Eaker Family Christmas Letter Circa 2011
It’s been another fascinating and baffling year at the Eaker’s so, because I know you have nothing better to do than spend 20 minutes reading my diatribes instead of bathing your pet squirrel, here is the 2011 edition of the Eaker Christmas Letter, or How to Not Win Friends and Influence People.
We sent our first born to college this year, and for those of you who haven’t experienced this treat, grab your wallets and come on along.
There are certain milestones experienced in life that signify you are getting older. I am steadily racking up these watershed events like an extreme couponer gathering Sunday paper inserts. These touchstones include walking on the beach and discovering you’re wearing black socks with sandals, acknowledging that Metamucil is one of the four food groups, and having 68 pairs of reading glasses stashed throughout the house. The most recent reminder that the grim reaper is salivating over my aging rear end is taking my oldest daughter to college. Katie is my adventuresome child. She sees herself climbing peaks in Nepal, teaching yoga to Native American preschoolers, or snowboarding in Norway, all thanks to a grant from the National Endowment of Daddy. Her two criteria for college were first, it had to be out of the South (“I can’t see myself living out life as a bit part in Steel Magnolias”) and second, it had to be in a big city ( translated in dad speak to high rents, high crime, and high anxiety for parents). After an extensive search and expensive tour she applied to and was accepted at a small liberal arts school in Chicago, home of the White Sox, Bank of America marathon, and the highest coed kidnap and ransom rate in the country ( okay, maybe a bit of an exaggeration on that last one).
We got to Chicago, settled in our hotel room and ventured to the college campus. I had already retrieved a map of campus, not to be efficient but to find out where all the bathrooms were, and it was off to meet the roommate. One of the great shocks I had as a dad, and an older dad to boot, was the number of co-ed dorms on campuses now. In fact, single sex dorms seem to be as popular as liberals at a tent revival meeting, and as rare. There is nothing more comforting to a dad then to walk down the hall of his demure 18 year old’s dorm and come face to towel with a 6 foot 5, 285 pound ex con masquerading as a underclassman linebacker fresh from his weekly shower. He seemed to take it all in stride smiling like a cheshire cat who had just eaten twelve mice. I casually mentioned to the half clothed behemoth that I was a small arms dealer for a Middle East consortium and wondered if he had seen the concealed weapons permit I had dropped somewhere. Times are indeed changing, but not always for the best.
After bumping into Bubba the love behemoth, I cautiously wandered into my daughter’s dorm room apprehensive about what I would find. Pleasantly surprised, and definitely relieved, I found 3 girls, one being her roommate (a female thank God). Her roomie was a Vietnamese native who grew up in Norway and went to boarding school in Sweden and was now making her first trip to the US. I’m not kidding here. I couldn’t have made that up. Her two friends were equally as cosmopolitan as they were from Swaziland (I’m not even sure where Swaziland is!) and Palestine. Boy how times have changed. When I went to college my roommate was a beer gutted, tobacco chewing NASCAR lovin‘ Billy Bob from Bellbuckle, Tennessee. Times are indeed changing, and this time most assuredly for the best.
Soon Katie somewhat unceremoniously hinted that it was time for her mother and I to leave. We knew we would see her the next day so this was not the obligatory mushy goodbye. This was more “I’ve had about enough of parental bonding to last me the whole semester so let me begin to pave my own way” kind of goodbye. The not so subtle hint was appropriately received and Susan and I walked back to our hotel. I noticed that the walk back was much less strenuous than our walk to the college that morning, and I discovered that it was mainly due to my much lighter wallet!
Back at the dorm the following morning it was finally time to say our goodbyes. Katie knew she had to be quick because her mother was a skinny minute from a complete melt down. I on the other hand was a rock solid bastion of stability...Not! Combine the posture of a jelly fish and the composure of Jimmy Swaggert admitting he was smoozing prostitutes and you get a pretty good idea of where I was at. After all, this was my first born, the first fruit of my loins, my genetic legacy, my baby. Of course I shouldn’t have blathered those exact terms to her at that moment as she could only look on in epic embarrassment and vow never to bring us back to college. Somehow we struggled through and she vaulted up the dorm stairs eagerly anticipating the rest of her life, and Susan and I skulked slowly, purposelessly back to the hotel.
