Category: family life

thirty-five degrees

May 9th, 2020

Out of bed and down the stairs to open the old wooden door and take a breath of morning. It is cold. Twenty-nine degrees. Tiny white flakes drift and spiral in the air. It is Spring in Alpena, Michigan.

Our neighborhood is silent, except for our American flag. A heavy-duty, hand-stitched beauty that’s got a peace symbol where stars ought to be. It’s flapping and snapping in the wind gusts, shaking its pole and bracket loose from the middle column of our front porch.

I close the door behind me. Its leaded glass rattles. The icy boards feel good against my bare feet as I lean forward against the railing and take down the flag and pole. The bracket needs fixing, but I’m not sure I’ll get to it today.

There are more important things to do.

∞

I want to make breakfast for me and S.B. Farm fresh eggs that have green shells or brown shells and dreamy, orange yolks. Thick-cut bacon, as crispy as I can get it without setting off the smoke alarm, and wheat toast—the darker, the better with the thinnest coat of butter I can muster. And I just want to sit across the table from her, my person, and eat.

∞

There’s a magazine I subscribed to. Just last night. Tired of headlines left and right, snippets, tweets and posts made by fools, I clicked and committed to 12 weeks of information from sources all over the world. I want to be pushed and pushed, so I don’t ever have a mental comfort zone. If it works, and I feel my brain growing, I’ll renew. Print copies start arriving in two weeks. For now, I do digital.

The first hour of my investment was spent reading and thinking about the rewiring of the financial system. This article confirmed much of what I’ve been researching since 2017. Money is moving as quickly as email. Connections from country to country and currency to currency are being made immediately and without fail. The elderly lady I saw at Meijer yesterday, writing a check out for ten dollars over the amount, doesn’t have a clue about what’s coming. Most of us don’t. But that’s by design. The Internet of Value is zipping along like the Internet of Information did several years ago. But this one has the potential to be more disruptive and more profitable than anything we’ve ever seen. That’s why it’s being kept relatively quiet and why we’re fed a steady diet of distraction.

Spinning headlines.

Celebrities, pandemics, and YouTube shows about reselling shoes.

Political figures to argue about.

Polls, stats, and opinions.

All of us consumed with hating each other and defending our so-called beliefs, while those with power and money earn and accumulate as much as they can before we do.

I am encouraged to see what today’s reading will bring.

I bet it will help me appreciate the little things.

∞

It’s thirty-two degrees now. If it breaks thirty-five, I want to get my boy playing basketball. I’ll move the car out of the driveway. Reposition the portable hoop. Put on my gloves and listen to my son trash-talk as he dunks and sinks three-pointers from all over our asphalt court. He likes to shout, “Rainbow!” every time he launches a long one. And he takes a lot of long shots. Each of us always wins one game. There’s always a tie-breaker, and I usually let him win. Unless the trash-talking is too much, and I’ve heard enough, “Rainbow!”

He’s fun, and playing basketball or football or soccer with him reminds me of that. He is all energy and motion and muscle and vision. He just has no motivation. One Tuesday, my little boy woke up and was two inches taller than me. He found a comfortable spot on the couch in the living room, took ownership of the remote control and our TV, and dedicated his life to YouTube, his iPhone, and gathering graham cracker dust in his mustache.

Yes. His mustache.

I don’t let him sit for long, though. As his Dad, it’s my job to get him to get up and get out.

I’ll keep watching the thermometer.

∞

No matter what the weather, I know that I will be standing in the backyard for an indeterminate amount of time watching my ten-year-old daughter bounce on the trampoline. She’s terrific. There’s no doubt about that. Three years of gymnastics lessons have made her a force to be reckoned with. She’s tiny but mighty. She flips and twists and bends. We even made up a game where I stand with a drink in one hand and a football in the other. She does a front flip. I throw the ball while she’s in midair, and when she lands, the ball is there waiting for her hands. She averages a sixty percent success rate. Each day we do this, she improves. Some will say this activity has no real-world use, but I beg to differ. She’s learning timing, hand-eye coordination, and mathematics. Oh, and patience. There are plenty of times I tell her, “Hold up a minute. Just jump in place.” And I take a drink.

