Dad of 10

Pokemon just too much fun to let Go - Columbus Dispatch

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Thu, 30 May 2019 04:22:00 +0000

Yes, I still play Pokemon Go.

I started because I wanted to play a game with my kids that included going outside. They have moved on. I still play because the augmented-reality game that allows you to see creatures superimposed over the real-world landscape encourages me to visit new places, meet new people and have new adventures.

Schiller Park in German Village is a great place to play. It has ample gyms (where your team can battle an opposing team for supremacy) and Pokestops (where you can restock your virtual supplies). My favorite gym there is the Umbrella Girl fountain. I listened to much of an outdoor theater production of Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” one evening while circling the park catching Pidgey and Pikachu.

The Statehouse and the Scioto Mile also are great places to play. The Statehouse is loaded with gyms and Pokestops that teach you a little bit about history as you pass by a marker regarding Abraham Lincoln’s visit to the Statehouse, the Ohio Holocaust and Liberators Memorial and assorted cannons. The Scioto Mile offers a variety of Pokemon to catch and is the perfect place to stretch your legs on a long walk.

Hands down, though, Ohio State University is my favorite place to play. You can walk an endless loop around the Oval or explore the whole campus. The many gyms there include the Thompson Library, University Hall, and, appropriately, the Billy Ireland Cartoon Library and Museum. I never miss the gym — or the donuts — at Buckeye Donuts. There even is a Pokestop in the center of Ohio Stadium.

I have met many interesting people while playing Pokemon Go. We have a group at work that meets for raids. We talk about Pokemon, of course, the newest releases and who is going to Pokemon Go Fest in Chicago, but we also talk about family events, job transfers and new babies and grandchildren.

I have had adventures while playing Pokemon Go, too.

Last autumn, I learned the location of a new legendary Pokemon. I needed it, so I stopped, even though the area was sketchy. There were four guys there, all with facial jewelry and tattoo sleeves. But folks don’t seem so intimidating when they are giving you tips on the best Mewtwo counters. Not only did we beat the raid boss in control of the gym, all five of us captured it.

At RiverScape MetroPark in Dayton, I nearly walked between a man on his knee and a woman with her hands to her mouth. He was proposing to her. I didn’t see the couple until it was almost too late. Like many Pokemon Go players, I walk with my face looking down at my phone too much of the time.

I will admit to a few brushes with the law, too. Pro tip: Coffman Park closes at dark, and the Dublin police aren’t shy about letting you know.

Another time, I was in a group raiding at Catfish Biff’s at Ohio State when a Columbus police cruiser pulled up. Over the loudspeaker they asked us what we were doing. We replied that we were playing Pokemon Go. Both officers got out of the cruiser, pulled out their phones and helped us beat the raid boss.

And once, when playing at the Statehouse, I saw a man with a holstered handgun chasing a down-on-her-luck-looking woman. He quickly caught her and forced her to the ground. Concerned, I moved a bit closer and asked him what was going on. He shouted that he was a bail-bondsman and asked me to call 911, which I did. The Ohio Highway Patrol and Columbus police were there almost immediately. Apparently, the woman had jumped out of the bounty hunter’s car while it was moving — and while she was handcuffed. The police took her to the Franklin County jail.

So I will continue to play — to get my steps in, meet new people and support local law enforcement.

Randy Imwalle, 57, lives in Hilliard. His next quest is sure to take him to see the movie “Pokemon Detective Pikachu.”

This essay originally appeared in the Columbus Dispatch on May 18, 2019.

Love of music yields stream of crushes through years - Columbus Dispatch

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Sat, 10 Mar 2018 15:12:00 +0000

My first musical crush was Stevie Nicks, all scarves, tambourines and husky come-hither voice.

As a high-school freshman, I obsessed over Stevie’s voice on Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” album.

Was she singing to me?

... but listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness, like a heartbeat drives you mad, in the stillness of remembering what you had, and what you lost.

The analogy wasn’t perfect, though: I hadn’t had a girlfriend yet to lose.

My relationship with Stevie eventually cooled, as all infatuations do. And although you never forget your first crush, you usually have another.

In my case, it was five — the five women in the Go-Go’s. Not only did all five sing; they also played their own instruments. Nothing beats girls with guitars.

They were all I could talk about. To humor me, a buddy (thanks, Brian) went with me to see them in concert in 1983. I’ll never forget the crowd at Miami University’s Millett Hall in Oxford dancing to “Our Lips Are Sealed” and “Skidmarks on My Heart.”

The group disbanded after just three albums. Without new music to keep me interested, we drifted apart.

Through the years, my musical crushes came and went: Maria McKee, lead singer/guitarist in Lone Justice, had a smile that made my stomach feel funny; the photogenic Shania Twain could sing and play the guitar (and I knew she shouldn’t have married Mutt Lange); and the women of the Dixie Chicks were smart and attractive and played their own instruments, but we had a falling-out over politics.

Needing a break, I started listening to Irish music. I really enjoyed the three sisters from the Corrs and whoever played fiddle for Gaelic Storm at the time, but I never got the squiggly feeling that defines a crush.

Maybe I was getting old.

Then CD102.5 lifted me out of a decade-long funk. The FM station started playing an upbeat, dreamy song with jangly guitar. About a week later, I caught the name: “Plimsoll Punks” by Alvvays.

While driving home one December evening, I heard disc jockey Lesley James announce that caller No. 5 would win two passes to see Alvvays in the Big Room. I called repeatedly but never got through. I was devastated.

Then I thought: “Don’t quit. The young me wouldn’t have given up.”

A few minutes later, I called again, and Lesley answered. In one breath, I explained my big crush on Alvvays and how I tried to call to win passes but hadn’t gotten through and was there any way she could just let me in?

