Time for a Rant

I try hard to make sure that this blog is a postive place. I have so much to be thankful for and I have very little to complain about in my life. Recently, my uncle passed away and I chronicled his his influence on me in Homage. My uncle was not afraid to express his opinion. He was a brilliant man and it was difficult to aruge with him because he was so passionate and so intelligent.

This post is, in some ways, a tribute to my uncle. There are many many things that drive me crazy. I'm not saying I'm perfect. I have my faults - you need only talk to my lovely wife, children, students or colleagues to find them out. Sometimes, however, it is important to express your opinion in no uncertain terms. This one is for you, Uncle Hutch.

As I mentioned, I'm not perfect. I may well be guilty of some of the transgressions outlined below. Either way, I hope that people read this and reflect. If you're not guilty, my apologies for wasting your time and I hope you laugh. If you are guilty of some of these faux pas, well, now you know how I feel. In no particular order, here are some of the things that make me furious.

Let's start with people who are incapable of blaming themselves. You know what? I screw up all the time and I'm the first to admit it. Hello? Here are my thoughts for the parent who complains that the school has failed your child even though she has accumluated 150 absences in grade 1, 2 and 3. Get your kid to school. Read with her. Do the work your teacher sends home. Ask questions. Attend parent teacher conferences. Don't call a teacher with 25 years experience and ruin her day by threatening to phone the Mayor. Never mind the superintendent, just call the Mayor because he will march right to the school and fix things because you are a taxpayer and therefore the indirect boss of all public servants. That is some pretty quick thinking on your part.

People who do not see their children for who they really are equally frustrating. Often, I feel like saying
"I was unaware that the sun emanates from your child's rectum. Little did I know." I have also been tempted to mention "I had no idea a person's excrement could be odorless? What a blessing." It seems that these people whose vision is corrected by rose lenses are the same people who cannot stand to see their children fail.

Children need to fail. They need to be independent. Children need to solve their own problems. Parents who wade into organizing play dates, call other parents to arrange their child's social calendar and live their lives vicariously through their children are sad. I know that my kids are not perfect. I see them realistically. I hope that they learn to deal with failure and difficult situations. I refuse to be a rescue helicopter.

I am equally appalled at parents who won't discipline their own children. These are the people who let their kids wander, talk and whine during public performances, school assemblies and church services. When I was kid, I didn't dare move when I was a member of an audience or congregation. My parents reinforced that by staying still, listening and paying attention, I was doing the right thing. They didn't threaten to punish or reprimand me because they didn't have to. I sat still because it was the right thing to do.

It drives me out of my mind when one of my kids' teams goes out for a team meal (which is another rant unto itself) and the kids are acting like idiots because they are sucking back jugs of pop and downing sugar packets like they are shooters. Add to this the fact that the service is slow because we decided to bring 40 people to a restaurant at once to eat. What a stroke of genius. I can't imagine why the kids are bored spitless because it took them 30 minutes to get a drink and 60 minutes for an order of pizza bread. Oh, but since I am the coach of the team, somehow I'm responsible for the kids' conduct, regardless of where we are. So, when your future first round draft pick is using his spoon to fling creamers across Denny's at little old ladies with blue hairpieces, it's my job to tell them to stop because I've volunteered to be their coach? Uh huh.

I have a whole litany of traffic-related pecadillos. It seems to me that many people think the only reason for traffic laws is to make people work hard to pass their driver's test. Once people have their license, why would they bother using a signal light? How silly. Why on earth would anyone on the road want to know which way a vehicle is going to travel? For that matter, why would anyone want to read simple signs like "Slower Traffic Keep Right"? Heaven forbid you should move out the left lane when there is a line of 30 vehicles behind them on the Friday of a long weekend? I mean, we all own the road if we pay taxes, don't we?

My final target? People who play out their live's trials and tribulations on Facebook. I don't need to know you have menstrual cramps and I couldn't care less. I'm pretty sure you won't die. Most days, it hurts me to get out of bed, too. That's because I'm getting old and I really don't take care of my body. It's my fault. So, Facebook whiner, the way you feel is likely within your control and if it is that bad, why do you want everyone to know? I look at people like Terry Fox who ran 26 miles a day on one leg with great admiration. People who live in nice homes and have full bellies but still need to spew pathos on their social media need a profound reality check.

Enough. I have a whole litany of topics to address in future rants. I'm tired and grumpy. I better go to bed.

Homage

One of my favorite people passed away too soon. It makes me incredibly sad and I need to write about it.

