Fly away, Earle Bird

Of the six cats we've had, Earle was the only one who introduced herself by name.

Sometime before 2006, My Lovely Wife had become telephone friends with a woman in Hillsdale, Michigan, with whom she played online games, but they had never met in person. The woman's name was Earle (pronounced "Early"), apparently because her father had wanted a boy. (Her sisters' names were Winifred and Honora; it's best not to ask too many questions.)

Earle lived alone in a little apartment with her cat, Prissy. Earle was obese, she smoked a lot, and she was in generally poor health. Prissy and the Internet were just about all she had. One day when they were chatting, Earle told MLW that she was planning to have Prissy put to sleep should anything happen to Earle, because she didn't know who in the world would take her in and give her the kind of attention to which she was accustomed.

"That's crazy," MLW told her. "I'll take your cat if anything happens to you."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Memorable birthday

My sister Margaret had a pretty amazing 16th birthday.

In addition to the usual cake and ice cream and gifts, her party included a giant leap for mankind.

I remember all of us gathered in the family room that evening, watching the broadcast. I don't remember which network we were watching, but it was probably CBS with Walter Cronkite and Wally Schirra, because Channel 6 was the clearest station we could receive. It may have been NBC, though, because Margaret liked David Brinkley better. We were a news-watching and -reading family.



Margaret's 9-year-old brother Jim was sitting on the couch (or davenport, as we called it), craning his neck to get a better view of the upside-down image as Neil Armstrong took that momentous step. Even as a 9-year-old, I understood what a historic moment this was.

After Armstrong said, "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind," I asked what that was supposed to mean. Weren't "man" and "mankind" the same thing? Even as a 9-year-old, I was a smart-alecky copy editor in the making.

A year or two later, my dad and I stood in line for four hours at the Capitol Complex in Lansing to get a glimpse of a moon rock. What an amazing time to be a little kid.

The wheel of life

On this, the 90th anniversary of my mother's birth, I present a newspaper guest column I wrote 20 years ago. I believe this was my first published work after college. It ran on the front of the Metro section of the Fort Wayne (Indiana) News-Sentinel, where I was a copy editor.

Wheel of life takes emotions on a wild ride
August 16, 1989

This summer has been a matter of life and death for my family.

The season has always consisted of languorous days spent staying out of the sun and muggy evenings spent sipping iced tea on the front porch. Baseball games on the radio and the smell of ribs on the neighbors’ grill.

Come to think of it, all that stuff has been going on as usual, but other events have marked this summer, and I’m not at all comfortable with the theme.

The cycle started, like summer, on Memorial Day weekend, when my wife and I were driving on U.S. 30 to visit her brother in Chicago. It was fairly early that beautiful Saturday morning, and there was very little traffic. We were sharing cinnamon rolls we had bought at T.J. Cinnamon’s on what was supposed to be its last day in business (it has since been resurrected), getting sticky fingers and having a good time.

We both were looking out the side window at a farm where the cattle were standing near the road. We were searching the herd for calves.

When I looked to the road again, I saw in front of us a wall of steel in the form of a stopped livestock truck. Instinctively, I swerved left onto the median, missing the huge truck by little more than a few inches. After I got my pickup back on the highway, still going about 50 mph, my wife put her hand on my arm. It felt like the hand of God.

Neither of us said a word for five minutes. Later we prayed and she cried.

Apparently even as that brush with death was happening, the pathetic stray cat we had taken in on Mother’s Day was giving birth back home to five kittens.

Kittens are wonderful. They can entertain without trying, delight without cloying. We’ve tried not to get too attached to them, because we know we have to give them all away, but they’re hard to resist.

It has been a joy to watch them grow, explore, learn and play. They make you feel wonderful about life.

Now we learn one of them has a heart murmur, and we have to decide whether to “put it to sleep” (to use the prevalent euphemism for killing something beloved), give it away to someone willing to take a chance, or keep it and hope for the best.

A few weeks ago, our next-door neighbors brought forth a beautiful baby girl. We were – and still are – thrilled for them.

