Day 111: I Live For Days Like These

It seems rare these days that I get to spend much, if any, uninterrupted, alone time with my older kids. There's the job or supper to make or laundry to do or their busy lives getting in the way. A day when I get to spend uninterrupted, alone time with all my kids on the same day is practically unheard of. Today was such a day. A blessed day. A magical day. I'm not sure they even noticed, but I did. I cherished it, and I'll cherish it for a long time. Spending time with them one on one just doesn't happen enough.

A track meet and lunch with my daughter. Playing catch and having a long conversation while sitting in the grass with my other daughter. Working in the back yard with my son. Playing for several hours with my youngest daughter. All alone. All uninterrupted. Maybe other parents get days like this all the time. I don't. My older kids are getting to that age where their parents means something different to them. It's not the same as it was. They rely on us far less. They don't need us to hold their hand. They don't want us to. They have their own relationships to tend to outside of the house. They have their own lives. My middle daughter is also finding her way. She's sowing her oats and carving out her own paths. I understand all this, but it doesn't make it easy. One of the hardest aspects of being a father for me has always been the fact that I'm needed less and less as they grow older, and I struggle with the reshaping of my identity where that's concerned. That's why I cherish days like these. I'm not trying to hold back time. I'm just trying to appreciate it more. I'm trying to appreciate the opportunities when they present themselves and not squander them. Loved this day. 

Day 110: Damn You, Dog, I Love You!

We have two dogs in our house who are full-time members of our family. They live a good life, I’d say. They get multiple meals every day. They have a warm place to sleep in the winter that's indoors and a cool place in the summer. They have a backyard to roam around, although they prefer to be inside among the humans for the most part. They get snacks. They have toys. They get bones to chew on. They get presents at Christmas time. Doggy cookies once in a while, too. Overall, there’s not much that is expected of them. They do alright as far as a canine’s life goes.

Slim is the newest doggy member of the family. He’s a full-bred chocolate lab, which you’d reason would make him smart and graceful. To put it nicely, he’s an utter dope. I say this lovingly but also with a massive dose of frustration. Being a dope is all fine and good if your dopiness isn’t causing headaches for everyone around you, which isn’t the case with Slim. He’s a dope in the sense that he’s never matured in any perceivable way. Not logic. Not wisdom. Not sophistication. Nothing. In fact, I’d say other than expanding massively in the physical sense, he hasn’t matured whatsoever since, say, two months old. He’s remained just as simple-minded and moronic. Again, I say this is mostly in a loving manner. But there are those days when Slim eats a pan of bacon grease or breaks down the fence and proceeds to eat half my summer garden yet another year or digs up the grass that just started to grow or helps himself to another full-sized portion of cat poop and makes everyone in his vicinity pay the price hours later that, well, I don’t find Slim’s dopiness so loveable. My greatest wish for Slim is that he’d grow up and branch out a bit, that he’d concern himself with more than just obtaining food and sleeping on our bed. But who am I to set expectations? It’s his life to live after all.

Priscilla is a miniature collie colored black and white and is named in honor of Elvis’ wife. Unlike Slim, she’s not a dope. She’s intelligent and loving, but she’s also calculating. She circumvents and schemes to get an extra snack. She outsmarts Slim, which isn’t hard to do, but still impressive to witness. She waits patiently for food to fall to the floor. She throws up roadblocks. When that doesn’t work, she just powers her way past Slim to get what she wants. She’s a diva when she needs to be; she lurks when that is what is required. But Priscilla isn’t focused solely and 100% on food as Slim is. She likes attention, too, and she commands a good petting and rubbing when she wants. She howls when she’s happy and excited. She demands respect and knows she has the goods. She also doesn’t tolerate Slim’s grade school, “uh, der, uh . . .” mentality any more than she must. He’s a fellow canine, so there’s some unavoidable relationship with him she must share, but Priscilla is the boss. Make no mistake about it. I respect her for that. I respect her more because she’s faithful and loyal and she sees the big picture.

