The Graceful Goemetry of Sharks

Years of unfinished stories. Behind the scenes of this blog, stuck in the blog management section, are years of fits and starts, some so old I can't remember what it felt like to type them. Some were important, I think, because even now they have teeth that pull me back in... and some are just words - hints of stories that were important enough for me to start, and are now just a jumble of lost ideas. For the longest time, this blog was unintentionally a secret. In it's early days I changed diapers and fought off panic or sleep to write something. Now that people put themselves to bed and we're far away from diapers, whatever need for secrecy I had has worn away, and the glossy hardcover book with 'Tickle, Cook, Breathe' printed on it's spine occasionally makes it's way down from the shelf so the kids can read it for themselves.
I think I abandoned this page for a lot of reasons, but it was never for lack of something to tell.  In case there are some of you out there who are just picking this up, the world has turned upside down since this blog began. For one thing, there are grey hairs now. There are scars. There are losses so profound some moments I wear them like links of a great heavy chain, and there are memories I could never bear to commit to print. The Darkling Thrush that came with the last 13 or so years since this began, is that there are always these moments of impossible joy that fall in line right behind them. And so I'm here, in a new place.
The kids aren't really kids, which is equally wonderful and terrifying. It's weird, because they're ferociously independent and utterly helpless at the same time, and there have been more than a few days that they've gotten into real world problems and had no idea how to solve them. Luckily, they haven't figured out that we don't know how to solve them either, but we take some good guesses and everything comes out OK... which seems to be the essence of parenting.
Sam and Lily have also figured out that we're not like their friend's parents, for better or worse, and last night we were talking about having some people over for dinner - which was met with awkward glances from them.
Lily was the first to break the silence. "I'm not sure that's a good idea". Sam agreed.
"What are you talking about?" said Sara, "why shouldn't we hang out with your friend's parents?"
"Well, you guys aren't regular. You're... funky."
Stings, but I got it. Turns out other people don't have panda heads and portraits of Ron Burgundy sitting around, which I find a little troubling to be honest. What if there is an immediate need for a panda costume? What then? They're sure as hell not taking mine, because I only have the one. Maybe they can borrow our gorilla suit or our Mummer's costume, but I'm not going to be hung out to dry.
The kids were not swayed by my logic.
We also, apparently, do not talk like regular people. We don't play golf, so we've never had a conversation over dinner about our handicaps or whatever the fuck a 'wedge' is, but we had a ''Secret Cracker Club" for years. It was serious business. We had a president, a VP, a secretary and a treasurer; and every time we met we ate crackers, learned a new word in Spanish, talked about important events, collected dues (ostensibly for future boxes of crackers - although at some point someone made off with our cracker money), and took notes in our secret cracker notebook.
Dinner without their friend's parents is fair game, though, and more often than not someone shows up... often enough that the kids who wander into the house notice that our homemade ricotta is different than it was last time we made it, they know where everything is to set the table, and they don't even call home anymore (or ask me if it's OK) because the assumption seems to be that if they're coming here, they're eating. In singles or groups, they walk in without knocking and our faithful guard dogs (with the exception of Lily's puppy that seems to have an endless well of barks stored up inside him) don't even care enough to get up - they just roll their eyes toward the door and go back to sleep. It's such a constant, that instead of fighting off the invading hoards, we renovated our third floor so we could reclaim some personal space in the house. But I'm not complaining - because this is the good part.
It seems like they want to be here, which is rapture for me. They're in the way, I run out of stupid things like sausage and saffron, and there's always more cleaning - but they aren't sitting down to dinner out of some obligation, they're here by choice. I don't remember a lot of places outside of my house where I felt at home as a kid. There were a few, but there were exponentially more where I felt as if I had to be on my best behavior, like I was constantly in a trial period. And without trying, by some divine hand, I think we might have made one of those 'at home' places, and it's exactly where I want to be.

Under Siege

Completely unrelated to the fact that I haven't written on here in months, I've been having nightmares. Not every single night, but almost. When I was a kid, I had them every time I was sick, especially if I had a fever, and it was always the same.
Above me was an unending desert. Not populated by cacti, fragile dry brush, and lizards - just flat sand, as far as the eye could see. In the middle of it all was a round metal table, coated with the sort of glossy white paint that would make the faintest squeak when you rubbed your hands across it. There were four chairs (metal, white), and coming up from the center of the table a large sun umbrella with thick red and white stripes... and under all of this desert, was me, in a tunnel.
I never saw the desert in my dream, but I knew it was there. I only saw the end of the tunnel ahead of me as I was digging toward the table. The horrifying part was that every shovelful of sand got heavier than the last, until one grain of sand on the shovel was too heavy to bear, and I woke up terrified. Why? I have no idea. I get the feeling if I went to therapy they would simply say, "well, why do you think heavy sand is terrifying?", and I'd break down into some terrible mess on the floor.
Anyway, the kids and I were out to dinner, and the subject of nightmares came up. We were talking about them (I told my gripping story of the sand tunnel, and was thoroughly mocked), and Sam told us his - He was trapped in a video game store, when three creatures tried to break in and kill him. There was a guy with really weird eyes (yawn), a guy with two heads and Medusa-like snakes for hair (ok, creepy), and Lyle Lyle Crocodile wearing a top hat and long coat (what?)... and in the dream they finally break in and have a fight to the death. Pretty decent dream, I thought, and Lyle Lyle Crocodile really adds a nice eerie twist.
Last but not least, Lily calmly takes a bite of her burrito and tells us her dream in graphic detail... She is standing on a weathered dock with her friend Paula, overlooking a tangled swamp. A man behind them tells her that he has thrown a golden coin into the water, and if they can find it, they'll win an amazing prize (I can't for the life of me remember what the prize was), so they both jump in. She wades around for a while, pushing her way though the sopping undergrowth, when all of a sudden she sees a pale figure, with a slightly triangular shaped hairless head, and sharp pointed teeth slowly rise out of the water behind Paula. She screams to warn her, and the two of them stumble out of the swamp just ahead of the ghostly figure, and run to the car. They reach the car, lock the doors, and just as I am starting the car to make our getaway, the vampire-toothed figure silently rises up from the back seat, lean toward me, and licks my arm.
I know. Wtf, right? Keep in mind she told us this with a completely straight face. I was pretty freaked out.
Anyway, I've been having nightmares. Not the sand thing, they're mostly about the kids these days. There's always some sort of danger - last night the kids were going to get hit by a train - that happens over and over all night. The only way I can seem to make it stop is if I can wake myself up enough to talk myself out of it... last night I actually sat up in bed and said to myself "the kids are in bed, they can't get hit by a train" over and over until I believed it... some nights it's easy, and some it's like turning free fall into flight. I don't suddenly feel more protective of them that I used to be, so I have no idea where all of this is coming from, but if I'm still having the same nightmares when they're away at college, I'm gonna be a little pissed.