She laughed and said, “Sure,” leaving me shuddering in delight.

To be honest, though, I knew little about the band except the one song. Was I rushing things?

I asked one of my sons to go with me. I knew the music wasn’t something he would normally listen to, but he agreed (thanks, Ben).

I found love at first sight.

At the start of the live-on-the-air show, the DJ interviewed lead singer Molly Rankin, who held a Fender Duo-Sonic guitar. She was funny and self-deprecating in explaining that her dad was in the Rankin Family of Irish-music fame, but that she’d started a band only after she failed at everything else she’d tried.

Molly’s lyrics and singing exhibit a certain vulnerability and sadness, but her music is so upbeat that it compels a smile.

I am smitten.

Randy Imwalle, 55, lives in Hilliard.

Originally published in the Dispatch on March 10, 2018

Giving blood an easy way to aid others, reward self

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Sat, 18 Mar 2017 15:17:00 +0000

I got serious about donating blood after 9/11.

Before the terrorist attacks of 2001, I had given only sporadically. After the tragedy, I reasoned that giving blood was all I could do to help those injured in New York and Washington, D.C.

On September 12, I joined the crowd of folks outside the Statehouse and waited for hours. The weather was as pleasant as he day before, but the atmosphere was saturated with uncertainty and unease. Conversations were subdued.

When I finally made it inside the donation bus, the Red Cross workers were pleasant but serious. They were eager to collect as many donations as possible in the time available

I found out later that my blood probably didn't help any 9/11 attack victims, given the limited number of survivors. Still, I knew that I had helped someone, somewhere, in a concrete and personal way. Whether that someone was a child with leukemia, a crash victim, or a heart patient didn't matter.

My dad used to give blood regularly. I remember him receiving calls at night, asking him to donate. He always did.

Dad was a quiet guy, never one to talk much about himself or what he did. He led by example. After I felt the satisfaction of my September 12 donation, I understood why he donated.

Yes, the donation process involves a needle and needles make some people uneasy. But there are tricks to easing the process.

A longtime donor once told me to drink a caffeinated beverage (nondiet) before giving blood. The hydration, caffeine, and sugar help the body to overcome the loss of a pint of fluid. (So I always drink a full-powered Coke before a donation.)

The process begins with registration. You will read some eligibility and donation information and be asked to show a donor card, driver's license, or other form or identification. You will answer several questions about your health history and about places to which you have travelled - information that is kept confidential.

The staff will check your temperature, pulse, and blood pressure; they'll check your hemoglobin level by taking a drop of blood from a finger. The mini-physical ensures that you are healthy enough to donate.

Then comes the actual donation. A staff member will clean an area of one arm before using a brand-new sterile needle for the draw.

I have never seen the needle actually being inserted in my arm. I look away. But you will feel a little pinch.

A regular donation usually takes about 10 minutes. The needle comes out (also something I haven't seen) after about a pint is collected, and a bandage is placed on your arm.

The Red Cross recommends that donors hang around for about 10 minutes and have a drink and a snack. You are also encouraged to double up on your non-alcoholic liquid intake for the next 24 hours.

You might receive a Red Cross T-shirt or a coupon to a Columbus-area restaurant.

Whether or not you leave with any swag or not, though, you will certainly walk out with a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment at having helped someone in need.

Hilliard resident Randy Imwalle, 55, notes that March is Red Cross Month, the perfect time to donate blood.

This essay originally appeared in the March 18, 2017 Columbus Dispatch.

Keyless Car Leaves Drive Feeling Adrift - Columbus Dispatch April 30, 2016

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Sat, 30 Apr 2016 18:14:00 +0000

I recently rented a car for a business trip to West Virginia.

After filling out the paperwork, I walked around the vehicle with the agent to inspect it for damage. Finding none, I began to reach for “the keys.”

The agent asked whether I had driven a car with a keyless ignition. I said no.

He explained that the car didn’t have a key. To start the car, he said, I just needed to have the fob inside the car and push the start/stop button; to turn it off, I had to push the button again.

What could be easier?

I hopped in and got on my way. Three hours later, I arrived in Charleston without any problems.

The next morning, I drove to the office building where the meeting was to take place. I thought I had left the hotel plenty early, but I ended up on the wrong side of the Kanawha River, barely making it to the meeting on time. Fortunately, the building has an attached parking garage.

Seven hours later, I was back in the car, ready to drive home. With the fob in my pocket, I pushed the start/stop button. I tried to put the car in gear, but it wouldn’t let me. So I pushed the button a couple of more times. I finally felt the slight vibration of the engine starting and backed out of the parking space. (The car ran very quietly.)

I drove to the exit, paid by credit card and waited for the gate to open.

I heard a shout, and an elderly man hustled over. Explaining that he was the parking attendant, he paused. I asked him whether there was a problem. He asked me whether the car I had was mine.

“I am sitting in it, obviously,” I thought to myself.

Aloud, though, I politely replied that it was a rental. He asked whether it had a keyless ignition. Curious, I told him that it did. He chuckled and said the engine had been running since he had arrived at work!

He continued talking cheerfully, telling me that he knows a man who drives his wife’s keyless car to the parking garage occasionally and always leaves it running. But he knows where the man works and calls there to let him know.

I forced a courtesy laugh and drove away.

The rental agency was closed when I returned to Columbus, so I kept the fob when I dropped off the car. I planned to return it on my way to work the next morning.

I told the leaving-the-engine-running-all-day story to my wife, Lisa, and the kids. We all had a good laugh.

They know I am no technology aficionado; I am perfectly content with my flip phone.

When I stopped to drop off the fob the next morning, the young agent behind the counter said he had seen the car in the lot when he arrived but didn’t have the keys. I explained that I had left the car the night before, after the closing hour.