The surrogate member of our doggy family is Artemis Amidala, my son’s pouch who seems to visit quite often due to my wife’s insistence. Artemis, in fact, is a frequent overnight visitor, which is fine for the most part. Slim and Priscilla like her fine. Even our cats aren’t too put off by her presence. And I like Artemis quite a bit, too. She’s docile. She’s cute. She’s mostly quiet. She’s not needy like Slim, but she’s affectionate like Priscilla. And Artemis is extremely smart. She’s nobody’s fool. She’s the only dog I know of, in fact, with a Facebook profile. If there’s a downside to Artemis, it’s that she’s also a gutter-gut and isn’t above using her freaky springy legs to jump high on a counter top and retrieve a little cat food snack to tide her over. This leads me to the one thing I don’t like about Artemis. The presence of food not meant for doggy stomach wreaks havoc on her digestive system. Thus, when her counter-top sneakiness fills her gut with food not fitting for a small pup, the result is gross. Put candidly, Artemis is prone to sneak a healthy-sized, smelly dump in the middle of the night in the bedroom—a room that’s already overcrowded on any given night with humans, cats, a man-sized dimwitted dog, and another dog. Additional unsavory aroma is exactly what we don’t need. I’m not sure why Artemis doesn’t just wake someone up and let them know she’s in need of a visit to the outdoors. She has no problem rubbing her wet nose up against me at any other time of the day. Yet, she doesn’t. She just sneaks off unattended and does her sneaky business. And so, the only warning as to what awaits one in the form of a nasty landmine on the floor is the sweat-inducing odor emitting from said landmine.

Whether I asked for it or not, my adult life has been one in which dogs have seemingly always been present. Some days when I’m freezing my bum off while chiseling dog poop out of frozen ice in the backyard or when Slim steals another loaf of bread off the kitchen counter (or soup ladle to lick clean or bag of popcorn or bag of bubble gum or Valentine Day’s candy or God only knows what else), I’d just as soon never see a dog again. I just as soon never smell wet dog hair or spend another sleepless night awake because the doggy snoring going on next to me is louder than a truck. I’d just as soon never wipe cat litter off Slim’s wet nose or have to replace another cell phone because Slim unwittingly threw up on the present one in the middle of the night and decimated the internals with his funky projectile. I damn sure would just as soon never have to go through the pain of losing another four-legged friend because his time has come to an end.

But the pain and frustration and annoyance are fleeting. My irritation passes soon enough and I come back to the realization of what joy a dog brings to life. I realize how much aggravation they put up from me. I realize how quiet and boring the house would be without them. I realize the protection and watchful eye they keep on my four-year-old daughter. I realize that there would be a huge void.

I may speak ill of my dogs now and again, but I love them truly, and I’m thankful they’ll be waiting at the door when I get home each night barking their fool heads off and hitting me up for a snack of some sort.  

Day 109: RIP, Levon Helm: Drummer, Dirt Farmer, Man’s Man

Levon Helm died today, and I feel a huge sense of loss. I also feel a huge sense of appreciation—for a magnificent life lived fully and shared to an equally full extent. I’ve held Levon Helm in great reverence for many years, but I’m feeling that respect and admiration even more intensely today now that he’s gone. Life is strange.

A fascinating aspect of life (and being a human being in general) for me is just how profoundly another human being who I’ve never met or spoken with or shared any manner of personal communication with can influence and positively impact my life. It’s one of the great mysteries of life how human beings look to other human beings for their lead, for their lessons, for their inspiration. It’s beautiful to me that time and space don’t have to form barriers to being able to recognize the traits that reside within someone else that we find attractive and enticing, that motivate and propel to be better, that drive to do good.

