The Spoils of Embarrassment

Avoidance is impossible when it comes to that fateful day when a child starts believing his parents suffer from a coolness deficiency.

It wasn't so long ago when both of my sons enjoyed me walking them to class in the morning, and every day was a mini adventure. Sometimes they held my hand.

But then came the day my oldest son Curt, 11, didn't want Dad to walk him to class anymore. That led to him not wanting to be seen dropped off in the parking lot across from the school.

Today, they get dropped off in the circle drive in front of the school, with Curt reaching over upon arrival and turning down the stereo so no kid can hear what Dad has playing in the truck.

Never mind that it might be Nirvana, Motorhead, Led Zeppelin, The White Stripes, Black Sabbath, Soundgarden, The Ramones, Mumford & Sons, Bob Marley, Snoop Lion, Skrillex or Beastie Boys on the stereo.

Whatever it is, it's not exactly like my Dad driving me up to my elementary school with the Kingston Trio or Herp Albert at maximum volume.

Yet kids are kids, and embarrassment is embarrassment. It's in their DNA and part of the growth process.

But where there are a growing number of a maturing child's buttons to push, there are opportunities for clever means of dynamite parenting.

Like this morning.

Curt, as he is prone to do, left his class agenda in the car of my beautiful and incredible fiancee, Beth, who deserves a medal of honor for picking up the boys from school daily and serving as Minister of Homework Enforcement, resulting in substantial grade improvement. The agenda basically is a calendar that serves as one of several means of communication between students, teachers and parents.

An agenda reminder could be stapled to Curt's forehead, and he'd still find a way to forget this critical school component, which triggers a nastygram and sad-face drawing from the teacher should it not make it to class daily with a parental signature.

So when Curt failed to take the steps necessary to get that agenda to school today, the only logical thing to do was to deliver it to him in person on my way to work.

Humor columnist Dave Barry set the bar for campus embarrassment years ago when he drove up to his child's campus behind the wheel of the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile and used the vehicle's loudspeaker to call out to his 13-year-old son.

Here's the link: http://www.corgifan.com/oscar/barry.htm

With no Wienermobile immediately available, I had to settle for just convincing the Rice Elementary School office staffers that hand-delivering the agenda was preferable to just dropping it off with them.

I envisioned showing up at the classroom door, knocking just a tad louder than necessary and then being all smiles as I waved hello to the fifth-graders and happily handed over the agenda to a red-faced Curt.

But I never got the chance.

After scoring my hall pass from the front office, I ran into Curt in the courtyard between buildings. He apparently had been awarded the task of ferrying something from his class to some other part of the building.

He had all manner of key cards and whatnot hanging from his neck, giving him a look of importance and authority.

Despite his agenda forgetfulness, he at least was trustworthy enough in his teacher's eyes to be tasked with getting important information from Points A to B on campus.

"HEY DAD?!?!?!?!?!?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!?!?!?" he exclaimed as he spotted me from across the courtyard. He was with a buddy, and they were walking purposefully toward their objective.

I gave him a big smile and said, "HERE'S THE AGENDA YOU FORGOT!!!!"

Not as exciting as the envisioned classroom invasion, but it had to suffice. With the doors to the main building locked, I had to depend on him to use his card key to get me out of the courtyard. Once inside, he hurried away on his mission.

Somehow, I don't think what I did this morning will result in heightened agenda responsibility for Curt, so I might have to raise the game.

I'll never go as far as showing up on campus in a "23-foot-long, 3-ton hot dog, with wheels in the buns," as Dave Barry called it, but next time Curt forgets his agenda, showing up at his classroom door with Justin Bieber's "Baby" blaring from my iPhone might not be out of the question.

Finding Dad's Wedding Ring Brings Joy

Little thought had been given to the whereabouts of Dad's wedding ring in the six years since his passing at age 87.

Life changes, including three moves in barely four years, created belongings chaos, with all manner of mementos, books, clothing, art and other items - some dating back to early childhood and even my parents' childhoods - boxed, de-boxed, re-boxed and shoved into the back corners of attics or closets.