But then another neighbor – four doors down – was stabbed to death, and a curtain of fear and sorrow hangs over the neighborhood.

The wheel of life keeps turning as it always has, but this summer it seems to be spinning so fast that the spokes have become invisible. I’ve been up and down on it so many times already that I don’t know how to take each new scene that flashes past my eyes.

For example, several weeks ago my 10 siblings and I threw a party for my mother on her 70th birthday. It was an event to celebrate this wonderful, funny woman’s long and worthwhile life and her full recovery from a heart attack four years ago.

Nine of her 11 children were there, along with a few other relatives and cherished friends and uncounted grandchildren. It was a beautiful day, full of laughter and love and a kind of closeness with some of my siblings that I cannot remember ever feeling before.

With the kind of summer it’s been, however, I couldn’t help but think about how many more birthdays my parents might have.

The macabre mood of this summer has even managed to take a turn toward the comic.

The aforementioned stray cat has made herself very much at home in our house, turning every inch of it into her personal hunting ground.

We used to have a pet zebra finch named Jenny. She was 6 years old – that’s 120 to you and me. I admired her for her longevity.

Rikki the cat admired her for her white meat.

We came home one day to find the bird cage shattered on the floor, a small pile of feathers in the kitchen and a satisfied look on Rikki’s face.

I guess everybody faces issues of life and death; it’s part of living. But having to do it nearly every day is a bit much. Take me out to the ballgame.

Godfather's Day II

My goddaughter Vannah and I went out on a "date" last week to a new candy shop, where she read me a Dr. Seuss story and we shared delicious frozen yogurt. Aunt Rox came along too, and a grand time was had by all.

When we took her home, Vannah said "Bye!" and ran upstairs to play with her siblings and a 5-year-old visitor.

As we headed for home, it dawned on me that this date was notable for three reasons:

1. It was the first time Aunt Rox had come along with us.
2. It was the first time Vannah didn't throw me an unsolicited "I love you, Uncle Jim" at some random moment.
3. It was the first time she failed to kiss me goodbye.

Vannah is 8 years old now and getting noticeably taller. Her mother told me Vannah grew a whole shoe size in five weeks' time. You can tell her thought process is maturing and her awareness and understanding of the world around her are growing, too. She's becoming less passive and more interested in setting her own agenda.

These are good things. Still, with the sweet comes the bitter, and I'm realizing that she's not going to be my baby girl for much longer. I pray constantly for the life events and challenges she has yet to encounter, some of which are (I hope) decades down the road. I haven't lost sight of the present moment, but she's made me aware that it's a moving target.

With that in mind, here is this year's Father's Day offering, courtesy of former Hootie & the Blowfish frontman Darius Rucker:

Kiss me and say you understand

Memorial Day always meant a cookout at my parents' house. My father's birthday was May 26, and the holiday provided most of us an opportunity to get away from work and gather at the house for a party.

Dad knew how to play only one song on the piano, but that's still one more than I can play. He wasn't exactly Oscar Peterson on the keyboard, but we loved it -- loved it -- when he sat down to play Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen. It was an event, like his melodramatic recitation of "Casey at the Bat."

As far as I know, no one ever recorded Dad playing Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen in any format. So, by way of honoring him on this day, I offer this poor substitute:



So here's to you, Dad. Happy birthday. I know you're swingin' with Mom in heaven's ballroom. Next number: "Honey."

Buster

Buster had a really good Buster day Friday. He got some treats; he got to go for a walk and eat some grass and smell a freshly dug hole in the ground; he got to snuggle next to Daddy on the couch all night and even drink from his water glass; and he got to curl up in bed with Mommy and Daddy and Gibby.

On Saturday morning Buster got up with Daddy and coached him through getting dressed and ready for work, like every day, then went back to bed. Daddy kissed Mommy, kissed Earle, kissed Gibby and kissed Buster on the head before setting off.

Around 11 a.m., Mommy went to take a bath, and Buster walked her down the hall, talking all the way. And while she was bathing, he went into the den, lay down under a table and went to sleep.

Forever.

