…but then, any day on which you need to go out and buy a pair of bolt cutters is likely to be an interesting day.

It’s like this. There’s a single door between our kitchen and the rest of the house. This door has a lock on it, for no reason I’ve ever understood. It’s the kind with the little doohickey in the center of the knob that you push in and turn clockwise to lock the door. From the other side–the kitchen side–you can only lock and unlock it with the key, which was lost untold ages ago.

Today, my almost two-year-old daughter Mary pushed in the little doohickey, and turned it counterclockwise, and then closed the door, locking herself, her sister, and her mother into the kitchen–or, really, as the kitchen has a door to the outside, out of the rest of the house.

Our house has two other outside doors, and Jane had her keys; it should have been the work of a moment to step outside, go round to the front door, and voila, problem solved. Except that our children had officiously set the security chain on the front door. And on the back door.

At this point, Jane had two options. She could call a locksmith, or she could call me. Our local locksmith charges $90 for a housecall, and as I’ll come home for free she called me. I went to Orchard Supply for a pair of bolt cutters ($30), and shortly thereafter we had one fewer security chain and the run of the house.

I don’t think I’ll be replacing the security chain, incidentally; snipping through it took about half-a-second, and I’m sure all the crooks know this perfectly well.

Whilst at OSH, in any effort to prevent any repetition of the problem, I bought a new non-locking doorknob set, and my first task after unlocking the door was to remove the old lockset and install the new set. I got out my handy-dandy Leatherman multitool, flicked out the screwdriver, and prepared to get to work.

And promptly discovered that there were no screws on the doorknob assembly on either side of the door. I spent a good ten minutes looking it over, and frankly I’m still not sure how to remove the old lockset.

It’s taking me a little while to get used to being the father of daughters, being that my two older kids are both boys. And the thing I notice most, given all of the feminist rhetoric I grew up with in the 1970’s, is that my sons and daughters are different.

Here’s a case in point. As soon as my eldest could snap Duplos together, he was building guns out of them. My three-year-old daughter has recently begun playing with Duplos, and just a few minutes ago she walked up to me with a vaguely gun-like construction…and proceeded to blow-dry my hair.

Ever since I started using Movable Type, I’ve been posting blog entries using my web browser. That’s a bit of a nuisance; it’s slow, and the editing features in an HTML text field aren’t too swift. I’ve been willing to live it mostly because most of the entries I post are book reviews, and since all of the book reviews get included in Ex Libris Reviews I edit them in a separate application and save them locally anyway.

So what are the alternatives? There are a number of dedicated blogging apps available; the best ones work with a number of blogging systems, including Movable Type. And tonight, for no particular reason, I decided that it was worth checking out one or two of them.

There are a number of dedicated blogging apps available, though, that know how to work with Movable Type, and for some reason I decided that tonight was a good night to give one a try. A Google search later, I was downloading an app called Ecto.

Ecto gets definite points.

• Set up was trivial. I pointed it at my blog, and it knew what to do.
• The editing window is nice
• It’s got some features I don’t understand yet, which is cool.
• It will insert the name of the song currently playing in iTunes into the post.

On the other hand, it’s not all peaches and cream. There’s an “Insert Hyperlink” feature that either doesn’t work or doesn’t work the way I think it should, for example. So I’m not in love…but it’s possible that Ecto might grow on me.

(Currently listening to: Take Five from the album “Dave Brubeck: Jazz Collection” by Dave Brubeck)

Today is Easter Sunday, and Jane asked me
to include this remembrance she’d written recently. So this is Jane
speaking, and not me.

In my life there are a few days that come back year after year. At
Christmas dinner, I will always remember throwing Nerf balls at my
brothers the Christmas after my Dad died. We all needed to play, and Dad
wasn’t there to make us behave. Lent, Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, and
Easter services also bring strong memories.

Early in 1996 after nearly eight years of medical problems and
infertility, Will and I learned that I was pregnant. We tried to be
cautious, and waited until after we had seen the ultrasound before we
told anyone. We were so very joyous. Then, once again, everything went
wrong. I miscarried on Mardi Gras. I sat through the Ash Wednesday
service the next day and internally I raged at God. I lived Lent that
year, with prayers, tears, feeling abandoned by God, and deep grief, while
trying to pretend life was returning to normal. I went to church because
I should, not because I wanted anything to do with a God who teased me
with a child and then took the dream away.

