as I flew through their precincts at what could probably best be described as “light speed.”  We arrived in time and were able to get a parking spot and even a decent curbside vantage point.

We met up with my boss and his family (they live down the street from the parade) and settled in for what would turn out to be a pretty lengthy display of fire trucks, marching bands, church floats, nuclear missiles on trucks and expressionless lock-stepping Soviet soldiers who, in unison, efficiently distributed Tootsie Rolls from under their fur hats.  We had Justine set up in her Kelty backpack, which provided a very convenient viewing stand for her to watch and wave to the folks passing by in front of her.  It was great for us too, because it kept her from blithely wandering into the path of the oncoming fire trucks or trying to fling herself into one of the tubas from the Police and Fire band.

We were especially amazed by the volume of candy that this parade generated.  I’ve been to many a parade before, but I’ve never seen anything close to the mountains of Tootsie Rolls, Laffy Taffy, lollipops and chocolate covered grasshoppers that came flying in our general direction.  For the most part, the folks winging this stuff at us followed standard candy-tossing protocol, flinging their wares down and away from the parade route so as not to entice the waiting throngs of children to run dead-on into the “St. Ann’s Truckin’ Choir” flatbed.  Unfortunately a few folks instead decided to distribute in a more aerial fashion, and rained Tootsie Rolls down upon our hapless daughter, who didn’t take kindly to the bombardment and let loose her only real tears of the affair.

All in all, it was a solid parade, if a bit unorganized.  It also seemed to drag on a bit, which may have just been how it appeared to me now that I have a child with a relatively short attention span.  The highlight for me, besides of course the delight of watching Justine sneer at elected officials I didn’t vote for, was the very end of the parade.  The last “division” so to speak was the antique cars, a staple of any good parade.  After the majority of the old clunkers made their way past, it became evident that the final car in the parade wasn’t moving.  It had stalled out, and they couldn’t get it started again.

Thus the final image of the hour and a half parade is three guys pushing a very old, wood-paneled Chevy station wagon down the parade route, to the cheers and laughter of all in attendance.

With Justine’s first parade now in the books, we gathered our things, said goodbye to our friends and headed for the car, bound for Waterloo and a date.  With a boat.

This past weekend, in addition to being a time of fireworks, hamburgers, and white bearded folks in red, white and blue striped outfits stumbling about on stilts tossing Tootsie rolls at unsuspecting children, also proved to be a jam-packed weekend of fun and firsts for us and our dear Justine.  Too many notable events occurred, in fact, to cover in a single post without overloading you, the reader, with more adorable stories and pictures than I think you can handle, so we’ll attack this in a few parts.

A rare Friday off of work and some excellent seasonal timing afforded us the opportunity to pay for the experience that millions of illegal migrant workers are compensated for every year: berry picking.  We met some friends at a local farm and set about the surprisingly tedious task of removing individual berries from the shrubs, bushes and trees that they were stapled too.  First up was strawberries, which were probably just a bit past their prime, judging by the fact that much of the crop appeared to be in a liquid state.  After we snagged what few edible strawberries remained, we moved onto cherries, which I was surprised to learn grow on trees, and not directly in the jars as I would’ve guessed. Unfortunately cherries were also at the end of their season as well, and rather than liquefy many of them seemed to instead morph into cherry nonpareils – a cherry with little balls of “something” growing all around it.  “Something” that sadly does NOT taste like nonpareils.  Finally we headed to raspberries, which were mercifully just starting, and thus, quite literally, ripe for the picking.

We took turns with Justine in our Keltie backpack contraption, which is a cross between a backpack and a clothes hamper, but with a sturdy harness in between to securely dangle our daughter inside.  This is the first I had seen her in it and she loves it, probably because, unlike the Bjorn, she’s not dodging pitches as a chest protector when I catch softball games.  The only downside, of course, is that the person wearing the contraption doesn’t really know what she is up to back there, and can only guess by the various kicks, jabs, and odd sensations that occur during use.  One such sensation that hit me was a distinct wet feeling, which to my horror I believed was perhaps a leaking diaper.  Instead, my darling daughter decided to crush several raspberries between me and the Keltie, which, upon removal, gave the distinct impression that I had taken a shotgun to the back.  She thought it was funny, at least.

