Nancy's Inner Space

My daughter is graduating from high school in four days. And at this point in her life, I fear that I've not done some things right. I've allowed her to be less disciplined than she should be. I haven't held her to standards, and I've made excuses for her, trying to protect and shield her long after she was able to stand up for herself.

 

My first reaction is to tell her this and to let her know that I will be different from this point forward but I, again in protection mode, don't know how she'll take that information and also think that she will be hurt and angry with me because of it. She and I have been down many long and arduous roads together. Some of them she even knows about. Some of them she was too young to remember or understand.

 

But now I need her to hear me and I need her to abandon her childish ways and be more grown up. Life is hard and I can no longer cushion each sharp edge for her. She needs to treat her dad and I with respect and she doesn't need to treat us like doormats.

 

I sincerely hope that she'll be able to listen and understand without tears, screaming, crying, throwing things or having a tantrum. The time for all that is long passed. Perhaps I'm the only person who can tell her to grow up. I don't know. But I do know I'll have to try.

I heard on the news last night that USA Swimming has suspended you for three months. And that Kellogg’s has dropped your endorsement of their products. So be it. I can understand that USA Swimming wants to make a strong statement about your pot smoking and that Kellogg’s has the right to think that the photo of you that was sold to a scandal rag for a little bit of money makes you an unfit spokesperson for children. Even though both entities are wrong, they can do what they think is okay.

 

But let me say here that you are just the most recent poster child for decriminalizing marijuana. So many people’s lives have been ruined, not by marijuana itself but by the outdated laws against personal use of this substance. Young people have grown old in prison because they were arrested with small amounts of weed destined for recreational relaxation. Our country could garner vast amounts of tax revenue by simply legalizing grass and regulating its manufacture. Farmers could be retrained and initially subsidized to grow marijuana instead of that foul weed tobacco which, incidentally, has been linked with far greater health and safety risks than vastly overdemonized marijuana.

 

And let Kellogg’s go. I’m done buying their products. I wrote to them yesterday imploring them to keep you as a spokesperson. Apparently they don’t care about what their consumers think so I feel fine in no longer being one. Instead, why not become aligned with some other brand. I’m sure there are other foodstuffs you can endorse. Maybe there is a whole grocery store chain that would jump at the chance to sponsor you. I’d shop there. Or how about Apple Computer? Their old “Think Different” ad campaign (coined by advertising agency TBWA\Chiat\Day) sounds like it describes you perfectly. And you already use their iPod, right? What a brilliant tie-in that would be.

 

The recent tabloid photo has no bearing on how much in awe I still am of your talent and your potential for making good things happen for kids in and out of the pool. You’re still a kid yourself and you will have many difficult lessons to learn. But one thing that you should be sure of is that the folks who have followed your life and career, whether they be family, friends, teammates, or just fans you’ve never met still have the best wishes and hopes for you. They support and care about you.

 

Weather this storm, Michael. I believe in you.

In Greek mythology, a hero was defined as the offspring of a deity and a mortal. As such, heroes are not perfect. They make mistakes. They don’t always depict the picture drawn by the adulation of the people who choose to worship their every move. Batman was first portrayed as a vigilante who angered the police. Wolverine is continually trying to remain in control of the less civilized side of himself. Heroes are not perpetual Dudley Do-Rights. 

 

Like millions of people around the world, I watched with fanatic attention as Michael Phelps fulfilled his promise as a swimmer and took 8 gold medals at the Games of the 29th Olympiad in Beijing. At the age of 23, he was in the position to break the record for most gold medals won by an individual in the sport of swimming in a single Olympic Games. He did that. He did it, in most cases, by winning his races in world record time. He made the Games far more exciting for many Americans and helped advance the sport of swimming to a position of front-page news and water-cooler chat in the United States.

 

After the Games, he embarked on a long series of personal appearances, including donating his $1million bonus from Speedo to a swim program for children. He was quoted as saying, “Now, my goals reach beyond the pool, to helping others realize their dreams, and continuing to grow the sport I love so much. I feel it’s only appropriate that I continue the momentum . . . by committing my bonus to the establishment of the Michael Phelps Foundation, which I hope will help me inspire others to achieve their dreams, and give back to the sport that has given me so much.”

