Dear Mom that man has no arms

Dear Mom that man has no arms

Some trials of parenthood have no good answers. While reading Madaline there is a line “They smiled at the good and the frowned at the bad.” The picture of the bad is a crook stealing what is apparently a bag of money or something.

“What is that daddy?” She points to the bag of apparently money. “Why is he bad.”

“He just stole some money from someone who needs it very badly. He is a very bad man.” The obvious thing is he robbed a bank, but I have come to believe robbing a bank is really just poetic justice. I blame it on Cole Younger days and growing up next to a cave Jesse James slept in.

The next line is, “some times they were very, very sad.” There is a picture of a soldier with a broken leg. “How did he hurt his leg Daddy?”

“I am pretty sure he did not listen to his Daddy and climbed a tree when he wasn’t supposed to and broke it when he fell out.”

There seems to be a pattern here. She is inquisitive. She needs to know things. She questions what she does not know in a futile effort to accumulate all the knowledge in the world. Or maybe it is just that she is five.

As we were standing in line the other day she saw a man with no arms. “Daddy that man has no arms!”

“Why yes, you are right, he has no arms.” I knew when I said it this was not the end.

“What happened to his arms Daddy?” There it was. Do I treat this different than I usually do? Do I choose this moment to teach her what is appropriate subject matter while standing in a line? Do I know what is appropriate subject matter when standing in a line?

“I think he was not very careful while he was feeding the alligators.”

The other person I was in line with gasped. “Was that not sensitive enough?” I asked already knowing her opinion. Claire did not ask anymore questions about the man. She glanced at him a few times, but did not stare. I am guessing that she has a healthy fear of alligators at this point. It occurred to me I should have said, “He did not eat his carrots and his arms fell off.” Again probably not the right level of sensitivity considering the subject.

Years ago there was a girl in college that had sever burns over most of her body. Her face was completely scared. I had observed how no one talked to her. There were a few people who knew her and they did a good job of just pretending that nothing was wrong. I passed her a few times and I felt very self-conscious about not saying “Hi.” I over analyzed this and wondered if I was self-conscious because I would have said Hi to someone else if they were not burned or if there was some intrinsic discomfort that came with being around someone different. Deciding I needed to explore this internal turmoil I sat down with her in the student union one day.

“Hi, I’m Mike.” I pondered putting out my hand to shake, but thought if she were a hot cheerleader type I would not try to shake hands when I introduced myself.

“I’m Jennifer.” She answered. Her voice was sweet and even not at all what I had expected, but then I had no idea what to expect.

We talked for 15 minutes or so and I eventually asked her about the burns. She told me a house fire, which almost took her life, was the culprit. It happened when she was in her early teens and she had finished high school with the burns so was quite used to people being curious. I told her I thought it was better that I ask and get it out of the way then to wonder every time we passed in the hall and never say anything to her.

She agreed. We became acquaintances and even friends. I always said, “Hi Jennifer.” When we passed the hall and she would always say Hi back. I sat at her table many times when I came out of the cafeteria and was looking for a seat. On occasion I would see someone I knew pass by not looking at her they way I used to not look at her and I would call them over. “Hi, how you doing? Do you know Jennifer?” I would follow up with some other question to further my ruse of asking them over to the table. If I could I would get them to sit down and when possible pull Jennifer into the conversation.

Over time I noticed a few more people saying, “Hi Jennifer.” When they passed her in the hall. Years later when I had developed a habit of specifically avoiding avoiding people I realized the introductions were as much for the other people as they were for Jennifer. Jennifer deserved more friends and surely these people deserved to have an experience to help break down their own barriers.

Standing in line at the grocery store Claire noticed a little old lady in a wheel chair. “Why is she in that chair Daddy?” Remembering the man with no arms I pondered saying, “She ate too much candy,” or “that is what happens when you do not wear your helmet.” Instead I took a different approach.

“I don’t know, lets ask her.” I turned to the woman. “Excuse me, my daughter and I were wondering why you are in that chair?” I knelt beside Claire with my arm around her which put her in an uncomfortable position of being front and center of the conversation, but not so far in she could not be comforted by her Daddy’s arm around her shoulder.

At first the woman acted a little startled. She looked at Claire and smiled broadly. “You are so cute.” She reached out with a delicate hand but could not quite reach her and Claire was not quite up to getting any closer. “I got old.” She said. “I can’t walk around like I used to and this chair helps me do my shopping.”

“Don’t ever get old.” She added. Claire did not talk through this but glanced up at me a few times as if to say, “uhh, can we leave now?”

I am thinking that a few more of these introductions and she will get the hang of it. I don’t want her to be uncomfortably inquisitive but I do want her to avoid avoiding things. I believe it is healthy to ask questions such as these just as you might say, “where did you get that jacket?” or “that is a nice color of fingernail polish.”

There is a balance she must learn. It is not the same to tell someone they are stunningly beautiful as it is to tell them their disfigurement is grotesque. I hope I have set a good enough example to teach her the difference.

In the mean time I am hoping she does not ask any one armed men how their alligators are doing.

Love Mike

Dear Mom so this is what Christmas was like

Dear Mom so this is what Christmas was like

That first Christmas together or should I say that first Christmas Claire and I spent alone together. She arrived home on Christmas Eve. She was far too tired to worry about presents and perhaps too young to fully understand the significance of the night before Christmas. I put her in her jammies and tucked her into bed. I sang a few choice lullabies, though they were completely unnecessary, she was already asleep. They were not for her. They were for me. I had just spent my very first Christmas Eve alone. She was back and everything was right with the world.

The presents were wrapped, check! The toys from Santa were out, check! There were goodies in the stockings, check! The carrots and cookies were eaten with a commensurate amount of crumbs left on the plate to make it look real, check! The camera was ready with fresh batteries. I went to sleep that night, peacefully, looking forward to Christmas morning.

When I opened my eyes Claire had not yet woken up. I toyed with the idea of waking her, then decided to let her sleep, I rechecked everything I had checked off the night before and decided to go play a computer game. It was almost 10:00 before she came into the computer room. Sleepy eyed in her little footy pjs. Carrying a teddy bear and seeking some serious snuggling time. I hoisted her up into my lap and she nestled her head against my shoulder and I though she would fall back to sleep for a moment.

“Did Santa come?” The little voice, almost a whisper, was not filled with surprise or excitement, it was just a question like, “Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know?” I answered, “maybe we should go check?”

With as much excitement as I could express I carried her down the stairs and gasped at the Christmas tree. She wiggled to be released from my grasp and pranced toward the tree as only a toddler can do. I pointed at the plate on the coffee table, “Look, he ate all the cookies!” I might as well kept that to myself, she was busy picking up presents.

We sat down beside the tree and started opening presents. She was awkward but dedicated. Little by little the paper came off the packages. I tried to catch every gasp and smile on camera but they were short and quick. No sooner had she opened one present she reached for another. As she reached for her fifth present she looked over at me. “Where are you presents Daddy?”

There was suddenly a silence in the room I could feel. I stared blankly at her for a moment while I thought of something to say. Where were my presents? I had no parents to give me presents, my ex-wife was surely not giving me anything. My grandmas had stopped sending me stuff years ago.

With wisdom far beyond her years and a sympathy that I did not even know her small frame was capable she handed me the present in her hand and said, “Here Daddy you can have one of mine.”

I reached over and pulled her into my arms. Tears welled in my eyes as I hugged my dear sweet daughter. “You are so sweet.” I told her, “Let’s have some breakfast before we finish opening presents.”

I am sure she would have preferred to continue with the presents but unknowledgeable of the actual tradition or events of Christmas she went along with it. I put her in her highchair and got out some cereal and some milk in her cup. Then I palmed the roll of tape, a pair of scissors and hid a roll of wrapping paper behind my back and dashed up stairs. Grabbing a pair of socks, an old CD, and a few other things within reach I quickly wrapped some presents. Peaking down the stairs she was intent on eating her cereal and watching the cartoons on TV. I snuck behind her and placed the packages on the floor next to the tree. When we had finished eating I suggested we sit back down and finish opening presents.

With great surprise and excitement I pulled over the heretofore unseen gifts. I announced, “My turn.” And opened up a pair of socks. “These are my favorite.” I exclaimed. “Your turn.” I told her and she reached for another present.

“Is this one mine or yours Daddy?” She held it up and waited for me to answer. “That one is yours Sweety.”

How many times had you wrapped a present for yourself just so you would have something to open at Christmas? How many times had you rushed up the stairs, or gone around the corner or sheltered my young eyes from something that was going to make me sad? How many times had you pretended nothing was wrong when the rent was late or the water bill was due?

The night before as I spent my very first Christmas Eve alone I felt such sorry for my dear sweet mother who, had all those years ago, sat at home and waited for her children to return. I was certain it was one of my saddest moments. Now it became clear to me it was only a shadow compared to the feeling of waking up Christmas morning and not having a present under the tree.

Claire sat nestled in my lap as we opened boxes, took apart packaging and explored her new treasures. She vacillated between presents trying to decide which one needed her attention most at that moment. Choosing carefully which was to be her favorite, which she would take to bed that night. She picked up a small teddy bear and gave it a big hug. She set it down and turned around. Climbing a little higher in my lap she wrapped her tiny arms around my neck and hugged me. “Thank you Daddy,” she said, “You are the best present ever.” I do not know if it was a slip of the tongue. I do not know if she meant to say something else. It seemed to only make sense in a context I thought only I could see. “No,” I said, “YOU are the best present ever.”

