My wife recently scrolled through her Facebook feed, as she often does, in bed.  Usually it’s as she’s getting up on a Saturday or Sunday morning.  Occasionally I’ll hear some salsa music, and I know she’s found a Zumba video posted by one of her instructor friends.  Or she’ll giggle at something funny someone shared.  George Takei maybe.  Or her sister.

On this particular occasion, she stopped and asked, “Honey?  You were ‘Feeling good at Home Depot’?”  Her tone was incredulous, as if she’d not heard anything so ridiculous in quite some time.

“Why yes,” I answered.  “Yes I was.”

“And you took the time to post that?”

“I did.”

Admittedly, when she put it that way, it did sound ridiculous.  And it’s not what you think.  It’s not some “Tim the Tool Man” kind of deal.  In fact, truth be told, I’m not all that handy.  I can put together Ikea stuff pretty well, and I do own a pretty decent power drill.  I have not sheet rocked, taped or spackled, however, nor do I have much knowledge about my car.

It’s also not that the cloying way everyone in an orange apron greets you and asks if they can help you somehow makes me feel all warm inside.  It really doesn’t.  If I had my way, they’d all leave me alone. Until I needed them for something, which is usually when I cant’t find them.  Home Depot employees and cops, am I right? Never there when you need ’em.

No, I feel good at Home Depot because of my dad.  Back when my brother and I were around the same exhausting age as my two sons are now (10 and 8), he often put us in the back of our faux wood-panelled Chrysler Lebaron station wagon and drove us somewhere, anywhere, in order to allow my mother the peace of sleeping in on the weekends.  Sometimes he took us to the Big Top toy store, where we would convince him to buy us “Colorforms,” which were just little plastic decals that you could affix to a background, or other cheap toys.

During the spring and summer, he often drove us over to Handelmann’s nursery, where he would buy bulbs or seeds for planting.  Mike and I liked these trips a lot, and I can still smell the fertilizer and other early scents when I think of that place.

My father also took us to the hardware store.  He would stock up on nails and screws, maybe some twine.  It wasn’t anywhere near the size of Home Depot; you could easily fit twenty of this hardware store in one Home Depot.  But the screws and nails, the twine and lumber, haven’t really changed all that much, I’m sure.  The smells certainly haven’t.  There’s that faint background aroma of sawdust, with a bit of WD40 oil back in there somewhere, as well.

The funny thing about it is I don’t think my dad was much handier than I am.  It was probably more about giving his wife that peace and quiet I mentioned, along with an opportunity to bond with his sons.  I don’t often feel like we’re bonding when I take my boys there.  It’s more about making sure they’re following the rules (“Keep track of where I am,” “Inside voices,” “Walking feet,” and the like.)  than some kind of connection.  But then again, I’d be surprised if Mike and I weren’t a challenge at the hardware stores ourselves.

Who knows?  Maybe my manic trips to Home Depot with my boys are taking root as deeply beloved memories, in much the same way those trips with my dad were, way back in the early 1970’s.  Perhaps it’s only right, after all, that I share that “good” feeling with the two of them.

We shall see.  We shall see.

Wonder by R.J. Palacio
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I became aware of this book back in August when, at the annual gathering of district administrators, copies of “Wonder” were given out as door prizes at each of the workshops that day. Like everyone, I believe that I “never win anything,” and I didn’t win a copy of the novel. At the close of each workshop I watched colleague after colleague walk away with their free copy. 

As we prepared to leave after the long day of professional development, one of our deputy supes said, “Oh by the way, there’s one rule about the book. It is part of our ‘One Book, One Community’ program, and our plan is that as many people as possible in Round Rock ISD read this book this year. So when you’re done, you have to give it to someone else — a friend, student, parent, teacher, etc. for them to read and enjoy.” 

It took a while, but I finally got a copy from my school’s library and read it over our winter break. I have to say I am so pleased that I work for an organization that would require this particular book. 

“Wonder” is a story about kindness, empathy and love. The way I like to see it is that someone in our school system’s leadership decided, wisely, that these are the three pillars of public education — as opposed to testing, testing, and testing, which has been the bellwether for the last several years now. 

Palacio employs a Salinger-esque voice in this book. There are eight sections of the book, told from the points of view of six of the characters, all of them about August Pullman, a fifth grader going to his first “regular” school, after having been home schooled by his mother up to now. 

I won’t write in too much detail about the story, because I think it’s worth discovering for oneself. I will mention, however, that in addition to the usual travails of being ten years old and entering a new school, Auggie also has a condition known as Treacher-Collins Syndrome, which has disfigured his head and face at birth and necessitated multiple surgeries for him during his young life.

