Case,
Smoking cigarettes is a nasty habit that you better not pick up, while drinking coffee is right up there with breathing as an activity fundamental to the proper functioning of an adult brain. Here's a song that's not really about either one of those things:
Cigarettes and coffee, talking as the sun goes down
Ten minutes of the moments that make up solid ground
Not a story for granchildren but a simple narrative
on why we live for love and why we love to live
A cigarette at sundown shared in the fading light
Coffee sips the cadence of another Tuesday night
It's a feeling not euphoric, it's just one of those things
that makes you feel thankful and causes one to dream
Cigarettes and coffee, a welcome interlude
a couple well-heeled vices to help reset the mood
Breaking up the bigger ... pictures of the day
With a little smoke and caffeine, the world falls away
A cigarette at midnight underneath the nameless stars
The moon illuminates this little thing of ours
The crickets in their rhythm tell an age-old story
Out here in the country, we're lost in our own glory
Cigarettes and coffee, ashes and memories
Funny what we remember and to varying degrees
Caught up in the grand scheme, no surprise we miss the roses
But drink the moment in and see what it exposes
A cigarette to unwind, candle burns down to its end
A subtle dose of silence to reflect and comprehend
Of ev'rything you take in 'long a journey filled with miles,
the meaning in the small steps makes you take a drag and smile
Love,
Dad
P.S. Seriously, smoking is terrible and disgusting. It's the kind of thing Packers fans and socialists do.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Monday, October 14, 2013
Bittersweet 16
Case,
16.
That's the number of steps you scaled on the beginning of our walk this morning.
You've made your way up those steps before, but not like this. Today, there was no wasted motion. No hesitation. For the first time, you made your way without using the rail or your father for support. Not once did you stop, look back and reach out your hand.
I was proud, and I was sad. Proud because it was a moment that reminded me you're growing up so fast, becoming an independent little man and gaining confidence every step of the way. Sad because it was a moment that reminded me you're growing up so fast, becoming an independent little man and gaining confidence every step of the way.
It was just a few weeks ago that we went for a walk and on the first set of steps down to the backyard, you reached out to me. It reminded me how important it is that I be there for you, which, as I've mentioned before, I consider to be my fundamental duty as a father. To be there. To guide. To support. To offer a helping hand — in its myriad forms — whenever you reach, whether I'm right beside you on the steps or half a world but just a call (or text or personal message or Skype; you get the idea) away.
That last part is what hit me today. As you navigated any number of steps, ambled across across wide-open spaces of concrete and grass, wobbled down the occasional hill and eventually ended up on the playground with your "choo-choos," I was reminded of another duty — the duty to let you grow up.
When another human, especially one that is still pure of heart and knows only that the world is a wondrous but scary place puts his trust in you, it's a powerful feeling. In my experience, the greatest of my life. So while I smiled throughout our journey today, it was a little bittersweet to watch you and know that one day, the proverbial steps you climb will take you to heights I tend not to think about in the general course of a hectic day.
Today, I no longer had to offer a literal helping hand as you walked up 16 steps. Soon, the number of figurative helping hands I can offer you will start to decrease. One day, you won't need me to follow so closely. Then you won't need me to follow at all. Eventually, you will be more independent and confident than I could have imagined as I held all 6 pounds of you to my chest a little more than two years ago in the delivery room.
With each new step, there will be more pride and less sadness. There will be no limit to the former, and the latter will never completely go away. I will do my best to let you grow up, to give you the freedom to reach new heights without looking back. But if or when you need it, I will always be within reach.
Love,
Dad
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Family, football and fantasy
Case,
My life has revolved around family and football for the great majority of my 41-plus years on the planet. Saturday was no different. Here's the link to my latest column:
http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2013/aug/29/fantasy-drafts-football-and-family-collide/?page=all#pagebreak
I'll also post it here in its entirety in case the Internet is broken when you get older.
Love,
Dad
I was 19 when I started playing fantasy football. I won the league that year and I’ve been hooked ever since.
Over the past 22 years, I’ve done live drafts, online drafts (although I’ve never had to resort to autodrafting), drafts over the phone, by email and through various versions of audio and video chats. I even sent a detailed, handwritten cheat sheet to a relative one year so he could draft for me because I couldn’t bring myself to quit a new job to show up for the draft.
This was back before the internet became a thing, so you either showed up or got creative. On a related note, I lasted a month at that job before I quit. They wanted me to work Sundays. During the NFL season. I’m not an animal.
Anyway, draft day is always memorable, and this year was the third straight in which I drafted as a generally respectable father type. As such — and especially since my wife is in all the same leagues — plans must be made with my son in mind. Also, and this happens because the boy’s birthday falls smack dab in the middle of drafting season, it was the third straight year in which my visiting mother was roped into our shenanigans. The woman’s 80 and she’s still making sacrfices for her family. Love ya, Mom!
Three years ago, my mother babysat our (really) newborn while we went out for a couple of hours to draft online at a local coffee shop. Last year, she ran interference at our apartment while we drafted over YahooMessenger with my brother the commissioner, and this year, well, here’s the story:
***
The aforementioned brother, through a series of texts which I could receive but to which I could not respond because I own a cellphone that is a slightly less efficient communication device than my son’s See ‘N’ Say, set up the draft for this past Saturday. My lack of input was no big deal, though. I’m off on Saturdays. I’m fine with any of them. Well, not any of them. My wife — in the middle of super serious and incredibly hectic party planning — realized immediately that the other day on the table for the draft was the boy’s birthday. This information did not click with dear old dad when he saw it on his phone. I made up for it, though, by buying the boy an electronic guitar that he absolutely ignores.
So a couple days after the draft date and time were finalized, I called my mother to find out her flight schedule. Turns out she was arriving on a Wednesday and staying until the following Saturday. My first thought was, “Great, she can go to breakfast with me and the boy every morning! She’ll love that!” (We made it to breakfast twice in 10 days.) My second thought, which I expressed incredulously and very loudly to my wife was, “Wait, her flight leaves the morning of the draft!! What the [fill in whatever word you feel comfortable with]!!!”
I proceeded to grumble and stomp around the apartment for a few minutes, during which time I may or may not have expressed to my wife a conspiracy theory related to my perceived success as a fantasy owner. It didn’t sound as good out loud as it did in my head.
I then did what any normal person would do. I called my 80-year-old mother twice to double- and triple-check the flight information she just gave me and complain about having to take her to the airport for her flight home in the middle of the draft! Not my finest moments. Fully aware of that.
I susbequently tracked down my brother to mention my terrible predicament and he claimed to have forgotten about the draft when he made the flight plans. Likely story! OK, he probably did. That conspiracy theory would look really bad if I fleshed it out here, right? Eventually, I calmed down, which is the only thing I do as much as I get worked up. And my brother was gracious enough to reschedule the draft so it started an hour earlier and I could participate in most of it.
By then, my wife had helped me return to the Land of Priorities and I had come to grips with the reality that I would not be able to control the drafting of my second kicker or sixth wide receiver. It was a sacrifice I begrudgingly but lovingly was willing to make.
***
To the surprise of no one but myself, things went smoothly. My mom once again was the morning’s MVP in keeping an eye on the boy while he immersed himself in “choo-choo” culture and I kept myself sufficiently caffeinated through the first 11 rounds.
On the way to the airport, my mom and my son sat together in the back seat and sang songs. About the time my wife was selecting Rian Lindell for me as the draft’s Mr. Irrelevant, Grandma was getting one last kiss from her grandson before heading to Gate C6.
I even made it back by the fourth round of a second draft — an online league in which my wife and I are sharing a team. I was happy to arrive home, grab a fresh cup of coffee and follow the rambunctious boy into a bedroom, where Ray Rice, Stevan Ridley and Demaryius Thomas were waiting for me.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
At the movies
Case,
You achieved a milestone this morning, son. On just your second trip to the theater you sat through an entire movie for the first time. I was hoping you would make it halfway through, which would have beaten your personal-best time by 5 minutes. But ninety minutes of shuttling between your mom and I and many M&Ms later, you had sat through all of "How to Train Your Dragon."
The movie is a wonderful tale of fathers and sons and beloved pets. One of us even teared up near the end. Twice.
Love,
Dad
You achieved a milestone this morning, son. On just your second trip to the theater you sat through an entire movie for the first time. I was hoping you would make it halfway through, which would have beaten your personal-best time by 5 minutes. But ninety minutes of shuttling between your mom and I and many M&Ms later, you had sat through all of "How to Train Your Dragon."
The movie is a wonderful tale of fathers and sons and beloved pets. One of us even teared up near the end. Twice.