Caroline, our youngest paved her own way this year. I have learned many things, such as never say cheerleading without the necessary modifier “competitive cheerleading”. In our house there is a massive distinction between the wimpy sideline stuff (you know, gimme an A ...) versus the intense, demanding, horrifically dangerous sport of death pyramiding some call competitive cheerleading. This sport has a higher injury rate than football and requires 3 hours of makeup application and preparation to boot. I don’t see many 300 lb lineman worried about their uniform making their butt look big, but welcome to the world of power stunts and plastered grins. Caroline is a tumbler and a base. In other words she gets to hurl her body into the air with more gyrations than Shakira and then try to catch the “flyers” as they descend from their perch on top of the stunt pyramids. There is something majestically disturbing about a 5 foot 3 one hundred and ten-ish 16 year old standing between you and a fractured pelvis. But she loves it so who am I to object to her antics. Remember, this is the child who jumped 2000 pound horses when she was 6. She also debuted at Social. For those uneducated uncouths, a bit of explanation about Social is warranted.
Social is a fascinating study in adolescent herd behavior that oozes forth from the primordial southern small town gestalt and takes hormone ravaged teens and creates mannered, gentile belles and beaus. In other words, its a cash cow that thrives on peer pressure and moms desires for little Johnny and little Sally to not be social misfits. Begun in a more gallant age, Social attempts to harness World-of-Warcraft playing, acne aversive boys and teach them the importance of proper escort position and which fork to use and help girls to realize that exposed belly buttons and halter tops are are “hooker-chic”. And they do a surprisingly good job at it!. Imagine the difficulty in taking a video game obsessed man-child fresh from blowing up an online demon Ork and putting him in tails and gloves and have him utter such phrases as “So nice to meet you” and “May I have this dance?” This is about as natural to these kids as telling the truth is to a congressman, but the Social instructors somehow pull it off year after year.
The Spring formal is a particularly interesting affair as it is the culmination of a years worth of cajoling, gum extrusion, scolding for excessive talking, and mortgaging the house to pay for a Social dress. As the father of two daughters who have pranced and paraded around the Civic Center floor for Spring Formal, I can say that the money I have invested in ball gowns is equal to the gross national product of Grenada. However, Caroline never looked more beautiful (thank God she looks like her mother). As I watched the immeasurably infinite Grand March, (thousands upon thousands of kids streaming in the auditorium that, when assembled, looked like a collection of extras from Gone With The Wind) I fantasized about owning my own dress shop and capturing this market each Spring. The thousands upon thousands of dollars spent on fabric and flowers no doubt does more for the local economy than a government bailout, and I am told there is a fortune to be made in dress consignments. The amount of money generated by this one event must make Bernie Madoff jealous; however, I am warmed to know I am providing the college tuition for some seamstresses' kid year after year. Nevertheless, sitting at the Civic Center counting bodies reinforced that the CSRA is probably the shag and fox trot capital of the Southeast, and that alone is worth dipping into the 401-K for.
