Late in the Evening

Sometimes…late at night…when the moon was cool and the air was still…I thought I could hear my mother crying…or praying…or singing…or doing all three at once.  And sometimes…just sometimes…I thought I heard her, as the song says, “laughing the way some ladies do…when it’s late in the evening…and the music is seeping through…”

I guess I never forgave my father for not loving my mother the way she needed to be…deserved to be…loved. 

I know I never forgave my brother for being so needful that he drained her energy and tried my patience and never seemed to get enough. 

And I certainly never forgave myself for being resentful for being taken for granted (in my heart I know that I wasn’t but it felt that way so often that the little boy in me didn’t have enough strength to ever truly let it go) or for not being able to give my mother room to find some solace and happiness outside of her care for me and my brother.

And sometimes…late at night…lying in the shadows of my bed down the hall…I thought I could hear my mother crying…or praying…or singing.  I thought I heard her laughing…surrounded by soft ballads and dancing swirls of menthol smoke…the way some ladies do…I thought I heard her dancing to her own song…the private song she indulged when it was late in the evening…and the music was seeping through.

150 Words: This Day

I don’t suppose this day will ever pass without reflection…without remembering…without tears stubbornly held back and bittersweet smiles arriving unbidden…without the ghost of the friend who shared the end of his journey in the soothing moonlight and the healing sunshine…the ghost of the brother I loved, the brother who loved me…reaching out of the memory of my heart and soul and soothing my brow yet again.

I don’t suppose that will ever happen again…that this day will ever pass without reflection, welcome and wounding…without remembering…without knowing the darkness…without believing in the light…without cursing the Universe for the loss…without blessing the Universe for the brief season forever cherished.

I don’t suppose this day will ever pass without reflection…without remembering.  It can’t be the case…not today, not ever, not as long as breath sustains me…and I don’t suppose I would…and I know that I wouldn’t allow it to be any other way.

I Looked for My Father

I looked for my father in the cold nights when the shadows scared me and the moon was of no mind to provide any comfort.  I looked for him in the crowds of Dads scooping up their boys, giving their girls rides on their broad, powerful shoulders.  I looked for my father coming down the avenue, coming home to me and my brother and my mother because that was the only place in the world he really wanted to be.  I looked for my father.  They told me that he wasn’t lost…but I couldn’t find him.

I looked for my father in the fragile hearts of my uncles, in the hopeful eyes of my mother’s lovers and would-be lovers, in the smiles of other fathers who stood by their boys and kept safe their girls, I looked for my father in the glances of strangers and the attentions of wise men who sometimes became mentors.  I looked for my father.  They told me wasn’t really lost…but I really couldn’t find him.

I looked for my father…in the guise of being the husband he wouldn’t be, in the love of being father to children I didn’t create, in the bittersweet joy of holding the children of the children I didn’t create.  I even looked for my father in the eyes of my father…but I didn’t find him.

The Bells of Christmas Eve (Blue and Gold)

The sun sank languidly into the western horizon and there were bells…bright bells tolling in bright shades of blue and gold heralding the coming the evening…bright bells singing out the anthems and the carols of the Christmas Eve.

Sara smiled, that inscrutable Mona Lisa smile that could soothe like the sweetest balm or cut like the sharpest knife depending on her mood, and listened to the bells while letting memory flood over her.

Memory, shimmering in the muted shades of blue and gold, giving life to each bell in turn and all at once and sending Sara back to tender moments along her journey.

One bell tolls for Daddy, his quick rouge’s smile shining through clouds of fragrant cigar smoke and soft choruses of deep, hearty, often charming laughter.  One bell tolls for Mother, the stalwart rock of her childhood; Mother had gone too soon but, sternly and sweetly, kept informing Sara’s life even decades later.  Bells toll for Christmas mornings filled with peace and laughter even when the pickings under the tree were slim.

Sara listened carefully, breathing deep the stealthy chill of the gathering evening, as the bells…tolling in warm shades of blue and gold…renew connections thought lost.  Connections with brothers and sisters…laughing and crying, hugging and fighting, filling Christmas mornings with a cacophony only children could create and only parents could find unabashedly endearing…connections with friends and lovers come and gone from her life…connections with children she took into her heart and with children she never could have…connections with the magic moments of Christmas, real and re-imagined, that make her feel safe and loved even in her abiding solitude.

The moon rose lazily in the star-flecked sky and there were bells…joyful bells tolling in melodic shades of blue and gold heralding the return of old memory and the birth of new memory during the night and the coming Christmas morning…joyful bells singing out the anthems and the carols of the Christmas day.

Sara smiled, pulling her plush sweater tight around her, and looked up into the night sky…looked up at the calm golden moon, at the boundless blanket of stars…looked up into the smiles of the vigilant ghosts of those she loved and lost…and she nodded, giving silent thanks and humming along with the bells…the bright bells tolling blue and gold…of another sweetly wistful Christmas Eve.

Thanksgiving

I don’t want to think about her today…I don’t want to think about her sitting in her kitchen, her face stoic but her eyes bright and mischievous, teaching me how to clean the green beans from her garden while she told me stories from her colorful past.  I don’t want to think about her laughing quietly and winking every now and again to seal the pact of love and affection and secrecy between us…I don’t want to think about her vaguely smoky voice calling me by the name no one but she was allowed to use.  I don’t want to think about her at all.

And I don’t want to think about him today…my greatest champion and my most pernicious foe…I don’t want to think about the times we laughed and the times we cried and the times we shared secrets and the time we fought like…well, like Cain and Abel…I don’t want to think about his theft of pieces of my youth…I don’t want to think about his unrealized potential seeping away on a cold, lonely street in Los Angeles.  No, I don’t want to think about him at all.

