That’s My Boy

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING STORY CONTAINS NUDITY AND PERHAPS A LITTLE TOO MUCH INFORMATION.

I, just as many guys I know, am a project, a work in progress. The sculptor and artist? My beautiful and beloved wife, Patti. For more than 20 years now, we have been married. And in those 20 years, I have learned many things – how to load a dishwasher properly, how to clean a house in the proper sequence of activities and rooms, and how to make a pot of coffee on a weekend morning whether I want coffee or not – just to name a few.

One of the first lessons I can recall from the beginning of my married life is “NEVER leave your towel on the bed after a shower.” I mean NEVER. It was the first weekday morning in our apartment after our wedding, and I was headed to work. I showered, got dressed and headed to the office. When I came home, Patti asked me why I had left my wet towel on the bed. I said something stupid. I say stupid, but what I really mean is I told her the truth. And that was stupid.

“Habit, I guess.”

I don’t know how to explain what I saw next. I was looking at Patti. I was thinking this was just a normal conversation between a couple of newlyweds getting used to each other’s living habits and customs, but in the moment after I uttered those words, I knew something was wrong. Patti’s entire being tensed. It was as if she was hearing a family of werewolves drag their sharpened claws along the entire length of a college lecture hall chalkboard, while they howled in some cacophonous squeal at the rising moon. It was obvious. She didn’t like my answer.

I had no idea what was coming next, but I didn’t think it was going to be nearly as polite as it was.

“Can you not do that, please? A wet towel on the bed is just gross.”

That’s what she said. But that is not at all what I heard. I got the message loud and clear. No more towels on the bed. Or else. I’m a fast learner.

Now, this is the part of the story where I may go a bit overboard with the details, so feel free to stop reading.

At this point in the relationship, I was faced with a new dilemma. I knew that old habits die hard. So, if I were to wear the towel out of the bathroom, chances were it was going to end up on the bed. A new habit in the works. I would dry off, hang the towel over the shower door or towel rack and walk out of the bathroom to my dresser to get dressed.

The problem, I was now walking about, um, without a towel. (I warned you. Listen, you can stop reading any time you’d like.)

On some mornings, while I was showering, Patti would get up, make the bed and open the blinds. I would finish my shower and walk into the bedroom – sans towel – with the blinds open.

“Jim!” Patti would exclaim, “The blinds are open!”

As if I haven’t already revealed enough about myself, I should tell you one more thing. I’m a smartass. Patti knew that when she married me, and truth be told, I think it’s one of the reasons she likes me as much as she does. So, when she told me the blinds were open with such concern, I simply looked at her – sans towel, in a room with open blinds, in an apartment complex where all windows seemed to face directly toward ours, and said, “Hey, if these people don’t have anything better to look at, then have at it. If I were them and looked in to see this, I’d shut MY blinds.”

I smiled. She smiled, shook her head and walked out.

Looking back, I think I was supposed to learn a lesson that day. Don’t walk around naked in rooms with open blinds. But the “no towels on the bed”  lesson was just settling in, and I don’t think my mind was prepared to accept any further training. I am proud to say that in the 20 years since, I don’t think I’ve left a towel on the bed more than 2 or 3 times. Pretty good stats.

Unfortunately for Patti – and perhaps all of our neighbors in the various cities, apartment complexes and neighborhoods in which we’ve lived – I have never changed my other habit. So, for 20 years, I have repeatedly said with a smile – and little else, “Hey, if these people don’t have anything better to look at…”

It’s become a mantra for me.

Like I said, I’m a work in progress. I don’t pretend to be perfect. But Patti hasn’t given up. And I’m not the only project anymore.

Every night, when Jackson heads up to take his shower, Patti will say, “Close your blinds before you take your shower.” Different approach, but the same goal. And with Jackson, the lesson has stuck. Sometimes he’ll come into our room when I’m getting out of the shower and he’ll say, “Dad! The blinds are open.”

“Hey, Jackson,” I’ll say. “If there are people out there who really have nothing better to look at than me, then…”

He’s learned well. Much better than me. And he’s consistent. For years, he’s given me the same repeated reminder of the open blinds. And for years, I’ve uttered the same words: “If they really have nothing better to look at…”

Last Spring, we visited Seattle and stayed in a hotel down by the Market. Our room had a window that looked out over a side street where crowds of tourists would make their way down to see the original Starbucks or the guys throwing fish or the fresh cut flowers in their overwhelming abundance. In my opinion, they weren’t passing by to look in hotel room windows to see if some guy had just stepped out of the shower.

