HeliParenting

"You're sure about this?" Ford asked me as he put the car in park.

"Yep," I said, getting out and slinging my haversack over my shoulder crossways, and putting on my battered old Tilley Hat. "Kid's gotta learn sometime."

"Okay, well... guess we'll see you in a couple hours, then."

A year ago August, Kid One was just freshly nineteen, and rankling a bit under the operational rules of the household he was living in.

Ours.

He'd just spent the summer working at Canada's Wonderland as a games barker for his second season - and the two school semesters prior discovering he wasn't really interested in University.

No, I don't find fault in that. I wasn't until I was twenty. The up side was I'd been out in the world for a couple years prior, and had come to recognise the other options were... not.

Anyway, he'd been making noises about moving out and finding his own place, on his own. His Mother and I were a little concerned that he mightn't have a clear understanding of the reality of that. He'd argued vociferously with his Mother about that before his shift.

So I was bringing the reality to him.

He seemed a little surprised to see me walking up to him. "Where did you park?"

I asked to see his cell phone and wallet. I put the cell in my pocket - with his bank card - and handed the wallet back to him.

"What's going on..." he seemed a little... well.  I certainly had his full attention at that point.

"You've moved out on your own. You can't afford more minutes on your cell phone, and you just have enough money in your bank account to pay your rent. So. How you gonna get home?"

I turned and started walking.

Ten steps in, I turned around to find him still standing where I left him.

Staring. Open mouthed.

"I recommend you try to keep up," I told him. "I'm the one that knows the way home." And I started walking again.

My kids are Millennials.

I've read the blogs, seen the jokes, all that. Let me tell you a secret. If someone is suffering from an irrational sense of entitlement, it's because their parents failed to train it out of them.

I've seen that illness before, in my own generation. I feel like my parents were successful at killing it in me... but I'm probably mistaken. I can pretty much guarantee in a Freudian sort of way that each generation to the dim distant past was seen that way by the one prior.

That's because we forget that we all got it trained out us. All that we recall is that our lives weren't this easy - and that's how it's done.

The Herd thought I was insane, of course. “Gotta be at least a 10 km hike.”

“12.7, according to Google Maps,” I replied. That works out to nearly 8 miles for our American (and British) friends.

I wasn't concerned.

I'd spent a lot of my youth walking that far as a matter of routine. As a result, when I got the job that would eventually sustain me through University, I didn't bat an eye at the fact it was across the Oldman River and a hike across town from where I was living. I just packed my uniform in a gym bag and hoofed it. Buses didn't run at that time of night anyway.

Night shift.

Also, I'd been telling all my boys that I would never make them do anything I wouldn't do myself. So. Time to pony up.

Periodically I'll jokingly send my Beautiful Wife an image like the one at right when she expresses what is probably a legitimate concern a parent should have about one of our boys. It's intended for both of us to check our behaviour... and to guard against the behaviour indicated in the image.

She has, on at least one occasion, threatened my life as a result... but I digress.

I misspoke when I told my brother-in-law Ardy's wife, Lane, that I’m careful never to set my boys up to fail. What I meant to express was that I never give my boys a challenge that I’m sure they cannot accomplish.

Very often, they are sure they cannot accomplish these little challenges, and yeah, they just might land on their faces once or twice. But I have more confidence in them than they do.

I think the real issue might be that we are all proud to be able to provide our children conveniences we never had, and that we enjoy the comfort they provide for us too. I guess the key is to get our kids to know – that is to Understand and Appreciate -  that that cell phone–big screen TV–gaming system–Internet access–ride to school/work/friends/Brampton is a privilege, no matter what they think.

She and I work pretty hard at that.

They've also learned - the hard way - that fair is a bad word at our house. They don't like fair. Fair is a serious downgrade.

Took me a few minutes to convince Kid One that he could actually walk all the way home. Once he decided I was serious, he got down to business. At the end of it all, he seemed to really enjoy the walk and the perspective. He said so, anyway.

More than I did, actually. I had a little flare up of the injury that got me out of the Armed Forces  - about 20 minutes in to the walk - and went the next 2 hours or so on a nasty ankle sprain.

No, I wasn't gonna call in for a pickup at that point. I'd committed to the principle. Seems I'm a bit dogged about that kind of thing.

Didn't even limp until the last 10 minutes.

I reminded him of that evening 13 months ago just the other night. He was worried that his new job – and a 3 am wake up time – would get the better of him.

