Matthew Keenan

It’s high school football season once again.

Ah, yes, the return of fall foliage, brisk north winds, shorter days and fog.

No, not what Mother Nature sends us — Axe. The stuff teenagers use to fumigate bathrooms, hallways and entire schools while the rest of us gasp for air.

And without question, the most important event is not the cross-town rivalry on the gridiron. It’s homecoming. Boys finding elaborate, and in some cases outrageous, schemes to ask out their dates. Girls hoping the hot-air balloon hovering over their subdivision is little Johnny’s way of saying, “Go with me!”

And if you are wondering why your neighborhood suddenly has a proliferation of black limos circling around looking for a residence, relax. The Eagles are not doing a backyard gig. It’s dance season.

This tradition is a rare generational thread that still bears some vague resemblance to the good ol’ days, when boys had regular names like Hank, Joe or Tom, wore suits from J.C. Penney and drove their parents’ Dodge Dart. Their dates’ dresses showed modesty reflective of the time. Moms and dads sent them on their way without fretting about a phone call after midnight.

The common fiber is the corsage, Mother Nature’s contribution to the night that is absolutely timeless. So how are the flowers doing these days? Not well.

“The boys generally don’t know what to order,” says Emily Fyten of Flowers by Emily in Leawood. “Most of the time, though, the mom orders the corsage for them and they normally have more of an idea of what they want. Sometimes the moms will bring in the boys to pick something out, but they really don’t seem like they want to be here.”

Shocker.

One website suggested that “boys need to consider their date’s attire before ordering.” Yeah, and your son should also check the fuel level, the polish on his shoes and lay off whatever gel is plastered in his hair. That same site suggested to boys, “to make certain you have the perfect match for your attire, bring in the gown itself, a fabric swatch or a photo. This will allow your florist to match the flowers, ribbons and colors to your clothing.” Who does this? Just give me the boy’s name. I have a daughter he needs to meet.

Boys don’t know a peony from a pencil. An orchid is an instrument in a band. Crocus is something you attach to sunglasses to keep them on your neck. Harmonizing color, accessorizing and making it all come together? Is there an app for that? Dream on.

Nature’s finest leave the protective climate of Emily’s world and get tossed in the back seat, surrounded by Chipotle wrappers, McDonald’s cups and blowing air craving Freon. And did I mention Axe?

“We did have one guy that put his corsage in the freezer instead of the refrigerator” Emily said. “The mom said it looked decent enough to use, but a little weird.” You think he noticed?

So what about the mom who plans ahead, is assured her son’s date’s dress is white and then sees the girl show up in something coal black. “She switched with a friend at the last minute,” our son Robert explained to his mom who was, well, kind of reddish.

But all this is window dressing compared to the real drama. That’s when the slacker dude intersects with his date — with flower and stick pin in hand. Kids who haven’t tied their shoes in 15 years are asked to display the finger dexterity of a concert pianist. Paging St. Jude.

Happily these days those train wrecks are rare, since most dresses are the size of a postage stamp. That means it’s a wrist corsage, which still presents some challenges. Which wrist? Which way? Which date? The ladies typically reciprocate with a boutonniere, which is flawlessly added to the lapel.

The next morning you attempt a download with your son. “How was it? Did you have fun? Did your date have fun?” Grunts. Groans. Snores.

So moms deconstruct the clothes pile. In the mix you find something shriveled, flattened by a semi and baked in an oven — something that just hours earlier was elegantly formed by angels and crafted by careful, nurturing hands.

You study it. If only it could speak, but its appearance suggests the last thing it witnessed no mom would want to hear.

Red rose with baby’s breath, we hardly knew ye.

If you are a parent of a teenager, at some point you will hear your college son or daughter speak these words: “Uh, dad, can you look at my lease for the rental house? I need to sign it.”

Cardiac fibrillations may follow. But chillax, parents. What follows is a quick tutorial of the landmines included in every college party house lease. These are actual clauses from the lease governing the house for Keenan college boy #1, with interpretation as necessary.

•“Lessee [your kid] deposits with Lessor [landlord] a deposit of $500.00 per tenant. The deposit shall be returned…provided the following conditions are met: the entire Premises including furniture, appliances, fixtures, ceilings and floors having been cleaned.”

Memo to parents: say goodbye to five C-notes.