He looked at me hesitantly for a few seconds — as if he had something else to say or was waiting for me to say something more.

Finally, he thanked me and encouraged me to return.

When I got to work, I listened to my voicemail messages.

The first one explained the awkward encounter I’d just had with the agent: “Mr. Imwalle, this is Enterprise. We have the car you rented from us, but it is locked and running. Please return the keys.”

Randy Imwalle, 54, lives in Hilliard.

Nicknames

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Mon, 17 Aug 2015 12:33:00 +0000

His birth certificate said his name was Frederick.

The priest who baptized him called him Ferdinand.

His siblings called him Freddy.

As a teenager, he liked to drive fast - "going like Barney Oldfield," as the saying went back then - so his friends (and eventually his wife and her family) called him Barney.

At work he was Fred.

When he died in 1986, his tombstone read Fred R. Imwalle.

I just called him Dad.

Originally published by The Columbus Dispatch on August 17, 2015.

Longview Barber Shop

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Sun, 12 Oct 2014 03:58:00 +0000

My barber, Dave, nods at us as we walk in. Neither his conversation nor his scissors pause. My four youngest boys hustle to the toy box in the back room. Many of the toys are old or broken. Looking at the scramble for them though, you would think they were gold doubloons. My older three boys were more reserved in public. When these last four get comfortable somewhere, they resemble a litter of poorly trained beagles – howling randomly, jumping on each other, and pretending they cannot hear their master’s commands. I avoid yelling across the room. It makes me look out of control and does not work anyway. Just as with young pups, orders growled in close proximity are more effective.

The boys are quiet for now, so I am free to listen in on any of the conversations.

All topics are fair game, but Ohio State football and basketball predominate. (Not surprising since Ohio Stadium is only two miles south.) The current topic though is music, specifically Rush’s 2002 album, Vapor Trails. Opinions vary greatly. One customer says he could never get into it, another ranks it as a middlin’ effort, and a third states that it was his favorite Rush album despite the obvious production problems.

Our turn comes quickly. I have the squirmy, ticklish ones go first. I distract the squirmer while the barber fastens the cape. Sometimes Lamaze breathing is required for the kid, the barber, and me. But they usually settle down after a moment or two. The haircuts go smoothly. Then it is my turn. I enjoy getting my hair cut, always have. I climb into the chair, but before Dave can ask me, “What are we doing today?” a sucker dispute erupts. Like freshly-shorn boys from time immemorial, the boys receive a Dum-Dum sucker after their haircut. The importance of the sucker to the boys cannot be overstated. It is not a treat; it is a hard-earned prize. Its value to the barber and parents is also significant. The promise of a sucker has lured many a wary boy onto a chair, and has calmed many wiggly ones.

The boys are arguing about who has the best sucker. One brags about his grape sucker, but a brother says that grape tastes like medicine. Another praises his root beer sucker. Five-year-old Daniel asks me to taste his sucker and tell him if his red sucker is strawberry or cotton candy, he cannot tell. I decline the taste test, but declare it must be strawberry because cotton candy suckers are light blue. The argument peters out before a conclusion is reached.

I tell Dave I want “the usual.” Even though I have had the same basic haircut for the fifteen years I have been going to Longview, Dave confirms what the usual is – one half inch off everywhere, no clippers. I tell Dave that I like the new sign outside the shop. The sign is the latest part of Longview’s multi-year remodeling. But this is no ordinary project. Instead of updating the furniture, lighting, and televisions from its ‘70s and ‘80s hodge-podge look, Dave is going for a vintage ‘30s and ‘40s feel. The three large televisions are gone. Well, one was moved to the back room for those who just cannot do without. The original glass wall in front has been uncovered to let in natural light. The fiberglass waiting chairs have been replaced by seats from the now-demolished Clintonville Theater. But not everything is retro. The shop has over 1300 Facebook likes, and the sign-in sheet is streamed live on the Longview website.

Dave cuts hair as quickly as he talks, so my turn is soon over. Another haircut under our belts, I pay the man, round up the pack and head for home.

The next time you visit Longview, tell Dave, Nick, Jeremy, Merry, Chan, or Rob that Randy sent you.

A PUMPKIN NAMED LILLY - 56 Limericks for Kids, Volume 2 - Now Available in Paperback

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Sat, 02 Aug 2014 05:17:00 +0000

I'll tell you just what you should do
Go out and buy Volume 2
A Pumpkin Named Lilly
Is what you need, really
Press down on your mouse and click through!

In His Home, 13 Is An Age Flush With Anticipation

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Sat, 22 Mar 2014 17:41:00 +0000

Thirteen is a childhood milestone — an age that, for some young people, marks a beginning or ushers in a tradition.

Jewish children, for example, celebrate a bar or bat mitzvah. Many Roman Catholic children receive the sacrament of confirmation.

At the Imwalle household in Hilliard, the milestone carries a new responsibility: cleaning a bathroom.

With 10 children, including six still at home, my wife, Lisa, and I view self-sufficient offspring as a necessity.

Which explains why, by age 3, our children have learned to put their dirty clothes in a hamper and clear their dirty plates from the table.

Such training also helps each Saturday, popularly (or maybe not so popularly) known as “job day.”

Everyone is responsible for picking up his or her bedroom; then the younger kids move to the basement to put away the balls, Legos, toy cars, wooden trains, green Army guys, video-game accessories, dollhouse and board games.

With age, the kids take on more-specialized jobs — such as vacuuming, dusting and glass-door cleaning.

We have high expectations of our older children, who not only clean up after themselves but also do their own laundry and help with the general family chores. At 13, then, they assume responsibility for the “crown jewel” of jobs.

Many of the bathroom tasks — cleaning the mirror, sink and vanity top, for example — require little training and are easily completed. Refilling the soap dispenser and sweeping and mopping the floor prove relatively simple, too.