On one of those fine days, I stepped into the room on my way to the dresser. Patti reminded me once more that the blinds were open. I was ready. I knew exactly what I was going to say. I’ve said it for the last 20 years. Today was not going to be the day that I learned my lesson.

“Jim,” Patti said. “Those people out there can see into the room.”

“I know. I know,” I said. “But you know what? It’s like I always say.”

“What?” Jackson said.

“Oh, c’mon. What do I ALWAYS say when you or your mom remind me that the blinds are open whenever I’m getting dressed?”

“Ohhh,” Jackson said with a long thoughtful drawl. And without missing a beat, he added, “Always leave ‘em laughing?”

Always leave ‘em laughing. Genius. Brilliant. Smart Ass.

Patti and I laughed. And laughed. Jackson beamed. He couldn’t have been prouder of himself. He had us laughing!

Looking over at him in that moment as he drank in the satisfaction of thinking of the perfect quip at just the right time, I couldn’t help but realize how much of myself has been poured into him. There I was in him. The love of the laugh. The thirst for the quick wit. The satisfaction in the genuine smiles on the faces of others. Inside of him is a part of me. Hopefully all of the best parts of me, however few and far between they may be. I hope he gets them all in large doses.

As a father, I don’t think anything is more powerful than the moment at which you realize you have had an indelible impact on the life of your child. Maybe it doesn’t seem like much. Maybe it isn’t much. But I know that I have given Jackson a kernel of happiness and a desire to share that with others. And just knowing that is good enough for me.

The rest of what will make him truly great, he will, most certainly, learn from Patti.

One Step Forward

Listen up, because I am only going to say this once. I…well, I can hardly bring myself to say it.

I am a runner.

Typing that line was harder than running my first marathon. Despite having toed the line at 13 marathons, some untold number of half marathons, 10Ks and 5Ks, and I can’t even imagine how many training runs, I have never truly considered myself a runner. I have never experienced the “runner’s high.” Unless the runner’s high is that extremely delightful feeling you get when you somehow convince yourself that today’s run is not truly necessary.

Some of the other people I know who run say they run to be finished. I guess that’s true for me, too, but really I’d be fine if I had never started putting one foot in front of the other at such an accelerated pace.

So, at this point, you’re probably wondering why I don’t just hang up the running shoes. Why do I persist in this pursuit of futility? Chasing a finish line that is really nothing more than a starting line for the next one? I can answer that.

I am not a runner as much as I am a Dad.

I picked up running right around the time I added that nickname to my collection – Dad. I realized that I was getting older, less active, more roundish and generally out of shape. At the same time, I realized I had just signed up for life’s ultimate promise. Dads are supposed to be there when you need them. Dads are supposed to be that rock. Forever sturdy. Reliable. Immortal. Not necessarily wise. Not necessarily warm and welcoming. Not necessarily flexible. Although I hope and strive for all of the above. I seek above all else, predictability. To be that rock for Jackson.

Maybe my view of fatherhood is slanted in a certain direction because I lost my own father when I was 15. Maybe I just want to give Jackson the one thing my father could never give me.

So, I run for Jackson. And mostly, I run alone. I start races with friends or family, but I usually finish alone. In most cases, well behind my running buddy. Once in a while, a bit ahead. But consistently alone. It’s a solitary sport.

The other week, though, Jackson’s Taekwondo school decided they were going to invite all the families to run a local 5K. And Jackson was going to run his first race. I almost couldn’t contain my excitement. My days of running for Jackson – by myself – were about to end. A new era was beginning. From this point on, I would be running WITH Jackson.

I coached him up all week. “Don’t start out too fast. It’s been a while since you’ve run at all. Don’t worry about your time.”

I envisioned every step of the race. We were going to start out together. I would pace him the entire time. I wouldn’t let him sprint until we could see the finish line. We’d cross the line together, smiling, laughing and winded. And we’d make our way back to the car planning our next victory lap. In my mind’s eye, it was beautiful.

I really have to hand it to Jackson. He accepted all of my advice without rolling his eyes even once. He listened attentively to my learned pearls of wisdom. He let the dream live and thrive in my heart and mind for the entire week.

The evening of the race, we parked the car and strolled up to the packet pickup. A couple of last minute coaching tips as I pinned his number onto his shirt.

“Dad?” he said. “I’m going to run with my friends.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “They can run with us. It’ll be fun.”

“Um, Dad, I just want to run with my friends. No offense.” He only says “no offense” when he knows he’s offended you.

“I get it. I was a kid once,” I said. “You want to run with your friends, and I want you to. I want you to have fun.”

And there it was. I’m pretty sure I managed a smile after I said it, too.

“Listen, I’m going to run back to the car and throw these goody bags in there. Stay right here with your friends.”

