Good To The Last Drop 365/135 - #135- full throttle play

Compilation Sunday: (that special time of week when picture and prose become as one)

I’m convinced that the scene around Jesus involved some pretty rambunctious children. The disciples probably wanted to swat the kids like they were annoying flies, pestering and poking Jesus’ bros incessantly. And as the frustration grew on the disciples’ faces, Jesus sensed their disdain and took the chance to teach a lesson. He said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them.” When he said this, it wasn’t the mellow, docile-as-meek-lambs, Norman Rockwell-type atmosphere. Even as he said it, I’m guessing he had two tykes riding “horsey” on his knees while another two or three used his sinewy frame as an ancient jungle gym, all while two or three others braided his long hair. And undoubtedly Jesus loved every minute of it. He realized of course that there aren’t too many things as refreshing and inspirational as a little child.

To live like a child is to fully live life. My son Carter, otherwise known in Team Hiemstra as the C-Dawg, walks through life on full throttle. Well, in so much as one can figuratively walk without technically being able to literally walk. Perhaps it would be sufficient to say that Carter scoots through life on full throttle, and there’s much I could learn from him. Sure, it may not necessarily go over that well to walk into my principal’s office and plead for new textbooks with the same urgency and volume and emotion that Carter asks for his sippy cup, but I’m guessing that my most enlightened and progressive boss would be quite delighted if I showed the kind of passionate beseeching that my son shows whenever he wants something. That’s not to say, of course, that I don’t already show that dedicated, earnest passion for learning and touching the future one student at a time. Perhaps the little guy had to pick up the passion from somewhere.

This particular “Compilation Sunday” photo says so much about what it means to live life as a child. To an adult, a bowl of ice cream is a heaping mound of saturated and unsaturated fat, a pile of more calories than one would find in all of a health addict’s pantry. To a child it’s a mountain of delight that’s on a one-way glory-land trip to the bottom of his stomach. A child doesn’t exactly care or even think about the potential stain factor of cookies and cream on his new clothes. He devours with reckless abandon, cranking the spoon into the ice cream and up to his lips so fast he could set the roof of his mouth on fire. The last bite remaining in the bowl isn’t a time for melancholy sadness; instead, it’s an indecipherable squeal that can be roughly translated, “Geronimo! I’m going in after it.” And go in after it he does, the chocolaty battle scars drawn about his mouth, the oreo-smeared smile after the final drop the testimony of the victory over the icy goodness.

Yes, I can learn a lot from my son, and as I watch him move and scoot and cry and screech, I vow to live life a little more with the throttle revving. Sure, it may be quite a few years before any one of my relatives or colleagues ever does me the favor of offering to bounce me up and down on his knees, but when it does happen, I know what I’ll do. I’ll shout at the top of my lungs in the highest-pitched voice imaginable, “‘Gin, ‘gin, ‘gin, ‘gin,” never wanting the fun to end and being completely captured in the moment. Perhaps it’s a disturbing image for some, but metaphorically, I’m guessing I can apply that kind of zeal to quite a few situations in my life.

Thanks, C-Dawg.

A wink 365/134

J door 365/133

K door 365/132

Fooseball 365/131

Cherry Picking 365/130

Shootin' pool 365/129

After Blake came home from working today and after naps, we went to Bravo Farms. They have a fooseball table, pool table, and various antiques to look at. They also had goats, chickens, and a parrot.

As we were leaving Bravo Farms there was a U-pick orchard of cherries. We really lucked out because it was their last day. We're sure glad Blake came with us, his 6' 3" stature came in handy.

Father's Day 365/128

Compilation Sunday: (that special time of week when picture and prose become as one)

The beaming eyes. The wide, toothy grins. These were the faces of my children that met me when I came home from painting on Tuesday afternoon. They’d been busy beavers at work, prepping for Father’s Day, and they were quite eager to show me some of the fruits of their labor. I walked into the garage and was met with the sight of my beloved wife’s handwriting in bright yellow letters on the back windshield of the White Shadow (our family van): “Daddy is Special” (the reflection of which you can see in today’s Compilation Sunday photo.) It touched me, if not so much for the sight of it, but for the joy and excitement that the girls had in me seeing it. Plus, with it being only Tuesday, I had the added benefit of driving around all week with my fellow motorists seeing the paternal proclamation in bright sunshiny letters. Carla later informed me that she ran a little inference for me in the creative scheming of the girls for Father’s Day. She didn’t think that I’d quite enjoy a handprint covered t-shirt in a whole rainbow of colors. She was right about that one.

