Revisiting Fahrvergnügen

We recently purchased a used Volkswagen Jetta wagon as our family’s second car; the one I primarily drive.  As I commute to work and take the car on errand runs, the term “Fahrvergnügen,” which means “driving enjoyment” in English, keeps running through my brain.  But it’s really not driving enjoyment that I’m experiencing; it’s the satisfaction, albeit superficial, of finding a brand that fits you and your family. And maybe being a part of something a bit larger in the process.

The good folks at Wikipedia reminded me that Fahrvergnügen was used during a 1990 ad campaign featuring the tagline “It’s what makes a car a Volkswagen.”  Yet I recall being drawn to Volkswagens in the late 1970s when I observed Things, Beatles and Microbuses on the highways and back roads of southeastern Connecticut.  I didn’t recognize this at the time but I must have appreciated the aesthetics, the design of the vehicles and no doubt the clean, iconic logo helped.  And then, as I grew up, Volkswagen came to mean something more.

I will always associate Volkswagen with counterculture and rebellion; ironic, considering the car derives from a nation known for its efficiency and organization.  By now the hackneyed image is seared into our brain – from K-tel commercials and countless bad movies: A long-haired Hippie with a Jesus-style beard and mirrored sunglasses leans out the window of his VW Microbus and flashes the Peace sign to the strains of “Get Together” or “Sunshine of Your Love.”  Yet the counterculture I am referring to is much more nuanced and enduring.

As I referenced in an earlier post, “Hippies,” the much-maligned symbol of the counterculture era, were right more often than they were wrong.  Not too long ago vegetarianism, recycling, solar energy and organic farming were ideas that literally ran counter to the prevailing thinking at the time.  Now they are embraced as key elements of our society.

On September 8, Ethan will begin attending a school that embraces an alternative education philosophy with clear counterculture influences.  I hope he experiences a Fahrvergnügen of his own.

 

 

 

 

Fahrvergnügen (German pronunciation: [ˈfaːɐ̯.fɛɐ̯ˌɡnyːɡn̩]) was an advertising slogan used by the German automobile manufacturer Volkswagen in a 1990 U.S. ad campaign that included a stick figure driving a Volkswagen car.^[1]

That German term means “driving enjoyment” in English (from fahren, “to drive,” and Vergnügen, “enjoyment”). One of the tag lines incorporating the word was: “Fahrvergnügen: It’s what makes a car a Volkswagen.”

References[edit]

1. Jump up^

 

 

That German term means “driving enjoyment” in English (from fahren, “to drive,” and Vergnügen, “enjoyment”).

 

“Fahrvergnügen: It’s what makes a car a Volkswagen.”

What Would Scooby Do?

Like most things with Ethan, it’s become routine at this point.  He greets me each morning, still sleepy, and whispers, “Daddy, is it o.k. if I watch TV?”  “Sure, buddy,” I reply, after which he curls up in a blanket on our bed and turns on the set.

For the most part, I will leave Ethan alone, emptying the dishwasher and packing lunches while the white noise of Jessie, iCarly or Sam & Cat droned on in the other room.  But lately an immediately recognizable theme song has been drawing me to the set.  Ethan has discovered the original late 1960s-era Scooby-Doo, Where Are You!

Not surprisingly, the show is exactly how I remember it – concurrently dated and relevant.  Ethan sits, engrossed, as the gang merrily plugs along on one of their sort-of-dark-but-not-too-scary adventures.  I usually stand in mid-stride and watch with Ethan, holding a half-assembled lunch in my hand.  Ethan will turn his head and smile to acknowledge by presence, then goes right back to watching.

I eventually return to my duties and get on with the morning.  Some people do yoga or go outside to get centered before heading off to work.  I ironically find the chaos of our household comforting.  It’s for Wendy and the kids that I am, to think of it in Zen terms. Everything else is gravy.

Despite enjoying the chaos, I am not exactly displeased to have 20-30 minutes to myself as I drive to work.  I might listen to music, but it becomes nothing more than a background hum.  Maybe I’m thinking about something; maybe not.  It depends on the day.

I park my car in the same spot each morning and it wasn’t until recently that I noted the bumper sticker on the car next to mine.  It asked, rhetorically, “What would Scooby Do?” I would imagine he would put others before himself.  He would be grateful for life’s simpler pleasures.  And he would be cheerily tenacious when pursuing most objectives.

Another reminder of why Scooby-Doo is still relevant, regardless of our age.  And why he ultimately will  outlive us all.