It was a long jog back to the car. My legs felt heavy, and I hadn’t even crossed the starting line.

When I got back to the packet pick-up area, Jackson was holding court with his friends, joking, laughing and picking running buddies. I slipped in to let him know I was back.

“Dad, go talk to the adults. No offense.”

“Ok, ok. I’m going.”

I chatted with the other parents until it was time to line up for the race. When I joined the other runners, I was shooed to the back of the pack by a son who wanted to run on his own. Or at least run without me. He and his friends made their way to the front.

Slowly, the pack started to push forward, and we were on our way. Not quite like I imagined, but here I was, running my first 5K with Jackson – alone.

I weaved my way through the walkers and the few runners that I was actually faster than, and I kept looking ahead for Jackson. Around the half mile mark, I passed one of his taekwondo buddies, but Jackson was nowhere to be found. I pressed on.

At mile one, I decided that Jackson was not only going to run without me, he was going to beat me. Now, one thing you should know about me.  I’m not the competitive type. So, the idea of my 11-year-old son beating me didn’t bother me.

Another thing you should know about me. I’m not fast. So, even a short 5K affords me a lot of time to think. I thought about how far ahead Jackson probably was. I thought about how naive I had been to think he was actually going to choose to run with me over his friends. I thought about how quickly Jackson was growing up. I thought about how quickly time goes.

Except when you’re running.

It wasn’t long after the first mile that I came up on Jackson and a few of his friends.

“Hi, buddy,” I said as I passed.

Less than a quarter of a mile later, I heard a familiar voice. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hi,” I huffed.

“I said Bye, Dad.” He laughed as he and his friends sauntered past me effortlessly. Or at least I thought it was effortlessly. I had a lot of time to think. I thought about how I had left my iPod at home, because I thought I’d be talking to Jackson the entire time. I thought about how much slower time passes when you don’t have an iPod. I thought about how much younger Jackson’s legs were. I thought about how much older mine have gotten since I started running and exactly why I had started running in the first place.

We were just about to mile 2 when I caught up with Jackson and his friends again. They were walking. I wasn’t. I had another mile to go. Still plenty of time.

I thought about how long it would be before they passed me again. I thought about whether or not I should cross the finish line first if they didn’t. I thought about how slow time passes when you don’t have an iPod – again.

By the time I was halfway to the 3-mile mark, I realized Jackson and his friends had fallen off their pace. I was going to win. I still had some time left to think about exactly what winning meant. It meant quite a lot. Not in the sense of competition. But in the sense of my relationship with my son.

That little baby who forced me off the couch and onto the streets in the name of good health and a longer life was now running a race of his own. I had had my chance to share a few steps with him along the way, but I wasn’t going to be able to carry him all the way to the finish line. Not only could he do it on his own, he had to do it on his own. He had to learn how to do it without me. And I had to know he could.

I crossed the finish line and immediately turned around to wait for Jackson. I stood there and waited. I never saw him cross. Instead, I heard a voice from the sidewalk and a familiar laugh. I turned and saw Jackson with a Gatorade in his hand and a bunch of his buddies from taekwondo.

Somehow, even though I had my eyes glued to the finish line, he had managed to slip by. And guess what? He never saw me, either. I guess no matter how hard we try, no matter how hard we wish, things in life can just get by us – even some of the most important things. I just hope it all doesn’t slip by too quickly.

I want it to go really slow. Like a marathon. Without an iPod.

Jim Denny                 28:38

Jackson Denny        29:27

A Cup of Inspiration

It is Saturday morning, and I am the Father of an eleven-year-old. I am also – however indelicate it may sound – the son of a dead man. I don’t say that to depress anyone – or myself, for that matter. He’s been dead for quite a while now. Since I was 15. And that was, well, quite a while ago. A neverending parade of cigarettes. A career in construction around materials that would likely be considered unsafe today. Bad genes. Whatever it was that spawned that one malformed cell that grew into millions and ravaged his lungs, I think about the man every day.

I’m not going to wax poetic over it. He was a guy. At times a good one. At others, not the best. But he was and will forever be my dad. I still miss him.

This morning, I made the coffee. It’s not that rare. I’ll brew up the morning pot of get-up-and-go once or twice a week, and on those mornings, I know my wife rests soundly until the sound of the coffee grinder groans through the house. At which moment, I can clearly see in my mind’s eye, the small but fullest of grins spreading across her face. She knows a hot cup
of coffee is on its way, and the warmth of the covers is hers for just a few minutes extra.

I don’t think my dad ever made the coffee. Let alone brought my mom a cup while she rested for just a few sweet minutes in the comfort of the flannel sheets on a cold winter’s morning. Nope. I don’t think my dad knew the first thing about making coffee. The man built bridges. He could envision and construct structures that will long outlive a pot of coffee, but he only knew what he knew.