I don’t want to think about my boyhood friends…one lost to time, forever wearing his silly grin and his almost gaudy blue suit as we left Louis Pasteur Junior High School and spent one last perfect afternoon together before parting, unbeknownst to us, forever; one lost after Alexander Hamilton High School turned us loose on the unsuspecting world and found…fleetingly…smiling with his family in a photo sent from a distant shore…before being lost forever to the arms of the blessed Universe.  I don’t want to think about them at all.

And Lord knows I don’t want to think about my baby girl…tiny and inquisitive and quick to smile whenever she saw me…my sweet girl who grew into a troubled woman, a lost and angry soul who I felt, foolishly, that I’d abandoned when life took me from my hometown to another town down the coast (her 5 year old self had said, quite seriously, that when she grew up she was going to marry me and take care of me.)  I don’t want to think about how her heart failed her and took her back to the light from whence we all came.  I don’t want to think about her at all.

I certainly don’t want to think about my best friend and most stalwart companion, in my life for too brief a season and in my life forever and a day…I don’t want to think about the sad, brilliant soul who lost himself in bottles because life was sometimes much too hard to face…I don’t want to think about the girl who gave her strength and comfort to us even though she was losing a battle with an invader in her own body…I don’t want to think about any of them. 

I don’t want to think about them at all.

And yet I do.  I do think about them.  I do want to think about them.  I want to think about them and all of the others who’ve come into my life and left, lingering indelibly even in their passing.  I want to think about them.  I do think about them.  And I give love and blessings and gratitude and humble acceptance of their grace.

I think about them…and give bittersweet thanks.   I miss them…now and always…and I give love and blessings and humble acceptance…and heartfelt thanks.

All of My Children

All of my daughters…all of my sons…all of my children…live in a place of light and shadow, memory and hope without bounds, and they dance with me and laugh with me and keep me forever in their forever hearts.

And so it is…and so it is…

All of my sons…and all of my daughters…live in the world extant, a place of magic and heartache, passion and pain, light and shadow…memory and hope…they share no blood with me and they dance with me for brief seasons as they need and want to…and they make me smile from my heart and sing soft songs of praise to the universe in thanks for them just being.

And so it is…and so it is…

All of my children…hold fast in love and dreams…in that which was and that which never was to be…in places of light and shadow, in places of memory and hope without bound, in the world extant and the universe eternal.

And so it is…and so it is…

- for A, P, M, S, and the four J’s -

Father's Day

I picked out the names of my first son and my first daughter when I was 12. It was apropos of nothing but it felt right and I went with it. I wrote them down in a diary I was I keeping at the time and carried them in my heart from that moment on.

I always wondered if the little humans I helped to create would fit those names or if they would come into the bright world with other names the universe gave to them. I was cool either way…the names weren’t remarkably original or anything, they just felt “right”…but I carried them just the same.

I never got to use them. Because I never got to actually co-create a child.

But I did get to be a father just the same. And I think I had some good moments.

I would be lying if I said there wasn’t some sense of loss in not being a biological father but I only dwell upon that, quite fleetingly, in extremely rare moments…life is what it is…things happen in this life as they are supposed to and not as we might want them to… and I have nothing complain about in this area.

(My life has always been blessed by the joy and magic of children…babies and toddlers have always seemed to like me…felt safe with me…for some reason…maybe they recognize someone close to their emotional age…maybe that’s not really a good thing after all… :-)

Father’s Day always makes me think about the men who became fathers. The good ones (like so many I know and have known) delight and amaze me. The not-so-good ones (like mine) are still worthy of acknowledgement for having brought new life to the great pool of human energy and experience.

And so…to all the Dads, Papas, Daddies, Poppies, Padres…to all the Fathers…thanks.

And Happy Father’s Day.

The Ghost of Maude

The ghost of Maude doesn’t visit me often. But I’m always blessed when she does and last night, in the middle of a particularly active and vaguely unsettling dreamtime, she visited me once more.

My grandmother…Maude (everyone called her Mom)…was 96 years old when she died. I didn’t know her as well as I wanted to but the times we did have together…sitting at the little table by the window in her always delightfully fragrant kitchen as she cleaned green beans and told me wonderful, beguiling, bittersweet stories of her rich life…will linger with me until I pass on back into the light.

“What’s botherin’ you, Buddy?”…my father is no fan of his given name and early on adopted the nickname “Bud”, my grandmother took to calling me, his first born son, “Buddy” almost as a matter of course…she was the only one I allowed to call me that into adulthood.

Mom rarely smiled but her eyes were always bright with savvy and patience and unspoken, but unmistakable mischief…she had proud, angular reddish brown features…she looked like she was as much Native American as she was Black…and she wasn’t smiling as she appeared out of a shadow in my dream.

“Don’t know, Mom,” I lied…I was so pleased to see her that I wasn’t going to waste her time with my navel-gazing even in dreamtime.

“No need to lie to me, child,” she said, drifting close and touching my face, “you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied hanging my head.

Mom put her thin, delicate, red-brown hand on my cheek and lifted my face up to look at hers…with her smiling eyes and unsmiling mouth…and winked. “Gon’ be okay.”

I smiled. The shadows swirled around us. And the ghost of Maude was gone. And I fell…into deeper, unremembered… or dreamless…sleep.

Sometimes...

Sometimes I get so selfish and self-pitying that I find myself getting so angry at you…angry and abandoned and alone…but those moments are few and far between and they pass like the wispy tendrils of a lazy morning mist…

Sometimes I still hear your laugh…sometimes I still look to share some bit of nonsense with you….sometimes I forget that you’ve been gone since a cold spring…you’ve been gone through a hard and heart-wounding summer…sometimes I forget…but those moments are few and far between…

Sometimes I smile wistfully…imagining what you would say…imagining what would make smile…imagining what cock your head to the side and say everything you needed to in a withering, knowing look…

Sometimes I rage against the heavens…sometimes I rage against the injustice…sometimes I rage, crying acid tears, because my friend is gone…sometimes…

Sometimes I remember all that was and not all that there should have been…sometimes I smile for having known you rather than cry for having lost you…

Sometimes I wish I had told you everything you meant to me…and sometimes I know that you already knew that…

Sometimes the gray envelops me…threatens to smother me…but sometimes…most times…the light breaks through and I move forward, healed and whole and so much better for having known you…

Sometimes I still hear your life…and sometimes it makes me cry…and sometimes…most times…it makes me smile.

