Latest news with #fatherInLaw
New York Times
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- New York Times
Get Creative
Last May, my father-in-law showed up at my house with a child-size drum set in his trunk. That might make some parents shudder, but I was thrilled. I was a drummer when I was younger, with a set just like this one, and now my 7-year-old son could follow in my footsteps. I've learned two things in the year since. First, you can't force your kids to like the things you like; my son has probably played those drums for 15 minutes total. More important, though, I learned that I wasn't a former drummer. I'm still a drummer. Even though I hadn't engaged that part of my brain in years, my trips downstairs to do laundry now usually include a few minutes bashing on that little drum set. I'm not making beautiful music — just ask my neighbors — but I'm having a great time. Every little session leaves me feeling energized. That spark of creativity is something my colleagues at Well, The Times's personal health and wellness section, think everyone could use more of. Starting tomorrow, they've got a five-day challenge that aims to help readers nurture their creative side. I spoke with Elizabeth Passarella, the writer behind the project, to learn more. After years away from the drums, I've been shocked by how good it feels to make music. Why is that? What you feel is what many of us feel when we do something creative: giddy and inspired. Whether you do something more traditionally creative, like draw or play music, or riff on a recipe because you were out of an ingredient, it gives you a little boost. And there is plenty of research that links creativity to happiness and better moods. Some people reading this are gifted painters and musicians, I'm sure. But others would probably say that they don't have much artistic talent. What would you say to them? You are all creative in some way. There's a definition of creativity that researchers use: generating something novel that is also useful. That could be the score to a movie. It could also be, as one expert told me, a brilliant solution to keeping your dog out of a certain area of your house. Or making up a weird game to play with your toddler. Want all of The Times? Subscribe.
Yahoo
17-05-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Tim Dowling: the tortoise has been plotting his escape for more than half a century
A reader writes, asking how I can let my tortoise roam free in my back garden. She'd like to do the same with her adopted tortoise, but is worried it will escape. I explain that my garden is bounded by high brick walls, safely sealing the tortoise in, but that I too am consumed by fear that he will escape. He's very good at hiding, and this always strikes me as a strategy: wait until they think you've already gone, and their guard will drop. Also, he has form: my wife was eight years old when she got the tortoise. After her parents separated he went to live in the country with her father, and promptly escaped. He stayed missing for two years, until a farmer found him while combining in a field a mile south of his last known whereabouts. For 20 years the tortoise lived in a pen with the farmer's sheepdogs, with a white stripe painted on his back to make him easier to spot whenever he got out. At some point in the 1990s the farm was sold, and the tortoise was returned to my father-in-law, who very quickly returned him to my wife. That was nearly 30 years ago, which can make the end result feel like destiny, although probably not from the tortoise's point of view. To him it's just one foiled escape attempt after another. This spring, our oldest son also returned to us: his lease is up, and he has yet to find a new place. When I arrive to pick him up from the flat he's shared with friends for the last two years, his belongings are in bin liners, his furniture piled on stairwell landings. Once he stayed missing for two years, until found in a field a mile south of his last known whereabouts 'It's not usually this messy,' he says. 'Don't worry,' I say. 'This is the only time I'll ever see it.' The car is so full that the last things have to be crammed in and the doors quickly shut before they fall back out. The oldest one rides with a suitcase on his lap, and a potted plant on the floor between his knees. His mother is not thrilled to see all this stuff – another household, essentially – piled up in our hall and living room. 'Lucky for you we're going away,' she says. 'You can figure out how to get it all upstairs before we come back.' 'I will,' he says. 'What's for supper?' We're setting off early in the morning for a long weekend, leaving little time to inculcate a fresh sense of residential responsibility in our new roommate. 'You'll need to get cat food,' my wife says. 'Lock the back door if you go out.' 'OK,' he says. 'I'm expecting a package tomorrow,' I say. 'Do your laundry,' my wife says, 'and keep the kitchen clean.' The next morning the oldest one's stuff is still piled in the hallway – it's easier to pack the car by carrying the bags out through the side door, where I pause to show my wife the repaired fibreoptic cable that restored our internet. 'They even repositioned it so it won't happen again,' I say. 'Are we ready?' she says. 'I want to go before the school traffic starts.' We load the dogs in the car and head off. Somewhere along the M3 we begin to weigh the pros and cons of our new living situation. 'On the one hand, he's a terrible slob,' I say. 'On the other hand, we now have two potato mashers.' 'I'm going to set some ground rules when we get back,' my wife says. 'But it's also good we can go away and feel secure about things,' I say. 'Are you kidding?' she says. 'How secure do you feel right now?' When we arrive at our destination I check the weather in London – it's due to get very hot. I then send a panicky, pleading text to the family WhatsApp group about the seedlings in my office, and their immediate watering needs. Half an hour later I receive a reply from the oldest one. It says: 'where is the key'. I explain about the key – again. Eventually he texts back to say he's now out all day. Then the middle one texts to say he will drop by to water that afternoon. My wife joins in, issuing a brief rebuke to the oldest one and a reminder of his renewed residential responsibilities. 'He's gone very quiet since then,' I say. 'Well, he'll be embarrassed, I hope,' my wife says. We don't receive any kind of reply until late afternoon, when the oldest one finally replies: 'I think you left the side door open,' he writes. 'The tortoise has just been returned to me from across the street.'