Love,
Dad
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Driving me crazy
Case,
Hate is an extreme emotion that should be reserved for the rarest of situations in which I hope you never find yourself.
With one exception — driving the Interstate 95 corridor between Washington, D.C., and Fredericksburg, Va.
I-95 runs from the Canadian border in Maine south until it ends at what I can only assume are the gates of Hell. And despite what you may have heard, it is not paved with good intentions.
I make the trip to Richmond and back about 10 times a year. I've gotten to the point that I almost always take an alternate route coming and going. But sometimes I'm stuck making the late-night drive south from D.C. after work.
Without fail, I get stuck for 45 minutes to an hour in the never-ending "construction," which consists of dozens of vehicles with flashing lights, hundreds of orange cones/barrels and about seven actual humans working on the same patch of roadway that encompasses all of 3 square feet.
I hate. Hate it, hate it, hate it.
So while I hope for you to enjoy a relatively stress-free existence devoid of hate, if you ever find yourself driving this awful stretch, I give you my permission to join the hate parade, which, now that I think about it, is the perfect name for these God-forsaken traffic jams.
Love,
Dad
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Holidays, part I
Case,
I'm sitting here waiting for my shift to end as the nation's 237th birthday is about to kick into high gear with a whole lot of fireworks, beer, stale hot dogs and Lee Greenwood. The sun just went down, and sh*t is about to get real, but I'll be happy to avoid it. I'll get to an explanation of my aversion to the Fourth of July eventually, but I'd like to take this occasion to start a not-so-quick personal breakdown of the major holidays — major defined here as those for whom people smart enough not to go into newspapers can count on the day off. First up: New Year's Day.
It used to be one of my favorites. For the longest time, the first day of the year meant one thing: meaningful college football. Much like the conference for which the champion used to be a staple in the Cotton Bowl (itself a formerly meaningful thing), meaningful college football no longer exists. There seems to be about 87 bowl games spread out over what seems like the term of an average pregnancy. I don't know anymore because I quit watching. OK, that's not exactly true. I usually catch a little of the BCS title game each year, in which the Southeastern Conference's best team embarrasses some team from a place where the weather generally sucks, or sometimes the SEC's next-best team when there's no other suitable victim. I will go ahead and assume that by the time you read this, there will be a 64-team playoff in which Alabama is given an automatic bye to the final — because the Crimson Tide will annually deserve it, but also because Nick Saban (Google him) is so insufferable that roving packs of other insufferables would prefer their interactions were kept to a minimum.
Anyway, when I was a kid, New Year's Day consisted of four games. Four big games: The aforementioned Cotton Bowl — Southwest Conference (Google it) champ vs. at-large team; the Rose Bowl — Big Ten (Google it) champ vs. Pac-8 (Google it) champ; the Orange Bowl — Big 8/12 (Google it) champ vs. at-large team; and the Sugar Bowl — SEC champ vs. at-large team.
I used to LOVE waking up on New Year's and turning on the Cotton Bowl. Growing up in Arkansas, the SWC champ was always a well-known team, even in the days before ESPN and the Internet made every sports fan an expert on everything, so while I didn't follow college football like I did the NFL, there was a familiarity that made the game more enjoyable than most. The Cotton Bowl usually ended around lunch, which was cool because I've always been a fan of (and an expert on) lunch. We never had a traditional meal on New Year's, but everything your Grandma Pallister touches turns to culinary gold. Whatever I ate each New Year's was great, and that's my expert opinion.
Once lunch was fully digested, it was close to kickoff time for the Rose Bowl (the "Granddaddy of them all"). The Rose Bowl was my least favorite game because I never knew anything about the Pac-8 champ. If you lived anywhere outside the West Coast back then, you never had the chance to see West Coast teams play. Come to think of it, that hasn't changed. Also, there was the boring brand of football the Big Ten played. Come to think of it, that hasn't changed either.
After another break in the action during which I ate an awesome Grandma Pallister dinner (or a couple of microwave burritos if I was feeling independent) and then likely a second lunch for dessert, the Orange Bowl kicked off the primetime slate, and back then, slate meant TWO WHOLE GAMES ON AT ONCE! The Sugar Bowl was played at the same time. Now, I have fond memories of watching the Orange Bowl, as Oklahoma, the primary Big 8/12 team of the time, always seemed to be involved. I don't remember the Sugar Bowl well, and listen carefully as I explain the reason why. Back then, TV was what you would call limited. I'm talking about a time before cable (I just realized we may have advanced past that by the time you read this. Ugh, I'm old.). Yes, I lived in that dark age. Anyway, channels were limited, and so was the means by which you could access them. The TV controller was not a thing. If the channel needed to be changed, it fell to the youngest person in the room to physically move his body toward the TV and with random hand motions manually turn a knob in various directions. I was ALWAYS the youngest person in the room growing up, and I spent way too much time doing the channel-changing bidding of older family members. So, when the sun went down on New Year's, I wasn't about to change the channel when your Grandma and Grandpa otherwise didn't care what I watched. Those nights would be spent with the Orange Bowl on and the Sugar Bowl a distant memory. Every once in a while the broadcast of the Orange Bowl would flash a score of the Sugar Bowl, but by then I had eaten my second dinner and I was comfortable on the couch.
Once the final games had ended, there usually was a general sense who the nation champion would be. But since there was no predetermined "championship game," there always remained a little mystery — the kind that made people buy newspapers (Google it) in the ensuing days. That mystery made at least a couple of the New Year's Day games special, as the top two teams in the country rarely squared off. Again, I was never a big college football fan, but New Year's Day was fun. The games had meaning, but not the type of MEANING that results from a be-all, end-all game played days after every other school's season has ended and makes people commit genital-related felonies at late-night burger joints (don't Google that). These days, all the meaningless bowl games are spread out for the sake of TV ratings. I think the Rose Bowl is the only one of the Big Four still played on the first day of the year. Maybe the Sugar Bowl. I still don't care about the Sugar Bowl, even though I can effortlessly turn to the channel it's on. The Cotton Bowl is now a mid-level bowl. The Orange Bowl is currently tied to the ACC (Google it), which means the game, like football in the ACC, is not worth watching.
As I got older and the sports landscape changed, New Year's Day lost its meaning as a great day of football, and thus a great holiday. Eventually, New Year's morphed into the hangover holiday, which it remains for many Americans.
At the current time, New Year's reminds me that I'm not getting any younger. It also reminds me that one should take certain things into consideration when deciding on a career. New Year's Day now usually means a slow day spent in the newsroom, occasionally peering over at the bank of TVs with wall-to-wall bowl games that have no personal meaning and only register if I can write a creative (if only to me) headline hours later and reminiscing about what it used to be like before I walk home 20 miles uphill.
OK, all that made me hungry.
Next up: Easter
Love,
Dad
I'm sitting here waiting for my shift to end as the nation's 237th birthday is about to kick into high gear with a whole lot of fireworks, beer, stale hot dogs and Lee Greenwood. The sun just went down, and sh*t is about to get real, but I'll be happy to avoid it. I'll get to an explanation of my aversion to the Fourth of July eventually, but I'd like to take this occasion to start a not-so-quick personal breakdown of the major holidays — major defined here as those for whom people smart enough not to go into newspapers can count on the day off. First up: New Year's Day.
It used to be one of my favorites. For the longest time, the first day of the year meant one thing: meaningful college football. Much like the conference for which the champion used to be a staple in the Cotton Bowl (itself a formerly meaningful thing), meaningful college football no longer exists. There seems to be about 87 bowl games spread out over what seems like the term of an average pregnancy. I don't know anymore because I quit watching. OK, that's not exactly true. I usually catch a little of the BCS title game each year, in which the Southeastern Conference's best team embarrasses some team from a place where the weather generally sucks, or sometimes the SEC's next-best team when there's no other suitable victim. I will go ahead and assume that by the time you read this, there will be a 64-team playoff in which Alabama is given an automatic bye to the final — because the Crimson Tide will annually deserve it, but also because Nick Saban (Google him) is so insufferable that roving packs of other insufferables would prefer their interactions were kept to a minimum.
Anyway, when I was a kid, New Year's Day consisted of four games. Four big games: The aforementioned Cotton Bowl — Southwest Conference (Google it) champ vs. at-large team; the Rose Bowl — Big Ten (Google it) champ vs. Pac-8 (Google it) champ; the Orange Bowl — Big 8/12 (Google it) champ vs. at-large team; and the Sugar Bowl — SEC champ vs. at-large team.