 

 

 

Let’s Get Together (In a Minnesota Kind of Way)

In one of my earliest posts, I opined on the Minnesota State Fair and how I enjoyed the idea of the Fair more than the Fair itself.  Well, I can tell you that I went the other day, along with Wendy and Sasha (Ethan was at a Choir sleepover and doesn’t like the Fair) and truly had a blast.  What’s changed is that I’ve become more of a Minnesotan.

I arrived in Minnesota more than 17 years ago with Wendy looking to make friends.  What I found were people who had plenty of them already.  It’s a common theme you hear among Twin Cities transplants.  People here are nice, “Minnesota Nice,” as they say, but not exactly warm.  They give you a friendly welcome, but don’t always welcome you into their home.

Wendy and I gradually built a series of lasting, meaningful friendships but they came about piecemeal.  I  am blessed to have people who have been a part of our Twin Cities life almost since our arrival.  Yet I have difficulty comprehending how we actually made friends in a culture that can be far from hospitable.

Of course, no discussion of Minnesota is complete without mentioning the winter and I will let all of you non-Minnesotans in on a little secret – we simultaneously love and loathe it. Sure, it’s fun to kvetch about snow that comes right after Halloween and lingers well into April.  But we appreciate winter because it keeps the riffraff out and ensures the Twin Cities, despite its myriad wonders, will never become another Seattle, Austin or Brooklyn. It will never be too cool simply because it’s too cold.

Which brings me to the State Fair, known as the “Great Minnesota Get Together.”  It serves as the official coda to our summer which, as we all bemoan, is way too short. Well, I obviously can’t speak for all my Minnesota friends but I can tell you that for me, it’s plenty long enough.

The Fair could not have come at a better time because during the past few weeks, I have secretly longed for winter.  I have felt crabby, somewhat misanthropic and ironically, quite Minnesotan. I see friends and neighbors out and about, enjoying daylight and warmth while they still can, grill tongs or adult beverage in hand. Sure, I smile and wave, exchanging hearty greetings, which I truly mean.  Yet I’m also ready for the cold weather to come so I can literally and figuratively hibernate.  I mean, how much warmth and openness is a man expected to take?

The State Fair, however, levels the playing field.  It’s the communal last hurrah and we make the best of it, giving bear hugs to friends and acquaintances we bump into with an almost East Coast level of ebullience.  I too became caught up in the camaraderie, enjoying the Fair in a way that I hadn’t previously.

Per our family tradition, we stopped for Gatorade upon exiting the Fair.  I guzzled it as we walked to the car, hoping the beverage would somehow dilute the grease, sugar and starch clogging my digestive system.  But I knew it wouldn’t wash away the stubborn pride that has collected in me the last 17 years; a closeness that in some ways might also have made me more distant; perhaps more wary.

This year I was leaving the Fair as a Minnesotan.  And I’ll be back before I know it. Once I I’m done gripping about the inevitable long winter, wet spring and too-short summer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Parent (Reminiscing) Trap

Cause the good ole days weren’t
Always good
And tomorrow ain’t as bad as it seems
Billy Joel, “Keeping the Faith”

It started innocently enough last Friday when Wendy and I watched Free to Be You and Me on DVD with Ethan and Sasha.  The screening was our first in what we hoped would welcome a regular Friday family movie night.  I had very low expectations and it had nothing to do with dated dance routines and heavy-handed left-leaning messaging.  The thing is; I abhor reminiscing.  Or at least I thought I did.

I have never considered myself a sentimental person; in fact the notion gets under my skin.  You make choices in life and hope they go right more often than they go wrong. Sometimes good fortune comes your way but most of the time you have to make your own fortune.  And it will drive you nuts if you spend too much time thinking about why things do or don’t happen. At least that’s how I considered my outlook.

But I felt some of my resistance giving way as Wendy and I watched Free to Be You and Me.  From the opening sequence on, we remembered almost all the words to the songs; much to Ethan and Sasha’s feigned embarrassment.  While certain elements seemed dated from a production standpoint, I couldn’t help but consider the enduring message of hope.  It’s what we instill in our children; it’s what we’re filled with growing up, if we’re fortunate enough. And in some instances, it’s the quickest thing to dissipate as we age.

The Friday night screening seemed to spark something in Ethan and Sasha who each subsequent night, requested we watch home movies, or in our case, DVDs, before bedtime.  So each evening this week after dinner, I have sat on the couch between our kids and watched ourselves.  I have to be honest; I am a little bit jealous of the family I see. They seem so young; they seem so happy; they seem so full of hope.