The Treachery of Figs

What may seem like a well-oiled summer just plain isn't. I had plans - good plans, even, but as anyone who has spent a summer with their kids will understand, they didn't always end up the way I expected. Not that I'm complaining, because I'm not, it would just be nice to know ahead of time what was going to happen every day.
My summer plans got derailed about ten years ago when we bought this house. It was our first house,  we didn't know better, and as soon as we parked in front of it Sara saw the front porch on our quiet dead-end street and fell in love. Quaint, I think, was how we looked at it. It had major flaws, but it was a house that we thought we could make into our home. Now, of course, she'll tell you she hates it (which isn't entirely true, I hope) because nothing is quite big enough, or new enough, or works well, or looks nice - you get the idea. And strangest of all, it has developed a sort of black hole quality that we never expected. Why? Because no matter the weather, the cleanliness of the house, the time of day, or the mood we're in, people come. In droves. Most of the time, it's great... I loathe people, but love company.
So our door has been open for most of the summer, with kids from the neighborhood streaming in and out, and the occasional adult. They know the dogs, who don't even bother to get up anymore when they come in, they know where the gumball machine is (we've gone through 12 pounds of gumballs this summer), and they know they can stay until I get pissed off at someone. It's an uneasy balance. So aside from all of the random activities to keep the kids busy, I've spent a good amount of time alternating between getting bandages and ice packs for every kid in the neighborhood who gets hurt outside, and yelling at them for one reason or another. It's a love-hate thing. It's amazing and horrible all wrapped up in one big life-sized ball.
Amazing because there are days when I see them growing up right before my eyes, and I'm not sure exactly how to explain that. They make choices, friends, enemies and cupcakes. They organize and form packs. They have drama and elementary school sized life lessons, and there are days when they are so thankful I'm there that it floors me. Floors. Me. Those are the moments that I want to share with someone else so desperately that it feels like my skin is splitting when I can't, and those are the moments I wouldn't have any idea how to share if I could.
And horrible for the same reasons. It's so achingly hard to be the parent that I want to be all the time, to protect them and let them go at the same time, and to hold on to the time that I have. 'Bittersweet', someone said to me while we were talking about this summer, but that doesn't begin to cut it. It's torturous and back breaking work, because every problem they have becomes mine, and somehow they make it worthwhile... and I get the feeling that now that they're older they feel the same way. Some days I'm Bellerophon to them and some days Chimera, and they never know what they're going to get when they wake up. To be fair, it's not that dramatic... usually I'm just a guy.
I have the same problem with figs. I have two little trees in the back yard, and they're no small amount of work. No large amount of work either, but enough to be a welcome distraction. The problem is that it's and endless wait for them to change from little dusty green balls into luxurious purple teardrops, and when they're finally ready I still don't know what to expect. Sometimes they're full of earth and chalk, and other times the skin bursts from the slightest touch of the jagged edge of my teeth and the insides send tiny shivers down to my toes. They're exciting, though, because you never know what you're gonna get. Anyone can grow apples, but it just doesn't seem like any fun.

I Am The Archer, I Am The Sea

I feel like every time I post something here, I have to start by saying "it's been a while since I posted", or something like that... So from now on lets just assume I said that. It'll save me some trouble.
So I'm here. Got nothing, though.
You know how there are times when you have great stories? Hilarious ones, even? I get that a lot. On good days, every conversation leads to something. Work is insane, which helps. The kids are so relentlessly funny that there are times I need to get away from them for a minute so I can get a hold of myself... but it's like my own secret club these days. I haven't written much because I sort of don't want to jinx it. You'll have to come see for yourself.

Entered Into With Abandon

I woke up early. No particular reason, I certainly wasn't thinking about how old I'm getting - I just heard Sara stirring about, and that was it. It was five in the morning, and still dark, but I could see the frost rounding out the corners of the window since the yard lights were on next door. I haven't camped out in the cold in a while, but it's the first thing I thought of. There's something romantic about it, I think - waking up to your breath hovering in front of you, feeling the first bracing wave of air tighten your skin, and the slippery feel of wood smoke as you try to warm up again. It's easier in the summer, days spent outside don't have a sense of urgency attached to them, but in the cold it's all about survival... not to say that I've been at the brink of death outside, because I haven't, but in the cold there is a greater sense of purpose. But there I was, under the edge of the covers that Sara hadn't pulled onto her side yet, dreaming about the cold, and I needed to cook something.
I didn't need to eat something, mind you, just needed to cook it.
It's been a while. I laid there, toes dangling outside the sheets, and tried to figure out how long. I don't remember how it started, but it seems like years that I've been going through the motions, sharpening knives and starting fires because it's what I do. But right then, I was swirling in it again... and it's funny, I don't really think about food, I think about the process of food. I think about the way a really sharp knife holds on to a cutting board when it sinks in a little, like when it holds on to a bone as meat slips away from it. I think about raspberries melting under hot sugar, about the skin on pork bellies cracking under heat. I think about changing my mother's stollen recipe so that I can braid it into an Estonian Kringel. I think about buying salmon so that I can salt cure it with beets and black pepper... and I can't wait till my kids eat mushrooms so that I can carve little intertwined fish into the caps.
I think about the sound of peaches as they pull away from their pits, and the way firm tuna yawns away from the bone when it's trimmed. I think about tying bunches of asparagus with blanched spring onions and how raw honey feels on my cheeks as it dissolves. Crisp potato crusts, mother of pearl caviar spoons, wonton wrappers, lemongrass and pin bones. I dream of making poached eggs not because I want to eat them, but I like the process of a gently placing them into a simmering vortex just right, so the whites shudder from the heat and envelop the yolk in a swaddling blanket. I think of epic culinary failures, grand successes, and everything in between.
Most of all, in the morning air, I am unmanageably happy despite my cold feet, because for the first time in a long time, the work makes sense again. Before anyone is awake I slowly grind coffee beans and tamp them just so, whisk eggs with Dijon and Murray River pink salt, and warm my hands in the griddle smoke... and at work I think of coming home to softened cepes and starting something new.
And for weeks, despite the world's sincere effort to ruin my mood, I spend at least a few minutes of each day filled with absolute joy because of the simplest things... and at the moment, a few minutes is all I need.

Savage Fur

We have squirrels. They aren't flying, red, or black - they're just squirrels. When the kids were younger, they would stop whatever they were doing to shout "squirrel!" every time they saw one. Which, as you might imagine, was every minute or so.
About ten years ago, outside of our old apartment, I saw a dead squirrel in the road, and later a live baby squirrel who had escaped it's nest scrawled across the pine needles next to the road. I went inside, couldn't get the image of it out of my head, and went back outside to collect it in a shoe box. Once it was inside the house, I realized that I had no idea how to raise a baby squirrel, didn't have any tiny clothes and I wasn't lactating squirrel milk - so I was stuck. The idea of taking it back outside again seemed far more cruel than never taking it in to begin with, so the baby squirrel and I sat down at the dining room table and mulled it over.
After looking around a bit, I found (in the yellow pages, of all things, which shows you how long ago it was) an animal shelter about 20 miles away that was foolish enough to accept orphaned squirrels. Problem was, they were closing when I finally got them on the phone, and I had to keep the squirrel overnight. "Pedialyte," they said, "and an eyedropper. That should keep it OK until tomorrow." This is before I had kids, keep in mind. Beer, I had. Leftover pizza. An impressive mustard collection. I also had a mannequin that I painted blue. It had a clock in it's stomach. It was awesome.
Right, the squirrel. So I went to CVS and found some pedialyte, which comes either unflavored or flavored... unfortunately none of the flavors were "Nut" or "Part Of A Knish Some Drunk Guy Left In The Park" so I went with unflavored.
Now, I don't know how many of you have ever tried to feed a baby squirrel pedialyte, and maybe there was a health class video that I missed, but it's pretty hard - I assumed because a glass eyedropper didn't feel like a squirrel nipple and I didn't smell squirrelish, but it could have been anything. They're unbearably cute though - which is the problem. Once you pick up a baby squirrel there isn't really any turning back. They have the beginnings of fur, which is unspoiled by weather and toil. Their paws are still pink and turned inwards, and with each breath their sides shudder and inflate like a paper lantern, and they look completely and utterly helpless. It's a losing battle, picking up a baby squirrel, is what I'm saying.
He lived, in case you're wondering. The next morning I drove to the shelter and dropped him off, and they gave me a case number in case I wanted to call and check on his progress, which I didn't, because he was a squirrel. I did anyway, though. I couldn't help it.
And now we have squirrels. Everywhere. We grow pears, peaches, plums, and figs - and they eat them. We carve pumpkins and they crawl inside to gnaw their way out. They eat our birdseed, make nests in our gutters, chatter back and forth in intense squirrel arguments, and chase each other in tight circles until we let the dogs out. They look in my windows. I'm fairly certain that there has been some squirrel conversation at some point or another, and they heard that I'm the sort of guy who would like to have a shitload of squirrels hanging around. Which I am most certainly not, and I think I'm going to need some sort of plan to get them the hell out of here, like somehow getting a neighbor to rescue a baby squirrel or living inside an electrified dome. I wish there was a way I could tell them that they're slowly driving me mad, because I fear one day I'll be old and wrinkly, and die while shaking my fist at them on the front porch... and they'll mourn my passing by surrounding me with piles of horse chestnuts and tiny grey hairs. And then they'll eat all my pears.

and playing the role of Anne Sullivan...