I used to LOVE waking up on New Year's and turning on the Cotton Bowl. Growing up in Arkansas, the SWC champ was always a well-known team, even in the days before ESPN and the Internet made every sports fan an expert on everything, so while I didn't follow college football like I did the NFL, there was a familiarity that made the game more enjoyable than most. The Cotton Bowl usually ended around lunch, which was cool because I've always been a fan of (and an expert on) lunch. We never had a traditional meal on New Year's, but everything your Grandma Pallister touches turns to culinary gold. Whatever I ate each New Year's was great, and that's my expert opinion.
Once lunch was fully digested, it was close to kickoff time for the Rose Bowl (the "Granddaddy of them all"). The Rose Bowl was my least favorite game because I never knew anything about the Pac-8 champ. If you lived anywhere outside the West Coast back then, you never had the chance to see West Coast teams play. Come to think of it, that hasn't changed. Also, there was the boring brand of football the Big Ten played. Come to think of it, that hasn't changed either.
After another break in the action during which I ate an awesome Grandma Pallister dinner (or a couple of microwave burritos if I was feeling independent) and then likely a second lunch for dessert, the Orange Bowl kicked off the primetime slate, and back then, slate meant TWO WHOLE GAMES ON AT ONCE! The Sugar Bowl was played at the same time. Now, I have fond memories of watching the Orange Bowl, as Oklahoma, the primary Big 8/12 team of the time, always seemed to be involved. I don't remember the Sugar Bowl well, and listen carefully as I explain the reason why. Back then, TV was what you would call limited. I'm talking about a time before cable (I just realized we may have advanced past that by the time you read this. Ugh, I'm old.). Yes, I lived in that dark age. Anyway, channels were limited, and so was the means by which you could access them. The TV controller was not a thing. If the channel needed to be changed, it fell to the youngest person in the room to physically move his body toward the TV and with random hand motions manually turn a knob in various directions. I was ALWAYS the youngest person in the room growing up, and I spent way too much time doing the channel-changing bidding of older family members. So, when the sun went down on New Year's, I wasn't about to change the channel when your Grandma and Grandpa otherwise didn't care what I watched. Those nights would be spent with the Orange Bowl on and the Sugar Bowl a distant memory. Every once in a while the broadcast of the Orange Bowl would flash a score of the Sugar Bowl, but by then I had eaten my second dinner and I was comfortable on the couch.
Once the final games had ended, there usually was a general sense who the nation champion would be. But since there was no predetermined "championship game," there always remained a little mystery — the kind that made people buy newspapers (Google it) in the ensuing days. That mystery made at least a couple of the New Year's Day games special, as the top two teams in the country rarely squared off. Again, I was never a big college football fan, but New Year's Day was fun. The games had meaning, but not the type of MEANING that results from a be-all, end-all game played days after every other school's season has ended and makes people commit genital-related felonies at late-night burger joints (don't Google that). These days, all the meaningless bowl games are spread out for the sake of TV ratings. I think the Rose Bowl is the only one of the Big Four still played on the first day of the year. Maybe the Sugar Bowl. I still don't care about the Sugar Bowl, even though I can effortlessly turn to the channel it's on. The Cotton Bowl is now a mid-level bowl. The Orange Bowl is currently tied to the ACC (Google it), which means the game, like football in the ACC, is not worth watching.
As I got older and the sports landscape changed, New Year's Day lost its meaning as a great day of football, and thus a great holiday. Eventually, New Year's morphed into the hangover holiday, which it remains for many Americans.
At the current time, New Year's reminds me that I'm not getting any younger. It also reminds me that one should take certain things into consideration when deciding on a career. New Year's Day now usually means a slow day spent in the newsroom, occasionally peering over at the bank of TVs with wall-to-wall bowl games that have no personal meaning and only register if I can write a creative (if only to me) headline hours later and reminiscing about what it used to be like before I walk home 20 miles uphill.
OK, all that made me hungry.
Next up: Easter
Love,
Dad
Sunday, June 9, 2013
As the hour draws near
Case,
As the day that marks a year since your Grandpa Pallister passed draws closer by the hour, I suspect I'll spend a lot of time tonight (and tomorrow) wondering if I've been doing it right the past year. By "it," I mean dealing with his death. I was lucky enough to live 40 years without anyone close to me dying. On the other hand, my first experience with it had to involve one of the few people in my life I have ever been close to. I think of him a lot, but I find myself not wanting to dwell. Sometimes I'll skip a song that I know will remind me of him. Often, the picture in the bedroom of him holding you in his arms from the day you two first met catches my eye. It initially makes me smile, but I usually turn away pretty quickly, because I know the road it will take me down. That makes me feel guilty, as if I'm not devoting the proper amount of time to grieving. Related to that, I'm very happy with my life. That, too, makes me feel guilty, as though I'm being hurtful to his memory by not hurting more. In reality I know it's the exact opposite, that Grandpa knowing before he died that I had started a family made him as happy as I've ever seen him. But my wiring is a bit off when it comes to the issue of death, primarily because, as I mentioned, I never had to deal with it. Sometimes I think I should sneak away and just, for a lack of a better term, "lose it" for a while. Sometimes I think I owe that to him. But maybe that's not how it works. Maybe I am doing it right. I still struggle with the question, though. Likely because there is no correct answer. This time, I don't have any advice for you, son. To be honest, I just wanted an excuse to talk. To you. About your Grandpa Pallister. However, related to the thoughts above, I wrote this a while back. Hopefully, as you get older, it will make more sense. But I hope it takes at least 40 years.
As the day that marks a year since your Grandpa Pallister passed draws closer by the hour, I suspect I'll spend a lot of time tonight (and tomorrow) wondering if I've been doing it right the past year. By "it," I mean dealing with his death. I was lucky enough to live 40 years without anyone close to me dying. On the other hand, my first experience with it had to involve one of the few people in my life I have ever been close to. I think of him a lot, but I find myself not wanting to dwell. Sometimes I'll skip a song that I know will remind me of him. Often, the picture in the bedroom of him holding you in his arms from the day you two first met catches my eye. It initially makes me smile, but I usually turn away pretty quickly, because I know the road it will take me down. That makes me feel guilty, as if I'm not devoting the proper amount of time to grieving. Related to that, I'm very happy with my life. That, too, makes me feel guilty, as though I'm being hurtful to his memory by not hurting more. In reality I know it's the exact opposite, that Grandpa knowing before he died that I had started a family made him as happy as I've ever seen him. But my wiring is a bit off when it comes to the issue of death, primarily because, as I mentioned, I never had to deal with it. Sometimes I think I should sneak away and just, for a lack of a better term, "lose it" for a while. Sometimes I think I owe that to him. But maybe that's not how it works. Maybe I am doing it right. I still struggle with the question, though. Likely because there is no correct answer. This time, I don't have any advice for you, son. To be honest, I just wanted an excuse to talk. To you. About your Grandpa Pallister. However, related to the thoughts above, I wrote this a while back. Hopefully, as you get older, it will make more sense. But I hope it takes at least 40 years.
Of death and what will be
There's a cross that bears his memory and a boy who bears his name
There's a picture not an enemy framed by joy and pain
There's a man who doesn't close his eyes, afraid of what he'll see
Remembering's the hardest part of death and what will be
For 40 years I walked through life and many thoughts were born
But one thing never crossed my mind; I never learned to mourn
Now here I stand at 41, a father to a son
And when I think of what he'll miss, my thoughts away they run
The cross it sits inside a drawer, a reminder out of sight
It's hidden there, a choice unclear, confused by wrong and right
Should I clutch it ev'ry day or hang it in plain view?
Or should I use it just to pray; God, what should I do?
The picture on the windowsill is a priceless work of art
A baby in his grandpa's arms — four eyes that pierce my heart
Captured on the day they met, two smiles for all time
So why is it I rarely look and guilt is all I find?
On nighttime drives I reminisce; I'm happy for a while
But suddenly that feeling's gone; it fades into the miles
Instead I wipe away a tear, return to make-believe
Can't seem to wipe away the fear of letting myself grieve
Love,
Dad
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
On the road
Case,
Through a combination of not having much money, being averse to flying and enjoying the solitude of the open road, I drove pretty much everywhere for the first two decades of my adult life. Just in round-trips between the Gulf Coast of Florida — where I lived three separate times for a total of five years and somehow managed to go to the beach only twice — and Chicago, I logged more than 20,000 Interstate miles. Factor in all the cris-crossing among Arkansas, Missouri, Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Alabama and Georgia and the total is close to 50,000 miles. (Side note: I can't teach you a damn thing about the upkeep of a car other than to say that your Grandpa Pallister's obsession with regularly changing the oil has served me and my vehicles well, and I will remind you to do the same once you reach driving age roughly 1,000 times a year.)
