Stoned for the Holidays

Every year it starts earlier:  Holiday music in stores, Christmas decorations, gift catalogues. It's no longer the holiday season; it's pretty much the holiday quarter of the year.

Suffering under the influence, Evan has already started and revised his Christmas list more than once or twice. Taking a trip to the hobby shop has deteriorated from a fun morning to a hand wrenching, angst producing event-- each time leaving with another revision of that list in mind: Rock polisher, telescope, steam locomotive, diesel locomotive, RC cars, RC airplane.

Walking out to get some shopping done for school clothes Saturday afternoon it was all he could talk about: worried as to whether he might get this or that, what he should wish for.

"Evan, this is ridiculous. It's too stressful. You are way too worried about presents."

"I need a worry stone."

"A worry stone?! What about Santa?"

"And a wishing stone."

At least I know what I'm getting him for Christmas.

Pop Tart Redux

The old saying is, something to the effect of, you can never go home again. And that saying, I'm here to tell you, is wholly incorrect. The fact is, often times one can go home again-- it just might not be quite the same as when you left it-- or more likely: how you remember. You may have to do some pruning, patching, paint, and plaster. And other times it just won't work-- gone.

Unfrosted Blueberry Pop Tarts brought me to this understanding. When I was a kid, Blueberry Pop Tarts were among my most favorite, and least available, food treats. (You'll note: just Pop Tarts. Frosting the little bastards was a nasty idea still lying well ahead in the youth of this country's over indulged future.) Heated in the toaster or right out of the box, I loved those Blueberry Pop Tarts.

The bond was strong. Over the years, while walking through grocery store aisles filled with cereals and breakfast bars and snacks, I have cast many a guilty glance toward the Pop Tart selection, a selection that has grown to the point the product is almost unrecognizable from my youth. (I'm pretty sure though-- looking at the assortment of hideous flavors, all slathered with some type of frosted surface-- that a stoner from my generation has been in charge of product development for some time now.) Whoever it is that is in charge of product development, I have noticed in all those visits, someone at Kellogg's holds unfrosted Strawberry Pop Tarts dear to heart as they seem to always be available. (Again, more support for the stoner theory of product development.)

And then it happened: A week or so ago I nearly bumped into a large displaystand filled with boxes of unfrosted Blueberry Pop Tarts. The clouds parted, the sun shone down in great Jesus beams, and a box of unfrosted Blueberry Pop Tarts levitated to my shopping cart. Hallelujah! I proceeded to tell my daughter about just what great fortune this was, that plain Blueberry Pop Tarts were one of the finest breakfast pastries ever conceived. And now my daughter knows, I too, was a stoner.

But I digress. After getting home from the market I immediately unpacked one of the foil pouches, snipped open the top, and admired the unchanged appearance of that micro thin delicious pastry, appearing unchanged, after all those years.

Of course, being of my age and generation (I know, it's redundant but it sounds so erudite), I had to read the nutritional information.  (Another annoying development since the golden age of Pop Tarts. Who in their right mind wants to know the fat and calorie content of a Pop Tart, for crissakes!) Ignoring what should be a black box warning, I put one of the pastries straight into my pie hole-- no need to toast 'em, I told my daughter as she looked on somewhat bewildered but, by this point, certain of her father's history of drug use. And that's when it happened. The filling was right but the pastry itself, all anemic looking, cold and dense, tasted like, well, lard.

To say I was disappointed goes only half the distance. I felt cheated, lied to, frightened and confused all at the same time. How could my memory be so wrong? How could I have fooled myself so completely in creating such an unrealistic expectation of eating a mass produced slab of pastry with more perforations than an acoustic tiled ceiling?

To her credit, my daughter was surprisingly sympathetic. She doesn't like to see her dad suffer. To my credit, I didn't give up. About two days later, home alone, I slipped another Pop Tart in the toaster and warmed it through. Success! The aroma, the pastry, the filling-- it was all there.

Yep. Sometimes you can go home again. Even if it's just to enjoy a moment with a 240 calorie, 6 gram of fat pastry; filled with blueberry jam, buttered, not frosted.

That Girl

Ev and I tried to get on a tennis court yesterday. You would think on a Saturday, just as college football season is getting into full swing and both the Cubs and the Sox have scheduled games, that we might be able to get on a court for a half hour or so. No such luck. We managed about 5 or 10 minutes during change overs-- just enough to see Evan's righteously evolving ability, but not enough to say we played tennis yesterday.