Like a blanket dragged over an unswept floor, so many material things have been picked up over the decade along the way of my life's journey, keepsake dust bunnies too important to just toss, some with invaluable sentimental worth.

Curiosity over what happened to Dad's wedding ring didn't surface until late last year, when my beautiful and most wonderful now-fiancée Beth and I began talking about a life together.

One evening in December, I hauled boxes one by one into the dining room and rifled through them. Dad accumulated a crazy volume of tools, gun parts (he built muzzleloaders), jewelry parts (he was a silversmith) and a wild assortment of other material bits and pieces during his life's amazing journey through 81 percent of the 20th century.

Century-old chisels his dad had passed down, antique wrenches and trigger mechanisms mingled with lead muzzleloader bullets, powder horns and foreign coins in boxes so heavy that they demanded an appliance dolly's use for moving from Points A to B.

But hours of searching that evening failed to produce Dad's wedding ring.

In January, the contents of that house transitioned to a new home out in the country, with some boxes unloaded and the rest stacked in a garage corner.

In the mild upheaval and adjustment that came with the move, the burner on the marriage topic remained on simmer.

But that changed April 20.

Little in the way of ruffles and flourishes preceded the Facebook status change from "in a relationship" to "engaged." No dramatic presentations at a romantic restaurant. No proposals splattered across the big screen at The Ballpark in Arlington. No aircraft pulling a banner over the Tyler skies.

The topic simply was revisited the morning of April 20, a Saturday. A plan emerged. Then came the realization that formal engagement had taken place. Excitement built throughout the weekend. Loved ones and friends were told. A Facebook announcement came that Monday, drawing more than 100 "likes" and dozens of congratulatory comments in an overwhelming, lump-in-throat display of loving support.

Thoughts quickly returned to Dad's wedding ring, which I wanted to proudly adorn in my new journey with Beth. My older sister had no recollection of where the ring went, and my younger sister seemed confident that she had turned it over to me at some point in recent years, in a box mixed with old coins, jewelry and childhood mementos. The only one who could have known what happened to the ring immediately after Dad's passing was my mom, who died in September 2008. My parents would have adored Beth.

It was possible that Dad might have been buried with the ring for all we knew. A call was made to the funeral home, which had no records of what he was wearing upon burial.

The only thing left to do before considering another ring option was to revisit the boxes. This past Sunday, Beth and I decided to dedicate part of the day to hanging kitschy junk-shop stuff on the fence around our pool, items such as colorful metal boots, mermaids, stars and signs extolling pool life.

Venturing into the garage in search of a box of screws, I took a quick detour to investigate a stack of boxes in a side closet. A white box caught my eye, thanks to my gold-plated baby shoes poking out from the top. A closer look revealed items that my sister said she had delivered to me along with the ring.

Inside the box was a small white box, which contained smaller boxes of coins - and a small dark-brown pouch I did not recall ever seeing.

I began emptying the pouch contents into my palm. A gold locket I'd given my mother fell out first, followed by a buffalo nickel and then a cheesy metal ring that looked like it could have come from a grocery store gumball machine.

And then my Dad's wedding ring fell into my hand.

Tears welled as I examined it. Beth's reaction was similar, a joyous moment on myriad levels. The ring felt heavier than expected and had more intricate, unusual markings than I remembered, with little in the way of inside inscription. Almost two of my ring fingers could fit in the thing, with Dad having chunky Cuban cigar fingers compared to my relatively small, bony digits.

It dawned on me that I'd never before touched Dad's wedding ring. My parents were married for 45 years, and I don't remember the ring ever leaving his finger.

Soon, that re-sized ring will symbolize an exciting new journey of lifelong love and commitment. Perhaps some day my sons will remember it for its ever-present place on my finger.

And, hopefully, there won't be untold hours spent rummaging around in boxes should one of the boys arrive upon a moment in his life's journey when he wants to wear it.