What I came to realize is that more than anything else, this is a story about bravery, and all that goes on in the inner-workings of a ten year old boy, of any stripe. It is for this reason that I have decided that the first student I plan on sharing this book with is my own ten year old son, Diego. I believe he will gain much from it, and that it will inspire his own thinking about the people he sees around him every day in this sometimes confusing world, and that it will help him to develop what I already see as a highly-developed sense of empathy

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The Walking Dead, Vol. 1: Days Gone Bye by Robert Kirkman
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I became fascinated by The Walking Dead television series in its first season.  The acting, effects, writing and direction felt as good as any horror/thriller film I’d seen in a long time.  The action was character-driven, and the premise — that in a post-epidemic world where “the dead have risen and feed upon the living” one might have to be more cautious with the living than the dead — has kept me looking forward to each upcoming episode for a few years now.

I didn’t know about the graphic novels on which the series was based until halfway into season one, and was always curious about them.  Upon finishing the first volume, it’s clear that the series and its producers have taken some liberties, embellishing or de-emphasizing as they see fit in order to serve the medium and the emerging story.  All the subtleties of the characters are a bit more “black and white” (pun intended) in the comic — mostly, I think, because an actor of the calibre of Andrew Lincoln or Scott Wilson can say in a look or a gesture what a drawn character needs to say in a paragraph-length bubble of monologue.

I’ve just ordered volume two, probably because the show is in the midst of a midseason hiatus till February, and I’m missing the characters and their stories.  It’s a little odd, though; the sensation is a bit like watching shadows of the people I’ve come to know.  Ironically, the actors have, in my mind, become the actual characters, and these well-drawn but two-dimensional drawings of them feel a bit like impostors somehow.

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It must have been a long day at school because I’ll admit my reaction was on the “strong” side, to put a pretty face on it.  I was driving home, listening to NPR’s “All Things Considered” on KUT, our local affiliate here in Austin.

The narrative drew me in, as NPR so often does.  I found myself nodding my head here and there at salient points the story covered, when I heard this line:

“My friend’s daughters received the help they needed, but this was not the case for my family and I.”

Suddenly I went from nodding my head amiably to screaming at my radio console.  “‘My family and ME!’ ‘My family and ME!’ You’re OVERCOMPENSATING! ‘Me’ is the OBJECT pronoun, not the SUBJECT! Arrrrggghhh!”

I stopped myself short of having an aneurysm and/or driving into a ditch.  Catching my breath, I thought of a short-lived reality show that aired on MTV for a while, in which the producers rigged people’s cars with hidden cameras, so that the drivers could be captured singing along (badly, normally) to their favorite songs on the radio.  I wondered what a video of my little grammar tirade would look like.  It would probably be evidence enough for most judges to have me committed to a mental institution.

And to make the judge’s case even stronger, a voice suddenly popped into my head.  “You’re overcompensating.  Look here:  Take away the other people — in this case it’s ‘my family.’  You wouldn’t say ‘this was not the case for I,’ would you?”  It was one of those moments when you realize how hard-wired your DNA is.  For some people it’s a predilection for alcohol and cigarettes (I may have inherited some of that, as well, but that’s another blog post.)  My mother’s voice came right back to me, and I started laughing, as I remembered the way she would frown as she corrected my brother and me whenever we made this sort of error.

(You’ll notice she didn’t correct “my brother and I.”)

My mother, Carol Fuchs, doing a few of her favorite things in the summer of 1963 — reading, lying on the beach and smoking* *And yes, she was pregnant with me at the time.  As I said, that’s another blog post…

Jeanette Reyes-Fuchs, Zumba Instructor

The Baker Center in Austin is an old school building that has been re-purposed to house meeting spaces for the Austin Independent School District.  It has the musty air and tiny toilets that make you imagine generations of children making their way through these hallways, since the structure first opened back in 1911.

On this particular rainy Saturday in November, I see a whiteboard with the wo
rds “ZUMBA THIS WAY!” written in red marker, in familiar handwriting, leaning against one of the outside doors.  My wife, Jeanette Reyes-Fuchs, has been excited, nervous, and energized about this day for weeks now.  She has invited several area Zumba instructors to participate in a fundraiser in support of the families in South Austin who lost everything in local flooding a few weeks ago.

My wife’s passion for Zumba is nothing new; she has been very into the exercise/dance craze for a few years now, even taking the time to become a certified instructor by attending an intensive, day-long workshop in San Antonio a couple of years ago.  My boys and I have become accustomed to the pounding of her music, and to when she closes herself in the office and practices along with YouTube videos.

My two sons and I make our way into the Baker Center, following the thumping music that sounds down a dreary hallway.  We enter a large room that has a stage at the far end, along with vestiges of cafeteria serving windows on the opposite wall.  This was an early “cafetorium,” no doubt, and is now serving as the site of my wife’s Zumba-thon.  She greets us warmly.  I can tell by her expression she’s a little surprised to see us.  She introduces us around to a number of people who, like her, are dressed in energetically-colored clothing that projects a certain degree of peacockish joy.  Almost all the garments have “Zumba” printed on them somewhere.

