Looking At The Stages Of Our Lives.

Life is a series of stages, transitioning from one to another. The changes are usually gradual, occasionally they are accentuated with disruptions that cause us to alter our course, requiring adjustments until we regain control as we continue on our path.

The relationship I have with my wife and family is going through a change.

We Are Just Good Friends

Once upon a time there were two lonely people, a difference in their ages and cultures allowed them to be friends without considering the possibility of a life together, we’re just friends they would say to each other and they believed in only that. Overtime they became good friends looking out for one another, with walks around the lake and spending time in the park, talking about the future, they avoided the words marriage and I love you.

We Are More Than Friends.

The line separating  friends and lovers began to merge, the time on the swings provided him with a chance to hold her by the waist, the walks were now done while holding his hand. The mention of a life together was only inferred, each being cautious in selecting their words not wanting to be the first to commit. Their first time together was not the first for either of them, but it was the first time it ever felt right. When the words that each was waiting to hear finally came forth, they were hesitant, and cautious, hoping at first that the other may not have heard it, fearing how the other might respond.

The Promise and the Commitment

The Promise and Commitment.

She always cried when she was happy,  she always cried when she was sad, but the day he told her he loved her, he could tell the emotion behind the tears, was good. Promises were made and dates were set, their passion continued to rise to the dismay of mothers who thought he was too young, and she was too old. They didn’t care they were in love, he made a commitment to her and to a faith unlike his own.

The time before their marriage was filled with long walks in the park, they flew rainbow kites and road bicycles built for two. There were long nights together, and Saturday breakfasts in bed while planning for the future. The year they spent together before they were married was carefree, the only thing that mattered was the time they spent together, the perfect time to strengthen their bond.

Two Become One.

The date they had set was December 26th, the mothers with sons that were too young and daughters that were too old, had to recant their positions; they saw a change in their children that neither had expected.  Mother nature had the final word on December 26th, 1982. For the two days before, the snow fell, 26 inches in all. The trip to the synagogue was challenging, the car was carried half of the way, traversing ruts and snow drifts; they left a day early to spend the night closer to the Temple. Seventy five people were invited to the ceremony, thirty five managed to arrive. With hooded parkas and cross country skies stacked in the corner, the foyer looked like a Klondike reunion.

Under a Chuppah supported by brothers, sisters and friends, vows were declared, rings were exchanged an age old tradition was replayed, the breaking of the glass. The bride and groom were escorted down the isle by their parents, from very different families with very different traditions, they retraced those same steps up the isle and out into the world as one.

One Become Five

Time moved on and children entered the scene, locks were installed on the bedroom door to afford a moment of intimacy and to avoid unpleasant surprises. A house that seemed to be just right, was soon becoming small, but they managed all the same. Eventually their family became a group of five, time for each other was put on hold and the task of raising the family became the number one  priority. Report cards and music lessons, concerts and birthday parties, with camping trips and birdwatching, trips to music camps and Israel, they were in the raising the family stage. It was a routine that morphed from year to year but with one common theme, just let them grow up to be happy, healthy and strong, and move on.

Locks? We don't need no stinking locks!

Relearning To Be A Couple.

And now we have arrived at our present station in life. Slowly the house that was alive and full of activity has become quieter, our son has moved out, married. Our daughter, the scholar, is talking about starting a family of her own.  With one child remaining, I feel for her as she pulls at her reigns, and what once was a wish to return to the simpler and quieter days we had once known,  is beginning to feel like a curse. No more music concerts, or birthday parties with eight screaming girls wearing flapping party hats, the house  seems larger, too quiet at times.

As we adjust to the ripples caused by these changes, I recall the days when I would wake up in your bed, hungry for breakfast and starved for your love. I would debate whether to go to the kitchen and cook us breakfast, or crawl under the covers and continue were we left off the night before. I know with certainty as we approach our Twenty Seventh Wedding Anniversary the passion we shared early in our marriage is still there. The difference now is we don’t need to worry about the lock at the door, or if the noise we make might wake the kids. Yeah, this is going to be fun, starting all over again, and I’m ready to start now. Well… maybe after breakfast.

Talk to you later.

The Truth About Santa Claus.