The toilet, though, is a bigger challenge.

Introducing a brand-new teenager to a dirty toilet is inevitably interesting.

My wife typically receives a half-blank, half-incredulous, open-mouthed (braces visible) stare when she hands over a scrub brush and the toilet-bowl cleaner.

Has he never seen a toilet before?

When he finally recognizes the contraption, he can’t believe what he is expected to do.

Lisa explains that “the blue stuff” should be squirted into the toilet and under the rim. Then the entire inside of the bowl should be scrubbed with the brush, with special attention given to the part not easily seen (under the rim).

With six males in the house, my wife has no trouble showing the trainee why the outside of the bowl must not be ignored, either. It must be sprayed with Lysol, then wiped with a paper towel.

I’m the bathroom inspector — a physically demanding job for a middle-aged man.

A proper inspection requires me to put on my glasses, get on my hands and knees, stick my head inside the “clean” bowl and look at the little holes where the water comes out when the toilet is flushed.

Did you know that a standard Mansfield toilet has 24 rim holes?

I always keep the apprentice nearby during an inspection (lest he wander off when my head is in the bowl). I’m tough to please during the first few inspections, and, although I could surely fine-tune the job myself quicker than I direct him on the proper method and make him finish it, I avoid doing so.

Unfortunately, I’ve noticed when visiting my college-age children that bathroom-cleaning skills deteriorate when not used. Still, I’m hopeful that, like that of riding a bike, the skill is never truly lost.

Randy Imwalle, 52, cautions son Matthew: “You’re next!”

First published in the March 22, 2014 Columbus Dispatch.

The Mystery of the Extra Finger

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Tue, 25 Feb 2014 02:50:00 +0000

In 100 Words or Less

We were about halfway to Mad River Mountain. I was taking Matthew, Sam, Daniel, and Luke snow tubing. Luke was trying on his gloves. He said, "I guess I have an extra finger." I didn't know if he meant on his hand or on his glove. I told him to take it off and count his fingers - I was sure he had only five on each hand. Moments later he said it was OK, he just had two of the same glove. Daniel piped up, "Me too!"

Luke and The Hobbit

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Sat, 03 Aug 2013 17:33:00 +0000

I have been reading The Hobbit to seven-year-old Daniel and six-year-old Luke for the last several weeks. We have also watched the cartoon and Peter Jackson movie versions. Last night, a confused and dismayed Luke asked me why the cartoon elves were old, green, and scary while the elves in the other movie looked like regular people. I said when you write a book or make a movie, you can make the characters look however you want. He sat up in bed and asked, "You mean elves aren't real?"

National Museum of the United States Air Force - Ohio's Greatest Free Attraction

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Wed, 24 Jul 2013 01:24:00 +0000

Ohio’s greatest free attraction is the National Museum of the United States Air Force in Dayton. If you like airplanes, history, or people watching, this place is for you. The museum contains the world’s best collection of military aircraft – from the Wright 1909 Military Flyer to the YMQ-9 “Reaper” remotely-piloted aircraft currently flying in Afghanistan.

The museum includes an IMAX theater, a reasonably-priced gift shop, and a cafeteria, but the emphasis is clearly the aircraft and related exhibits.

The museum displays the aircraft in chronological order. The Early Years Gallery’s first exhibit is the 1909 Military Flyer. Just around the corner is the Wright Brother’s original wind tunnel. A Fokker Dr. I, similar to the one flown by the Red Baron in World War I, hangs upside down from the ceiling, forever frozen in a dive at a Sopwith Camel parked on the ground.

The World War II Gallery has intrigued me since my first visit in the 1970s. The grinning visage of a Flying Tigers P-40 Warhawk is familiar to everyone. The risqué nose art on the Shoo Shoo Shoo Baby B-17 and the Strawberry Bitch B-24 still catches my eye.

The Korean War Gallery, much like the Korean War itself, gets less attention than the other galleries. It does contain though, side by side, the F-86 Sabre and its nemesis, a MiG 15. This particular MiG 15 was delivered to the United States by a North Korean defector in 1953.

The Southeast Asia War Gallery contains a B-52 like the ones I remember seeing flying overhead as a kid in Dayton. The beefy F-4 Phantom can also be found here.

The Cold War Gallery contains an F-15 Eagle next to a MiG-29. It also contains my favorite – the elegant SR-71 “Blackbird.” George Lucas must like it too – Queen Amidala’s J-type 327 is based on the Blackbird. Kids always enjoy the chance to sit in a plane and give a thumbs up. Open cockpits of an F-4 and an F-16 allow anyone to climb in.

There is more to the museum than airplanes though. The exhibit on the Berlin Airlift details life for West Berliners in 1948 and 1949. The Soviets had blocked ground access to West Berlin. The only way that Britain, France, and the U.S. could supply their zones with food, fuel and supplies was by air. Fuel was the most urgent. The allies delivered 1.5 million tons of coal, in duffel bags, during the 464 day effort.

The World War II Aviator Jacket exhibit is another favorite. The spirit of the young aviators from seventy years ago is easy to see in their painted jackets.

One of the more sobering displays is the Holocaust exhibit. Among other items displayed is a striped concentration-camp prisoner uniform.

I enjoy looking at the aircraft and historical exhibits, but I also enjoy watching people. Years ago, it was common to see a WWII veteran quietly showing his grandchildren the plane he flew in or worked on. Now you are more likely to see a Vietnam vet explaining what he did in the war. On my last visit, I spoke to a man, several years younger than me, who had worked on F-16s.