•“All debris, rubbish and discard must be removed from Lessor’s premises.”

Boys: Empty kegs are considered debris.

•“Lessee agrees that Lessee shall not keep any roomers, lodgers or boarders, or carry on any trade, profession, business, school, course of instruction or entertainment on the Premises.”

Translation: no home-brewed wine or beer; no filming “home movies”

Guests need to leave at some point; that includes Molly, who is just a “friend.”

“Entertainment” is defined broadly. Use your imagination. Yes, it’s covered.

•“Lessee shall not make or permit any use of Premises, which, directly or indirectly, is forbidden by public law, ordinance, or government regulation, nor any use which is dangerous to life, limb or property, nor which will be offensive or obnoxious to any residents of the neighborhood.”

AKA “meth clause.” It’s standard these days, started by Missouri landlords.

•“Lessee shall not operate or permit to be operated sound equipment, musical instrument, or television in any manner, which might disturb other residents of the neighborhood.”

Lose the speakers that double as weight supporting beams.

•“Lessee shall not keep any dog, cat or other pet in the building without Lessor’s prior written consent.”

Ditch the ex-girlfriend’s cat, “Twinkle.”

•“Lessee shall not erect any structure on the property on which the Premises is located and shall not enter upon the roof of any building upon the Premises.”

Keep party dudes off the roof, even if they just want to “look at the stars.”

•“Lessor shall be responsible for landscaping the premises including all lawn mowing and shrub pruning and flower bed maintenance.”

There is a name for this in landlord tenant law: impossibility of performance. The words “flower bed maintenance” are not in their vocab.

•“Lessee is and shall be liable for any injury or damage caused by their acts and/or omissions which is done to the leased Premises, and other occupant thereof, or to other persons whom Lessee permits to be in or about the leased Premises.”

Parents: This is why you buy insurance.

•“Lessor shall have the right from time to time to place upon the building or land upon which the Premises are a part, a mortgage or mortgages, given to any financial institution, to which this Lease shall be subordinated.”

Your landlord is a slumlord. Call me shocked.

•“Lessor may assign this lease at any time as collateral or otherwise without Lessee’s consent.”

Whichever bank takes this lease as collateral is about to have a new owner: the FDIC.

•“Vehicles must be parked on the street, must have a current license plate and must be operative. Vehicles may not be parked on the grass.”

Dude!

•“Lessee must use a heat source provided by management.”

OMG!! Dude!!

•“Lessee may not install or use a waterbed or bed filled with other fluid without the prior written permission of Lessor.”

You weren’t born in the 70s; your bed shouldn’t have been, either.

•“No damage to property beyond ordinary wear and tear resulting from careful usage.”

Careful usage? Wow.

•“Lessee agrees that visits by police to the Premises for improper behavior or citations or complaints of any kind by any governmental authority which in any way regards the tenants’ use or permitted use of the premises are grounds for termination of the Lease and/or eviction by Lessor. Lessee agrees to vacate Premises within ten (10) days of such notice.”

This clause requires no explanation. I’d suggest a “plan B” living arrangement just in case.

Growing up, Mom kept a Bankers Box of childhood keepsakes for each of her five children, treasure chests containing photos, letters, news clippings and other things like Scout uniforms. When she passed unexpectedly 10 years ago, however, retrieving that time capsule lost importance.

But last May when I was back in our house, I went on a mission. Deep in my Dad’s makeshift wine cellar, there it was.

MATTHEW’S BOX.

I sat down on the shag carpet and began to go through it. The common thread throughout the box’s contents was not me—it was Mom. Thoughtful, loving, supportive—every documented activity, every event, she was there. It was, needless to say, an emotional journey.

But there were a few tidbits that brought a grin. Near the bottom I found this grade card. Why Mom thought this timepiece was noteworthy will remain a mystery. In 1972 the Vietnam draft was still proceeding, the top movie was “Deliverance” and among parents, the words “time out” had yet to be conjoined.

It was also the year my happy-go-lucky life took a serious detour. His name was Ollie Stockdale. He taught shop at Harrison Junior High.

Anyone older than 40 knows shop—in later years someone concocted the euphemism “Industrial Arts.” No one would confuse Stockdale’s workroom with MoMA, that’s for sure. It was brimming with industrial-grade saws, vacuum hoses and power drills. In the early 1970s there were no safety-off switches. If you had an ADD spell while the buzz saw was heading your way, you woke up in the ER minus one digit.