There are advantages to traveling alone.
They include being able to blast music at a socially unacceptable volume for long stretches if you so choose. I will warn you, however, that this should only be done when you have the road mostly to yourself. If you're in traffic, turn it down — even if Thin Lizzy is playing.
Also, and this is strictly a guy thing, if you decide you'd like to make a trip from, say, Northwest Arkansas to Chicago (roughly 650 miles) and make only one stop — and then just for the three minutes it takes to fill up your gas tank — you have that option. I will not go into specifics about exactly how a man pulls off such a feat (ask me someday) because your mother is becoming increasingly horrified as this sentence draws to a close.
Finally, the open road can serve as a creative outlet. Traveling thousands of miles gets to be monotonous. You need to find something to occupy your mind other than loud music. In that context, the road became one of my favorite places to "write." Out there, among the yellow lines and mile markers, you've got nothing but time (even when you're hurrying and refuse to stop to use the bathroom), so the road was my laboratory. I would spend hours going over lyrics, trying to get words and phrases just right (syllables are key!). You'd be surprised how much information you can hold in your head (when you obsessively refuse to stop driving unless you absolutely have to). I spent countless nights in hotel rooms, your Grandma Pallister's family room and what passed for a living room in the various apartments I owned scribbling down what I had unlocked in my various travels during long days on the road. For about a five-year stretch, there is no way I would have been nearly as productive had I not taken advantage of the aforementioned solitude.
But all good things come to an end. You won't always be traveling alone. Sometimes, you are forced to stop and smell the roses. Or stop at a rest area.
Once I met your mom, that put the brakes on my days of loud music and no bathroom breaks. But your mom travels well, and when it was just us, she accommodated — at a lower volume — my awesome and varied musical tastes, and we still made good time.
Then you came along. Though you are not quite 2 years old, you've logged your share of Interstate miles. And I must admit you are a great traveler, too. But our latest round-trip from Annapolis to Chicago reminded me that's it not easy to adjust to traveling as a family man.
It was one thing to turn the music down. The tunes were still the same, they were just a little restrained. But your obsession, albeit incredibly cute, with Sesame Street ("Melmo!" "Nernie!" "Num-num!") led your mom to buy a CD that chronicles the travails of your favorite characters and their friends in what amounts to a game of Telephone. It's a neat idea (except for the butchering of the voices, as that's not true to the art!), and it came in handy a couple of times when you got a little antsy in your car seat. It did the trick. But I pride myself on my listening choices, and here I was, driving through Maryland, then West Virginia, Ohio and Indiana (reverse the order for the ride home), and if that CD wasn't playing for real, it was playing in my head on a loop. Suffice it to say, our trip didn't lend itself to any creative productivity on my part. I used up all my mental energy trying to push all those sentences ("Elmo and Zoey will call from the zoo? Elmo and Zoey will fall into stew?") out of my head.
At one point on the drive there, I was checking the dashboard clock repeatedly, surprised at how smoothly things were going, happily doing the road math in my head. I had been able to stretch out our scheduled lunch stop (I stopped to eat in the middle of a drive maybe three times in 20 years during my single days) for a while at that point and was feeling pretty good. So, when we stopped at Wendy's, I figured maybe we could get back to driving soon enough and it wouldn't hurt our current pace. I may have said too much, though, about our charted course and my feelings related to lunch because your mom, in her ever-so-subtle way said, "We're staying here for 30 minutes whether you like it or not."
You'll notice I didn't add an exclamation point. That's because she didn't exclaim it; she said it, quite calmly, with a look in her eyes that develops once you become a mother. I can't wait for you to learn that look because it means your nonsense will be taking some of the heat off me.
Anyway, we stayed for 30 minutes, although I got a bit of a reprieve when I was allowed to get gas while you were finishing your chicken nuggets so as not to waste another 5 precious minutes.
This scene roughly repeated itself on the way back, but it was at McDonald's. And I was able to save another 5 minutes (!) by changing your diaper in the back seat while your mom waited for a chicken wrap near the end of our stop because she got upset at me earlier when I "joked" about not having any money to buy food for anyone but you.
For the record, I got you a cheeseburger Happy Meal and you loved it. While it pained me to watch the minutes tick away and killed our highway momentum (Running through my head when the Sesame Street music stopped: "We were supposed to get to Indianapolis at 2:30, not 3:30! And we already lost an hour with the time-zone change! We're not even going to average 60 miles per hour by the time we stop tonight! And by then it'll be dark! The whole day is ruined!"), I can say that I took an immense amount of pride watching you destroy an entire cheeseburger. There was something utterly American about the scene. It made me and the various eagles tattooed upon me very proud.
And that leads me to this: I loved almost all of my time driving as a single guy. No matter what was going on in my life at a given time, getting out on the open road and listening to my favorite music or spending sometimes hours at a time "writing" just made things better. It's hard to explain, but I spent the bulk of my adulthood as a loner — more often by necessity rather than choice. I wasn't made for that time alone, but I made the most of it. That time became my time because otherwise my time was filled with loneliness and self-doubt. On the road alone, I could escape all the things I could not escape in my daily life. But then your mom came along, and then you were born. So for the past three-plus years, while I sometimes miss the solitude of the road (especially when I'm yelling at the car stereo that the sentence "Elmo and Zoey have a tall bottle of shampoo?" makes no sense whatsoever) and the freedom it afforded me, I wouldn't trade it for what I have now.
As you grow older, it may not always seem like it — and I probably to some extent always will view a one-way trip as some sort of competition between myself and every other driver who ever has or ever will make that trip, including that idiot who cost me 15 minutes by holding up traffic in the left lane — but I will be happy knowing that I have a reason to slow down and stop. To eat lunch. To go to the bathroom. I will be forever grateful that MY travels turned into OUR travels.
Love,
Dad
Through a combination of not having much money, being averse to flying and enjoying the solitude of the open road, I drove pretty much everywhere for the first two decades of my adult life. Just in round-trips between the Gulf Coast of Florida — where I lived three separate times for a total of five years and somehow managed to go to the beach only twice — and Chicago, I logged more than 20,000 Interstate miles. Factor in all the cris-crossing among Arkansas, Missouri, Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Alabama and Georgia and the total is close to 50,000 miles. (Side note: I can't teach you a damn thing about the upkeep of a car other than to say that your Grandpa Pallister's obsession with regularly changing the oil has served me and my vehicles well, and I will remind you to do the same once you reach driving age roughly 1,000 times a year.)
There are advantages to traveling alone.
They include being able to blast music at a socially unacceptable volume for long stretches if you so choose. I will warn you, however, that this should only be done when you have the road mostly to yourself. If you're in traffic, turn it down — even if Thin Lizzy is playing.
Also, and this is strictly a guy thing, if you decide you'd like to make a trip from, say, Northwest Arkansas to Chicago (roughly 650 miles) and make only one stop — and then just for the three minutes it takes to fill up your gas tank — you have that option. I will not go into specifics about exactly how a man pulls off such a feat (ask me someday) because your mother is becoming increasingly horrified as this sentence draws to a close.
Finally, the open road can serve as a creative outlet. Traveling thousands of miles gets to be monotonous. You need to find something to occupy your mind other than loud music. In that context, the road became one of my favorite places to "write." Out there, among the yellow lines and mile markers, you've got nothing but time (even when you're hurrying and refuse to stop to use the bathroom), so the road was my laboratory. I would spend hours going over lyrics, trying to get words and phrases just right (syllables are key!). You'd be surprised how much information you can hold in your head (when you obsessively refuse to stop driving unless you absolutely have to). I spent countless nights in hotel rooms, your Grandma Pallister's family room and what passed for a living room in the various apartments I owned scribbling down what I had unlocked in my various travels during long days on the road. For about a five-year stretch, there is no way I would have been nearly as productive had I not taken advantage of the aforementioned solitude.
But all good things come to an end. You won't always be traveling alone. Sometimes, you are forced to stop and smell the roses. Or stop at a rest area.
Once I met your mom, that put the brakes on my days of loud music and no bathroom breaks. But your mom travels well, and when it was just us, she accommodated — at a lower volume — my awesome and varied musical tastes, and we still made good time.
Then you came along. Though you are not quite 2 years old, you've logged your share of Interstate miles. And I must admit you are a great traveler, too. But our latest round-trip from Annapolis to Chicago reminded me that's it not easy to adjust to traveling as a family man.