- for M on what would have been his 62^nd birthday -

...you're missing...

I’m sure there will come a time when I won’t run across something funny…or interesting or infuriating or fascinating or just silly…and turn to share it with you only to find myself disappointed that you aren’t there in the seat you inhabited for so long.

That time will come…one day…but it hasn’t yet.

I guess missing people isn’t supposed to be easy…isn’t supposed to gotten over in the passing of scant weeks and months.

I still feel your energy…still hear your acerbic wisdom echoing through the halls of the house…I still want to share the things that made us smile and grimace and sigh and laugh unabashedly.

I’m sure there will come a time when I won’t miss you quite so acutely…but maybe I’m wrong…and certainly that time is not now.

150 Words:...and she was flying...

And she was flying…soaring happily into the azure sky…laughing merrily as her little hand reached up into the warm sunlight, reached up to touch the face of God.

And then, just as suddenly, gravity gently tugged her back down towards the familiar expanse of mother Earth…and she closed her eyes, not the least bit afraid, and spread her arms wide as the breeze caressed her hair and tickled her face.

And then she stopped. She stopped and found herself where she began…in the protective arms of the best and strongest man in the whole wide world.

She opened her eyes and smiled, just a bit shyly. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, baby,” the best and strongest man in the whole wide world replied. “Again?”

She nodded. “Yes, please, again!”

She giggled as the best and strongest man in the whole wide world said, “Okay, baby, he we go…”

And she was flying…

- for Dads everywhere -

(the best and strongest men in the whole wide world)

an appreciation

Every day is “Mother’s Day”, of course. Our mothers inform our lives from the moment we are imbued with the bright spark of life to the moment we return to the warm and welcoming shadows of eternity.

And not just our own mothers…though their influence is most profound…most amazing…most comforting…but all mothers in and about our lives as we wind down our verdant paths that make up our mortal lives.

So here’s to mothers…all mothers…our mothers and the mothers of our children and the mothers of our grandchildren; to our sisters of blood and our sisters of spirit; to all of the wonderful women who have given new and abundant life to this bittersweet and grand old world of ours.

So here’s to mothers…all wondrous mothers…here’s to you as we celebrate on “Mother’s Day”, the one on that Sunday in May and all the ones that shine softly and surely on every other day of the year as well.

Celebrate light and love and laughter…

Celebrate dreams encouraged and realities embraced…

Celebrate patient smiles and withering looks,

Celebrate firm hands and big plush hugs.

Celebrate light and love and laughter…

Celebrate the majesty of woman,

Celebrate the mothers,

All of the amazing mothers,

To whom we all owe so very much.

150 Words: Brothers

The day had been long but fulfilling and we were tired with satisfied accomplishment.

He tentatively put his hand on my shoulder. “Thank you.”

I shrugged and smiled. “Hey, that’s what we do.”

“Even so, you didn’t have to work so hard.”

“That’s what brothers do for brothers. You do know how much I respect you?”

He nodded, self-consciously. We were men; we didn’t speak of such things.

I smiled and looked away. I forced myself to speak again before my instinct to censor my words kicked in. “And you know that I love you, right?”

He blushed, color spreading under his beard. We certainly didn’t speak of such things. He nodded. “Ditto,” he said finally.

I let out the breath I had been holding and laughed softly. I leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Thank you.”

We shared a laugh as I went to wash the day’s work off.

- for Steve -

You Made Me Smile

You held my hand when the world was a huge, overwhelming place.
You smiled at my jokes even when they weren’t remotely funny.
You danced with me…you sang to me…you made me privy to your dreams…
You made me smile.

You called me baby. You called me papa. You called me out.
You called me friend. You called me lover.
You called me when you needed a caring heart to shelter yours.

You held me close when the world was a dark and stormy place.
You kissed me back when my passion bade me to melt into you.
You walked with me…you stood by me…you let down your intimate shields…
You made me smile.

- for everyone who recognizes themselves somewhere in these words
(and especially for those who don't) -

15 Years, 16 Days

15 years, 16 days…in the grand tapestry of most lives that’s a significant part of the journey towards the light and whatever lies beyond. It’s a long time…a decade and a half of life, love, experience, dreams, music, magic, heartbreak, passion, peace…and a seeming blink of an eye when it’s gone.

15 years, 16 days…a slice of my lifetime, a slice of your lifetime, and, for some, the sum total of a lifetime.

Autumn was a sweetheart…a funny, fuzzy red bear of a dog (mostly Chow but with the gregarious personality of a gentle German Shepherd) who never met anyone she didn’t like (with the possible exception of Mr. Gambino, the hyperactive tuxedoed cat who, much to his chagrin, could never get as close to Autumn as Bart, the laidback surfer dude cat of the house, did with casual ease)…she liked to take long walks (and did so until her failing joints made it impossible) and to have her head rubbed….she liked to smile and have her belly rubbed…she liked to kiss babies and anyone else who stayed still long enough for her to happily lick them…she liked to bark like she was the ferocious guard dog in the world and then greet anyone who came into the house with curious brown eyes and a big wagging tail.

One day in December she spent a perfect day in the company of friends and family, happily giving and getting attention between naps and meals and time spent wandering her backyard…and the next day all that she was suddenly left…her eyes were open but the light of recognition was gone.