 

With all the hoopla surrounding the recent publication of Michael taking a bong hit, I have thought back to sports heroes from the past. How about Mickey Mantle? By all accounts, including those of his family, he was an alcoholic whose poor judgment and bad behavior off the baseball field were ignored by the press. Mantle’s endorsements, not to mention his reputation, would certainly have suffered had he existed in today’s climate of cell phone cameras and “fans” that, influenced by jealousy, decide that it’s fine to besmirch your name for what Marge Gunderson in Fargo would describe as, “a little bit of money.”

 

It is Michael Phelps’s performance, both in the pool and at his public appearances, that pushed me to make changes in my lifestyle that include working out, swimming and eating better (but certainly not the Michael Phelps diet). It is his poise and his focus that are inspiring to me. It is his willingness to work hard at both physical training and personal growth while standing in the unforgiving spotlight of media scrutiny and publicity that help to get me to the gym and the pool each day and work hard too. My advantage is that there is nobody snapping photos of me or peppering me with questions or asking me to endorse their products, nor am I working against the effects of ADHD to maintain my concentration.

 

My sincere hope is that the sponsors who use Mr. Phelps’s likeness and words will take to heart his eagerness to issue an apology. It is the evidence that, like the heroes of Greek mythology, he has made mistakes but is mature enough to admit that he is responsible for them. At the age of 23 I’m sure that he still has a long way to go in the growing-up department, but I’m also convinced that he is firmly established in the honorable positions of human being and hero.

As it's the first day of a new year, I've decided to pare down my "friends" list to just a bare minimum of people I actually read. If your name is no longer on my friends list, please don't take it personally. It's not. I've made no real connection with the persons who have been removed and in an attempt to streamline my life, this is a good action. Life is too short to clutter it up with frivolous stuff that takes up time, energy, resources et cetera and with "friends" who only send me junk mail because they have this e-mail address. There is only a finite amount of everything in this world and it shouldn't be used for sending links to garbage for which I have no time.

 

With that said, I hope sincerely that your new year is everything you've hoped for, that this country moves ahead in directions that allow us to become the world citizens I know we could be. I pray for an end to war and suffering. I pray for a cure for AIDS. And I pray for you, dear reader.

 

Until a little more than ten years ago, my Christmas tree came not from a lot or a store, but from the acres of land where my grandfather lived. Each year after Thanksgiving he and I would meet at his house, dressed in Sorels, parkas and heavy gloves, grab a hand saw and head out into the woods.

Some years there was deep snow that we had to crush paths through. It was hard work and often we'd decide we'd settle for something not so good. Other years there was no snow, but hard-packed frozen pasture, the grasses matted down or frosted in place. But it wasn't neatly grown and manicured trees we were after. What we were looking for was to top a 10- or 20-foot tree that had serious problems.

Some of the trees had insect infestations that would soon kill them. Some had grown too close to other trees and were stunted or mis-shapen. A few had viable limbs on only one side. All the trees we took were destined to be cut for one good forestry reason or another.  

Depending on the temperature on the day we chose to go tree hunting, we could be out for a half hour or all afternoon. Most of the time, if it was warm enough, we just enjoyed each other's company. Grampa took every opportunity for a quiet lesson, whether it be algebra or woodcraft. I can't tell you how many times he'd stop me and just silently point to some wonder I hadn't seen, like a lodge in the middle of a beaver-created pond or the tracks of a bird in fresh powder snow.

There were times that we'd come upon two trees grown so close together that we'd cut both and drag them back to the house. There, he'd strip the dead branches from the side of one and drill holes in the trunk. Then the live branches would be cut from the side of the other tree. Ever the resourceful electrical engineer, he took copper wire and, inserting them into the holes, fastened the live branches to the tree, making one acceptable Christmas Tannenbaum from two nearly deceased spruces.

Eleven Christmases ago was Grampa's last. I purchased a "permanent tree" and I've not been out to cut a Christmas tree since.

This past Thanksgiving, my brother and my dad cut a tree from dad's back yard where the forester is going to be doing a lot of trimming. They got a good top and lashed it to my brother's car roof like a hunting trophy. It's very full and smells so much better than balsam-scented anything. His family will enjoy it and I know his daughters are blessed with starting a memory string like mine.

Watching the tree come down and hearing the whine of the chain saw, I swear I could hear Grampa's voice in my ear, saying of my brother's tree choice, "He got a good one, didn't he?"

Merry Christmas, everyone.