Merry Christmas Mom,

Love Mike

Dear Mom it is Christmas Eve already

Dear Mom it is Christmas Eve already

When I was young I spent every Christmas Eve with my Dad. Coming from a broken family earns you an entire set of traditions all your own. My sister and I would go over to my grandparents house and do the whole dinner/gift thing. I spent Christmas Eve in the very same house with the very same people for 30 years. When I got divorced my Ex accommodated me by extending this tradition to my daughter. Christmas Eve with her Mom then Christmas morning waking up with her Dad.

My Dad would pick me up and I would hug and kiss you, say Merry Christmas and head out over the river and through the woods to grandma’s house. There we would chew on a candy cane eat some Christmas cookies hug relatives you only see twice a year and wait for dinner. Grandma made the greatest dinners. There were certain things you could always count on. Mashed potatoes and corn, I like them both, next to each other on the plate with lots of butter. Hot rolls right out of the oven smothered with butter, sprinkled with honey. I have tried many rolls since but I have never found rolls just like those.

To this day I still keep a good supply of honey in the house. Not because I use it often, but because of the memories it pulls up. Claire has often declared toast and honey as one of her favorite breakfasts. I wonder what she will remember about honey? The regular dishes were there but I could fill up on mashed potatoes and corn. The only reason to leave any room in your stomach was for pie. My grandfather loved pie. No occasion was finished until you broke out the pie. To this day if I eat pumpkin, apple, rhubarb, pecan or peach pie the standard I use to measure them is grandma’s pie.

After dinner we would open presents. When I was young that meant a present from everyone there. Later years we drew names, which made it much easier. Hopefully someone got a game or something so we would not be bored once the gifts were gone. And there was always the requisite number of sweaters, scarves and new socks.

When I arrived home you would be there. The TV would be on, often a bottle of wine open in the kitchen. You would hug us and ask us what we got. We would break open our presents and show you the cool or pretty lame gifts. In later years there was much laughter to be had, teasing our absent relatives about their choice of gifts.

There were years when I was older I knew you were going out with someone, friends, a boy friend or a party somewhere. I always felt better if I knew you were out. I didn’t want you to spend Christmas Eve alone.

When my Ex picked up Claire that very first Christmas apart I suddenly had a new respect for what you had gone through. I was alone in the house on Christmas Eve. I had not planned anything. I needed to be home later when Claire was dropped off. I opened up a bottle of wine, broke out some cheese and crackers, turned on I’ts a Wonderful Life and settled in for a nice evening at home. Sitting in my chair in front of the Christmas tree I tried to treat it like any other evening without my daughter. But I could not. I kept remembering you waving goodbye as we got in Dad’s truck.

I knew what you went through then, and you did a great job of not letting your kids know exactly what it felt like. But as I faced the epiphany of exactly what was going through your mind it was different. I felt a little selfish. Why had I not done more when I had the chance? You would just remind me I was the kid and you were the parent. Some burdens are not for kids to carry. However the saddest part of the whole event was not that I was sad for myself. Though I was certain this might have been one of the saddest moments in my life. But I was sad for a mother staying at home alone, all those years ago.

We had some great times through the years. You would think it was good enough times to make up for any number of Christmas Eves alone. But at that moment, none of those other moments mattered.

Love Mike

Dear Mom the cookies smell great

Dear Mom the cookies smell great

As Christmas approaches Claire is busy making everything perfect for Santa Clause. She has drawn him a picture. She has made him a special note. After much consternation over the subject she has decided we need to put the note over the top of the cookies to make sure he sees it. She has insured our stocking are hung. She has made special care we have fresh milk and carrots in the fridge. I suggested we have some carrots for dinner and she insisted we need to save them for the reindeer. I am not completely sure that is her sole motivation, carrots have never been her favorite, but it is Christmas so we can go with it. She asked me, “Daddy if I have some cereal and milk will we have enough milk left for Santa?”

I assured her there was plenty of milk for Santa. I am not sure, but I think for a minutes she was contemplating using water on her cereal. She kept glancing at the faucet as if she were going over her options. Being a big girl now she can pour her own milk over her cereal. I only get the half-gallon size containers. She hesitated several times and analyzed the container to make sure she had not used too much. This would have been less funny if it was not a full container. But it was, in fact, brand new. I guess she suspects Santa is very thirsty.

The one thing that has been missing is cookies. Starting about a week ago she started suggesting we make cookies for Santa. I had not picked up ingredients at the store last time and decided we needed to put it off a bit.
“We need to make sure we have cookies for Santa!” She exclaimed. She is obviously going to grow up to be a big tipper.
“Don’t worry honey, we will have plenty of cookies for Santa.”

As she goes over her list she keeps coming back to the one thing that she cannot check off yet. When are we going to make cookies? I suppose I should have just bit the bullet and jumped in the car and went and bought some more eggs. This would have been easier. But, now there was a line in the sand and I though patience was a good lesson here.

I picked out a date and a time and kept reminding her that was when we were going to make the cookies. There were ornaments to make, Christmas cards to make, more decorations to put up, but it all came back to the cookies. “Can we make the cookies now?” She would ask at the end of every project, or sometimes in the middle of one.

“What day is on the calendar?” I would ask, realizing she knew exactly what day it was, but was just interested in testing to see if I remembered.

Now it is the day before Christmas Eve and I have it all planned out. The ingredients sit on the counter. The cookie sheets sit on the stove top ready to be greased. Now I just wait for the little girl to come home from visiting her Mother. I imagine we can do the cookies then do clean up and it will likely be time for a bath. Oh how I wish my kitchen did not have carpet. It is funny but it is taking great willpower not to make the cookies myself. So, first I need patience for my daughter’s nagging, now I need patience to wait for her to get home. This whole process is trying my patience. When I planned this I did not realize the lesson in patience was for me.

Love Mike

Dear Mom it is too late we already told Santa

Dear Mom it is too late we already told Santa

There are few things more wonderful than watching a little girl marvel at Christmas. Claire has gone through all the normal questions. How does Santa go everywhere in one night? How does Santa get in your house if you don’t have a chimney? I am dreading the day when some kid tries to tell her there is not Santa Claus and I have to figure out a way to break it to her that her father has been lying to her for years. I am torn at which will be worse. The look of disappointment in her face that there is no Santa or the look of disappointment that her Daddy could betray her.

“What? No Santa, I suppose the Tooth Fairy is fake too?” It will not be a good day.

Last week we made our annual pilgrimage to visit Saint Nicholas in his natural environment, the mall.

I had tried to get Claire to dress up in a new fancy dress, but she insisted on wearing something red. It was not her best shirt and had seen better days but it was clean and I gave up arguing with her. “Okay this time you pick out the shirt, next time it is my turn.” This worked with vegetables too. It also worked on Saturday morning. “Okay you pick out the show we want to watch this morning and I will pick out a show this evening.” Thus, cartoons only lasted till I wanted to watch TV.

It was the Saturday before Christmas and Crown Center was busy. Not that I expected to squeak in when no one was there, I suppose I should have gone sooner, or tried the Santa at Bass Pro Shop or something, anything. The line looked like it was going to be an hour or more. It was in fact an hour and a half. The line wound around the escalators, past several shops and ended in Crayola Land. A magical place where you must take off your shoes but are still not allowed to climb on the Crayola cabin. You could slide on the Crayola box lid but must stay off the oversize blocks.

Claire played while Daddy stood in the final line. As I moved close she sensed the ensuing event and came to stand beside me and put her shoes back on.

“Is that the real Santa?” She looked toward the Santa. He was a pretty good Santa as far as looks go. He had a real beard, which he had groomed for years. Reading spectacles adorned the end of his nose and he seemed altogether jolly.

“Yup, it sure is.” I assured her.

She stared at him for a moment then turned to the girl running the camera as she stared at a computer screen cropping the latest photo. “Is that the real Santa?” She pointed at the Santaesque man in the chair. I guess my word was just not quite enough. But somehow this girl, who was obviously on the Jolly Old Elf’s payroll, was going to be an authority. The camera girl reassured her. “Yes, that is the real Santa, all the way from the North pole.”

This seemed to satisfy her.

I was a little concerned she would be nervous.

“Daddy can you be in the picture too?” It is much easier to sit on a stranger’s lap if your Daddy is there too.

Last year she almost didn’t sit on his lap. Either she was much bolder this year or this Santa was all together more friendly.

“Hi Santa.” I said as we walked up.

“Hello there.” He answered. It was his real voice, no north pole accent for this Santa. Sounded like he was from mid to Southern Missouri. Not quite the boot heal but South of I 70. Claire popped up on his knee with no problem at all. I saddled up on the other side and smiled for the camera.

As I got up to walk around to the other side Santa asked, “So, what do you want for Christmas?”

“I want a skate board with a purple lightning bolt.” This was not what we had rehearsed. Where were the Barbie dolls, the Legos? For the last month we had assembled a list. Now at the moment of truth she springs this.

“What else do you want?” A good Santa indeed, let’s get something else on the list.

“Just a skate board with a purple lightning bolt.” Admittedly this was not a red rider BB gun but I was not happy about the choice. First of all she is five and cannot even ride her bike yet without training wheels. A skate board? Second of all, I don’t recall ever seeing this ad on the TV. Where was I going to find a skate board with a purple lightning bolt. What is the use of subjecting our kids to endless commercials of brightly colored overpriced childhood accessories if she was not even going to put one on her list? The Toy industry had let me down. Third, it was December and the wind chill was ten below zero, she would not even be able to use it for four more months. Fourth, if you were going to only ask for one thing, why not world peace?

“Okay,” said Santa, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Claire jumped down as I paid for our 5 x 7 photo. She was feeling pretty proud at this point. We walked out of the Crayola land and set out toward the gingerbread village. It was indeed a gingerbread village, but not at all impressive. Too many pastry shows on the food channel had set the bar too high for the average gingerbread village developer.