The content of this post may be considered too mature for some of my younger readers. If you have young children present, or you are an adult that believes in Santa Claus, I will give you to the count of three to escort them from the room. One … Two …. Three…

So when did you first learn the truth about Santa Claus? I was probably about six years old, and discovered it quite by accident. The revelation made me uncomfortable, I liken it to farting in an elevator full of strangers. The burden of the secret weighed heavy on the mind of a six year old.

At the time we lived in a large farm house in rural Wisconsin. The house was probably well over a hundred years old. My parents didn’t actually own the farm, nor did they work the farmland. They only rented the farm house and used one of the out buildings as a stable for a horse we owned.  There was a long gravel drive way that ran the length of the front yard, about quarter of a mile or so. The front yard resembled a wood lot, with huge oak trees and one very skinny, tall maple shading the green grass that grew down the long narrow strip of turf. Along the gravel drive a row of pink and white Peonies marked its edge. Their tightly wrapped bulbous blooms were always covered with a patrol of ants, little Peonies sentries guarding against raiders of the realm.  Sadly that home no longer exists, destroyed in a fire while we lived there.

The Christmas that I found out was like most; anticipation and the magic of the Holiday filled the air. It was about a week before Christmas. I don’t even remember why I was in their room, it’s possible I was looking for something for my Mom. It could be  I was just snooping to see what was under that blanket in the very back of their closet. Whatever the reason, the mission was a success. Under the blanket hidden away, was the Coolest Yellow Plastic Car, it was huge, nearly large enough to sit on. I recall the cold sweat breaking out on my forehead; looking around to see if I had been caught, I stealthily replaced the cover trying to replicate every wrinkle in an effort to give it that natural look. A similar technique can be used to mask the nibble marks on a pan of brownies. “Natural” is the key, to do it successfully one must study the scene carefully before disturbing the area.

At our house no one was allowed to come down stairs on Christmas Day until we were given the “word”. Well before the signal was given to come down, we would be giggling and whispering to each other, secretly hoping that the commotion would hasten the call from our parents to join them. There was a whole production associated with Christmas Morning. First we would go to the tray that we had left out for Santa to see if he had eaten the cookies and the milk we had left for him. This guy had to be the messiest eater on the planet, crumbs all over the tray, the milk in the glass was all but gone, and the sugar cubes for the reindeer, missing.

Next were the harvesting of the stockings, these were filled with little bits of candy, fruit and sometimes nuts, there were also small inexpensive stocking stuffers. Tootsie Toys, if you’re old enough you may remember them. We would sit and eat candy and play with the little toy cars, biding our time for the big event.

My Dad always handed out the gifts to the children, making sure that each one received the correct time interval between packages. He would usually start out with the gift from Santa. There was only one from him and it was typically the “biggy”. I don’t even remember what I got from Santa that year, please we’re talking well over forty years ago. I do however remember what my little brother got from Santa that year. Yup, that Coolest Yellow Plastic Car! I don’t know what hit me first, the fact that he had received the gift I thought was destined for me, or the shock and realization that I had seen that very item in Mom and Dads closet over a week ago!

I struggled to hold back the emotion, embarrassment over my assumption that the Coolest Yellow Plastic Car was for me, and the disappointment upon finding out that one of the things that made Christmas Magical for me had vanished in an instant.

I never did tell anyone how I found out that Santa was hiding toys in my Mom and Dads closet, but eventually over the years, I think my brothers and sisters stumbled unto the truth too!

Talk to you later.

Memories Etched In Stone.

Last night I was sitting with my wife on our fireplace hearth next to the Hanukkah menorah, the glow from the five candles gently illuminated and emotionally warm the darkened room. This is my favorite part of the holiday. Each night for eight nights I sit quietly, letting my mind drift as the soft music caresses memories from deep within me to be relived . Most are happy, some just images, brief snapshot of events that are personally meaningful to me.

What triggered the memory is anyones guess. Maybe it was the familiar tune, I couldn’t really say but the images were strong.  It must have been this spring, when the fence was getting replaced. I remember clearing dead vegetation and debris from last fall when I discovered it. Covered over with tangled vines and clutter I found the remains of the concrete moorings from a swing set that had long been discarded, they had to be from twenty years ago.