I am not my father. I have trouble helping my son construct a lego set of any magnitude. But I can make the coffee. Well, I can now. I say that, because I wasn’t born with this gift. I’ve honed it over years of practice.

When I was about 11 years old, I walked out of the kitchen and into the den where my dad sat alone. “Why don’t you make your old man a cup of coffee?” he asked.

“Um, I’m not sure I…uh,” I mumbled.

“Sure you can. There’s hot water. There’s coffee. Make me a cup,” he said with a smile.

He was right. We had one of those boiling water taps on our sink. And I knew the coffee was in the cabinet next to the stove. But I had seen my mom make coffee by the cup and in one of those percolators that broke down into 18 different pieces whenever she cleaned it. I had about as much as of a chance of putting that thing together as I would have building a bridge. I went back into the kitchen and stood there frozen in my own ignorance. I knew one thing. When my mom made coffee by the cup, she put a teaspoon or two of coffee into a cup, filled the cup with boiling water from the tap and stirred.

I could do that.

And I did exactly that. Coffee, check. Hot water, check. Stir, check. I stirred, and I stirred. The water turned a shade darker. But the coffee grounds only continued to swirl. Two heaping teaspoons of coffee grounds swimming madly through the boiling bathwater of the coffee cup. My mom’s coffee never looked like this.

“How’s the coffee coming?” boomed my father’s voice from the other room.

Sheepishly, I walked to the doorway carrying my ill-fated science experiment. “Um, I don’t think it came out right,” I said to my feet.

“Nah, bring it here,” he said confidently, and with every step across that room I hoped the floating grounds would magically dissolve into their properly filtered state. But the brownish water concoction with softened grounds sinking slowly to the bottom looked even worse by the time I extended it to him.

“Looks great,” he said enthusiastically, taking the cup from me and lifting it straight to his lips for a satisfying taste. “Thanks!”

I was dumbfounded. Why would he do that? I made it wrong. I knew it. He had to know it. Why?

The next day I asked my mom how she made the coffee magically melt into the boiling water from the tap. “Oh, you have to use
instant coffee for that. We’re out of instant.”

I know.

I made the coffee this morning. I’ve had two cups. My wife would never let me touch the coffee beans again if I’d brought her a cup of coffee soup.  Never. If I had accidently served up a cup of steaming grounds, I would have thrown the pot out and started over.

For years, I’ve struggled to understand why my father insisted on drinking that cup of coffee. But today I know. I am the father of an 11-year-old.

Every interaction is precious. Every effort, a wonder. Every challenge, an opportunity to grow closer. My dad knew he had asked me for something I had no way of pulling off perfectly. But he stood by me that day. Because it wasn’t about me getting it right the first time. It was about me wanting to get it right the next time. And to keep building until I was my best. Always building.

I’m not my dad. And some – even some of my own family – would argue that that is a very good thing. But I hope that when Jackson, my 11-year-old son, brings me a cup of bitter grounds to swallow some day, I can inspire him in much the same way.

Whatever It Takes

I’m a dad. And dads go to baseball games. Mostly those of the Little League variety. As a boy, I played Little League baseball. Very successfully, I might add. But I remember being nervous. Nervous that I’d hit the batter when I was pitching. Nervous that I would get hit when I was batting. And because I lived through it, I can see it in my own son, and I can see it in his teammates. They’re having fun. But they’re nervous. They want to be perfect. Every pitch has to be a strike. Every swing of the bat, a home run.

I know what they are feeling. I remember it all so well. The sweat on the palms. The butterflies in the stomach. The flash of light-headedness that would strike with the crack of the bat and the immediate paralyzing fear that your feet were never going to carry you fast enough to the place you were supposed to be when bats are cracking. And worst of all, the feeling of all of your teammates’ eyes focused squarely on you when all of those otherwise unfounded fears came to fruition.

On one of the many brutally hot days of baseball season when the games were running well behind schedule as they always seem to run, I watched not just Jackson’s game but the game before his. I watched as batter after batter approached the plate. After 12 innings of Little League baseball, one of the greatest self-evident truths of the baseball universe revealed itself to me: Not all batters are created equal.

On any given Little League team, there will likely be no more than 3 all-star kids who can hit the ball with any regularity. Three, tops. For the rest of the team, it’s a coin flip at best. In fact, let’s be honest. For some, it’s more likely that they’ll hit the lottery than that little white ball. And trust me, I don’t say that to disparage the coaching or the players. It’s simply a matter of fact. Their muscles, their hand-eye coordination, their timing, they are all still in the earliest stages of development. Most of the kids aren’t even sure they like the game. But everyone bats in Little League, leaving the pitcher to face every single one.

