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People In Your Neighborhood
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by David DeWitt
Erin and I got new phones this week. Our old ones weren’t holding a charge for very long.
It still seems odd to me that something that is supposed to have superior technology has only a few years use. I bet the land-line phone I had as a kid would still work perfectly today if it were plugged in. I suppose texting with a rotary dial would be challenging though.
After we chose our phones in the store, Erin and I stood patiently listening to the sales associate try his damnedest to up-sell us with the latest cell phone add-ons, including a thin piece of plastic to protect the screen for a mere 35 dollars more. And of course, insurance.
“Just a few weeks ago a woman dropped her phone in the parking lot right after refusinginsurance,” he said. “It was very sad.”
“What you’re trying to do is very sad,” I thought to myself. But I understood. I use to work in retail too.
Finn was standing at my side and had gotten his hands on a demo virtual reality headset. We thought it was cute and snapped some pictures with our new phones. Then, he started walking around trying to grab at things in the ‘virtual world’.
“I want to get that little monkey!” he said, reaching his hand out and bumping into the counter. He pulled off the mask and looked around confused. “Where is it?” he said.
I took the headset from him and put it out of reach, to his dismay. I explained as best I could how it wasn’t real. I looked through it myself. It was pretty cool, but I could imagine how it seemed to him with his concept of reality.
I remember thinking at that age that people on TV were actually inside the television set. And after it had been turned off, I was convinced they were still there inside, having little parties.
How confusing today’s technology must be to smaller children about what is real, especially since animation is sometimes so hyper-realistic.
Standing there holding the virtual reality headset, looking down at his pouting face, I thought about how parents are kind of guardians of reality in early childhood. In a world where it’s hard for adults to figure out what’s real sometimes, that’s kind of a daunting task.
I thought about how much technology has changed in my lifetime and how different it will be when Finn is older. How one day he will have a phone, but hopefully won’t spend too much time staring at the screen.
When I turned back to the salesman, he was telling Erin about a gadget we just HAD to have for
the car that would record regular engine diagnostics and all sorts of other things. Then he toldus about special watches he bought for his kids to wear so he could track them at all times. Hmmm.
I think next time we’ll just buy the phones online.
David Dewitt is an artist, blogger, and painter who lives with his family in the Rondout Valley. For more, visit daviddewitt.com.
by David DeWitt
A few days ago at breakfast, Finn got up abruptly and went to the refrigerator. I suspected it
was to get more maple syrup since I had just observed him carefully scooping the amount I had
given him off of the top of his oatmeal and slurping it down.
“Finn,” I said.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said turning back with a hand in the air and a tone that sounded
more like a 14 than 4 year old.
He then lugged the quart container back and plopped it on the table.
“Please?” he said.
The battle of sweets is fought hard in this household. Especially since my sweet tooth is the
size of Switzerland, Belgium and France combined. And it’s the dark confection those countries
are so good at that I tend to gravitate toward. This has not gone unnoticed.
A few weeks ago after I had sneaked a couple of pieces of 70 percent cacao from my secret
stash, Finn was suddenly at my side urgently needing to share something with me. He had a
set of Lego instructions in his hand. On one page were tiny pictures of other lego sets they want
you to buy.
“Come here look,” he said with his nose an inch from the page.
“Just a minute,” I said, pretending to look for something amongst the bottles of oils and
vinegars while chewing and swallowing as fast as I could. Then I squatted down next to him to
see better.
“This is the one I want for Christmas next year,” he whispered intensely, pointing like he was
showing me a map to buried treasure.
“Ok,” I whispered back “but Christmas is a long ways away. You may decide by then that you
want something else.”
He turned to me and his expression changed completely to a knowing smile.
“Says the man with the chocolate breath,” he said.
“What are you the chocolate police?” I said.
“Where is it?” he said scrunching up his nose and putting his hands on his hips.
I have to say, I love that he loves chocolate. Even if it’s not to the extent that I do. He doesn’t
always prefer it and he doesn’t generally like chocolate ice cream. But when I say we’re going
to make chocolate chip cookies he lights up as much as he does with the prospect of a new toy.
Which makes it even harder to limit it.
“You wouldn’t like it,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
“It’s gluten-free,” I said
“Yuck!” he said and walked away.