As I watched these DVDs, my aversion to reminiscing came rushing back to me because I realized that reminiscing by its very essence infers comparison.  I don’t know about you but I often fall into the trap of romanticizing the past or conveniently forgetting any challenges I experienced at the time.  It’s not hard to do, especially when you’re slumped on the couch, exhausted, watching a younger, more spry, fuller-haired version of yourself bounce around with two adoring children.

Not surprisingly, I am always the one to pull the plug on the home movie viewing.  “Come on, guys, it’s time for showers,” I say, to the inevitable groans from Ethan and Sasha. With the DVDs back in their proper place, I can go back to being a father, instead of watching myself be one.  I can kiss our kids goodnight, tuck them in and know they will wake up tomorrow hopeful.  As will I.

 

 

 

 

Saving Head, Not Face

Forget the Peace Corps; forget the New Frontier.  I was sold on President Kennedy before I had even graduated elementary school.  The man supposedly refused to wear a hat.  As such, he provided a worthy excuse to my parents and that made JFK worthy of admiration.

During the winter, my mother would demand my brother and me wear hats when we went outside to go sledding or ice skating.  Now I’m sure that when we were younger we never raised a fuss.  But I recall beginning to push back around the time I was 14 or so and offering President Kennedy as an example.  I didn’t see a hat for the practical purposes it offered, such as preventing frostbite.  Instead, I saw it as an impediment to my perceived coolness.

Notice I wrote “perceived” as there certainly was nothing cool about me at the time.  I sported what would now be considered a “Jewfro” and a warmer variation of a Don Johnson-inspired outfit.  Clearly, I didn’t want a winter hat to mar my well cultivated image.

It was my father’s turn in the summer.  Each Sunday we would pack the car and head to the Mile Creek Beach Club in Old Lyme.  Like clockwork, as my brother and I were about to get into the backseat, my father would look at us incredulously and ask “Aren’t you boys going to bring a hat?”  We would probably condescendingly roll our eyes in response. My father, just wanting to get on and enjoy his Sunday, would shake his head and get behind the wheel.

A day at the beach, you understand, was fraught with exponentially more peril than an afternoon sledding or ice skating.  I would see my female classmates (and hopefully some older than me) in their bathing suits and they in turn would see me.  My baggy Hobie Cat bathing trunks, Vans and Wayfarers connoted suave-ness and sophistication.  I couldn’t have a baseball hat ruin the effect.

I maintained my attitude toward hats all the way through the late 1990s.  Wendy and I took a road trip to Arizona and Utah, spending our days hiking and riding in a rented convertible. I didn’t wear a hat and paid the price with several itchy, painful nights and a follow-up visit to a dermatologist.

Today, I borrow one of Ethan’s baseball hats when I go outside for an extended period of time during the summer.  And I keep several ski caps on hand for walking Astro, running or taking the kids sledding and ice skating during the winter.  I have learned that vanity can turn ugly when you leave it exposed.

 

 

 

 

 

Watching Doughnuts, Not Holes

“Keep your eye on the doughnut and not the hole.”

For some reason I feel the need to make excuses for the source of the quote.  I don’t want people to think I’m too arty or pretentious.  But the fact is I learned the quote from David Lynch and want to ensure he receives proper credit.

The quote is featured in Lynch’s book  Catching the Big Fish: Meditation, Consciousness, and Creativity.  My brother gave me the book as a birthday present a few years ago and it mostly sat on my bookshelf.  Until I read it and proceeded to re-read it every several months.

The book offers some insight into Lynch’s upbringing and creative vision but mostly serves as a paean to Transcendental Meditation (TM), which he has practiced twice a day for several decades.  David Lynch doesn’t use TM to achieve inner harmony as much as he does break through to a deeper level of consciousness in an effort to unleash bigger ideas.  But it’s the quote about doughnuts and holes that really stuck with me as I find it so applicable to my life.

It is admittedly hard not to, especially with children, but I seem to spend a great deal of time focusing on the unseen.  I drive to work and wonder what the day has in store for me and before the work day ends, I’m thinking about tomorrow.  Then I drive home and wonder what mood will prevail upon my arrival.  Did Ethan and Sasha have a good day or will I walk in the door to fighting?

Sure, in between these thoughts I manage to focus on what’s in front of me.  But I can’t help but wonder if I am short-changing the present for the future.  Maybe I really am concentrating too much on the unseen doughnut hole at the expense of the metaphoric delicious pastry that is my fortunate life.