Just as every one of those batters will step up to the plate swinging for the fences, the pitcher will approach each of them as if they all pose an equal threat. And in Little League, there aren’t a lot of pitchers perfecting their slider or knuckle ball. All the Little League hurler has to work with is speed. He’ll stand on the mound convinced that he needs to throw every pitch as hard and fast as he can. He’ll sacrifice accuracy and end up walking batters who would have never connected with the ball at any speed.

As a dad whose Little League playing days are long gone, watching this battle time after time, I can see it as clearly as the freshly drawn lines of the batter’s box. On this field, at this age, the pitcher isn’t battling the batter at all. He’s only fighting with himself. A fight that he is far less likely to win.

When the games wrapped up and Jackson and I once again settled into the comfort of an air-conditioned car, I decided there was a lesson to share. Maybe even an opportunity to make him a smarter,  better baseball player.

“Hey, great game,” I said. “You know, your pitcher seemed pretty frustrated today.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “He gets angry, and then he can’t throw it as good. But he’s a good pitcher.”

“Absolutely, he’s probably the best pitcher on your team. He puts a lot of pressure on himself to win the game for you guys.”

“You know, Dad, he was trying to throw a curve ball.”

“No, he wasn’t, was he?”

“Yeah, he was. He told me. But Dad, he doesn’t need to throw a curve ball. This isn’t MLB. He could hurt his arm.”

“No, you’re right,” I said. “He just might be trying a little too hard.”

Ok, so maybe the gems of baseball wisdom I had extracted while melting in the heat of a thousand suns weren’t as elusive to such a young mind as I had originally thought. Jackson saw it quite plainly. I guess this ride home wouldn’t include the typical ‘Father Knows Best’ lecture. So, I had a lot of time to think to myself. And I realized that maybe I was just as guilty of taking a blind approach to life as those Little League pitchers seemed to be.

How many times have I stepped into a meeting determined to throw a fastball right past the co-worker across the table when all I needed to do was get it across the plate?

How many times have I found myself frozen on the mound, so to speak, searching for that elusive curveball that would befuddle the batter and blow away the crowd, only to end up frustrating myself in a pointless pursuit of a power I do not possess, instead of simply settling in and enjoying the game?

Aren’t we all guilty of getting a little inside of ourselves sometimes?

Don’t misunderstand me. I am not saying that those Little League pitchers shouldn’t do everything they can to be the absolute best they can be. Not at all. Whether it’s a Little League pitcher or you – or me, for that matter, we should all be willing to push beyond our comfort zone from time to time.

The key is knowing when the time is right.

As we pulled into the driveway and rolled to a stop in the garage, I sat behind the wheel. I sat there, thinking. Jackson rounded up his baseball glove and bat and water bottle and DS and a thousand wrappers from all the granola bars and Gogurts he’d eaten in the last week.

“You coming, Dad?”

“Yep,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”

But I sat there a little while longer, thinking about everything I had witnessed that day. Reminding myself what those 10-year-olds had taught me.

Every pitch does not have to be a strike. And every swing does not have to be a home run.

I reminded myself that whether it’s at work or with friends – or maybe even with my own family, I need to take some time. I need to slow down and look around me. Know the situation I am facing. Be present enough in the moment that I know exactly what the moment demands.

And then, I can do whatever it takes. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Sounds easy enough. But to tell you the truth, I think playing baseball might just be a whole lot easier.

Good Morning

You have to laugh at life. But sometimes, life laughs at you.

Several weeks ago, I was driving Jackson to school, trying to convince him to eat the bagel with cream cheese before we reached our final destination, where he’d get a more substantial breakfast. This had become such a routine, it struck me.

“Are you tired of bagels and cream cheese, buddy?” I asked.

Not wanting to offend me (or his mother who graciously makes the bagels and leaves them for us every morning), he said, “Sorta.”

“Tell you what,” I said. “It’s going to mean you have to get up earlier, but I’ll make you breakfast at home in the mornings, how does that sound?. We can try that next week.”

Well, the first couple of days went off without a hitch. I can cook eggs and frozen waffles just as good as the next guy.

On the third day, it was a sausage, egg and cheese croissant, courtesy of Jimmy Dean.

On my way to the kitchen, I had stopped in to wake Jackson up. That would give him time to rally out of bed. I had even seen it work the first two mornings. But on this morning, the food was on the table, but I had not heard a whisper from upstairs.

“C’mon, Jackson.” I called up the stairs. “Get down here for breakfast before the dogs get it. I have to get ready for work.”