After a sojourn through the Crayola shop and a search for a cookie shop we were finally on our way home. “Maybe Santa will bring you something else, do you think that would be okay?”

“No, Santa, is pretty good about these things Dad.”

I knew I was reaching but I was trying to set up the Christmas morning to be something other than a disappointment.

“Well, what else do you want beside a skate board?” I pressed for more information.

“A skate board with a purple lightning bolt,” she corrected me, “besides it is too late Daddy, we already told Santa.”

She was right. There was no way out of this. The path was clear. Either I find a skate board with a purple lightning bolt or I accept that she is going to start doubting Santa right now. On the other hand if I do find a skate board it would go along way to convince her there is a Santa when someone try’s to tell her there is not. I may get another year out this? That is, if I find a skate board with a purple lighting bolt.

It occurred to me that a skate board must also come with the requisite elbow and knee pads. We already had a helmet. Plus, I was fairly certain the skate board fad would last about as long as it took her to fall off the first time, I give it 15 seconds. What about the mystery of Christmas? The wonder of the season? The magic in a child’s eyes as they rush downstairs Christmas morning?

Clearly, there were conflicting goals here that would weigh heavily on my mind for the next week.

Love Mike

Dear Mom hop, two, three

Dear Mom hop, two, three

Claire started Irish Dance lessons this month. For 4 years now she has watched the brightly colored dancers up on stage and you could see her dreamy eyed stares were conjuring up visions of dancing beside them.

She would imitate their twirls and jumps oblivious to onlookers and in her head she was as fabulous as any a dancer ever was, which means she thought she was half as graceful as she looked through my eyes.

The day she turned five she asked me, “Daddy, do I start dance lessons this week?” I had already found out lessons did not start till August. “You have to wait till the end of the summer.” I reassured her the time would come but it was little comfort. Every week she would count them down, “How many days now?” She would ask, then counting days on an imaginary calendar she would wrinkle up her nose. However many days that was it was entirely too many. “So does today count as a day?” Anything to shorten the time. “Yes, today is a day, but it does not count as a full day till you go to bed. So, when you go to bed tonight and wake up in the morning it will be one less day.” I had tried many versions of this explanation but none of them seemed to do anything but require more questions.

As August approached the start of dance class was pushed to September. Then as September approached it was pushed to October, then November. FINALLY, classes would start. Now after two classes her entire calendar is set by dance class night. There are no more Monday or Tuesdays, it is the day before dance class or the two days before dance class, then afterwards Thursday is the day after dance class. “How many more days till dance class Daddy?”

The instructor does not allow parents to watch. I have found a pub close by to wait out the class. She comes out all smiles. I ask her, “What did you learn today?” “Hop, two, three,” she answers. “Can you show me?” This inspires a barely comprehensible sequence of her feet moving that I encourage with a, “Great job! Can you teach me that?” “Maybe,” she answers, “it is very difficult.”

In the car as we are fastening out seatbelts she asks, “How many days till dance class Daddy?”

I am sympathetic to her plight and I want her to be excited about learning something new, but I refuse to wish for a single day to pass by any faster.

Love Mike

Dear Mom we should get two pumpkins

Dear Mom we should get two pumpkins

This October was warmer than usual and that causes some serious problems when it comes to pumpkin carving. Claire had started requesting to carve pumpkins the moment they started to appear at the grocery store.

“It is too warm,” I told her, “They will not last till Halloween.”

“They will get old very fast?” she pondered.

“Yes Sweetie the heat makes them age very fast.”

I am sure she was conjuring up images of last year’s pumpkin melting on our doorstep.

She mentioned it a few times over the next week but never pressed it. The inevitable demise of her pumpkin seemed a good enough reason to put off it’s acquisition. Then one day, out of the blue. “Daddy we need to get two pumpkins.”

“We do?” I was very curious where this came from.

“Yea, we get two so we can carve one today and save one for Halloween for when the first one gets all shrively.”

This was impeccable logic! How brilliant! We get two pumpkins, one for now and one for later. Not only have we conquered the not having a pumpkin at Halloween, we also double our fun and get to carve two pumpkins!

“That is brilliant honey, what a great idea!” I was beaming as much as she was at this point. It was obvious to me she was bound for greatness. I imagine one day I will be smiling the exact same way when she announces, “Daddy, I have found a cure for cancer!”

As I turned off the road heading into the parking lot of the nearest grocery store, I was still floored at the notion. She came up with this herself. I pondered the possibility of there having been a cartoon where the main character had to face similar obstacles to getting a pumpkin. But really, this was still brilliant.

It took us most of 10 minutes to pick out two perfect pumpkins. She did not go for the biggest ones and she did not go for the most round, or the most orange. Pumpkin picking must be more complex than I remembered it. She carefully picked up some, others she just looked at or patted. Then once she had the right one she looked at me, “This one Daddy!”

With our Pumpkins in the cart we headed to the car. We carefully placed them in the trunk and headed home.

She pondered pumpkin ideas in her head. “The first one is going to be a pirate pumpkin, the second one I will decide later, because we have some time before Halloween.”

The pirate pumpkin did not last long, but that was okay, because we had a spare.

Love Mike

Dear Mom, it is the first snow of the year

Dear Mom, it is the first snow of the year

This morning when I woke, I looked out the window and saw it was the first snow of the year. Although we had a few flakes yesterday, this morning there was just enough snow to give the ground a mostly covered in snow look. The cars had a nice even layer over the roof and the hood and it was wintry, though not really a wonderland.

After I coaxed Claire into her clothes and made her some breakfast I went outside to start the truck. In order to be sure we were not late for school I had to make sure the windows were clear before we went outside. As it turns out the snow did not stick to the windows and there was no frost or ice so clearing the windshield was easy. I left the truck running. There is nothing like going outside and stepping into a nice warm truck.

When it was time to leave we bundled up to go. I reviewed our plan to keep track of our gloves.

“Where do we put our gloves when we take them off?”

“In our pockets!” Claire announced triumphantly.

“This coat does not have pockets, so we put them in our sleeve or our backpack, remember?”

“Oh yea,” she pondered this, “Why does this coat not have pockets?”

“Because of a concept you will not understand till you are a teenager.”

“What concept?” She was not going to be easy to deflect.

“Image before substance. At some point someone decided that coat would look fancier without pockets so they didn’t put any in the coat.”

“So I use my sleeve?”

“Right, you use your sleeve.” That was easier than I expected. I can see her explaining it to some five year olds now. “Do you know why your coat has no pockets? Image before substance!”

As we stepped out the door I watched as her face lit up. There are few things as magical as a child’s infatuation with snow.

“IT SNOWED!” She was grinning ear to ear and I could see visions of snowballs and snowmen swirling so violently in her head stray images were popping out her ears and wafting about her brow. It was not that slick out but I took her hand and lead her to the truck door. “Is this real snow Daddy?” “No,” I teased, “it’s fake snow.”

The question was not altogether out of place. A couple of weeks earlier she had walked out to see the first big frost. Thinking it was snow she was excited till I explained the difference. Now she was not going to completely commit to happiness till she was sure it was real snow. My teasing could not quell the mood. “No, it’s not fake! This I real snow.” She kicked at it a bit. As I put her in the seat and handed her the seat belt, she was absent mindedly pointing the clasp in the right direction while she busied the rest of her attention looking around our mostly white neighborhood. With a little help we buckled up and were on our way.

“This sure is real snow.” She reinforced her contention, as if I would try to argue with her.

“Ahhh.” She saddened a bit as she saw there was rain falling now, instead of snow.

“Don’t worry Sweety it is a little warm now but it will snow plenty this year, we will see it again.”

An irritated grimace now fought with the immovable smile that had taken over her face. By the time we arrived at school the smile had won and she rushed into the school to share her excitement with her friends.

As I finish this letter the snow is all but gone. It is amazing what the warmth of one smile can accomplish.

Love Mike

Dear Mom it is the festival season

Dear Mom it is the festival season

About the time September hits, my calendar fills up quickly. There are only 8 or 9 weekends in which I must fit a years worth of festivals. Some people have favorite events to go to, I have favorite months. With the possible exception of Saint Patrick’s Day season, a holiday that needs more than one day to properly celebrate, this is truly my favorite time of year. Thousands of years ago our ancestors would finish with the Autumn harvest and gather in conclaves to celebrate the good fortune of the lands bounty and have one last party before cloistering themselves over the winter. Today remnants of those early festivals still linger in small towns across the world and reflect our agrarian roots.

I didn’t truly get it when I was a kid. Though I remember a few events that seemed to wander into my busy childhood schedule around Halloween, I never really understood what they meant. I don’t recall if you were dragging me to these things because you thought they would be fun for kids or because there was some deeper meaning behind it.

Either way, today I still consider those early outings as the roots of my current obsession. I decorate the house with pumpkins and autumn leaves. Spiced candles fill the air with a feeling of warmth. Outside my marigolds give their last autumn colored blooms before falling asleep for the winter. How can anyone not be submersed in the season.

And so every weekend I pack my sweater and head off to the next adventure. Harvest festivals, pumpkin festivals, wine festivals, and Irish festivals. Yes, Irish festivals, combine my favorite festival season with my favorite music, you get a killer combination. Claire does not truly understand what is going on, but she falls asleep every Sunday blissfully exhausted. Many years from now I imagine she will take part in the calendar planning. Help me pack the picnic basket and carefully put all the wine glasses in their place so they will not break on the way.

4-6 festivals in 9 weeks is just about adequate. Any less and you are really slacking on the job. I look forward to every Autumn and a new event to add to the calendar. Some will become annual outings and some will just be that once to see what it was like and to say you did it. Both are memorable and deserving of the effort.