The most intense people watching can be had at the Bockscar B-29 exhibit. It still amazes me that I can stand five feet away from the aircraft that dropped the bomb that ended WWII. The written materials and video are educational, but what really fascinates me is watching Japanese and Japanese-Americans view the exhibit. I know the mixed emotions I feel – dropping the atomic bombs saved lives on both sides, but it ushered in the nuclear era, and the potential for almost instant world-wide annihilation. But what do others feel? Were their grandfathers soldiers or kamikaze pilots? Did they have a relative die in one of the blasts? Were they interned Japanese-Americans? Or were they just like me, learning about our common history?

Fathers, Sons, and Baseball - Cincinnati Reds Memories

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 02:51:00 +0000

I know the Big Red Machine did not win every game they played, but as a kid, it sure seemed like they did. Even when they were trailing in the late innings, I always believed they would pull out the win. And more often than not, they did.

My first Reds television memory was the 1970 World Series. Brooks Robinson’s superb fielding for the Baltimore Orioles still frustrates the eight-year-old boy in me.

Outside of the post-season though, few games were televised. There was the radio, but I did not listen much unless we were in the car. The Dayton Daily News was my primary source of information. The Dayton Daily News was an afternoon paper then and was usually on our doorstep when I got home from school. By that time I usually knew if the Reds had won or not, but I read the box score, looking especially at how well Johnny Bench did the night before. Then I would read the articles describing the game. Si Burick and Hal McCoy wrote so well that I almost felt I was there.

Almost, but not quite. There is nothing like actually being there. My dad took me to my first Reds game at Crosley Field in 1969. My only recollection is of bright sunshine, green grass, and cigar smoke. It is not much of a memory perhaps, but whenever I get a whiff of a cheap cigar, I am instantly transported back to Crosley, watching the Reds with my dad.

Reds fans today can watch practically every game on television. The internet provides instant information. You can have scores and updates delivered to your phone - but not if you are a kid with an 8:30 bedtime. The newspaper, and I mean the delivered-to-your-front-door Columbus Dispatch, remains an important source of information at our house. Then eleven-year-old Matthew is usually the first to grab the sports section to check out the score, especially if it is a late game. Then six-year-old Daniel scours the box scores. Daniel can always tell you how many saves Aroldis Chapman has and which pitcher will start the Reds next game. But he also looks at the box scores for other games, something I never did. Last year Daniel asked me what team former Red Aaron Harang pitched for. I said I thought he played for the Padres. But why did the paper say he won a game for the Dodgers, he asked? So we looked it up (on the internet), and sure enough, Harang was now a Dodger.

My wife Lisa and I have ten children. All of them have played baseball or softball. And they play wiffle ball before they are on a real team. So I was not surprised last year when Daniel started off well in t-ball. But I noticed his hitting was not very consistent. One game he would do very well, and not so well the next. During a game his brother Matthew explained why. He said that Daniel would bat like Brandon Phillips one game, and the next game he would be Ryan Ludwick or Todd Frazier. I yelled, “Just be Daniel!” Turns out Daniel’s natural swing is just like Brandon Phillips!

We usually get to one Reds game a year. Last year we attended the Reds-Cardinals Sunday night game in July. It was then five-year-old Luke’s first game. The weather was clear and warm. The sold-out crowd was loud. Joey Votto and Brandon Phillips (our favorites) had hits. The Reds won and Aroldis Chapman, the Cuban Missile, got the save. There were flames and fireworks. So what will Luke remember? It is hard to say, but I guess it will be the sundae in the mini-Reds helmet.

A PIRATE NAMED MOLLY - 56 Limericks for Kids - Now Available in Paperback

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Sat, 30 Mar 2013 04:32:00 +0000

Did you hear the kids' ear-splitting cheer?
The paperback's finally here
A PIRATE NAMED MOLLY
Is ready, by golly
Please order a copy my dear!

Available at Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and CreateSpace.

My Dare Devil's Pizza T-Shirt

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 04:14:00 +0000

The Columbus Dispatch

March 7, 2013

“What are you doing? You can’t wear it!” I said very quickly. Lisa’s face did not hide her feelings – it was clearly just a shirt to her. With a puzzled frown, she took it off. I gently returned it to its place. The shirt in question was not just any shirt though. It was the first shirt I ever bought at Dare Devil’s Pizzeria in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina. The peach-colored t-shirt had been my favorite since the moment I bought it twenty years ago. The graphics were great, and I could feel the summer sun on my back whenever I wore it.

We were on our first trip to the Outer Banks in 1992. One evening Lisa’s parents agreed to watch the kids while we went out. We walked to Dare Devil’s Pizzeria. The name is derived from

its location on Virginia Dare Trail in Kill Devil Hills. The pizza was hot, the beer was cold, and the music was just what you would hope for. We had a wonderful time, so I bought the shirt. At first, I wore it every week. It got a nice, soft broken-in feel. Eventually, it shrank a bit and was getting too thin to be in my regular t-shirt rotation. So I wore it only when I ran in 5Ks. When I stopped running in races, I stopped wearing it. But even though I no longer wore it, my feelings for it were not diminished. It had earned a place of honor in my closet, next to my dad’s 1960s bowling shirt. Just knowing it was in the back of my closet gave me a sense of contentment.

We have returned to the Outer Banks many times. We always visit Dare Devil’s and I always buy another shirt. I have twelve different Dare Devil’s shirts, but none compare to the first one. One year I was picking out a shirt and I joked with the bartender that what I really wanted was the shirt hanging on the wall. It was my shirt, encased in acrylic! He laughed and told me it was not for sale. After I purchased a new shirt, another guy from behind the counter came over and said he overheard me talking about the shirt on the wall. I explained that I bought that very shirt on my first visit to the Outer Banks, and that I buy a new shirt every time we return. I told him that because of the good times it reminded me of, and the great graphics, it was my all-time favorite t-shirt. He grinned – they are very friendly down there. Then he explained that he too had fond memories of that shirt. He designed it himself during the first year he owned Dare Devil’s. He had me pick out another shirt, on the house. I was doubly pleased – I had a free shirt and a great story.

