Week 84: 1970 Chevelle SS

I  love Chevelles, from the squared off yet hip 1964 debut through the early 70s Chevelle Malibu wagon through the 1973 Chevelle -- the body style changed in 1974 and they kind of lost me then, but that was nonetheless a great 10 year run.

Chevelle, the rock band, was the last real rock concert I attended, by the way, when they opened for the Foo Fighters. My wife and I had taken my then teenage son to the show some seven or so years ago, before either of my two youngest children were born. Since then, no concerts. I did hear snippets of a Stones song being played by a cover band at some distant stage at a carnival a few years back, but then I had to chase my toddler as he ran off toward the Loop-O-Plane, after which the smell of funnel cakes distracted me and the stage was forgotten. For some reason, babies interrupted my rock-and-roll lifestyle.

Maybe it's approaching age 50, or maybe something else, but lately I've been hankering to attend a full-fledged rock concert again. I've found myself seeking out recorded concerts on late night cable or catching great shows like Austin City Limits, even sometimes sitting through PBS telethons, which often air music events, just to see a show. Old bands, new bands, PBS friendly bands, it doesn't matter -- I watch them all. I'm missing concerts.

I have always loved music - rock, folk, funk, zydeco, blue grass, soul, indie creations of all flavors -- but my recent desire isn't about any particular band or musical style, but about the experience of the live show. I miss the energy, and strangely, the community.

Similarly, I've found myself dreaming of going to an actual movie theater. I understand the irritations involved, but I don't care -- I want to see a giant screen and a movie like it was meant to be watched, even if I would rather watch an old black and white movie.

I mention this because this rock concert/movie theater thing is relatively recent -- I've only started thinking this way over the past ten or so months, and I'm not sure why. I mean I understand why I love the live music and movie theater experiences, I just don't know why I have suddenly become so interested again after all these years. Even before the Foo Fighters show, I hadn't attended many concerts or gone to the movies much since before my oldest son was born, and that was way back in 1989. I'm telling you, I think this might be an age thing.

Whatever the case, the practicality of actually going to movies and concerts again with a house full of kids is what it is -- not really there, and I'm okay with that. More reasonably, however, I think I will make a real effort to get out to at least one concert and one movie with my wife this year -- that should be doable.

Until then, maybe I'll drop by my oldest son's apartment.

He now has a high definition widescreen TV, perfect for watching a PBS friendly concert, and, if I'm lucky, he'll let me turn it up loud.


Thanks to Phil Pekarcik for the hand, literally, and the photo of my Chevelle.

For the record, a few years ago my wife and I did take the kids to see They Might Be Giants, but it was during the day at the Tops KidFest, so the band was only doing their children's songs. Still, it was a lot of fun -- and the audience was really well behaved.

Week 83: 1970 Pontiac GTO "The Judge"

Big news -- In addition to Daddy's Tiny Cars, I now will be writing a bi-monthly daddy column for Northeast Ohio Family magazine, with my first piece running next month -- it will also be online at http://www.neohiofamily.com - exciting!

Additionally, I will be helping to grow the Tri-County BusinessJournal here in Northeast Ohio as the Business Editor, and will continue to be involved in various business aspects at Stadtlander Woodcarvings, all the while expanding my vintage business Nickadizzy and my free-lance writing. This is a far different world than the one I left a year and a half ago at my Keurig-cupped, cubicle-mazed office filled with both comradeship and polite animosity. A far, far different world.

The shift from punching a clock to becoming an independent has been a quirky, and at times (and that would be at ALL times), daunting process, and while I would like to say I would have gone this route even if I hadn't lost my job, I'm not so certain that is being truthful. Losing my full-time job was the best worst thing to ever happen to me.

The biggest struggle, besides staving off poverty, has been to maintain structure. I am attempting to reintroduce some trappings of normalcy and routine (such as regular exercise and remembering to eat) to the non-child-raising aspects of my life, even though I'm not ready to forgo the odd hours. I often find myself working on projects at 3 or 4 in the morning when the house is quiet. The blessed part of these hours, however, is that I have seen the stars in the still of the night sky more in this past year than ever in 16 years of office routine. I suspect they were up there even back then. I think I simply forgot to check.

Working in a home office, though, means more diligence with where I set things. While occasionally someone at the office might walk off with my Sharpie or scissors, the culprit probably would not scribble on the wall or cut off my shoe laces with my own office gear. At home with small kids, that is not always the case.