So, it was a quick jog to the busy play area. And jog we did. Evan made me run from the tennis courts to the play area, something I don't do anymore for a couple of reasons, legitimate or otherwise. But the play area is always fun for Evan and there is always a good mix of parents present to supervise and insure against bullying and the insane fearless risk-taking so common among young kids. And that's where it happened:

Sitting there with racquets and tennis balls in hand, minding my own business, watching Evan play on the swings and twirl down the corkscrew, when all of a sudden she just shows up. Boom. She walks over, beautiful reddish brown hair, smokey grey eyes, gorgeous cardigan sweater and coordinated pants, and plops down right next to me. Frankly, it made me a little uncomfortable but she was all about showing me her camera and wondering how it worked. It wasn't long before I'm thinking how great it would be to come home to a girl like this every day.

Of course it wasn't long before the guy that was with her came over to stand right next to us, like, duh, I get it already. Surprisingly, he let her stay for a bit, seemingly not at all jealous or worried. Obviously the confident type.

She ended up leaving with him-- and her mom, and her grandmother. Even so, it was nice to realize I still have that effect on girls-- even if they're all of 2 years old.

I had a daughter like that once. Cute as she was at two, she's only gotten better with age. But I like to think she'd still perch next to me on a park bench-- if only she had the time.

Heading West

I write this as I am seated in row 43 on a westbound 757 en route to Portland, Oregon. Not much of a seat for a grand but it’s what you get when you have to go-- and go now.

“Heading west” is an old expression for those who have departed. And so it is that I am presently headed compass west, to gather with my family and pay respects to my dear sister Lois who passed away earlier this week.

Lois was my oldest sibling in the family of eight children in which I am the youngest. She was a generation removed from me, old enough to be my mother; she was out of the home and a teacher on her own by the time I tumbled onto the scene. In fact, she has always remained quite a bit removed from me. We took great joy in one another but we had a bridge between us that always stood in place. For me, as with several of my older siblings, she was a living testament to a past I never knew, the upbringing I never endured, the relationship to young parents I never knew. If I wanted a glimpse at what life might have been like had I been born in 1936, to young first-time parents married just 2 years, I needed to look no further than my big sister Lois.

There are lessons to be learned from a much older sibling, lessons in how to, or how not to, live life. Lessons easily ignored but never too late to revisit, to relearn. Lois was among the fortunate to have lived a life filled with friends and family, several of whom were able to sit with her as she slowly set off for the west. And a loving husband who stood by her literally to the very end.

So much life. So much joy. So much pleasure taken in being a participant rather than an observer. All good lessons. The very best. So much to teach me and those around her. Life lessons—in living and in dying.

I should be so lucky-- and so wise-- as to now take time, look within, and learn those lessons she so generously demonstrated.

Farewell dear sister.

Time and Change

Looking out my window at the early morning light it’s all about time and change: The light is bright yet altered by just a shade or two. We’ve tilted a bit. Lower, warmer.

It’s forecast to be in the 80’s today with a thunderstorm or two. Still 21 days left of summer, officially at least, but fall is definitely knocking at the door. The birds know it: they’re starting to flock up, discussing their flight plans. The squirrels know it: talking with their mouths full, scurrying about, diggings holes in lawns, acorns bulging their cheeks all out of proportion. The trees are starting to get the idea as well: perfectly airbrushed highlights in just the slightest, most subtle accents of yellow, just a touch of orange.

It’s really the most beautiful time of year and, at the same time, one of the most thought provoking. It’s all about change, the march of time, another year slipped between my fingers. There’s lots of time left, really, And yet, as the breeze blows in off the lake and massages free the first of the colored leaves from the trees along the street below, it’s undeniable: In these parts at least, all too soon we’ll be shutting down, bundling up, preparing to slow the pace and stay warm—the lucky ones will follow the birds lead and head south.

As for me, I’ll be here watching, working, participating and, in fact, enjoying the fact that I will once again have the incentive to stay inside and CLEAN OUT MY OFFICE!! Now that would be a change.

Drinking It In

Yesterday was one of those delicious summer mornings that begs a person—should he or she be so lucky—to spend an hour blasting along a country road with the top down, hair being blown about, grinning from ear to ear. Fortunately for me, I do have an old convertible and I did need to drive about 30 miles in the course of seeing patients on a Sunday morning. The road wasn't exclusively mine, nor the idea: There was a pretty stout representation of motorcyclists and a few on bicycles as well.