With that I headed to my room to get dressed, assuming all would go as planned.

Life, however, had a different plan.

Buckling my belt, I realized I hadn’t heard anything from Jackson. I headed toward his room and a view of the kitchen, calling “Eating your breakfast, buddy?”

Someone was eating his breakfast alright.

Jake, our 7 month-old puppy.

With his paws on Jackson’s chair at the table and his neck stretched as far as he could stretch, he had managed to scarf down every last crumb.

Jackson was still in bed.

I’m not prone to moments of rage, but I can be bent by the perfect storm. And on this day, at this particular moment, the pieces all came together. And I guess I fell apart.

“JACKSON!” I yelled. “Your dog just ate your breakfast. I TOLD YOU to get down there before the dogs got it. Now, get out of bed. And YOU are going to make your own breakfast.

Then a terrible thought crossed my mind, “What exactly would a Jimmy Dean Sausage, Egg and Cheese Croissant do to the inner workings of a 7-month old puppy?”

It couldn’t be good. I had to get the dog into his crate. Now.

But puppies can sense emotion, especially when you are chasing them into a corner with fists clenched and the veins on your temples and forehead pulsing.

And they’re fast. So a lap around the downstairs, up the stairs and into the master bedroom. I closed the door. He cowered in the corner.

I scooped him up as he squirmed a bit, held him tight and walked him down the hallway and down the stairs to his crate.

By this time, Jackson was up, dressed and making his breakfast. What did he choose to make, you ask?

A bagel with cream cheese.

It was at this moment that the humor of the morning’s events hit me. I struggled to hold back a chuckle. I forced myself to keep the angry dad look on my face, but inside me the rage had melted.  All of this started with a bagel. And it had come right back to a bagel. The perfect circle of it all brought me an unexpected feeling of peace.

“Take your bagel and get in the car,” I said. “I left my watch upstairs.” As Jackson headed to the door, I stayed back, took a deep breath, smiled and walked over to the dog in the crate. I reached through the wire frame, pet him and said, “How was that breakfast?”

I went upstairs to get my watch. I was laughing at life, and now it was time for life to laugh at me.

As I turned the corner at the top of the stairs, I took a step and slipped, steadied myself with the banister and looked down. Evidently, I had squeezed Jake a little too hard on his way to the crate. He had dropped a couple of land mines on his way. 

Hello, Karma.

I cleaned up the mess, picked up my watch off my bedside table, and headed to the car. Much, much wiser.

“How’s that bagel, Jackson? Some morning, huh?”

The Catch

Over the last 15 months, I’ve traveled a lot. Not just short trips, either. I’ve been traveling across the country from my North Carolina home – to places like Los Angeles and San Francisco. And it usually means leaving on Sunday night and coming back on Friday morning.

I’m not really built for that kind of travel. It’s too far away for far too long. And yet, for too many weeks over the last 15 months, I’ve done it.

But a couple of Sundays ago was Easter Sunday, and the idea of hopping on a plane (excuse the pun) didn’t sit too well. So, I put off my departure until Monday morning. It seemed unimportant and somewhat uninspired at the time. I mean, how many Sunday nights have I missed in the last year. Who would miss me? What difference would it make?

Well, on Easter Sunday, we went to early mass. We had my mother over for a wonderful Easter lunch that was more bountiful than a Thanksgiving dinner. We talked, we laughed, and my mom left right around the time I would have normally left for the airport. But on this Sunday, there would be no airport. 

So, on a whim, Jackson and I stepped outside to throw the baseball around. But this was far more than just a catch.

Jackson threw the ball to me. Or rather, he pushed it through the air toward me.

“Bring that arm back,” I said, and exaggerated the motion in my own throw back to him.

He held out his glove like a basket and bobbled it into the web.

“Hold your glove up,” I said, “like this.” I waved my gloved hand like a parade marshall to the crowd.

He threw it back, slinging it sidearm past me, across the street and into the neighbors lawn.

“What was that?” I asked over my shoulder as I jogged to pick it up.

We went on and on like this. I corrected 3 out of every 4 throws and catches. I pushed him and pushed him to improve his form. I chased countless balls into the neighbor’s yard. And after more than an hour, something happened.

His glove rose up to catch the ball. His throw back hit me right in the glove. Not once, but repeatedly. We were having a catch. I wasn’t holding back. I was throwing without hesitation. He reached across his body to snag it out of the air.

Was he getting better, or was I just getting tired?

When we walked into the kitchen, I realized we had spent almost 90 minutes throwing the ball. And to tell you the truth, I thought maybe I had been a little too hard on him.

“Great job, buddy,” I said.