“I’m so nervous,” she confides in me in a low voice.  “My turn is coming up.”

“Just have fun with it,” I say.

The other instructors are good.  Each brings their own spin to the practice of leading the group through a series of moves.  I participate here and there, mostly out of politeness.

And then it happens.  My wife moves up to the stage and the songs my kids and I are so used to hearing at home comes over the PA system.  Suddenly, Jeanette’s face changes, and the whole room is captivated by her.  Her moves are synchronous, flirtatious and fun.  She cues us through our movements non-verbally, by way of hand signals, facial expressions and the like.  She connects with each of us in a way that makes us all feel special, as if we’re all dancing with her.  Some of her songs are in Spanish, and others are in English.  She sings along with all of them.

At a certain point I realize I have become completely unselfconscious about what I am doing, even though I am, no doubt, pretty well out of step.  I also realize that I have a huge smile on my face that won’t go away.  It’s a difficult feeling to describe, but it’s something I hope every person in my situation — in a long-term relationship with the same person for a number of years — can feel at some point in their life together.  At the risk of stepping into melodrama and smarminess, I fall a little more in love with my bride on this morning, as I follow along with her Zumba moves and fall victim to the charms of her infectious stage performance.

I know I am biased, but she is really, really good.  Others think so, too — even the seasoned Zumba instructors she has recruited for the event.  She has found her passion, and my hope is that she will pursue it fully and deeply.  To say I am proud of her is an understatement.  She has my full-on support.

If there is something about which you know your partner is passionate — whether it’s fantasy football, needlepoint, scrimshaw or bird-watching — do yourself a favor:  Go be with him or her when they do that particular something.    I promise you that if you feel anything near what I felt at Jeanette’s Zumba-thon fundraiser last Saturday, you’ll be more than glad you did.

The Author…Swept Away

The River Swimmer: Novellas by Jim Harrison
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I’m struggling for connections between the two novellas that make up this volume.  The writing itself is uniformly good; Harrison is clearly a master of the English language, and some of his passages captivate.  In fact, my response to these works is more about me, the reader, than the author.  In this way, I can thank Harrison for helping me know more about myself than I did before.

In the first long story/short novel, titledThe Land of Unlikeness, we are made to follow the misadventures of a middle-aged painter of fading renown as he goes back to his childhood home in rural Michigan.  I agree with Harrison that “memories reside in the landscape and arise when you revisit an area.”  However, there was nothing heroic or interesting enough about Clive, the protagonist in question, to make me particularly care about his memories or how they made him feel or think about his life.  Late in the narrative, Harrison states of Clive, “He was a man of no importance so why not paint?”

I know that this is a story about how one examines the path his life has taken up to its apex and impending decline; in fact, I know it quite personally.  Unfortunately, however, I agree with Harrison’s narration in that I find Clive unimportant and therefore uninteresting.

Conversely, the second piece,The River Swimmer held my attention, mostly, I think, due to a kind of magic realism that was absent from the first story.  Thad is a person who cannot stay away from the water and the wonder it offers him, the true meaning it gives his life when he is swimming.  He is accompanied, time and again, by his “friends,” amphibious creatures called “water babies,” who, according to native lore are inhabited by the souls of dead infants.  They guide and love him in the dark water, and he muses on whether or not to share his discovery with the rest of the world.  The core of the book is this division between the real and the miraculous.  In my favorite line in the book, Harrison writes, “It seemed comic to [Thad] that people desire miracles but when they get them it adds an extremely confusing element to life.  Maybe Lazarus didn’t want to come back to life.”

The River Swimmer is all about this struggle we hold; on the one hand, we desire a quiet, comfortable life.  As humans, however, it is in our nature to crave the transcendent, the magical, the divine.  Again, my thanks to Jim Harrison for reminding me that I, too, crave this magic, especially in the fiction that moves me in any “real” sense.

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Schroder by Amity Gaige
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

If you’re planning on reading this book, this is where I guess I’m supposed to write the words “spoiler alert,” because I plan on discussing how the story plays itself out.  So if you care one way or the other about knowing the resolution of this novel, stop reading my humble review now.

This story of the American Dream gone bad does hold the reader’s interest, for the most part.  I did find myself wanting to know what was going to happen to Meadow Kennedy and her fatuous father, Eric.  I’m not sure whether Gaige wanted me to like the protagonist or not.  I can tell you that I didn’t.  I found Eric Kennedy/Erik Schroder patently un-likeable.  I wanted things to work out for his little girl, and I found myself wanting Eric to be apprehended.  Maybe he does love Meadow sincerely (albeit difficult to believe any assertions made by a self-proclaimed liar.  It’s like Spock’s paradox, when he makes Harvey Mudd’s fembots blow their perfectly logical circuits, when he tells them in his sexy, knowing way, “Listen carefully:  Everything I say…is a lie.”), but even so, Eric is a classic Narcissist, and all roads, even the suffering of his own child, circle back, ultimately, to how it will affect him.