With all this happening early in the week leading up to Father’s Day, it’s allowed me ample time to contemplate fatherhood in all its joys and sorrows, especially while mindlessly slopping paint around during the day. My thoughts are not all that revolutionary or profound, but I’ll share them nonetheless.

To be a father is to live life in the extreme. This does not mean that life as a father is a never-ending roller coaster, but it does mean that the extreme ends of the spectrum are the times that impact a father’s heart the most profoundly. As a father, there’s nothing quite that compares to the joy and delight of my kids when they are doing well. The other day my daughter Avery came up to me unsolicited and said, “Daddy, you are so amazing” and then she just kept on saying it. Talk about plucking the heartstrings like a fine harpist. I was touched. Joy kept spilling into my heart even though it seemed like the blood pumper should have been overflowing. It was the type of moment that made me smile, but more than that, made me simply feel the palpable sense of delight in my kids.

On the other hand, when kids make poor choices and hit or say mean things or are selfish, as a father, it hurts. There’s a stomach-sinking raw feeling of numbness and sorrow that I feel when my kids indulge the sinful nature. To be a father is to know that my job is to train these little kids in righteousness, and when they don’t act all that righteously, simply it hurts, every single time they act out, whether it’s a name they call their sisters or a me-first attitude they own at the breakfast table.

To be a father is to know these extremes, to live in them daily and to keep walking the road of training these children in the way they should grow up. It makes me fully appreciate anew my own father for I know that I spent time on both sides of the see-saw as a child, and through it all, through all the ups and downs, no matter the disappointment that he must have felt when the choices I made were not the wisest, I never ever felt that he didn’t love me with the whole of his 6’3” frame.

Thanks, Dad, for showing me the way, for living life on the edge, and for the foundation of faithfulness that I’m now trying to pass on to my children.

K wading 365/127

Car Fire 365/126

Coming back from the Discovery Center yesterday we encountered a van on fire. We pulled to the side of the road to see if we could help. It was kind of weird at first because we didn't see anyone around. Then we found 3 guys a couple hundred feet away. Praise God nobody was hurt. They had already called someone to help so all we could do to assuage the pain was to offer our Calvin College cup filled with water. I would hate to drive by later only to find the cup cast aside in haste. Let's just pin our hopes on the fact that that cup is somewhere in one of their homes relaying a story of hope to their families.

J monochrome 365/125

B and c 365/124

A Warming Up 365/123

Butting Heads 365/122

Lottery Party 365/121 -#121- the price of glory

Compilation Sunday (that special time of week when picture and prose become as one)

Grown men sure are remarkable creatures. Many of them have amassed small fortunes, conquered obstacles that indeed seemed impenetrable, built businesses and careers that have tested the limits of their creativity and wisdom and utter ingenuity, and cared for their wives and children with the utmost tenderness and love. And yet, when it comes down to it, men love to play with the fervor and vigor of little kids. Last week Friday night was another such opportunity to see grown men playing with the intensity of warriors in what seems to the outsider to be an utterly trivial game.

The occasion for the gathering of these warrior soldiers was the 3rd Annual Lottery Party. Before all the bloggers out there in cyberspace start sweating and hyperventilating about a group of church-going men getting together for an organized “gambling” activity, realize that there was no money involved, though one may not be able to suitably put a price tag on the potential glory and pride at stake in these festivities. Besides, to quell any notions of impropriety we always make sure we have a member of the clergy with us to give us a sense of virtue and status. Well, to be quite honest, it just so happens that we’ve happened to have a minister at each lottery party, from Brother Al last year to the Hairy Reverend joining this group of merry men this year via video-conference, direct from America’s heartland, which, coincidentally shatters any misconceptions about Iowa not yet having heard about the internet.

We gathered together to . . . play with some ping-pong balls . . . without a table or a net or any kind of paddles. We were content to just throw the balls in a big water jug, shake ‘em up and watch them spill out. To the ignorant observer or reader it seems about as exciting as watching paint dry or watching grass grow or curling, but to those directly involved, the excitement level is akin to taking the final turn at Daytona and seeing the checkered flag starting to fly and realizing victory, while at the same time being able to laugh at your fellow racers for flaming out or crashing, or, in other words, having the ball not exactly bounce their way.