“Thanks, dad. That was fun. I’m glad you don’t have to leave for the airport now.”

And then it hit me. All the magical moments I have missed over the last 15 months suddenly became tangible. And the weight seemed overwhelming.

It occurred to me that the little things that we all take for granted – a simple catch between a dad and a son – can mean so much more than we could ever imagine.

I started writing this blog entry 6 weeks ago and never wrapped it up. Since then, I’ve seen Jackson make some great catches in Center field. In fact, I even got to witness his team swarm him and pile on as if they had just won the world series, when he made the game-winning catch in the bottom of the 6th inning. 

Yep, that Easter afternoon catch has made all the difference. More than I could have ever imagined all those Sundays when I left for the airport. When Jackson would ride his bike on the sidewalk next to my car as I drove out of the neighborhood. If I could do it all over again, I would turn the car around. I would change the itinerary. I would steal another moment. Who knows what magic I would have found?

Reading Between The Lines

I’ll be honest. Despite my Journalism degree, most days I skim the headlines. And most days, it’s just one bad news story after another. I can only take so much. I don’t usually connect any of the dots or analyze any of it too deeply. Maybe it’s my age. Maybe it’s my circumstance. Maybe it’s the economy. I can’t tell you what it is, but more and more, I’ve begun to read beyond those headlines and think about some of the implications for me, for my family, for the world.

Here’s one you probably saw today, “Spies Hacked Into US Electricity Grid.” Excellent. That’s great news. Really? And how many grids has the US hacked into? Am I supposed to believe we haven’t? Is this the real future of warfare? Can I stop worrying about North Korea launching a nuclear missile into my living room and start worrying about when the intermittent blackouts are going to start? 

It made me think. Are there really people in this world who have decided to spend their lives dreaming up ways to annihilate civilization – one way or another? What must it be like to wake up in the morning and begin the work of destroying your fellow Earthlings – whether it be through mass destruction or simply by undermining the technological underpinnings of society and creating entropic chaos. Why? What is the point? What is the reward if you succeed? 

Then I read another headline “Sims and Spore Creator Leaves EA.” I don’t know if you ever played Sim City. I did. If you haven’t, you should. It makes you feel like part city planner, part god. But that’s not what I saw in the headline. This obviously talented mind, Will Wright, isn’t leaving his job to simply disappear into retirement. He is leaving to start up a new kind of think tank. A think tank that will develop new intellectual properties that will drive new games, television shows, toys and online fodder.

The think tank’s name? Stupid Fun Club.

So, as much as I struggled to understand a world where people rise each day fixated on bringing all of us to the brink of disaster, I was encouraged to see that even in that world, people strive to create. To create something new. To create ideas that will spawn even greater ideas. A world where people follow their dreams. And even do it with a hint of self-deprecating humor. Stupid Fun Club.

For me, for my family, for the world, I hope those dedicated to creation, not destruction, win the battle we all face each morning when we wake. Because whether we realize it or not, we all make that choice every day. Maybe neither you nor I do anything as dramatic as building bombs or hacking into electrical grids. And maybe neither of us will ever start a think tank of our own. But each of us makes the choice – perhaps countless times a day at work or at home – to tear someone down or build someone up. We make and break entire worlds each day.

Each of us.

Not just those who make the headlines.

A Celebration of Life

Last Thursday, my wife’s grandmother passed away. I flew home from California on the red eye, slept a few hours in my own bed, filled the car with our family of three and headed to Minster, Ohio.

The visitation was Sunday, and the funeral was Monday. At the visitation, I picked up a Mass card. I fully expected to see a typical bible verse or Psalm.

This one, though, was different. It read:

Poem for the Living

When I am dead
Cry for me a little.
Think of me sometimes
But not too much.
It is not good for you
Or for your wife or your husband
Or your children
To allow your thoughts to dwell
Too long on the Dead.
Think of me now and again
As I was in life
At some moment
it is pleasant to recall.
But not for long.
Leave me in peace
As I shall leave
you, too, in peace.
While you live
Let your thoughts be with
the Living.

—Theodora Kroeber

I met Sylvia Moorman Sommer just a couple of times. The first time I met her, we sat in the kitchen of her farmhouse and fell into one of the most comfortable conversations of my life. She told me stories of Patti as a little girl, stories about Patti’s dad and his multitude of brothers and sisters…and about the barn cats, one of whom had lost a paw in a fight with some piece of farm machinery. She told me she called him ”Stumpy” and I almost fell out of my chair onto the kitchen floor in laughter.  