Just to keep you up to date, I have this eye thing - apparently, at some point I injured my eye, and since I have dry eyes to begin with, I have whats call a recurring corneal erosion. Basically, that means every once in a while, since my cornea never really healed correctly, it catches on the inside of my eyelid and tears open. Which sucks. A lot.
A couple of weeks ago, at around 5:00 on a Tuesday morning,it happened again. The eye doctor who I have been seeing told me that if it happens again, I should just go right to Wills Eye in Philly instead of coming in because there wasn't much more they could do, although I suspect she was just getting tired of seeing me. So I stewed about it for a while, put on my work clothes, and by 8:00 gave in and decided to go. I made the 8:41 train, and rode into Philly all red eyed and weepy.
It was a relief to be there, to be honest, because eye pain blows, and I just wanted someone to fix it. When I finally got in, the doctor peered into my eyeball for a while, put some eye drops in, and poked at it. "so the reason your doctor told you to come down here," she said, with her two fully functional eyes, "is that the way we treat this is with a pretty short procedure."
"Yaa! I love eye procedures!!! Can you do it without painkillers? Can you use a knife covered in smoked salt and lemon juice?", are a bunch of things I didn't say. It turns out, the plan was to cut off the injured third of my cornea, so that I would grow back a new one instead of trying to have the flap of torn cornea just reattaching itself. Which sounded terrible. To make matters worse, she started pulling all sorts of probes and tweezers out of the drawers. "OK, ready?".
Um, no, not really. I assumed, I guess, that she would have strapped my head down to something, and had a crash cart at the ready. But no, she was just going to cut that baby out of there and go on with her day. "OK, lets chop that be-atch out. I'm meeting my college roommate for Ethiopian food at noon."
She didn't really say that. In my head she did. In my head I was saying a lot of things to her too, the majority of which I won't repeat. Regardless, even though my left, working eye was sort of squinted with a look of scepticism and annoyance, she dove right in. Well, it wasn't really a dive, it was more of a slow calculated poke - and to spare you the spine tingling details, she put in some numbing drops and spent the next ten minutes cutting out a piece of my eye while I got to watch, really, really close up. It just sucked, and sucked doesn't even really cover it, but I can't come up with a better word for it. To add to the joy of it all, when I was done I had to sit in a dark room and wait for another doctor to come and look at it while the numbing drops wore off. Finally, in a new an exhilarating sort of pain that started on the tip of my eye and went all the way down to the tiniest little hairs on my toes, they let me leave.
So I walked out, into the day, and immediately knew I was in trouble. In the dim light of the hospital I was coping pretty well, but out in the world, with the drops worn off, I was an orphaned baby squirrel.
The first thing I noticed, as I walked out of the shaded overhang of the building, was that I was almost completely blind. My right eye was completely useless, and my left eye was dilated and tearing out of sympathy for the other eye - and the sun was so painful I had could only open it the tiniest bit. For a minute, I wasn't entirely sure what to do. I didn't really want to go back in, and I figured I could find my way to the train station since it was only three blocks up and three blocks over... So I casually stretched my hand out, found the side of the building, and started walking. Easy.
As soon as I got to the first intersection, I discovered the flaw in my plan. Walking along a wall was one thing, but when I got to the first intersection I ran out of wall, couldn't see the traffic lights, and couldn't see the oncoming traffic. I could see, however, the butt and legs of a guy in front of me waiting at the intersection, so I just waited for the butt and legs to cross, and figured if I got hit by something, we'd get hit together. This worked for the first few intersections, until I got to the fourth corner and found it empty... I toyed with a few ideas, the most plausible of which was trying to blindly construct a zip line out of the items in my backpack, when I noticed a skirt and some dark blue high heels come into view and walk quickly into the road. I followed, thinking the whole way that whoever this person is must have noticed me keeping my left eye glued onto her ass as we walked into the street together.
I made the six blocks unscathed in about half an hour, but by the time I got to the train station, my right eye was tearing so intensely it ceased being tears and was more like a running faucet, which left a growing wet spot on the front of my shirt (and a couple of strategically placed wet spots on my crotch) and gave me a runny nose. In my limited field of vision, I noticed that the normally indifferent crowd in the Market East station had started to move out of my way as I passed, I assume because I looked like a new brand of crazy they hadn't encountered yet.
Two escalators down, I made it to the track level, and remembered how many trains come through there - mostly because it occurred to me I didn't know what time to get on what train... and I couldn't read the lit up train schedule board, the tiny print of the train schedule, or the lit up screen on my phone. Like I said, baby squirrel. Luckily, there is a service desk down there, so I went up to find out my train info, but couldn't seem to get that out either, because what I said was something along the lines of "Can you tell me when the R5 comes and what track I should get on, because I got a schedule, but I can't read. Well, I can read, but I just can't read right now. I mean, I can always read, but I just had this eye thing and now I can't see. I mean I can see, because I can see you, but I can't read because I can't really see. I can usually read."
Apparently, this sort of thing happens all the time, because although I was rambling on about my extensive reading experience with my runny nose, one mostly closed eye that was letting out a constant stream of tears and the other eye still so completely dilated that for the brief moments when I actually could open it, it looked like you could stare directly into my colon - she seemed completely unfazed. "1:41 on track 4," she said, "you just missed it. The next one is on track 4 at 2:12. Please stop crying on my desk."
Miraculously, I made it on to the train without falling on to the third rail, and found a seat that wasn't someones lap. Someone on the train knew me too, which was nice, because at some point a six foot tall blur said to me "Joe! Nice to see you, it's been a long time!". "You too, buddy," I said, "we should totally get together, give me a call..." So far, I haven't gotten that call, so they may or may not have been talking to me.
But I made it home, successfully found the right key and opened the door, and here I am. It's better, I'm a little blurry, but that'll change. I have a new appreciation for pirates, Sandy Duncan, Peter Falk and Sammy Davis, Jr. though. And cyclops.

Lone Callery Pear

I've written and erased this post so many times, I feel like there are dozens of old posts shining through this one like weary faces of pentimenti. I don't know why I can't get it out, or if I'll hit the post button before I go to bed, or this will be just another layer, but here goes.
What I'm afraid of writing is what I see every year - hollow, trite expressions of grief, or silence, or nothing. What I want to do is write something down so that Sam and Lily know who I was, and what I felt... but I'm afraid, every time I start this, that it'll never be quite right. More than afraid. I know. It will never be right.
What they're already learning in school is what happened, from 8:46 on... and some day I'll tell them where I was and what I was doing, what I saw and felt, and everything they won't write down in a textbook.
What I want them to know, if they do read this years from now, is that I was sitting in a dark grey hand-me-down desk chair with a faded tweed seat when I disconnected from our dial-up internet service and the phone started ringing. I wheeled the chair from our spare bedroom in the southeast corner of our second floor apartment into the living room without getting up, and turned the TV on when there was only one tower left standing, and watched, all the while thinking "I could have sworn there were two", until the other one fell and I understood. I took calls, mostly from Sara trying to find a way home; and made them, trying to find everyone else. Sara walked toward home, and found a bus that covered most of the 18 miles between here and there, and after a while, everyone I was looking for made it home too. The TV was on and I didn't turn it off for days and days, I don't know why. I watched all day, and kept it on while I slept, left it on when I went out of the house and saw every unedited bit.
We left the house on the 12th, went to Valley Forge park under eerily quiet skies, and climbed to the top of Mount Joy without seeing another soul. I wrote in the trail book at the top with a blue ball point pen that had lost it's top, in small enough print to leave years of empty space for others to fill, and we went home.
What they should know, is that even though I found everyone, I was broken. I had a freedom and safety in my heart that I have never felt since, and the intensity with which I watch over them was made, in part, by that day. Eleven years have gone by since then, we've had two kids and watched them grow before our eyes. I've lost friends and dogs, spent money, gotten drunk, made coffee, taken long meaningless walks, and made life changing decisions. But still, I dread this anniversary with all my heart because I can't shake the feeling of helplessness that creeps back into me, and I'm not sure it will ever leave. So I wanted to write this to get it out of my system, and so they know. Hopefully they'll be a time when I can find a way to write something a little better than this, but for now, this will have to do.
 