The whole charade is the official beginning of the fantasy football season. We gather together with ping pong balls in hand to determine the draft order for our annual fantasy draft in August. Thus, with glued eyes and fluttering hearts, we see our balls with our individual logos tumbling in the hopper and hope that ours do not come out in a timely fashion, as the balls exiting the jug determine the draft order in reverse fashion. Thus, the first ball to spill out of the hopper belonged to the Bug Killers, giving him the 12th pick in the upcoming draft. Next the logo ball of the Natedogs departed the jug, giving him the 11th pick and initiated the first real guffawing of the season as he finished in 12th place last year, which, with the weighted system of our lottery, should have seemingly given him a much greater chance to have a top pick in this year’s draft. But, alas, as stated above, the balls don’t always exactly bounce your way.

The balls continued to tumble out and the rest of the first round took shape until the final two spots were up for grabs, with the Bad News Bears and the Raider Nation (belonging to yours truly) having yet to see their balls arrive on the scene. And then as 11 pairs of eyes watched closely (even from as far away as Iowa) the Bears logo appeared and the Raider Nation was left, holding the first pick in the draft and a small piece of fantasy glory. It may be the only victory, legit or moral or otherwise for the Nation this whole year, but at least it’s a victory nonetheless.

And thus commenced the official fantasy season as the rest of the summer will be spent studying fantasy football magazines as if they’re detailed instructions for a covert CIA operation and we’re bonafide agents and doing mock drafts more often then some of us brush our teeth. (Notice in the opening paragraph that all the accomplishments of men didn’t include personal hygiene.) Yes, some may think it a bit much and could speculate about how we could learn Russian or knit sweaters for everyone named “George” in the Foreman in the time we spend on these trivial matters, but when you’re playing for fantasy glory, there’s no price tag or time limit that one can attach to it.

Spider 365/120

Pen 365/114 - #114- the object of my affection

Compilation Sunday- (that special time of week when picture and prose become as one)

Sometimes we have the silliest things that we grow attached to. For some it’s a car. Perhaps a 1960’s era Mustang that’s chromed and magged and turboed (notice I don’t speak Vehicle-ese very well). For others perhaps it’s an article of clothing. Maybe there’s a ratty sweater or sweatshirt that’s just so comfortable, it’s impossible to part with. For me, the object of my affection is much smaller and in fact, I can hold it in the palm of my hand. It’s my Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball-point pen in blue. It may seem silly or trivial, but to me, it brings comfort and allows me to pen the words that make the whole world sing, well, at least in my hopes and dreams.

Alas though, be still my beating heart. My beloved blue Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball is gone. Vanished. Torn asunder from my beating breast, er, hand.

This is how it all went down. During the precious, invaluable, blessed two hours known as Quiet Time at Casa de Hiemstra- the time in which the youngest children sleep and the oldest two do stealthy, independent activities- Carla and I got into a playful verbal tussle. In a moment of aggressive whimsy I threw my blue Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball pen-cap at her, and she threw it right back at me. A few minutes later after going to check on something with the kids, I came back to again pen words of wonder and delight and discovered, to my astonished horror, that my pen was gone. Missing in action. Departed from the prosaic marriage to the softness of my right thumb and forefingers. Kidnapped right from my clutches. I struggled to fill my air with lungs. My vision blurred, my speech slurred. Drunk with anxiety was I. I immediately interrogated Carla. I’m no Matlock, but I had a pretty good suspicion that she was one of the primary suspects in this heinous felony. Like Jack Bauer facing the most aggressive of terrorist interrogations, she gave up nothing and now, here I sit, alone and penless.

Please catch yourself before you threaten to have the sensitivity of a hippopotamus and comment on this by saying “Aren’t there other pens in the world that you could write with?” Please. For some things there are no substitutes. Does the casual reader care to remember the beloved, classic Southern drama about the Duke family of Hazzard County? Was it the same when Tom Wopat and John Schneider left the show to be replaced by their look-a-like cousins? I think not. Do you recall New Coke? Exactly my point. For some things there’s just no replacement. Nothing compares to the smooth flow of the Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball gliding across the page like a spandex-clad figure skater, leaking beautiful blue ink out of his blades of glory. The pen is like a self-propelled lawnmower, seemingly having a mind of its own as it cuts through the white grass of the page, leaving a trail of azure words as lovely as the patterned grass of a freshly-cut baseball diamond.