Just yesterday afternoon, Sasha entered the house and asked me to come outside because she needed to “show me something scary.”  Sasha led me to a spot on the sidewalk outside our cul-de-sac and pointed to a small dead rodent with ants and flies clustered around a bloody stump where the head normally would be situated. Remembering the severed ear that opens David Lynch’s signature film Blue Velvet, I appreciated the irony and tried to put his doughnut/hole theory to the test.

With help from a neighbor, Sasha and I surveyed the immediate area and located a broken rabbit’s nest and another small carcass that turned out to be a baby rabbit. Within minutes, we spotted another rabbit, perhaps the mother, pacing nervously.  Quite possibly it was waiting to seek revenge on the predator.  But that didn’t matter for now; it was the hole and we already had our doughnut.

Sasha watched as I helped the neighbor dispose of the headless, doomed rabbit.   By this point Wendy and Ethan joined us outside; it was time to make our planned trip to Chipotle. I quickly went inside to wash my hands but definitely didn’t have burritos on the brain.   Naturally, I was thinking about doughnuts.  As I will be for quite some time.

 

Holding Onto Nothing

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger. This post was originally written in August, 2014. 

There’s a Yiddish, term, shpilkes, that refers to a general impatience or state of agitation; difficulty sitting still.  It’s a term directed at me by friends and family. And it hasn’t always been misplaced.

Knowing this about myself, I take a specific approach to relaxation.  We began a family vacation this week at a lake resort in northern Minnesota. I aimed to get some reading done, a little writing, and spend quality time with the kids and Wendy.  It means I find myself holding onto nothing as much as possible.

As it is for many of you who read this blog, time is my most precious commodity.  My career requires a nice chunk, as does raising two amazing, healthy and always challenging children.  Wendy and I try to devote time to each other and enjoy it when we succeed.  And of course there is the ever-elusive “me time.”

But I find time on those rare occasions when we get to be away from our regular surroundings and routines – that is when it is the most special.  So ever since we arrived at our destination yesterday afternoon, I’ve been trying to take it all in.  I’ve been simultaneously holding onto everything, and nothing.

It started at breakfast, when we heard “Strange Way” by Firefall emanating from the wood paneling in the cozy dining room.  It continued on with the bag of black licorice bridge mix I purchased at 10:45 a.m., after a cursory look at the soaps, candles and other tchotckes on display.  And it kept going right up until the late afternoon, when Ethan and I went kayaking together in the lake and then took a short hike before dinner.  I was relaxing while keeping the shpilkes at bay; reveling in the nothingness but realizing that it all somehow mattered.

We returned to the same cozy dining room for dinner, with Jackson Browne’s “Rock Me On the Water” seguing to “Peg,” by Steely Dan.  The waitress brought drinks and took our order.  The kids bolted for the restroom.  I sipped a pale ale as Wendy reached for her phone, which had just pinged with a Breaking News alert.

When Wendy told me about Robin Williams, I figured maybe he had trouble holding onto the precious moments of nothing in his own life.  Or possibly he had countless moments of nothing and they were none too precious.  Either way it’s a damn shame. And a reminder that happiness, just like time, is a very scarce commodity.  All the more reason to take it anywhere we can get it.

Image credit: CNN

 

Why Jerry Garcia Is Worth Remembering

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger

For me it started off being about the music, before it became about something else.  In the fall of 1984, I was visiting friends of my parents’ and bored, started paging through their record collection.  I stumbled across a copy of American Beauty and asked if I could borrow it.

Until that point, the Grateful Dead seemed more an entity to me than a band. In my mind, they existed as t-shirts and bumper stickers.  But I realized that music truly fueled the Grateful Dead.  It was unlike anything I had heard before – country without really being country, bluesy without being trite or depressing and enough rock without the gratuitous showmanship.

As time passed, my perception of the Grateful Dead changed.  Growing up in rural New England, listening to The Dead seemed somewhat a rite of passage and not for the faint of heart.  To be viewed as a worthy fan, you had to rattle off set lists, have access to plenty of bootleg tapes and ensure your only frame of reference wasn’t In the Dark.

I soon began sensing an hypocrisy in the Grateful Dead subculture – a reverse snobbery, if you will, that was nothing more than a class distinction.  Grateful Dead fans, at least the ones I knew, lived in big white houses and their parents drove nice foreign cars.  The bead necklaces, tie-dye t-shirts and peasant skirts became costumes – a way to safely rebel while remaining encased within a privileged existence.

By the time I left for college, I had mostly stopped listening to the Dead; viewing them, in fact with some degree of embarrassment.  Then, in March 2007 I sat in a rocking chair, holding our newborn daughter who wouldn’t stop screaming.  I whispered, I cooed; I hummed, but nothing worked.  Finally, I started singing one of the first songs that popped into my head – “Box of Rain,” off American Beauty.  It worked.