It was one thing to turn the music down. The tunes were still the same, they were just a little restrained. But your obsession, albeit incredibly cute, with Sesame Street ("Melmo!" "Nernie!" "Num-num!") led your mom to buy a CD that chronicles the travails of your favorite characters and their friends in what amounts to a game of Telephone. It's a neat idea (except for the butchering of the voices, as that's not true to the art!), and it came in handy a couple of times when you got a little antsy in your car seat. It did the trick. But I pride myself on my listening choices, and here I was, driving through Maryland, then West Virginia, Ohio and Indiana (reverse the order for the ride home), and if that CD wasn't playing for real, it was playing in my head on a loop. Suffice it to say, our trip didn't lend itself to any creative productivity on my part. I used up all my mental energy trying to push all those sentences ("Elmo and Zoey will call from the zoo? Elmo and Zoey will fall into stew?") out of my head.
At one point on the drive there, I was checking the dashboard clock repeatedly, surprised at how smoothly things were going, happily doing the road math in my head. I had been able to stretch out our scheduled lunch stop (I stopped to eat in the middle of a drive maybe three times in 20 years during my single days) for a while at that point and was feeling pretty good. So, when we stopped at Wendy's, I figured maybe we could get back to driving soon enough and it wouldn't hurt our current pace. I may have said too much, though, about our charted course and my feelings related to lunch because your mom, in her ever-so-subtle way said, "We're staying here for 30 minutes whether you like it or not."
You'll notice I didn't add an exclamation point. That's because she didn't exclaim it; she said it, quite calmly, with a look in her eyes that develops once you become a mother. I can't wait for you to learn that look because it means your nonsense will be taking some of the heat off me.
Anyway, we stayed for 30 minutes, although I got a bit of a reprieve when I was allowed to get gas while you were finishing your chicken nuggets so as not to waste another 5 precious minutes.
This scene roughly repeated itself on the way back, but it was at McDonald's. And I was able to save another 5 minutes (!) by changing your diaper in the back seat while your mom waited for a chicken wrap near the end of our stop because she got upset at me earlier when I "joked" about not having any money to buy food for anyone but you.
For the record, I got you a cheeseburger Happy Meal and you loved it. While it pained me to watch the minutes tick away and killed our highway momentum (Running through my head when the Sesame Street music stopped: "We were supposed to get to Indianapolis at 2:30, not 3:30! And we already lost an hour with the time-zone change! We're not even going to average 60 miles per hour by the time we stop tonight! And by then it'll be dark! The whole day is ruined!"), I can say that I took an immense amount of pride watching you destroy an entire cheeseburger. There was something utterly American about the scene. It made me and the various eagles tattooed upon me very proud.
And that leads me to this: I loved almost all of my time driving as a single guy. No matter what was going on in my life at a given time, getting out on the open road and listening to my favorite music or spending sometimes hours at a time "writing" just made things better. It's hard to explain, but I spent the bulk of my adulthood as a loner — more often by necessity rather than choice. I wasn't made for that time alone, but I made the most of it. That time became my time because otherwise my time was filled with loneliness and self-doubt. On the road alone, I could escape all the things I could not escape in my daily life. But then your mom came along, and then you were born. So for the past three-plus years, while I sometimes miss the solitude of the road (especially when I'm yelling at the car stereo that the sentence "Elmo and Zoey have a tall bottle of shampoo?" makes no sense whatsoever) and the freedom it afforded me, I wouldn't trade it for what I have now.
As you grow older, it may not always seem like it — and I probably to some extent always will view a one-way trip as some sort of competition between myself and every other driver who ever has or ever will make that trip, including that idiot who cost me 15 minutes by holding up traffic in the left lane — but I will be happy knowing that I have a reason to slow down and stop. To eat lunch. To go to the bathroom. I will be forever grateful that MY travels turned into OUR travels.
Love,
Dad
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Man's best friend
Case,
I'm a day late on this one, but yesterday was two years to the day that we lost Casey, a creature so frantic and full of life and happiness that she reminds me of you. And that is perfect, because on her final day, as your mom and I sat in the vet's office anxiously awaiting word on her condition, we decided on your name. We had narrowed it down to Declan, Jackson and Cason (great name for an Irish law firm, BTW). We talked about it for a while as we tried to avoid addressing our fears surrounding the old girl, and we came to the conclusion that Case "flowed" better with Austin -- the middle name you share with your Great Grandpa Pallister -- and it would be a nice tribute to my constant companion of 14 years. When Casey was younger and spent her days frolicking as an "outdoor dog," I would arrive home and, before walking inside, go around to the back yard and greet her at the fence. EVERY single time, Casey would stretch her paws up as high as she could on the fence and start hopping on her back legs. No matter how bad my day had been, it always cheered me up to know she was so "hoppy" to see me. Only two creatures are capable of conditional love: parents and dogs. It's funny how much you are connected to man's best friend. From your name to your first word, "Ed," the shortened version of Edgar, our pug. You love Edgar -- sometimes a little too aggressively for his liking -- and if he could talk, I'm sure he would tell you how much he loves you every day, just like your parents do. A dog truly is a blessing. Remember that, and understand the importance of love and loyalty. A dog will always give you both.
You will see a few pictures of Casey as you grow up, and you've worn her collar around the house more times than I can count. :) I wrote the following a few days after she passed. This will give you a little insight into how great she was and what she meant to me (and your mom).
In a sparse, sterile, tan room, two blankets were placed on the floor. One was plain white, the other was white with blue, pink and brown stripes. Casey was carried into the room on another white blanket. She was not oblivious, but she was not all there. She was as still as I’d ever seen her. She was placed on the floor. I curled up next to her on the blankets, stroking the top of her head, whispering in her ear. Her big brown eyes were open, staring at nothing in particular. I started crying.
Casey was one of a kind. Anyone who was ever around her would inevitably ask, usually within the first minute, "What is she?"
No one ever knew. The best anyone could tell, she was some sort of border collie/corgi mix. Casey didn't have papers. She came from a cardboard box in the back of a pickup in an elementary school parking lot. She was free. She was priceless.
I spent the first hour with that high-strung ball of black fur sprawled out on the wet grass next to a softball field. While church league practice went on around us, I held her close to me, preventing her from scampering carelessly in whatever direction she happened to be pointed.
Casey was always so full of life -- from the moment we met until the moment on her last day when a cancerous mass in her abdomen burst.
For 14 years, she was my constant, loving companion. Through a marriage, through the fallout -- all those lost years -- Casey was by my side. From Arkansas to Florida to Chicago, back to Florida, back to Arkansas, to Indiana, once more to Florida, once more to Arkansas and finally to Virginia, Casey was there.
Then last March, after loyally and happily sticking with me through years of being cooped up in one-bedroom apartments as I tried to find myself, Casey got to meet her new mom. Upon picking her up at the kennel in Arkansas, the first thing she did was race to the nearest patch of grass and pee. That was Casey. The next thing she did was walk up to the stranger I'd brought with me, carefully lick her hand and look at her lovingly with those big brown eyes. That was Casey, too.
I am so glad they got to experience one another, even for a relatively short time. Knowing that Casey received so much love the last year of her life is the one thing -- above even the treasure of memories -- that makes her passing somewhat bearable.
Tonight, I will drive home and think about this column. And just like every night since we said goodbye, I will replay the memories. At some point, guilt will set in, and I will wonder why I didn't take more breaks from work to spend time with Casey, why I didn't make all the walks just a little longer, why I ever yelled at such a sweet, perfect dog.
I suppose in time the obsession will fade and Casey will take up residence in that place in our minds where all good things go to rest. In peace.
But it's been eight days and I'm still replaying ... still wondering ... still crying.
Love,
Dad
I'm a day late on this one, but yesterday was two years to the day that we lost Casey, a creature so frantic and full of life and happiness that she reminds me of you. And that is perfect, because on her final day, as your mom and I sat in the vet's office anxiously awaiting word on her condition, we decided on your name. We had narrowed it down to Declan, Jackson and Cason (great name for an Irish law firm, BTW). We talked about it for a while as we tried to avoid addressing our fears surrounding the old girl, and we came to the conclusion that Case "flowed" better with Austin -- the middle name you share with your Great Grandpa Pallister -- and it would be a nice tribute to my constant companion of 14 years. When Casey was younger and spent her days frolicking as an "outdoor dog," I would arrive home and, before walking inside, go around to the back yard and greet her at the fence. EVERY single time, Casey would stretch her paws up as high as she could on the fence and start hopping on her back legs. No matter how bad my day had been, it always cheered me up to know she was so "hoppy" to see me. Only two creatures are capable of conditional love: parents and dogs. It's funny how much you are connected to man's best friend. From your name to your first word, "Ed," the shortened version of Edgar, our pug. You love Edgar -- sometimes a little too aggressively for his liking -- and if he could talk, I'm sure he would tell you how much he loves you every day, just like your parents do. A dog truly is a blessing. Remember that, and understand the importance of love and loyalty. A dog will always give you both.