And now, I’m without my friend, forced to write this post with a horse of a different color, a black Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball, knowing full well that this effort, no matter how bravely offered in the midst of trying circumstances, is simply an imposter, a pretender, a Genilee Harrison on Three’s Company. It’s just not the same.

I just hope that someday I’ll see my beloved blue Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball again. Until then, I watch and wait. Sadly.

A profile 365/119

I'm starting to forget if I've posted a picture or not. I have a file that has possible blog pictures to select from in case I don't get around to taking a picture that day. I thought I had posted this picture but I don't think I have.

scrunchies 365/118

It seems with 3 girls in this house there are hair things all over. Invasion of the hair things! One of our friends used to detail cars and his gauge for how "dirty" a car was tabulated by how many french fries were discovered upon his cleaning process. I guess if we were to use the same system, our house would be considered very dirty because I continually find hair clips, bows, bobby pins and the like strewn about our home.

Fountain water 365/117

The little fountains were going downtown. I think this was one of our first times seeing it shooting out water. Needless to say the kids had fun running through them.

H2O 365/116

Sometimes a tall glass of ice water sounds sooo good.

Farmer's Market 365/115

We went to the Farmer's Market and enjoyed fresh produce and a couple craft areas for the kids. They got to roll a marble around globs (technical term) of paint to make a marblized effect on their paper. I think they have since trashed their artwork but have kept close watch over their marbles.

Book Lover 365/107 - #107- confessions of a bibliophile

Compilation Sunday (from last week): that special time of week when picture and prose become as one.
I'll admit it. As much as I might chide the posh, pompous, overbearing, arrogant, brash, narrow-minded, high-fallutin' Crane Brothers of Frasier fame, there's more than a small part of me that can relate to their plight for the finer things in life. They're caricatures of the snooty, leather-patch-on-the-wool-blazer professor-type of book lover that I sometimes aspire to be, or at least enjoy.

Allow me to describe in depth the perfect afternoon for a bibliophile like myself:

The summer warmth has conceded the battle to the cool, intensifying winds of fall. The burning leaves upon the stately oaks and maples cling hopelessly to home before riding those very same winds across the common green. As the sun slowly dips on the horizon, painting the cumulus-filled sky a thousand colors of fire, I stand before the 10 foot windows of the Hiemstra library, surveying the chilling weather from the cozy confines of a room nestled on the fourth floor of the family estate.

From floor to ceiling the stately red brilliance of cherry wood holds the collection of 3000 hardcover first editions in neat, alphabetical order, the polished rails of the bookcases as smooth as glass and as pristine and crystal. I pull a signed copy of Leif Enger's newest novel off the shelf and nestle down in softness of Italian leather in my handcrafted easy chair with matching ottoman. I take my seat directly next to Carla's matching chair, separated only by the glass-top end table between us and the diverse and wonderful worlds that our novels are set in.

In front of us is a robust fire, crackling with such fervor and syncopation that it seems to be a percussion symphony, snapping and cracking in time with our hearts. On the table between us sit our beverages, a dark-red Napa Valley Cabernet in an over-sized goblet and a steaming porcelain mug of cappuccino, the steam wafting up to the cathedral ceiling before disappearing into thin air, just like any reservations or tension in our bodies or minds.

As I sit, I feel the smooth, leathery softness of my book, along with the rough, uneven edges of the parchment, each sheet of every page unique in itself, just like every paragraph of this stunning literary masterpiece. I begin to read, amused and amazed at Leif's witty yet poignant prose. I marvel over his ability to put words together like they're meant to be wed. I chuckle. I sniffle. I cry. I sigh. I sniff the winds of prose and soak up the ambiance of sharing a piece of literary heaven with my beloved.

And thus as the curtain closes on the evening sky and darkness spills from the heavens, we sit and read, knowing that in the sad, melancholy occasion of us finishing our books, there are plenty more to take their place.

Thus endeth my confession of my life lived as a bibliophile.

Coke 365/112

Original painting of this was 1940, recently someone revived it.

A commodity 365/113

scale 365/111

It was fun to visit the dairy. The kids got to see my old stomping grounds. We try to visit Opa every so often so they know the dairy background a little. Although the scale is out of order they had fun playing with it.