Mother's Day

I see lots of mother's, every day, every week. I see them up close, with their children in my office. I see them from a distance at grocery stores, drugs stores, and walking around town. I can't help noticing a mother and her child or children. I'm sorry to say I see far too many mothers who just don't seem to get it, moms for whom the job just doesn't fit.

On the other hand, there is nothing quite as pleasing as seeing a mom who does get it, a mom who shows her involvement and concern, her caring, in everything she does. I saw one the other day whose little girl was with her-- her little girl of 22. All grown up but injured emotionally and physically and this mom just seemed to get it so very well-- how to be present, instructive, and supportive to her grown daughter and yet still, at the same time, respect her daughter's adulthood. That can't be easy when you see your child, all grown up, yet injured and in just the same measure of hurt as you saw when she fell hard at 6 and skinned both knees.

Some moms give birth to it, others adopt the responsibility, some marry into it. They're all moms. They're all moms because a mom is foremost a teacher. I'm a believer that a person's capacity to love and be loved, a person's capacity to grow physically and emotionally, a person's capacity to learn and become whole, functional, and productive; all that capacity is nurtured and encouraged by a mom. It grows from a mom with a keen eye for safety, a keen eye for risk, a keen eye for opportunity, and a keen sense of timing; a mom who understands her life has been given, at least in part, to her child-- a part she can never have back. And she gives that part happily.

Every child comes into the world needy. Every child comes into the world physically, emotionally, and intellectually hungry, and every mother is the source. Raising a child should not be a solo act. As a father I know that my place is far from that of just a minor supporting role. Nonetheless, I know too that, when things are right, the mother has a place that can never be underestimated, under appreciated, or overstated.

Happy Mother's Day, with gratitude, to all those of you who get it, for whom the job will always fit, even when your child is grown and gone from the nest.

Big Day

Life serves up some pretty big days. I'm not talking about surprises. I'm talking about the ones you see coming. I'm talking about the ones for which you prepare, you work, you wait, you hang your hat on. There are days that seem like cups that hold the contents of your future, an entire lifetime served up in one twenty-four hour period. And sometimes, that's true.

The fact is, every day holds the contents of one's future. It's just that we're too distracted or too comfortable or too dumb or too scared to know it.

Here's to my daughter Kelsey on a really big day: Good luck! Saddle up your pony and git goin'! I hope your day goes well.

Missed Attempt

A few weeks back I got tired of getting over booked, having to change travel dates and call dates and meeting dates because I've double booked a date. So I bought one of those wall calendars that has the entire year on it and includes all the holidays, major and minor, and I hung it right here on the wall behind my desk. Already it's filling up nicely with meetings and events even late into the year.  Frankly, I'm feeling kind of smart about the fact. Or was.

Mother's Day. For any who might be the least bit unclear about this, Mother's Day is this Sunday, May 12th. I'm sure about this. It's even designated on my new calendar, right there on the wall behind me. I had the opportunity to confirm this fact when I went to order a Mother's Day gift yesterday morning. I got my order in, hit "chose express delivery," hit send, and then saw that my order would not arrive until around the 16th or 17th! $10.99 express delivery and I wouldn't be getting it for over 2 weeks? Come on, already!

And then it dawned on me: I was a week off. Yesterday was the 8th. Sunday is the 12th. This Sunday is, without question, Mother's Day.

If ever there was a time to invoke the "It's the thought that counts" clause, this would be it. Meanwhile, it's time to start looking for a box of candy-- and maybe a more prominent location for my calendar. The 17th, though, should be really fun!

Mommobile

There was a time when it seemed like about 3 out of 5 kids in the U.S. climbed into one of these every Monday through Friday and got transported to school. It was an era just before soccer became what American parents did on Saturday mornings, a time when moms mostly stayed home to manage the household, when cars had cigarette lighters and ashtrays that needed to be emptied as likely as not. "Terror" referenced two year-olds, unsupervised boys at a grade school dance, and Friday night movies on the independent channels. Bigger, better, faster, more. These cars transported the American family on the road to certain affluence.

I have to admit, I am among the vulnerable who sees these old cars and feels the urge to indulge in an expedition into fossil fueled nostalgia. Old cars do have a certain cool factor for some of us-- even the 10 passenger variety.  And I say this fully realizing that a contemporary minivan offers more space, greater safety and far superior fuel economy, just like a contemporary Chevy or Ford is probably a far superior vehicle to a vintage Cadillac or Mercedes in every facet from economy to comfort, and certainly to safety.

But that's not the point, the appeal, of these old cars. Much of the appeal of these old cars is simply what they were, not what they are. They allow one to slip behind the wheel and recall that, when you first rode in one the world was a different place: Safer, happier, more predictable; and the future was as bright as the chrome on the bumpers. It doesn't matter to the buyer of these relics that the car lacks anti-lock brakes or airbags or tensioning seat belts. You're buying a time machine, not transportation.

For me, this particular vehicle, the Ford Country Squire Wagon was a fixture where I grew up in LA. And later, at 18 or so, it was the land yacht that took me, my girlfriend, and her sister on one of those magical road trips of one's youth. Even so, no matter how much explaining I can do, no one I presently know can see this as anything but a weird looking big 'ol car. Frankly, I'm okay with that. It's just the kind of thing I don't need and of which I would tire within a week or two. I think.