I never spoke a word to Levon Helm personally, nor he to me. I never saw him play the drums, guitar, or mandolin in person, and I never had the chance to hear his sweet, sweet voice fill the same room that I happened to be standing in. But Levon Helm did speak to me. He spoke to me in so many ways, and most of those ways transcend music.

From the moment I heard Levon Helm’s deliciously odd thumping on “Up On Cripple Creek” I was hooked on what Levon was selling. I was hooked on his funky drumming and how it followed its own groove. I was hooked on the infectious harmonies he formed with Rick Danko and Richard Manuel. I was hooked on the conviction and truth that his voice relayed in every note. I was hooked on Levon Helm’s authenticity and genuine presence.

From my first viewing of “The Last Waltz” decades ago on through the most recent one about a month or so back, I’ve only grown to find myself more in awe and wonder of Levon Helm’s musical gift each time. I’ve been in awe of how he carries himself, exudes confidence and joy, and demands respect with his mere presence. Levon Helm was America personified.

Still, I truly believe Levon Helm taught me just as many things about being a man as he did about music, about how to willingly seek out an appreciation for life and how to partake in the simple pleasures that everyday life have to offer. Levon Helm was a man of the earth. A man of his homeland. A man of his people.

Levon Helm was a man’s man, and I might respect him most for this fact. Bob Dylan handpicked him to be the drummer in his touring band at a time when Dylan was on top of the world in the mid-1960s. Anyone would have killed for the gig. When Levon Helm got fed up, though, he quit and walked away. Walked away from Dylan? Damn right. Not only that, he quit and went to work on damn oil rig. Man’s man.

Watch “The Last Waltz” and you’ll witness Robbie Robertson try to con the world into believing that it was he who was the heart of soul of The Band, which is not only one of my favorite musical entities ever but one of the best and most important to American music period. Robertson wasn’t. Levon Helm was, and he always will be. Levon Helm called Robertson’s bluff. He didn’t hesitate to say bullshit. I imagine when the camera’s turn off, he went right on living his life the same he always had. I can’t say the same for Robertson. Man’s man.

I realize that Levon Helm means a hell of lot more to me than probably 99% of the people I know, and pretty much everything I’ve written here means little to nothing to those people. I’d wager a good majority of my friends and family have no idea who Levon Helm even is. They’ve probably sang along with Levon during “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” or “The Weight,” but they don’t know the importance of Levon Helm to American music.

That’s OK. I doubt very much Levon Helm would care. He was all about the music. He was all about letting the music stir the soul. Letting the music fill the soul. Letting the music encompass the soul. I can’t be certain, but I don’t think Levon Helm cared one bit that he wasn’t nearly as recognized or credited as he deserved to be for his contributions to American music. I think what he cared about was playing another song. I think what he cared about was dropping down a beat that could get asses shaking, hip swaying, and bodies moving.

Levon Helm had his priorities in check. Man’s man.

Day 108: My Goatee

My goatee is my friend. My pal. My boy. I’m down with my goat. I give my goat props. Mad props. My goat comes correct each and every day.

My goatee is my cape. My utility belt. My six shooter. My muscle. My right-hand man. My Renfield. My Watson. My Robin.

I’ve been sporting a goat for pretty near 20 years. I’ve shaved it exactly twice that I can remember, and both times I immediately regretted it. I mean I really, really regretted it. Instantly regretted it.

On the positive side, shaving the goat de-ages me by about two decades. On the negative side, shaving the goat makes my peanut-shaped head look even smaller and weirder and odder than it already does, and although I’ve long abandoned any hopes of being recognized for my killer movie star looks, I don’t want to be known as Mr. Peanut Head, either.

Both times I shaved the goat, I felt instantly weak. I felt naked and bare, as if someone broke into my closet, stole all my clothes, and left me to fend for myself in a cruel, cold world without anything to protect by delicate skin. My goatee is my armor. It shields me from damage and harm. My goat is the rubber ball that bounces your negativity back to you.