Team Raspberry

We went to Washington this summer and met up with my parents, my sisters and their families, so there was a big flock of us invading the Pacific Northwest. We were in Seattle for the first couple of days, and if you haven't been, you really should. There are San Franciso-ish hills everywhere, though, which make my kids constantly mutter in the background "can't we drive?", make the native's calves look like gigantic sinewy drumsticks, and force the overweight tourists to settle into the lowest points of the city. (To be honest, I found myself in a mass of tourists on Alaskan Way who were exhausted and trapped at the bottom of a hill... I completely sympathized with their predicament, and only decided to move on when they began to discuss forming their own government and permanently settling there so they wouldn't have to climb back up into the heart of the city) But it's an amazing place... beautiful, vibrant, caffeinated, and the constant winter rain seems to have weeded out all of the people who are high maintenance, which is awesome.
Oh, and they throw fish. I know this is a touristy thing to watch, and Seattle residents who've seen enough airborne sea life to last a lifetime shop at other places, but I find it relaxing. Matter of fact, if I had the money I would buy a nice comfy lawn chair, sit in the back yard all day, and pay people to toss fish back and forth. I don't even think I would need cocktails, just the gentle breeze and slapping sound of haddock being tossed back and forth would be enough to lull me into a peaceful afternoon slumber.
In the middle of the week we went to stay at La Push for a few days, and since its such a long drive out, made some cool stops along the way - some scenic overlooks, a little fishing/lumber town, and best of all, a raspberry and lavender farm.
And best of all, a raspberry and lavender farm. I'll pause to let that sink in.

"But Joe, how can that be?" you might ask. You know what? I don't know, it just is. There is something about standing next to a wheat field, sun-warmed raspberry that didn't make it into the bucket in my mouth, with a subtle hint of lavender in the air that is pure, unadulterated decadence.
La Push was amazing too... once I got past the temperature of the sea, which the Quileute Tribe actually measures in kelvin. The first day we wandered from our cabin all the way down the beach to the first jetty, and next to an abandoned fire pit someone had written "La Push - discovering solitude" in ash on a tree trunk that had washed up on shore. It was goofy, I'll admit, and I'm sure would make perfect sense when you're stoned - but it was close enough to right that I just let it sink in. It's the sort of place that man makes sacred.
And there were cousins, which was great, because when they're together it seems like they have a plan - some sort of unspoken, fluid hierarchy that keeps them happily moving from one project to the next. Oh, and they exhaust each other, and any day that makes you sleep like the dead when it's over is a good one.
Back in Seattle at the end of the week, I caught something and felt absolutely awful. It's been a long time since I've been sick with anything, and I almost forgot how crappy it is. Aside from the painful congested sinus, ear popping flight home though, I wouldn't have changed much about the trip... It's funny, I forget how different we all are, and how much we're the same.
Ah, shit, that's what I should have written in ash on that tree trunk...

then I go out and paint the stars

Father's Day was a perfect day to get wet, so I had a great breakfast courtesy of Sara and the kids, and got ready. Lily had been asking to go for the past few days, and thankfully the weather was good, because I couldn't get it out of my head. I woke up thinking about the walk, thinking about what was going to go in my pockets and where we should leave the path. I pulled a pack from the attic, ready with a folding saw, some half rope and a knife - I put water and kids in the car, and we were off. It isn't a hard walk, and if you go slow enough won't even break a sweat. But by the time we got to the white 21 trail marker the sound of traffic was long gone and we went down the bank and into the river. I haven't been since the fall, and all the winter rain and downed trees changed the path of the water in parts - since we're far off the trail, there are places that look brand new even though I've been through this stream dozens of times. As we go up the hill the river becomes more familiar when the ground changes from dirt to river rock, tumbled granite and mica. This is the best place to find salamanders and crayfish, if you're taking notes, and we always get hung up building dams and wrestling creatures out from between the crevices.
After an hour or so, the polished rocks give way to pages of grey slate, that make the ground look like someone left a great iron book open under the earth, and the water that is a gentle tumble further down the hill splashes and chirps around the jagged rocks... this is my favorite part. I'm always worried that the kids will fall here, and tear their knees open on one of the sharp edges, but since there aren't any places to look for animals along the solid river floor, they tend to be a bit more focused. There are yellow birch and sassafras trees growing along the bank all along these slate twists of the stream, and the roots that can't penetrate the rock stretch out in red tendrils into the water, like the sea urchins we've seen with Jeanne and Julie on the Pacific shore.


We pass by bridges, groundhogs, and deer bones washed white by sun and stream... and climb out of the water three hours later with wrinkled toes and dirty fingernails to make our way back to the car.  Back on solid ground the walk back is quicker, and chipmunks dash out of our way on the path into the tall grasses and Serviceberry tangles. All I can think to myself is that I can't imagine a better place to be, and just like every other day we're in these woods, I have to fight back the urge to get feet-wet, and start all over again.

Miranda in the Storm

A friend of mine asked me a while back if Lily would like to be in a fashion show. If you know Lily (even if you've only met her once) it's sort of a stupid question. I said yes, of course she would, before I even asked Lily. I asked her when I got home though - she said yes before I even finished the question... and I backed away from her a little bit, because she looked so excited I didn't know if her tiny seven year old self would be able to contain that much emotion, and I was afraid she might involuntarily punch me in the face or throw up or something.

If I've learned anything as a parent, it's that the desire to do something and the ability to do something are two completely different things. I was happy that she wanted to do it, but since she was committed, I was worried she would see the crowd and freeze up... especially since she was going to be the youngest person in the show. We had someone come to the house to take her measurements, and she was fine, but that was easy. Next came the walking part... we had to rehearse. A couple of days before the show, we met up with my friend who was coordinating the show, and got onto the runway. Runway? Catwalk? Why do both of those sound wrong...

Turns out, it was a little more complicated than we thought. There was a back lit white curtain at the top of the runway so she could hold a pose so her silhouette would be the backdrop for the runway until it was her turn... then she had to walk, pose halfway, go to the right front, pose, the left front and pose, back to the middle and pose, and walk off behind the curtain. I did it first, to show her how to do it. I looked fabulous.

After a couple of tries she got it down - not too fast, stop at all the right points, smile, etc. She was on fire. We had two days of 'on fire' though, because it's all she talked to me about. All. She. Talked. About. On the day of the show, we dashed around a bit - the kids were at school, we worked - and I darted home to get her off the bus so she could start getting ready. We drove over, and when we went in to the prep room she was pulsing with energy. There were hair and makeup stations, a place to get changed, and most notably, dozens of high school girls chattering and putting on makeup. Thank god she slipped right into line to get her makeup done without asking me to stay with her, because the high pitched fashion show dressing room chatter was as pleasant as having someone draw spinal fluid while you're jogging, and I desperately needed to get out of there. It took about an hour to do all of the prep, take pictures of all the dresses, and do a final run through before the show - and she kept scooting from one place to the next behind the older girls while I watched from the safety of a nearby table.

Even though she was following the crowd, I was a bit nervous underneath it all... I half expected her to get on the stage and freeze up, to get hit by the spotlights, see the crowd, and lose her shit... but it was a little late for all of that. She was dressed and ready, and there wasn't a heck of a lot I could do about it, so we went on the floor and grabbed a spot by the runway.

The lights dimmed, the music started, and they started coming. Funny thing is, I never really watched a fashion show before (and never really thought I would... I mean I've seen them, just never really paid attention) and it was pretty cool. Ever person had their own thing - some were awkward and clunky, some blew kisses and twirled their dresses as they walked by, a few looked slightly constipated - and then Lily's silhouette appeared at the top (I started to sweat a little).

Now here's the thing - I think my kids can do anything. They have their flaws, I know, but they're smart and persistent, and that goes a long way... but I'm not gushy about it, and I'm sure they'll be the first ones to tell you this. I don't like helicopter, overprotective parents. I don't like parents who act like their kids are god's gift to the earth, parents who compliment their kids at every turn, and parents who really and truly believe that everyone thinks that their kids are as wonderful as they think their kids are. Because they're not, and chances are, if you're that kind of parent, your kid is probably a dick. But I digress. When I saw her silhouette, I quickly reevaluated myself as a parent. If she trips, I thought, or freaks out, or rips her dress, or falls off the runway, or pees, farts, sneezes, laughs, forgets to turn, or god forbid someone laughs - she'll be devastated. It's stupid, I know, it's a fashion show. Nothing more. But it's the first thing in a while that she's been this excited about, and I can't help getting sucked up in it.