The Guardian
17-05-2025
- General
- The Guardian
Tim Dowling: the tortoise has been plotting his escape for more than half a century
A reader writes, asking how I can let my tortoise roam free in my back garden. She'd like to do the same with her adopted tortoise, but is worried it will escape. I explain that my garden is bounded by high brick walls, safely sealing the tortoise in, but that I too am consumed by fear that he will escape. He's very good at hiding, and this always strikes me as a strategy: wait until they think you've already gone, and their guard will drop. Also, he has form: my wife was eight years old when she got the tortoise. After her parents separated he went to live in the country with her father, and promptly escaped. He stayed missing for two years, until a farmer found him while combining in a field a mile south of his last known whereabouts. For 20 years the tortoise lived in a pen with the farmer's sheepdogs, with a white stripe painted on his back to make him easier to spot whenever he got out. At some point in the 1990s the farm was sold, and the tortoise was returned to my father-in-law, who very quickly returned him to my wife. That was nearly 30 years ago, which can make the end result feel like destiny, although probably not from the tortoise's point of view. To him it's just one foiled escape attempt after another. This spring, our oldest son also returned to us: his lease is up, and he has yet to find a new place. When I arrive to pick him up from the flat he's shared with friends for the last two years, his belongings are in bin liners, his furniture piled on stairwell landings. 'It's not usually this messy,' he says. 'Don't worry,' I say. 'This is the only time I'll ever see it.' The car is so full that the last things have to be crammed in and the doors quickly shut before they fall back out. The oldest one rides with a suitcase on his lap, and a potted plant on the floor between his knees. His mother is not thrilled to see all this stuff – another household, essentially – piled up in our hall and living room. 'Lucky for you we're going away,' she says. 'You can figure out how to get it all upstairs before we come back.' 'I will,' he says. 'What's for supper?' We're setting off early in the morning for a long weekend, leaving little time to inculcate a fresh sense of residential responsibility in our new roommate. 'You'll need to get cat food,' my wife says. 'Lock the back door if you go out.' 'OK,' he says. 'I'm expecting a package tomorrow,' I say. 'Do your laundry,' my wife says, 'and keep the kitchen clean.' The next morning the oldest one's stuff is still piled in the hallway – it's easier to pack the car by carrying the bags out through the side door, where I pause to show my wife the repaired fibreoptic cable that restored our internet. 'They even repositioned it so it won't happen again,' I say. 'Are we ready?' she says. 'I want to go before the school traffic starts.' Sign up to Inside Saturday The only way to get a look behind the scenes of the Saturday magazine. Sign up to get the inside story from our top writers as well as all the must-read articles and columns, delivered to your inbox every weekend. after newsletter promotion We load the dogs in the car and head off. Somewhere along the M3 we begin to weigh the pros and cons of our new living situation. 'On the one hand, he's a terrible slob,' I say. 'On the other hand, we now have two potato mashers.' 'I'm going to set some ground rules when we get back,' my wife says. 'But it's also good we can go away and feel secure about things,' I say. 'Are you kidding?' she says. 'How secure do you feel right now?' When we arrive at our destination I check the weather in London – it's due to get very hot. I then send a panicky, pleading text to the family WhatsApp group about the seedlings in my office, and their immediate watering needs. Half an hour later I receive a reply from the oldest one. It says: 'where is the key'. I explain about the key – again. Eventually he texts back to say he's now out all day. Then the middle one texts to say he will drop by to water that afternoon. My wife joins in, issuing a brief rebuke to the oldest one and a reminder of his renewed residential responsibilities. 'He's gone very quiet since then,' I say. 'Well, he'll be embarrassed, I hope,' my wife says. We don't receive any kind of reply until late afternoon, when the oldest one finally replies: 'I think you left the side door open,' he writes. 'The tortoise has just been returned to me from across the street.'