Right about now you are probably asking two questions. Where the Hell is he going with this? And why on earth would he save six fifty pound chunks of concrete from some long forgotten swing set? Give me a minute I’ll get to that.

As I wrestled the concrete pylons from their entangle nest, I was asking myself some of the same questions. “Why the Hell are we saving the pieces of rubble?” Rolling the first hunk of concrete over I nearly lacerated my wrist on a jagged iron stub, the remains of one of the support legs from our children’s swing set. As I queried, why I would be saving this piece of junk, I saw the faint out line of a palm print, it was smaller than mine and with a few strokes with my hand I was able to make out the scratchings of the word Mom.

The flood of memories returned back to me last night, as clearly as the day we poured the footings.  The hand print in the concrete was my wifes, I know this sounds weird, but it looked sexy. Her long slender fingers were delicate, looking and the imprint conjured up memories of her cool soft caress. This was the hand print of the woman that I loved, laid into stone for eternity.

Dislodging the next concrete slab and clearing the dirt from the impression I found the name Maren. She is my youngest, the tiny fingers of a toddler her hand print barely the length of my index finger. Today those little fingers are used to communicate to people. Creating images and signs for those that lack the ability to hear. Twenty years ago who knew the importance those little fingers would make to someone. I’m so proud of her.

Like some backyard archeologist I unearth the next massive slab. Using a twig to score out the etched name, which was probably written in his own hand judging by the lettering was Jacob. My oldest, his hand was a bit larger than his sisters although not by much. Jacob was our little builder, his most famous request for building materials was, “Mom! I need  some string, scotch tape, and a stapler.” His mother wise beyond her years, she knew the telltale signs of a plan being formulated. “Honey what do you need that for?” As if the answer were plainly clear, he responded. ”We’re building a club house Mom!” Of course you are. Today my son is still crafting things, everything from wooden tables and art supply boxes, to creating beautiful music, as his fingers move across the keys of his clarinet. He will always be my starving musician, with a heart of gold.

There were three more concrete mementos left, a dogs paw print with the name Molly, Molly the  Mastiff. Our children’s first pet, sadly she provided them with their first  experience with losing  someone you loved. She passed away when they were still pretty young. I found my hand print, identified by Dad.

The last of the group was buried in mud I had to get the hose to remove the dirt from the surface, the name Tovah, was written below the shallow imprint. It was made by a young girl who struggled much of her child hood to find who she was. Not having many friends the hand print revealed the shyness of her personality. She is my scholar. The first of our family to graduate from college. An avid reader with a passion for history. She is no longer that shy uncertain person I once knew. All grownup now, she reminds me of my little sister, very smart, and sometimes very outspoken.

Somewhere outside under the snow lie the imprints of my little family, shuffled from one section of the garden to the next. They will probably remain in the back yard buried under vine and weeds until the next project requires their relocation. I will probably pause again,  smile, and recall that day when we set that swing set in concrete and left our hand prints behind.

Talk to you later.

Frozen Pipes And Damaged Tongues.

The Arctic freeze that hit earlier this week has released its grip. Temperatures soared to a delightful 35 degrees, things are beginning to melt, a meteorological reprieve of sorts. As frozen pipes reveal themselves, insurance claim adjusters dole out checks to stricken property owners.

Given its budget and the rate at which our city’s  street department addresses snow removal, couple that with more snow forecast for next week, it could be early March before we see the asphalt in front of our house again.

When I was a kid snow was something to get excited about. Unpredictable things happened when it snowed. We lived in a rural area near Madison, Wisconsin when I was growing up. Snow fall in the winter was as common as peanut butter on white bread. It was the unpredictable events that transpired  because of the snow fall that got me excited.  I remember building snow caves in the huge banks of snow that were left behind, as the giant county plows cleared the roadway in front of our farmhouse.

We laugh when we see the kid with his tongue frozen to the flag pole in “The Christmas Story.” Try yelling for help when stranded at the bottom of your favorite sledding hill, with your tongue stuck to the steering bar of your favorite sled. Left to resolve the problem on my own the solution was clear, the results were painful. Through teary eyes I could see the patch of tongue the size of a Canadian dime still adhering to the iron bar, as the taste of liquid iron filled my mouth. It was at least three days before I could eat anything with out drumming my fist on the table or tapping my foot on the floor, some kind of primal reflex to the burning sensation at the tip of my tongue. Even today I get a little panicky when an ice cube straight from the freezer sticks to me.