“You can get used to anything, Kid,” I told him. “Look on the bright side - it's only a 10 minute walk.”

Ghost Stories

I learned a lot from my last camping trip with Mum and two of the boys. Mostly that campfire Ghost stories are just as tough as I thought they would be. I have a new appreciation for the Imaginations of my predecessors.

The best part about camping with Dad and Uncle Crazy Legs had to be the Ghost stories. They had a vast repertoire; from the Humorous to the Benign; all the way into tales that could make the blood of the most worldly seventeen-year-old run to ice.

And you always knew when it was time; the fire was brightening against the chill of the mountain summer's eve, and Dad or Uncle Crazy Legs would start like a distant howl on the wind...

"WhoooooHoooooooooooo..."

It was campy, but it always worked. Every kid, any age sat with rapt attention until the story was done. Very often one or two had eyes squeezed shut, or left in fright all together. It was glorious.

Naturally the mark of success for a ghost story was how hard it was for which kids to fall asleep. You'd be amazed at how much spookier the bush is at night after one of their better tellings. I hope you went to the bathroom before it got dark, because, believe me... you aren't interested in leaving the camper now.

A little taste of moonlight plays through the trees and throws faint shadows that move with the boughs in the breeze... really - just stay in your sleeping bag. The terror is delicious.

We actually tried, as kids, to record some of these stories for posterity, with varying success. I must admit though, that success has diminished given that those recordings, to my knowledge, have passed into legend along with the stories themselves.

Dad did start writing a manuscript about 20 years ago. He never finished it; there was always one more hill to hike up, one more trail to ride down, and that's really the way it should have been. I have that manuscript now, and the technology to convert it back to a usable form... and the collected memory of a dozen now-adult cousins to flesh out the stories. And, it turns out, I have something else.

I was sweating bullets, and I had researched the history of the area for three days... but on our last camping trip, I told my boys a ghost story of my own devise.

Kid Two didn't admit to much, but it kept Youngest Kid up that night.

Thanks, Dad.

Pancakes

"Uh, isn't it a little early to be drinking a beer?"

Kid Two asked me that one on our last camping trip. It probably had something to do with the fact it was 9 am Saturday Morning.

It occurred to me then and there that that wasn't the first time I'd heard that particular question.

But not the way you're thinking.

I had heard it last uttered from my own lips, in the dim, distant past during a camping trip, querying my Dad. I would probably have been nine or ten at the time. Probably younger.

The fact that it took Kid Two until nearly sixteen to ask that of me - well, that just means I've been embarrassingly slack in the camping department.

Dad was in charge of breakfast on the family camping trips - and on most hunting camps. One of the most memorable Breakfast dishes he whipped up was "Ranch Style Eggs - " a concoction of stewed tomatoes and bacon with eggs poached in it - best served to hangover sufferers. But that, mercifully, is a story for another time, and I digress.

Dad made Pancakes.

Looking back, I realize that this was a skill he acquired throughout the historical course of our outings. I recall the first few batches weren't all that great. Tasty, sure, but commonly a mangled lump, occasionally scorched.

This is not to say I have not scorched more than my share of pancakes. It does turn out, however, that I'm much more efficient at scorching Ribs. Into Frustrating Charcoal. But we're talking about breakfast.

To be fair, Dad didn't have the excellently engineered tools I have; Teflon-coated aluminium skillets, carbon-vinyl flippers, and the like. He used an old stainless steel flipper on a cast iron fry pan, with a little butter to keep things from sticking. It's amazing any of his creations came out one-piece, and golden fluffy brown. And they usually did.

The fluffiness was key. And dad discovered the secret to light-fluffy pancakes. No matter what scratch recipe or brand of mix you use, use Beer.

The foam lightens the mix. Dad liked Coyote Pancake flour and... well, honestly I don't recall that he was fixed on a particular brand of Beer. He liked Lethbridge Pil, Black Label, and Kokanee, But it was a crap shoot what you'd find in his Fridge. He even went on an MGD kick for a while.

But always Coyote Pancake Flour.

I'm not so much the purist - I don't really care what brand of Mix I use, and have found it doesn't really matter. I've also found that Coors Lite provides the desired effect for my flapjacks without all that telltale, hoppy taste that one finds in Beers with... Flavour.

Now, I've been cooking experimentally for some time, and recognise that Freshness and aroma are desirable qualities in the ingredients I use in my culinary creations. I'm not above a little preparatory sampling.