You will see a few pictures of Casey as you grow up, and you've worn her collar around the house more times than I can count. :) I wrote the following a few days after she passed. This will give you a little insight into how great she was and what she meant to me (and your mom).
In a sparse, sterile, tan room, two blankets were placed on the floor. One was plain white, the other was white with blue, pink and brown stripes. Casey was carried into the room on another white blanket. She was not oblivious, but she was not all there. She was as still as I’d ever seen her. She was placed on the floor. I curled up next to her on the blankets, stroking the top of her head, whispering in her ear. Her big brown eyes were open, staring at nothing in particular. I started crying.
Casey was one of a kind. Anyone who was ever around her would inevitably ask, usually within the first minute, "What is she?"
No one ever knew. The best anyone could tell, she was some sort of border collie/corgi mix. Casey didn't have papers. She came from a cardboard box in the back of a pickup in an elementary school parking lot. She was free. She was priceless.
I spent the first hour with that high-strung ball of black fur sprawled out on the wet grass next to a softball field. While church league practice went on around us, I held her close to me, preventing her from scampering carelessly in whatever direction she happened to be pointed.
Casey was always so full of life -- from the moment we met until the moment on her last day when a cancerous mass in her abdomen burst.
For 14 years, she was my constant, loving companion. Through a marriage, through the fallout -- all those lost years -- Casey was by my side. From Arkansas to Florida to Chicago, back to Florida, back to Arkansas, to Indiana, once more to Florida, once more to Arkansas and finally to Virginia, Casey was there.
Then last March, after loyally and happily sticking with me through years of being cooped up in one-bedroom apartments as I tried to find myself, Casey got to meet her new mom. Upon picking her up at the kennel in Arkansas, the first thing she did was race to the nearest patch of grass and pee. That was Casey. The next thing she did was walk up to the stranger I'd brought with me, carefully lick her hand and look at her lovingly with those big brown eyes. That was Casey, too.
I am so glad they got to experience one another, even for a relatively short time. Knowing that Casey received so much love the last year of her life is the one thing -- above even the treasure of memories -- that makes her passing somewhat bearable.
Tonight, I will drive home and think about this column. And just like every night since we said goodbye, I will replay the memories. At some point, guilt will set in, and I will wonder why I didn't take more breaks from work to spend time with Casey, why I didn't make all the walks just a little longer, why I ever yelled at such a sweet, perfect dog.
I suppose in time the obsession will fade and Casey will take up residence in that place in our minds where all good things go to rest. In peace.
But it's been eight days and I'm still replaying ... still wondering ... still crying.
Love,
Dad
Monday, April 1, 2013
Baseball and more
Case,
It's sad, but also very fitting that Major League Baseball's Opening Day falls on what would have been your Grandpa Pallister's 82nd birthday — the first since he passed. My fondest childhood memories involve playing baseball with your Grandpa. In fact, my first baseball memory involves a trip to Shabbona Park in Chicago. I was 6 and just learning about the sport. Before we started playing catch that day — an activity I looked forward to more than anything in those early days before organized baseball (and sometimes even after that) — Grandpa pointed to an older boy catching fly balls in a nearby field. The boy probably wasn't more than 9 or 10, and the fly balls were just high tosses from a man who likely was his father. But that boy looked like a giant to me, and each time the ball seemed like it would never come down. But as fly balls landed repeatedly in the boy's glove, Grandpa must have noticed my awe. "Matt," he said, "someday you'll be catching fly balls like that. All it takes is practice and desire." I never forgot those words, and I owe whatever I have accomplished and will accomplish in life — personally and professionally — to that advice. Just like all those subsequent afternoons when he would spend hours hitting me ground balls — constantly reminding me, "Stay in front of the ball! You don't always have to catch it. If it hits you, you've done your job." — Grandpa was teaching me how to play baseball, but he also was teaching me how to play a more important game.
Love,
Dad
It's sad, but also very fitting that Major League Baseball's Opening Day falls on what would have been your Grandpa Pallister's 82nd birthday — the first since he passed. My fondest childhood memories involve playing baseball with your Grandpa. In fact, my first baseball memory involves a trip to Shabbona Park in Chicago. I was 6 and just learning about the sport. Before we started playing catch that day — an activity I looked forward to more than anything in those early days before organized baseball (and sometimes even after that) — Grandpa pointed to an older boy catching fly balls in a nearby field. The boy probably wasn't more than 9 or 10, and the fly balls were just high tosses from a man who likely was his father. But that boy looked like a giant to me, and each time the ball seemed like it would never come down. But as fly balls landed repeatedly in the boy's glove, Grandpa must have noticed my awe. "Matt," he said, "someday you'll be catching fly balls like that. All it takes is practice and desire." I never forgot those words, and I owe whatever I have accomplished and will accomplish in life — personally and professionally — to that advice. Just like all those subsequent afternoons when he would spend hours hitting me ground balls — constantly reminding me, "Stay in front of the ball! You don't always have to catch it. If it hits you, you've done your job." — Grandpa was teaching me how to play baseball, but he also was teaching me how to play a more important game.
Love,
Dad
Friday, March 22, 2013
Via Chicago
Case,
I've always been a thoughtful person. I'm a thinker. But sometimes -- OK, a lot of the time -- I overthink. I'm too thoughtful for my own good. I'm a worrier, son. Hopefully, you grow up to be a little more even keel than me. More like your mom.
She is in Chicago with you right now. I couldn't get off work, so you two flew there yesterday for your Grandma Pallster's 80th birthday party. As your mom is tired of hearing, what she did by traveling with you for the big event means the world to me.
It reminded me how great your mom is. While I tend to get lost in my own head, she's always thinking of others. Especially you. Especially us.
Related to all of this, I worry a WHOLE LOT about EVERYTHING these days. I have a strong, beautiful wife and a devilishly handsome 19-month-old son. I am unbelievably happy. Of course, I tend to to have a strange relationship with happiness. It scares me. I've never come to grips with the idea that I deserve it. So it's easy for me to get caught up in the responsibility of providing a good life for you and your mom. It's a responsibility I can't fail it. I worry about it every day. The big things, the little things, every thing. But yesterday, as I sat here by myself in our apartment, waiting to hear from your mom upon the two of you landing in Chicago, I realized that I cannot let my fear of what might happen keep me enjoying what is happening.
I have no problem telling you -- and showing you -- each day how happy I am that you are in my life, but it's pretty easy because I know what your reaction will be. A smile, a laugh, a run down the hallway into whatever room is open. You're easy to confide in. It's a pressure-free conversation. :)
But I owe it to your mom to treat most days like I have these past two weeks. I need to tell her and show her more often how much she means to me and my happiness. So what follows is my own weird way of doing that.
Gotta think about the mortgage
and those damn electric bills
Gotta get a set of tires
and buy the dog his heartworm pills
Gotta think about the future
and the toddler's college fund
And don't even get me started,
'cause I ain't started one
Gotta dwell upon something
That's just the way it goes
But there's more to what I'm thinking
even if t rarely shows
There is fear when I am happy,
and I've never been more scared
When I think of what you mean to me,
I get a little weird
I'm wired to worry, prone to obsess
Neurotic by nature, and I never guessed
that life would present me with more than just doubt,
that I'd have a family to worry about
Gotta think about employment
and how tenuous it seems
Gotta figure out a way
to provide for others' dreams
Gotta think about tomorrow
and its challenges and tests
How to pay for car insurance
without wiping out the nest
Gotta dwell upon something
That's just the way it goes
But there's more to what I'm thinking
even if it rarely shows
There is fear when I am happy,
and I've never been more scared
When I think of what you mean to me,
I get a little weird
I'm wired to worry, prone to obsess
Neurotic by nature, and I never guessed
that life would present me with more than just doubt,
that I'd have a family to worry about
Gotta think about the mornings,
a wife and son in bed
Gotta think of what I do have,
not what I don't instead
Gotta think about a woman
with the patience of a saint,
with a courage and a humor
that are not for the faint
Gotta dwell upon something
That's just the way it goes
Guess I'll dwell upon how wonderful
it is that she knows
Love,
Dad
I've always been a thoughtful person. I'm a thinker. But sometimes -- OK, a lot of the time -- I overthink. I'm too thoughtful for my own good. I'm a worrier, son. Hopefully, you grow up to be a little more even keel than me. More like your mom.
