I'll Miss You Too

My 17-year-old son is a High School senior, and he's shopping for colleges. I joke with him all the time about going somewhere nearby. "Hey, this school looks good!" I say, about a school scarcely two miles away. We happen to live in the Boston suburbs, where every school "looks good" through a national, or even international lens. I say this kind of thing a lot.

I know he wants some distance from home, and I accept that. No, I respect that. I envy that. He wants, at least, to live more than two miles away from home, and who wouldn't?

My son and I recently traveled to Portland, Oregon to check out Reed College. Yes, that funky Pacific Northwest school where Steve Jobs famously attended for a semester or less before dropping out (though he allegedly stayed on campus, and audited classes for an additional year). Moving to Portland would put quite a bit of distance between me and my little baby boy, but I took him because I know it's a respected school with a unique culture, and a unique teaching style. We attended the extended information session, cruised around the campus, and he even sat in on a bona fide class session. By the end of the day, I was completely won over, but he wasn't. At least not completely.

I am simultaneously envious of my son's situation, and grateful that I never had to deal with anything like what he's dealing with. For starters, I never took an SAT exam. No, for starters, I never took a PSAT. NO, for starters, I never even graduated high school. It's a long story. But suffice to say, even though I ended up with two Bachelor's degrees (in Music and Computer Science-ish), I never had to go through the rigorous process of evaluating multiple colleges and mustering the courage and fortitude to apply to them. I grew up in California, and I ended up at a local Santa Cruz school called Cabrillo College. I eventually transferred to UC Santa Cruz, and much later I got another degree at San Francisco State. I took the path of least resistance, and it made ... all the difference?

Meanwhile my son has done all the work. He has relatively stellar grades, has taken countless AP and honors courses, volunteers in the community, and is a generally chilled out, likeable dude. The only problem is now he has to cope with the typical college application process. I am not envious of that at all.

Tonight, after his grueling day of working on college applications, essays, and supplemental essays (what!?), I hugged him goodnight and joked with him: "If things don't work out, there's always Cabrillo College." He laughed, and reminded me how far away Cabrillo College is. "It's OK," I said. "I would love to have you stay close, but if going somewhere far is the right thing for you, then that's what you should do. I'll just miss you." I hugged him. "I'll miss you too, dad," he replied.

Hour of Code

I'm a parent of elementary school kids, aged 6 and 9. I volunteer in many aspects of my kids' school, but among the most rewarding of these experiences have been the times I've volunteered for our school's Hour of Code event.

Lack of diversity in the tech industry is a systemic problem and nobody has yet figured out how to solve it. But events like Hour of Code seem to be doing a good job fighting for a solution.

The most amazing thing, for me, about volunteering for Hour of Code, is seeing the looks on kids' faces when they realize "they can code." They're invited to the party, and they know it. That's golden.

Having volunteered for several years, I've seen that look on the faces of kids of every gender, race, and cultural background. They all get it. They all feel empowered. They're all excited by the prospect of learning this skill, and contributing their abilities to the many problems that coding can help to solve.

My kids' school runs its "Hour of Code" event off-schedule, to avoid traffic conflicts with other schools who use the resources from the official home page.

I'll be volunteering next week, and I'm looking forward to seeing that look on the faces of kids in our school. If you have the luxury of offering some of your own time, I hope you'll also consider starting, or joining, an "Hour of Code" initiative at your own kids' school!

Apple Picking

My family and I went apple picking today.

I grew up in California, and apple picking was not a part of my culture. California is a very agricultural state, but there aren't many apple orchards. In retrospect, I don't know why I didn't do more strawberry picking, or for that matter artichoke picking as a kid, but "pick your own" was never a big part of my childhood.

When I moved to Massachusetts in 2005, I quickly learned that apple farms are a huge part of the local culture. After all, Johnny Appleseed was born in Massachusetts. Apples are kind of a big deal.

My family and I try to go apple picking at least once a season, but we flake out and miss some years. Every time we make the effort to drive out to a local orchard, and pay the fee for picking a bag-full, I think it was worth the cost and effort.