As I drove along I noticed just how perfect a day it was: 72 degrees. Not a cloud in the sky, low humidity, the roadway flanked by fields of corn, 6 feet high, a brilliant green. But every now and then there was a tree, a beautiful green leafed tree in full foliage, giving me a sign. It’s a blush really, just the top of the t-shirt showing from under a dress shirt, but it was undeniable: The leaves on a few of these trees were visibly hinting at a change. A gold cast to the green, a little edging in yellow: the message was clear, it’s getting to be that time. A bit premature on an early August morning but, as we all know too well, nature doesn’t always heed the calendar.

By late afternoon this beautiful day had turned to a hot hazy affair—one of those “lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.” What had started as a cool and brilliant Sunday morning was finishing out a bit more in command of the season and, again, the trees reflected the time of year with a peculiar golden glow, leaves reflecting the lower angle of the sun. The message was being broadcast a little more clear to any who bothered to pay attention: We're winding down here. It won't be summer forever, Drink it in.

Nature has its way. And in this experience the message was clear: Our days are grand and life is full. And with that, the advice to drink it all in. Everyday moves a person a little further along that road, that calendar, that life. It can be such a gorgeous journey but one needs to pay attention—open arms, open eyes, alert and welcoming. In short: Drive fast, smile big, and keep the top down for as long as nature will allow.

First Day of School

First Day in OR

Remember all those "first day" photos? First day of Kindergarten. First Grade. The ritual kind of peters out after first grade, it seems. It falls to graduation photos-- daycare, kindergarten, high school, college. Last night I wish I'd had the camera at the ready: I went to dinner with my daughter last night because today is her first day of medical school. I won't be there to see her off, to pack her lunch, to give her a hug, a kiss, and a "good luck" wish as she leaves.

It amazes me to think of the ground she's traveled and where she's at today. I started that journey 34 years ago and it's passed in the blink of an eye.  When I look back at the road she's travelled, I realize she has done well. It's me, it's her mom, but mostly, it's her.

Before leaving her last night, I told both Kels and her roommate: pay attention. This is a privilege, an honor, an opportunity most will never have-- and the responsibility that comes with it is even greater. As with every other instruction you give your child-- look both ways before crossing, always fasten their seatbelt, wear a helmet, listen well, moderation-- one can only hope they hear you and remember your words, taking them to heart and understanding your meaning. That said, I wished her good luck and gave her a kiss and a hug goodbye.

My daughter, the doctor.

Life's Ups. And Ups, and ups, and ups

It seems my son may have an engineering bent. He loves building things that go: things that roll, and float, and fly.  This weekend he spent painstaking time assembling an lightweight Styrofoam airplane that he had received from a classmate for his birthday. A gift from a Chinese boy and made in China, it featured a battery powered motor and Ev was beside himself waiting for a first flight.

Walking down the sidewalks of Chicago to the school with the big open field, he literally skipped along, holding his big plane up. People would comment: “Wow, nice plane!”  “Thanks! I built it myself! It has an electric motor.” His joy and excitement and pride were obvious and uncontainable.

First attempt at flight the plane went down into the grass within just a few feet. Anxious to demonstrate proper technique, I retrieved the plane, started the motor, and gave it a firm thrust into the breeze. Wow!! The plane took off like rocket. It circled back and then climbed. Circled back a little less and climbed some more. Did I mention there was a slight breeze? It circled and climbed some more. This was great! And then I started to realize the plane was getting pretty high, going pretty far, nearing the fenced boundary of our big field. I really began to feel an urgent awareness of the fact that this battery powered Styrofoam airplane that appeared to have every intention of leaving the perimeter, climbing over a road filled with traffic, and heading toward power lines, had absolutely no means of control.

Poor Evan. What had first been a laughingly exciting first flight was rapidly turning into a nightmare: a nightmare filled with the potential for property damage and personal injury as well as loss of an extremely well-loved electric motor powered airplane. "It's from China! I can never replace it!"

The good news: The plane continued to climb. It cleared the power lines and did not drop from 50 feet onto the hood of someone’s nice vehicle. No pedestrians were injured. At least not to our knowledge.

The bad news: There was an explosion of tears and sadness as the plane cleared the roof of the school about 200 yards away across the street and disappeared from sight. A search of the perimeter found no remains of the Falcon or any evidence of accident or injury.

Poor Ev: He choked over tears and sobs to ask, "Dad! Why are you laughing?!!"

Mother's Day

I noticed a lot of Facebook profile photos going to mother-daughter shots today. Looking back through a long catalog of photographs, I was unable to find any of just my Mom and me. I have to say, I’m not too surprised. I didn’t have that kind of mom. My Mom was a worker bee. She wasn’t about telling me she loved me, throwing an arm around my shoulder and grabbing a quick snapshot. She loved me, but not like that, as the saying goes.