The other day, we enjoyed our father/daughter time in sprinkles, sleet, then sunshine. She did thirty-three backflips, forty-one front flips, and caught the ball seventy-five percent of the time. Most importantly, she educated me on the importance of accepting the fact that there may be multiple levels and dimensions to the experiences we know as death and the afterlife. I’ll admit it; I had two mixed drinks.

∞

Each day holds many possibilities—all sorts of opportunities. But I can only explore those that are most important in the moment. The older I get, the more selective I am. I will take time to fix things and read. And I will write. But there’s only so much time left with my wife and kids near the 45^th parallel.

My boy won’t always want to play HORSE in the driveway with his Dad. He’ll be off enjoying real competition with friends. Making shots I’ll never see. Showing off his skills, his mustache, and a beard.

Eventually, my daughter will wear out the trampoline, my arm, and her patience. There are only so many times you can jump in place, while your Dad looks on, smiling.

And there aren’t unlimited breakfasts with my wife. Dipping toast into dreamy yolks. Drinking coffee. Just us in the morning light.

And looky here…it is now thirty-five degrees.

~ KJ
Alpena April Morning

April 20th, 2020

Grinding coffee

on the porch

as the dog

does her business.

I don’t want

to stir my wife or kids.

They need sleep.

The wood underfoot is so cold

my feet burn.

But it feels good

to be

outside

on another Alpena April

morning.

And now, inside,

I sip warm liquid

and get to work,

the keys clicking,

the dog snoring,

the birds waking the world

with song.

~ K.J.
making bacon during COVID-19

March 30th, 2020

Chickadees, Blue Jays,

and Robins are at it.

Singing and fighting.

Because it is Spring.

Earthworms slide

across wet sidewalks.

Black and gray squirrels leap

from powerlines to branches

and dance across streets.

Most of them make it,

but some don’t.

We pass these little bodies

each day

without a second thought.

My kids play

basketball,

jump on the trampoline,

blow soap bubbles,

and hula hoop.

S.B. has

hand-painted glasses,

made one of our bathrooms Fish Pond Blue,

created a painting,

put together a 2000-piece puzzle,

and continues to do everything she’s always done.

All while homeschooling our daughter and son.

They’re learning math and science.

Studying slavery,

Ghandi,

Mo Willems, Sally Ride,

the life cycle of bees,

and Economics.

All that

in only a few hours a day.

S.B. is amazing.

My kids are astounding.

And here I am,

working from home.

Getting fatter and stupider.

Sick for 10 days

and counting.

Don’t worry.

I’m lucky.

I am not one of the many that will be taken by COVID-19.

Or one of the 840,000

that will die

from cardiovascular disease.

The one million in the world

that will die

from mosquito bites.

Or one of the people

that gives up

every 40 seconds

and kills themselves.

Nope.

Not me.

Life’s too good for that.

This shelter in place provides

perspective.

Moments to observe and realize.

S.B. is not a morning person.

My son is smarter than his report card.

My daughter is an old soul.

And, in the morning,

if I think of the birds that I hear

as I make breakfast

while everyone sleeps

there is a life-changing discovery.

Flipping strips of bacon

by picking them up

in the middle

eliminates

fatty,

curled

ends.

~ KJ
to S.B. on her birthday

March 19th, 2020

We were five weeks into it. My trips on weekends to visit.

S.B. was living on Stieber Street. Doing her best. Trying to teach art to kids that didn’t get regular meals, words of encouragement, or hugs.

She was raising a two-year-old. By herself. In a neighborhood that was just a step above questionable. The lady across the street thought S.B. was rich.

Because she was a teacher.

Because she was able to put her son into daycare from 7:30 to 3:00, while she worked.

The lady came over on a regular basis to ask for money.

For food.

For formula.

For tampons.