It’s unusual to say this, but I liked the book well enough, without liking the main character at all.  If I was supposed to be rooting FOR Schroder/Kennedy, then this novel is an abject failure.  If I was supposed to enjoy his collapse, then Bravo, Amity Gaige.

Not exactly a recommendation, I know.  Read it if you care to.  I’d be interested to hear what you think of it.

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The waves roll in, one after the other, after the other, and three heads bob in unison.  One belongs to a grown man, the other two to his sons, one of whom is ten and the other eight years old.  This picture is precious to me, because it actually represents two groups of men.  If the picture were on Polaroid or Kodachrome stock, it might be dated 1973.  The beach could be Fire Island, or the Cape or somewhere along Highway 1 in California.  The man might very well be my father, Hanno Fuchs — overweight, smiling and hairy.  The boys, full of courage and joyful smiles are likely myself and my younger brother, Michael.

Now if the photo were digital, posted on Instagram or Facebook, the year would be 2013, and the hirsute, rotund man would be me, the older boy would be Diego Reyes Fuchs, and the younger boy would be Jackson Hanno Fuchs.  Apart from the names, the remaining details would be very much the same.

“Okay guys, we’re gonna ride this next one!” I call, loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the constantly breaking waves of Cancun.  The three of us fixate on the wave that builds toward us. 

“No, Daddy! The NEXT one!  The next one!” Jackson calls.  All three of us nod in agreement, and we let the wave I’d originally chosen pass, bouncing and bobbing over it, in favor of the whitecaps that are forming on the one Jackson has chosen for us.

“Here we go!” says Diego.  “Ride it! Ride it!”

All three of us begin swimming with the breaking wave, and when I come up from the water, I see that the boys have caught the wave and have ridden it all the way to shore.  Not me.

“I missed it!” I yell to them over the continuous roar of the surf.

“I caught it!”

“Me too!”

I want to stop, to interrupt the game, in order to tell them, to let these two boys know, how incredibly happy this seemingly simple activity is making me.  I want to grab them up and smother them with kisses and tell them of my love for them.  But I know my children; their moods turn on a dime, and this perfection we are sharing in the midst of the planet’s tidal undulations is as delicate as a moth’s wing.  If I touch it, even slightly, it may turn to powder and blow away.

Because I don’t want this moment to end, I stay in it, stay with it, and keep my mouth shut.  I smile with each boy, as we connect — with each other, and with the tides.  Occasionally, we mis-time a wave, and rather than guiding us gently to shore, it lifts us up like an enemy, dashing us headfirst into the gritty, unforgiving sand.  This is fine, though; this is good.  Part of this whole experience — an important part, in fact — is failure. 

I realize now, looking back on all the time I spent on beaches with my brother and father, that body surfing is a life lesson.  Each wave is an opportunity that presents itself to you.  You must decide quickly whether or not to seize that moment, and when you do, there is no guarantee that it will work out for you.  When the opportunity bears fruit, the sensation of gliding along with the wave is almost like sprouting wings and flying.  When it falls flat, you are literally dragged through the grit and muck. 

This was a great life lesson for me, and those beach memories are indelible, as much a part of my heart as the blood that pumps continuously through it.  My hope is that these times will take root in the hearts of my sons, and give them the same comfort they have always provided me, even in my darkest, loneliest times. 

As my wife Jeanette said on the beach today,when we finally decided to come out of the water, “It’s so great that you are in there with them, making memories.”

The flight attendant bunches her nose up, so that she looks like a bunny, as she baby talks my sons, handing them each a cookie on their way off the plane in Cancun, Mexico. 

“Oh my goodness,” she says, to my wife really, I suppose, “can’t I have one?  Can’t I just keep one of them?”

The boys say thank you, almost as fast as we can remind them to do so.  The cookies are on the nasty side — some overly soft combination of oats and cranberries.  Even I, their human Hoover, cannot vacuum them into my gullet.  They’re that bad.  It’s as though someone had, in their haste to put together a healthy cookie, forgotten to actually cook the thing.

Anyway, that’s hardly the point.  This isn’t about how good or bad the airline’s cookies were.  This is a post about remembering when the stewardesses (as they were called then) doted over me when I was a boy the age mine are now, back in the early 1970’s.  I recall the way they would spoil me and my brother, and giggle at how we blushed, much the way the flight attendants do with my boys today. 



Flight attendants (or “stewardesses”) as I remember them back in the day, as they like to say