Berry picking proved to be a significantly fun activity, but we weren’t particularly efficient at it, at least that is what the snickers at the weighing counter seemed to suggest.  Of course they could’ve been amused by the 8 inch red blotch that covered the top of my back, or perhaps the site of a jolly little infant with a face covered in crushed berries and an adorable smile to go along with it.

And our weekend was just beginning.

- MWF -

Check out all the other great posts today over at Fatherhood Friday!

Dad has instilled in me many of the qualities and interests that define who I am, and how I act, in some situations to frightening results. I, for example, curse in almost an identical fashion when I’m hit with a minor setback, and have adopted the same brand of dress sock. But beyond these idiosyncrasies, Dad has, on a deeper level affected my interests through the various activities I participated in (or was drug kicking and screaming to attend).

Some of the fondest memories I have from my childhood stem from playing Little League in a group near my house. My dad is a huge baseball fan, and so he was always involved in coaching me and my brother, either as assistant or head coach. I was actually pretty good at pitching back then, thanks to my dad’s instruction and of course the HGH which wasn’t banned at the time.

After late afternoon games, we’d always head over to Roy Roger’s for a post game analysis/fried chicken introspective between frequent trips to the Fixin’s bar. Those wonderful dinners sparked a lifelong love for Roy’s, a chain which now seems inconveniently relegated to toll road rest stops.

Dad is a long suffering Phillies fan, and so from a very young age I accompanied him and my late grandfather on dozens, perhaps hundreds of trips down to the Vet to watch the Phillies occasionally eke one out. At the 5th inning we’d always head down to concessions to get a few Cokes and walk around the stadium, before returning and feasting on the (hopefully salted) peanuts Mom sent along with us. I still crave those peanuts, picking up a bag every now and then, shelling them in the living room much to my wife’s chagrin.

My dad and I also share a love of history, something he fostered in me during my childhood through our frequent visits to the many, many historical sites in Philadelphia and surrounding areas. By the tail end of these visits we were scraping the dregs of museums, and some of dubious accreditation (William Penn’s Old-Timey Ball in a Cup Factory and Riverboat Casino) but the damage was done – I was destined to become history buff (and dual history major).

Nowadays my dad is about 300% more active than the average retiree, playing senior league baseball 9 months of the year, traveling to a variety of exotic locales with my mom (Africa, Australia, Minneapolis), umpiring and refereeing high school baseball and basketball and pursuing a surprising new interest in geology, which has overrun our old ping pong table with ’samples.’. He also plays well the role of ‘Pop-Pop’ to his six grandkids, including my very own Justine.

Now that I am a father myself I look to the examples he set for me as I was growing up, and will try to best of my ability to do at least half as good a job as he does. So now, from a son to his Dad, and now one father to another, I say:

Happy Father’s Day!

My Mother

My mother’s greatest gift to me was deciding to have another child after the two train wrecks that came before me.  What prompted her to agree to bring another one of us into the world is beyond me, but I am ever so thankful that she did, because I just can’t imagine how different the world might be without me in it.  (Although I would assume less sarcastic by several percentage points).  Beyond merely giving birth to me, (a feat that, despite the name, Mother Teresa never accomplished) she also instilled in me a number of personal traits and interests that define who I am.

