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

Dear Mom my daughter has the plague

Dear Mom my daughter has the plague

My daughter has the plague. I have finally wrapped my head around the idea. Every fall kids head back to school. They have spent their Summer in different places exposed themselves to different things, their parents have gone on business trips to the four points of the compass. Then on this momentous occasion that we call starting school they all come together to share what they did over the Summer.

“I was coughing and had a sore throat.”
“I had the tummy ache and felt barfy.”
“I had a fever and could not talk for a week.”
“I threw up so much I had to spend a week in the hospital taking intravenous fluids.”

I first became familiar with this concept when my niece Maggie started daycare. At the time I was watching her a lot and I saw just about every day. This insured that whatever she picked up at school was quickly and efficiently passed on to her Uncle Mikey. Yea the schools have this policy, if your kid is sick don’t send him in, if they are running a fever they cannot come to school. Whatever. Everyone knows that every other parent has a job too and if they could stay at home with their kid they would not need a daycare. You drop them off in the morning and you see half the class with runny noses and most of those coughing and hacking and you feel like you are leaving your kid at a science experiment.

This, is not in small part, the reason I was a stay-at-home dad and limited the time I sent Claire to daycare.

Now when Claire gets home from school I tell her to wash her hands. “Why” she asks. “Because you have the plague” I tell her matter of factly. “What is the plague daddy?”

“That is the holy mocus that you are going to pick up at school and bring home and give to your daddy.”

“Why do you want the holy pocus daddy?”

“That is just it darling daughter, I don’t want the holy mocus, that is why everyday when we get back from school we wash our hands.”

“So then you won’t get the holy pocus?”

“No, I will get it anyway, but the hand washing gives me a good feeling, like I am doing something to prevent the plague from spreading and wiping out civilization as we know it.”

“What is sybalsensation.”

“Civilization is the social structure that has advanced so far that we can put a man on the moon but we cannot cure the common cold.”

“That is silly daddy, there is no man on the moon.”

About then she is finished washing her hands and I am looking at the chocolate milk stains on her shirt thinking that maybe we should adopt a change your cloths policy when you get back from school then wash your hands again. No, just jump right into a tub filled with anti-bacterial soap.

While I am contemplating how hot the water must be she climbs up in my lap, grabs my face and kisses me, “I love you daddy, I don’t want you to get the holy pocus.”

It is at that moment that I remember the flu is a virus, there is no way I will ever stop kissing my daughter and it is obviously my destiny to die of the plague.

Love Mike

Dear Mom is there an age where you no longer believe in fairies?

Dear Mom is there an age where you no longer believe in fairies?


Last week Claire asked me if fairies were real. Some foul person had been polluting my daughters mind with the notion that fairies were not real. I had no colorful witty response that would somehow give the impression of yes without actually saying yes, so I said “yes, fairies are real.”

In retrospect I could have said, “Who changes all the leaves to different colors in the Autumn? Who teaches all the baby birds how to fly? Who eats all the strawberries out of our garden?”

Last night I was in the pub listening to Irish music. My chair was turned around away from the table in such a way I had to reach over my shoulder to get my pint. As I was setting it back down I noticed some drops of ale on the table. Had the waiter spilled a bit when he set the glass down? Had I rocked the glass too far when I blindly reached for it a second ago? Or, ever more likely, had a fairy, taking in the fine music and atmosphere of the pub stopped at my table to share my glass and flitted away hurriedly when I reached for my glass clumsily spilling droplets of precious fluid as it flew out of sight. As I studied the droplets it did appear as if they were larger closer to the glass and got smaller as if dripping from the careless feet of a drunken fairy as a it flitted off the table. I looked around for a moment. Where would I hide if I was a fairy?

Someday Claire will know why the leaves change colors, and how baby birds learn to fly, and maybe even what happens to the strawberries in the garden. She will see her father looking into the rafters trying to follow the little thief that has been drinking from his pint and I hope at that moment she will not wonder if she is too old to believe in fairies.

Love Mike