While Lisa will never fully understand my affection for that shirt, she now respects it. She moved the shirt to a drawer to reduce the stretching and hanger dents. She also told me that I could have all my Dare Devil’s t-shirts made into a quilt. Just think – my vacation t-shirts could keep us warm all winter!

A Pirate Named Molly - 56 Limericks for Kids - New Kindle eBook

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Thu, 10 Jan 2013 00:54:00 +0000

If you got a new Kindle Fire
Of this book you must be a buyer
A Pirate Named Molly
With lim'ricks so jolly
Will certainly lift your mood higher!

Unborn Humans Deserve Protection

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Tue, 18 Sep 2012 23:45:00 +0000

The Columbus Dispatch
Letters To The Editor
September 18, 2012

Unborn Humans Deserve Protection

The symbol of the United States, the bald eagle, is protected by law. This protection extends to the bald eagle's nest and eggs (16 U.S. Code, Section 668). Shouldn't the people of the United States be given as much respect as our nation’s symbol?

An unborn human being deserves as much protection as an unborn bald eagle. Consider this when you vote on Nov. 6.

RANDY IMWALLE

http://www.dispatch.com/content/stories/editorials/2012/09/18/unborn-humans-deserve-protection.html

Hiking At Battelle - Darby Creek - See the Bison!

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Tue, 28 Aug 2012 22:24:00 +0000

In 100 Words Or Less

Lisa, the kids and I went hiking at Battelle - Darby Creek Metropark after dinner. We threw rocks in the creek and saw the bison. After about 2 miles, five-year-old Luke was cranky. He was getting a cold. So I carried him on my shoulders. The other kids had run ahead to the playground when we got off the trail. Luke believes that rules should be followed and will tell you when you've broken one. Before I even had him on the ground he shouted, "I guess you told yourselves that you were allowed to play on the playground!"

Jerome - Arizona's Secret Ghost Town

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 10:00:00 +0000

After a leisurely dinner, Lisa and I left Sedona at 8:30. The map indicated that our destination, Prescott Valley, was about 50 miles away. We settled in for a quick trip. The sun had set and there would be no moon for several hours. Stars filled the sky from horizon to horizon. The evening was still warm.

The headlights of oncoming cars infrequently interrupted our stargazing. After a while, Lisa noticed a small cluster of lights halfway up a mountain. You could “see” the mountains only by viewing their silhouettes against the blanket of stars. Road signs announced we were nearing the town of Cottonwood, but we could not see it. The tiny outcropping of lights on the mountain was too far away to be Cottonwood.

We crested a small rise and

Cottonwood exploded before us, like the scene in Close Encounters where the Richard Dreyfuss character sees the landing site for the first time. Streetlights, car lights, and porch lights filled the valley.

We stayed on 89A as it angled right though, and quickly passed through. The small cluster of lights on the mountain was getting closer. We could see several much brighter lights among the others, in a line, going almost straight up. Lisa stated they were streetlights, but that was not possible. The road they illuminated would be too steep. I opined that they were probably lights on a ski lift, left on as a beacon for potential skiers. I knew that it snowed in northern Arizona’s mountains in the winter.

But the road suddenly veered left and began to climb, quickly. The rental car downshifted to maintain speed. I felt as if we were ascending the first hill on a roller coaster. We were locked in the ticking chain drive and the ride would not stop until it finished on its own. We could now pick out the brighter lights. Lisa was correct – they were streetlights. After two tight hairpin turns, and still ascending, we entered the town of Jerome. The roller-coaster feeling intensified. The road was as steep as ever, but now there was oncoming traffic on one side, and dozens of motorcycles parked along the curb on the other. The streetlights appeared bright in the distance, but did not illuminate much. Music and bikers spilled out from a few bars. We caught glimpses of an old brothel, some tired-looking houses, and several shabby commercial buildings. We were mesmerized, but I wanted to keep moving.

Immediately after leaving Jerome, we saw two motorcycles and a car on the side of the road. One of the bikers was sitting against the guardrail with his face half-covered in blood. We stopped and asked if they needed help. I was secretly pleased when they said help was already on the way. I did not really want to stop – I already felt like I was in an episode of The Twilight Zone. All that was missing was the fog. We pressed on.

Almost as bad as fog, we had now had utter darkness. There were no more streetlights and no more stars – unless you looked straight up. The mountains blocked all other sources of light. The road continued to climb. I could not count the number of 15 and 20 mph turns we had to navigate. These sharp turns and the darkness made it impossible to see more than 100 feet ahead. While I was (mostly) able to keep the car in my lane, I was afraid that I would come upon a vehicle or animal and not have time to avoid it. An hour and two hundred or so turns later, we finally made it to Prescott Valley.

After checking in at the hotel, I googled Jerome, Arizona and read that it claims to be both the most vertical town and the largest ghost town in the United States. I can testify to the verticality. Its ghost town claim refers to the fact that Jerome’s human population has declined from 15,000 to 1000 in the last seventy five years, and that it is full of the “spooky” kind of ghosts. We decided to go back and investigate, but this time in the daylight

Outer Banks Vacation Photo Tips

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 17:04:00 +0000

Here are four simple tips for taking better beach vacation photos.

Get up early. The Outer Banks summer sun rises very early. You must too. Be in position to capture the scene before the sun breaks the horizon. To capture the sunrise over Currituck Beach Lighthouse, you must be out of bed by 5 a.m. To memorialize a flock of pelicans skimming the surf at Hatteras, you must be out of bed by 5 a.m. To record the human flotsam and jetsam of a midnight clambake on Ocracoke, well you get the picture.