The other day I was preparing to package a small vintage vase (a great little Blue Mountain Pottery number) when I went off to do something else -- I have no idea what. I left a block of repurposed Styrofoam, but luckily not the vase, on the ottoman -- after all, this is material meant to stop things from breaking, so what could possibly go wrong?

I came back to find this:

                                                                                                  and this:

The pictures don't capture the extent of the mess - my house looked like an Ohio April snow storm had hit - inside. Little pieces of foam all hopped up on static were clinging to the couch, the carpet, and my son's hair, and when I tried to vacuum them, they just kind of blew away from the vacuum cleaner, going anywhere but into its whirling vortex. At one point it looked like we where in a snow globe.

Apparently my son had clobbered the Styrofoam with either a Wii remote or a plastic tube of PVC for no better reason than to do it. He wasn't shy about it and made no attempt to deny the carnage -- in fact he seemed to see no issue or downside at all. I guess if he fell he would be better cushioned, so perhaps he had mangled my Styrofoam in the name of safety.

If you have kids or have even been around them for a few minutes, you know this type of weirdness is commonplace. The day after the Styrofoam incident this same son, Baby G, had colored the tops of his feet with markers, telling me he had given himself tattoos. He had proudly shown me the different colors of his ink.

 Such is working at a home office with kids.

Even so, the destructive results balance with my knowledge that my kids have no interest in being destructive -- they simply enjoy exploring, creating, and seeing what will happen, a spirit not all that different than that required to be an independent, and god knows I've ended up many times with metaphorical Styrofoam stuck on my sweater. I don't even wear sweaters or actually know what that means, but I do know it has probably happened to me as a result of one of my good-idea-at-the-time moments.

Tonight, however, as it was getting late, all three of my kids came in while I was doing some inventory control work on the computer. I was flummoxed by a difficult Excel spreadsheet, and all the kids asked if they could help. The two youngest fought briefly to both sit on my lap, but once I got them situated I gave them each a Hi-Liter and had them do some very important coloring on the scrap inventory sheets I had printed. While they colored, I talked to my 6th grade son about spiders, nutrition and Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas. Outside it was dark, but I knew behind the clouds were stars, and I knew I wasn't going to forget they were up there again.

In all my years at the office, I never had such good help.


Thanks to Phil Pekarcik for the picture of my Judge, one of my favorite muscle cars, a 1970 GTO. While I made no effort to tie the name or design of the car into this week's blog, know to me this choice fits completely. I appreciate the opportunities I have been given, even through their associated challenges, and I am happy with my family, my career, my life. This little car captures the essence of this blog when I began it 82 weeks ago -- this little car just makes me happy.


POST BLOG NOTE: I stepped out to pick up some soy milk for breakfast (the littlest guy pictured has difficulty digesting regular milk), both because we were out but also because I love the surrealism of grocery shopping late at night. Flakes of snow were falling from the black sky, having already covered my windshield.  I mean, I think that must be snow ... Baby G!!!

Week 82: 1968 Ford Mustang GT California Special

I am happy to be back home to Ohio, my family, and my tiny cars, after days away in New York, where I helped a friend run a display at the Northeastern Woodworkers Association’s (NWA) Fine Woodworking Show in Saratoga Springs, NY.

The friend, an engineer by trade, is also a respected and accomplished woodcarver who teaches carving and has a shop that carries thousands of different products with intimidating (to me) sounding names like gouges, slip strops and rough outs.

Being of an immature nature, I laughed to myself about the many NWA hats and shirts I saw, thinking about the notorious 90's gangsta rap group N.W.A. that once featured Ice Cube and Doctor Dre. N.W.A. songs feature impressive amounts of profanity and violent lyrics, and likely were not in heavy rotation with
the woodworkers at this show. In general, I just don't picture gangstas looking like Santa with big grey white beards and flannel.

Carve us a woodland gnome, M---erf----r.

The show was a success, we sold a lot, and I learned much about wood carving. I also saw some amazing wood art, but by the end of the show I was ready to get home, particularly since this was the first time I had been away from home for any time since my youngest was born, and also because working a show like this is a lot of flippin' work. Still, I had to worry about what I would find when I returned. Let me explain.

Before I departed on my trip, my five-year-old son Racer A had said (with a melancholy tone), "I probably won't remember you when you get back. I'm so sorry, Daddy."