The best time I had sledding was on my Uncle Roger and Aunt Jeans’ farm. Their farm was… rustic. During the summer it was not unusual to find young goats sparing on the front porch, and the occasional  chicken wondering through the kitchen. Fly paper strips hung from the kitchen ceiling, like  curled amber tentacles dotted with their intended victims.  Eating a meal at the table took courage; as the sound of buzzing wings beat helplessly against the sticky surface of the dangling tentacles, like some abstract image of a Man-O-War jelly fish. As kids we were used to it, but to an outsider unaccustomed to the farm life it could be pretty overwhelming.

The winters on their farm were much different, the Shell No Pest Strips were no longer hanging from the ceiling, the goats and chickens were huddled down in their pens and coops, in an effort to survive the cold winter night.

Like this only in the dark.

My cousin Charlie had prepped the sledding course well, although I don’t think Uncle Rodger was aware of it. Earlier in the day while Uncle Roger was asleep, after working the night shift at Oscar Mayer. Charlie had opened the spigot at the pump house, effectively flooding the upper barnyard with water. This man made glacier followed the contour of the terrain, down the rear drive, past the junked out Ford Edsels, along the corn crib and pig pens, and down the steep hill into the lower alfalfa field. At the bottom of this hill he had placed the ramp, as all good sledding hills need a ramp.

I don’t know how long he had let the water run, but by 8:00 P.M. that night he had created a masterpiece of glacial ice. We would start the run at the Ford Edsels and make our way through the upper barn yard and down the hill, we were probable doing 25 miles per hour when we hit the ramp. In the dark of the night from the top of the hill you could hear the sledder as he hit the ramp and then silence, for what seemed like two or three seconds. Then came a huge thud as gravity over came flight, dragging both rider and sled back to earth. It was certainly an activity suited for younger bones, and feeble minds.

I remember those days fondly, and as I write others come to mind, making fodder for another time.

Talk to you later.

Site And Sounds Of The Holidays.

It was a pretty crisp day out there today. By pretty I mean very, by crisp I mean cold, and by cold I mean -4° F. It looks like it will get even colder tonight. Global warming my ass. My hands have warmed up, but I still got a bit of a chill inside. Too bad I don’t like brandy.

My spirit or my emotional state is beginning to catch up with the sites and sounds of the season. I don’t know if it is deeply seated emotions from my child hood or just the barrage of Seasonal programing on the air waves but it’s starting to set in. Given the fact that it is a little more than two weeks before the Holiday I will probably be completely saturated by the time it arrives  The truth is I don’t celebrate Christmas any more and haven’t for about 28 years. I don’t regret not celebrating it, but I miss the reuniting of family at this time of year.

My mother probably was the one who got the most excited about Christmas, arranging the Nativity diorama crafted from bits of wood and some small figurines that she had assembled. The Creshe as she would call it, was always placed in the living room somewhere out of the way but accessible  for viewing. As a kid I would rearrange the livestock, and shepherds, and the Angel above the manger, mostly to get a reaction from Mom. Traditionally she wouldn’t place the Three Wise Guys into the scene, pardon me Wise Men, sorry Mom; until after Christmas Day, those Catholics can be such sticklers for detail.

Grandma Jo was my favorite Grandma. She would usually send us an advent calender for the Holidays, we were pretty young at the time. Each night we got to take our turn opening a window, revealing a piece of chocolate which that child would promptly eat. With six kids you were locked into getting about four pieces up to the 24th of December, Mom usually got the 25th.  Grandma Jo would also send a package marked Do Not open until December 25th, this was always underlined to make sure we got the point. She always underlined things in her cards and letters, it was her way of driving home the message.  We never got toys from her, it was always warm flannel pajamas. She came from the generation that thought the best gift was always a practical gift. I always thought of it as the Great Depression Generation.