Use the setting sun. The midday sun is an unflattering light source. Landscapes appear flat. The lack of shadows eliminates detail. Portraits are worse, unless you like wrinkles and squinty eyes. Though the early morning sun can be effective for lighting outdoor portraits, the evening sun is warmer and lends a nice glow to the human face. Plus, if your family is like mine, you do not see the teenage faces until lunchtime anyway, so plan on an early evening beach portrait session.

Take a chance. I took one of my favorite vacation photos at the end of a marathon three lighthouse daytrip. We began our trek at noon, making a brief stop at Hatteras Lighthouse on our way to the Ocracoke ferry.
This ride affords many opportunities to photograph sea gulls in flight. While Blackbeard never saw the Ocracoke Lighthouse, you should. (The lighthouse was built in 1823, Blackbeard was killed in 1718 just west of Ocracoke.) It is impossible to get a bad photo from the boardwalk that leads to the lighthouse.

Nine hours after our journey began, I spotted the double flash of the Bodie Island Lighthouse. Braving the wrath of my tired, hungry and thirsty clan, I veered off Highway 12. Leaping out of the van into a cloud of mosquitoes, I set up my camera and tripod. I composed the shot with care, making sure that the blinking lights of a nearby water tower were hidden. When I had the film developed I saw that I not only captured the flash of the beacon, but the hidden water tower lights cast an eerie red glow on the low hanging clouds.

But know what risk you are taking. In the early 1990s, my three year old daughter Erin and I were in the keeper’s quarters of Hatteras Lighthouse. Looking out a window, I noticed that it had a perfect view of the lighthouse, without the electric lines that had marred earlier photographic attempts. I did see the sign asking folks not to mess with the windows, but did not believe it applied to those in the pursuit of “art”.

The window was different than I was used to. The sashes were very heavy and difficult to move. Resting on the sill were two short pegs. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure the coast was clear; I heaved the bottom sash up until it stuck in place. Erin came over to look out. Her chin just reached over the sill as her fingers curled around the frame. I began composing my shot, and WHAM! The sash slammed down on Erin’s fingers. Erin’s screams and the sound of the window brought several tourists and a park ranger to our aid. The window had slammed down so tightly that it took both me and the ranger to lift it.

The rest of the afternoon was a sweaty blur. The Outer Banks urgent care facilities were few and far between back then. We drove for what seemed hours before we found a doctor. Fortunately she has no permanent damage. Her fingers were small and only her finger tips were in the frame, so that they were squeezed on the inside of the frame rather than smashed underneath. While it was a terrifying experience, every Outer Banks cloud is silver lined. Three good things resulted – we have an interesting story to tell, Erin received an official National Parks Service Junior Ranger patch, and I learned that the little pegs are to hold the window open.

So remember, get up early, stay up late, and take a chance to get that special shot - but obey all warning signs!

Sam And The Cookie

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Sat, 25 Aug 2012 16:03:00 +0000

In 100 Words Or Less

Almost six-year-old Sam has a chocolate chip cookie, a glass of milk, and a problem. He tells me that the cookie is too big, and he cannot dunk it in his milk. I tell him to break the cookie in half. He does, and grins. I know what is coming. Looking at me, he attempts to put the wide side of the cookie in the glass. He giggles, "It still won't fit!"

Stranger Danger!

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 02:42:00 +0000

In 100 Words Or Less

Lisa and I taught six-year-old Zach to not talk to strangers, and he took this teaching to heart. Woody, a trusted seventy-something-year-old neighbor, was talking to Zach one day. Woody asked Zach what his name was. Zach, mindful of our admonition, but not wanting to appear rude with a flat refusal, replied, "I don't know!" and ran home.

Photo Ops Extend Visit to Grand Canyon - Columbus Dispatch

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 13:14:00 +0000

Originally published in the Columbus Dispatch.

Photo Ops Extend Visit to Icon

The cliche holds true: The essence of the Grand Canyon cannot be captured in a single photograph.

The length, breadth and depth make a representative shot impossible.

Not that I didn’t try.

In fact, during an adventure-filled 25th-anniversary trip with my wife recently, every moment seemed to become a photo opportunity.

Lisa and I spent one day hiking on the Grand Canyon Rim Trail before eating dinner in the Arizona Room of the Bright Angel Lodge.

After a last twilight look at the canyon, we slowly turned to head back to our car.

I remembered parking (about 10 hours earlier) next to a building named Rosecliff — the name of a street in the neighborhood where I grew up.

We left through the lodge and came upon the Grand Canyon Depot. Though famous, the spot was unfamiliar to us. We hadn’t entered that way, but I knew the general direction in which we needed to go.

Looking across the tracks, I saw some kind of animal.

I alerted Lisa: “I see some kind of animal.”

My wife, who has spent much more time out West than I have, immediately recognized the creature as a female elk.

I considered it the moment the best photographic occasion of our vacation — Sedona, Montezuma Castle and the Grand Canyon notwithstanding.

I took several decent shots of the elk from about 100 feet away.

My photographic appetite sated, and daylight fading, we resumed our trek to the car — or at least where I thought the car should be.

Next we came upon a barn and an empty mule pen — neither of them familiar, either.

We were feeling anxious when Lisa heard two elk calves whistling for their mother. They still had their spots, but they were as large as the white-tailed deer in Ohio.

I began following my wife around the pen to get what would surely be the best photo. For some reason, though, I turned around — and saw an elk, with antlers, much larger than the female seen earlier. It was heading for the calves.

Because I was standing directly in the elk’s path, Lisa and other tourists suggested that I get out of its way. I couldn’t miss the chance, though. I did move a bit — so that my back was against the mule pen. If the elk charged, I figured, I could slip through the pen to avoid it.

