Jewish

Cash & Dad’s Sixth Year and a Quarter

World War II has become a fascination for you. The Pelican class at River School introduced the subject and you were consumed immediately.

I too was entranced with World War II early in life. I loved its weapons and warfare and it was not ancient history. Being brought up in the seventies, the war was a mere twenty years past. Today, college was twenty years ago for me. Ugh.

As computers evolved into gaming platforms, I started seeing the weapons I read so much about show up in video games. I thought that was so cool.

In your case, the opposite is true in that you are fascinated to see the weapons of your mobile games show up in historical reality. “You mean they really had these things?!” This strange reversal says a ton about our future.

As you learned more about World War II, you soon identified with the greatest victims of the war, culminating in this:

“Dad, I’m Jewish.”

My buddy Gregg Brown would be proud.

This plus your stated faith in Jesus, rising from a yet identified influence, and I see the wonderful choices of childhood unencumbered by the mutually exclusive. Life is a candy store for the young.

I parlayed your interest in World War II into board games that emulate the various struggles of WWII. Our favorite is called Memoir ’44. I also exposed you to an Apple iTV production of ten episodes showing rare video footage of World War II. I was hoping the videos would both add more depth the games and bring to bear some of the realities of what we were simulating.

Needless to say, the violence of all this is probably unhealthy. But, hell, I was watching Lord of the Rings with Luke when he was two. This stuff is just too good to hold back on.

In our very first Memoir '44 game I was in for a shock, however. Despite your religious convictions, you insisted on playing the German side on Sword Beach of D-Day. I had assumed you’d stick to the defense of your new tribe and side with the Allies.


















Pondering this, I wondered if the videos had something to do with it. We had only seen the first two episodes, and in those the Germans pretty much kicked royal ass including the Blitzkrieg of Poland and France.

Could it be that your desire to win overcame any of your religious convictions?! Could you be that competitive, that shallow?!

I should pause here and admit that you carry a five-to-zero undefeated streak against me. So, to be fair, my worries about your competitiveness are on reflection and maybe the fermentation of sour grapes. By the way, I say a five-to-zero streak with a great deal of hesitation because of a scrap we held in the wintery Adriennes. I won decidedly only to realize my tank firepower should’ve been penalized -2 dice fighting out of forests (which was the core of my strategy). I disqualified myself. You counted it as win, which is questionable. Its more of a revoking of a win than a loss for me in my view.

Whatever. At this point I should also mention that the Wellers are not graceful at the deciding moment of competition. We are gleeful, gloating winners; we are downright ugly losers. (I should additionally note that Rachel, who considers herself more a Moore than Weller therefore immune, is indeed infected by this disease though with a style her own. Her celebration volume is an unWellerian quiet but betrayed by a shiningly jubilant face.)

However, you, Cash, are at an entirely different level and this says a lot given my legendary post game antics. A Cash victory is a frenzied jig followed by a sprint to the nearest ten human beings, friend or random stranger, to recount your victory. Defeats are crying tantrums, slamming of fists and the occasional destruction of a MacBook Pro.

Now when introducing a new game, my newest innovation is to lose the first few games outright. That way, when you face defeat for the first time, you quickly apply ego-saving math, “yeah, but I’m still winning overall!” and I’m saved a few thousand dollars and infanticide.

All this because I introduced these games to you ... never let a good deed go unpunished. I sometimes wonder if I know what I’m doing.

But just when I despair, I get a text from your aunt Keara:

Love,

Dad

Trains

Cash & Dad's Fifth Year

Being your parent is entering every conversation in the middle. You are a ticker-tape talker. No audience is necessary. You are perfectly happy talking to yourself.

Dialog with you means leaping between Cashy diatribes into a fleeting gasp of breath. Missing is being struck by your train of thought. You've even reflected on the problem yourself:

"Dad, why won't my mouth stop talking?"

Good Question. Unfortunately, your brother is also a monologian. In our house, competing confabulation trains run in opposite directions but on the same track. Collision is inevitable. So, we dread the following five words:

"Its my turn to talk!"

Portending a crash, this steam whistle thrusts me into the role of traffic controller between two boys whose sole interests are Ninjago and Star Wars. Nonetheless, rationing out airtime slots on whether Sensi Blue or Skywalker is better with a saber is preferable to the violence these very shows condone. Parents tell me I'll miss this period when you are older … hmmm.

Now and then we have quiet in the house (usually during intense lego building exercises). I’ve learned, however, that a silent Cash isn’t a quiet minded one. You are always noodling on something. Engaging an otherwise quiet Cash is, again, entering a conversation in the middle.

Yesterday when I got home from work you were quietly building a lego race-car of your own design. I asked,

“How was school today? Any girls try and kiss you?”

 My line of inquiry was ignored altogether.

“Dad, are we Jewish?"

Clearly, I interrupted an internal powwow. Attaining the same plane as you is challenging, a puzzle. The pieces are disparate and I try sorting them out, usually with follow up questions.

“Cash, we aren’t Jewish but my friend Gregg Brown is, at least most of the time. Why do you ask?”

“What if God made everyone babies at once?”

Responding to a question with a question is a typical Cash move. Embedded is a breadcrumb of theme, in this case God and perhaps reproduction. Still, I usually remain pretty much lost. In this case, I engaged anyway.

“We’d all be very hungry. That reminds me, when are you going to help with breakfast? Anyway, why do you ask? Has someone told you about making babies? If so, who?"

“Dad, who are the people that celebrate St. Patrick's Day? Do they like God?”

The third round of questions always annoys me. I typically reply with a partially correct but somewhat misleading response because, hell, maybe its your turn to be disoriented.

“The people that celebrate St. Patrick’s Day are in Ireland and Savanna. I’ve seen the Savanna river dyed green to celebrate.”

“Dad, is God everywhere?”

Now this is a question I’ve heard before, from one Luke Moore Weller. So I have a tried and true answer, definitive enough to exit the conversation maze, albeit still lost.

“Yes. God is everywhere, even inside you and me.”

As I walked away from the exchange, you make a request.

“Dad, come here.”

I walked to you. You motioned that I should lean down. You grabbed my head, put your forehead to mine and looked directly into my eyes and exclaimed,

“Hello God!”

Love,

Dad