But I know, from her first step, everything will be OK. She comes out from behind the curtain poised and perfect, with a look of Blue Steel. She walks like she doesn't notice the crowd and the lights, her eyes pan the crowd as if they bore her - just a little. She hits all of her marks, turns her head and gives up a little smile, and it occurs to me as she drifts behind the curtain that I am utterly and hopelessly in love with her.

Career Paths

In a marriage, you do things for each other. Some things are awesome, some are ordinary, some dreadful, and some just plain dull. Actually, things start off as dull, but lately nothing ends up that way. I pass by our pharmacy on the way home, so Sara asks me to stop and pick things up once in a while. The other day, the doctor was supposed to call in a prescription for her, so I wrote myself a note and stopped there on the way home. One of the reasons I don't really mind stopping there is that no matter who you are in life, sooner or later you have to stop at the CVS for something. You just can't avoid it, and at our CVS smack dab in the middle of the Main Line, billionaire socialites, hungover Villanova students, middle class Joes, and garden variety lunatics are all at the same level in life while standing in line waiting for our pierced and transdermally implanted checkout clerk to wait on them.
When I got there, it was almost empty, just a few stragglers in the aisles. I got in line at the prescription counter behind a woman who looked to be in her 60s... Well dressed, rotund, and pulsing with energy. I sort of tuned her out while she rattled on about a prescription she was waiting for, but the more she talked, the less I could ignore the conversation. After a couple of minutes, it got interesting.
"I found a dollar in the parking lot", she said to the pharmacist. "I found a dollar."
My ears perked up. The pharmacist, I guess because he couldn't muster up the correct response to this, stared blankly at her. This was completely unacceptable, apparently, because she fished the dollar bill out of her jacket pocket and waved it around in front of him. Then, to hammer the point in, said "it was just blowing around out there!"
In my head, I had so many sarcastic answers to this conversation that I started to mentally categorize them into lists - mean funny, sarcastic funny, well golly gee funny - you know, lists. Before she had put the bill back in her pocket I had devised a complex story about an elaborate dollar bill tracking system that I had developed in high school - and how by taking the temperature of the bill I could tell how long it had been out of someone's pocket. Then by taking into account average wind speed and direction, adjusting for the friction as it tumbled across the asphalt, I could pinpoint the exact spot where the bill had first been lost. These calculations, coupled with the CVS security camera footage (which I'm sure I could get access to) might just show us who was walking in or out of the pharmacy when this tragedy occurred. The rest would be easy (I would confidently explain) because I could use some basic facial recognition software to identify the person, and with the pharmacy records, simply refund the money to their debit card from the woman's bank account and she could keep the dollar, and everything would be even-steven. "Unfortunately," I thought I would say, as she peered lovingly into my eyes having solved her grand dollar bill dilemma, "although my lost bill tracking algorithm is flawless, it costs several million dollars to fire up the Cray supercomputer I have in my trunk and run through all of the calculations. I hope you have your checkbook."
Still, the pharmacist had nothing, and he continued look at her with a blank deer-in-headlights sort of stare. Luckily for him, she turned and walked away, and he went about shuffling the prescription bags on his shelf. I was next in line, and when he turned back to me and said "can I help you?", I mustered up as straight of a face as I could and said, "yeah, hi. I think I might have lost a dollar in your parking lot."
You know what I got from him? Nothing. Not a smile, not a giggle, nothing. I was sure (in my head) that it was a pretty damn funny thing to say though, so I gave him a good 20 second pause.
...
still nothing... so I moved on... "I'm here to pick up a prescription for my wife" I said, and gave him her name. He picked through the prescription bags, then looked in the computer.
"Are you sure she had something waiting?" he asked.
At this point, I was still running through dollar bill identification jokes in my head, so I wasn't really all that upset I was going to walk out of the CVS empty handed.
"Well," I said, "she said the doctor was going to call something in for her, but maybe she's insane."
And you know what I got from him? No, no you don't, because in my wildest imagination I could not have come up with a more boring, white toast of an answer. He turns to me and says, "I think it's more likely that the doctor didn't call it in."
As if I was implying that she was actually insane. Really. In his head he must have decided that this was the most plausible answer, given the options I had presented him with, and that's what I got. She's not insane. Gotcha. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I'm not a pharmacist.

The Rules Of Tajweed

Usually, Sam ends up in the hospital. I do too, sometimes, but not nearly as often as the boy. Lily and Sara seem to have been spared whatever gene it is that causes the two of us to injure ourselves in spectacular and life altering ways, and they just seem to get hurt like regular people. I know, deep down, that Sam’s injuries are some sort of karmic retribution for all of the times I
made my way back home covered in blood and turned my parent’s downstairs bathroom into a triage unit. I’m OK though, I’ve accepted it as something that the universe wants, and I have gauze and splints at the ready. The dog injuries are a bit unexpected though, and it seems like they’re a bit more than I deserve. When we had kids, we found a good pediatrician and a nearby hospital, we stocked up on medicine and band-aids, and we always have plenty of ice. When we got the dogs, we got chew toys and a bed – when we should have been shopping for things like those head cones so they can’t chew on themselves. We’re on our third and fourth dog though, and we should know something will happen eventually. This time it was Steve… we had a regular day, filled with regular stuff, but after the kids went to bed Steve swelled up to twice his original size. Why? Who knows. I thought it might have been the bit of sea bass he had with his dinner, but the vet seemed to think it was a reaction to some sort of bite. I didn’t go to the vet, mind you, I know better. I called the after-hours line and had him call me back, because our emergency 24 hour vet service looks at your net worth before they agree to treat your pet… it’s cheaper to get counseling for your loss, have a taxidermist preserve your old pet, and buy a new dog… Anyway, our vet called back, and from the sound of his voice I could tell he was in his pajamas. I described what was going on, and he hemmed and hawed for a minute, and said, “How much does Steve weigh now?” "
“180 pounds”
“Did you say 180 pounds?”
“I did. I mean I guess, last time we weighed him he was 170 pounds, and he’s
a lot bigger…”
(slight pause in the conversation)
“OK,” he said, “ give him 200mg of Benadryl tonight, and let me know how he
is in the morning.”
Do we have Benadryl? Of course we do. Can I find it at 10pm? Of course I can’t … so I look in every cabinet. While I’m looking, Steve keeps getting bigger. His eyes are swelling shut, and his jowls (which hang down as it is) look like two porterhouse steaks attached to the side of his face. Finally, I find a bottle of liquid bubblegum flavored Benadryl, which I’m sure he’ll eat because
he eats everything… Everything, it turns out, except bubblegum flavored Benadryl… Luckily, I finally find a stash of pills - so I count out eight of them, put them inside a piece of bread with some peanut butter, and hand it over. At this point though, he’s either too swollen or too distrustful to eat it, and I spend the next 10 minutes prying his mouth open and shoving little
satchels of Benadryl sandwich down his throat (which, conveniently, is the same size as my arm). All the while he’s conveniently ambivalent to the whole situation, and when the Benadryl kicks in, he lazily rubs his paws on his eyes and walks in circles around the living room.
Since I'm up all night, I'm mulling things over, like how Sam is finally embracing his injuries. He’s still getting hurt as regularly, but he has seemed to accept it. Lately he comes home from school with some bruises and cuts, shows them to me, and moves on with his day… as opposed to asking for band-aids and ice packs. It’s been sort of a gradual change, and I didn’t really notice until basketball season started. He isn’t the best basketball player, but he’s good. Plus, he plays hard. Hard enough to get in the middle of things, to dive, to wrestle for the ball, and to hit the floor if he needs to after he takes a shot. During a rough game last week he tore a chunk of skin off the underside of his arm, and got a bruise the size of an orange on his hip when he was in the middle of a scrum. I saw him get slammed onto the floor, saw him slide, and winced… but he got up running, and just kept going. After the game he was pretty sore, but during the game, he was relentless. The thing is, I’m not sure what the proper emotion for this is… pride? I was proud of him. I was. It felt sort of wrong though, like I should have told him to go to the bench if he needed to, should have gotten him some ice…
But it makes sense, in a weird sort of way. Sam is intense. Lily is dramatic and hilarious, but Sam is driven. When he wants something, he makes it happen…. When he wants to learn all the words to a song, he listens to it over and over, Googles the lyrics and prints them out, and memorizes them. When he wants to learn something, he learns it – and when he wants the ball, he gets it. It's like he has a set of rules for himself, and once he decides there is something he has to do, it's hard to peel him off track.