Instead, the elk glided past me, filling my viewfinder with its head and antlers.

I got the photo.

I was again ready to join my wife and the ever-growing group of onlookers on the other side of the pen when I looked back across the road a final time. Then I saw what truly was the photo opportunity of the trip.

About 100 feet away stood a huge elk whose antlers seemed to be more than 3 feet across. This one unsettled me a bit, as it looked at me while flaring its nostrils.

It slowly crossed the road on its way to the calves — and was almost hit by a compact car. The driver slammed on the brakes, making the tires screech; the elk sauntered on, unconcerned.

Sensing that I wasn’t a threat, the elk ignored me, too, as it passed within 20 feet. I took a few photos, then caught up with my wife.

We followed the growing herd — numbering eight and apparently scrounging around the mule pen in search of a free meal.

Finding none, the elk soon dispersed. So we did, too.

Night had almost fallen, and Lisa was becoming concerned about getting to the car. I even considered relinquishing my “man card” and asking for help.

But what would I ask?

Have you seen a white Dodge with Arizona plates?

So we kept walking toward where I knew the car should be.

It was only a matter of time before the buildings we passed sounded familiar: They were named after plants.

And, finally, we were sitting in our car, parked in front of Cliff Rose — our adventure complete.

Randy Imwalle, 49, of Hilliard suggests that, when visiting large national parks, travelers carry a camera — and write down where they park the car.

From the Columbus Dispatch, October 22, 2011.

Taking Down The Crib

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Sun, 02 Oct 2011 20:28:00 +0000

I took down the crib yesterday. My wife, Lisa, and I have had a crib in our home for 23 years. I believed that removing this tangible sign of the near constant obligation to care for infants and toddlers would have little effect on me, but my feelings were surprisingly mixed.

Luke, the youngest of our ten children, turned three a month ago. He never climbed out of the crib, so we could have left him in it a while longer. But we decided it was a good time for the transition. One Saturday morning we told Luke we were going to take down the crib and put up his big-boy bed.
His siblings talked up this event, and Luke was excited. He happily ran in and out of his room several times while I disassembled the crib. Then I assembled his toddler bed. Luke agreed with his siblings that his new bed was “cool.” Luke will do anything his older brothers do, a trait that is helpful for potty training or learning to pick up after himself.

It is not such a good trait, though, when you realize he is probably your last child. Some children develop faster than others, and Luke is one of the quick ones. I know that Lisa has been struggling with this no-more-babies feeling for some time. Having a baby or toddler around has been one of the constants in her adult life. It is part of her identity. It was never a core part of me though, or so I believed. Babies are great, but I have stronger memories of my older children - seeing one of my daughters beat my best 5K time or watching one of my sons hit an over-the-fence home run in middle school. I always felt that watching your kids mature was the best part of the deal. Each milestone was to be briskly approached and passed with satisfaction and excitement.

I was not sentimental when I moved a high chair to the basement, or when I took the training wheels off a bicycle. I enjoy watching my children getting stronger - physically, mentally and emotionally.

So what was going on here? With a twinge of nostalgia I remembered going to the hardware store when I was in graduate school at Ohio State. We were moving in fall semester, and I had the hand-me-down crib assembled but for one bolt. The missing nut was unusual; I’d never seen one like it before. I can’t describe it even now. But I found one in a bucket of miscellaneous hardware. I was very satisfied with myself. In a small way, I felt that I was providing for my family.

I smiled recalling the many times I lowered or raised the mattress because a baby was getting older or a new one was moving in. I remembered the seemingly endless hours of patting a crying baby’s bottom in the middle of the night, or trying to calm a toddler with night terrors. I laughed to myself thinking back at my solution to a problem faced only by a middle-aged dad. My right ankle sometimes pops loudly when I walk, especially if I have not walked on it for a while, like at 3 a.m. This noise has disturbed a newly-patted-to-sleep baby many times. One night I discovered that my ankle wouldn’t pop if I walked out of the room backwards – so that’s what I did from then on.

I did not believe my professed preference for handling the older kids was a front, or undue deference to Lisa’s expertise with the babies. But I realized that I’ll never again take a nap in the recliner with a newborn on my shoulder, and I will miss that.

Just Like Harry Potter and Voldemort

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 02:21:00 +0000

They hurl the words at each other like Harry Potter and Voldemort casting spells. Seven-year-old Sam shouts, "Blood!" at five-year-old Daniel. Daniel counters, "Bwack eye!" They throw the words back and forth, each cringing when hit.

Daniel shares his fear of blood with many other children. He does not want to see it, talk about it, or even think about it. Sam's fear of black eyes dates from the time I told him to quit fighting with his brothers or he would "end up with a black eye." That stopped him dead in his tracks, even though he did not know what a black eye was. Ever since, the mere mention of a black eye causes him to flinch.

These wars of words go on until either they are both too weak to continue, or the headmaster (or headmistress) ends the duel.

Cap'n Crunch

noreply@blogger.com (Randy) — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 03:43:00 +0000

Five-year-old Daniel was recovering from a mouth injury that required several stitches. He overheard the conversation with the oral surgeon in which the likely loss of 2 - 4 of his baby teeth was discussed.

Daniel was eating breakfast. His twenty-year-old sister Rachel was sleeping on the couch in the next room. Suddenly Daniel hollered, something had fallen out of his mouth! He picked it up, ran to the next room, and woke Rachel up. Practically hysterical, he showed Rachel what had fallen out of his mouth. He asked her if it was his tooth. Rachel looked at the soggy piece of Cap'n Crunch cereal and smiling, told him that it wasn't. Reassured, he flicked the cereal on the floor, walked to the table and finished his breakfast.