I accidentally discovered his aversion to that term about a year ago and I keep it in my special
weapons cache. I use it sparingly so as not to diminish it’s potency. And while I do feel a little
guilty saying it, I’m kind of telling the truth. He wouldn’t like the effects of having too much, nor
would I.
And it is gluten free.
And a man has to do what he can to protect his chocolate stash.
David Dewitt is an artist, blogger, and painter who lives with his family in the Rondout Valley. For more visit daviddewitt.com.
by David DeWitt
I took Finn with me to vote this week.
In the car on the way I was trying to explain the concept to him.
“It’s like being asked to raise your hand if you want something,” I said. “Except everyone in the State is being asked who we want for President. We can’t see each other’s hands so we have to write down who we want.” (I’ll let his uncle Brad explain the whole delegate and electoral college thing some day.)
“Raise your hand?” he asked.
“You know,” I said, “like when you’re at a party and somebody comes in and says ‘Who wants a cupcake?’ and you raise your hand?” I knew it was a bad example the moment the words left my mouth.
“Ooo I want a cupcake!” he said.
It took the rest of the trip to explain why we were not going to have a cupcake right then. Sometimes I’m good at explaining things, other times not.
We arrived at the polling place, which was thankfully in a fire station. If there’s one thing that can get his mind off a cupcake it’s a fire engine.
As we peeked in the windows at the trucks I wondered how much of this he would remember. I have vivid memories of my Mom taking me to vote when I was a kid, into the big metal booths with curtains. She would let me click the levers and when we were done we would pull the long handle and the curtains opened automatically. I suppose those are still around.
The electronic voting machines don’t instill as much confidence for me. On my home computer I’ve seen the message “File may have been lost” a few too many times. I love how it always says ‘may have’ as if it’s still looking for the file. Will it ever flash a message that says “I was wrong, I found it?”
You trust when you vote. You trust the candidate (to some degree), the people at the polling place, and the machines.
There has been a lot in the news about voter suppression, which causes people to say, “See it’s rigged, there’s no point in voting.” And that’s exactly what it’s designed to do.
But for as many people who are trying to rig elections I know there are just as many who have made it their calling to insure the integrity of our voting system. It’s those people we are putting our trust in when we pull the lever, punch the card, fill in the oval, or tap the screen.
Will the system ever be perfect? Probably not. But when we make our voices heard, it’s more difficult to suppress a million votes than a few hundred.
“Do YOU want to be President?” Finn said.
“No, I do not,” I said emphatically.
“Can I be president?” he asked.
“If you really want to,” I said.
“Ok,” he said. “I’ll be president and you can do the voting.”
That I would trust.
by David DeWitt
A few weeks ago Finn and I were fighting monsters in the back yard when he said, “You have to get that red lobster monster over there!”
I went along with it and pretended to fight a big lobster. But he wasn’t satisfied.
“No it’s really over there in the bush,” he said.
Then I saw it. Something shiny and red reflecting through the branches.
It was a deflated red metallic balloon. I pulled it out to take to the trash but noticed some writing on it.
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| The red balloon. Photo by David DeWitt. |
“Happy Birthday,” it said. There were a couple of names and “We miss you both” on one side.
There was a phone number with the message: “Tell me where this balloon was found.”
It looked like it had burst open, perhaps from reaching a high altitude.
I texted the number saying I had found it.
“You just made my day. Thank you so much,” came the reply just a few minutes later.
The balloon had been released in Philadelphia, about a 150 miles away.
I didn’t ask any more questions right away, but I kept thinking about it, wondering who the people were on the balloon. A couple of weeks later I texted again saying I was a writer and asking if they wanted to share their story.
We eventually spoke on the phone. He didn’t want his name mentioned but seemed happy to share. The two names on the balloon were family members who had passed. One was his brother-in-law who had survived a horrific car crash. “But then he was prescribed a drug that took him down the wrong path,” he said “He died of an overdose. My wife and I have been trying to raise awareness on the dangers of prescription drugs,” he said. “He died too soon.” The other name was a beloved uncle who on the day that he passed “had just visited our whole family,” then suffered a sudden massive heart attack.
“They were both good people. Good at what they did,” he said. “Sending the balloon up is like sending a message to them,” he said, “Getting as close as we can.”
I didn’t ask why he put his phone number on there. When we send out a thought or prayer, it’s nice to know that someone heard it.