Our big boy would have been 18 at the end of May. He was an anniversary gift from Rox's mom to her stepdad when the kitty was just a few weeks old, big feet and big eyes and all. Bob named him Patches because of his mottled coloring.

Patches learned quickly that he wasn't allowed on tables or countertops, so he would sit up straight on a chair or a stool, like a person. Cracked me up, even though I didn't really like the guy very much.

See, Patches and I got off to a bad start. The very first time we met, there were a lot of people in the house and I was sitting on the floor, engaging in conversation with someone at the table.

Suddenly I heard that nasty scream that comes with a cat fight and felt something sharp slicing across my finger. The little bugger bit me for no reason!

I forgave him for that, but I distrusted him for a long time and never did warm up to him much for all the years he lived with my in-laws. He was no trouble, but we were generally indifferent to each other.

Bob and Jeanette lived next to a lake and had a purple martin house in the yard, so there was plenty of wildlife for the kitty to watch. One of them got the idea to put Patches in a harness and tie him outside so he could enjoy the fresh air. He took to it immediately, spending long afternoons, year after year, lazing in the shade of a pine tree -- and often needing pine sap combed out of his fur.

Jeanette and Bob loved that kitty. They let him eat potato chips and ice cream and popcorn. Unfortunately, when Patches was about 12, Jeanette went to heaven. Bob eventually met another nice lady and got married again. They started traveling a lot, and they felt bad about leaving Patches home alone. So on one trip, in late 2005, they brought him along -- to our house. And left him with us.

We were surprised but we welcomed him, as our home had been catless since Rikki had died in 2004. Patches made himself right at home, picking out a spot on the couch for hanging out.

Patches had a gregarious personality and such a stout body that our vet didn't believe us when we told him this was a 14-year-old cat. Dr. Hicks figured him for about 8.

For the same reasons, we didn't think the name Patches fit him very well. Rox had often called him Buster as a nickname, and that became his official moniker. He didn't care; he couldn't hear us anyway.

When he first came to us, Buster would open his mouth but only a squeaky little sound would come out. We soon realized he had gone deaf, but it didn't seem to bother him much. Eventually he got his voice back, and boy, did he like to use it. He always had plenty to say on just about any subject.

One thing he cried for often was a chance to go outside. We tied him up to our back porch virtually every day, and in about a half hour could count on hearing him call out to free him from the spirea bush he always wound his leash around.

It was a natural next step for us to take up the leash and start walking him up and down the block. This he took to with great enthusiasm. He took us on some prodigious walks; I can remember one that covered 12 blocks. In fact, Dr. Hicks told us to cut down on the walking because Buster was losing too much weight!

Buster became a neighborhood celebrity -- the Walking Cat. Drivers on busy Merriman Road would stop their cars to gawk and ask us how we got him to take a leash like that; a few people even took pictures.

A few months after Buster arrived we adopted Earle and then Gibby, and even though he had never shared his home or people with another cat, he didn't seem to mind. And when we moved to Georgia, he saw it as a fun new place to explore. He even knew which driveway was his; he never failed to turn in when we reached it after a walk.

Maybe because I was the one who took him for walks most often, Buster decided to make me his buddy. He wore me down, and I came to love him.

Both of us cherished our couch time together. In the last few months he'd become a little arthritic and had a touch of asthma, but he was a happy cat who had a good life.

I'm grateful that we had that great Friday and nice Saturday morning before he lay down for his final nap. His ashes will go to be with Jeanette, but the warmth of his companionship will always stay here with us.

God bless you, Buster. Thank you for being my buddy. Keep our spot on heaven's couch warm for us, and one day we'll walk and talk together again.

But Valentine's Day will never be the same.

Hair today

I'm letting my hair grow back in.

Not all of it will grow back in, of course, but whatever can grow will be allowed to grow.

My original decision almost four years ago to start shaving my dome was based on a desire to shape my own image, to seize control of my appearance from the cruel hand of nature and genetics. I thought it would make me look mean or tough or whatever; I don't know if it did or not.