My Mom was about the business of childrearing and running a household: Three meals a day, laundry, ensuring her kids didn’t swear or deteriorate into civil disobedient deviates or otherwise embarrass our family or the larger family of man. She felt an obligation to ensure her kids knew the difference between “knew” and “new,” “seen” and “saw,” the use of “I” and “me,” on which side of the plate the fork was placed, the proper use of a soup spoon, the definition of appropriate dress, and the importance of a clean face, combed hair, and well brushed teeth. If you had an interested in learning to bake or cook, she could accommodate that as well.

Unconditional love was not in vogue in her era. Children were to be seen and not heard. Children were born to assist, not to be assisted, entertained, coddled, or excessively adored. There was work to be done, a future to be lived; in short, there was both a timetable and an agenda.

Within that construct there was approval and disapproval, and the child’s task was to win and maintain approval. And that didn’t transpire on a soccer field or baseball diamond; it didn’t transpire in karate class or by excelling at any other form of game or recreational activity—and if it didn’t have a concrete measurable productive value and useful application for the immediate needs of the family or applicable to one's future life in the eyes of my Mother, it was just that: recreation. Fine for playtime but only after all other tasks of home, family and education were first complete.

There were plenty of upsides to this upbringing of mine although it did lend itself to a child developing a sense of performance-based esteem as opposed to well-centered and grounded self-esteem. Not that she would have given a wink of concern about such matters. Being born in 1910, my Mother’s perspective was of citizenship and productivity. Her children needed to do well. And to her credit, we have to a large extent. And maybe that is the greatest expression of a mother's love: her legacy in a child who thrives, respects, and embraces life.

All that said, I wish I could post a photo today of my Mom and me. All in all, I think she "done me good."

To the rest of you: Happy Mother’s Day to all those moms out there who work hard, sacrifice, and do everything they believe is right to ensure their little ones survive and thrive. It seems like impossible work but, somehow, and thankfully, more moms get it right than wrong. And for that, we can all be grateful.

Graduation Day

My daughter graduated from the University of Michigan yesterday. It must be a really powerful in institution of higher education and held in the "highest" esteem: It rained in the morning and skies were heavy with a solid overcast of threatening rainclouds throughout the ceremonies, yet not a drop fell.

A lot of people had or will have children graduate from colleges this year. Fortunately, most of those graduates will leave their college experience a little older and a whole lot wiser about who they are, where they're headed, and what constitutes a responsible adult. Most, but not all.

As for me, I've been incredibly fortunate in that my daughter has managed to keep her paddles in the water. Even through a squall or two she has managed to maintain her forward momentum and has now reached the other side of that big pond. She did all the work and, somehow, I feel pretty satisfied with that-- as if it were I that was just now graduating.

In a way, it is we as parents, role models, financers of education large and small, we parents who rightfully feel a deep sense of satisfaction at this milestone. And it's a well deserved sense of satisfaction: I look around every day and I see potential that has been untapped, unappreciated, misappropriated and I feel sad for those who cannot or will not take advantage of their personal intellectual resources.

Like my daughter, I had good fortune on my side: My parents never told me I had to go to college. My parents never told me what career I had to pursue. My parents told me only this: You have an obligation to do your best. You have the great good fortune to be in possession of a healthy body and a capable mind. You have a duty to put them to good use. My daughter has certainly taken that advice to heart. In her short life she has successfully crossed puddles, streams, and now a big pond.

Note to daughter: There is still a large river that lies ahead. If you can successfully navigate its rapids, eddies, and falls you will find yourself sailing confidently and contentedly on the ocean of life.

Congratulations and full speed ahead!

Spring Break Police

I was out watching Ev the other morning while he was climbing all over a playscape. There were about a million and 6 kids climbing all over the thing, running around, chasing each other, playing cops and robbers and such. At one point Evan runs up to me with a stick in his hand-- a smallish stick rather perfectly shaped and proportioned for a pistol. "Dad, can you hold this for me for a second?" while he tried to wrestle off his sweatshirt. Then off he goes running after bad guys, pistol in hand. "Don't run with a stick in your hand!"

Seriously? Did I really just say that as my kid took off running?? Like when he stood up to surf down the kiddie slide: "Careful!" WTF??