Over the last several months, three of my cousins have passed suddenly and one just a couple of weeks after this balloon showed up. We had lost contact for years, but I have vivid memories of us all as kids at family reunions and extended summer visits.
There is a yearning to reach across the miles and years of separation.
Speaking on the phone with with my cousin Judy, sister of the cousin who died most recently, I had the oddest mix of emotions. Sharing sorrow, interspersed with the sheer joy of reconnection.
We promised to stay in better touch. To at least have an occasional chat.
To make sure our thought balloons are received.
David Dewitt is an artist, blogger, and painter who lives with his family in the Rondout Valley. For more visit daviddewitt.com.
by David DeWitt
This week our little family had its first real game night. That is, the first where Finn wasn’t trying to make up his own rules or rake all of the game pieces into a pile. The game of choice was Zingo. Kind of like Bingo except with little pictures on each square of the game card. A little gadget deals the game pieces two at a time. If you see one that matches an image on your card you have to grab it before another player does. The first player to fill up their card wins.
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| Finn quickly fills his Zingo card. Photo by David DeWitt. |
When we began, I wondered what Finn’s reaction would be if he lost, and, like most other parents, I considered trying to slant the game in his favor. I didn’t get far with that thought before I saw a little competitive being emerge with quick hands and the singular goal of domination. He won the first round but didn’t seem the least bit fazed when he lost the next one. He even seemed happy when Erin and I were winning, making sure we each got all the right game pieces. His enjoyment seemed to come from trying to guess whose card was going to fill up first. I loved seeing his easy-going spirit and found myself wishing he could somehow hold on to this healthy view of competition forever.
I thought back through my own childhood experiences of competition, some good, some not so good.
There was a brief disastrous career in little league but more positive experiences in elementary and junior high football.
I thought about how competition influences so much of our culture to the point where we perceive it to be in places it isn’t. We fall into the trap of comparing ourselves to people who seem to have it all together and then act as if someone is keeping a tally on how we measure up. I’ve heard so many parents say they feel in competition with other parents at the playground or in social situations. The art world presents its own challenges. When I’m in a venue with other artists, different as we all may be, it’s difficult not to compare myself to someone who’s more successful.
Recent studies say that competition is not innate in humans as previously thought. Our nature is to be cooperative, or help each other. Even animals that prey on each other create networks where they peacefully coexist most of the time.
How would life change if we no longer viewed our accomplished peers as competitors but rather as influencers spurring us on to develop our own best gifts? And what if we found ways to reach out to those who look up to us?
It may not solve all the problems in the world, but when we allow someone to excel without feeling personally diminished we’re allowing ourselves to shine as well.
Competition in itself may always be challenging, but family game night is a keeper.
David DeWitt is a painter, writer, and dad. He lives in Ulster County with his wife Erin and three year old son, Finn. To read David’s blog on art and fatherhood, visit daviddewitt.com.
by David DeWitt
A few nights ago during after-dinner conversation with friends, Erin was poking fun at things that I have held onto over the years. Two manual typewriters, a small film projector, and a couple of vintage sewing machines usually get honorable mention during these discussions. If it goes on long enough, my box of childhood toys will come up.
On this night it was books she’d noticed while rearranging the shelves. She pulled out a few to show our friends. Invitation to a Royal Wedding of Charles and Diana got a pretty good laugh.
Then some papers fell out of it onto the floor. They were things from my early childhood that I had forgotten about ,and for a moment I was baffled at how they ended up there.
Then I remembered one weekend in the basement at my parents house, searching for something with my Dad in his old metal filing cabinet that he’s been feeding with papers and clippings since I can remember.
In our search for whatever was so important, I saw a few of my childhood drawings sticking out of a folder. Thumbing through them, I found a letter that I wrote to Santa when I was around five or six.
I still don’t know how that got in there because I distinctly remember putting a stamp on it and my Mom saying she would mail it.
I took the letter and several of my favorite drawings and tucked them into a nice big hardcover book I knew I would never get rid of. Invitation to a Royal Wedding.
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| David's childhood letter to Santa. |
And here the letter was for a fresh reading. The Motorized Monsters Set, I have no recollection of wanting. I got the Hot Wheels race set, and the cowboy suit. The Smokey the Bear I still have in a box. He’s missing his hat, one eye and a great deal of his fur.