Lawrence Hutchings was a complex man, to say the least. He occupied many roles during his life. Son. Brother. Husband. Father. Grandfather. Uncle. Great Uncle. Hippie. Lawyer. Bartender. Teacher. Author. Pundit. Activist. Business owner. Actor. Director. Mentor. Inspiration.

As a boy, I quickly learned to love my uncle. He was funny. He had a false tooth and ring he claimed was the eye from a real tiger. He had a big bushy beard and told me he was a hippy. He smoked long brown American cigarettes and made me giggle so hard I would actually pee my pants. Uncle Hutch lived far away but every time he came to visit, I wished he would never leave.

As I grew older, I learned to love him on a whole new level. He lived at the foot of the Rockies, just outside of Canmore, and we made frequent visits during the summer. When he left his career in law, he opened Hutch's Pizza in Canmore and gave me another reason to idolize him. Uncle Hutch told stupid jokes. He told funny jokes. He told dirty jokes. He had an endless supply of one-liners that I use to this day. The witty bantering and exchange of puns between my Dad, Auntie Lee and Uncle Hutch rank amongst my favorite childhood memories. He had a sense of humor like few people I know and always left a lasting impression.

When my cousins Kris and Greg were born, I saw a whole new Uncle Hutch. I saw a devoted father who loved his children more than anything. He teased, played with and loved his boys to the end of the earth. I knew how good he made them feel because he always made me feel the same way.

It seemed like I reserved some of my best hockey games for the times he, Auntie Heath and the boys came to watch. They may not remember, but I sure do. I was eight or nine years old and I had been selected as the MVP in a game in the Lake Bonavista tournament in Calgary. I was nearly bursting the buttons of my jacket when I got to see them after the game. A few years later, I was selected top defenceman in another Calgary tournament, and sure enough, Uncle Hutch was there to watch. It meant so much that he took the time to watch me play.

As I grew older, I learned to love my Uncle on a much deeper level. I spent a great deal of time with my Auntie Lee as a teenager. Our family gatherings tended to be at her home. It was a neutral ground where all of the families gathered. It was during these years that I learned more about the tension between Uncle Hutch and my Grandfather. When my uncle went from lawyer to restaurant owner, I thought it was incredibly cool. I had no idea what a rift it created between him and his father. As a teen, I loved our family gatherings at Auntie Lee's. I loved the Canmore Hutchings because they brought a special spark. Wine flowed as freely as the puns and plays on words. It was the early 80s, so we played games like Trivial Pursuit even though Uncle Hutch had memorized all of the answers. He was impossible to beat and equally impossible to avoid looking up to.

His pizza place was a short-lived venture and it was somewhat fitting that we both became teachers in the early 1990s. I know that our shared professional experience pulled us closer during my first years of teaching. Every summer, I went on an extended backpacking trip with my dad. One year, Uncle Hutch joined us and it remains a cherished memory. We warmed up with a hike into Floe Lake in Kootenay National Park, then spent five days in the Skoki Valley. My dad is incredibly fit, so it was a struggle for us to keep up. Every time we stopped to gather the group and gather our strength, Uncle Hutch would fuel up from a seemingly endless supply of surreptitiously stashed chocolate. It was a magical experience to spend that time with two of my biggest influences in life.

Anyone who knows me knows that I love the mountains. When I really think about it, my great mountain memories are like a quilt assembled by a team of people I love. My parents, my wife and kids, my sister and my friends have created a tapestry of fantastic thoughts and emotions. Uncle Hutch, Auntie Heath, Kris and Greg are at the absolute center of so many of those great memories. Regardless of where they were living and how things were going in their world, the Canmore Hutchings welcomed us with open arms. We golfed, walked, hiked, drank, ate, laughed, played, watched sports and whiled away countless hours at the kitchen table. From Lac Des Arcs to Railway Avenue to Cougar Court, the location was secondary to the love I felt from my Aunt and Uncle.

In the last several years, we did not spend nearly as much time together. Health issues, along with family dynamics and commitments combined to limit our contact. Regardless of the situation, however, I am so glad that we stayed in contact. I loved stopping in for lunch or poking around The Second Story. I loved watching him perform with the Pine Tree Players. It made me so happy to hear about the trips he and Auntie Heath made to B.C., the Maritimes and Maui. When I finally caved in and created a Facebook account, Uncle Hutch was one of my first friends who regularly commented (in his own inimitable fashion.)

