Keeping to my theme of, “‘Loving Fatherhood, but Not Getting Gushy About It”:

And, yeah, I don’t know why they don’t have this stuff on the Cartoon Network either.

I used to consider myself a voracious reader, back when I was in my teens and twenties.  I devoured science fiction at a pretty good rate.  However as I’ve gotten older I am reading less and less.  The problem, largely, is that I simply don’t have the stamina I used to.  Most of my reading is done in the evening as a way of coaxing myself into going to sleep.  However that evening reading that used to last thirty minutes, an hour or more if the book was really good, now rarely lasts more than a minute or two.  My eyelids slam shut almost immediately, and I drop my book on the floor, scaring the crap out of wife and dog alike.  But me, I’m fast asleep by the time they think to chastise me.

I guess it’s not so much that I’ve gotten worse at reading, but that I’ve honed my going-to-sleep skills to perfection.  Regardless, I do miss tearing the days when I regularly devoured a book a day.  A book a week, or even a month, is more the norm now.

So it’s with pleasure that I’ve found a new author and book series that has resurrected my inner bibliophile.  Bernard Cornwell’s novels chronicling the exploits of British infantryman, Richard Sharpe, are, admittedly, a bit formulaic – each of the 20+ books contains equal parts, adventure, intrigue, mayhem, and romance – but they are fun reads, well-suited to airplane travel or nighttime indulgence.  And they contain enough real history to indulge satisfy those readers that would normally disdain the fair found on airport bookshelves. (*ahem*)

The series takes place around the time of the Napoleonic Wars (early 1800′s), when Britain is in conflicts in Europe and India, and follows the career of Sharpe as he claws his way up through the ranks of the British Infantry.  At the time, officers in Her Majesty’s military are chosen based not by their military prowess, but instead by how much money they had.   Commissions are bought for considerable sums and paid for.  However Sharpe is neither noble nor privileged.   Far from it, he is a rough rogue spat out of London’s nastier streets and orphanages, and begins his career as a Private.  His ascent to into the officer’s ranks is unlikely, and nets him more than one enemy.

In each book, Sharpe is immersed in the tensions and politics leading up to a pivotal battle, things for which he has surprisingly little regard given the influence they have on his life.  His attention is instead reserved for the men and women closer to hand.  To his friends, Sharpe is devoted, to his enemies, he is merciless, and to his lovers? Well, you’ll just have to find out for yourslef.  His life is nothing if not a constant struggle against seemingly impossible odds.

Cornwell’s style and pacing makes for easy reading.  I’m about halfway through the series, and devouring them at a pace that’s brought a smile to my face.  And to my wife’s too, I suppose; for at least a few weeks she and the dog get to enjoy bedtimes unpunctuated by the sound of falling books.

[UPDATE:  While there are made-for-television versions of these books, starring Sean Bean (an actor I like), they are horrible.  I strongly recommend you avoid watching these if you have even the slightest desire to read the books.  The production quality is extremely poor and the dumbed-down plot lines butcher the original stories.]

I just stumbled across Kelly Lasserre’s art blog.  Her work is fun and pleasant.  Some is cute, some quirky, some just is what it is.  It has a delightful childlike quality.

Which reminds me of when I was young, trying my own hand at drawing, and how plagued I was by the little voice in my head that constantly demanded straighter lines, more perfect circles and, later, more life-like renderings of people and trees and things.  It’s a voice I’m still plagued by, which is why I only rarely try my hand at artistic work.  I focus too much on the technical side of my work, and not enough on the creative.

The vast majority of children suffer from this same lack of confidence.  They put pen to paper and create art but fail to recognize it as such.  Papers are crumpled up, tossed in the garbage, and our children go on to become lawyers, engineers, and hot dog vendors.  And pimps and presidents.

No revelations this morning, I suppose.  But I am thankful for people like Kelly.

It’s snowing this morning.  Real, honest-to-god, sticking-to-the-ground, snow.   I wasn’t expecting it but there it is, a light dusting just beginning to accumulate.  It will be the first snow our son has ever seen or touched, and so today will be special.  Or so I hope once he wakes up.  Right now he is asleep in his crib while I surf the ‘Net here in my office.  I’m listening to the baby monitor from which emerge the static-ridden sounds of waves and seagulls.  These sounds come not from some inland sea that we denizens of Central Oregon have kept hidden from the rest of the world, but merely from the clock radio in his bedroom.  It has a white noise feature that we set to “Ocean” when we put him to bed.  And so I hear the same waves wash onto shore every two  seconds, and the same lone seagull cries every four seconds.

Swish, swish, “scree!”  Swish, swish, “scree!” Over and over.

It is repetitive and hypnotic, to the point where I find myself wondering if maybe, just maybe, what I’m hearing is not actually the clock radio at all.  Perhaps behind my son’s closed bedroom door some strange portal has opened onto a distant shoreline, on a faraway world.  If I go into the hall, will I see a bright light seeping ‘neath his door, the glow from a golden gateway crackling with awesome power that has somehow appeared in the middle of his room?  And dare I discover where it leads?  Will I see glittering, sandy, beaches awash with phosphorescent kelp and ominous tide pools under a strange night sky? Will there be alien seabirds gliding against huge, twin moons?  I sit immobilized, afraid of what I may find, afraid that maybe this portal is some quasi-quantum-mechanical thing: if I look upon it, only then will it become real.

Swish, swish,”scree!” Swish, swish, “scree!”  I wait nervously, afraid my seagull will suddenly go quiet upon hearing some monstrous creature emerge from deep, dark waters.

Nor do I doubt there are scary beasts in that room. I know the sounds our child makes when he sleeps, the coos and fussing that come from a wet diaper, or hunger, or just general discomfort. But these always start quietly as he rustles around, slowly emerging from sleep, and get louder and more insistent until we finally rouse ourselves to go look in on him.  But sometimes, not every night, in the dead silence of a deep sleep he will scream at the top of his lungs, just once, and then go back to sleep with nary another sound.

Those moments terrify me.  They bring back long-forgotten, natal, memories of when I was a child, sleeping alone in the dark, waiting for the bogeymen to come out and do unspeakable things.  I remember how real those monsters were, their presence under the bed and in the closet a tangible thing, filled with gamey fur and claws that went clickity-clack.  And the monsters have returned, in my son’s room somewhere, unseen and unseeable by his parents.

I am paralyzed.  My rational self justifies this cowardice, ” it is simply the dream of a child, everything is fine,”  but in a small corner of my mind, I know the truth.  It is because I’m afraid of what I’ll find.  Opening that door just might make it all real and unleash the horrors beyond.  What then???

And why does my son only scream once? Is it even him screaming?

The snow is a thick blanket on the ground now and I am holding my breath, waiting for a seagull to cry.

You can protect yourself with a gun…  well, maybe not so much.