I found myself naturally falling into stories about my childhood. Stories about the 7 dogs I had grown up with. Stories about how my family would take all seven of those dogs AND the 6 children, stuff them into an RV and travel up and down the East Coast. Stories about how I spent my earliest summers in Long Island with my family and grandparents, mostly fishing off the end of our dock. Stories about how Patti and I met and how we thought our future was going to go. We talked for a long time.

And then, without missing a beat, Sylvia asked me a question I had never heard before in my life and have never heard since. She asked, “Do you want to know what I think about you?”

And while in any other circumstance, I think that question would have shocked me, in this case it did not. I did want to know what she thought about me.

She went on to tell me that she thought I was most deserving of her granddaughter. That she thought I was a genuinely kind person. I was a pleasure to talk to. I listened. I was respectful. I was “a joy.” She hoped we would get to have many more conversations like this first one we had just shared.

“Thank you,” I said. “I feel the same way about you, and I’m glad to be part of your family.”

I should have made more time for conversations with Sylvia. Instead, I only managed a couple more when we took Jackson up to visit as a baby. Patti was much better at keeping in touch than I was. But I never forgot my time with Sylvia. And I don’t think I ever will.

The Mass card made a request of all of those attending the funeral. And Sylvia’s children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren respected her wishes. Obviously, we all mourned the loss, but more importantly, we all celebrated her life. The Aunts and Uncles and cousins and great grandchildren gathered and sang and shared meals and told stories and joked and laughed – sometimes to the point of tears. The beer flowed. I saw several of her grandchildren hoist a few Stroh’s skyward – Sylvia’s favorite beer – with a cheerful “To grandma.”

The time together passed too quickly. And the goodbyes were long, filled with promises of seeing each other again soon. And I know they were not empty promises. I know Sylvia will have a hand in making sure those promises are fulfilled.

Sylvia touched so many lives. So many lives that have now touched mine. And as we sat in the car at the cemetary, Jackson asked me why he didn’t get to see his great grandmother more than once. “We could have come to Ohio a couple of more times…instead of Disney World all those times,” he said. And you know what? He’s a smart 8-year-old. No, I take that back. He is wise.

One of the Mass cards now sits on my bedside table, completely contrary to Sylvia’s request. I have not stopped thinking about her since the weekend. But I will, I suppose. Eventually. I will tuck the card into the drawer at some point. Maybe next week. And I will think of her sometimes. Just as she requested. And instead, I will spend my time and thoughts focused on the living, the lives she has touched, those who represent where my life intersects with hers. For that is where I know I will always find her.

Deadhead Sticker on a Cadillac.

I once heard an interview where Don Henley was asked where the line “…saw a deadhead sticker on a Cadillac” in the song “Boys of Summer” came from. He said that he was driving down the road, and he actually saw a deadhead sticker on a Cadillac.

I never believed him. Well, not until yesterday.

Yesterday, I pulled in to a gas station in the tiny, gateway community of Weddington, elated to be paying only $3.93 for a gallon of precious fuel. And that’s when it happened. In the refueling lane next to me, a Lamborghini pulled up. Not a car you see everyday. And definitely not one you anticipate seeing in Weddington. But there it was.

Now, I would never even contemplate attaching a sticker to such a perfectly sculpted, not to mention insanely priced, work-of-art vehicle. But this man thought differently. There it was. In the middle of the rear bumper. A single, solitary sticker. It was about 3 inches high and 6 inches across.

And if I were to tell you that this middle-aged man, who was so obviously struggling to grasp whatever elusive part of his youth he thought remained, had a deadhead sticker on the back of his Lamborghini, you’d probably shrug.

But this was no deadhead sticker.

There I stood, squinting to make out the youth soccer league logo. The dot on the “i” was, of course, a soccer ball. The incompatibility overwhelmed me. I couldn’t help but contemplate exactly what statement the driver was trying to make.

“I may drive this car, but I’m still a family guy.”

“I made enough money franchising kids soccer leagues to buy this car.”

“My wife didn’t want me to buy this car, so she slapped my son’s soccer league sticker on the back.”

Whatever he was trying to say, I wasn’t getting it. But in those moments where I tried to make sense out of it all, it occurred to me that this sort of thing happens every day. Every day, someone passes you saying one thing and doing another. Every day, you struggle to make sense of the things around you. And every day the guy who seems to make the least sense drives off in a Lamborghini.

That’s the world we live in. And I’m ok with that. Because if this world never challenged you to think, if it never let you come face to face with those who are so diametrically different than yourself, then it would surely be a much less beautiful and wondrous world.

So, Mr. Lamborghini and I both topped our tanks off and exchanged glances as we put the nozzle back into the pump. And we drove off. In opposite directions.

But I swear I could hear Don Henley coming from his high-fidelity, highly priced speakers.