Maybe it was a stroke…maybe it was old age finally catching up with her (her hearing had been fading for a couple of years and her hind legs had been growing weaker over the same period)…I don’t know. And I don’t care. The veterinarian offered slim options, none of which would lead to her coming back…none of which would lead to her living the peaceful, pain-free, proud life she once knew. In the end the decision was mine and…reluctantly…I made.

The doctor told me it was the right decision only after I made it but, unsurprisingly, that didn’t make it feel any better (even as it was about to happen, I was stroking her head and fighting the urge to stop it.)

Autumn lived for 15 years, 16 days…she lived for a grand and cherished lifetime…and, thankfully, she lives still in the hearts of those of us who loved her and there her bright spirit will linger for all the rest of our days.

Acknowledging the Sunrise (on Christmas Morning)

Katie sat patiently at the top of the carpeted stairs…more patiently than she, all of 8 years old with the incumbent restlessness that typified that age, would at almost any other time. The house was still and cool and dark and Katie, bundled in her favorite robe, was waiting. Her parents and her brother were sleeping in their rooms but she was wide awake and waiting…waiting for the sunrise and waiting for the sunrise to be acknowledged.

It was Christmas morning and on that day, more than any other day, Katie wanted and needed to witness the sunrise and she wanted and needed to hear it acknowledged.

Through the windows below Katie could see tendrils of warm light stealing surely from the eastern horizon and she smiled expectantly. In the great room below the staircase, the tall tree, festooned with delicate bulbs and ribbons and strings of popcorn and surrounded at its base with a wealth of brightly wrapped treasures soon to be exchanged and gratefully accepted, seemed to be waiting as well.

Katie heard a door open down the hall but she didn’t look around.

“What are you doing, squirt?” her brother Scott, 8 years her senior and ever her most stalwart protector after getting over the shock of no longer being their parents’ only child back when he was Katie’s age, said while unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.

Katie waved her hand to quiet him. “Waiting,” she whispered.

Scott, ever accepting of his little sister’s whimsies, chuckled through yet another yawn, and sat down next to Katie at the top of the stairs. “Waiting for what?” he asked.

“It’s coming, just hold on,” she replied.

They sat in expectant silence until the clock in the entryway below struck 6 and, in the same instant, the bells began to sing throughout the town. On this day, more than any other day, they sang from every church, acknowledging the sunrise, acknowledging another glorious Christmas morning…they sang, a wondrous cacophony resonating through the still winter’s air, and Katie smiled guilelessly.

Katie leaned into her brother and Scott put his arm around her as the bells softly faded. “That’s what I was waiting for,” she whispered.

Scott smiled. “You’re an odd duck, Katie girl,” he said affectionately.

Katie, knowing how much Scott loved her, took no offense. “Merry Christmas, big brother,” she said leaning up to kiss Scott’s cheek.

Scott hefted Katie onto his shoulder and stood up. “Merry Christmas, baby sister,” he said as he carried her, giggling, down the stairs.

Snowfall (Part 2 of 2)

(Part 1 of this story is here)

Two days before Christmas, Carole awoke to find the skies still gray and the ground a carpet of perfect white. It was not at all what she had hoped for but it was, she had to admit to herself, exactly what she had expected.

After breakfast, she sat at the kitchen table and made calls to her family…her Dad, her Grandfather, her sister-in-law Melissa Joshua, her sister Kim, her brother Tom, her Aunt Janey, and her cousin April. It seemed to be snowing everywhere they were and yet none of them seemed to be the least bit worried about it.

“Your mother and I wouldn’t miss this for the world, princess,” her father said. He’d called her “princess” since she was 3 and he had no intention of stopping. Carole always pretended that she didn’t like it but her father knew better. Carole loved that he knew better. “Your mother wanted to make sure you got the Granny Smith apples,” he added. “You know she only makes pies with Granny Smith apples.”

Carole’s mother had insisted on baking the pies for Christmas dinner dismissing as “nonsense” Carole’s offer to just buy some pies. “I got the right apples, Dad,” she said, “Mom would never let me here the end of it if I got that wrong.”

“We’ll be there tomorrow evening with bells on, honey,” he father said, “don’t you worry.” Carole smiled to herself as she realized, once again, how much Jason was like her father in terms of temperament; her dad had survived her tumultuous post-puberty years with an equanimity that had really ticked her off when she was girl but which made her feel lucky and loved in her adult years.

And all of her family members said variations of the same thing when she talked to them. The snow wasn’t weighing on any of her family as they prepared to journey from their far-flung cities and towns to her quiet suburban neighborhood. It was Christmastime, they all said in one way or another, and things would work out just fine. Carole always thought of her family as being more like her and less like Jason but she had to concede that she might be mistaken about that.

Last year, Jim and Melissa had held such a wonderful celebration at their house in Virginia that Carole felt a special urgency to at least make this year equally festive for her family.

“It’s snowing everywhere,” Carole said as Jason came up from the basement with a basketful of freshly washed bed linens. “Fritos in airports, just you watch.”

Jason laughed. “You have a vivid imagination, sweetheart,” he said, heading up the stairs that led from the kitchen to the second floor. “It’s going to be the best Christmas ever.”

“That kind of unbridled optimism is probably a sign of some kind of mental illness, you know?” She called up after him.

It wasn’t the first time she had said something like that to him and it wouldn’t be the last time either. “I’m cool with that,” he called back. He started singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” at the top of his lungs before she could say anything else.

Carole shook her head and laughed. She stood up and went to the window over the sink. The snow was still falling lazily and she was starting to find it hard to believe that everything was going to be okay. She couldn’t stop herself from thinking that the “best Christmas ever” was going to be attended by just Jason and herself. She did her best to push past the feeling and she went upstairs to help Jason making up the bedrooms.