When I take the pumpkins down at the end of November to make room for the Christmas tree I can’t help but feel a tinge of longing for the next Autumn.

Love Mike

Dear Mom I had a great weekend

Dear Mom I had a great weekend

It was one of those weekends you hope will happen but you can not really plan for. I still remember the first time you came up with the idea of Hermann Missouri for a weekend. You were all excited about the romantic notion of spending the day sitting around in a vineyard drinking wine. Soaking in the last of the Autumn warmth, watching the leaves change, listening to according music and sharing some wonderful moments with friends. You hope every year will be better than the last but you can never count on it.

I owe it to you that I never meet a stranger. There are some circumstances that make the notion easier than others but Octoberfest is a prime example of how easy it is to make friends. Sipping on wine can lead to a nice level of comfort and happiness that is very conducive to meeting new people.

Accompanied with spending time with old friends the time you spend with the new ones is that much more special. You talk about things you have in common and things you don’t. You share stories about your kids and reflect on how times have changed.

The slight breeze and smell of Autumn sets a stage that few things can match. The leaves softly falling off the trees send glints of sunlight that twinkle in the afternoon as you drain yet another bottle of wine. By the time the afternoon has passed and you can see the hints of evening falling in long shadows around you, you shake your head disappointingly at the setting sun and say goodbye.

Maybe you will see them next year. Maybe they will actually send an email much as you have heard in years before. Either way you have one more reason to never miss that first weekend in October.

Sudden Light

I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot telll.
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
the sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before
How long ago I may not know;
But just when at the swallow's soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall I knew it all of yore

has this been thus before?
and shall not thus time's edying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death's despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti


Love Mike

Dear Mom remember to wear your chef’s clothes

Dear Mom remember to wear your chef’s clothes

Whenever Claire and I set out to make something we always have to put on our chef’s clothes. These consist of an apron and a chef’s hat with an adjustable headband. She did not get them all at once, mind you. She had to earn them.

It all started when she was very small, less than two years old, and she would watch from her high chair as Dad donned his apron and put on his chefs hat and started making lunch. Now how cool is that? Not only does Dad use things I am not allowed to touch he gets to wear special clothes. I would try to put a bowl in front of her every time and ask her to stir. Reminding her, “When you get really, really good at this you might get your own apron!” She would stir with all her might and occasional get through the whole ordeal with the majority of the bowl contents still intact. When she was finally tall enough to reach the counter on her stepstool I announced she had earned an apron and could now cook at the counter. She would stand up on her stepstool with her apron and stir and mix and add salt whatever she could.

All fathers dream of the day when their daughters no longer need us to make every meal, pour every bowl of cereal and get every bottle of milk out of the frig. We hope this all happens without us having to clean up a mess afterwards but the dream of liberation comes first. There is no better way to do this than to heap pride and prestige upon the act of cooking. This is similar to the way we look forward to the day when our daughters are old enough to go to the potty by themselves. The difference is the consequential messes are larger yet less smelly.

As she perfected her skills of shaking, mixing, and adding things to the bowl she would occasionally ask about the chef’s hat.

“Dad, this is pretty tough, I might need the chef’s hat for this.” As if the chef’s hat relayed some magical power that once possessed would imbue her with unmatched cooking skill.

“Not quite yet,” I would assure her, “your day will come.”

Sometimes the approach would be different. “If I can stir this without spilling do I get to wear the chef’s hat?” She would say this while staring intently at the hat on my head.

“It is a good way to show me you have earned it, but you will not get to wear it yet.” The disappointment of getting turned down had long passed. It was mostly just a steady longing. But she would dutifully do whatever was needed to get the hat.

“Okay, before we eat we have to put all of our dishes away.” By the time I finished the statement she would already be hauling dishes to the dishwasher. I still ponder rather this early initiation will survive her teen years.

Shortly after her third birthday and her completion of potty training she made an announcement right before we started on some banana bread. “Dad, now that I am wearing big girl panties I need to wear the chef’s hat.” This was not an inquiry this was a statement of fact. Long months she had stared at the chef’s hat waiting for the day she could put it on and make her first dish. Long she had labored over the mixing bowls yearning for that magical moment when the chef’s hat would be hers. Now, with her newfound strength that comes when you mature into a panty wearing big girl she was stating her case.

“You know, I think you are right, I think you need to wear the chef’s hat today.” Her eyes lit up as if a thousand headlights went off all at once. She was jumping up and down on her stool deftly keeping her balance yet teetering on the brink of collapse at any moment.

I took the hat from my head and adjusted it for hers as I placed it proudly upon her brow. “Wow this sure is a big hat!” She felt her head to make sure it was real. “I have to see!” She rushed to the mirror to admire her newly won badge of honor. “I sure am a chef now huh Dad?”

“Yes you are darling, yes you are.”

Now whenever we set out to create a new culinary masterpiece we first put on our chef’s cloths. It focuses our attention, because you can’t go do something else while you are wearing your chef’s clothes. Some things have relaxed a bit. We no longer put on an apron just to make a peanut butter and honey sandwich but if it requires turning on the stove, like a grilled cheese sandwich it is sure going to need some chef’s clothes. Likewise the hat is sometimes unnecessary. If we are only going to pop something in the microwave there is no chef’s hat required, but if there is an oven involved you will have to be properly attired.

Now if I can just think up a uniform for cleaning your room.

Love Mike

Dear Mom you need three more bites.

Dear Mom you need three more bites.

Before Claire was two years old she made did something that I was sure represented a leap in the evolutionary time line. She took three more bites. I had spent a lot of time trying to get her to eat a balanced meal. This was stifled by a propensity she had early on to only eat one thing at a time. I do not mean eat her potatoes then eat her meat, I mean if there are 10 things on her plate she will only eat the potatoes. When the potatoes are gone she will ask for more potatoes. I am sure in her head it made perfect sense. Why would anyone eat anything besides potatoes if you had potatoes? Sometimes this was turned into a fad that lasted for a day or two, occasionally a week.

I did not worry so much when she decided the only food that would satisfy her appetite was broccoli. Nor did I mind when it was strawberries or bananas. The day she decided she wanted Cheetos I was a little worried. Starting with a snack at lunch time, which was not the first time she ever had a Cheeto but evidently represented the day she decided it’s nutritional value and flavor exceeded any such ratings of any food in the house, she refused to eat anything but Cheetos for the rest of the day.

I had been down this road before so was prepared for a short binge of snack food. I was not prepared the next morning when she asked again for Cheetos and refused to eat anything else. After refusing to eat anything put in front of her by lunchtime I was getting a little nervous. First of all, we were running out of Cheetos. Second this was not a binge of vitamin packed vegetables this was, well, Cheetos. I had remembered a conversation I had with her pediatrician.

“Don’t just balance what she eats in a single meal, think of it as an average of what she eats all day.” When I called her the next day after the second straight 24 hour period of eating nothing but bananas she modified her statement by saying, “Don’t just balance what she eats in a single day but balance it over the whole week.” As we approached day 5 of the banana binge I called to ask if she was going to expand that to a month. She made some suggestions on getting her to eat something else. Most of the things I had tried, the few I had not I tried and failed. Luckily on day 7 she switched to broccoli.

After trying to get her to eat something besides Cheetos all afternoon I broke down went to the store and got some more Cheetos. I kept telling myself it is important she eat something. To my surprise her preference was not just for Cheetos but for Cheetos that were crisp fried to a crackly crunch not baked to a delicate crunch. Another trip back to the store for the correct Cheetos. I got two family sized bags. My theory is as soon as she saw how much I had she would immediately switch foods so the Cheetos would go bad. It happened ever time I bought a pineapple so I expected it would work with Cheetos.

It did not work. The next day, half way through another bag of Cheetos I sat there exasperated. I had a bowl of corn, a bowl of peas, a bowl of strawberries and half a banana.

“Okay,” I said, “if you take three bites of peas you can have more Cheetos.” She looked at me and at first I thought it was one of those looks that meant, “I have no idea what you just said.” But to my surprise she grabbed a spoon jammed three giant spoonfuls of peas in her mouth and then looked at me with a, “Hey, where are the Cheetos?” kind of look on her face. She could not yet say “take three more bites of food,” but she could do it. AMAZING. So I placed five more Cheetos in a bowl. She munched them casually then looked at me with her hand in the empty bowl. “Take three bites of strawberries and you can have some more Cheetos.” Quickly she jammed three giant strawberries in her mouth. I had arrived.

It was the last time I had a multi day eating binge. This secret, evidently the most well kept secret of parenthood, was my ticket to a balanced diet.

Love Mike

Dear Mom may our friends never change

Dear Mom may our friends never change

I had a reunion this weekend. To say it was great to see everyone would be a dramatic understatement.

One of the reasons I always make it to the Phi Theta Kappa National Convention every year, yea I know it is an International convention but it was a National convention when I started going, is to see people I only see once a year. We catch up, we have a few drinks, we talk about what is going on now, good and bad, and we talk about the way we were. I have watched so many of my friends go through good and bad times it is a real source of strength when things get bad in my life. I have but to remember a conversation with someone I know made it through and it is almost like they are standing beside me now.

A phone call or an email just to say hi strengthens the moment and I suddenly have renewed vigor.

So much changes. Hair length, belt length, but there is this feeling when you meet you just said goodbye yesterday. It is uncanny how you can sit down and it seems like you were just talking the night before and you are thinking how did they lose 30 lbs overnight? I gotta get that diet.