When I rant about Social, my wife is fond of reminding me that I am only jealous because I didn’t have such a privileged upbringing. Raised in east Tennessee, we were more concerned about stocking the outhouse than which fork to use with the salad. In my home town, a divorce and a tornado were very similar in that someone was bound to lose a doublewide trailer. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t wish my backwoods hillbilly genes to be passed on to my sophisticated daughters, but I guess I feel I turned out okay in spite of not knowing the intricate choreography of “Amos Moses”. She maintains that Knoxville probably had a Social or its equivalent and that I was too busy climbing the nerd ladder to notice, but I insist that no such group existed in Rocky Top. Can you imagine a hundred of Knoxville’s finest Cotillion debutants decked out in bright orange dresses to match their dates overalls. My wife grew up in Macon, Georgia where Social was as intrinsic to the culture as Little Richard, and she reveled in the experience. To this day whenever she hears “I Love Beach Music” she spits out her gum and hurriedly forms a line. Those of you who did Social understand that reference, and those of you who didn’t...well you are probably way to unsophisticated to understand it anyway. Do I feel socially inferior and manners handicapped from not doing Dance Club and Cotillion? Not really, but I will admit that today on the dance floor I look like a severely spastic John Travolta trying to keep the beat as only a lily-white boy can. There is no doubt in my mind that had I been subjected to Social as a teen I would today have the panache of a Fred Astaire, the moves of a Gene Kelly, and the looks of a Homer Simpson.
Caroline is sixteen and driving. I realize this shouldn’t make waves of nausea crash over your duodenum like other ominous statements such as , “Armageddon is scheduled for next Wednesday” or “It’s just a little audit”, but it does, nevrtheless. The thought of this delicate flower trying to change lanes with a tattoo wielding, one tooth 18 wheeler-driving son of the Confederacy makes me squeamish. I have tried on numerous occasions to convince her that it is not her lack of judgment that scares me; it is the millions of fools that are on the road with her that give me pause. I mean, 24 million folks voted for Barak Obama. That should scare any self respecting father! Nevertheless, time marches on and so does the insurance premiums. But she has proven herself a very safe study. Maybe it’s the Sherman Tank I make her drive!
Susan and I have simply survived another year. Let’s face it, at this season of our life our kids take precedence. The last time we did anything remotely resembling a social outing that had nothing to do with the kids was at a “Bill Clinton is the Antichrist Rally” when he took office. Yea, we have cured cancer and solved world peace, but that takes a back seat to high school football games and texting. We have had a great year watching our girls grow and mature and become fine young women. What else do we need?
We hope you and yours have a blessed Christmas and new year and may all your days be filled with laughter!
It’s been another fascinating and baffling year at the Eaker’s so, because I know you have nothing better to do than spend 20 minutes reading my diatribes instead of bathing your pet squirrel, here is the 2011 edition of the Eaker Christmas Letter, or How to Not Win Friends and Influence People.
We sent our first born to college this year, and for those of you who haven’t experienced this treat, grab your wallets and come on along.
There are certain milestones experienced in life that signify you are getting older. I am steadily racking up these watershed events like an extreme couponer gathering Sunday paper inserts. These touchstones include walking on the beach and discovering you’re wearing black socks with sandals, acknowledging that Metamucil is one of the four food groups, and having 68 pairs of reading glasses stashed throughout the house. The most recent reminder that the grim reaper is salivating over my aging rear end is taking my oldest daughter to college. Katie is my adventuresome child. She sees herself climbing peaks in Nepal, teaching yoga to Native American preschoolers, or snowboarding in Norway, all thanks to a grant from the National Endowment of Daddy. Her two criteria for college were first, it had to be out of the South (“I can’t see myself living out life as a bit part in Steel Magnolias”) and second, it had to be in a big city ( translated in dad speak to high rents, high crime, and high anxiety for parents). After an extensive search and expensive tour she applied to and was accepted at a small liberal arts school in Chicago, home of the White Sox, Bank of America marathon, and the highest coed kidnap and ransom rate in the country ( okay, maybe a bit of an exaggeration on that last one).
We got to Chicago, settled in our hotel room and ventured to the college campus. I had already retrieved a map of campus, not to be efficient but to find out where all the bathrooms were, and it was off to meet the roommate. One of the great shocks I had as a dad, and an older dad to boot, was the number of co-ed dorms on campuses now. In fact, single sex dorms seem to be as popular as liberals at a tent revival meeting, and as rare. There is nothing more comforting to a dad then to walk down the hall of his demure 18 year old’s dorm and come face to towel with a 6 foot 5, 285 pound ex con masquerading as a underclassman linebacker fresh from his weekly shower. He seemed to take it all in stride smiling like a cheshire cat who had just eaten twelve mice. I casually mentioned to the half clothed behemoth that I was a small arms dealer for a Middle East consortium and wondered if he had seen the concealed weapons permit I had dropped somewhere. Times are indeed changing, but not always for the best.