Lily, on the other hand, lives to be peeled off track. She has this thing that I don't think many other people see, this sense of humor that she doesn't share with everyone. I can't really figure out why though... maybe she's self conscious, or maybe she doesn't think she's funny, I have no idea. But she has it, more than most people I know. She has good timing, and really honest delivery. There have been times when she has made me laugh so hard that I can't breathe, and there aren't many people that can do that. On purpose, anyway.

... so I'm up all night with Steve, and he's alternating between rubbing his face, pawing at me to pet him, or pacing anxiously around the room. All the while I'm thinking about the kids, Steve, and the blog. I'm thinking about how much I dread writing a post when I feel like I have to, and how much I miss being in front of the computer when I have something to say. I think about how nice it would be to gracefully close Tickle, Cook, Breathe since it's lived a long life. And after a long night of fits and spurts of sleep interrupted by the dog, I'm sitting on the couch when the first rays of sunlight spill over the windowsill and I think to myself "the first rays of sunlight spill over the windowsill. I should write that down."

Matthew 12:39-41 and Mud In My Shorts

We have great towers of bright green bamboo in the back of our yard, which is at the same time wonderful and horrible. Horrible because new bamboo shoots creep out of the ground everywhere in a twenty-five yard radius whenever the hell they feel like it, and in the spring grow about a foot every day… which means when we’re away for the weekend we occasionally come home to eager young shoots that have toppled over our lawn furniture or pushed their way through my pile of firewood. But wonderful because the tall, older forest sways in even the most gentle of breezes, tapping against each other like wooden wind chimes.
There are birds too, thousands of them it seems, that hide in the dense leaves toward the top, and only let you know they’re there when they all talk to each other early in the morning. This fall there have been mottled grey babies with orange feet that skitter about in the dry bamboo leaves that make a tight mat on the ground beneath the poles. The babies blend in well with the dried leaves though, and they’re pretty hard to see unless they make noise. The dogs, however, seem to be able to find them pretty easily.
So far the only ones that I’ve seen have just begun to fly, and when they’re startled they can escape to higher perches pretty quickly. But we have two hunters in the house, each with their own equally effective strategy. I’ve tried to discourage them from the hunt, of course, but it’s a primal thing, and although they’re somewhat well trained I can’t get this out of their systems.
Stella runs. She bolts when she hears them, makes turns on a dime, and leaps through impossibly small gaps in the bamboo. She’s like a little beige blur, snapping and effortlessly leaping into the air when the birds try to escape. For all her athleticism, she has a pretty low body count so far, which I’m happy about, because when she gets them she locks down with her jaw, and brings the mangled carcasses to me almost bursting with pride. Steve, on the other hand, will gallop toward the bamboo, but slows to a crawl when he gets close – lowering his body toward the ground and stalking them like a cat - head down, shoulder and hip muscles undulating with each step, and he pounces. A hundred and seventy pound pounce, mind you, which is nothing to sneeze at. It’s puma-esque… and certainly something I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of.
A week ago, I fell asleep on the couch. Usually, I’ll make it up to bed at one point or another, but I was beat, and I crashed. The worst part about sleeping downstairs is the dogs decide what time I wake up – and at five-thirty, Steve was up and pawing at my arm to let him outside. So even though I was wearing a t-shirt and boxer shorts and it was raining, I took them outside. Almost immediately, I knew it was a mistake. The dogs sprinted to the bamboo, and the baby birds scattered in all directions. It was just light enough to see them awkwardly flying around the yard, with flashes of white teeth and long strands of Steve’s drool in tow. I tried my best to stop them, yelling at them and trying to catch them, getting wetter by the minute from the rain and squishing around the mud in my bare feet. For a brief shining moment I thought I had Steve – I grabbed his collar when he chased a bird right by me – but I realized a moment too late that grabbing a dog who is the size of a small cow and running at full speed isn’t the best idea. One moment I had his collar in my hand, and the next I was sailing through the air thinking ‘god, I’m an idiot’. Up until this point I was still sort of half asleep. When I landed face first on my wet lawn, in my underwear, I was wide awake. More wide awake than I can remember ever being, as a matter of fact. I got up, cursing. Making up new and exciting curses. Curses never heard before, curses so vile they could strip paint off of furniture. Curses that somehow seemed to bridge the inter species communication gap, because the dogs were transfixed.
When I finally got them inside, Stella went back to sleep as if nothing had happened, and Steve skulked away into his cage in shame. I spent about five minutes scraping the mud off myself in the kitchen, and since there was no way in hell I was going back to sleep, I made some breakfast. When I sat back down on the couch, Steve was still in his cage, eyeballing me in the darkness. I turned the TV on, and in the background I heard... a chirp. And then another one. I turned the light on, and sitting next to Steve on his dog bed was a little grey bird, completely covered in saliva, with the most surprised expression a bird could possibly muster. Steve, it seems, had the baby bird in his mouth the entire time, swishing it back and forth like an Altoid... and when he got bored, he let it go.
So by then it was almost six in the morning, and I was outside in the rain again, in my underwear, cleaning spit off of a bird...

Tiny Cakes & Spotted Plates

As promised, I'm posting an unprecedented two days in a row... there's a reason though - I haven't just turned over a new leaf. We had our tea party for Ava today, and although we talked to the kids & our friends about why we were having a tea party, we made it as upbeat of an occasion as we could. There was a glitch or two along the way (as there are in all things around here), the kids spent every unoccupied moment asking if they could lick the batter, or the frosting, or the pans... basically anything that wasn't moving or washed already. Plus, after Sara and Lily spent the morning putting balloons, streamers, a pinata, and the whole table setting outside, the skies opened up and we had torrential rains until the party was long over... and our friend Renata had to brave some flood waters to make it here, but we dragged everything out of the rain just in time, and being inside with the dogs was just as nice.
In the end, we had an afternoon I hope Sheye would have wanted, and Ava would have liked to come to. There were spotty plates, tiny cakes, bottles and bowls with drinks and sweets, paper cranes, flowers, our Kimono Twingy, and sparkly tiaras... and all of us crowded together around a table to remember the best of times and a princess we never really knew. All that said, today was a gift for us, and a gift for Sheye - for helping us remember the important things, for showing us what strength and love really are, and for sharing your journey.
Pics from today are at the link below...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FeJvjzD_KN0