What I do know is that just about every balding white guy under 55 is doing the same thing now. I pruned my goatee down to a soul patch a few months ago because the goatee has become part of the standard bald-white-guy look too.

Now I'm comfortable enough in my own skin and scalp to just go with what my daddy gave me. I'm sticking with the soul patch cuz I like it. (And Vannah doesn't want her godfather to grow a full beard.) If I start shaving my head again, it'll be because I want to, not because I'm trying to project an image.

Who knows? A semicircle of gray hair could be the next big trend.

Monsters among us

A friend of mine who, for obvious reasons, will remain anonymous responded to my "Godfather's Day" post from last summer; it featured Steven Curtis Chapman's song "Cinderella." I've sat on this response for several months now, but what she has to say needs to be heard. A word of warning: It's not pretty. Here, edited, is what she wrote (and gave me permission to use):

I've heard the song several times on the radio and always find it well-written and pretty tuned in as to the likely reality of a good father's perspective.

I'm regrettably a daughter who falls into the "or worse" category of father experiences. Begins with a "p" and most people go to prison for it.

Growing up I held the hope for myself that justice would be served during his time on earth - that's not gonna happen. He's a pillar of the church and his community, smart enough to know that maintaining that status will always provide him access to the young children of family and friends.

Years ago I brought his photo to the police, knowing they couldn't do anything about what he did to me but hoping someone who needed to identify him for their own child would have a way to do that. The detective I spoke with got a sad look on his face and said he would accept the photo but the reality is that people like my dad elude them forever.

I'm childless by choice - and when married, my then-husband and I agreed to remain so - but in my case the overarching reason for that is to not provide my father another victim - knowing that whatever precaution I could take to prevent that would not match his devilish, manipulative cunning. I'm sad at heart about it - even one instance of sexual abuse is soul-eviscerating, but years of it planted in me the seed of severe breakdowns for nearly two decades till I came to terms with the reality of its inception.

So the song - which I do like - and the subject route to profound pain ... the most vicious element being that I've never been anything but helpless as he wrenches children from a state of fairy tale of innocence to a life of pain and distorted perceptions.

That has always been the hardest part by far - and each member of my family watches the emotional disturbance of their own children by blaming their children rather than accept the claim I have made for years about my Teflon father.

For my part, I am now a reporter in the community in which my parents live. In my Father's Day column I included his photo and name - in the subterfuged, muted hope that they might again provide the aid for anyone who would otherwise not have it. My parents relocated to [my town] about 10 years ago from where I grew up, and it has been all tabula rasa for them since.

For what it's worth, I believe most parents of young children fear for their safety from without - strangers, dangerous streets and playgrounds - and either by resolute intent or through ignorance never appreciate the hunting skill of the wolves in their own dens.

I gotta say, the woman's got guts. She permitted me to publish this letter as a service to parents, to warn them to watch for signs of abuse within the family. Be fair, but don't dismiss any possibility -- the monsters among us are counting on your trust.

I'll have more to say in another post.

On your feet

I don't know why I feel embarrassed to admit this, but I love this song. Maybe because it's country, or because it's pop, or because it's kind of schmaltzy, and of course I'm way too sophisticated for any of that.

But the doggone thing just gets me every time. It causes me to consider the opportunities I have passed up, and it makes me sad for those who make similar poor choices and fearful that children (and others) I care about will do likewise.

At the same time, though, it reminds me to seize joy when it comes around, and it serves as a kind of prayer for those I love. Every parent should give every child the message this song delivers.

I just heard a snippet of it on the radio the other day and had been thinking about it sporadically ever since, and then my "little sister" Terra -- who didn't know about my feelings about the song but obviously knows me -- just happened to e-mail it to me today.

So, enjoy. (Don't worry; I won't tell anyone.)

Ten years on, Part 2

No, Tom, I didn't forget. I just missed my deadline, that's all.

I never will forget the day our father died, nor do I want to. Pain that deep merely ratifies love that is deeper. And that's something to be thankful for.