After bumping into Bubba the love behemoth, I cautiously wandered into my daughter’s dorm room apprehensive about what I would find. Pleasantly surprised, and definitely relieved, I found 3 girls, one being her roommate (a female thank God). Her roomie was a Vietnamese native who grew up in Norway and went to boarding school in Sweden and was now making her first trip to the US. I’m not kidding here. I couldn’t have made that up. Her two friends were equally as cosmopolitan as they were from Swaziland (I’m not even sure where Swaziland is!) and Palestine. Boy how times have changed. When I went to college my roommate was a beer gutted, tobacco chewing NASCAR lovin‘ Billy Bob from Bellbuckle, Tennessee. Times are indeed changing, and this time most assuredly for the best.
Soon Katie somewhat unceremoniously hinted that it was time for her mother and I to leave. We knew we would see her the next day so this was not the obligatory mushy goodbye. This was more “I’ve had about enough of parental bonding to last me the whole semester so let me begin to pave my own way” kind of goodbye. The not so subtle hint was appropriately received and Susan and I walked back to our hotel. I noticed that the walk back was much less strenuous than our walk to the college that morning, and I discovered that it was mainly due to my much lighter wallet!
Back at the dorm the following morning it was finally time to say our goodbyes. Katie knew she had to be quick because her mother was a skinny minute from a complete melt down. I on the other hand was a rock solid bastion of stability...Not! Combine the posture of a jelly fish and the composure of Jimmy Swaggert admitting he was smoozing prostitutes and you get a pretty good idea of where I was at. After all, this was my first born, the first fruit of my loins, my genetic legacy, my baby. Of course I shouldn’t have blathered those exact terms to her at that moment as she could only look on in epic embarrassment and vow never to bring us back to college. Somehow we struggled through and she vaulted up the dorm stairs eagerly anticipating the rest of her life, and Susan and I skulked slowly, purposelessly back to the hotel.
Caroline, our youngest paved her own way this year. I have learned many things, such as never say cheerleading without the necessary modifier “competitive cheerleading”. In our house there is a massive distinction between the wimpy sideline stuff (you know, gimme an A ...) versus the intense, demanding, horrifically dangerous sport of death pyramiding some call competitive cheerleading. This sport has a higher injury rate than football and requires 3 hours of makeup application and preparation to boot. I don’t see many 300 lb lineman worried about their uniform making their butt look big, but welcome to the world of power stunts and plastered grins. Caroline is a tumbler and a base. In other words she gets to hurl her body into the air with more gyrations than Shakira and then try to catch the “flyers” as they descend from their perch on top of the stunt pyramids. There is something majestically disturbing about a 5 foot 3 one hundred and ten-ish 16 year old standing between you and a fractured pelvis. But she loves it so who am I to object to her antics. Remember, this is the child who jumped 2000 pound horses when she was 6. She also debuted at Social. For those uneducated uncouths, a bit of explanation about Social is warranted.
Social is a fascinating study in adolescent herd behavior that oozes forth from the primordial southern small town gestalt and takes hormone ravaged teens and creates mannered, gentile belles and beaus. In other words, its a cash cow that thrives on peer pressure and moms desires for little Johnny and little Sally to not be social misfits. Begun in a more gallant age, Social attempts to harness World-of-Warcraft playing, acne aversive boys and teach them the importance of proper escort position and which fork to use and help girls to realize that exposed belly buttons and halter tops are are “hooker-chic”. And they do a surprisingly good job at it!. Imagine the difficulty in taking a video game obsessed man-child fresh from blowing up an online demon Ork and putting him in tails and gloves and have him utter such phrases as “So nice to meet you” and “May I have this dance?” This is about as natural to these kids as telling the truth is to a congressman, but the Social instructors somehow pull it off year after year.
