Boy Camp 2015

The summer has been eventful, so eventful, so full of activity that I have not had the time nor energy to report upon BOY CAMP. (For details see 2011, 2012, 2013 and 2014.)

The boy and I have had many opportunities, even this summer, for time on our own. The women in the family have already had one away camp (Blue Lake outside Muskegon, MI) but this weekend has for six years carried special significance for the boy and I since the wife and daughter first headed out to Girl Camp in 2010. As the boy is now ten, it is only fitting that our relationship to the weekend changed significantly this summer.

After making an afternoon maternity ward visit to friends with brand new twins, we decided to heard directly to the bowling alley. Bowling was the original, signature event way back in 2010 and so it was imperative. However, it was not satisfying as he struggled to make do without bumpers, perhaps for the first time. I was as positive as possible, and tried to guide him to improve his play, without much success. We made a plan for the rest of the weekend to look up from there.

We had the bowl early – if at all – because he his baseball team was in the playoffs. The season had stretched on much longer than scheduled, as many games had been cancelled due to all the rain. We lost the game, but it was hard fought. (His team had been undefeated until the playoffs, only to lose twice in double elimination in the final to this same team later in the week.)

For dinner in manly style we had hotdogs and cole slaw while watching The Terminator. Yes, we watched The Terminator. I was concerned it might be too violent – and it is – but not much more so than what he already takes in on network TV. The boy said it was excited but very smart, and I have to agree with him. Everything is so fast these days, fast and loud and active, the boy was very intrigued by the mystery of the story. That’s the problem with sequels, there’s no mystery to them, you know the world, you know the situation. There may be surprises, but surprise and mystery are not the same thing.

Saturday was given over to rock and roll. The entire day. He had his private lesson at noon at School of Rock and then a ninety-minute rehearsal with the band. They are working on a complete set of Joan Jett numbers for September, but would be debuting a small number of them at the Cain Park Arts Festival. The boy was extremely nervous about playing the Evans which is a very large space, but the crowd was small compared to the size of the venue, folks coming and going giving it a laid back vibe. He played very well after a false start, he keeps a rock steady beat (he's the drummer) and I am proud of him.

That night we stayed up and watched This Is Spinal Tap. He’s seen a number of rock music documentaries and films so I thought he’d “get it” and he did so far as it goes. What I underestimated was his appreciation of the many levels in which it is satirical (the Lick My Love Pump gag went clear over his head) and exactly how its improvisational elements are so amazing.

So, uh. So there. Wheep whomp.

Sunday morning was not one for lying in, however. I am training for a marathon and wanted to get in a ten mile but I did not want to leave him at home to watch videos of ADHD Millennials comment on Minecraft. So he biked and I ran, through Lakeview Cemetery and the Uptown neighborhood (i.e. CWRU environs) down to the Cultural Gardens. Two and a half hours of leisurely running, biking, walking and talking.

Finally, and this is a fine tradition, we visited the Lantern Theatre in the Big Red Barn, taking in another original theatrical event focusing on local history. This year it was Eric Schmiedl’s Johnny Appleseed featuring himself, his son Arthur, the surprisingly versatile Bill Hoffman and the always delightful Valerie C. Kilmer.

The boy and I do get to spend a good deal of time together, alone in each others' company. And he’s constantly challenging me, constantly debating me. We have great conversations and even some intense arguments. But we have a really good thing going.

Boy Camp 2013

For four years now, the female contingent of our little family has gone on an all-girl retreat the second weekend of July leaving the two of us to be dudes on our own for a couple days. I chronicled this last year, and while certain traditions hang, others get created as we go.

Friday evening we made our pilgrimage to Freeway Lanes in Solon, joined once more by Dr. Dean and Mr. Boy and I was killing until halfway through the second game when I just blew it out. The Dr. can attest, I was on fire, but then handed him my mojo which was entirely fair.

Mr. Boy (not to be confused with my son, who is simply "the boy") and I seem to have entirely identical taste in music. He was encouraging the boy to break out some moves but that usually just leads to my son grabbing the nearest boy in the room around the neck and wrestling him to the floor.

I took a picture of my food.

Lately, not just this weekend, we have been dining outside, on the side porch. Some days this is because every available surface in our house is covered with books, bills or fall preparatory materials, but even when they aren't it is a habit we have grown fond of.

Saturday morning I made whole wheat pancakes with (frozen) blueberries, with syrup, a little whipped cream and what was left of the blackberries from City Fresh. The rest of the morning was spent reading and coping with the boy's recent absolute, unabated obsession with Clash of the Clans.

The boy has coach-pitch baseball at noon on Saturdays, which is pretty grueling. In spite of my having remembered to find and apply sunscreen, I still found a slight burn on my scalp from that gap in the back of my ballcap. Geez.

Earlier this week the wife and kids has visited friends out in Chagrin and came home with a bunch of big tomato plants, all ready to put in the earth. After several days of getting mightily watered by recent storms in their little travel cups and boxes, and then wilting in the unforgiving heat, I figured this was as good a time as any for the manly business of gardening.

We worked as a team, ripping up a great, long path of weedy mint, hoeing and mulching and finally planting them in four great towers. The work took longer than it may have as every time the boy found a worm he needed to put it in the compost barrel, which I believe currently has a 1:1 ratio of worms to compost. I don't know. I am afraid to look.

In the meantime, we entirely forgot to eat. Late lunch/early dinner was had at the new Katz Club Diner. We were big fans of the original Dottie's Diner, which was open briefly around the time the girl was born. That was a decade ago, and in the meantime several concerns have tried to make a go of it. I stuck my head in a couple times and the decor alone told me those people had no idea what they were doing.

The rumors are true, the place is beautiful, the food is good, and its entirely too expensive if you are the kind of person who liked to spend hours drinking of coffee and smoking cigarettes at Chucks. This is not that kind of diner.

The boy was entirely taken by the style and structure of the dining car, pointing out the features which told him this was once a real train car, and not just an imitation. His words, "This is a very welcoming place. It's beautiful, makes you want to come back." Really, my eight year-old talks like that.

We were both satisfied with the Reuben I ordered, and the homemade chips and fires, though he chose to add mayo and vinegar to his chicken salad sandwich, which he believes didn't have enough "pop" for his taste. I admit it was mild, but I found it flavorful, not overpowering. We're looking forward to sharing this place with the ladies some time in the near future. I hope it succeeds.

To conclude the evening, we furthered the boy's Marx Brothers education by taking in the bravely plot-free Monkey Business (1931) which features the absolute worst hand-to-hand combat ever recorded on film.

Poor Thelma Todd. She really was hilarious.

Now, it had been my intention to rise this morning at the not unreasonable hour of 6:00 am to do some much-needed writing, but after one slap of the snooze bar I had to ask myself, and I am waking up at 6 am on Sunday because why, and just turned the alarm off.

Sunday has been low-key, as it should be, reading, playing video games, watering tomatoes, feeding gerbils (no really) finally getting down to learning the rules to Ticket To Ride, before heading to the Lantern Theatre for this year's family-friendly, historical fiction drama John Henry, written by colleague and neighbor Eric Schmiedl.

John Henry (center) and friends.

Anybody can enjoy these plays Bill Hoffman and his crew at the Lantern Theatre offer (last year's Boy Camp we saw Singin' On The Ohio, which I am happy to say will be revived starting next month) but I strongly recommend them for my friends with elementary school aged kids. They tell good, interesting stories, with a lot of great history and very enjoyable characters.

And really, that's it. For the weekend, I mean. The boy is off into the neighborhood riding bikes with the local kids and I am going to sit on the sideporch with a beer and book. That's Daddy Camp.