One minute we are sitting around talking about our latest love and the next we are comparing notes on what songs we sing to our kids at bedtime. Years apart chronologically, moments apart psychologically.

Perhaps we have a sense of urgency that allows us to drop the formalities and throw ourselves straight into our longtime friend mode. After all we only have the weekend and we have to fit in as much as we can before Sunday arrives. The threat we will be hugging goodbye in only hours allows us to find that feeling we have always shared and cling to it.

I have no idea how often you could get together for such a feeling. I suspect there are some serious diminishing returns associated with frequent use. But you can’t help but think how fun it would be to do this every weekend. And really in your head that is what it is. A years worth of weekends strung together in your head yet separated by years. Everyone changing with every visit yet staying the same. Just as you remember them.


To a friend

I ask but one thing of you, only one,
that always you will be my dream of you;
That never shall I wake to find untrue
All this I have believed and rested on,

Forever vanished, like a vision gone
Out into the night. Alas how few
There are who strike in us a chord we knew
Existed, but so seldom heard its tone

We tremble at the half-forgotten sound.
The world is full of rude awakenings
and heaven-born castles shattered to the ground,
Yet still our human longing vainly clings
To a belief in beauty through all wrongs.
O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!

Amy Lowell

Love Mike

Dear Mom isn’t she a beauty

Dear Mom isn’t she a beauty

Lots of guys say, “I wish I kept that car I got when I got out of college.” I never have to say that because I did. A 1988 black Toyota Supercharged MR2 with the full sports package. In its prime it could out accelerate almost anything at the light and even more once it got up in rpms. Not to mention it had four disk brakes, could stop on a dime and cornered like it had suction cups on the tires.

When I got it I visited all three coasts. Staying with friends it was my summer of freedom. I just got out of college, sold my business and took some time before I moved on with the next stage of my life. It was my first car that was really my own, the first I paid for all myself and probably the only car I ever bought new. There have been years I just kept it in the garage or under a cover but I always take it out, give it a tune up a good wash and I am off again. This time of year I take the T-tops off and drive it around just like it was 20 years ago. One of the coolest feelings in the world is the slightly chilled night air nipping at the back of your neck with the furnace on in the car to take the edge off. You really only get that two times during the year and this is one of them.

I have considered getting a new sports car, but why? To go fast? I can still do that and besides I haven’t made a habit of speeding in years. To pick up girls? If they do not like my old sports car would it really work out in the long run anyway? I mean really, would I ever give up my prized baby after more than 20 years? No, I only need one sports car. Besides to really consider a new car I would have to have more garage space.

Love Mike

Dear Mom does this Barbie clash with my shoes?

Dear Mom does this Barbie clash with my shoes?

Thanks to some friends, Claire has accumulated quite a Barbie collection. Most of them have their own name. A few are just Barbie but as a general rule, if Claire is playing with the doll, it has it’s own name. Barbie sometimes accompanies us when we go somewhere. Or should I say Belle, Grownup Claire, or Daddy Action Figure, often accompany us when we go somewhere. Barbie, or the actual dolls she calls Barbie usually get left at home. One particular day Belle and Daddy Action Figure were dressed to the nines. I guess they were on their way to the Governor’s Ball or something. After alerting Claire it was time for us to head to the park she was resistant to leave the festivities. “Daddy, we just put on our fancy clothes. We can’t leave now!”

“Claire you have been looking forward to this all day. Do you really want to wait till it starts raining and it is too late?” I am not sure if it was going to rain today, but there were a few clouds and it was important to raise the stakes since the simple thought of time in the park was not enough. I was not sure if the added threat of not being able to go later was enough but today it worked. “Okay but Belle and Daddy Action Figure want to go too.” “Sure, why not, I am sure they will have a great time.” It was nice for a change not to have to convince her not to take one of her plush toy friends out into the park.

When we arrived I was concentrating so hard on getting Carnahan the dog out of the crate I did not notice that Belle and Daddy Action figure had already made it to the playground. First they did the slide then they dared the kiddy swing. Claire carefully placed them in the kiddy swing each of them with their legs sticking through a toddler’s leg hole. They were given a light push and she was off to her own swing. This was fine right up till the moment she noticed other kids coming to the playground. She quickly jumped off the swing and rushed over to get her dolls, err. action figures. “Here Daddy, you need to hold them so nobody takes them.”
She rushes off to play with a new friend and I am now left holding the dog and the sharp dressed couple. As a few moms venture over my direction I reflect on how absolutely impossible it is to look dignified holding two dolls.

You have a few choices. Just kind of grab them by the feet and act like you are just holding them temporarily . You can then hold them by your side as you would a tennis racket or something and not draw attention. Of course this is the surest way to draw the attention of your five year old for doll abuse. Second you can cradle them in an arm in front of you so they can watch the activities but this is probably the least dignified option. I choose a compromise. I stick them in my back pocket so they are upright and looking out behind me. This way they are not in my hand but they can still see fine and do not risk parts flying off as I swing them around. This also keeps them out of the way of Carnahan the dog. If Claire asks about them I can turn and she can plainly see they are comfortably seated with a nice view of the park.

The other moms do not really take notice they are still overcoming their suspicion of a man in the park in the middle of the day. A sad form of chauvinism on their part. A couple of their kids come over to pet Carnahan. Their eyes widen a bit and they move in my direction. “It’s okay.” I assure them, “Carnahan loves kids.” Carnahan is now happily licking kid faces and resisting the urge to jump up and knock one over. His will power is assisted by a firm hand on his leash. The two moms smile uneasily. Claire is now at my side introducing Carnahan the dog. She takes a break noticing I am not holding her dolls. “Daddy, where is Belle and Daddy Action Figure?” I turn to show her they are safe. “Daddy, they are really dressed too nice to sit in your back pocket.” She had a point, if I am in a tux I would not be caught dead in somebody’s back pocket.

“Well, if I carry them in the front they will really clash with my shoes.” I try a defensive move to see if I can head this off. Claire eyes me up and down and responds, “Your right Daddy, you are not very fancy today.”
As Claire heads off to play with her new friends I notice the two Moms are far calmer with their kids out of my reach. They both are kind of looking at my butt. I like to tell myself it was not because I had to dolls in my pocket. “I had no idea the park was a formal event today.” I explain. “It’s okay,” one of them sympathizes, “we are a little underdressed as well.”

It is amazing what a few words can do. We talk a little about the new play equipment and they avoid ribbing me about my dolls, err. action figures.

Love Mike

Dear Mom Alice the Camel cheats at Sorry,

Dear Mom Alice the Camel cheats at Sorry,

Claire enjoys playing games. Can you really blame her? I still have faint memories of you sitting down with me when I was very small and playing games with me. You used to tell a story of how we were playing Candy Land one time when I suddenly stopped cold as I proclaimed: “HEY, wait a minute, this game is all luck!” As you tell the story I refused to ever play it again and the next day demanded you teach me how to play chess. Claire still enjoys Candy Land and I still do not so we often branch out into other games that require a little more decision making. Sorry is one of her favorites.
Sometimes when we play games her little friends play too. Alice the Camel is an avid game player and often sits in when the need arises for a third player. When the game is all luck as in Candy Land things go well, I can even remember a game Alice one. Claire was a little wary as Alice took her turn so close to the end of the map but I started cheering for Alice. “Go Alice, you can do it, you just need a double space, come on Alice!” Claire soon joined in and we were both rooting for Alice. By the time Claire drew Alice’s card, (it may be the entire point of a third person is to give Claire more play time,) the air was tense with anticipation. When Alice dropped her piece at the finish we jumped up and down and shouted, “Alright Alice! Great job! Way to go!” It was a lot of fun. We talked about it for days.
“Daddy, remember when Alice won the Candy Land game?”
“I sure do sweetie, that was pretty cool wasn’t it?”
Turns out Alice the Camel also likes to play Sorry. I did not realize when we started that Alice was actually in collusion with my daughter to bring down her Daddy. Play started just great, everyone was having a great time. Then I noticed on Alice’s turn she seemed to always land on my pieces and never Claire’s. Claire was very sympathetic to my plight. “Oh no Daddy, Alice is landing on you again!” As Claire moved Alice’s piece on top of my own and sent my piece back to Home I could not keep from raising my eyebrow just a little bit. “Don’t worry Daddy, you can come back. You still have a piece over there.”
The next turn she was again sympathetic to my cause, “Look Daddy I am landing on Alice the camel!” I also noted there was no place for her to land on me that turn. “That’ll teach Alice to land on my Daddy.” She gleefully sent Alice’s piece back to her Home. “Now don’t land on my Daddy, anymore Alice.” She scolded Alice as if she were not in on the scam.
Over a matter of turns the two of them systematically shut me down. Soon Claire won and we all jumped up and down and told her what a great job she did. I suppose the whole situation is not much different than me throwing a game or just giving me a large handicap whenever I play with kindergarteners but it still did not feel right. I think it is important she win most of her games but it is also important she lose now and then. My normal formula is 1 to 3 or 1 to 4 loss to win ratio. It is also important the first game be a win if I expect repeat play. Claire has developed what I believe is pretty good sportsmanship through the practice and keeps wanting to play more. So, it works but the entire idea of her scheming with Alice to win the game is a little bothersome. Alice keeps quite on the subject but I think she knows I know. I will have to keep my eye on her.

Love Mike

Dear Mom the flowers look lovely

Dear Mom the flowers look lovely

I have labored all year on my flower garden. It is not complicated. It has three sections. Marigolds in two of them and impatiens in the third. One section just got too much shade this year and the marigolds did not prosper at all. I gave up midsummer and realized I would have to just put bark there next year. Oh well, it was nice while it was lasted and I truly need less to weeding anyway. The other two have done very well.