If you, however, find this automotive beauty is something you simply cannot live without, go here to see more photos and check it out. And if the hook sets deep, make sure to give me a call when you're out to pick it up. I'd love to take it for a drive.

Theater For Sale

Around here it’s not unusual to see an old farm house abandoned, dilapidated, waiting for one more good wind storm before it collapses in a pile of rubble. Driving by such properties I always think of all the life, all the events—the love, the conflict, the sibling play, the milestones—to which those old farm houses played host. An abandoned theater of the American family, now inhabited by ghosts.

I felt the same way when one of my nieces posted the listing for the sale of the beautiful house above. Far removed from where I live now and not anywhere near abandoned, not anywhere close to dilapidated, and yet, it too is a house filled with ghosts, both friendly and disturbing. I knew this house for something like twenty years although I never lived there. Family lived there and it was a home I visited often and even where, for a few years, I lived just around the corner.

I can’t look at this house without thinking of a million good times: of card parties and pool parties, of prime rib dinners and backyard picnics, of snowball fights and a tandem bike, of ice cold Cokes and cozy fires in the kitchen. But I also know there was another side to life in this house. It was life punctuated by the unpredictable cadence of alcoholism-- life distorted by expectations that could never be fully defined, wants and needs that could never be fully met, and, in spite of great love and great caring, a sense of loneliness, I think.

Like every house that’s ever been made and ever been occupied it has been a great theater of life. And, in spite of the often significant complexities of human life, it’s nice to see one survive so well as this fine specimen, a theater where the stage remains ready and richly equipped to host the next troupe. Better still, in spite of the fact a few of the acts may have had their problems, all in all it’s played host to quite a run of hits: Several dramas, a tragedy or two, but mostly, to a very long run of feel-good family performances. A proven performer. Now for sale, it comes highly recommended.

I should be so lucky to have my house so well remembered, three generations removed.

My Guy

Happy Birthday Cowboy!

It was about 9 years ago I had the bright idea to get married. Again. Turns out it really was a bright idea. And along with that bright idea came the idea to have a child. Again. None of this means a whole lot except that, 6 years ago today, at the age of 50, I became a dad again.

What's truly surprising in all of that is the joy that has come with being a dad again. Fatherhood in one's fifties is not without consequences: We played tennis and baseball and rode bikes a few weeks back and my knee has still not fully recovered.  Needless to say I'm a bit more interested in his intellectual development than his athletic prowess, although it turns out he is pretty darn good in both endeavors.

People say having a young child at home keeps you young at heart. So far, I can't attest to that. A lot of time it just makes me feel old and inflexible. I can say this, though: Having a young child at home allows me to realize just how precious life is; just how critically important and difficult it is to raise a child well; just how much joy there can be in the world. And to that last point, having a young child child at home does make me realize both how crazy and dangerous the world around us can be and, at the same time, just how hard we should strive to make the world a place of lasting peace and joy. God only knows there were many years when the thought of having a child at home at my age seemed impossible in my lifetime. Perhaps the impossible thought of humans living in peace and dedicating themselves to caring for one another will be disproved as well-- in Evan's lifetime if not in mine.

I don't know what the future holds for my guy. I can only poor in my heart and hope for the best. I will always be his dad. And I will always be happy and so very grateful that he showed up when he did. Happy Birthday, Ev.

Spring, Sprang, Sprung

We had a rather fitful night's sleep last night. We switched sides of the bed. Not some bold experiment. Not a capricious decision. It's springtime.

Over the course of the week I see that several people on Facebook have posted photos that reflect the beauty of spring around them. Most of these images have come from out west, in the Pacific coast states. Let me just say this: You don't know spring if you haven't spent a winter in the Great Lakes region.

Here in my neck of the woods we have had nothing but brown grass and bouquets of twigs for the past 5, almost 6 months. You could look across five acres of woods and stilll see daylight on the other side owing to barren branches holding position for the next go at foliage.  All that changed this week.

In Michigan we wait what seems like an endless string of days and weeks and months to welcome the return of new growth and warm weather. It happened this week. Suddenly branches have been dusted with sprouts of greeen. Certain members of the community flora have suddenly, in the course of 4 days, gone from barren to bursting with blossoms. And, most welcome, the temperature is in the upper 70's. Voila! The effect is so overwhelming dramatic, the need is so overwhelming desperate, the response is so overwhelmingly enthusiastic, Michigan really needs to have a floating holiday, a two day suspension of school and all elective work in order to allow our residents the luxury of welcoming spring: Stay home, dig out your flip-flops, open your windows, mow your lawn, ride your bike, and smile.

All of which brings us to last night. I am a window closed kind of guy but, last night, Tam really had to have them open. And, I must say, it was a beautiful night. The breeze, however, was very slight and so, in order that Tam could feel that soft spring air on her face, we switched sides. Lucky girl. She fell asleep with that soft spring air caressing her.

Spring is great! What can I say except, most probably, we're not switching sides of the bed again. Neither one of us adjusted well to the switch. And a sound night's sleep trumps even the sweetest of spring breezes.