By appearance, Stockdale was a dead ringer for Red Forman in “That ‘70s Show,” except there was no laugh track to soften his demeanor. Class was a cross between a sawdust factory and hell. Stockdale dedicated his life to two things: mentoring the ready, willing and able on how to construct masterpieces and making the disinterested miserable.

Ty Pennington he was not. Stockdale was prone to few words and frequent swats for the misdirected. The most popular equipment was the vacuum, theoretically for cleanup, but some kids used it to suck up large items lying idle in the shop room. Wood blocks would clang and bang through the hose and down a tunnel that doubled as an echo chamber. It was more fun than making a bookshelf.

Stockdale’s notations on my grade card underscore the obvious. I stood out. Stockdale was declaring to my parents and—with zero academic confidentiality back then—the world that I wasn’t just a bad carpenter. I was a goof-off, jackleg and a disaster with a hammer and nail. But sucking 2×4’s into the vortex? World class. That perhaps was my proudest moment in shop class.

If shop was emblematic of that era, its twin was home economics. Teaching an entirely different life skill, the class was enormously popular and gave essential instruction on being a good homemaker.

My wife was a star in home ec at Shawnee Mission East where, according to her, teachers taught important things. “We learned how to sew skirts, not garbage like PajamaJeans,” she says. “Some never mastered the zipper stage,” she adds. “I did.”

So why would Ramona Keenan keep a grade card with a “D?” Today’s parents would fire up the shredder or rush up to school and demand a meeting with the teacher. I have no recollection of Larry Keenan lecturing me about what a “D” could mean down the road. Back then parents didn’t know or care about junior high grades. Or even high school grades for that matter. There was no Duke University Talent Identification Program for middle school kids and no prep course for the ACT or SAT.

My kid brother, Marty, recently suggested that in 1972 dad had bigger priorities—my older sister who had big hair, big dreams and big boyfriends. And all three were attempting to intersect on Friday nights. Her antics gave Dad heartburn and kept the liquor cabinet in a lock-down that would rival Fort Knox.

With reflection, I suppose Mom remembered that 1972 was the year I left the tutelage of the Dominican sisters at St. Patrick’s—a year earlier than most—to enroll at Harrison Junior High. Larry and Mona didn’t like me leaving the pastoral environs where I spent K-7 to a place where there were no uniforms and no daily Mass. Stockdale was my comeuppance; and now, 39 years later, is giving me a story for the ages.

These days it seems parenting and bragging go hand in hand.

When kids are toddlers, the parent’s focus is the height/weight chart. “He’s big for his age. Doc says he might be six-foot-five.” “Really? He’s still crawling.”

A couple years later, the focus is premier soccer, traveling baseball teams or football teams with kids held back three years. When those parents reach their 40s, academics take top billing: “We are visiting some East Coast schools. He has lots of options.” Everyone within earshot wants to swallow a cyanide pill.

So what’s left for near empty nesters like me to crow about? Tomatoes. No calling plans to fuss over, no empty-gas-tank-syndrome.

Tomatoes have their own festivals, fairs, and websites, with prizes for the heaviest, largest circumference and countless other categories. It’s so competitive they have rules, like no chemicals, to keep it honest. Amazon sells no fewer than 30 books on the veggie. Channel 9 anchor Larry Moore talks about his tomatoes like they are children. His ratings soar.

Consider its competition — squash? Maybe with a name change. Beets? Bad color, bad connotations. Eggplant? Resembles a purple dinosaur egg. Tastes like one, too. Zucchini? Sounds like a disease, looks like dermatitis.

Hollywood knows all this. “Fried Green Tomatoes” starred an A-list cast and was nominated for two Oscars. Movies about other veggies? Ever see “Children of the Corn”? Didn’t think so. Don’t rent it unless you’re interested in murder and mayhem in small-town Nebraska.

And add this trump card: Cooked tomatoes give you one of the most potent antioxidants on the planet — lycopene, reducing the likelihood for men that a urologist will be using sharp objects down there. What’s a potato do? Give you stretch pants.

And in the world of tomato growing, one type stands apart: heirloom tomatoes. Known in our house as the Pippa Middleton of veggies, it is the stuff of true garden snobs. They say it’s what God plants. Handing down special seeds for many years, these growers take bragging to the next level. Some varieties of seeds have their own name, like Julia Child and Abe Lincoln. No Keenans in the mix.