Early summer you just have these spots of flowers sticking out of the ground. You see more ground than plants unless you have not weeded this week and it hardly looks like a flower garden.

If you fail to weed one week you will find the flowers are actually choked by the weed growth. I have experimented in the past by weeding half the garden and watching while the weeded section actually grows twice as much as the un-weeded section.

I have also experimented with watering. Watering one section only every third day and the other sections every day has a similar effect. The flowers grow twice as fast in the watered section.

So, to mind your garden well weed it two to three times a week for a few months water it every day and you will find as the flowers get bigger you need to weed less and you see far less ground. This, of course, is in addition to adding manure every year and extra peat to hold in the moisture.

So, here it is the Autumn. The flowers look great. I would say they have not looked “great” till about a week ago. The impatiens never filled out like I wanted them too, but then again I must have the wrong expectation for them because I can’t remember a time when my impatiens did fill out like I wanted them to. But the marigolds look great. They are full of blossoms and cover almost all of the space in the garden. I have to trim them back a little where they hang over the sidewalk.

Now I cringe watching the weather hoping the first frost will hold off. I have considered plastic for emergencies if we get a sudden first frost that is too early but why fight nature? In years when I have done this it never seems to work very long anyway.

Just about everything I learned about gardening I learned at your side. I am not as ambitious. I rarely like more than two kinds of flowers, but that is mostly because I like the splashes of color from the curb view. I remember the garden in front of your house looking almost like an herb garden. But it looked loved and well taken care of. In the Winter when the snow was on the ground and last years flowers were encased in ice it was hard to tell they were not once weeds, but they were beautiful in their own right. Still a garden in winter is just a shadow of what it is in late summer.

Gardens are just one of those things you pour your time and attention into and only really reap the benefit for a short time.

Love Mike

Dear Mom tuna salad is more than just a salad

Dear Mom tuna salad is more than just a salad

Claire recently discovered that petunia salad, ie “tuna salad” is more than just a salad. I have always tried to involve her in the kitchen and this has turned out to be one of her favorite things to make. It has all the elements that make a meal fun for a kid. You need to boil an egg, so there is actual cooking on a fire. Kids love that. Lots of stuff to add, kids love that. Stirring, a mainstay of any kid friendly meal. And once more it goes with just about anything.

Recipe is simple
Boiled eggs
Tuna
Mayo and/or miracle whip
Pickle relish, I prefer dill but sweet relish will work too

There you have it
If you want to get fancy you can add:
Chopped celery
Finely chopped onion or chives
Cilantro or any number of parsley like herbs available in your local grocery
Mustard, any kind will work, but you can really add a flare to it

“I want to turn the water on!” Claire had brought it down to a science exactly what she is allowed to do and what she is not. She cannot carry a pot of water to the stove, but that does not prevent her from turning on and off the water, adding the salt, adding the eggs or putting the lid on the pot.

“Can I turn the stove on now?” She asks this every time but she knows the answer.
“No, your legs are not quite long enough yet.”
“But they are very long and look I how far I can reach!” This is an old argument.
“But not long enough, I will tell you when your legs are long enough.” She, long ago, figured out that her ability to reach something had nothing to do with her being allowed to do it. I have supplanted her leg length as the deciding factor. She has not yet wrapped her head around exactly how I know her legs are long enough but she trusts me that this is a fair and ordinary method of determining ones aptitude for a task. Kind of the way she thinks I can tell the sex of a puppy by looking at the bottom of its feet. I am pleased that even in her eagerness to do all things adult she still asks permission to do things she has never been allowed to do. I fear the time when she just does them and waits to see what happens.

As the water starts to heat she gently puts in three eggs and some salt.

I bring down a mixing bowl and start to open a couple cans of tuna. She gets the mayo, relish and onions out of the frig.

With the tuna opened and drained she announces she will begin. She stands on her step stool in front of the counter. “I will start the petunia salad Dad.” She reaches over and grabs the tuna and using a fork manages to get almost all of the tuna into the bowl.

“Can you open this Dad?” There was a time when she tried to open every jar before she handed them to me. Currently she just hands them to me. A spoon full of mayo and Miracle Whip and a couple spoons of relish and she starts stirring while I finish chopping the onions. I like them finely chopped. I want the flavor but not large chunks of sharp onion flavor, just mild hints of onion. By this time the egg is done and I carry it over to the sink to run water over it. Now comes one of my favorite parts.

I hand her a lukewarm egg. She carefully taps it on the counter several times as she has seen me do so often and starts to peel the egg. If you boil the egg just right the shell comes off really easy. Too long and it sticks. Set the eggs in the water and measure 5 minutes till they are boiling. Then turn the heat off and let stand for 5 more minutes in the hot water. Flash cool them under running water. Voila! I mostly just guess at the time results may vary.

Claire carefully makes sure all egg parts are off the egg. We have a very fancy egg dicer. Put the egg in it and press down on top and you have chopped egg. Thanks to some crazy guy on the TV Claire is convinced it works best with a hard whack! It doesn’t, but how do you argue with a guy on TV?

Once mixed it can be eaten alone, very low carb, or with crackers and celery like a dip, or traditionally between two slices of bread. We like to mix it up, one day on wheat bread the next day on Pepperidge Farm cinnamon bread. Claire came up with this and I have to tell you it is really my favorite now.

We don’t eat till all the prep dishes are in the dishwasher.

“We sure made some great petunia salad Dad.” This is a statement but demands an answer as if it were a question.

“We sure did, you sure are a great tuna salad maker.”


Love Mike

Dear Mom where is my runners high?

Dear Mom where is my runners high?

I have been running pretty faithfully now for most of a year. I have had some times when I felt under the weather that slowed me down but for the most part I get my three miles in three times a week with little or no pain. Yet, I keep waiting for that moment when I finish and feel like doing something besides cooling off drinking lots of water and sitting on my butt in front of the computer. I know it is good for me, I actually feel better overall, but I don’t get any “runners high” from running.

I have considered running longer and there are days when I actually feel like running farther but I seriously don’t want to put that kind of time commitment into sweating in public. Plus when I number crunch it I cannot find a study that says exercising more than an hour a day had any different end result that exercising just an hour a day.

I remember you once explaining to me why I had to do my homework. Faced with me trying to find a short term gain for doing homework instead of playing video games you said: “If you don’t brush your teeth today you will not feel the difference immediately but eventually if you don’t do it every day, you will get lots of cavities. If you eat only cake and ice cream today it may sound like a good idea and you may even avoid the tummy ache today but eventually it will lead to obesity. If you don’t do your homework today it may not affect in the least but if you repeatedly put it off it will have serious long term ramifications.”

As I recall you threw in, “for instance I am sure you will miss the television since you will not be able to watch it anymore and you will miss your computer since I will give it away to Good Will and you will miss your bicycle since you won’t be able to leave the house till your home work is done.” But I think that first part was the part I was supposed to get the life lesson from.

I don’t have a mother to give me penalties for not doing my homework anymore and I look deep trying to find something to motivate me to finish certain things. But where that fails I often just remember what you said about brushing my teeth. I often need little more.

Love Mike

Dear Mom there is just not enough time

Dear Mom there is just not enough time

I was running this morning over a path that was pasted with wet leaves and meandering along the bank of a stream. There came a point when a particularly fast song on my Ipod had me kicking up the pace and as I slowed down at the end I suddenly noticed how beautiful it was. This particular location was shielded from any roads or buildings by trees on one side and the other side opened up into this stream. I stopped for a second, my heart beating fast, my breathing labored, and I soaked in the moment. I am hesitant to ever stop when running for fear I am subliminally just taking a break, but this particular stop was truly taking my breath away. I stood there for a couple of minutes, my heart slowed down my breath slowed and the only thing I could hear was the trickle of water over the rocks. The Autumn smell of freshly fallen leaves and wet earth filled my nose and the morning light that filtered through the soon to be falling leaves made the shade particularly comfortable in the warming morning.

For another couple minutes I just stood there admiring the stream, noting some trees I could identify, a sycamore, a pin oak, a black hickory. My eye followed a female robin looking for worms in the mud by the path. A squirrel stopped in a tree watching me. I suppose he watches many runners go by, I wondered how many stopped and stared?

I could have stayed there all morning, or at least till I got hungry. But I had a busy day ahead. A meeting, a phone call or two, some orders to fill, and a funeral to go to. I could stay no longer. I promised myself that one day I would bring a lunch and just hang out in that place all morning. But, next time it might not be the same. Different time, different temperature, more people. So I moved on, picked up the pace, decided there was no way I could make up the time and just settled into a good stride. Another song on the Ipod was starting to play and I kicked up my feet in time.

Did it count as stopping to smell the roses? Even though I could not stop long I still felt like I was enriched at that moment. I am thinking about it even now.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

--Robert Frost

Love Mike

Dear Mom what could be better than cinnamon toast?

Dear Mom what could be better than cinnamon toast?

Every morning after we put on our clothes Claire and I go downstairs and eat breakfast. It has turned into a routine that is mostly habit now. But she seems to want the same thing.

“Would you like some cereal and milk?”

“No” she answers.

“Would you like some pop-tarts?”

“No” she answers.

“Would you like a waffle?”

“No thank you.” She is half asleep but will not give in.

“Would you like a bacon, onion omelet with cheese sauce a side of hash browns and chocolate milk for breakfast?”

“No thank you, I just want cinnamon toast.”

Every once in a while pop-tarts can win out, but it requires a build up. Just as we are putting on our shoes I have to start selling it. “Boy, those pop-tarts sure are going to taste great this morning!” “I sure am looking forward to those pop-tarts this morning!”