Since that time, I still will listen to the Dead sporadically, often when I’m running or in the car by myself.  Except now I don’t envision freshly scrubbed WASPs playing hacky sack or Steal Your Face stickers adhered to parent’s Peugeots.  I listen instead of visualizing. And I hear sadness, yearning, and waiting for redemption, with some hope mixed in for good measure.

I’ve also softened the cynical way in which I once viewed the Grateful Dead subculture (age does that too you). Those boarding school kids who embraced the band were looking for a sense of adventure and family that perhaps their privileged upbringings didn’t provide. And who isn’t seeking adventure and family, especially when they’re young.

Jerry Garcia died 25 years ago today, on August 9, 1995 at 53; young chronologically but quite old considering his state of health at the time.  By all accounts, Garcia was as complex, flawed and gifted as the music he leaves behind.  And in my mind, it’s the music he created, not the subculture, that makes him worth remembering.

Image credit: Time

 

 

 

 

Placing Memories On Deck

When Wendy and I purchased our house in the winter of 2000, its large deck was a key selling point.  Extending off sliding glass doors from the living/dining room, it covered the entire back of the house.  The deck featured space for a grill, table and chairs and plenty of room for lounging.  It was appropriately sturdy for children who had yet been born.

We moved in with the best intentions for the deck, which we would christen the following spring.  Reading the paper together while enjoying coffee and bagels, becoming engrossed in a good novel or just hanging out with friends or each other were sure to become regular occurrences.  And all of those things happened with some degree of regularity.  They just didn’t happen on the deck.

To this day I’m not exactly sure why.  The deck certainly remained in the same place, as accessible as ever.  Maybe it just never felt right.  Quite possibly, as it so often happens, the idea existed in a parallel universe from the reality.

I personally spend 15-20 minutes on our deck a few evenings a week while grilling dinner. Occasionally, I will bring something to read with me to pass the time, if Wendy and the kids are inside.  But often I will just stare out into the backyard as I wait to turn the food.

My thoughts aren’t too out of the ordinary.  If I’m not rehashing something that occurred during the day, I’m wondering how the summer so quickly dissipated.  And I’m considering all those summer happenings we had planned for the kids, that never quite happened.  We were going to have more picnic dinners, see more music at the Lake Harriett band shell, take the kids to a drive-in movie, go get frozen yogurt more often.  And oh yeah, isn’t there a garage I’ve been supposedly going to clean for the past four summers?

Then, when the food is finished, I shut off the grill and grab the plate, leaving what didn’t happen on the deck and joining Wendy and the kids to continue defining the moments that do actually happen.

 

 

 

 

 

Brain Sharing

“Daddy, I wish you could be inside my brain,” Sasha said to me the other day when we were walking Astro together.  She happened to be wearing a tutu and gypsy headscarf when she made this statement, and carrying her baby doll in a shawl.  Her get-up told me why I adored being on the outside of her wonderful mind, but I had to play along.

“Why is that, sweetie?”

“Because then I wouldn’t have to explain things to you; you could just see them happen.”

I of course understood her point.  You see, as much as I don’t want to admit it, I sometimes take on the role of “Befuddled Dad,” especially when it comes to Sasha. There are simply times where I don’t know what she’s talking about, and I need to ask clarifying questions.  Wendy and Ethan naturally side with Sasha, it often occurs at family mealtime, and I usually feel like a hackneyed cliché out of a 1950’s sitcom.  But I also secretly enjoy it.

For starters, Sasha’s frustration at my questions is completely for show.  She sighs, she rolls her eyes, and looks to Wendy and Ethan to back her up.  I play the straight man, refusing to break character.

Once the joking stops, I do love seeing Sasha’s natural narrative abilities come to life as she provides the necessary detail and context to an event or story.  I get a kick out of how she purses her lips and says “No, no, no, Daddy; that’s not it” when I attempt to predict the outcome before she is finished.  And I can sense the satisfaction when Sasha sees that I am completely on board; when she has me once again in her corner.

I also hope that these exchanges I have with Sasha help keep her crafty, imaginative spirit soaring, well beyond her childhood years.  Just the other morning Sasha sat down across the table from me with a roll of Saran wrap, Scotch tape and a pair of scissors.  She began cutting oval shapes out of the wrap.  I had to ask.

“Sasha, what are you doing?”

“Just making a pair of eyeglasses, Daddy.”

Of course she was.

Dog-walking attire