Of course I wasn't the only parent out there yelling lame, unwanted, and unnecessary exclamations at their otherwise perfectly healthy and safe kids, guilty of no offense greater than active play. Somehow, in this contemporary era of parenting it has become necessary to watch over our kids like the trauma police: no scrapes, no cuts, no bruises, no dirty clothes.  In my own defense, I do see a fairly steady stream of kids who are injured during the course of unsupervised play or worse-- like the 3 year old who gets a broken arm when her 22 year old drunk uncle lands on her while they're both on a trampoline. But this was different and far removed from that brand of negligence.

When I was a kid (here we go-- you had to see this coming) my parents and those of my friends really didn't seem to care if, at 6 years old, we climbed high in an apple tree to throw dirt clods at the "bad guys." They didn't get measurably concerned if we climbed aboard a city bus and rode it to the end of the line and back. And later on, they thought it was pretty cool that a couple of us could ride our bikes through the city streets of L.A. to the airport and back, 30 miles-- stopping long enough to explore the terminals and flight decks of airliners as they were being serviced.

Obviously those days are over for a lot of reasons. 40 some years later it makes me nervous when I see my guy taking risks. I know it's good for his physical, emotional, and intellectual development but I still worry…..  although I have to admit: he does look pretty cool surfing down that slide.

Off To A Good Start

                                   

A friend of mine, the world renowned Short Jewish Gal, posted this photo of herself the other day. It was taken in the 70’s, early in a high school career. The photo struck me because, although it is just a snapshot, it suggests so much of what it is to be a successful teen: competent, confident, happy, purposeful. Stepping off the doorstep of your home, stepping onto the sidewalk of life.

This is certainly not a reality for a great many teens, teens that struggle with social and economic conditions that no one, of any age, should have to endure, certainly not developing youths. For far too many teens it is so much more than pimples and bad hair days. For many, the barriers are substantial, the hardships are real, expectations almost nonexistent, progress elusive. For many, by the time they are 14 or 15 they will have become convinced, have had beaten into their brains, that the future holds absolutely, positively nothing to look forward to.

The photo above, however, gives a welcome look in the other direction. Well dressed and well groomed, a smile on her face and books in hand, (a budding Westside Jewish democrat at that!), she certainly appears to be among the most fortunate of teens. But the thing that grabs me most is her wave. An open mouthed smile and her right hand in motion she greets the photographer, the day, the world, in a manner that acknowledges, welcomes, and places her firmly in command. This photo is the picture of parental success: A nearly grown child confidently stepping into adulthood. Not privilege or entitlement, just well prepared, able, and happy about the whole damn thing—and, willing to show it!  

A Note On A Mother's Passing

A dear childhood friend of mine's mother passed away the other day. I hadn't seen her in over 40 years but, having grown up as the kid across the street, she has never been absent from my memory.

Thinking about this woman, a homemaker with three boys and a working husband, I was struck by how much sociological change has occurred in the American home in the course of those 4 decades. She was of an era when the mother's task was to raise the children and maintain the home. It fell to the mother to ensure the kids did well at school. It fell to the mother to ensure the kids practiced good citizenship. It fell to the mother to ensure the kids grew up to be productive adults. It fell to the mother to ensure the kids grew to adulthood reflecting well on the home from which they had come.

My friend's mom, like my own, was really dealt a rotten card when it came to timing. The 60's and 70's turned out to be a time when a social epidemic swept the nation, when conformity, heritage, and tradition fell off the mantles of homes throughout the country. The passing on of religion, social mores, and politics, all the hallmarks of successful and productive childrearing disappeared in less than a generation. For many women, what they had hoped for and expected never became part of the generation they had raised. For many women, my mother and my friend's mother included, it was a grave disappointment, a second wave of postpartum depression. Some never adapted, never recovered a sense of place, of personal esteem.

Living as we do in a era of dual incomes, rapidly receding gender-specific roles, and a social landscape with limited boundaries, it's hard to understand what these women stood for. It's hard to understand the valor and validity of a life dedicated to ensuring your children not only did well but did the family proud as well. It's hard to understand how a woman could be satisfied living to see her hopes and dreams fulfilled in the lives of others. Selflessness receives so little play these days.

With the passing of my friend's mother I am reminded of just how lucky some of us are to have been raised by mother's who-- while they may have seemed at times overbearing and intrusive-- never wanted anything more than for their children to grow into substantial adults. It wasn't about happiness. It wasn't about wealth. It was about success in the truest sense-- success as productive members of society-- theirs and ours.

The Chili Weather Continues

Okay. I think it is pretty safe to say that, as of today, March 27th, nobody in the state of Michigan is feeling good about seeing snowfall. No one but me.