Was it just our house,  or did anybody else set out their shoes on the night of December 5th, St. Nicks Night? If you had been good all year you would get candy and fruit, if you were bad it was a lump of coal. The shoes never stayed out too long, usually we’d set them out before dinner and retrieve them after we’d cleared the table. I’m not even sure the tradition still stands.

Right about this time she would begin her Christmas baking, Swedish Date Balls, Phephernus, three kinds of quick breads and Fudge. The truth be known usually she would end up making a second batch, the first never making it to the Holiday, whether by design or default I couldn’t say.

Honey, I think its a bit too tall.

The tree was always a natural tree. One year Dad and Mom loaded up the car and we went up into Pike National Forest and cut our own tree. Mom always had a problem with spacial dimensioning. Her ideal tree was a full Douglas Fur with no bare spots. Dad was the craftsman in the family having been a Union Bricklayer most of his adult life. The man has spacial down to a science. If he says “I think it might be a bit too tall.” Listen to him, this statement falls under the category of; “Are you sure you want to do it like that? Mom was insistent and in our house if Momma wasn’t happy ain’t nobody happy. My father and Mother were Happily Married for over forty two years, the tree came down. It stood 12 feet tall, what’s a couple of feet between spouses. Traditions are what family and Holidays are about.

Although I don’t celebrate Christmas in my home, a part of me still is drawn to that place were the  sites and sounds of the Holidays stir motions and bring back colorful images of people and events  that will be a part of me forever.

Talk to you later.

When Life Gives You Lemons, Rent A Camaro.

The week has finally come to an end. Not necessarily a factual statement, I mean who actually  decides when a week comes to an end. From an intellectual vantage point, time is linear, starting at a point moving forward. Lately I feel like I’m on a runaway steed holding on to the reigns. By pulling hard to the left or right I’ve managed to divert it to a circular path with no beginning or end. I mark its passage by weekly direct deposits into my checking account, and the monthly auto-drafts to the mortgage company.

The view I didn't get to see.

I went to Seattle Washington this week, business not pleasure, so I didn’t get to see any of these sites. Trapped in a conference room from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. the only view I got to see was Mount Rainier in my rear view mirror as I made my way back to Sea-Tac Airport. I made the best of it though, as I upgraded from a Chevy Cobalt, to a Chevy Camaro. Why is it that men can have the crappiest of tasks dumped on them, but let them drive a fast car to the shit-hole and they will line up for the privilege. You just don’t see that kind of work ethic from women!

December 2nd was my baby sisters’ birthday, and I forgot to call her! Happy Birthday Gloria! She is an outspoken, free-spirited woman, with that special ability to inspire me to consider the  improbable possibilities. Dreams that I’ve kept pretty well guarded, but feel comfortable sharing with her. A young mother, her son will surely benefit from her intoxicating reassurances.

The remembrance of the Maccabean revolt is almost upon us. Chanukah.  A military victory with  miraculous overtones; it recognizes the fight for religious freedom, marked by eight simple candles, and a Hallmark Card. Often misrepresented, it is considered a minor Jewish Holiday among our Rabbis. Sadly it’s been touted and elevated to commercial significance by TOYS-R-US and Target. We will likely have some Latkas, listen to some Klezmer Music, and light the Menorah. My wife would rather skip the whole event, as it comes right on the heels of Thanksgiving this year. Maybe if I rent her a 2010 Chevy Camaro, things will be a little easier to handle.

Talk to you later.

Thanksgiving Day, In Four Part Harmony.

It’s dark in the room where I sit. The quiet surrounding me is peaceful, it makes me contemplative. Everyone has gone to bed, while I savor the moment. The sound of the clock in the kitchen taps steadily, marking the progression of time as the second-hand sweeps a white face. Thanksgiving day has passed, somewhere some manic shopper is standing in a line waiting for the doors to open ushering in the Holiday Season.

Events from the day play through my head. Excitement in the house rises as our children arrive. There are dogs everywhere, sniffing under tails they greet each other in canine fashion. The smell of the roasting turkey fills the air, yet it’s hours before the serving of the meal. Alice’s Restaurant plays from the stereo, I’m not sure if the kids really enjoy listening to the dated tune, or if they are just humoring a pair of relics from the sixties and seventies. The Date Nut and Cranberry Nut Bread along with the hot apple cider are set on the table, an offering to those willing to sit through the 22 minutes, and 47 seconds of acoustic entertainment.