She is in Chicago with you right now. I couldn't get off work, so you two flew there yesterday for your Grandma Pallster's 80th birthday party. As your mom is tired of hearing, what she did by traveling with you for the big event means the world to me.
It reminded me how great your mom is. While I tend to get lost in my own head, she's always thinking of others. Especially you. Especially us.
Related to all of this, I worry a WHOLE LOT about EVERYTHING these days. I have a strong, beautiful wife and a devilishly handsome 19-month-old son. I am unbelievably happy. Of course, I tend to to have a strange relationship with happiness. It scares me. I've never come to grips with the idea that I deserve it. So it's easy for me to get caught up in the responsibility of providing a good life for you and your mom. It's a responsibility I can't fail it. I worry about it every day. The big things, the little things, every thing. But yesterday, as I sat here by myself in our apartment, waiting to hear from your mom upon the two of you landing in Chicago, I realized that I cannot let my fear of what might happen keep me enjoying what is happening.
I have no problem telling you -- and showing you -- each day how happy I am that you are in my life, but it's pretty easy because I know what your reaction will be. A smile, a laugh, a run down the hallway into whatever room is open. You're easy to confide in. It's a pressure-free conversation. :)
But I owe it to your mom to treat most days like I have these past two weeks. I need to tell her and show her more often how much she means to me and my happiness. So what follows is my own weird way of doing that.
Gotta think about the mortgage
and those damn electric bills
Gotta get a set of tires
and buy the dog his heartworm pills
Gotta think about the future
and the toddler's college fund
And don't even get me started,
'cause I ain't started one
Gotta dwell upon something
That's just the way it goes
But there's more to what I'm thinking
even if t rarely shows
There is fear when I am happy,
and I've never been more scared
When I think of what you mean to me,
I get a little weird
I'm wired to worry, prone to obsess
Neurotic by nature, and I never guessed
that life would present me with more than just doubt,
that I'd have a family to worry about
Gotta think about employment
and how tenuous it seems
Gotta figure out a way
to provide for others' dreams
Gotta think about tomorrow
and its challenges and tests
How to pay for car insurance
without wiping out the nest
Gotta dwell upon something
That's just the way it goes
But there's more to what I'm thinking
even if it rarely shows
There is fear when I am happy,
and I've never been more scared
When I think of what you mean to me,
I get a little weird
I'm wired to worry, prone to obsess
Neurotic by nature, and I never guessed
that life would present me with more than just doubt,
that I'd have a family to worry about
Gotta think about the mornings,
a wife and son in bed
Gotta think of what I do have,
not what I don't instead
Gotta think about a woman
with the patience of a saint,
with a courage and a humor
that are not for the faint
Gotta dwell upon something
That's just the way it goes
Guess I'll dwell upon how wonderful
it is that she knows
Love,
Dad
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Next, on the Discovery Channel
Case,
I'm about to mix some nature metaphors, so just go with it, OK?
Yesterday, we took you to the urban Serengeti — a place where wild creatures roam together in a state of tenuous existence. We took you to the mall.
By the time your mom and I finished our coffee, which adult animals need to keep up with their young, you had become typically restless. You wanted out of the stroller. So I picked you up and we started moving. But after a few steps I thought you might like a little ambulatory freedom. Your mom agreed it was a good idea to let you walk.
I thought you might be hesitant, maybe look back at one or both of us before moving forward with trepidation. Nope. As soon as your feet hit the ground, you took off like a drunken penguin, and seconds later you had speed-waddled your way to the river. I mean the children's play area.
Wanting to follow through on the whole freedom thing, it was decided that we'd follow you around for a while, despite our fear of the river. I mean the children's play area. (Seriously, if you ever have kids, you'll hate that damn place. There may even come a time you wish that an alligator would leap up, drag you away and put you out of your misery.)
You stumbled around for a few minutes — at one point trying to shove a hesitant child down a slide because he was in your way and you had run out of patience (you are your father's son) — and then, thankfully, you speed-waddled your way back to the relative safety of the open plains.
You spent much of the next 15 minutes reluctantly holding your mom's hand as you ventured through more of the mall. Along the way, I pictured you as a little baby on the floor of our old apartment. You were only a few months old and you'd lie on your stomach, occasionally rolling over but mostly struggling to move. At the time, I wondered aloud many times — to your mom's great annoyance —if you'd ever start crawling. Now, here you were, among a mass of people, carefree and mobile. It had only been a little over a year, but it felt like a lifetime.
You're 18 months old now, and you're growing up so fast. And, yes, it's a little sad, because I can't help but imagine you as an adult, doing adult things — like drinking coffee, perhaps to keep pace with your own child or children as you wonder upon a trip to the mall who the idiot was that decided it was smart to corral large groups of germ-ridden animals into a confined space. Those days will be here before I know it.
In my more selfish moments, I just wish you'd stay my little boy forever. But as I sit here typing with a cold, feeling as if it might be preferable for an alligator to come and drag me away, I am snapped back to reality (see what I did there?) by remembering that as much as I'd like for you to grow up slower (or not at all), the opportunity to watch it happen — at whatever speed — is one of life's greatest gifts.
Love,
Dad
I'm about to mix some nature metaphors, so just go with it, OK?
Yesterday, we took you to the urban Serengeti — a place where wild creatures roam together in a state of tenuous existence. We took you to the mall.
By the time your mom and I finished our coffee, which adult animals need to keep up with their young, you had become typically restless. You wanted out of the stroller. So I picked you up and we started moving. But after a few steps I thought you might like a little ambulatory freedom. Your mom agreed it was a good idea to let you walk.
I thought you might be hesitant, maybe look back at one or both of us before moving forward with trepidation. Nope. As soon as your feet hit the ground, you took off like a drunken penguin, and seconds later you had speed-waddled your way to the river. I mean the children's play area.
Wanting to follow through on the whole freedom thing, it was decided that we'd follow you around for a while, despite our fear of the river. I mean the children's play area. (Seriously, if you ever have kids, you'll hate that damn place. There may even come a time you wish that an alligator would leap up, drag you away and put you out of your misery.)
You stumbled around for a few minutes — at one point trying to shove a hesitant child down a slide because he was in your way and you had run out of patience (you are your father's son) — and then, thankfully, you speed-waddled your way back to the relative safety of the open plains.
You spent much of the next 15 minutes reluctantly holding your mom's hand as you ventured through more of the mall. Along the way, I pictured you as a little baby on the floor of our old apartment. You were only a few months old and you'd lie on your stomach, occasionally rolling over but mostly struggling to move. At the time, I wondered aloud many times — to your mom's great annoyance —if you'd ever start crawling. Now, here you were, among a mass of people, carefree and mobile. It had only been a little over a year, but it felt like a lifetime.
You're 18 months old now, and you're growing up so fast. And, yes, it's a little sad, because I can't help but imagine you as an adult, doing adult things — like drinking coffee, perhaps to keep pace with your own child or children as you wonder upon a trip to the mall who the idiot was that decided it was smart to corral large groups of germ-ridden animals into a confined space. Those days will be here before I know it.
In my more selfish moments, I just wish you'd stay my little boy forever. But as I sit here typing with a cold, feeling as if it might be preferable for an alligator to come and drag me away, I am snapped back to reality (see what I did there?) by remembering that as much as I'd like for you to grow up slower (or not at all), the opportunity to watch it happen — at whatever speed — is one of life's greatest gifts.
Love,
Dad
Monday, February 18, 2013
Individuality (fine line) Stupidity
Case,
I've talked a lot so far — and will talk a lot in the future — about the importance of being your own man.
I would love for you to grow up sharing some of the simple pleasures I enjoy in life, such as drinking milk straight from the carton (NEVER do this in front of your mom); annoying friends and relatives with talk of how criminally underrated Thin Lizzy is; and wasting an unhealthy amount of hours each day during the month of August lounging around the house while engaging in an unhealthy amount of fantasy football mock drafts.
But, ultimately, it is important to forge your own identity and always keep your independent spirit at the ready. You don't necessarily have to lead, but don't automatically follow.
Having said that ... there's an old saying: "Sometimes you have to go along to get along." The idea is that you cannot avoid conformity your whole life, and that is true. Unless you work in the circus, but SO HELP ME GOD, IF YOU START HANGING CINDER BLOCKS FROM YOUR NIPPLES ...
Anyway, you should cling to your individuality, but you need to be smart about it.