Over the years people have always spoken of the "old days," with snow up to the window sills and rooftops. This year we've had that. The "old days," where if you walked more than 50 yards your face would freeze solid. This year we've had that. The "old days," where you weren't through with snow until well into April. This year we're making a serious effort in that direction. And all this snow and cold does have it's serious disadvantages. The roads are so fractured and potholed I don't know if they'll ever be right. Furnaces can be heard wheezing and grimacing as they fire up once again on a cycle that has been repeated every 20 minutes of every day for the last 4 months. And cabin fever is so severe and epidemic that kids aren't even antsy anymore-- they're just sitting, catatonic, staring at their hands and the floor.

Me? So far I'm actually okay with all this snow and cold, even as I look out at my just-washed truck, returned from the dealer after an oil change, all red and shiny with snowflakes drifting by, kissing its windows and sills. And the reason I'm okay with all this is tortilla soup-- or in this case, tortilla chili. Chili, whether tortilla or otherwise, is a cold whether menu item. Sitting and having a bowl of chili on an 80 degree day just doesn't sound good or make sense. (A nice thin tortilla soup, sitting poolside at a certain pink hotel on Sunset Boulevard, sure. But not a hearty chili.) So, for now I'm good. I have my hearty vegetarian tortilla chili/soup and I'm happy to watch the snowflakes fall.

Note to weather gods: I've only made enough for a couple days.

White People

Tam and I debated for some time whether it made sense to have Ev enroll in our local Chicago public school. It would mean splitting the family at least 4 days a week. It would mean Ev would not be maintaining anything to speak of in the way of early childhood friendships. Nevertheless, we took the plunge and enrolled Evan at Ogden School, a public International Baccalaureate school about a block from the condo.

There were two reasons really, for our decision. First, the academic standard was very, very high at Ogden. Ev is a smart kid and, if he isn't challenged, he zooms off to another planet. The other reason was diversity. Here in our mid-Michigan hometown there is very, very, very little social or racial diversity. We both felt really strongly that we wanted Evan to grow up around people of all different races, colors, social backgrounds and nationalities. And we certainly have that to offer both at the school and the city around us living in Chicago.

So how's it going? Well, Ev's grades are good and he has about 1 hour of math and reading homework every night, Monday through Thursday. He is learning that school is about becoming educated, actively learning. As a kid, education is what you do. So while he's busy with after school activities 3 days of the week, he knows that going to school, learning, is not something that occurs only between 8:40 and 3:20.

And the cultural experience? Well, true story: Saturday we went to lunch at a local Chinese place here in town. There were about 7 or 8 tables seated at the time and, as we started in to our meals, Evan started to look around with a frown and quizzical expression. "Do you guys notice anything?" he asked, all Mr. Concerned-about-something. I looked around not able to imagine what he was seeing. "What?" Pointing to the skin of his forearm he said to his Mom and me, "Everyone in here is white."

Okay. Pretty strong performance in the diversity piece.

Chocolate Covered Marshmallows

I wandered into a candy store at the mall the other day. Having to wait one hour for a new pair of glasses is, on the one hand a luxury but, on the other hand can lead to some potentially treacherous expeditions while waiting. As I checked out the case filled with massive slabs of english toffee, almond bark, and a multitude of truffles I noticed two trays of chocolate coated marshmallows, milk and dark chocolate, of course.

My Dad loved chocolate covered marshmallows. He could seldom find them and, in a pinch, when a craving took control, he would substitute one of those red foil wrapped Annabelle's Rocky Road candy bars. I never thought of my Dad as having much of a sweet tooth although I've come to rethink that to some degree, his two favorite beverages being Jim Beam and Seven-Up and Harvey's Bristol Cream Sherry.

Funny how after your parents have been gone for a number of years one filters that experience. I guess I'm fortunate in that I have nothing bad to say. My Dad was a man who was loved by many people and who taught me to be kind, thoughtful, and considerate in all things-- qualities I've been able to embrace with variable success. Mostly, he was a nice guy with a kind heart and I know all to well that places him far ahead of a vast number of dads in circulation these days and before.

Finding those chocolate covered marshmallows made me think of him and inspired me to bring a couple home. So, the one I've split in half for the photo I'll devour today in memory of my Dad, on this day, the 105th anniversary of his birth. The other I'll probably take to Evan this weekend and I'll tell him all about it-- unless Kelsey shows up here first!

Birthday Math: A + B + C = B'day

The math genius looking forward, warts and all.