None of this is news, I trust, but if it is, you are either still doting on your fourth-grade quarterback who just got his restricted license, or need to ditch the iPad and grab a shovel. Gardens — and tomatoes — are more popular than ever.

Lori’s tomato plants are on the south side of the house, and all summer long she admonishes me to avoid blasting them with Round-up. Is she a master gardener? No. Does she care? No. But are her tomatoes now the focus of her nurturing, care, love and watering? Absolutely. What else is there to do with 75 percent of our children wasting time on various campuses?

“How are your tomatoes?” she asks her mom frequently. Twenty minutes later, they are still visiting while I channel surf.

But around mid-July it was clear there was a problem with our “crop.” There was none. Lots of plants, no produce.

Around Aug. 1, I came home to a level of excitement not seen since our last child took her first steps: “We got our first tomato!” In her hand was something I could barely see. Forget Pippa, I was eye-to-eye with Mini-Me.

Somewhere along the planting season we had a problem. Soil, nitrogen, critters, Round-up … still undetermined. Yet, as leaned over to get a better look, I had only one response: “It’s amazing!”

But you should see her basil!

Matt Keenan COMMENTARY
A long time ago, “do it yourself” wasn’t a marketing mantra for big box hardware stores. It was a way of life. People were adept at fixing things, making things, doing things.

Take my dad, for instance. He would diagnose bone fractures, remove stitches and play barber — buzz cuts were his specialty. He invented remedies too. One time we were skiing in Vail and I got sick on the mountain and blew cookies. I was 14. Dad’s solution: aspirin? No. He fixed me a hot toddy and insisted it would make me feel better. He was right. My fever never dropped, but I had a blast two hours later running through the snow in my underwear.

Moms could bake or broil countless meals, knit, sew and check the oil in the Dodge Dart. Back then middle and high schools taught home economics and shop. It was a “can do, will do, must do” way of life.

So the five Keenan kids took their lead. We built a tree house, dug a cave, constructed bike ramps, made fish traps, even a worm farm. We had scout campouts in subzero temperatures and moms never flinched. We were industrious. My brother had a paper route for the Great Bend Tribune, which meant six days a week rolling, throwing and collecting from the customers on his route. He did it alone. His age? 13. We were equal parts inventive, creative, destructive.

Some things we were taught, other things we figured out. So somewhere between Barton County circa 1972 and today the world fell apart. Kids are more likely to know Snooki than Sidney Poitier. They go bowling not at the bowling alley, but imitating it in front of their big screen. They know John Madden from a video game, not his years coaching the Oakland Raiders or being at the losing end of the greatest game in NFL history — featuring the Immaculate Reception.

It’s a generational strife that knows no solution.

I like to think my three sons have a modicum of life skills either from frequent trips to my old stomping grounds, hanging around my dad, or from their years in Boy Scouts. Still, there are moments when I know something went horribly wrong. Times when I hear this shouted to me from across the house:

•Dad, the cable is out!

•Dad, the wireless isn’t working!

•Dad, what’s the password for wireless?

•What’s the password for Netflix?

•How do I order a movie?

•The printer isn’t working!

•There’s a paper jam!

•The computer won’t turn on!

•We need more computer ink!

•A video I’m working on has an error message!

This dreadful yammering raises one question: When did I become the Geek Squad? Last time I checked, I don’t drive a black VW with an orange logo. I don’t park in the front spot at Best Buy. I don’t have a white shirt with a skinny black tie like “Men In Black.”

But then I pondered the notion some more. Maybe I should trade places with those guys. They are young, happy and don’t have to check the bags under their eyes with the TSA screeners at KCI. They probably get nine hours of sleep and eat Snickers, not Fibercon, every day. They have regular hours.

I get the Geek Squad treatment at home at one of three times: When I’m watching the Royals and Soria blows a save; when I’m in bed and in the middle of the greatest dream ever … dropping child #4 off at college; or when I’m not to be bothered, like weighing myself a second time to make sure the first number was correct.

It’s not fair to say kids these days have no practical skills. They are capable at texting, sleeping, eating and yawning. Saving the planet? Not in their wheelhouse. At least I can do my share fixing a paper jam.

This is my new blog. I’m still figuring it out.