About half the time it is followed by: “That’s okay Daddy, I just want cinnamon toast.”

Why do I go for pop-tarts? Experience has taught me that if I want to veer off the cinnamon toast I must use my best weapon and pop-tarts seem to have the highest success rate. Still, even pop-tarts stand no chance against yummy cinnamon toast.

I have no idea why I even fight it. I am fairly certain the nutritional content of a pop-tarts is not that much different from cinnamon toast anyway.

The alternative is just making something and watching her stare at it for half an hour. “Dad can I have some cinnamon toast instead?”

Love Mike

Dear Mom remember when hot dogs were good for you?

Dear Mom remember when hot dogs were good for you?

I was eating lunch with Claire the other day and reflected on some of the things that counted as a balanced lunch.

Giant Pretzel with nacho cheese, optional vegetable and fruit.
Nachos with nacho cheese, optional fruit, no vegetable unless you count tater tots as a vegetable.

Oh, how much I would have loved school lunch if I could have had nachos and tater tots. Not to mention she gets chocolate milk everyday, and a Capri sun with it on most days.

I remember looking forward to chicken fried steak day, and pizza day. They came with carrots or green beans. I am guessing in the big picture most kids probably don’t eat much better at home.

I have tried to teach her to eat a vegetable with every meal. She seems to try to follow this when I eat with her. “Look Daddy I have a vegetable!” she points to her tater tots. Looking over the selection I encourage her to add some orange slices since there are no more vegetables.

She will sometimes use the argument when she gets home from school and I ask her what vegetable she wants with diner. “I had a vegetable for lunch Dad, so we don’t have to have one now.” She reassures me and throws in a couple of eyelash flashes for good measure. I am not swayed.

“Well, it is your lucky day, you get to have another vegetable for dinner. So pick one out, or would you like me to pick one out?”

This usually gets a vegetable on the counter in short order.

Who knows what she will eat in another ten years or if my vegetable regimen will still be followed. When I was a kid hotdogs were healthy food. No one bothered to worry what would happen if you had Coke with every meal. And it was guaranteed that if something was good for you it tasted bad.

I just want her to eat a vegetable every meal. Is that too much to ask?

Love Mike

Dear Mom it is good to share

Dear Mom it is good to share

I remember you saving the last piece of cake for me. I remember you asking me if wanted the last piece of pizza. I can remember you making popcorn, walking into the room and setting it so it was right within my arms reach but slightly out of yours. You shared a lot.

When Claire was smaller we were sitting in the big chair watching a movie and sharing a bowl of popcorn. She would occasionally pull the bowl in with both arms. “Let me have some.” I told her, “It is good to share.”

“You are eating it all!” she exclaimed guardedly pulling on the popcorn bowl.

Where had I gone wrong? “It is okay to share the popcorn.” I told her, “we can make more if we run out.” Though she offered the bowl a little closer to me she was stuffing the popcorn in her mouth now as fast as she could as if I she could get her share before I ate it all.

I had thought I encouraged sharing. I was certain I had made a big deal about this every chance I got. I may have increased my awareness some. I started saving the last bite for her whenever I was eating. “This last bite is for you.” I would announce, “I am saving it for you, because you are my favorite girl.” At first she would gobble up whatever it was but then I noticed something. She would do it too. She would hand me the last chicken nugget. “I saved the last bite for you Daddy.” I would gladly take the last nugget and eat it admiring my handiwork. Now such things are commonplace. Where once she would throw away her melted uneaten ice cream cone just so no one else would eat it she now offers it to me. “I am finished Daddy, do you want it?”

A few months went by and again we were sitting in the big chair. Our popcorn propped right between us. “I saved the last bite for you,” I said. “No,” she answered, “I was saving the last bite for you.”

“That’s okay,” I insisted, “you can have it.”

“No Daddy, you take it. I want you to have it.” She offered the piece right to my mouth. I ate it.

“Thank you Sweetie, did you know you are my favorite girl?”

“And you are my favorite Daddy.” This came with a big hug and a big salty popcorn flavored kiss.

And I was worried?

Love Mike

Dear Mom it is Autumn again

Dear Mom it is Autumn again

The leaves are starting to change, there is Autumn in the air. That smell of damp leaves on the ground in the morning and the chill that you get when you go outside that is gone by midday but reminds you that summer has past. I have such fond memories of going to the winery with you for Octobefest. Food, wine, friends and music would turn the weekend into a memory that would last long after the next Autumn rolled around.

It is my favorite season. I hope my daughter can take with her the kind of feeling of enjoyment you were able to leave with me. You can measure your calendar by your birthday or new years day or Christmas or whatever you choose. I measure my year by the Autumns. A time when you go out and forget about what ever else is going on and soak up the atmosphere. If your lucky you can pass on the feeling to someone else. You cannot worry about work all the time and you surly can’t keep yourself cooped up just because you have something to do at home. You need to get out and taste the harvest, drink deep of another year’s bounty, and remember the rest is just what we do to allow us to take small moments like this.

I miss you.

Love Mike

Dear Mom Claire can spell

Dear Mom Claire can spell

I read to my daughter every night. One of her favorites is Fancy Nancy. In the Fancy Nancy books they enjoy eating at a very fancy pizza place known as the King’s Crown. We have our own King’s Crown. I little pub called Barley’s. It became the King’s Crown one Father’s Day. Claire was very excited about going out to dinner on Fathers day and we dressed up in very fancy clothes. When we arrived she asked, “Is this the King’s Crown.” I of course answered, “Why, yes it is.”

Once inside there was a brewery sign on the wall that looked kind of like a crown. “Does that say King’s Crown?” I slyly answered. “It does till you learn how to spell.”

Well that day is quickly approaching. Though it is still one of our favorite places to spend a “Fancy” evening, the days of it being the King’s Crown may be few in number. Everyday she adds new words to her spellable vocabulary. I am waiting for the day she proudly announces, “Dad, I know how to spell King’s Crown! B . R . E . W . E . R . Y.”

I am curious, how I am going to handle this momentous day. Should I just come clean? Should I let her have the fantasy for a just a little bit longer. It has occurred to me the guys at Barley’s are pretty good sports, maybe they can actually put up a King’s Crown sign? Maybe if I provide the sign?

Love Mike

Dear Mom who said vegetables were good for you?

Dear Mom who said vegetables were good for you?

Claire seems very happy, in her five year old mind, to eat vegetables every day. She recently asked me why an apple a day keeps the doctor away. I suspect she picked that saying up at kindergarten. "It is because apples are good for you and if you eat one everyday you will stay healthy and not have to go to the doctor."

“And get a shot?” she added. The doctor’s office is not bad just because it is a doctors office. It has an added threat of possible torture by injection.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Are grapes good for you too?” I like the way she makes the leap from apples are fruits so other fruits might work too.

“Yes grapes too, fruits and vegetables are good for you and if you eat a lot of them they will keep the doctor away.” As I say this I am remembering that it is almost flue shot time. And with the H1N1 vaccine as possibly being a two shot series I am worrying about the malevolent effects it will have on our current conversation.

So now how do I explain that shots keep the doctor away too? I mean really, we go through all this trouble to eat vegetables, then you have to get a shot anyway, just in case? It is a hard thing to sell to a five year old.

“I sure like keeping the doctor away.” She ponders this for a bit and I make a note of the fact she did not say, I sure like vegetables, but that she likes keeping the doctor away.

So, the old adage has done its job, I have tricked my daughter into eating vegetables just to keep away the mean ole’ doctors and now I am going to reward her by taking her to the doctor to get a shot.

I think we need to reframe our message.

Love Mike

Dear Mom we don’t pick who we fall in love with

Dear Mom we don’t pick who we fall in love with

I remember you consoling me after a particularly bad breakup and you told me, “We don’t pick who we fall in love with, but we do get to pick who we stay with.” At the time it was poignant and a bit cryptic. If I remembered more of the conversation perhaps it would make more sense in context, but that one line is all I have.

Did you mean that I should be lucky to be in love but if I happen to be in a good thing I should not run off just because I fell in love again?

Was it really a comment on something I was not even familiar? A lament on a lost love?

Did you mean that when I am in love I should do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t get away?

I don’t fall in love easy, but I do love being in love. I have always lived by the rule that I will have someone special or no one at all. And for the most part it has worked for me. For me, the greatest loves are the ones where I ask myself “Why?” It is inconvenient or exasperating or just a really bad idea. Yet there is something there. Je ne cest quoi. I have read that that spark I feel is really just pheromones and facial symmetry. But if it could be explained it really wouldn’t be what it is.

I know if you have love in your life it can make up for a lot of things you are missing but if you have everything else and you do not have love you are never fulfilled.

I realize you don’t have a magical answer any more than I do, there is just a little bit of that feeling you had as a kid when your parents still knew everything. You know the one. It happens right before they turn into teenagers and they get the feeling their parents don’t know anything.

Whatever it is, questioning it never seems to be a good idea. Best advice is when you feel the butterflies, live in the moment.

Love Not Me For Comely Grace

Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face;
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for a constant heart:
For these may fail or turn to ill,
So thou and I shall sever.
Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why,
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever.

John Wilbye 1574 – 1638

Love Mike

Dear Mom dead sticks don’t grow

Dear Mom dead sticks don’t grow

Claire finds sticks outside and decides to plant them in the flower garden. They are just sticks. Old dead sticks that have fallen out of trees. She sticks them in the ground, carefully gathering the earth around their base and tests them to make sure they are sturdy. Then she waters them. At first I thought this was cute. When there were half a dozen dead sticks poking out the garden I thought it best to explain how this works.