The last time I saw Uncle Hutch was at the end of April. We went for lunch at the golf course and it was so great that we were joined by Kris and his daughter Maile. Uncle Hutch looked great and was at his absolute best - politically irreverent, excited about his involvement with the Pine Tree Players, reminiscing about Maui and doting on his beloved granddaughter. As I headed home with a colleague from school, I made note that it was really important for me to always take time to call or connect with my Uncle when we were in Canmore. To me, the greatest testament to his character has been the reaction to his passing. My boys were crestfallen. Anyone I know who spent time with Uncle Hutch has taken the time to contact me. He left a profound impact that is very clear in the kind phone calls, e-mails and messages I have received in the last few days.

My heart is heavy and my eyes are brimming. It is sad and tragic that my Uncle's heart could not extend his life. Perhaps it was too full of love, happiness and contentment.

I Don't Get It

Note: This is an older piece of writing - probably one of my first forays into writing for pleasure. I think my style has changed in the last ten years, but this is still one of my favorite stories from the classroom and I hope you enjoy it.

In many ways, students who say "I don't get it" are a teacher's raison d'être. We help students to "get it," whether "it" refers to understanding the major events leading to Confederation or learning to cross the street safely. We need students to tell us when they do not understand a concept, because when they "don't get it" and don't tell us, major problems develop. Sometimes, student misconceptions provide much needed comic relief.

Several years ago, my Grade 7 class was studying First Nations culture. Specifically, we were discussing the importance of bison to the Blackfoot. In general, seventh grade boys are fascinated with killing things, so naturally, our discussion turned to the actual techniques of the buffalo hunt. Many students were aware of the importance of the buffalo jump—Dry Island Buffalo Jump is located less than an hour east of Red Deer and most of them had heard of the world-famous and (to them) well-named Head Smashed In Buffalo Jump. I was dramatically demonstrating to the class how the hunt worked. I asked them to envision an enormous herd of beasts in full stampede while I rode behind them on my wild pony (actually, a metre-stick with a horse head duct taped to it). I explained that eventually the mighty bison would run out of prairie and plummet over the edge of the buffalo jump to a horrible death. Although my students were captivated by the drama and horror of the whole event, a hand shot up in the middle of my presentation.

"Yes, Kelly?" I said. I was ready to demonstrate my full understanding of this important part of Canada's cultural heritage, but I wasn't ready for the question that followed.

"I don't get it," Kelly said.

"Don't get what?" I asked, still ready, still eager, still wanting to dazzle.

"How would stampeding buffalo over a cliff kill them?"

"They fall a great distance to the ground, which caused serious injury or death," I replied.

"But, wouldn't the buffalo just fly?" he asked.

"No?!"

"But don't buffalo have wings?" he asked. "You know, buffalo wings?"

He was dead serious. Keep in mind that this was the mid 1990s, long before Jessica Simpson made the same, but much more publicized, mistake.

Like everyone else in our classroom, I was floored. Incredulous stares and shoulder shrugs filled the room. Finally, one of my more creative students said, "It's like a Bugs Bunny cartoon—this huge buffalo has tiny little wings that it flaps madly, but it can't fly." Somehow, Billy had an image in his head that buffalo couldn't possibly die because they had wings (which are tasty and come in different flavours). I tried to explain that Buffalo wings were actually chicken wings prepared according to a recipe that originated in Buffalo, New York. I'm not sure he "got it", but I tried.

As teachers, we really don't know what is going on in our students' heads. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why thinking aloud is such a powerful teaching strategy. Nonetheless, though I hear things like this every week, I've never forgotten the comic image of buffalo desperately flapping tiny wings as they flew over a cliff.

Being There

As a school administrator, I have many things to be thankful for. I love my job. Each day brings a new highlight, insight or challenge. I get to help people teach and learn. I consider myself incredibly fortunate to be paid for the work I do.

This post, however, is about the time I spend away from school. At times, work does pull me away from home and my family. Overall, working in a school has allowed me the luxury of "being there." I get to be there to coach my children. I get to drive them to whatever activities they are involved in. Best of all, when my boys are not in school, I get to be there with them.

Our holidays are truly special times for our family. In the past year, we spent nearly 30 nights in our trailer. We went to the World Junior Hockey Championships. Most recently, we spent our spring break in Maui. The memories our family has created in the last year are incredible. I honestly cannot pin down a single defining moment because there have been too many highlights.