On the day before Christmas, the snowfall was still coming down intermittently and Carole was wondering what she had done to the universe to deserve having the first family holiday gathering in her house to be called on account of snow. Jason, for his part, kept going as if everything was perfectly in order; he bundled up and went out to shovel the sidewalk and the driveway (and, being Jason, he ended up shoveling the sidewalks and driveways of the neighbors on either side of their house.)

A round robin of cell phone calls let them know that everybody was on the road and in the air, none of them willing to let the weather keep them from gathering together for the holidays. Carole’s mother called from Chicago while they were waiting to make a connecting flight.

“Things are a bit backed up, honey,” Carole’s mother said, “so we’re stuck here for a while.”

Carole’s heart sank.

“But we’ll be there,” her mother added confidently. “A snowy Christmas will be wonderful. The children will love being able to make snowmen and have snowball fights.”

“You’re right, Mom,” Carole said half-heartedly, a bit weary of all of the chipper positive energy coming from everybody. “What’s Daddy doing?”

“He got hungry so he went to snack bar to get some Fritos.”

Carole stifled a laugh and excused herself as quickly as she could.

As the Christmas Eve night began to slip away nobody had arrived.

Carole and Jason, curled up by the crackling fire sipping eggnog, waited in silence.

“Aren’t you going to tell me that everything is going to be okay?” Carole asked, half as a taunt and half as need to be reassured by his optimism.

“Nope,” he said softly.

She was startled by the response. “Why not?”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Because you wouldn’t believe me if I did,” he said softly but not unkindly.

Carole closed her eyes and snuggled into her husband. She did her best to take her mind off the Christmas that might not be. She did her best to take her mind off her family snowed in at airports or truck stops. She did her best to take her mind off her father eating Fritos in the Chicago airport. At some point she drifted off into a dreamless sleep. She remembered half walking at one point and finding herself being carried up the stairs in Jason’s strong arms and being into their bed but then she surrendered to sleep once again.

On Christmas Day, Carole woke up after having slept long and deep. She was still in something of a fog as stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. Jason was already up and out of bed but she didn’t call out to him. Carole showered and before she dressed she decided to re-take the test she’d taken 5 days earlier.

Afterwards she dressed and wandered down towards the stairs that led to the kitchen. She needed to call and find out how her family members were doing and she needed a strong cup of coffee. She smiled as she started down the stairs and caught a whiff of coffee wafting up. She could also smell the aroma of cinnamon rolls…the familiar aroma that greeted her every Christmas morning when she was growing up…Jason must have gotten up to bake them for her.

When Carole walked into the kitchen, there was food out in various states of preparation…the turkey was in the sink, unbaked pies were on the counter, unpeeled potatoes were on another counter next to vegetables, spices, and other things needed to create Christmas dinner. It was only then that it registered on her that there were multiple laughing voices coming from the other room. Before she could move the kitchen swung open.

“Well, good morning, sleepyhead!” A cheery voice said. “It’s about time you got out of that bed.”

Carole shook her head. “Mom? You’re here?”

Carole’s mother wiped her hands on her apron and enveloped her daughter in a big hug. “Of course we’re here, silly,” she said. “Where else would we be?”

Carole returned her mother’s hug still not quite believing she was there. “Eating Fritos in the airport?”

Carole’s mother laughed. “You aren’t completely awake, are you?” She went over to the coffee pot. “Well, some coffee and a cinnamon roll will make your whole world right.”

Carole wandered over to the door. “Everybody’s here?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” her mother said handing her a steaming mug of coffee. “The snow stopped and the roads cleared. Your father and I got here about 2 AM…Melissa and Jim and the baby were already here and everybody else got here not long after that. Good thing Jason was waiting for us or we might’ve had to wake you up…”

Carole pushed open the door and looked through to the family room. They were all there… her Grandfather, her brother Jim and his wife Melissa and their baby Joshua, her sister Kim and her fiancée Jeff, her Aunt Janey and her Uncle Michael, her cousin April were sipping coffee and nibbling on cinnamon rolls while her father, her brother Tom and his boys, and her Jason were adding the final touches to the Christmas tree. The pile of colorfully wrapped gifts underneath the tree had grown. She glanced out the window and saw that the snowfall had indeed stopped.

Carole’s mother slipped her arm around Carole’s waist and hugged her again. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” she said.

Carole leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Mom.”

Jason looked over and came over to them. He kissed Carole as Carole’s mom went over to join the others. “Merry Christmas, pretty girl,” he said. “And I won’t even say ‘I told you so’.”

Carole elbowed him playfully. “Thanks for that, wise guy.” She looked at Jason feeling like her heart was so full that it would burst. She leaned into him and whispered, “I’m pretty sure we’re pregnant.”

Jason recoiled, his face covered with a quizzical smile and then he leaned over and kissed her. “Cool.”

Carole smiled and leaned into him. “I knew that’s what you say,” she chuckled. She looked over at her family and sighed. “They made it…they all made it…maybe there is a little magic in Christmas…”

Jason hugged her. “Ha!” he teased, “not so cynical after all, are ya?”

Carole elbowed him again. “Shut up.” Just then the rest of her family caught sight of her and gathered around to exchange hugs and kisses and playful taunts with her.

The rest of the morning was blur of gift exchanges amidst bright smiles and waves of appreciative laughter. Carole’s father and Jason and Tom and Tom’s boys went out to play in the fallen snow while Carole, her mother, her brother Jim, and her sister-in-law Melissa set about the serious business of making dinner.

That night at dinner Carole shared the news with the family while Jason beamed proudly. And later, after the excitement of the day had worn off and the weariness of late night travels and waiting had taken Jason and the rest of her family to bed, Carole sat alone by the fireplace sipping cocoa, gently patting her stomach, and smiling wistfully. It had been a wonderful Christmas despite all of her worries.