Everyone has been assigned a dish to bring, sort of selective pot luck based on personality and ability. My wife and I have been placing bets and raising the ante all week, each wagering against the other. Her mother, Alice. Remember Alice?  And her father Lenny, have become the dark horses in the race. Will they arrive on time? Last year they arrived with the salad, as we were serving dessert. This year they were punctual, however the green vegetable was transformed into orange carrots.

The rutabagas assigned to one of the daughters are curiously yellow, she swears they’re not turnips, I’m not so sure. The day before, there were photographic images from the produce section posted to Facebook, via her I-Phone asking for vegetable verification. I stand by my suspicions.

My son and his wife arrived with the pumpkin pies, made from scratch. They are a unique pair, reminding me of the hippies from the sixties and seventies but, born of the eighties depending on technology from the 21st century. His wife is our first child in-law, a difficult role to play as both of us stumble through the unfamiliar territory. The cultural differences and family customs have been challenging, but they haven’t jeopardized the relationship.

My youngest, The Lovely Seven of Nine, brought her boyfriend Commander Kirk, to the Arlo Guthrie acoustical interlude, but he had to leave to attend his family’s Thanksgiving celebration. The complications of two families living in the same zip code. Her contribution to the annual event? A sparkling clean bathroom, and talking me into allowing a 75 pound Doberman into our home, escorted by the two bearing the suspected turnips.

I wonder what my brothers and sisters Thanksgiving Celebrations were like yesterday, as each has  developed  their own traditions. I imagine some are hanging on to family customs, an homage to the memories of their childhood, as they adopt new ones. Each creating a tradition that has morphed into some unrecognizable ritual that suits their emotional needs. Traditions that will be transformed once again as their children grow older and find someone to share their lives with.

As I hear the tick, tick, tick, from the clock in the kitchen, I know it is only a matter of time before my wife and I get that phone call from one of our children informing us that they won’t be making it to our house for Thanksgiving this year. This year they have decided to go to the in-laws house for Thanksgiving.  I’m sure they will miss the Date Nut and Cranberry bread with hot cider, as we sing “You can get anything you want, at Alice’s Restaurant … Excepting Alice.” With feeling. Yeah right!

Happy Thanksgiving. Dad and Margaret. Laura, Kevin, Helen, Vince, Gloria, and all your families.

Talk to you later.

Is It A Green Trash Day, Or A Yellow Trash Day?

It makes my wife so mad! “Don’t you listen to me?”

I do listen, I just don’t remember very well, there is a difference! Usually it’s something as simple as remembering what night she said she would be teaching First Aid/CPR. Is this the week we put out the trash can with the green lid? Or is it recycle week, which means we need to put out both trash cans, the one with the green lid and the one with the yellow lid.

I blame my father. He is lousy with dates. He used to celebrate his wedding anniversary on the March 28, my mother however would celebrated it on March 25. I could never understand why they never got out the marriage certificate to verify the date. They both agreed that they were married in March, 1960;  that was easy, it was one  month before I was born. Yeah, remembering the month and year was easy, explaining it to each of their 6 children was a bit more difficult. Dad always said the first child could arrive at any time, generally that second child took about 9 months.

As Thanksgiving creeps ever closer, so does my youngest daughters’ 23 birthday. I’m not sure what to get her for the occasion, maybe a good road atlas with easy to identify compass headings for the directionally challenged. She would argue that a good GPS would be more practical, but I prefer the old fashion method. If I could just get her to use the terms like, North and South, East and West it would  make my navigational duties much easier. Night time search and rescue with this one is brutal. Without the mountains off to the west her ability to locate her position is nearly hopeless. The only thing she can be sure of ; blue is up, dirt is down. If it is night time I may have to modify the guide lines; black is up, your feet are down.

Talk to you later.

Looking Out For Potholes.

We have returned from the lunch date with my son and his wife. As we sat across the table I could feel a sense of unity between the two as we discussed their dreams and plans for the future. He wants to get a home some day, nothing fancy a fixer-upper. She wants to go back to school, her desire to help people is deeply seated. As I watched the two I could see a couple that have grown comfortable with each other. I remember the first time I felt it with my wife, it goes beyond trust, it comes from knowing when to say the right thing.