So when I asked my dad that fateful question, so long ago, His answer was "I'm not Drinking Beer. I'm making Pancakes."

I, in my foolish youth, took that to mean it was the cook's prerogative to finish off the beer that he obviously didn't use up in the Mix.

Time and experience have taught me otherwise - It's the cook's duty to ensure the freshness and flavourfullness of every ingredient that goes into the dish. To not do so would be a disservice.

"I'm not Drinking Beer," I told Kid Two. "I'm making Pancakes."

One Match

My training in bushcraft started when I was 7 years old.

That was when Dad had me join my brother, sister, and assorted cousins scouring the brush in the area of our summer campsites in search of kindling to start the campfire with.

Pitch was the best. It was also pretty tough to harvest when you wouldn't own a penknife for another two years. Coincidentally, that's also when you permanently crease the print on your left index finger, but never mind that.

The best pitch was found on knots of branches that had broken off a live tree a couple years ago. The pitch - especially on Pine trees - was thick, hard, and had bubbled into a mass that could be conveniently carved away from the bark without seriously damaging a tree. And boy, does it burn.

Dad would take all the sundry fire starting matériel from us kids, and collect it together in a lump at the center of the fire pit, build a campfire in a cross-hatch structure from twigs and kindling around said lump, and light the whole mess up.

With a single match.

Of course, as none of the collected second generation had reached puberty by then, we all thought this was marvelous, especially since the skill came with it's own title - "One-Match Phil."

One-Match Phil was legendary, and made appearances at all camping functions from fishing on the Elk in February, all the extended family camping in summer, right through to elk hunting in 4 feet of snow in November.

And then - he bought a chainsaw.

It took me a long time to discover this was the watershed moment. As it turned out, Grandad passed away when I was about 12, and Dad bought the chainsaw about the same time. It made sense, as I was suddenly occupied with Dad in late summer and early fall from my early teens in the collection of firewood for Grandma.

Grandma had a wood-burning stove in the kitchen in Kimberley that supplemented her central heat. That and she just liked a fire.

What I hadn't noticed at the time - but recognize now - is that whole second generation had aged, and, as a result, had become less interested in combing the underbrush for fire-lighting supplies.

But One-Match persevered. For a long time, He collected his own pitch.

One November, he just gave up the subterfuge. At this point, the Chainsaw had become a fixture in our camping gear - probably because we had denuded the breadth of the Kootenays of fallen scrub kindling by that point.

It had been raining for days, a wet, cold, half sleet soak that permeated everything. Dad calmly cut the top off a pop (beer) can and filled the bottom with chainsaw gasoline from the small jerry can that accompanied the chainsaw everywhere.

He set that in the center of the pit where the ball of kindling would go, and built up the wood frame around it - and lit it.

With a single match.

Oxidizing

Back when I first joined the herd, we were quite interested in cottaging. We, as a group, had been camping a few times and had purchased a pair of Sea-Doos for summer entertainment, and a place to dock them on our own stretch of shore on one of the myriad of small lakes in Central Alberta had a certain appeal. As a result, we tried out a couple of cottages one summer before we settled on one we liked.



During one of these try-out weekends - as it turns out, in a cottage we chose not to purchase - we were all - me and my wife, her sister and husband, the girls' dad, and the three older boys - sitting around the campfire s'moring it up.


Kid 2, then about 8, is looking a the campfire and asks "how does wood burn?"


Now, that's a pretty good question. Unfortunately, I have enough background in chemistry to know exactly what the answer is. So, in a roundabout way, I figure I just have to tailor that for an eight-year-old kid.


As it turns out, I appear to have a propensity to explain into minutiae. Not only that, but my delving into a subject apparently has an effect on local space-time, in which it appears to tear a rift in the fabric of reality such that the only person who does not experience the passage of time is me.


So in a moment or two I look around to a sea of glazed expressions, and the chirping of crickets.


To this day, I don't remember what the hell I said. I do know I started with an analogy regarding rust. But the end result is if I can't dial down an explanation into one or two sentences, my lovely wife tells me "Honey, you're Oxidizing."


I have learned from this. Now when faced with a complex answer for a kid - I say "It's complicated. I can tell you but it will take a few minutes." and let them decide it they have the attention span. They buy in to the time more often than you'd think.


For grown ups, I say "You want the Reader's Digest version?" to which I invariably get a yes... and then get grilled in to the minutiae I tried to avoid anyway.


We sure enjoyed those Sea Doos.