Pies, Tea & Photos Of The Clatter

Eventful summer, somewhat. We spent most of it away from the house – not on vacation necessarily, just outside, causing trouble. We did our share of escaping though – we went camping, to the Poconos, and to LA to see my sister and her family. All in all, there’s just too much to say. Which is my fault of course, because I put this blog on the back burner for a while.
It’s a shame, really because in a few short months Lily managed to set herself on fire and learned to swim (not at the same time), Sam got the lead part in Peter Pan, Sara turned 40 in spectacular style (thanks to some wonderful friends of ours), and I became a park ranger. All of these things (unfortunately for you) are part of much longer hilarious stories.Two things, though, are recent and worth sharing. For one, my parents came up this week to hang out, and so that my father could help me start construction on our outdoor pizza oven. A few months ago, while I was in the ‘daydreaming about a pizza oven’ stage, I envisioned a rather short process. After all, even though I have almost no masonry experience, it’s just a pile of bricks. Once I did a little research, it occurred to me that it’s a really big pile of bricks – and when I got some plans, it occurred to me that it’s a really big complicated pile of bricks. Unfortunately, since I’ve been talking about it to anyone that would listen, I sort of had to follow through with it… plus, the prospect of having a wood burning oven in the yard is just too mouth watering to back down. But we had a plan. On Wednesday we started, got some basic frame ideas together, dug some holes for foundation supports, and bought some lumber. After a day of mental (and a little physical) work, we had a couple of drinks and sat on the couch until about midnight revising our plans. By the time we went to bed, we had all but nullified the physical work done that afternoon.
The next morning it was back to the drawing board, and we spent a couple of hours drawing plans for the new foundation, followed by a trip to the lumberyard again. When all was said and done, and my parents were on the road home, we managed to accomplish a lot or nothing at all, depending on how you look at it. Even though we didn’t have pizza (actually, we did… from a pizza place down the road) I feel pretty good about what we did, and I have to admit I had a really good time.
The other thing that’s worth mentioning is our trip to California, which was great… filled with cousins chasing each other around, great weather, sand crabs, and tasty waves. For those of you that have spent any time hanging around Manhattan Beach, you know there aren’t really any negatives to being there. Well, I missed the dogs, but that’s about it. Instead of running you through the day-to-day, there’s one thing I should mention. On the last day we were there, my sister (who writes a few blogs) made ‘A Pie For Mikey’, which was a peanut butter pie to celebrate the life of a fellow food blogger’s husband who passed away unexpectedly from a heart attack. She made the pie with a little help from everyone there, as a gift to us, a gift for Jennie, and a gift for Mikey. I couldn’t help thinking about Ava that last Saturday in California. Ava was the daughter of Sheye Rosemeyer – she was born just after Lily in 2003, and died from a tragic accident in 2007, a few days before Lily’s 4th birthday. Sara and I started following Sheye’s blog right around the time that Ava died, and have watched Sheye and her utterly heartbroken family put their lives back together over the last four years. Since then, every August we have talked in passing about celebrating Ava’s birthday, as her mother had wished everyone to do, as a day to cherish your family. We never quite got it together though, and always saw pictures of ‘Ava’s Tea Parties’ from all around the world long after her birthday had passed us by. So tomorrow - thanks to the inspiration of my sister, who managed to do something for someone across the country in the middle of the hustle and bustle of her busy life – we’re having a tea party for Ava’s birthday. Sheye has come up in conversation in our house in the last few years more then she will ever know - in conversations about love, loss, and us. Unfortunately, the summer is quickly coming to an end, but we’re putting everything on hold tomorrow and having some friends over to spend a few hours celebrating a pink superprincess, telling stories about the summer, and trying to be glad, give thanks, and cherish. Pictures to follow…

Living The Lie

Every season came with surprises when my father was involved. As a dad, he could do all sorts of things you would expect a dad to do – he could build furniture, fix cars, explain what BTUs were, and hunt – all of which, I can’t. On top of all that, he had a doctorate in Physiology, so there were all sorts of random questions that he somehow knew the answers to... and how to stay comfortable no matter what the temperature was, was one of them.

In the dead of winter, on the coldest days, my father had a rectangular piece of slate about two inches thick, as foot wide, and three feet long. What it was from, I have not idea, but my father’s basement is filled with all manner of things – wood scraps and wiring, tools, glues oils and greases, and every spare part for every thing any of us ever owned... so it could have been from just about anything. He would put it in front of our fireplace and let it heat up, and then with a pair of work gloves he would carry it upstairs and tuck it under our covers, one bed at a time. When each bed was warm, we would scurry under the covers – and if you could manage to squeeze yourself into a small rectangular shape – you would be completely toasty warm. Awesome.

Unfortunately, he also had a plan for the summer. I’ll lay out his theory for you... If the cool air is outside, you have to get it inside, obviously, I’m down with that. Fools (he thought) let all the fans in the house blow inward. I know, I know, I am thinking the same thing you are... don’t you want the outside air in? You do, but here was his plan. Apparently, if you let all of the fans blow inward, you aren’t really letting the cool night air inside... what you’re feeling is all an illusion... because you can only have so much air in a house at one time. What you should do, according to my father, is have one fan blowing in, and at the opposite end of the house, have one fan blowing out. That way, instead of inflating the house to the point where it might violently explode and send a shower of mustard yellow siding shards all over the neighborhood, there was a small jet stream localized on the second floor of our house. In theory, it sounds like it might work, right? Sure it does. Until you are the youngest person in the house and are outvoted by your older and wiser sisters and you have to be the ass with the ‘out’ fan in your room. Don’t think I didn’t protest, either, especially after spending a night drowning in sweat in what seemed like a convection oven. But my father, completely enamored with his airflow plan, refused to budge. “Just you wait”, he would insist, “in a few hours the whole house will be cool as a cucumber.” Unfortunately, his idea of ‘a few hours’ was actually the hours that remained between whatever day it was, and October, when the house would magically become cool again.

I’d like to think that the experience made me a tougher person. At the very least, I have some ammunition when I’m arguing with the kids. “You know, when I was young my fans only blew out. I didn’t have any of the fancy ‘wind’ or ‘coolness’ that you two have, I had to sleep in a pool of my own salty warm sweat, and I was happy to have it.” On the flipside, we’re edging towards spoiled over here. The kids don’t have air conditioning in their rooms, and they always ask to sleep in the guest room in the summer. Which they can’t. If it’s ungodly hot, we’ll set up the bed and let them sleep there – but they have fans, windows, and sweat glands – so they’ll be fine. It’s a battle though, because Sara becomes too cold at around 68 degrees, and too hot at 71 degrees… so she is convinced that the kids will die if left exposed to the outside air, and has been know to feel the kids while they are sleeping to see what their temperature is. Which is always hot enough to give me a sad puppy dog look, so that I’ll feel guilty enough to install central air before they die in their sleep. Luckily, she’s worn out the look, and I’m completely unaffected.

I still think about those summers when I was a kid though, and might just start blowing the fans outward… that’ll teach ‘em…

He Thrusts His Fists Against The Posts

I left a while ago, went to a lake a couple of hundred miles from home. Just for a few days - because I had the time, because I wanted to get away from a lot of things, because I wanted a deep breath, and because I needed to. I went from the beginnings of spring here in Berwyn to the clutches of winter up in the mountains, and what was supposed to be a fishing trip of sorts turned into a hiking/fishing trip, as I had to search for spots where the ice floes yawned open into clear water.
In between seasons on the lake was an odd time to go, it turns out, and I noticed as soon I shut off the car engine in front of my cabin. Without the skiers or the summer crowds, the lake was completely deserted, and for three days I didn’t hear a single human voice aside from my own… so I searched for water and fished, soaking in the quiet, occasionally noticed that I was talking to myself, and found myself thinking (among other things) how difficult life on this lake must have been before supermarkets were a car ride away and people had phones in their pockets.
Most of the time I fished, didn’t catch much, but fished anyway. I got in the habit of leaving the cabin light on too, since I was down on the shoreline the first night when darkness rolled in and without the lights of any neighbors I struggled to find my way through the cold back to the cabin. When I was inside, I fashioned meals out of what I caught and what I had carried in, and wondered what Sara and the kids were doing back at home… and every morning I woke up there I sharpened hooks, tucked my pants into waterproof boots, stepped out into the crisp air and thought about them getting ready for school and work. I came home after a few days, and got back just in time to pick the kids up from school and take Lily to her dance class -and aside from the lingering scent of lake water I was back into the swing of things. In the end, I got some of what I was looking for, and remembered why I would rather be here... but most of that is stories for another time, and maybe a different blog.
Sara, since I’ve been writing here, thinks I have a ‘blog voice’… that the way I act and the things I say here don’t match… and maybe that this blog is just a place where I write how I wish things would be instead of the way they are. It’s true, I guess. I tend to romanticize things, fill in gaps of stories that I don’t remember or that were too boring the first time around – and certainly don’t always write about the struggles we have from day to day and the mundane parts that go along with them. The reality here is that we work every day to steer our lives, the kids, and our relationship in the right direction, and we still hit roadblocks, just like everyone else. She drives me insane, occasionally, and I’m sure I do the same to her. More than sure, actually. But as I go back and read old posts, and think about the 21 years (holy shit!) we’ve been together, I don’t think I’ve ever had a blog voice when it comes to her. Even though she might not know it all the time, and I certainly don’t say it all the time, I am completely and hopelessly in love with her. I’ve had regrets in my life, moments that have shaken me to the core and moments that have changed who I am as a husband, father, and human being. But given the choice, knowing all of the mistakes I have made, I would do them all again because they have gotten me here… here where I get to wake up and see her every morning, and where I get to watch each year roll by with her next to me. So I might have a blog voice, and I might say things just to make you want to read my next post, but no matter what else I need to embellish, I have never had to do that with Sara… because whether she believes this post or not when she reads it tomorrow morning, I cherish every day that I’m with her.
(and if you’re reading this before I’ve gotten out of bed, happy mother’s day!)