My goatee is also gray as hell. It started going that way well before I ever approached 40, and it’s only gotten worse. In winter, my face camouflages well with a snow bank. In fact, my face permanently looks as if someone glued a snowball that won’t melt on my chin. When taking photos, it’s wise to turn the flash off because my goat will reflect the light. I could take a razor to all that whiteness and turn back the clock, but that would expose my chin for the weakling I perceive it to be without facial hair, and I’m not having that.

My goat is a faithful companion. I don’t recognize myself without it. I don’t like the way I appear without it. I’ve grown accustomed to having no hair on my head. I’ve grown accustomed to how I look wearing glasses and not wearing glasses. I’ve grown accustomed to how I look in dress clothes, casual clothes, and athletic clothes. I’ve never in the last two decades grown accustomed to how I look without the goat.

I’ve accepted that my wife doesn’t feel the same about my dear friend as I do. He has a tendency to be a little gruff and abrasive. My daughters felt the same when they were young and gave the big daddy a hug or kiss. I could do them a solid and make life on their faces and chins more bearable, but I can’t bring myself to do so. At least not in the foreseeable future.

Are there days when the goat and I don’t get along or see eye to eye? Sure. Some mornings when I look into the mirror, I can see glimpses of the little boy or young man who used to reside somewhere behind that lip and chin full of hair. I miss that guy. I miss that face. But I’m not him anymore. I am of the goat. I am about the goat.

I wore a goat before it was trendy, and I kept wearing it when every monkey and his brother decided to do the same. I don’t begrudge any man his goat, but mine is special. It’s better than yours.

Some men choose the full beard, the hippie beard, the Amish beard, the Fu Man Chu, the handlebar, the 5 O’clock shadow, the pencil mustache, the soul patch, or the chinstrap. I choose the goat, and it serves me well.

Day 107: Making Sense Of Death

People deal with death in many ways. I'm not really sure how I do it honestly. It's not consistent, I know that. That makes sense I guess, considering we're just naturally closer to some people who die than to others and  the loss is felt much more intensely and the impact far greater. 


Some deaths have been much harder than others to deal with, although every person that I've known who has died impacted me in some way or another. I was eight when my grandfather died, and I didn't really know him. Personally, I don't remember feeling the loss. I do remember seeing how it affected my dad and how much that touched me, and that vision has never left me. When I was in my early 20s, the sports editor at the newspaper I was working at died. I had only known him for a year or so, but I remember feeling remarkably impacted by his passing for some reason. Maybe it was the time and place. Maybe it was because I was entering adulthood. I'm not sure. 


I'm also not sure if it's worse to learn about a death that happened unexpectedly or learn about someone who is well on the path toward dying. Recently, a person I knew fairly well at one time and spent a lot of hours playing basketball with died unexpectedly. I'm still trying to make sense of that. I found myself hurting not only for his family and myself, but possibly more for his very close friends, several who I know very well. It's hard seeing pain register on your friends' faces. It's especially  difficult when you haven't witnessed that pain too often previously. 


What I've learned about death is that you can learn something from each life that has passed on. I'm not one to say death should be a celebration, but I am someone who believes death should be a learning experience. Death can help you learn a lot about yourself. It can redirect you. Repurpose you. It can rededicate your intentions. Death can put a sense of urgency within your heart and mind and lead you to do and say the things you should do and say daily but don't. Death can instigate reflections and inspections. It should be a time to place value on the relationship you shared with the one who has passed and how you can use that to make your current relationship better and more fulfilling for both parties. 


A couple years back an elderly man in my church who I liked very much died. Upon his death, I learned more about him than I did while he was alive. He was very humble and very kind, and his first words to me were always a question concerning how I was doing. In other words, he didn't talk much about himself or the many, many accomplishments I later learned about after his death. I think I learned a lot from his death about how to carry yourself and how to behave and how to make someone's else experience more joyful and beneficial by taking the attention off yourself and placing it outward. 