More than anything, traveling together has allowed our family the opportunity to spend quality time with one another. Camping, hiking, cycling, swimming, geocaching, beach walking, skiing, making fires, riding roller coasters, visiting huge cities, attending world class sporting events, boogie boarding, ziplining, snorkeling. Even though we have participated in so many unique activities, the things we have done are like individual frames that make up a powerful film.

The most incredible part of the time we have spent together is the chance to watch my boys change and grow up. When we traveled to Olympic National Park last summer, my older son was extremely tentative when it came to the ocean. He is cerebral and literal, so his impression of rip tides made him overly cautious on the beach. Even his first forays into Napili Bay and Big Beach met with mixed success. He got hammered by waves and developed a sand rash from playing in the water. By the end of our Hawaii trip, it was impossible to get him out of the water. Watching Connor don a snorkel and plunge into the ocean to swim with turtles made me proud in a way that is difficult to put into words.

Travelling with my younger son confirms exactly who he is - a gregarious risk taker, full of joy and adventure. From firing rocks into every body of water possible to diving headfirst into huge waves to picking up banana slugs on Whidbey Island to having supper with Dad at Hooter's, my boy is not afraid to try anything. Jeff is the type of person who loves to be around people as much as they love to be around them. He is so different from his brother, and so special in just as many ways.

It is not possible or realistic for us to spend all of our holidays away from home, and home time is equally important. We get the chance to read, to talk, to play games. Even doing things around the house and in the yard allows me to spend quality time with my family. When I think about my favorite childhood memories, I am drawn to a lake, a canoe and a fishing rod. More importanly, I think about camping with my mom, dad and sister. I think about our family's trips to Quebec City and Disneyland.

I am lucky to have a job that provides me with the financial means and the time to make so many memories. I can only hope that they resonate for my sons the way my childhood memories have remained with me.

Riding the Coaching Rollercoaster

I spend most of the winter (and a significant portion of my summer) in a hockey rink. It has been this way since I was seven years old and I would not trade it for anything. As I noted in The Game I Love, hockey is a huge part of who I am. For the past several years, I have not walked into the arena sporting only a bag slung over my shoulder and a stick in the other hand.

As a coach, I walk in with both hands full. Depending on the day and my reason for being there, I might carry a bag of pucks, my hockey stick, a mug of coffee, my coaching bag (skates, gloves, helmet), a black binder full of things I think I need but usually don't get to, a dry-erase marker, a white board, lost and found items from the last game or practice, fundraising forms and money, to name a few things.

The gear I bring to the rink has changed, but my reason for being there really has not. I love hockey. I don't come to the rink to win championships, pad my ego or live vicariously through my kids. I hope that every player I coach wants to play hockey for the rest of their life. I hope my players learn something about themselves. I hope they improve their skills and at the end of the season, I hope they miss our team because every team should be something special.

It takes courage to coach a team. Ultimately, a team's success reflects directly on its coach. I love the tongue in cheek adage "I coached great. The team played lousy!" However, it rarely plays out this way. Good coaches are willing to take all of the blame and deflect all of the praise. When things go poorly for a team, people want answers. I firmly believe that no one begins a game hoping to lose. Some days, the team is not good enough. Other days, the puck simply does not bounce the way it should. Occasionally, your team can do no wrong. The outcome of most games has little to do with what a coach puts into the game. As a season progresses, however, the success of the team has to reflect upon the coach. Even though a team's success (or lack therof) might have nothing to do with coaching, the coach ultimately faces questions, second guesses and criticism.

I am a teacher and I believe in teaching the game to my players. Basic skills take precedence over team tactics. I have coached every level from initiation to college and I can guarantee that any team capable of executing basic skills (skating, passing, shooting) at a high level of speed and accuracy will do well against any opponent. I know that there is usually an implementation dip or delayed reward, which means that most of my teams take a while to excel. For me, it's a worthwhile tradeoff because developing basic skills benefits all players.

Most of what I have addressed so far has to do with the science of coaching. I really believe that it is important for coaches to be able to pass on the correct techniques and skills to their players. That said, there is a definite art to coaching that cannot be overlooked. When I think of the best coaches I had in minor hockey, the thing that stands out is their ability to say the right thing at the right time.
Not only did they know how to make individual players feel good, they knew what to say to the team to motivate them. The lessons I learned from men like my dad, Rusty Climie and Gary Williams stick with me to this day. These men always mixed positive reinforcement with correction. Today, my approach to individual players and the entire team is always guided by these amazing role models. I was fortunate to have the best coaching of my hockey career when I was in Pee Wee and Bantam. The lessons I learned from those coaches have remained with me, not just in hockey, but in life.