On Sunday Finn abruptly announced out of nowhere that he wanted a bike with a bell on it from Santa.
“Okay” we said. “Do you want to write him a letter?” “Oh...let’s just call him,“ he said “You want to FaceTime Santa?” I said. “No...actually,” he said, “I want to write Mrs. Claus.” “Really?” said Erin “Why is that?” “Then she could tell Santa to send me the bike,” he said.
Clearly he’s picked up on the chain of command.
He’s getting close to the age I was when I wrote that letter. And I can’t shield him from the disappointments that are bound to happen from not getting everything on his list some years.
I know it will happen. Just like the chemistry set that Santa wisely omitted from my list when I was six. Or the chimpanzee I wanted so desperately.
But hopefully there will be something like Smokey the Bear that he’ll remember cuddling and torturing and doctoring that will some day earn a place of honor in a very nice shoe box.
Next to two old typewriters and a vintage sewing machine.
David DeWitt is a painter, writer, and dad. He lives in Ulster County with his wife Erin and three year old son, Finn. To read David’s blog on art and fatherhood, visit daviddewitt.com.
by David DeWitt
On a hike with friends this past week a strange being inhabited my child, replacing the slightly awkward son of a few short months ago.
We live close to a trail that leads to a beautiful waterfall. The 15-minute trek requires scrambling over some rocks and boulders. It was impossible for us to do the full hike when we first moved here. We couldn’t get past the main entrance. Sticks and colorful bits of broken glass held more fascination for Finn.
Subsequent hikes have taken us to the bottom of the falls but not without plenty of detours and a long piggy back ride home. If we want real exercise we usually go separately.
Erin had colleagues over so she wanted us all to hike to the top of the falls before dinner. I thought that was ambitious for Finn, but Erin had recently done it herself so I trusted her motherly instinct.
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Finn and his mother Erin walk through the Catskills. Photo
by David DeWitt.
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We had both noticed Finn’s recent growth spurt, preceded by increased food intake and several added hours of sleep. And just that morning at breakfast he looked so tall in his chair I had to check to make sure he wasn’t sitting on a book. I wished I had taken his picture before bedtime just to compare.
I almost expect to wake up some morning and find a teenager sitting there. I’ve been told that actually happens.
When we reached the trailhead he whizzed right through and was running well ahead of us all. That was a first for him. I thought he was just showing off in front of company. But then when we were crossing the stream he fought for me to release his hand, and away he went balancing himself. Then he scuttled up the the mountain almost as easily as the rest of us.
Time lapse videos of kids have almost become cliché these days, but I’m especially fond of the short film by Frans Hofmeester who captured his 12-year-old daughter in front of the same backdrop for a few seconds every week from infancy. And then of course there’s the film Boyhood, which had Erin sobbing during the opening credits.
I had the thought of wanting to capture and stretch this moment out. “Slow down,” I echoed several times throughout the hike as he hopped from one rock to another with skill I hadn’t seen before. But even film can’t quite capture these transitions that seem now more abrupt than the changing seasons.
On the way back down the mountain there was a slip and a scrape, a brief cry that required a hug of comfort before he said “I’m ok,” and then he was on his way again. There was indeed a piggy back ride but much shorter this time.
Walking home through the woods Erin lifted her hands in the air, feeling the gentle shower of yellow and orange leaves falling from the trees. “It’s so beautiful,” she said. “But just a little sad too.”
David DeWitt is a painter, writer, and dad. He lives in Ulster County with his wife Erin and three year old son, Finn. To read David’s blog on art and fatherhood, visit www.daviddewitt.com.
by David DeWitt
In the midst of a marathon Batman/Spiderman play session Finn suddenly realized that he wasn’t wearing any pants.
“Batman!!! Where are my red pants?!“ he yelled. I couldn’t help but for a moment imagine that line being in one of the Batman or Spiderman movies, and what might have led up to it.
“I don’t know, Spiderman!” I replied. “I think they’re in the laundry! Have you thought of using your red shorts?”
“Yes, yes I’ll use those!” he said “Thank you Batman!”
Finn is constantly breaking new ground in the superhero world. He can be fighting crime one moment and completely domestic the next. We have been hiking, had lunch, tea time, and even been grocery shopping all while in character. He changes “costumes” about five times a day. And when he’s in character, it has to be his decision when to break it. We have had melt downs in the supermarket because we spoke to him as Finn and not the character he was playing.
