Cracked Window

Oh, the travails of parenthood. How do father and mother anticipate this scenario: Atticus, newly turned three, begins crying. We find him wearing on his head a rigid cardboard can, his Lincoln Logs container.

“Why are you crying, son?” I ask. “It’s stuck!” he wails.

We can’t budge it. Suzame pries out his ears and holds his head while I tug, gingerly, several times. His feet start to lift off the ground. We move him to a bed. Same results.

We contemplate cutting off the can. Too dangerous. What about rubbing cooking oil around the lip or soaking it with a sponge? Then I reconsider cutting. With scissors I poke a hole near the bottom, far from his head, work in a finger, and manage to tear the cardboard. Atticus’ whimpering turns to laughter.

A memory is born.

I stand in the rain. The Avett Brothers are about to take the stage in Portland at the Oregon Zoo amphitheater. So miserable is the weather this night that wife and little son fled for home after the opening act.

Everyone is soaked and cold. While I wait, tunes from “Emotionalism” play in my head. Soon we’re jumping, crowded at the edge of the stage, invigorated by the Avetts’ energy that will keep me awake long after I’m home.

What’s the appeal? Not just their harmonizing twang tinged with rock and frenetic punk outbursts. Or their whiskey North Carolina drawls and plaintive lyrics. These boys are just flat out wired and unafraid to bare what’s roiling inside them.

I’m afraid to look at the rest of their tour schedule. I might bust out the Visa card and follow them, old-guy groupie who knows the lyrics and gets funny looks from the young hipsters when he sings along. Can’t help myself.

Four weeks from tonight, I’ll attend my forty-year high-school reunion in Winter Park, Florida. We were invited to write about a memory. I chose not the end-of-school campout of about twenty-five guys. It only lasted a few hours because a Seminole County sheriff’s deputy busted us just as the drunken revelry was cranking up. A few classmates barely made it out of jail in time to attend graduation. Instead, I chose the lesser-known prequel to that story:

Far from anything, we lurched along two sandy ruts winding through pine and scrub oak north of Red Bug Road. I was driving my mother’s faded station wagon, nicknamed the Blue Boat. Perched cross-legged atop the roof, Danny and Charlie looked more like maharajas on safari than seniors about to graduate. Stripped to the waist and wearing their shirts swami-style around their heads, they scanned the woods.

I turned up the radio, drowning out the clatter of barbed wire that had wrapped around the drive shaft a few miles back. We’d come too far to turn around. Not that we knew where we were. That was part of the plan, getting lost to see what we could find. And we were doing more than searching for a camp site; we were clutching what little was left of our years together in a grip that couldn’t hold.

Many years ago I worked at Florida Today, the daily newspaper in Brevard County. That’s the county Tropical Storm Fay drowned this week in twenty-five inches of rain.

For a while I worked a late-night shift. During a periodic commitment to not hit the bars with the gang after work, I’d run along the Indian River about 2 a.m. Not a sound except my plodding feet and panting breaths. Then one night I heard another sound — rhythmic breathing. Soon I figured out the source, a dolphin just offshore swimming in sync with me. We stayed together for at least a mile.

Tonight I wonder if the dolphin swims above the street where I ran, finding no other beating heart to connect with in the flooded dark.

After reading this account of programming errors plaguing touchscreen voting machines in Ohio, can anyone have any confidence in a free and fair election? Too bad the story doesn’t detail if there’s any pattern to the dropped votes. For example, how do they correlate to the party registration of voters whose ballots aren’t counted?

And why is any electronic voting allowed anywhere in the United States when it’s not proven to be fail safe? And to think that some states don’t require a backup paper trail. Oregon has its share of problems but holding reputable elections isn’t one of them.

Once upon a time, we lived in a democracy.

John McCain’s inability to remember how many houses he owns is a gaffe that will prove more damaging than John Edwards getting a $400 haircut. Count on it. Especially because McCain, after consulting with his staff, said the number is at “at least four” when in fact it may be ten or more.

The Jed Report has produced a Google Earth tour of the properties. The Talking Points Memo details the ill-timed most recent purchase by Cindy McCain.

I don’t fault McCain for his wealth or lavish lifestyle, including hobnobbing with movie celebrities and flying around in his private jet. But not knowing how many houses he owns puts him way out of touch with the people he’s seeking to lead.

The McCain campaign’s response: the POW excuse, again, and another slam on Barack Obama for liking arugula. I like it too, so I must also be an elitist. I definitely know how many houses I have: one with a fat mortgage payment and home equity loan.

Now all we need is a photograph of McCain eating arugula, and he’ll be toast.

For about the tenth time in a week, I’ve been hit up for money by the Democratic National Committee. Solitictors call me on the phone, send me emails, corner me outside the grocery — you name it.

This evening, a nice but persistent young woman came to my door to ask again. When I told her I’ve given several times to Barack Obama, she said: “He just raised $51 million in July.” As in he has enough, so how about spreading it around to all the other Democrats running for office.

Her approach irked me, and she knew it. Yes, she’s working for a worthy cause and has a tough job, but that’s hardly the approach to take.

My irritation faded a short time later when I found this “story” about Obama’s half-brother, Cooter, threatening to derail his campaign. Sadly, some people will believe it. Obama needs all the money he can muster.