The rewards of coaching are immense. When I hear young players call "Hi, Coach Ted" several years after I was their coach, it truly fills my heart. My basement is full of pictures, hockey sticks and cards signed by the teams I have coached. I have coached a few very successful teams and a few that could not find the formula for success. Regardless of a team's record, I look back on the memories from each season with great pleasure.

As much as I remember the great things, the not-so-great things stick with me, too. Coaching stays with a person. It can keep you up at night, distract you from your work and affect your personal life. At the worst of times, coaching makes selfless people question themselves. There is a downside that can be unsettling and heartbreaking.

The hockey season is drawing to a close, and I think it is really important to reach out to anyone who  gives their free time to coaching a team. I have been incredibly fortunate in Red Deer Minor Hockey to have amazing assistant coaches and managers. My opposing coaches have, with very few exceptions, been tremendous colleagues. If you have not already done so, take a moment to personally thank your team's coaches. They willingly get on a roller coaster three or four days a week and ask for nothing in return.

What Makes a Great School Great?

I work in a great school. I've mentioned this in many of my previous posts, including Come Together

It's a stretch to even say that it seems like work. There are definitely times when it is tough to get going in the morning and I certainly enjoy the holidays we are blessed to receive. I've worked in several different schools and I say with absolutely certainty that Grandview is great.

It's worth examining and I hope I can do it justice. What happens in our building really is special.

At the heart of a great school are great people. In my mind, education is about allowing children to see who they are and what they could be. Every decision that is made in a school must be made with its students' best interests in mind. Our school motto is "Parents, Students, Staff - Now That's Teamwork". I didn't make it up, but I like it because we really do live it. There will always be people who don't quite fit in, parents who mistrust the system, students who have trouble accepting the culture of how things are done, staff who do not commit themselves to the hard work it takes.

Overall, things work very nicely in our building. We have great kids. The vast majority of them have bought in to what we do. Work hard and play hard. Treat others with respect. Have fun! We don't have a long list of rules, but some things are not negotiable. As the vice principal of the school, I sometimes have to point out to children that it's not OK to play fight. Usually, they believe me and their behavior gets adjusted accordingly. If they don't "get it" the first time, then I need to spend time with them at recess. We watch the other kids, we walk, we talk and usually, they realize that play fighting is not what we do. There have been a few students who either don't get it or tell me they plain don't like that rule and those kids get to be my executive assistants. They get to do jobs inside, help with recycling, or work in my office. These kids are the exception because overall, the students who walk our halls understand their part in making Grandview a great place.

We also have amazing adults in our building. Starting with our indefatigable and overwhelmingly positive principal, Grandview is full of master teachers who care deeply about their students. Our staff is flexible and innovative. They openly embrace guest clinicians, performers and speakers. They seek out new field trips and technology to make learning come alive. These teachers understand that it's not possible to do a great job by arriving at 8:30 and leaving at 3:05 every day. Even better, they know how to work together. When they are given time to collaborate, it's all business and the business is making sure every child in our building gets the best opportunities possible.

The support staff does exactly that. They support the kids and the teachers. They do an amazing range of things and it all helps the kids in our building. Individual assistance, working with groups, tending to cuts, contacting parents, helping students with special needs participate in every activity, preparing materials and learning environments. These ladies do WAY MORE work than they need to and they do it because they enjoy it.

Much of what happens is a result of the prevailing culture in our building. In general, if people don't "get it", they leave sooner or later. I've been at Grandview for five years and we have some turnover each year. The core staff who drive the culture here have also been here for at least that long. It really is an amazing thing to be a part of.

You'll note that there is nothing in this post about achievement. We don't need an outside test or survey to tell us we are doing things right, though we do very well on those externally imposed and contrived "measures". There is nothing in this post about being a "Renaissance School" or a "Seven Habits" school. We don't need to attach any stickers or gloss on what we do. We are not a "Program of Choice" with a focus on arts/technology/languages/science etc. We have never attached the label of a "Professional Learning Community" to what we do, but if you understand what a PLC is supposed to be, you'll see that the definition applies very nicely.

We don't need labels, programs, high test scores and positive survey results. The people who spend their days in our school know it is a great place. You FEEL it the moment you walk in the building and to my knowledge, there is no way to measure a feeling like that.

This is real. This is your life. In a song.