Carole looked out of the window at the front lawn…at the snow, glistening softly in the amber streetlight, and nodded appreciatively. “Cool,” she said before closing the fireplace doors and going upstairs to join Jason in their bed.

Snowfall (Part 1 of 2)

Three days before Christmas it began to snow. This was a turn of events that did not surprise Carole…watching the first lazy flakes of snow drift towards the ground outside her living room window…because it was the last thing in the world that she needed. Most years Carole would have celebrated the snowfall with acerbic wit but this was not most years.

She was already distracted by something she hadn’t yet shared with her husband and in two days her family…her parents, her Grandfather, her brother Jim and his wife Melissa and their baby Joshua, her sister Kim and her fiancée Jeff, her brother Tom and his boys, her Aunt Janey and her Uncle Michael, her cousin April…are coming to spend Christmas and New Year’s at her house and there was still far too much to do for it to be snowing.

“It’s starting to snow,” she said ruefully. Carole was a bit surprised at how much it bothered her that Christmas at her house might be scuttled because from the time she was 16 she turned a jaundiced eye on the whole commercial idea of Christmas. But, on the other hand, she did love to be with her family seeing as how they were all living away from each other and the holidays were a joy to her for that reason and that reason alone.

Jason, her husband of 5 years, looked up from the paper. “Cool,” he said brightly, “looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas after all.”

Carole sighed softly and shook her head. Sometimes she thought of herself as a cynical optimist…or an optimistic cynic…but mostly she thought of herself as a realist. As someone who knew that the world had a tendency to go askew if we weren’t vigilant. Jason, on the other hand, was unabashed in his view of the world as a basically sunny and benevolent place.

Sometimes Carole found Jason’s seemingly guileless optimism as a source of great comfort and joy…sometimes she wanted to be able to see the world through his eyes. And sometimes it bugged the hell out of her that more things didn’t bug the hell out of him. “It’s not ‘cool’,” she said as evenly as she could. “We still have so many things to do before the family gets here and this is the last thing I need.”

Since their marriage, Carole and Jason spent Thanksgivings with his family and Christmases with hers. The Thanksgiving gathering was always at her in-laws’ house in Vermont but the Christmas gathering moved from home to home each year and this year was the first time that it would be in their home. Carole and Jason had a good life…he was an clinical social worker, she sold real estate…and a beautiful home that big enough for the children they would have when they were ready. Carole was proud of her life and her house and she wanted to make it a wonderful holiday for her family by sharing both with them.

They were both off work until after New Year’s so they had plenty of time to get ready and plenty of time to spend with the family when (or if) they got there. The food for the Christmas feast and the week after was in the refrigerator, freezer, and cupboards. The towering tree was almost completely decorated (Jason suggested that they leave some ornaments off for the children to put on the tree.) Carole had planned things meticulously…but serious snowfall was the one thing that she hadn’t planned for and she hated that all of her plans might fall apart due to the one thing she couldn’t control.

Jason put aside his paper and walked over behind his wife. “It’s December, Carole,” he said patiently, “snow is a normal thing. And it’s a good thing.” He put his arms around her and kissed the back of her neck. “Don’t fret so much, pretty girl,” he said, “everything will work out fine.”

Carole sighed again even as she nuzzled back into his embrace. Jason could be so maddeningly optimistic and so wonderfully comforting in the same instant. When they met and fell in love in college, none of their friends thought that the two of them had a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving as a couple. Carole was a hard charger, full of almost manic energy and always trying to make things bend to her will in order to make them come out as she needed them to; Jason, on the other hand, was quiet and mellow, moving forward by going with the flow and somehow knowing everything would turn out as it should.

Their first encounter did not especially bode well for their future. They met at a party that Carole had been dragged to by some of her sorority sisters. Carole was not having a good time and she spent most of the party sulking in a corner drinking beer. Jason, who’d come along to the party just because it seemed like a good idea, caught sight of her across the room and settled near her.
“You don’t look like you’re having a good time,” Jason said.

Carole had rolled her eyes. “What was your first clue, Sherlock?”

Jason had ignored the sarcasm. “You’re too pretty to be so sad,” he said. “I’m Jason, by the way.”

Carole rolled her eyes yet again. “I’m not interested, lover boy.”

Jason had smiled. “That’s cool,” he said. “But we will meet again,” he said with a wink, “I have absolutely no doubt about that.”

They did indeed meet again a couple of weeks later at the student café and they talked and talked. And they talked and talked on the phone. And they talked and talked through dinners and walks in the park. And their respective groups of friends wondered what they saw in each other and made predictions that they couldn’t possibly survive as a couple.

But they had survived as a couple. More than survived, they had thrived, folding into each other as if they had always been destined to be together. Jason’s calm had mitigated Carole’s manic tendencies…Carole’s drive had focused Jason’s fuzziness a bit…they were a great team and, more importantly, they were the great loves of each other’s lives. Their families didn’t understand the connection either at first. But when they saw them together and saw how well they complimented each other and then the two of them made perfect sense.

“It’s probably snowing everywhere I don’t need it to snow,” Carole said. “Everybody’s going to get stuck eating Fritos in airports on Christmas Eve and we’re going to be here alone with enough food to feed an army and no army to eat it.”

Jason chuckled warmly and gave his wife a squeeze. “Don’t be so cynical,” he said affectionately. “Everyone will make it here just fine and we’ll all be together and have a wonderful time.”

Despite her doubts, growing as she watched the snow begin to accumulate outside, Carole wanted to believe that he was right. “How can you be so sure?” She asked, though she instantly regretted doing so because she knew the answer was going to be annoyingly sunny.