It's weird. I woke up this morning having all kinds of philosophical thoughts about turning 57 years old-- age, history, the whole past, present, and what lies ahead thing. I especially remembered that day in 1966 when my friend Greg first met my Dad and discovered my Dad was 57. It was the first time I realized my Dad was what, these days, we call an "outlier."It was the first time I ever came to think of my Dad as vulnerable.

Last night before he went off to bed my little guy told me, forewarned me, that the gift he and Mom had picked for me hadn't arrived in time and just how sorry and disappointed he was about this shortcoming. Now his thinking is maybe where we all should stay focused on a birthday: celebration and honor. At 6 and 3/4 you still remember the old math: Birthday = A (party) + B (presents) + C (cake), the answer being directly proportional to the sum of the addends. But for most of us, however, I'd wager we no longer know the old math. "It's just another birthday," "I'm too old for birthdays," "I don't want anything for my birthday," "I've stopped celebrating birthdays," and on and on-- the new math being: A (age) + B (recognition of getting old) + C (concern about getting old) = Bad-day. It seems in this new equation, the first addend, age, increases sequentially by whole numbers while the second and third are variables. So how does one know how to solve this second equation if it's an equation with two variables??

Actually, the formula is pretty easy. In fact, the two equations are really exactly the same. My 6 year old recognizes he's getting older, loose tooth and all. Getting older and bigger, is exciting. More opportunities, more adventures, more fun lie ahead. He recognizes he is aging and shows no adverse concern-- life is opportunity! The problem for us older folks is not the math, it's plugging in the right variables: Do we plug in opportunity, or regret? Do we plug in gratitude or remorse? Acceptance or denial? Are we looking forward to more or dreading less? Anyone can solve the equation because the variables are not unknown, they're elective-- you can choose.

I hurt most mornings-- might be several years of volleyball. Or that football collision with Ron Moss where he flattened my ass on the playground at Emerson in 1970. Or, then, maybe it's the Crestor. Whatever the cause, in the grand scheme of things, the disability is minor. I have a great career although not without headaches and challenges over which I lose more than a couple hours of sleep each month. I have a boy with a very long way to go and a daughter who's almost there. In spite of all adversity and concern, opportunities remain abundant. and age is just a number-- so far.

So today, I'll say "thank you"for any birthday greetings that come my way. Even those from Google, mortgage brokers, and the place that makes my glasses. Because I know how to do the math. I know I'm fortunate to be getting older. Now if I could just stop getting bigger.

Deli Deficient, But Pity Me Not

Laugh if you must (SJG) but I feel no shame! A little disappointment perhaps...

I have to be forgiven: I live at least an hour away from anything that comes even close to deserving the title, "Deli." I'm not an expert but I've had good deli. Juniors, both Brooklyn and West LA, Sherman's, Nate 'N Al, even Rose's in Portland used to be okay. Good grief, Miracle Mile in white-bread protestant Phoenix wasn't too bad. In a deli emergency, that is.

While there are hundreds of great restaurants with all types of delicious food, sometimes there can be no substitute for deli. And while there are many good delis and, perhaps arguably, a handful of great, there are none of any ilk close at hand from where I sit perched this weekend.

There lies my predicament: when I get the urge, there is no local option. Add to that I rarely eat meat and it get's pretty hard to scratch that itch for corned beef or pastrami on rye. So, forgive me, but I am sometimes forced to make do. If I could walk into Sherman's in Palm Springs at lunch today I'd sidestep my dietary boundaries and have that Studio Special-- pastrami with cole slaw and swiss on rye. But I'm not. If I had even a legitimate deli counter here with good salty robust thin sliced pastrami I might bring home a quarter pound. But I don't. I'm here, smack dab in the middle of Michigan where 4 inches of fresh powder arrived last night-- and I'm not talking drugs-- deli deficient.

So forgive me but I was forced to improvise, to do what others would reject out of hand, turn from in disgust. But, like the man lost at sea and forced to drink his own urine to survive, by god it worked. You may laugh, you may talk in hushed tones and shake your head in pity or disbelief, but I don't care. When the craving hit I did what I had to and I scratched that itch: 2 slices of delicious fragrant Jewish rye, Russian dressing (home made), sauerkraut, swiss cheese, and a veggie dog fried and sliced thin. Piled high and pan grilled-- voila! Deli served up in my mid-Michigan kitchen on a cold winter day.

Yes, it does get better than that. Much better. But not under the circumstances.

March in Michigan: In like a…….