I need to get something out in the open. Country music makes me cry like a baby. I can't help it and I'm pretty sure I know why.

You need to understand that I love all kinds of music. I don't love them equally, but I can honestly say I have a very open mind when it comes to the things I listen to. Rock, alternative, country, folk, ska, reggae, big band, easy listening, classical, Broadway, jazz, blues, hip-hop, metal, you name it, I can probably listen to it. My iPod play list goes from The Animals to The Emeralds to Eminem to The Mighty Mighty Bosstones to Neil Young to Zac Brown, with lots of stops between. While my late father-in-law liked music that had a good beat, I'm a lyric guy. I am tone-deaf and have only recently gained the ability to read music. I have no talent or rhythm, but I definitely understand how to put words together.

The lyrics don't need to be particularly meaningful or evocative, I just love the way artists assemble words. My favorite band of all time is The Tragically Hip and I honestly believe part of the reason they have not experienced worldwide success is the Canadiana that is infused in their lyrics. One of my favorite Hip tunes starts with a reference to the Group of 7 painter Tom Thompson and that line evokes Thompson's paintings, a canoe and images of a place that is on my bucket list (Alongquin Park).

The lyrics of a song don't need to be particularly profound to elicit a powerful response. The Counting Crows' debut album has a track called "Time and Time Again." It was never a hit, in fact, I'm not sure I have ever heard it played on the radio. The opening lyrics, though, send shivers down my spine.

I wanted so badly/
Somebody other than me/
Staring back at me/
But you were gone. 
Gone. 
Gone.

I listened to this song repeatedly as I drove to and from a good friend's funeral. It framed the entrance and exit to a monologue I wrote and performed to deal with how profoundly Jeff's passing changed my life. Even today as I write and listen, my eyes fill up and I'm transported to my old SUV
(The Millennium Falcon).

Aside from a few tunes that Gordon Downie would refer to as "weepy little things", most of the music I listened to in my teenage years did not reduce me to a puddle. I liked big, brash, fun music and particularly liked tunes with interesting lyrics. When I met my wife, things changed in a few ways. I started listening to country music.  We bought a Chesapeake Bay Retriever. It was all downhill from there.

After a big all night party at a teammate's house, we were killing time and watching CMT. Now, I'll admit that I was a bit fuzzy and compromised to begin with, but when my buddy Hammy said "This is the saddest song ever", I was a bit interested. The band was called Pirates of the Mississippi and the song is called Feed Jake. It's written from the point of view of a 20something guy who drives home to attend a childhood friend's funeral. In spite of cheeseball lyrics like "What we are and what we ain't/What we can and what we cain't", the video had me fighting back tears.

My next weak moment came on a Friday night when I was in university. My best friend Jeremy came to pick me up and we were having our usual warm up drinks before heading out for the night. The CMT Top 20 countdown was on and a new video by Travis Tritt came on. We were transfixed to the television, sipping a Lucky Lager. The video tells the story of a paraplegic war veteran named Mac Singleton who struggles to readjust to society with the help of his wife Annie and a fellow veteran named Al. By the end of the video, we simultaneously glanced at one another and realized that we both had the waterworks turned on. It was a true "I Love You Man" moment.

More than anything, though, fatherhood has rendered me completely useless in the face of songs about families, dogs, and being a daddy. Even when the songs are meant to be funny or tongue--in-cheek like Lonestar's Mr. Mom, they can make me weep uncontrollably because they remind me of a long-lost time when my kids were still babies. Nothing evokes a greater response in me than my family. Last year, I wrote a post (My Most Important Job) that explains how being a dad is more important than anything else in my life. Songs like Gord Bamford's Little Guy and High Valley's A Father's Love hit on themes that are the heart of how I see myself. I joke with my wife that these sorts of songs are inherently "unfair".

Even when the song does not directly connect to my life, if it tells a story and has a video that expands the story, I will watch it over and over again. Songs like Here Comes Goodbye and Colder Weather tell stories about relationships and loss. Jason Aldean's Amarillo Sky shares the story of proud farm families, Brad Paisley's Whiskey Lullaby tells the tale of lost love and alcoholism. These are not the stories of my life, but they make connections to my experiences and the people I love the most.

I suppose that the stereotype about country music is somewhat true. There are plenty of lost jobs, dead dogs and broken relationships in the music I listen to. On the other hand, though, being a parent and a husband is precisely "what I do". It's a good place to be and I'm glad that the musicians I admire and enjoy are providing the soundtrack.