"I understand," I told him, patting him on the head and grabbing my duffle bag as a dramatic movie score in minor keys played in my head. I gave hugs and love yous all around and crammed into the cab of the Chevy truck, New York bound.

As it turned out, my son did miraculously remember me, likely as a result of the memory-enhancing gummy vitamins he takes, and I received the best welcome imaginable from all three kids when I returned.

I even picked up a few souvenirs from the show. Woodworkers, ever conscious of safety, know the importance of good signage, and were offering free reflective stickers like the one below to put in one's work shop. Not having a wood shop, I think I'll just put my sticker on my car.

I think people will appreciate my commitment to safety.

Thanks to Phil Pekarcik for the photo of my Hot Wheels Mustang. The limited edition California Special only had a production run of 4,118 cars in 1968, a fitting pick, I thought, for the custom, small run works of wood art I saw over the weekend. 


To check out the carving work of my friend Robert Stadtlander or to learn about upcoming carving classes, go to his showcase website at
http://www.stadtlandercarvings.com.


For woodcarving supplies, please go to his e-commerce site here. If any one carves a wooden tiny car, please send a picture!

Week 81: Ford MK IV

Four weeks have passed since the shootings at Chardon High School.

I live with my family in Geauga County in neighboring Chesterland, near Chardon, and while I did not know the victims or their families, my connections were closer than I might have thought, as I have seen the ripples from this tragedy move through my family.

My youngest children are enamored by superheros, so when they recently began mentioning bad guy "killing them," or "getting them dead" I gently guided them to better methods of play but didn't see anything as tremendously unusual. While my five year, old laying on the carpet, arms outstretched after being pretend shot, seemed uncharacteristically morbid, they were playing Hulk and Captain America, so, while disturbing, I didn't look deeply but continued to suggest less death-related pretend.

In preparing Baby G for pre-school next year I met with Racer A's current teacher, and in conversation she mentioned how pretend versions of death and being shot had permeated much of her class since the shootings. The older brother of one of A's classmates had been seated at the cafeteria table in Chardon near the fatal shootings. His preschooler brother, through overhead bits of conversation and a preschooler's perception of the world, had developed the vaguest awareness of the events, but they had powerfully filtered into his psyche, and, through classroom play, into the collective childhood psyche of the class.

The pretend play of the students did not involve school shootings, of course, but were framed in their own pretend language of superheros and policemen. The altered context of the play appears to be a subtle way the students were coping with dark ideas and concepts to which which they had been introduced but of which they were only barely aware. The events of that day behaved like a cold, grey liquid not so much poured but rather misted over all of us in this community, its dampening darkness finding its way into every thought and action, even those of the very young.

For my oldest son, who recently turned 12, his increased fearfulness of losing loved ones or in possibly confronting some unforeseen tragedy were not a surprise to me. My wake up moment came from a comment he made expressing a sad acceptance that "these things happen all the time." In a startling revelation, I grasped how built into the collective mind of his generation was the threat of school shootings.

Born in 2000 and having grown up hearing about numerous school shootings and their media analysis, my son lives in a time when mandatory terror drills are now conducted at schools. In a type of cold chill moment, I realized my son saw school shootings like tornadoes, cancer, and car accidents. He was saddened and he was shaken, but he was not surprised, at least not in the same incredulous way that myself and other adults were. To him, these things were part of the cultural landscape, and while you prey they don't happen to you, you realized they do happen.

I pointed out that these things don't happen all the time, and for every school tragedy of which he hears there are hundreds, thousands of schools that will never see such things, but my words sounded hollow. Our little rural suburban area had experienced an event beyond my comprehension, and I can never return him to a time before such violence was common knowledge. That time of childhood is irretrievable.

These events have made me more compassionate about children who grow up in war or in urban areas where gang violence and crime are prevalent. Such violence once seemed so removed, and I had once accepted such violence "out there" as a bitter inevitability in the same way my son now sees school shootings, accept for him there is no out there. To him, all students live out there.

As I drove home last week after picking up my five-year-old from his preschool bus drop-off (I drive 20 minutes to the Head Start bus stop, and his bus then drives an additional 12 minutes to his school) he asked if I wanted to play a game his friend had invented. To win, you had to find all the red ribbons. Confused at first, I realized he was looking for the hundreds of ribbons tied on trees, telephone poles and mailboxes in Claridon, an area just south of Chardon, as a show of solidarity for the community and remembrance for the victims.

Maybe I should have explained the significance of the ribbons -- I don't know, but I didn't. Instead, I played.