The Spring formal is a particularly interesting affair as it is the culmination of a years worth of cajoling, gum extrusion, scolding for excessive talking, and mortgaging the house to pay for a Social dress. As the father of two daughters who have pranced and paraded around the Civic Center floor for Spring Formal, I can say that the money I have invested in ball gowns is equal to the gross national product of Grenada. However, Caroline never looked more beautiful (thank God she looks like her mother). As I watched the immeasurably infinite Grand March, (thousands upon thousands of kids streaming in the auditorium that, when assembled, looked like a collection of extras from Gone With The Wind) I fantasized about owning my own dress shop and capturing this market each Spring. The thousands upon thousands of dollars spent on fabric and flowers no doubt does more for the local economy than a government bailout, and I am told there is a fortune to be made in dress consignments. The amount of money generated by this one event must make Bernie Madoff jealous; however, I am warmed to know I am providing the college tuition for some seamstresses' kid year after year. Nevertheless, sitting at the Civic Center counting bodies reinforced that the CSRA is probably the shag and fox trot capital of the Southeast, and that alone is worth dipping into the 401-K for.
When I rant about Social, my wife is fond of reminding me that I am only jealous because I didn’t have such a privileged upbringing. Raised in east Tennessee, we were more concerned about stocking the outhouse than which fork to use with the salad. In my home town, a divorce and a tornado were very similar in that someone was bound to lose a doublewide trailer. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t wish my backwoods hillbilly genes to be passed on to my sophisticated daughters, but I guess I feel I turned out okay in spite of not knowing the intricate choreography of “Amos Moses”. She maintains that Knoxville probably had a Social or its equivalent and that I was too busy climbing the nerd ladder to notice, but I insist that no such group existed in Rocky Top. Can you imagine a hundred of Knoxville’s finest Cotillion debutants decked out in bright orange dresses to match their dates overalls. My wife grew up in Macon, Georgia where Social was as intrinsic to the culture as Little Richard, and she reveled in the experience. To this day whenever she hears “I Love Beach Music” she spits out her gum and hurriedly forms a line. Those of you who did Social understand that reference, and those of you who didn’t...well you are probably way to unsophisticated to understand it anyway. Do I feel socially inferior and manners handicapped from not doing Dance Club and Cotillion? Not really, but I will admit that today on the dance floor I look like a severely spastic John Travolta trying to keep the beat as only a lily-white boy can. There is no doubt in my mind that had I been subjected to Social as a teen I would today have the panache of a Fred Astaire, the moves of a Gene Kelly, and the looks of a Homer Simpson.
Caroline is sixteen and driving. I realize this shouldn’t make waves of nausea crash over your duodenum like other ominous statements such as , “Armageddon is scheduled for next Wednesday” or “It’s just a little audit”, but it does, nevrtheless. The thought of this delicate flower trying to change lanes with a tattoo wielding, one tooth 18 wheeler-driving son of the Confederacy makes me squeamish. I have tried on numerous occasions to convince her that it is not her lack of judgment that scares me; it is the millions of fools that are on the road with her that give me pause. I mean, 24 million folks voted for Barak Obama. That should scare any self respecting father! Nevertheless, time marches on and so does the insurance premiums. But she has proven herself a very safe study. Maybe it’s the Sherman Tank I make her drive!
Susan and I have simply survived another year. Let’s face it, at this season of our life our kids take precedence. The last time we did anything remotely resembling a social outing that had nothing to do with the kids was at a “Bill Clinton is the Antichrist Rally” when he took office. Yea, we have cured cancer and solved world peace, but that takes a back seat to high school football games and texting. We have had a great year watching our girls grow and mature and become fine young women. What else do we need?
We hope you and yours have a blessed Christmas and new year and may all your days be filled with laughter!
