The painted ponies go up and down.

If you have the six minutes to spare, listen to the BRILLIANT Joni Mitchell.  She's incredible.

I didn't come by my love of this song in the right way...I was old enough to appreciate Joni Mitchell when this tune was first released but I was probably too busy listening to Bobby Sherman and David Cassidy to notice.

The FIRST time I became aware of  Circle Game was when I was married to Carly's dad, Clyde, who had an incredible sense of musical beauty.  He taught me a great deal.

The second time I recall is when I was a news director at another station. The general manager "fired" a long time consultant at the TV station where we both worked.  The GM had preceded me by about a year, hired me and we both agreed that our consultant (who had worked with the station for more than two decades) needed to go.  He (the consultant) was a really nice guy.  Really nice.  But the station we were working at had slipped from a dominant first place to number two.  And you know how that goes:

1. Fire the consultant
2. Get new graphics
3. Build a new set
4. Hire a new news director
5. Lather, rinse, repeat

But I digress.  This particular GM sent an email to the consultant relieving him of his duties.  And the last line of the email was "and the painted ponies go up and down."

At the time, I thought the phrase was kinda heartless.  I know better now.

When Carly's dad died, we played Circle Game at his memorial.

And since our son Charlie moved from KC to Jackson, Wyoming, it is meaningful again.

USAToday has a story about how Boomers are helping their kids get along.   We have tried to help both of ours as they meander through adulthood.

How funny it is that both John and I have struggled so with Charlie's decision to move west when both of us did it decades ago.

John was the oldest of two, finished a stint at college and in the late 70s felt the need for more.  He and some friends moved from Connecticut to Reno.

I, the oldest of seven, dropped out of college in the late 70s because I wasn't a great student and felt the need for more.  I move from South Dakota to Reno.

Eventually we found each other and Charlie is the product of our discovery.  Yay!

Now our Charlie has jumped from the nest.  He graduated from college, spent some months with us and felt the need for more. 

Wednesday, he left for Jackson, WY.  He has a job.  He loves the outdoors.  This is perfect for him.

And the seasons, they go round and round.  And the painted ponies go up and down.

Parenthood

Parenthood.  Funny thing.  This morning on my walk, my iPod on "shuffle," this Enya song came on and I started thinking about a part of the lyrics:

One by one my leaves fall.
One by one my tales are told.

At 54, I'm staring mortality right in the face.  My children, at 29 and 24 years, respectively, no longer need me (except for cash, sometimes).

Jacquelyn Mitchard wrote a book entitled "Deep End of the Ocean" that I read even before it got onto Oprah's hit parade.  And because of that book, I bought another written by her.  "The Rest of Us" is a compilation of her columns and on our recent trip to New Orleans, I re-read it on the plane.

Her description of parenthood goes like this:

"...our sons and daughters are only passing through.  At first, they are of you, born to come to your arms.  Rapidly, they are with you, pausing only long enough for you to dab a few hurried strokes of paint on the canvas they are becoming--they are on their way to belonging to themselves, and then to the world.  If we are lucky, they always will consider our home their harbor, but they are headed out to the open sea, almost from the first."

I still consider the farm six miles north of Wagner, SD my harbor.  But which home, of the many we've had, will my children consider their harbor?  Germantown?  Kansas City?  Somewhere else?

I wonder.

The Story of Spike.

During the post mortem of Thursday's 6pm newscast, the conversation turned to pets.  I mentioned that we had not yet "re-dogged" after Dottie and Elizabeth Alex seized the opportunity to suggest that we not get a new canine and that we adopt her guinea pig Zack, instead. 

Zack is a delightful animal, according to Elizabeth, albeit a little "overweight."  You can contact her if you're interested.

I had a flashback and forced the team to hear yet another story about my past, which of course, they dutifully and patiently heard.  Bless their hearts.

Rewind to 1990.  We had just relocated from Reno to Deerfield Beach, FL where I ran the Broward bureau for WSVN.  Carly was in the second grade; Chaz, a toddler.  We rented a two-bedroom condo (and paid more than twice than we had in Nevada.  A bit of financial shock, to be sure).

We checked out the public schools and determined them unfit for our smart little girl so we enrolled her at Zion Lutheran Christian School. 

Carly was a good student but perhaps the transition from public school to a Christian private school was a bit much to ask of a seven-year-old.  Her teacher was kind but stern.  Her classmates were not as welcoming as they could have been.  A highlight, though, was the class pet.  A guinea pig named Spike which each student was allowed to take home for the weekend.  Carly really looked forward to "her weekend" because we had sadly left our family pet, a cat named Louise, back in Nevada.

At last the Spike Weekend arrived.  John and Carly carefully put Spike's home on the dining room table.  She was so excited, I didn't even protest.  Spike seemed pretty harmless so I put my rodent-hatred aside.  I think I may have even held the creature briefly, stroking its soft fur.  Both kids were absolutely enamored with having another live thing in the house. 

While she was doing her homework, John and I took a Friday evening walk, leaving the kids alone for about 20 minutes.

When we got back, both Carly and Charlie were coloring or playing with Legos.  I can't remember exactly but they were very calm.  All was well in the Phillip household.

Spike was sleeping in his cage.  The children are playing nicely.  I had a great job at a great TV station and a handsome husband who took good care of me.  Life was good.

At some point after the kids went to bed, we realized that Spike had not moved.  For hours.  My worst fear realized.  Spike was not sleeping.  He was DEAD.

How to tell the kids?  They would be devastated.  Just hours before, we had all held and cuddled the little furry creature, cooing about how sweet and funny and cute he was. 

And how would this impact Carly's stature in the school?  Would she be seen as the child who was unlucky enough to be in charge of the class pet when it died?  How could she recover from the shame?

Happily her teacher was benevolent.  She handled the news for the class with class and allowed the grief to be deflected away from Carly.

Many years later, Carly admitted that Spike didn't die from natural causes.  The poor thing apparently met his demise from fear after a ride in her Barbie car.  Imagine the screams...  Spike went on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at the wheel of a red plastic Corvette.

I'm still not a fan of rodents-as-pets but Spike will always be a part of the Phillip Family Lore.

Playoffs?!? Playoffs.

We are spending more money on "experiences" than physical gifts now that our kids are older.  One such experience was the Chiefs-Titans game and although it was ridiculously cold, we had a really great time.  We had end zone seats and didn't get a great deal of action but we got to see Eric Berry's pick-six perfectly.  A real highlight for Chaz who attends Tennessee, EB's alma mater.

Have I Become Chopper 5?

The first time I heard the phrase "helicopter parent" was in June at our UT "orientation."

I fit the bill. We both do. We hovered over both kids and especially Charlie.

Here's John, loading the car when we took Chaz to UT.

Good think we had a big vehicle because it was jam-packed FULL.

On the way home, I stopped crying before we got to Nashville...