"There's another one, over there," I said, trying to not sound like I felt. "There's another one, on that sign post."


Note: This week's picture, a Ford MK IV, is one of my earliest tiny cars, one that has miraculously survived since I originally received it as a Christmas gift in 1969 or 1970 as part of a Hot Wheels track set. Broken yet full of spirit, this little car from a childhood long, long gone seemed somehow fitting for this week's blog, one that I wasn't sure I could write. Thanks to  Phil Pekarcik for the picture.


More than words can express, I wish for healing for the families and friends of the victims.  I also wish for healing beyond my little area of Ohio for all of the areas of the world where violence touches and stains the lives of children. 

Week 80: '69 Ford Torino Talladaga

What a watery couple of weeks.

Alliteration aside, unseasonably warm weather, saturated grounds and torrential downpours led to my basement flooding, and the associated costs of this, along with the approach of my son's birthday this week and another son's birthday in April, has led to an underwater feeling financially as I continue to seek out full-time employment. These literal and metaphorical waters however are nowhere near as beautiful as the azure waves my Torino is swimming through above. Plus, I don't look nearly as good drowning -- that yellow and blue is just so photographic, and you can't hear cussing from a picture.

We've been through some whopper storms here in Ohio, but the brunt of the major thunder booms were at night so they thankfully had no fear factor effects on my kids. My gutsy five year old, Racer A, is terrified of storms, although equally fascinated by them. The other day, out of the blue, cloudless sky, he asked me what was louder, a lion's roar or thunder?

I truly love pre-school questions.

Mixed in with the stormy weather has also been some crazy clear skies. One night last week was exceptional and after being out we arrived home at night. Our older son was at camp and the youngest had fallen asleep in the car ride, so it was my wife, myself and Racer A out looking at the stars. Mars, Jupiter and Venus where all visible, and the night was magic. Like a rest between sets when working out (although it's been too long since I've actually worked out), that clear sky was welcome and complete, no previous rain and no upcoming rain, just ultimate transient beauty. For a short time I just was.

Since then I've had some difficulty just being as I cope with an earthworm-scented basement and a sour-milk scented carpet (from a breakfast mishap from Racer A), but I'm trying to remember that starry night. The other night I was walking to the kitchen and little Baby G, who turns 3 next month, shouted "DADDY! BE CAREFULL!! YOU'RE WALKING IN WATER!!" Nervous from the basement flood, I looked down, but saw the floor was dry. There were a few rogue Cheerios down there, but no water.

"THAT'S WATER THERE!" he emphasized, and I understood.

"I'd better take a boat, then," I said, hopping into a pretend boat.

"Yeah, good idea, Daddy," said G, relieved I could now see the water, visible to only the two of us.

Now today the forsythias are blooming with a yellow like that Torino up above, and swirling those spring blossoms together with the pretend waters of childhood I can almost get back to that sense of nowness, at least until the next big rain.


Torino in water courtesy of Phil Pekarcik. On a second look, I realize that muscle car isn't drowning, but emerging from the waters. Here's to emergence!

Week 79: Mini Cooper S Cabrio

Check out my Mini Cooper Cabrio convertible, cruising with the top down through downtown Cleveland.

The weather was almost convertible style today, and while the ground was soaked from the storm the previous night, the strong rains had power washed the world, and there was a cleanness to the trees and their timid buds. The sparkling world, along with the bright sun, lent a Friday feeling to this Tuesday. If I had a convertible, I would have converted.

Racer A and Baby G joined me today in search of the season's first flowers, some random crocuses popping up here and there throughout the yard. Baby G squatted down and searched the ground, not quite certain exactly what he was searching for, but when he found it, he screamed. "I SEEE A FWOWER!!!" Man, what a feeling, to hear such enthusiasm for something that didn't use electricity and feature Mario and Luigi.

One minor victory for me today was I got Racer A out the door dressed somewhat appropriately for pre-school. Practically all winter he's vexed me with some surprise of apparel. Because I need to drive him to the bus stop, which is about 20 minutes away, I'm often rushing around to get ready in the morning and he sometimes heads out to the car to wait for me. For some reason, I often forget to check what he is wearing.