For the longest time, I was not. I made a career out of doing things "my way." At times, it was fun. But in hindsight, it took me way too long to learn that there's often a fine line between individuality and stupidity (this is the basis of teenage existence).
For instance, when I go to work these days, I do so in a style of dress that would be considered "casual." I work with a number of people who dress up. They wear ties and tailored shirts. I'm not going to do that. But I know what I can get away with. If I were to come to work in my favorite sleeveless shirt, my tattoos in the face (literally and figuratively) of my co-workers and bosses, there's a good chance I'd be doing myself a disservice. I'd be giving people an excuse to use my individuality (and stupidity) against me. It took me many years and numerous bouts of self-sabotage before I realized I'd done similar damage to myself through the mistaken belief that doing what I wanted was ALWAYS the most important thing I could do.
Your individuality, like your name, is something to be proud of. But your willingness to be your own man has to be tempered by the knowledge that the world is not easy on individuals (especially if you hang cinder blocks from your nipples). It takes work to be successful at anything. It also takes sacrifice. Making the small sacrifice of conformity (going along to get along) is sometimes the smartest thing you can do.
Bottom line: Be cool, but not too cool for your own good.
I guess you can go through life
saying f**k you and your horse
And maybe you think you'll leave
... a good-looking corpse
But cool is a windmill,
a Quixotic mirage
And it ain't never been cool
to do the self-sabotage
You don't have
to play the game,
but it requires your attendance
When you don't play by the rules,
you and cool, co-defendants
You can dance with the devil
and the talent that brung ya
Just to find your approach
is the talent that hung ya
Ya cool is like water,
a mind's strange oasis
But it ain't never been cool
to turn your back on good graces
Often drawn to destruction,
a dumb moth to the flame
Go ahead, touch the burner,
same result, diff'rent pain
Show 'em all that one finger
and wear your heart without sleeves
Collect spite by the bushel
like the air that you breathe
But cool is a monster
that's living inside your head
And it ain't never been cool
to keep a monster well-fed
When's it's finally
over, if you still think you're right,
all that's left is for cool
... to turn out the lights
And cool will survive
like a phantom in your dreams
But it ain't never been cool
to be as cool as it seems
saying f**k you and your horse
And maybe you think you'll leave
... a good-looking corpse
But cool is a windmill,
a Quixotic mirage
And it ain't never been cool
to do the self-sabotage
You don't have
to play the game,
but it requires your attendance
When you don't play by the rules,
you and cool, co-defendants
You can dance with the devil
and the talent that brung ya
Just to find your approach
is the talent that hung ya
Ya cool is like water,
a mind's strange oasis
But it ain't never been cool
to turn your back on good graces
Often drawn to destruction,
a dumb moth to the flame
Go ahead, touch the burner,
same result, diff'rent pain
Show 'em all that one finger
and wear your heart without sleeves
Collect spite by the bushel
like the air that you breathe
But cool is a monster
that's living inside your head
And it ain't never been cool
to keep a monster well-fed
When's it's finally
over, if you still think you're right,
all that's left is for cool
... to turn out the lights
And cool will survive
like a phantom in your dreams
But it ain't never been cool
to be as cool as it seems
Love,
Dad
Monday, February 4, 2013
Exercise in futility?
Case,
A little insight into your dad and his unique ways. The following is posted verbatim from the original Internet venue on which I wrote it (I wonder if Facebook will exist when you get around to reading this). This particular set of events happened last week. Sometimes you just have to make the best of a weird situation.
So Ashly was taking Case to the library about a mile or so down the road while I was going to the gym to show off in front of senior citizens. I waited until she was ready to go so I could help her with Case. I picked up the boy and we left the house. When we reached her car in the parking lot, I did what I always do — put my keys on the roof so I could more easily get Case into his car seat. It's become so instinctual to do this with my keys. I don't even think about it. Literally. Anyway, I placed Case in the seat, complaining as I am apt to do about the straps being twisted while Ashly stood behind me, presumably make a kicking motion toward my backside. After getting the boy secured, I closed the door, walked around to the driver's side with Ashly, said goodbye and started walking toward the gym as they pulled away. I was jamming out to Pantera on the way, free of any significant thought. Near the end of "Becoming," I approached the door to the building that houses the gym. I reached for my keys and ... "Oh, shit!" I thought. I knew immediately what I had done. So I started running. Across the lawn. Through the parking lot. Three blocks south to the light once I reached the street. Stopped for a few moments before starting up again. About four more blocks uphill. Stopped again to cross the street. A few more blocks to a major intersection. Stopped again to wait for the light. A few more blocks down a dead end street. Finally, after a mile or so, sweaty and in a surprisingly good mood, I reached the library. I saw Ashly's car. I jogged up and noticed -- hanging by the apartment security door fob in a crevice on the back edge of the hood -- my keys. I went inside, explained myself, told Ashly I had lost all right to ever question her about being scatter-brained, waved goodbye to Case, walked back outside and ran all the way back home. All in all, a great workout.
Love,
Dad
A little insight into your dad and his unique ways. The following is posted verbatim from the original Internet venue on which I wrote it (I wonder if Facebook will exist when you get around to reading this). This particular set of events happened last week. Sometimes you just have to make the best of a weird situation.
So Ashly was taking Case to the library about a mile or so down the road while I was going to the gym to show off in front of senior citizens. I waited until she was ready to go so I could help her with Case. I picked up the boy and we left the house. When we reached her car in the parking lot, I did what I always do — put my keys on the roof so I could more easily get Case into his car seat. It's become so instinctual to do this with my keys. I don't even think about it. Literally. Anyway, I placed Case in the seat, complaining as I am apt to do about the straps being twisted while Ashly stood behind me, presumably make a kicking motion toward my backside. After getting the boy secured, I closed the door, walked around to the driver's side with Ashly, said goodbye and started walking toward the gym as they pulled away. I was jamming out to Pantera on the way, free of any significant thought. Near the end of "Becoming," I approached the door to the building that houses the gym. I reached for my keys and ... "Oh, shit!" I thought. I knew immediately what I had done. So I started running. Across the lawn. Through the parking lot. Three blocks south to the light once I reached the street. Stopped for a few moments before starting up again. About four more blocks uphill. Stopped again to cross the street. A few more blocks to a major intersection. Stopped again to wait for the light. A few more blocks down a dead end street. Finally, after a mile or so, sweaty and in a surprisingly good mood, I reached the library. I saw Ashly's car. I jogged up and noticed -- hanging by the apartment security door fob in a crevice on the back edge of the hood -- my keys. I went inside, explained myself, told Ashly I had lost all right to ever question her about being scatter-brained, waved goodbye to Case, walked back outside and ran all the way back home. All in all, a great workout.
Love,
Dad
Monday, January 21, 2013
Walk like a man
Case,
You've been walking for a couple months now — traversing your way through every room in the apartment for what seems like miles each day — but yesterday you got your first chance at some "walking around" time outdoors.
You took to it like a pro. The small hill and the occasional obstacle that required climbing up and/or over in what passes for our backyard made navigation difficult at times, but that never stopped you.
At one point, I tried to hold your hand to steady you. You didn't want ANY of that. You were determined. That moment of independence made my day.
There will be always be hills to climb and obstacles to overcome. You will fall — literally and figuratively — plenty of times as you make your way through life. Just don't lose that spirit you showed as you wrestled your hand from mine and stumbled confidently through the grass. As long as you keep getting up, moving forward and believing in yourself, you'll be fine.
Love,
Dad
You've been walking for a couple months now — traversing your way through every room in the apartment for what seems like miles each day — but yesterday you got your first chance at some "walking around" time outdoors.
You took to it like a pro. The small hill and the occasional obstacle that required climbing up and/or over in what passes for our backyard made navigation difficult at times, but that never stopped you.
At one point, I tried to hold your hand to steady you. You didn't want ANY of that. You were determined. That moment of independence made my day.
There will be always be hills to climb and obstacles to overcome. You will fall — literally and figuratively — plenty of times as you make your way through life. Just don't lose that spirit you showed as you wrestled your hand from mine and stumbled confidently through the grass. As long as you keep getting up, moving forward and believing in yourself, you'll be fine.
Love,
Dad
Monday, January 7, 2013
Winding road
Case,
There are so many things I want you to learn as you grow older, and I am confident that I will be able to help teach you them. But if you want to know how to relax, you're going to have to consult someone else.
Love,
Dad
There are so many things I want you to learn as you grow older, and I am confident that I will be able to help teach you them. But if you want to know how to relax, you're going to have to consult someone else.
Love,
Dad
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