“These branches will never grow Claire. They are dead. To get a plant to grow here you have to plant the whole plant or use seeds and wait for them to grow.” She listened attentively.

“So, they wont grow”

“No,” I said.

“But I watered them.” She pointed this out as if to rebuff my notion that the sticks would not grow.

“That does not matter. Sometimes plants die and there is nothing you can do to get them to grow again.”

“Like when you pull the weeds in the flowers so they won’t grow again? They always grow again.” She now presented irrefutable evidence I was wrong.

“Weeds are different they are the undead of the plant world, like zombies and skeletons. You can’t just kill them the normal way you have to find their secret vulnerability.”

“What is the vulminability of weeds?”

“I don’t know, if I knew I would use it to rid our garden of the undead scourge.” Trying to get back on subject. “The sticks, however, are really dead. They will never grow leaves again.”

She studied the small grove of dead sticks for a bit. She thought about this information a bit then picked up the hose and continued watering the sticks.

“They are dead Claire, they are not going to grow anymore.”

“I know Daddy, I just want to water them.”

“Okay, but no more sticks in the garden okay?”

“Okay.” She busied herself with watering her undead tree garden.

As I finished mowing the lawn I looked over at what once had been a stand of dead tree limbs poking up out of the flowers. Bare branches that echoed of winter days and barren trees. They were now flush with green leaves and yellow flowers. I moved closer. She had very carefully and meticulously impaled a tree leaf on every branch of ever stick. Little leaves now adorned the branches, painstakingly applied as if a fairy had brought them back to life. She had taken dandelions and propped them in the elbow of each place that branched out. She was putting the finishing touches on one of the new trees and noted I was stopping to watch.

“They needed some help Daddy, I fixed it.”

“Yes you did darling, it looks lovely. “

Love Mike

Dear Mom tickling is a motivator

Dear Mom tickling is a motivator.

Claire went through a stage where she decided to stop using words. Ummm. Ughhh. Ahhh ahhh ahhh. And a finger pointing at something was all I got. I had seen other parents go through this and there were lots of responses, like “use your words.” Or “tell me what you want.” It has always been obvious to me this is not the issue at all. The kid knows how to say it they just don’t want to. This is a battle of wills you either give in or beat your head against the wall while you kid teases you with guttural noises. So when Claire started doing this I would say, “Oh you want to be tickled?” Then started tickling her frantically. No matter what the unintelligible word was, to me it always meant “Tickle me!” She would be forced to either resign the fact she was going to be tickled incessantly or she would say “NO, NO, I meant give me that!” Worked like a charm. Not that it did not come with an occasional gratuitous grunt for the express purpose of getting a little tickling, as a general rule it worked, and it worked far better than the head to head confrontations I saw other parents going through.

This morning Claire was sitting on my lap before school. I was waiting for the time to leave and we were going over colors.

“How do you make green?” I asked.
“Blue and yellow!” she exclaimed.
“Very good, now how do you make aquamarine?”
“I don’t know.” She offered.
“What do you mean you don’t know, of course you know what colors go together to make aquamarine?”
“Give me a hint?” she said.
“Okay what color to do you add to green to get aquamarine.”
“Yellow?”
“No that’s not it.” I said as I tickled her and she giggled uncontrollably.
“Red?”
“No, that’s not it.” I said again, and again tickling her as she giggled.
“Orange?”
“No, you know what color it takes, what is it?” I did not tickle her this time, I felt it was time to actually verify she knew what color I was looking for.

She did not answer, “DAD you are supposed to tickle me.” She demanded.
And there was her game. I started tickling her, “What color do you add to green to make aquamarine?” She was giggling uncontrollably. I tickled more , “What color do you add to green to make aquamarine?” She was still giggling and moving into that territory where it was almost too much laughter. “Stop, Dad stop.” She pleaded. “Tell me what color!” I said. She was not giving up yet, “just stop dad stop!” her laughter had now moved into a running laugh, squeal that she could not control, every part of her body was a trigger to bring more laughter. “BLUE,” she shouted, “BLUE AND GREEN MAKE AQUAMARINE!” I stopped tickling her. As she sat beside me squeezed into the office chair I asked her, “What does green and yellow make?” She giggled a bit either left over from the previous assault or anticipation for the next one. I dangled my hand menacingly in front of her. She giggled uncontrollably holding her hands in front of her guardedly. “Chartreuse!” she shouted “Green and yellow make chartreuse!”

The rest of the color wheel proceeded without incident.

Love Mike

Dear Mom I still have that hat

Dear Mom I still have that hat.

I still have the hat you gave me when I shaved my head. Cookie called me and said you had pulled a hand full of hair out of your head that morning in the shower and just decided you would shave it all off. A good decision. Don’t worry about your hair falling out, just declare victory and shave it off. I had thought about that day a few times and had already decided what I was going to do. I walked into the bathroom, picked up my trimmer took off the clipper blade and went to town. It came off surprisingly easy. No snags, no tangles and a nice even cut. I will admit I did shave in a Mohawk that I admired in the mirror for maybe 15 seconds then I shaved it too. Then I picked up my razor and started neatened it up. The pile of hair in the sink was sat there and looked particularly alien. I did not really feel like it was mine even when I looked at the mirror. It was strange. Once finished, I picked up the trash can and shoved all the hair in it.

It is funny having your head shaved for the first time. You take for granted how much your hair keeps you warm. Standing in your kitchen when you got home from the beauty salon, you walked in and went “Ta Da!” I said, “Doesn’t your head feel cold?” “Not really.” You answered, then I took my ball cap off and you stared at my bald head. We hugged and you felt my head and I felt yours. We went into the foyer and looked into the mirror. I was so glad I had started to grow a beard. Without it we would have looked exactly alike. I had never really noticed before how much I looked like my mother. Nose, head shape, jaw line, it was eerie.

I guess I must have said something about my head being cold once too often. A few days later you surprised me with the Hanna Hats cap you got from Sheehan’s. It was a little loose but you assured me it would fit better when my hair grew back.

“What if it never does?” I joked. “It’ll be fine.” You said in the way only a mother can reassure someone.

I got a lot of use out of that hat. I didn’t grow my hair back till a year after you died. It kept me warm, saved me from sunburn and became a companion. I could not do without it. It has been on four continents with me, survived my marriage, being grabbed by drunk women in pubs, being blown off by hurricane force winds, rain, snow, and I swear it looks just as it did that first day I put it on.

If I tell Claire to go get my hat, even though I have 20 hats in the hallway, it is the one she brings me.

Thanks for the h at mom.

Love Mike

Dear Mom her name was Victoria

Dear Mom her name was Victoria

Her name was Victoria. I was in Edmonton Alberta on a shuttle from the airport to downtown on my way to a convention and I was sitting beside a lovely young woman. She had bright blue eyes, blondish hair, a natural sweet smile and skin like porcelain.

Just sitting beside her I got this wonderful butterfly feeling in my stomach. It was not the first time I had ever felt it but it was this moment that would come to define what butterflies meant to me. Realizing I would not get another chance I introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Mike.”
“I’m Victoria.” She said. She did not smile bigger or act any more interested but when she looked at me she could not have made a bigger impact if she’d kissed me. I was absolutely struck silly. I managed to squeeze out a comprehensive sentence and asked her if she lived there or was just visiting. She said she lived there. I was struggling to keep my cool. Every word pried from my terrified throat and delivered as smooth as I possibly could. I struggled to come up with something else to say after every response and truthfully if I could have got her to just sit there and smile at me it would have been just as good and for easier. The minutes on that bus were like heaven.

I was downtown in a city I did not know. I only knew the hotel I was heading toward and the thought of getting off at a stop that was not mine was terrifying. Yet, I could not figure out how else I was going to make sure I would ever get to see her again. When the shuttle stopped and she got up to leave I also stood up, partially out of chivalric habit and partially as if I was somehow going to convince myself to just get off the bus and follow her till she gave me a phone number. She walked toward the front of the shuttle and a few more people fell in behind her.

I watched out the window as she stopped for a moment to dig in her purse for something. She looked up and seemed to look around as if searching for someone. She then looked at the shuttle and saw me in the window with a look on her face that I swear said: “I thought you were right behind me.” Her hand still clutching what I was sure was her phone number. She raised her other hand and kind of moved her fingers in a goodbye kind of way with this smile on her face that lamented a past opportunity.

The shuttle was moving now and I rushed to the front and demanded the driver stop immediately. He had gone over a block but he did pull over and I leaped out with my suitcase and headed up the street. When I arrived there it was too late. It had not seemed that long but she was nowhere in sight. I wandered down a couple side streets wondering if she lived near there, had an office near there or maybe just a parked car. I scanned the passing vehicles in hopes of a glimpse as she headed home.

After half an hour I made a note of the address and wandered down the street in search of a place that might be able to call a cab. I thought about her all weekend. Why had I not got off the shuttle? Why had I just not said, “If I don’t ask now I fear I may never see you again, what is your phone number?”

I thought about her all weekend. The butterflies in my stomach did not let up for a moment. I was no hungry, thirsty, I did not want to sleep. I vacillated between being sick at my stomach and soaking up the feeling in a sort of euphoria. I changed my flight on the airline to leave the day after the convention. Then on Monday morning I went and spent all day at that address, hoping I would see her on her way to work or on her way home, something. I flew home wondering if the feeling would ever go away.

She was not the first Butterfly Girl and thankfully she would not be the last. But, I had learned my lesson. When opportunity knocks on the door you don’t just answer the door you invite it to dinner. So, from that moment on when I felt the butterflies I made sure to get a name and number or email or something.

To try and to fail is at least to try, but to fail to try is to suffer the inestimable loss of what might have been. –Chester Barnard—

Love Mike