Living the Life

HOW MUCH IS TOO MUCH?

I was in Costco for the first time. It was more than two decades ago, but I remember it as clear as $19.99. I was standing in awe of all the stuff you could get in America under one roof. You even needed a little card to get in. I was to be part of a special club—families who could purchase the plenty that came with the American dream, for less.

I heard a couple bickering in the next aisle about something he wanted to buy. She was a bit irritated and was telling him, “Honey, we already got one of those last summer. Remember, the blue one.” He did not want to give up on his desires and uttered what became a favorite mantra for my adopted country. “Honey, we’ll just have two.”

Fast forward to today, and Sarah is heading over the hill to Dick’s Sporting Goods. A much smaller company, but it looks like a Costco for more active people with lower cholesterol. Campbell requires white baseball pants for his little league team. Of course, you don’t strangle the opportunities for your child to participate, so he’ll get all the things he needs. Pants, socks, helmet, glove, cup, sliding shorts (who knew?), practice balls, bat. All new because he grew out of everything from his last season.

It’s not the money; I’d pay double for the gear if it comes with the pleasure of sitting in the bleachers at the Tedeschi Park in Calistoga. The early evening light softens and calms you at the edges. Mount St.

COLIN MACPHAIL

Helena looms majestically over the scene as you hear the sound of ball on bat and watch kids scampering the circle, dust, to verdant green, to dust. All under the cries of encouragement from coaches and parents around the park. It’s small-town Americana at its finest. No, it’s not the money.

It’s just everything my kids do seems to require so much “stuff.”

If you don’t want to be a crushing old bore, one should never start any sentence with “But when I was a lad.” But, when I was a lad, we exclusively played soccer. Ball, soccer shoes, shorts. Everything Campbell does requires gear. I told him he does not need a rear-view mirror on his cycling helmet and cycling gloves. Then came very reasonable arguments about road safety. The “What-ifs” to follow were hard to dismiss. Also, when he and Alice last got a bike upgrade, they decided their previous bikes were still “good for jumps and things around the house.”

Now when I get home, we have four bikes lying around our house’s back door instead of two.

I’ve thought about laying down the “too much” law, but you want your kids to be happy. The homecoming clenching of teeth is my issue to get Buddha with, not theirs. I told them at dinner how my three brothers and I got a ladies bicycle each because they were deliberately purchased five years ahead of our abilities. Ladies’ bikes had no crossbar, so we could stand

Colin MacPhail

on the pedals and bob around on these old warhorses until we grew to reach the seat.

Getting this off my chest was therapy, but things remain as they are.

Two decades ago, son No. 1, Colbyn, set up a stall outside our house on Cedar Street in Calistoga. He wanted to make some extra pocket money for something he didn’t need. He had grand plans on what to sell. I was made of sterner stuff back then and told him it had to be simple, and he should do it all himself.

He decided to paint rocks from the garden and put them on a small table with a tablecloth and a sign saying “$2.00 each.” After many hours sitting at the edge of the street, he sold nothing. I felt guilty I hadn’t done enough. Maybe the watercolors, decorated muffins, or fresh lemonade would have been better.

When he was having a late afternoon snack, I dashed out and put down $20 and threw all 10 rocks into Jim Flamson’s garden. Colbyn returned to his wares but immediately rushed back in. He was excited to have made a big sale and proclaimed, “I’m going to paint 20 now.”

That quickly got to be expensive. I had to confess to him who had a monopoly on his art.

It’s been over 20 years of child-rearing, I’m still wavering on how much is too much.

Colin MacPhail is a wine consultant and writer who lives in Calistoga.