Good Friday fit my mood perfectly, but I could not pay attention to the
service. The first reading at that service is Isaiah 52, verses 1 to 13. I
picked up one of the Bibles in the pew, and not being able to follow the
service I continued reading in Isaiah, reaching chapter 54. I was
stunned by what I found:

“Sing, O barren woman, you who have never bore a child; burst
into song, shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are
the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband,” says
the Lord. “Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains
wide, do not hold back; lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes. For
you will spread out to the right and to the left; your descendants will
dispossess nations and settle in their desolate cities.”

Sing for joy? More children? Enlarge your tent? I was stunned. God
had not only heard me, he would give me joy and children even if I didn’t
understand the details. Hope came back. I was able to cry tears of
release rather than grief and rage. I began to accept the Lord’s peace.
He had heard me, and I knew he had a plan.

That next year was wild. We celebrated the 70th birthdays of both of
Will’s parents; my brother John got married; Will and I hosted a couple’s
Bible study; Will’s mother was finally diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s
Disease)), and we were told by the doctors that it was OK to try again to
have a child. After the prayers of many, I got pregnant. (As did every
other woman in our couple’s Bible study; be careful what you pray for!)

Then, Will’s parents realized that they could not stay in their home (the
house Will grew up in) and would have to move. After a few moments of
discussion and with much fear and trembling we offered to buy it from
them. We sold our old house and moved in on February 1st, thereby
doubling the size of our home–a much bigger tent, indeed.

On Ash Wednesday, just under two weeks later, our son David was born; we
had him baptized at the Easter Vigil service. We’ve since added James
and Anne to our family–God knew we needed that bigger tent.

I don’t know what plans God has for me, but each Lent and Easter season I
am reminded of both the intense sorrow and the amazing joy He has for us.

It’s Good Friday, and I’m feeling unambitious. So, if you haven’t
already, head over to
James Lilek’s place
and read his latest “Bleat” and see what he has to say about Kid’s books.
You’ll be glad you did.

For those who aren’t familiar with the Los Angeles
area, Magic Mountain is the local Six Flags amusement park. It first
opened six or seven years after I was born, as a simple little amusement
park. There was one roller coaster, the Gold Rusher, which sprawled over
one side of the mountain, and had no steep dips or drops; there was the
Log Jammer, your basic flume ride, on the other side of the mountain;
there was a sky ride, like a gondola-style ski-lift; a carousel; a bunch of
prettied up carnival rides; and a weird sort of ferris wheel thing called
the Galaxy. At the top of the mountain was the “Sky Tower”, with an
observation deck at its crown. A funicular railway went to the top the
hill, and a simple monorail called the Metro travelled around the park.
The park had a vaguely German/Alpine theme to it, and was presided over
(in lieu of Disney characters) by a wizard and a bunch of large rotund
trolls covered with pale blue fur.

One of the first times I went, they had a deal where you could get a
special shoulder patch called “The Red Badge of Courage” if you went on
five of seven scary rides. I don’t recall what they all were, but given
what the park has become, I find it rather ironic.

Over the next few years they added additional rides, including (in 1976,
tied in with the U.S. Bicentennial) the Revolution, the world’s first
looping roller coaster. (Last night I heard two guys discussing which
coasters they’d ridden on that night, and how many times, and
consequently how many loop-the-loops they’d ridden through. I believe
the total was 54.) Later they added Colossus, at that time the world’s
largest wooden coaster–and that, in my mind (though I’m no coaster
enthusiast) is when Magic Mountain’s destiny became clear. How was Magic
Mountain to survive against the competition of Disneyland and Knotts
Berry Farm? It became coaster city.

Since then it’s been bought by Six Flags. They’ve added a water park,
Hurricane Harbor, next door; and with the addition of Scream, a brand new
coaster that opens today, they have sixteen roller coasters.

The last time I’d been to Magic Mountain was before most of the new
coaster were built, something like eight or ten years ago. Jane and I
had thought about going a couple of times in the last few years, but
as she’s carried, delivered, and nursed three babies in the last six
years it hadn’t really been possible. But this week I got a bright idea.

See, this past week was Spring Break for my older son, David, who is in
kindergarten. Since Jane wouldn’t be needing to get David to and from
school, she decided that it would be an excellent week to get our younger
son potty-trained, which I’m sure he’ll one day be ecstatic to know was
discussed publically on the Internet. Obviously we wouldn’t be going out
and doing anything exciting as a family, but it would be a definitely
help if I could get David out of the house for a while.