Like that annoying relative, winter just won't go away

My mom was always big on the "little holidays." They weren't really holidays. They were more the unsung milestones of the calendar year:  Shrove (Fat) Tuesday, April Fool's Day, May Pole Day, Summer solstice (longest day) and winter solstice (longest night). Like today, March 1st. She seemed to look forward to March 1st, that first baby step toward spring, and would always announce, "March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb." (She added a disclaimer, however, adding that, in fact, if March 1st arrived like a lamb the month would go out like a lion.) And this I could understand as a small child in Portland, Oregon: There it meant raining or not raining, the math was easy.

Here in Michigan it's a little more difficult. Today it's cloudy but there is no raging storm. It's 23 degrees with a forecast high of 27 and occasional snow showers. Just a regular old winter day. So, mom, lion or lamb? I mean, at this point it has been a hard Michigan winter with well over 65 inches of snowfall, a day like today isn't so bad: No icy roads or sidewalks, no blowing snow, no howling sub-zero wind, you can drive places without concern.

For most people in this neck of the woods it's neither lion or lamb. In fact, we need a whole new vocabulary. It would have to be Polar Bear, Snow Leopard, or Arctic Fox. Actually, and more to the point, it's that annoying relative you had to, but didn't want to, invite in the first place and who now just won't go home!

Oscar Wilde wrote, "Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative." Maybe so. But here in Michigan, on March 1st of 2014, it's the conversation of those who are desperate for relief from a long cold winter. We're definitely looking for this guest to leave. Bring out the lambs.

Chocolate Chip Mollusks

It's a what????

Maybe it's the winter doldrums, maybe stress, maybe it's some subliminal signal I've received: whatever the source, I've been craving Toll House chocolate chip cookies. Sweet, salty, chocolatey goodness. I've fought the urge, reached for a carrot, had a glass of water, a bowl of cereal, yet day after day the urge has persisted over the course of the past week. And tonight I succumbed.

At eight o'clock I fired up the big beast and ventured out in the 10 degree darkness to fetch a bag of chocolate chips. I should have left with the Toll House Morsels but instead, thinking better of using a full cup of real dairy butter, I decided to be clever and get an 8 ounce tub of Land 'O Lakes Butter with Canola Oil spread. "50% less fat and calories!" Wow! Genius!! And I won't have to wait for butter to soften on a cold winter night.

Setting to task I should have stopped when I added the eggs and saw the butter-like substance virtually dissolve. But I didn't. I thought the cure lay just ahead and pinned my hopes to 2 and a half cups of flour. Alas, even dumping an extra scoop of flour and then the entire 12 ounce bag of chips did nothing to remedy to goop I had created. (Side bar: Using the whole bag of chocolate chips was strictly verboten in my childhood home. It was a case of pure economics masquerading as concern for health and good taste. "That's too many chocolate chips. It's too sweet. It doesn't taste good," she would say. "All that sugar isn't good for you." And she was probably right. More to the point, however, she could mine a double batch with just that one 12 ounce bag of chips-- a triple batch if need required. Clever lady, my mom.)

Those of you who know your way around counter-top kitchen appliances have just gone, "Ohhhhh" in the most knowing and disappointed fashion. You're ready to hit delete. But wait! I read the package! Nowhere-- not top, bottom, or sides-- did it say, "This product is not suitable for baking." Nowhere. In fact, what that package should say is, "If buying this product for baking chocolate chip cookies, please return product to the dairy shelf, select butter, or rethink what it is you're trying to accomplish." But it doesn't say that anywhere either. And it really, really should.  Because the fact of the matter is this: If you want a chocolate chip cookie, the thing you are craving is intensely sweet, rich, sweating dairy fat, dense, chewy, and loaded with calories.

And so I'm left with 2 dozen spongy chocolate chip cookies that look like some type of deep ocean mollusk, minus its shell. The good news? They won't get eaten because they just aren't right. ("100% fewer calories!!!") The better news? Tomorrow's garbage day. These little creatures are going back in the wild.

Next time? Two sticks of Grade AA Butter. Plain and simple.

January One

I think of all the resolutions, plans, designs, and good intentions that come and go year, after year, after year-- mostly short-lived and useless-- the one thing I woke to this morning that is real and will not be abandoned was a sense of gratitude: My family has arrived at a New Year safe and sound. In a year that, like so many others in this day and age, has come to an end riddled and pockmarked with violence and misfortune, we awoke to our own good health, healthy children, a warm and comfortable home, and never knowing real misfortune, hardship, hunger, or thirst. If it's not asking too much, I'll hope for-- and wish you!-- the same in 2014.