Dad died on August 11, 1998, after fooling us into thinking he would be OK after major surgery earlier that same day. The whole family had commandeered and occupied Sparrow Hospital's surgical waiting lounge all day while Dad had his cancerous kidney removed.

The surgery had been put off when Mom fell ill in July and then died on the 23rd. The doctors gave Dad a couple of weeks to grieve, but that tumor wasn't waiting around.

While Dad was in the so-called recovery room the surgeon told us it had gone well, and that while he was in there he repaired a hernia he'd noticed. He (unnecessarily, I thought) described the lengthy incision he'd made in Dad's abdomen, which produced a picture in my mind that I have never been able to shake.

The doctor said something like, "Later on we'll get him up to his room, get his butt out of bed and have him walk around a little bit." I've always wondered whether he came to regret the cavalier tone he took that day.

After that briefing most of us left the hospital, as it was early evening and we were all hungry. MLW and I met her father for dinner at Cheddar's; I don't remember what I ate but I do remember the big ceiling fans and that I had a beer or two, and I wasn't a drinker at that time.

After dinner MLW and I went to our hotel to freshen up, stopping off for a free cocktail in the lobby. I was feeling just slightly unsteady when we got back to the room. I noticed the message light blinking on the phone and knew in my gut that it was not good news.

The desk gave me a number to call and ask for Tom. Before I dialed I knew what Tom was going to tell me, but I didn't want to believe it.

I called. Tom asked me if I was sitting down. "Oh no," I said in that "Not again" tone. I was sitting on the arm of a couch.

Tom gave it to me straight: "Dad ... died."

I think I asked him for details and I suppose he told me, but I don't recall any of the rest of that conversation. I hung up the phone and kicked over a coffee table and started stomping around the hotel room, cursing and screaming and kicking and punching things. MLW put her hands on me, which had an instant (though temporary) calming effect. She gathered up her purse and our keys and we made for the hospital at high speed. I think I drove, though I was blind with unfocused rage, screaming and pounding the steering wheel. At least, that's the way I remember it.

We were among the last to make it back to the hospital. Almost everyone was standing out in the corridor instead of in the waiting lounge. I kept demanding that someone tell me what the hell happened because no one seemed able to explain it to my satisfaction. (It apparently was a pulmonary embolism that formed after the surgery.)

Someone, Maureen, I think, asked me if I wanted to go see Dad and led me back to where they had him. I think Pat came along too. I gotta say Dad looked pretty good lying there, all clean, covered with clean white linens neatly folded over at the chest with his arms lying exposed at his sides. He seemed to have a little smirk on his face.

"Dad ... What are you doing?" I asked him, almost expecting a reply. "What are you doing?" I touched his hairy right forearm with my right hand and his glistening pale forehead with my left. His arm -- that arm that I will always see stretched out to the top of the steering wheel of a station wagon -- was warm; his head -- that shiny dome that it seemed to me contained all the knowledge and wisdom in the world -- was cool.

After a minute or two of just laying my hands on him, taking in that sensation one last time and imprinting it, I leaned in close, kissed that cool, slightly clammy forehead and whispered to him the only words that came to mind: "Thank you. ... I'll see you there."

Family circles

Looking back, I realize I failed to follow up on a line of thought in a previous post, and that loop needs to be closed.

I said that despite my pastor's gentle encouragement, I didn't cry when my mom died.

For the record, that situation was rectified on the Sunday after the funeral, when the freakin' dam burst.

That same pastor, Dennis Butts, had come over and sat down next to me. He asked me if I remembered what he had told me earlier, that it was OK to cry. I told him I did remember, but that's just not the way my grief was coming out. He just sat there with me for a couple of minutes, neither one of us saying anything.

"It's OK to cry."

Pastor Butts is a big bear of a man at better than 6 feet tall and better than 200 pounds. He carries a large, quiet, powerful presence, much as my dad did. That presence began to overshadow me that day on the front pew -- enveloping me, drawing me in, surrounding me, subsuming me. I felt like I was inside a small, dark closet, in the deepest shadows behind the long winter coats. I felt safe.