And, for some reason, I thought of taking him to Magic Mountain. I did a
little research on line and verified that yes, they still had enough
rides he’d like to make it worth while. I also discovered that season
passes were really not that expensive–the same as two adult admissions.
Ho, I thought. I go, get myself a season pass, and then on our next date
night, Jane and I go together. She gets a season pass, good until the
end of the calendar year, and then if we went even one more time after
that, the passes have paid for themselves. And the park is close enough
to our house that going there in the evening for even just a couple of
hours is reasonable, provided you’re not paying full price each time.

So I’ve been to the Mountain twice this past week, once with Dave, and
once with Jane, last night, and we frequented entirely different parts of
the park. ‘Twas wonderful; it’s still the beginning of the season, and
with the new coaster not opening until tomorrow the park wasn’t very full
on either day. We pretty much walked on to most of the rides without
waiting.

Both Jane and I enjoyed reflecting on all of the changes we’ve seen take
place at Magic Mountain during the past thirty years. The trolls are
long gone, and mostly forgotten, replaced by Bugs Bunny and friends; the
kiddy rides are much better than they were when I was a kid; and while
some of my old favorites are gone, most remain: the Log Jammer, the Gold
Rusher (still a darn good coaster), the Funicular, the Metro, and the
Carousel.

There’s nothing heroic about having a cold, and that’s especially
true of this cold. There’s nothing particularly awful about it; no sore
throat, no wracking coughs, no wheezing–just a general lack of energy and
gumption and sinuses that spontaneously congest whenever you sit down for
two minutes together–regardless of the medication you take. Oh, and a
fever, sometimes. And it doesn’t go
away. I’ve had it since Thursday, and the lack of energy for a couple of
days before that. Dave has had it for over a week, though James seems to
have finally kicked it. And for all I know, this is the same bug that had me
a couple of weeks ago and a couple of weeks before that. From what
my sister-in-law the nurse tells me, it simply takes forever to go away.

And sometimes it goes away and comes back as pneumonia. What fun!
So you have to take it easy and try to stay healthy and not offend the bug
too much, so that it will leave happily.

Ugh.

I’ve been working myself pretty hard over the last
month, and Friday evening things pretty much came to a halt. This wasn’t
particularly opportune, as we had a big party for David’s birthday
Saturday morning, but Jane was understanding about it; in fact, when I
came home and sat down and said, “I’m wiped,” she looked at me and said,
“Yes, you are.” So except for necessary activities involving the party,
I took it as easy as I could all day Saturday and Sunday (hence the
minimal posting). And this morning I find that I’m feeling pretty good.

We’d determined that today would be low-key as well (the kids are still
tired from the festivities, David still has new toys from his friends
that he hasn’t gotten to yet, and all of them are fighting off colds,
successfully so far), so after breakfast I hooked up my jukebox to the
radio in my study and settled in with my laptop to rip a few more CDs and
do a few little things that had been hanging fire.

And that brings me to the subject of puttering.

Puttering is a sublimely peaceful activity. Puttering cannot be done on
a deadline; puttering cannot be done in haste. When you putter, you are
intimately engaged in something you love. When you putter, you drift
from one little task to another. You inspect everything with a lover’s
eye. You do a little of this, and a little of that. You’ll likely
accomplish nothing that’s big by itself, but bit by bit your world is
improved.

Puttering is usually associated with a place: a garden, a kitchen, a
workshop, a garage, or (as in my case) a study. The exact place doesn’t
matter. The point of all true puttering is that you’re doing things that
need to be done–and you’re not doing them on a schedule or to achieve
some larger goal. You’re doing them because doing them satisfies your
soul, because they are worth doing for their own sake, and mostly because
you’ve been able to let go of the rush to achieve, step back, and
contemplate your special place in peace.

Puttering is how people got things done before clocks were invented.
Children putter naturally; only in their case we call it playing.

Over time I’ve been accumulating a list of touchstones to tell me when my life
is getting too stressful and I need to cultivate a little peace. If I’m
tempted to eat breakfast in the car on the way to work, then I’m rushing
too much. If I get irritated by the traffic on the freeway, I need to
relax. If I’m always grumpy, I need to lighten up. And if I’ve not been
puttering, I need to slow down.

Life’s too short not to putter.