Jason kissed the top of Carole’s head. “Because it’s Christmastime, sweetheart,” he said with a smile in his voice. He glanced over at the tall, brightly decorated tree in the corner of the expansive family room. “Because it’s Christmastime and there’s magic in the air and turkey ready to be cooked in the refrigerator and it’s our turn to host the holidays for the family and none of that can be denied.” He kissed her once more and then reluctantly let go of her. “I’d better make sure there’s enough dry wood for the fireplace.”

“I don’t believe in magic…Christmas or otherwise,” she said in mock petulance as he turned and walked towards the back of the house.

“That’s okay,” he said, “I believe enough for both of us.” It was not the first time he’d said that and yet she smiled warmly at it just the same.

Carole turned from watching the snow fall to look around. There were indeed things still to do…gifts to be wrapped, rooms to be made up, food to be accounted for…and she resolved, despite her nagging doubts, to keep moving forward as though Jason were absolutely right and everything was going to be just fine.

Carole and Jason bustled about their big house doing the chores that needed doing before their guests arrived. The house was indeed big…a sprawling two-story affair nestled in a quiet suburb…more house than they needed Carole had thought when they found it but they had both fallen in love with it almost at first sight and they had bought it and worked together to make it their home.

“We could have 4 or 5 kids,” Jason had enthused one day, “and all of them would be able to have their own rooms!”

Carole wasn’t sure she wanted 4 or 5 kids…her business was going well and stopping to have babies wasn’t really something she wanted to think about…but, in her secret heart, the idea of a house full of their children was undeniably appealing. She knew that Jason wanted children but she also knew that he wouldn’t press her on the issue so she kept putting off the conversation.

It was a perfect house for children…and a perfect house for hosting a family Christmas. Carole took comfort in that and that, along with Jason’s unwavering optimism about the outcome of the holiday, kept her moving forward even as the snow continued to fall outside.

The Old Man (a Thanksgiving conversation)

(This Thanksgiving story appeared in this space two years ago. I am re-presenting it because it's still special to me...because many people reading this blog now weren't reading it in '05... and because I don't have time to write a new Turkey Day story this year...at least not yet...things could change :-)

Brian put his feet up on the rail of the porch and relaxed back into his chair, careful not to disturb the glass of brandy on the small table next to him. He took a languid drag on his cigar...one of the Cubans his father had given him with the caveat of “ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies”...and looked up over his neighbor’s roof into the star-spangled blue-black Thanksgiving night sky.

He rubbed his belly, his wife’s amazing turkey, cornbread stuffing, and sweet potato pie still filling the space to just this side of discomfort.

It had been a lovely day.

Upstairs, they were all sleeping the sleep of the content. Janey having willingly made the sacrifice of not talking on the phone to her many girlfriends and hopeful suitors in favor of listening to the jokes and stories her grandfathers loved to spin,

Christopher was doubtlessly sleeping with his beloved basketball. Brian had been willingly drafted into shooting hoops in the backyard for an hour or so in the crisp morning, only being dismissed when some of Christopher’s friends showed up to play.

And his darling little Annie was no doubt still clutching to the bear her maternal grandmother had surprised her with as a gift for her birthday coming two days hence; the plump dark brown bear that was nearly half her size. The bear that had made her eyes glow bright when she saw it; the one she took gingerly out of the box and inspected before pronouncing that “he looks like Daddy”. The bear (having been named Sam after her favorite character in her favorite book) had never left her side for the rest of the day (a place was set for Sam at the Thanksgiving table much to the affectionate amusement of Annie’s grandparents and much to the consternation of Annie’s usually tolerant siblings.)

Brian smiled contentedly.

He glanced up at the window a story above his head. His Ruth was sleeping there after a long day of cooking and being an attentive hostess. Ruth had allowed neither her own mother nor Brian’s his to get too involved with the cooking...this was the first time that both sets of parents had come together for Thanksgiving Day and she wanted them both to relax. She had worn herself to a near frazzle, but everything had come together beautifully. And now she was taking her well-earned rest, snoring daintily where he had left her...with a kiss...when he came down to look at the stars and count his blessings.

The guest bedrooms were filled as well. Ruthie’s parents were in one, his mother in the other.

And in the den downstairs was the old man. Brian’s bittersweet feelings toward the old man crowded up to the surface and he frowned, just a bit ruefully, but then he put them aside. It was Thanksgiving night and there was no place for anything like that.

As if he could feel Brian’s thoughts and energy, the old man...Benjamin Douglas Taylor...shuffled softly through the front door and out onto the porch. He was an imposing man (though, of course, he had seemed that much more imposing to Brian when he was a boy), half a shade lighter than his son.

Brian smiled to himself noting that the old man was still wearing his crisp white shirt and dark slacks held up by the dazzling rainbow suspenders that Annie had picked out for him. The old man was carrying a glass of scotch in one hand, a cigar in the other.

“What are you doing out here, boy?” the old man asked after clearing his throat.

“Looking at the stars, Ben,” Brian replied.

Benjamin nodded, a slight frown playing about his lips. “Thought I would stretch my legs,” he explained, “but if you’d rather be alone...”

Brian reached over and pulled another of the porch chairs forward, closer to his. “It’s okay, Dad,” he said, “come on and sit down.” Brian moved the small table across his body and in between the chairs.

The old man hesitated for a moment and then slowly moved across the porch and eased himself down into the proffered chair. Brian looked at the old man for a short while and then eased back into his own chair and looked up at the stars again. They sat in contemplative silence...staring into the sky, smoking and sipping at their drinks...for what seemed like a small eternity. The winter’s breeze kicked up just enough to make the old tree in the front yard rustle and dance a little.

“Thanks for having me here today,” Benjamin said in a small voice finally. “I know it must have been hard on you and your mother but I do appreciate being with family on Thanksgiving.”

Brian shook his head and sighed inaudibly. His parents had been divorced for more than 25 years but sometimes his father seemed to think it was still a fresh wound that had to be dealt with gingerly.