That's when I absolutely lost it, sobbing inconsolably on that front pew for 20 minutes after the service ended.

I could hear people chatting, some stopping to ask MLW what was wrong with me, random people placing a hand on my shoulder or offering a word of comfort, and the tears and snot pouring out. Someone finally had the good sense and compassion to stuff a couple of tissues into my hand.

That day it became clearer to me than ever that I had a new family. It didn't replace my birth family but augmented it. I felt safe enough to cry like a baby in front of these people, and they responded with love, comfort, empathy and compassion.

Less than three weeks later, when my father also died, my tears were warmed up and ready to go, and go they did. My hysterical reaction at the hospital remains one of the more memorable entries in my family's grief scrapbook.

But it's all good. MLW and my sister Sheila stayed with me to comfort me while I was treated (read: sedated) in the emergency room, and no one made fun of me when we eventually made it back to the house, where we sat around the dining room table in stunned disbelief.

Both my families had their finest hours in the days and weeks that followed. My birth family, without exception, demonstrated kindness and grace to a degree that I had never seen in many of them before, and it helped heal some old wounds in me. My church family, which I already knew to be full of kindness and grace, proved generous and gentle as well, weeping and grieving with us, taking on themselves the loss of two people they had never known.

I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge as well the kindness of my co-workers, who sent stacks of cards and food and sent flowers to the funeral home and covered my extended absence from work without a word of complaint.

It's true that there's a lot of bad stuff and a lot of bad people in this world. But these moments and these memories remind me that God looks after his own:

A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy
dwelling.
God sets the lonely in families, he leads forth the prisoners with
singing;
... You gave abundant showers, O God;
You refreshed your weary inheritance. -- Psalm 68:5-6a;9

I apologize for writing so much about death and grief lately. It's a season the Spirit has sent me into, and I'm walking through it. Which reminds me of something another member of my church family, a man named Brother Herman, said a couple of years ago:

"Psalm 23 says, 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death ...'
Notice that it says 'walk through'; it doesn't say 'set up camp in.'"

Thanks for that, Brother Herman. Thanks to all my brothers and sisters. And thanks, God, for them.

Ten years on

My mother died 10 years ago yesterday. Her given name was Catherine, but everyone -- everyone -- called her Honey.

Maybe that's why I was a sucker for this video:

http://www.emailthis.clickability.com/et/emailThis?clickMap=viewThis&etMailToID=1038394309

I feel like I should add some comment here, but I got nothin'.

Miss you, Mom

My sister told me that since I wrote about my dad on his birthday I'd better write about my mom on hers, or I'd never hear the end of it through eternity.

That's where Mom is right now: eternity. She left the confines of time 10 years ago this month. I remember my brother Tom calling with the news that morning; I think it was a Thursday.

Mom had been in the hospital for more than a week after developing a painful blood clot in her leg. The hospital gave her Heparin, a powerful blood thinner. It worked too well.

We were told the drug caused a rare reaction, breaking up the clot into thousands of tiny clots that bombarded her kidneys and destroyed them. After several days of dialysis, sometimes several times a day, the rest of her body just shut down.

It was probably for the best, given the circumstances, but it was painful for all of us who loved her and were loved by her.

MLW called one of our pastors, with whom we were pretty close. She handed me the phone, and he asked me how I was doing. I told him I was OK. "You know it's OK to cry," he told me. "I know," I said, unemotionally. "It's OK to cry," he repeated. "I know, I know," I told him. "I'm just not feeling that way right now."

We waited a day before heading to Michigan, which I later concluded was a mistake. I should have been there with my dad and the rest of the family as soon as I could get there, but we only got there in time for the viewing and then the funeral.

My best friend from high school, Gonz, showed up at the viewing. I was shocked; I hadn't heard from him in years. But Mom used to drive him and me to school every morning, and at the viewing he and I laughed as we fondly remembered her utter inability to make a right turn without clipping the curb.

She and Dad also attended Gonz's wedding in Muskegon. Although he is emotionally rather clueless, I think he was touched that they made the trip. And they -- especially Mom -- seemed to have a great time.