Listening to them today, I wanted to stop them and say let me do that for you. I didn’t,  I wouldn’t, this is a road they need to traverse together dodging the potholes in their path, hitting some of them along the way. I could tell from the conversation they felt confident in their ability to achieve their goals. Having gotten to know my daughter in-law I know that she can be a very determined woman, I have no doubt they will succeed. I left the restaurant feeling like we had spent the afternoon talking with good friends, not a son or daughter in-law. That was a very good feeling.

The weather over the weekend presented Denver with a 5 inch blanket of snow, most people choosing to stay inside watching their favorite sports team battle it out. I suspect the city will be grumpy on Monday with the 27-17 loss to the Washington Redskins. I enjoy watching football, but I actually find it more entertaining to listen to the Monday morning analysis. Every fans  feeble attempt to figure out the cause for the defeat. Every one is a genius come Monday morning.

Look Who's Coming To Dinner.

As Thanksgiving approaches I feel the anticipation rising inside me. I like the holiday, preparing the menu, searching through my stack of Holiday CDs looking for the image of Arlo Guthrie; napkin tucked under his chin with knife and fork in hand. I was pleased by my daughter in-laws’ reaction, she is  looking forward to the annual recitation. I think this year I’ll find the lyrics and hand them out  so everyone can follow along. In the twenty-eight years of  celebrating  Thanksgiving with my wife; my father has never witnessed a traditional Thanksgiving at my house, maybe one of these years he can. Alice and Lenny. Remember Alice? They will be coming for dinner, however my wife thought it best to avoid the confusion of trying to explain the recitation of the Massacre to her mother and father, I had to agree.

Talk to you later.

Parental Hopes, Dreams, And Illusions.

Lately I note the passage of time with birthdays, holidays, and events. Tomorrow my wife and I will be going out to lunch with our oldest son and his wife to celebrate his birthday. On Monday he will be turning 26 years old. My G-d what the hell happened to the time. I still remember him jumping up and down in his Johnny Jump Up to the tunes of Prince when he was still formally known as Prince. The Johnny Jump Up was modified so it could be  suspended  from the living room ceiling, where he would spend hours jumping to “Little Red Corvette” and “1999″.

The Passage Of Time.

It took him some time to get the hang of Halloween, one year his mother asked him what he wanted to be for Halloween? After careful consideration he responded, “Mom I want to be A New Pair of Pants and a Shirt.” That year he went as a spider complete with two extra pair of legs and the biggest goggles we could find. He didn’t care, it was hard to upset this little guy. When the answer to something was no, his response was always, “Maybe later”;  presented with a slight sigh yet hopeful tone.

A child’s innocence, has always astounded me, I wonder when we become so jaded and suspicious. One day on after a long ride in the van, a favorite Randy Newman tune covered by Joe Cocker came on the radio. While  Joe sang his seductive rendition of how his woman should take off her dress, as the chorus reminded us that she could leave her hat on. My son secured in his car seat listened intently. When the song was through he commented, “Dad that must be some hat!” Innocence is a beautiful thing.

We all have dreams for our children, all too often we forget those dreams are our dreams not theirs.  We can feel cheated or unfulfilled when our children choose a different path. It’s taken me some time to come to grips with this obvious fact of life. I now see a young man who is exploring talents that I never knew he had. He has always been artistic, a talented musician with a G-d given gift to play the clarinet. However lately, I’ve seen drawings of still lives that look incredible. I’m so proud of him for having the courage to try new things. I don’t think any of us knows where this path will lead, it really doesn’t matter it’s his path not mine.

I hope all my children will be blessed as my wife and I have been.  To enjoy the challenges of parent hood with it highs and lows.  Daughters that started out despising the out doors, only later to don boots and parka so they can shred the slopes on snowboards, or go careening down hillsides on mountain bikes. Directionally challenged children that think nothing of getting into a car to drive over mountain passes in snowstorms. Daughters who have time to sit with their father while they watch The Ten Commandments for the umpteenth time, so they can see their favorite part with him. And sons that are gentle and soft-spoken, who play music that still bring tears to my eyes.

Talk to you later.