From Six to Nine

I’m not much of a dancer. I’m sure if you know me, you’ve figured that out already. To be honest, I never really got it… I used to go to dances, dance at weddings, and all that – and I don’t think I was ever the guy that people used to stare at because I was bad, I was one of the people that was sort of middle of the road and just blended into the background. The problem is, it’s one of those things that you just can’t seem to avoid, and every once in a while I just find myself in a dance-type scenario. Oddly enough, I find myself in karaoke-type scenarios too, which I find even less appealing – so much so that I have made a mental list of things I would rather do that sing karaoke. Like, for example, inseminate an elephant… or take a rollercoaster ride with a mouthful of fishhooks.

But I digress… For the past three years Sara has been taking Sam to the mother son event at his elementary school, and every year they have some competition or sports related theme. Every year she stresses about it a bit, and every year they end up having a great time… and all the while, in the background, I knew that eventually the time would come for the dreaded Father-Daughter Dance. Now don’t take that the wrong way, I wasn’t dreading going to an event with Lily, I just wished it was something like a Father-Daughter Fish Fry… or a Father-Daughter Movie and Funnel Cake Spectacular. But she was excited, and since I adore her, I was excited. So she got a new dress, I got a vest to match and my dusty tuxedo cleaned. I bought a corsage, got a haircut, cleaned my car, and showed her my best dance moves. She rolled her eyes.

The day finally came, and when we walked into the first room it was like stepping into one of Lily’s most elaborate fantasies. There were servers walking around with trays of snacks, a cotton candy machine, dark and white chocolate fountains, candy tree centerpieces, American Doll and gumball machine raffles, and every girl that she knew preening around like it was a miniature prom. We roamed around in there for a bit, plucking food off of silver trays and getting our picture taken – and when the crowd started to shift onto the dance floor we wandered in to the dance.

Now, from Sara’s description, the mother-son event was a rough and tumble collection of games that the boys ran to in rapid succession. Basically, it sounded like excitement and sweat. The dance floor at Lily’s event was Walt Disney on acid. Disco lights, taffeta, braids, ribbons, red sequins and elementary school gossip all swirling around in one frenetic soup. Lily, unlike me, came to dance. She practices moves at home whenever a song comes on – and depending on her mood, she floats around in graceful, dramatic swooshes - or rhythmically thrashes across the floor using furniture, Sam, or the dogs as props in elaborate gyrations around the house. So we danced. For hours. When she dances at home, it’s usually just to keep herself amused… but having Lily as a dance partner is like trying to land a Marlin. She wiggles around, twists and whirls with wild abandon, and dips at random points in her routine, and expects me to catch her as if I was knew it was coming. Needless to say, I sweat through my tuxedo, as did most of the other dads, who all looked a bit like weary soldiers leaving the battlefield as we all made our way back to the car when the dance was over.

But she held my hand the whole time, and not like we were walking through the mall, she held my hand like she meant it. When there was a break between songs she grabbed onto my waist as hard as she could, and when she said goodnight to me she wrapped her arms around my neck so tight I could see stars. So it turns out I like dancing after all, and you know what? I can’t wait till next year.

Lions, Lambs, and Paper Dolls

I haven’t written in a while, not out of laziness or lack of drive to post – but more because of my lack of direction. I started this blog ages ago after my sister started one, so that I could fill people in on what was happening with my wee kids and get things off of my chest. Lately though, I’ve been struggling to find things I want to write about… no one wants to hear me complain all the time, or listen to the same old rehashed stories of my humdrum day to day life. Funny thing is, I think about the blog all the time… almost every day, as a matter of fact. I shape stories in my head as things happen during the day, and turn them over and over in my mind until they shatter into too many pieces to type. So I’ll start again, work backwards a bit, and see if I can gather some together.

Lily’s been sick for the past couple of days, and not just the regular sick that a little attention and a tissue will fix - the throwing up, fever kind of sick that reminds you that you’re a parent. I took the days off and stayed with her, because Sara’s done her share of sick time, and I was the first one covered in vomit on Monday morning - it’s sort of like the lotto that way. If you find dog poo on the floor, you clean it up instead of waiting for someone else to do it – and if you get thrown up on, you’re ‘it’ for the day.

We’ve seen enough sick to know when not to panic. There were a few years where thermometers and Tylenol sent us into a tailspin, and I was sure that the night nurses at CHOP knew our voices and medical history by heart. But we know sick. We know hospitals and x-ray machines, stitches, blood tests, ice packs, and casts. We know what band-aids will fix, what fear looks like, when to make Jell-O, and when to drive through red lights. Yesterday I made Jell-O, and she survived just fine. The sick part is easy to manage, it’s the kids that are a wild card. We had our Jell-O, and she slept. We had crackers and watered down juice, movies and blankets, and she slept - slept with a passion, the sleep of the dead – and while she was sleeping I ate something besides crackers and Jell-O so she wouldn’t see. By the time we were getting ready for bed, she had long since stopped throwing up, but was still pale and limp on the couch... and when I asked her if she wanted me to carry her up to bed, she looked at me and let a single round tear well up in the corner of her eye, and when it was big enough it broke free it rolled down the side of her cheek and into her hair. Which killed me. She didn’t cry or complain, the day and the sickness won, and she just gave up. This morning, as expected, she’s once again a lion.

All the while, in the background, Steve is growing.  When we decided to bring home an English Mastiff, the world seemed to collectively raise one eyebrow at us. To a certain extent, everyone was right. He’s absurdly large, and gets bigger as you stare at him. He is clumsy as an ox on Rohypnol, can eat an entire chicken carelessly knocked off a counter before it hits the floor, can drag Sara across the street even with a choke collar on, and has succeeded in turning our everyday lives into a cartoon. He is passionate about the eyes on stuffed animals, and will gently gnaw them off when no one is looking. He drools when he drinks, when he thinks he is going to get a treat, when he thinks he is going to get walked, when he sees another dog, and whenever he feels like it. And not just drool – long, thick strands of viscous slobber that wobble about from his jowls and refuse to disconnect until they’ve found purchase on something clean or expensive. He has kept me up nights, swallowed Christmas tree ornaments and DS games without chewing, tested our patience at every opportunity, and somehow has managed to make up for every bit of it. He’s patient and loving, attentive, and will actually stand up and give you a decent hug if you don’t mind washing drool off the side of your neck.

In the midst of the chaos, destruction, and spurts of Green Day Rock Band, I’ve been trying something new. It’s not a New Year’s resolution or a grand life change that I’ll toss out the window in a month, and it’s not even something I’ve talked about. It’s just a thing. A little thing. I have all this stuff here, kids, wife dogs, house, friends, bacon… you know, stuff… and I’m trying to focus on the stuff that’s important for a change. It doesn’t always work, and it’s easy to forget, but sometimes it’s really paid off. Like Christmas, for example. I didn’t ask for anything, and truly couldn’t think of anything I really wanted. I wanted the kids to have fun, and thought some surprises along the way would be cool, but that’s it. In the end, we had a great morning here with the kids, and at my parents house I got one of my father’s photographs (which is really the only thing I wanted) and a cookbook my mother made that left me completely and utterly speechless – which isn’t easy to do. But it isn’t just that. I’m incredibly frustrated at work, but have reminded myself every morning that it’s good to have a job, and it could be worse. I try not to just come home from work, but remind myself how glad I am to be at home… and when Steve knocks over and eats the entire contents of my kitchen trash can, I try to take a deep breath and remind myself that I have one less bag to carry outside. In forty years I think I’ve squandered away more than I’ve deserved, and maybe in lieu of a mid-life crisis Ferrari, I’ll just try to get what I deserve, and appreciate what I have.