Death isn't easy. It also doesn't have to be for nothing. 

Day 106: The Fine Art Of Parenting

As a parent, I think it’s always interesting when you get a chance to watch your kids interact in situations and environments that you’re not used to seeing them interact in. This past weekend, for example, my daughter had a track meet, and for at least a portion of the event I watched from the stands as she interacted with her friends between events. Naturally, I’m completely used to seeing her in our home doing whatever it is she does at any given time. I’m even used to watching her outside the house compete in sports, both as someone who has coached her for many years in various sports and who has just sat back and watched her play. But watching her outside the home over an extended time socialize and intermingle with her peers with no distractions or commitments is something I don’t the chance to do often, and overall, I find it fascinating and incredibly beneficial when it does.

I guess we all have visions or ideas in our heads of how we want our children to act when they’re not in our direct eyesight. That’s the entire purpose of parenting, isn’t it? To teach and lead and guide and explain and present lessons that we hope will one day enable our kids to behave and act as responsible, compassionate human beings when we’re no longer there to hold their hands, so to speak. Of course, although we can always hope for the best, the best isn’t always possible, and our kids will act in ways that are detrimental to themselves and that shed a negative light on us. So be it. That comes with the territory. You deal with it, correct the behavior if you must, determine if there’s something you can do for your own process or locate that lesson that you might have missed passing on, and then move on.  

But watching your kids participate in an event—even if it’s something ultimately as inconsequential in the big scheme of things as a track meet—and generally taking joy and pleasure as you watch your child move about seemingly sincerely happy and productive and knowing that you have reasons to be proud and confident in their abilities is a treasure that seems somewhat elusive. Further, knowing that you’ve done something well as a parent and that you’ve instilled lessons in your children that they actually executed is, well, euphoric in some ways.

So often, I hear parents beat themselves up or question their whole approach to parenting because of something they feel their kids did wrong. I know I’ve felt this way. I’ve questioned myself and my parenting skills so many times it seems, I could write a book about it. Typically, though, the positive things greatly outweigh negative if you’re willing to a.) let them occur, and b.) recognize them. So why does it seem those moments, when you are able to witness firsthand the positive influence you’ve had on your children come to fruition, don’t come around nearly enough? I’m not sure.

I do think I know that when those moments do appear you better take the time to let them pour all over you. Take joy. Take pride. Take reassurance. Take comfort. Take whatever you can that’s positive away in order to continue doing the good work that parents need and should do.

I’m in the unique position that my kids are greatly spread out in years, from 19 to four. That’s leaves me able to learn from my parenting mistakes in the present and have the ability to apply what I’ve learned down the line on a younger child and hopefully avoid the same errors. For instance, I’ve learned the painful lesson that there are just certain things that a father, no matter how good of intentions he may have, can never say to a teenage girl. I can store that valuable information away for, say, 10 or 11 years, and when the time comes that my four-year-old is a teenager, apply that lesson and save myself a whole lot of grief.

But this works in a different direction, as well. There are those times when a moment that’s potentially filled with positivity has surfaced but for whatever reason I let the opportunity to do good escape. Maybe I didn’t provide praise where I should have. Maybe I didn’t make an event enough of a priority. Maybe I just dropped the ball by failing to recognize the importance of my participation, and hurt feelings or disappointment was the result. Hopefully I’m smart enough to learn from those failings and turn them into achievements in the future.

At any rate, as difficult as being a parent is, there’s monumental value available from all the toil. There are so many gold nuggets to collect and reap richness from. There are so many opportunities to just sit back, observe, and take pleasure in what you’re witnessing.  

Day 105: Time alone

When you have more than one kid it gets hard spending time with each alone. When they are so far apart in ages it gets even harder. Today, I got to spend time alone with my older daughter away from the house and all the distractions that go with it with my older daughter. This is always a good thing. It's always productive, and it's always welcome. I love being able to be a father, but I really love it when one of my kids asks me to be.