“It’s not a problem, Dad,” he said quietly. “Mama thought it was a wonderful idea...and the kids were thrilled to have all of their grandparents here for Thanksgiving Day...”

Benjamin grunted noncommittally. “You got some great kids, boy,” he said after a bit. “Makes me wish I had been a better father...”

Brian stifled the urge to agree with him. “What’s done is done, Dad,” he said instead, “and what’s important is here and now.”

The old man turned and looked at his son. “Do you really believe that?”

Brian turned and met his father’s gaze. “Yes, I really believe that...you can only hold on to the past for so long...”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a long time and then Benjamin sighed again and sat back in his chair and looked up into the sky. “Sometimes the past is all you’ve got, Brian...”

Brian rocked back in his own chair and looked up into the sky himself. “We all make mistakes, Ben,” he said after a long pause, “the trick is not to get too caught up in them...”

“Easier said than done, boy...” his father responded in a weary voice.

Brian started to retort but found that he could not. The old man was right. It was easier said than done. But he also knew that it could indeed be done. He was living proof of that having spent so long jealously hoarding resentments from past slights (both real and imagined) including and especially those assigned to his father, who had been gone from his life a long time before the divorce. They had had no real relationship to speak of until Brian had grown into manhood...past the need for a father in the classic sense, but open (more or less) to the possibility of learning to be the old man’s friend just the same.

“You can’t tell me that you didn’t hate me sometimes,” the old man interjected suddenly, his voice growing thick. “I mean...for not being there...you can’t tell me that...”

Brian took a long drag on his cigar and then stubbed it out in the ashtray on the table. He looked back up at the sky and slowly let the fragrant smoke escape. “No, Ben,” he said finally, “I can’t tell you that...you hurt me...” He paused and corrected himself, “I let myself be hurt...more times than I care to think about...”

“So you told me,” Benjamin said ruefully, referring to a caustic letter detailing a litany of paternal transgressions stretching back to infancy that Brian had sent him years ago. Brian took in a large measure of air and let it out slowly. That damn letter. He couldn’t say that he truly regretted sending it...it was a necessary step in letting go of that stuff...but still a part of him felt bad for having vented so seeing that his father still felt the barbs so distinctly so many years later.

The old man put down his cigar and hung his head. He finished his scotch with one fell swoop and put down the glass too.

“But I’m 40 years old, Dad, the stuff of childhood has long since been put away,” Brian continued, consciously making no direct reference to the letter.. “And I meant it when I said the past was the past. Whatever was done is done...I’m over it...well, for the most part anyway...” he allowed himself a slight smile at that and the old man looked up and over at him. “And you should be over it too...”

Benjamin started to say something but could not.

Brian stood up and walked over to where his father was sitting. He knelt down in front of the old man and looked up into his sad, dark brown eyes. “You’ve been a pain in the butt sometimes, Ben,” he said with a smile, “but you’ve never stopped being my father. Hang on to that...let the rest go.” They looked into each other’s eyes for a long time and then Brian nodded. Benjamin nodded in reply.

Brian rose to his feet and stretched and yawned. “I’m going to bed,” he said, “it’s been a long day. You coming in?”

Benjamin shook his head. “Not yet...think I’ll sit out here a little while longer.

Brian nodded again, reaching over to pick up their empty glasses. “Okay, Dad...don’t forget to lock the door when you come in.”

Benjamin grunted a small, playfully dismissive laugh. “I’m old but no so old as to forget something like that, son.”

Brian nodded for a third time. “Good night, Ben...Dad...Good night, Dad.”

The old man looked up at his son. “Good night, boy,” he said softly.

Brian disappeared into the warm darkness of the house and Benjamin looked up into the Thanksgiving night sky. “It was a lovely day,” he muttered softly.

- for Bud -

Supergirl

We were lying side by side on a blanket in the backyard underneath a buttery moon and a sparkling canopy of early evening stars when the Little Miss chuckled softly to herself. This was, I knew from experience, the prelude to a grand pronouncement.

“I know who I want to be, Daddy,” she said resolutely.

I suppressed a chuckle. Last week she had decided on being a fire fighter; three weeks before that, she was ready to be a pop star, and a month or so before that, after a trip our family had taken to visit my in-laws, she was going to be an airline pilot. The perennial jobs…mommy, doctor, cowgirl, pet store owner, and princess…stayed in the mix no matter what else she was considering. “What’s that, sweetheart?”

“Not ‘what’, who,” she corrected me with as much patience as a five-year-old with a very, very active mind could muster. I thought I heard her sigh…sometimes she thought I was the most amazing man in the universe and sometimes she seemed to wonder how such a moron could be her father…but I wasn’t sure. “I’m going to be Supergirl.”

“Are you now?” I smiled. She liked to look through my comics…a childhood interest I had carried into my dotage…and sometimes we would read them together but I never thought she gave them much thought past that.

“Yes,” she said, “I think what this world needs a good super-hero.”

“And that would be you?”

“That would be me,” she replied without hesitation. “Somebody’s got to be Supergirl and why shouldn’t it be me?”

The logic was, of course, irrefutable. I looked up the lazy moon and smiled. “Why not indeed?” She nudged her little head against my shoulder in the shy way she did when she knew that I was giving her the space to dream whatever fearless dreams she chose to dream. “Maybe one day…when you’re not fighting crime and stuff…you could take me to the moon. I’ve always wanted to go to the moon….okay?”

I could feel her smiling at me but I did not turn my head. “Okay,” she said. “As soon as I have a day off…Supergirl’s got a lot to do, you know.”

“Yes I know,” I replied. “Thank you.”

She snuggled a bit closer and joined me at looking up at the bright and beautiful moon. “You’re welcome,” the Little Miss…my Supergirl…said before we both into the same waking dream…a dream of flying to visit that welcoming moon.