One common interest we’ve always shared is with computers. She (and presumably Dad) purchased our first home computer at some point the mid 80s, a “state of the art” IBM PCjr.  My brother and I both picked up our computing chops from that machine and a succession of newer, better machines.  My mother was always hovering in the background, soaking in all of stuff we figured out.  We were a formidable team when things went wrong – she’d stand behind me while I swore at the computer, and then would ask questions that would invariably lead to some obvious solution that I had entirely overlooked.  She also once spilled a beer on my keyboard when she was reading over one of my high school term papers – which (in case you are curious) caused a number of electrical shorts so that typing any letter would display another, random letter.  Try it sometime.  Have a spare keyboard handy.

My mother is a librarian by trade, and was our personal Google before anyone knew what that was. I’d tell her what term paper I was interested in and soon thereafter I was awash in resources she had culled from the library, through interlibrary loans, or by calling up and haranguing old war veterans into “spilling what they knew about the Kaiser.” The librarian in her also makes her a very organized and list-oriented person – the whole extended family always know when her and Dad are going on a trip somewhere because all we receive the detailed itinerary, yet another copy of the family phone list, and of course a reminder of upcoming holidays including US, state, and local holidays as well as both mainstream and fringe religion holy days. (March 16 for example is the Voodoo Holiday Loko Davi which I was unaware).  I would love to say that her organizational skills were instilled in me, but one look at my desk at work will demonstrate clearly that they were not.

Nowadays, of course, Mom has become Mom-Mom to my little Justine, who is actually just the 5th of her 6 grandchildren.  Having been a knitter all of her life, she has now (in semi-retirement) boosted her output to near Southeast Asian sweat shop levels, churning out sweaters, blankets, hats, beer cozies, and so on for the now burgeoning Frantz grandchild population. She accompanies Dad on his various trips around the country, whether playing baseball or discussing the fascinating topic of natural gas pipeline maintenance and installation techniques, and once in awhile drops by here to say hello and marvel at the size of our Wegman’s.

My Wife

My wife and I first starting dating in high school, and if you had told me then that someday she would be the mother of my children, I probably would’ve told you that I didn’t want kids, only cats.  Actually, I still tell people that.  We dated through high school, maintained a long distance relationship through college,  the 6 months I spent on the International Space Station, the 2 years in the French Foreign Legion and my short stint as batboy for the now defunct Montreal Expos, and finally got married.  A few years later and we had Justine.

If there is an ideal mother, then June Cleaver is it. But a close runner up would have to be my Kim. Yes she can at times be over-protective (“But dear she likes the bottom of the pool”) and in the wee hours of the morning her patience can wear thin (especially with my lack of mammary glands and Justine’s aversion to bottles), but if you could watch her with my daughter for just five minutes you’d see how natural being a mother is for her.  From the moment that Justine emerged from the bloody gash in her abdomen, Kim has amazed me with the ease in which she has taken to raising our daughter while simultaneously trying to minimize the damage my fatherhood invariably causes.  It’s no small feat.

The truth is that while “Dad” may be fun to have around, it’s Kim that makes the whole family work.  I’ve learned to follow directions well, but she often just seems to “know” what the right thing to do is, what the next step should be, when the diaper needs changing, the tummy needs food, or naptime is near.  I can certainly fake it for sometimes hours or more, but in the end Justine and I would be lost without her.  She doesn’t know it but when I’m alone with Justine we spend most of our time together just talking about how cool “Mommy” is.  Actually I do most of the talking – Justine is usually over trying to jam her hands through the bunny cage.

Watching the way that Justine’s eyes light up when Kim walks in the door after having been gone for awhile just further cements what I’ve known all along  – Justine likes her better.  Now, Kim will make the argument that the eyes light up just as much for me when I come home, but we all know that it’s just not quite the same.  While I do provide a majority of the funds for her daily amusements, it is Mommy that has been feeding her, from BEFORE birth mind you, from her own body.  Let’s face it – I can’t top that.  No, that makes a special bond between mother and child, and one of the many reasons this particular day is designed to celebrate.

So on this special federally mandated holiday, I just want to express to my mother and my wife my heartfelt love and and of course the phrase you would expect me to say:

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!