If warm, he would often be wearing his heavy winter coat, but on the cold winter days, multiple mornings I've arrived at the bus stop to find that he was wearing his thin raincoat, a thin sweatshirt two sizes too small, or a thin jacket covered in crusty mud. If muddy, he has on dress shoes and sweatpants, generally with two different colored socks.  Once he went to school with a short sleeve and leg warmers on his arms under his jacket. I have to admit I noticed the day he was wearing a long red ribbon from my wife's Valentine's Day gift around his head ninja style, but I let it go -- when I picked him up later he was still wearing it, making me wonder if the school believed it was a serious fashion choice.

Today, however, I remembered to remind him to wear a zip-up hoodie, his socks matched, my socks matched, and I remembered to grab my coffee instead of leaving it on the freezer in the garage. And it was sunny. Rock on.

Right now my sixth-grade son is finishing packing for his first overnight camp, a four-night excursion with his school. I needed to dig out my sleeping bag in order to get Racer A's packed -- the new concept of a sleeping bag was so enticing to the youngest brother that we couldn't coax  him out of his brother's sleeping bag until there was another larger one to move to -- kind of like a hermit crab shedding its shell.

The work is done, the lunch is packed, and we frightened Baby G off to bed by threatening to play the below video again: a Belgian farting pig song with two characters called Big and Betsy. Baby G hates it. That farting pig makes him cry. Now off with ye, or I'll play it.

Big and Betsy  Joepieeeee!!!


Thanks to Phil Pekarcik for the great picture of my Matchbox Mini -- no farting Belgian pig for him.

Week 78: 1970 Monte Carlo

Debuting in 1970, the Monte Carlo is a mean looking muscle car, with that crazy long hood keeping you at arms length and that V8 leaving you more than a few arms lengths behind. What a great car, even if it holds a touch of bad guy dread.Tint the windows and the Monte Carlo looks even meaner, like a tough guy with sunglasses.

I con't wear sunglasses unless I want to walk into a telephone pole since my eyesight is bad without prescription glasses and contact lenses now limit my computer/writing work -- yup, that bifocal thing. I did have a pair of progressive glasses that darkened with sunlight and I could somewhat kid myself  that I had on cool shades, but I've since switched glasses and these don't even try to pretend they are cool but simply stay clear. These new glasses are not bifocal/trifocals, either. Big mistake.

I don't like progressive lenses -- I always felt like I was looking through a peep hole in order to get the right little area to be in focus, and it wasn't even a peep hole with something exciting on the other side, but one looking out at the sexy world of shopping lists, traffic signs and unidentified goo on the wall put there by one of my kids. When my vision changed I decided to stop doing the jerky lizard head dance of the bifocal/trifocal crowd and go back to single focus lenses. No worries, I thought. I'll just take them off to read.

Oh man, how I miss those annoying progressive lenses.

I can't see anything now. I have tried every nonchalant movement I can think of to unobtrusively remove my glasses to read something, but in the end I just flip them up on my forehead and squint. If I thought it was uncool to wear progressive trifocals that at least tried to look bad, if only in bright light, I've realized there is nothing cool about the squinty mole thing I now do. No, I should have stuck with being a lizard than a little burrowing rodent.

Going back to the bad attitude of the Monte Carlo, however, the other day my soon-to-be-three son came up to me and excitedly told to be "the bad daddy."

"You be the Bad Daddy, and I'll be Spider Man," he said excitedly, immediately making a steam valve noise with his mouth as I was covered with imaginary webs.

I didn't understand the request, and we went back and forth, with Baby G repeating, "You know, the Bad Daddy."

Finally he showed me the picture of the Bad Daddy, found on the cover of his brother's spiral notebook.

Now I don't know if I actually look like that when I'm reaching to take away a yardstick from my son to stop him from beating the walls, but for some reason that picture of the bad guy (The Sandman, by the way), was a picture of a Bad Daddy to my son. G has now shortened the moniker to BadDad.

Whatever the case, I got to be a bad guy, and even if I did lose every battle with Spiderman, I was tough, and any squinting I did was purely for effect, like in an old Clint Eastwood western -- or so the world thought. Sure, G wasn't using "Bad" in the sense of "hip" but in the sense of "angry and cantankerous" but so what.

I was the BadDad, and next time, Spidey better watch out.



Thanks to Phil Pekarcik for the photo of the Hot Wheels Monte Carlo, which I bet is in focus even though I can't really tell.









While basically obvious, I feel obligated to state that Marvel owns the rights to Spider Man and the Sandman while Mattel owns the rights to Hot Wheels.  I own the right to take out the trash tonight, as trash day has moved to Wednesday.