He’s not always a superhero. He enjoys being knights, monsters, aliens with fifteen syllable names, construction workers, and of course firemen.
The most entertaining part is the costume assembly. He pulls bits and pieces from his own closet and ours, and not always what you would expect for the character’s clothing.
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Sir Finn the Gallant Knight, in his favorite homemade costume.
Photo by David DeWitt.
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He’s fond of a particular grey sweater of Erin’s when he’s playing a knight because it looks like the protective chain mail he has seen in medieval illustrations. His Daniel Tiger costume is a red sweater vest and then he wears nothing from the waist down because “Daniel doesn’t wear any pants.”
When we’re playing together I try to be completely committed to my roles. If my acting is too good he’ll stop and say, “You’re just kidding right?” Or if I seem just a little too frightened of his monster, he’ll take off his mask and say “It’s ok Daddoo. Look, it’s just me. Finn!”
Several times a day he plays on his own and he’s usually “‘in it to win it.” I watch him and remember vividly what it was like to be lost in play, what a gift that is, and how hard it is to do that as an adult. I do get lost in my art often, but rarely with a sense of abandon.
I finally understand those moments as a kid when I would catch my mom just staring at me. Thinking she was trying to catch me at something, but then she would just smile. I know that my gift is getting lost in observing him.
Soon enough he wants to pick up where we left off. “Oh. Hi Batman,” he says, “Do you want to play with me?” “I would love to,” I say. “Ok,” he says, “but first I have to go to the potty. Can you come wipe my bottom when I’m done?” “Of course I can Spiderman!” I say enthusiastically. “No Daddoo,” he says, “It’s just me. Finn.” Of course it is. Silly Batman.
David DeWitt is a painter, writer, and dad. He lives in Ulster County with his wife Erin and three year old son, Finn. To read David’s blog on art and fatherhood, visit www.daviddewitt.com.
by David DeWitt
When Erin and I decided nearly five years ago to have a child, my first worry was of having the physical energy to do so. I saw my former high school classmates on Facebook becoming empty nesters and grandparents. I was embarking on territory where I had no peers to look to for advice.
I had a brief conversation with a friend who was several years my senior. He had become a father for the first time three years earlier. I told him we were thinking about it and he said nothing. He just stared with his mouth open, seemingly at a loss for words. Moments passed and I heard air escape as if he thought, “If I just let some breath out maybe the right words will follow.” Finally he said, through a forced smile, “It’s just so expensive.” Yes. Well there is that too. But having grown up in a large and sometimes poor family I knew that a child could be happy with very little.
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| Painting by David DeWitt. |
There is the school of thought that says if one can be discouraged from doing something, then it wasn’t meant to be in the first place. We began “trying” at the beginning of the year. Our first ultrasound was a few months later. The heartbeat was so strong that even the technician jumped. As a father-to-be, I heard the sound of a child who was ready for this world and stopping for no one. My thoughts turned again to being able to keep up with my kid. “You don’t wanna wait till you’re too old to play catch with them!” was a comment rattling around in my head.
By chance or maybe by design, we were invited to dinner along with another couple. They were becoming empty nesters, but I soon discovered they’d had their child at the same age we were embarking on our journey. I voiced my fears. The father calmly said, “What you lack in energy you will more than compensate for with the extra twenty years of life experience.”
That extra twenty years gave me time to realize that I don’t remember ever playing catch with my dad. But he gave me much, much more to get through life. I realized that my happiest moments from childhood had common denominators. They were moments free of expectations that included the presence of one or both of my parents.
As an artist I worried there would be no time for my work, not in the way that I was used to anyway. That, I was right about. My way of working would never be the same again. But neither would anything else. Work, sleep, and socializing would all morph rapidly into a form I wouldn’t have recognized or imagined five years ago.
But the pay off. Ah yes, the payoff. It’s the joy of sharing fleeting moments free of expectation with a boy who shoots out of bed every morning like a rocket, ready for this world and stopping for no one.
David DeWitt is a painter, writer, and dad. He lives in Ulster County with his wife Erin and three year old son, Finn. To read David’s blog on art and fatherhood, visit www.daviddewitt.com.
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