Mom was a people watcher par excellence, which made wedding receptions and similar gatherings fun for her. While I wouldn't go so far as to say she spied on the neighbors, she did keep an eye on them and delighted in making up stories to explain what she saw in the absence of actual facts.

There's a lot I could tell you about Mom, but this post would go on forever. But I'll just say she's one of the funniest people I have ever known and illustrate the point with this one BBAA (Brief But Amusing Anecdote):

While Mom was in the hospital, MLW and I went to visit her. Mom wasn't always fully conscious or entirely present, but there were some exceptional moments. At one point while we were in the room she said she needed a Kleenex. The box was on her tray across her bed from me, so I reached across her to put it within her reach. As I did so, she noticed that my thumbnail was black.

"You hurt your thumb," she observed in a sleepy voice. I explained that I had smashed my thumb with a hammer.

"Oh," she said softly, "... stupid."

Godfather's Day

OK, so today is Father's Day. Kind of a neutral day for me most years. My dad died 10 years ago, and I'm not a father myself, so ... pfftht.

This morning our church put on a lovely little sketch, playing out the Steven Curtis Chapman song "Cinderella" onstage. Here's the official Chapman video on YouTube:

Let's just say I was glad I stuffed a couple of tissues in my pocket before leaving for church this morning.

The pastor at my former church makes a point every year of telling people we shouldn't glibly go around and wish every man we see a happy Father's Day. For some it's a very painful day because they didn't have a father or because the father they had was a lout (or worse).



And then there are those who, like me, feel a sense of loss at never having become a father, at knowing we'll never experience the reality of that song.

This certainly isn't a matter for pity or self-pity, since the no-kids decision was one MLW and I made jointly and consciously. And our reasoning for the decision -- there are enough mouths to feed on this planet already -- still stands up.

Nevertheless, I still feel a certain emptiness at not having had (or taken) the opportunity to raise a child.

But here's the thing. God isn't limited by our decisions or our ideas of what a family is.

And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in
Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:19)

At the beginning of May, my nephew and his wife and their three children -- who had started in Michigan, lived the last three years in Florida and the last five months in Marietta, Ga. -- moved into a house three blocks from ours. The youngest of those three children is a 7-year-old blue-eyed blonde named Savannah who is my godchild. And she is CRAZY about her godfather. And I'm pretty crazy about her, too.


God has given me my Cinderella.






Don't you just love a happy ending?

Happy birthday

Today is Memorial Day, an especially poignant one because it is also my father's birthday.

Dad would have been 88 today. He died 10 years ago -- can it really have been that long?

When I think realistically about how old he would be getting now (and my mother as well), I realize it's a little absurd to go down the road of "If only ..." I mean, how many people live to be 88 anyway, and what would his quality of life have been at that age, with his diabetes and high blood pressure and brushes with cancer? And worst of all, no Honey (my mom).

But I still miss them both, and I'm not one bit ashamed about it.

We always had his birthday party on Memorial Day, whether it fell on the 26th or not. He would (over)cook hamburgers on the grill, and we'd have Jay's potato chips and baked beans and Vernor's ginger ale, and of course cake and ice cream. Some Frisbee, some Jarts, some "NBA" (that's what we called basketball the rough, physical way we boys sometimes played it in the driveway), a couple of shoving matches and lots of laughter until long after the sun went down.

And the flag hanging from the big front porch. My folks flew the flag every day, not just on national holidays -- one of those Bennington flags, with the big "76" on it. Dad was a Navy veteran of World War II. He served aboard the destroyer USS Patterson in the South Pacific, which thankfully didn't see a lot of heavy action. I'm sure they had their moments, but Dad didn't really dwell on it or talk about it much. He had a family to generate and raise and a God to serve.

I have a flag that has been furled in a corner near the front door ever since I moved here. Yesterday I finally got around to finding the mounting bracket and installing it on the front of the house. First thing this morning I unfurled the flag and set it out there to wave in the sun.

Yes, I did it for our nation's honored dead. But mostly I did it to honor Dad. Happy birthday. I still love you.