Today we went back to Carver Hill in Stow, MA. We had a soft spot in our hearts for this place, because our oldest son Henry, who is now 9, lost a tooth there when he was 6. Our younger son, who is 5, has a loose tooth. We wondered if he might lose it today while biting into a field-foraged apple, but he did not.

I love apple picking. I am always impressed by the fecundity of Apple trees, and by the taste of a fresh-picked apple. I feel while I'm roaming an apple orchard, that if I could only ever eat fresh-picked apples for the rest of my life, that I would always be in pretty good shape.

Today at Carver Hill, I tried many apples, fresh from the tree. My kids roamed the width and length of the orchard, excited to try to identify the breed of every tree they passed. I picked apples, some great, some good, some probably horrible. I put them all in my bag, satisfied that I was enjoying a bit of special New England culture.

Lucky Cat

I spent the past week in San Francisco, not attending Apple's WWDC, but rather basking in the periphery of it. I attended Jessie Char's Layers conference, and spent the rest of my week being projected like a pinball, sometimes slowly, sometimes at enormous speed, between the various social attractions that dot the South of Market landscape this time of year.

On Thursday, I finally had the opportunity to catch my breath. I remembered my beautiful boys, and my beautiful wife. I like to bring something home to them that will give them a taste of the trip I've just taken. I kept up my exercise regimen during the week, and on one of my runs, I had spotted an alluring storefront in Chinatown: "World of Magnets." In my sweat-induced stupor, I assumed it would be an unusual source for all things magnetic. I pictured Mister Wizard-inspired scientific experiments, magnetic dust, and other novelties. Just the thing to feed the curious minds of my 7 and 4 year-old children.

I walked to Chinatown, after enjoying most of a margherita pizza from Del Poppolo's food truck, which was situated at Mint Plaza for Thursday's lunchtime. I proceeded from my hotel, in Union Square, up Stockton Street. Even though I had lived in San Francisco for 10 years previously, I had never had occasion to walk through the Stock Street Tunnel. So, I did.

I emerged from the tunnel into Chinatown, and took a right on Sacramento Street. Before me stood a philosophical statement that might appeal to people both inside and outside of Brooklyn:

A photo posted by Daniel Jalkut (@danielpunkass) on Jun 16, 2016 at 1:25pm PDT

I continued my journey through Chinatown appreciating the nuanced aspects of the neighborhood I had never noticed before in my time living in San Francisco. Here was a street where everything was named "Wong". A common Chinese name, sure, but everything near Waverly Place seems Wong-related, including "Willie 'Woo Woo' Wong" playground, "Wong's TV and Radio Services," "Bill Wong Insurance and Associates," and the "Wong Family Benevolent Association." I suspect many of these particular Wongs are related.

I finally arrived at House of Magnets, prepared to select from an enormity of scientific, magnetic delights. I quickly realized that House of Magnets was little different from any other souvenir shop in Chinatown: filled with a variety of novelty Chinese imports and, wait for it, souvenir magnets. Magnets! Nothing like I had expected.

I left, dejected, unsure what to get for my poor kids who were waiting at home, anticipating a glorious gift upon my return. As I walked, I saw shop after shop offering cheap souvenirs. Inevitably, these included the cheap, plastic, waving cats that are increasingly solar powered:

They are advertised as "lucky cats," and I thought they were cute. "These are cheap, but my kids will love them," I thought. I bought them.

I brought them home and gave them to the boys, and my assumption was confirmed. They scrambled to remove them from their package. They observed from the marketing insert that numerous other colors and configurations are available. "We want to collect all of them!" Clearly, these lucky cats are a hit.

It turns out, these lucky cats from Chinatown are actually from Japan. Maneki-neko are suggested to represent a cat not waving, but rather washing its face. It's cute, that's what matters.

After I gave the gifts to my kids, I couldn't help my scientific side admitting that "good luck" might not be real. I told my kids that the cats are cute, but nobody knows if luck exists or not. I felt at once like a great dad and like the world's most deflating dad.

Luckily my wife, Chrissa, was in earshot. She added that "sometimes believing in good luck is enough to make it real." Good save.

I believe Chrissa is correct. I'm lucky I married her.