It was hard for S.B. to say NO because she has seen many things. Because she is sweet-hearted.

But her experience has given her a good, solid, fool-proof, bullshit detector.

I know, because she uses it on me.

But that is neither here nor there.

This is about the time we were sitting at the kitchen table that eventually became our dining room table, our living room table, the family table. The one with the small, round, wooden top, and black wrought iron legs.

We were drinking wine, listening to Rage Against the Machine, Tool, Pearl Jam, and Dave Matthews Band.

And we were playing Rummikub.

She was vibrant as ever.

Black tank top.

Grey yoga pants.

Smelling like vanilla and rain.

She amazed me.

Raising a kid, working her ass off, doing all of it on her own, and then welcoming me, a stranger for the most part, to live with her and her baby two days at a time.

A chubby guy with good intentions. On her doorstep every Friday night, after a 239-mile drive.

Time and distance have moved us here.

Life on the 45^th parallel, just a few blocks from Lake Huron, in the place we will always call home.

It’ll be a dozen years come August, and to me, there’s no end in sight.

I believe that all we’ll ever do is start all over again.

Because of that one night.

Drinking Yellow Tail.

Listening to Crash by Dave Matthews Band.

Together.

Playing Rummikub.

I’d just ended my turn. Looked up.

Smiled.

And for whatever reason, she leaned over the table and kissed me.

I don’t think she knows it, but that’s what pulled me in.

A simple, single moment that connected me

to everything.

~ KJ
a work in progress

February 25th, 2020

My boy. Fourteen today.

1 4.

One. Four.

Goddamn.

He’s a good spirit. Has good intentions. Is not meant to be bound by the rules.

I know this. And yet, I expect him to meet expectations that I know are bullshit.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What’s a forty-six year-old, chubby hubby and daddy to do when he is living a privileged life—all white and middle-of-the-road and male and sheltered by the 45^th parallel—and he doesn’t want his kids to grow up potty-mouthed, stupid, disrespectful, and unforgiving?

As I remember it, we met when he was one-and-a-half, maybe two.

She brought him to meet me out on Smith Road.

The run-down church. My haunted country home.

And we sat on the couch of dirty secrets, trying to watch a movie.

Other girls bared their souls, opened their mouths, spread their legs, and did all of the things their fathers told them not to.

But not this one.

She came to me thinking it would be goodbye.

We dated a few weeks based on past desire, but things were different now.

I was writing, but not much because weekly paychecks made it easy to drink copious amounts of alcohol and eat Banquet Chicken meals.

She was an artist. Living off a healthy diet, and a new job teaching kids in Westland, Michigan.

He was just a baby. A boy. But Christ, he was a handful. Smacking me. Pouting. Putting himself between us.

If I wanted her, I would have to work.

Hard.

For IT.

For him.

For them.

For us.

And she knew it.

I got some bubble wrap from my writing room. Popped a few between my thumb and forefinger and he laughed.

It was the best sound I’d ever heard.

A kid in a new place. Fighting. But laughing. Coming to terms.

I put my arm around her and pulled her close without expectations. I just wanted us to be there, together. Watching a boy break plastic to release air.

It made sense then. And it makes sense now.

I loved her and I loved him even before I loved them.

He was my boy before he was my boy.

And she was mine.

Not property.

But my devotion.

Three hours later, she buckled him into the car seat of her old blue Ford ZX2.

We stood there between the house and church as he fidgeted and fussed in the car.

She kissed me and hugged me as if we would never see each other again.

“I’ll be down next weekend,” I said.

She smiled. Got into the car. And drove away.

With my boy.

Because she’d heard this all before.

Men wanting her, but not him.

But I did.

I wanted her.

I wanted him.

I wanted us to get from then to now and beyond.

So I quit my job.

Packed up my pickup truck

and appeared on her doorstep

on Stieber Street.

All I had were bills,

forty pounds of extra weight,

and a desire to show her that I could do it.

Twelve years of marriage.

Thirteen years of fatherhood.

My chance to help a boy grow into a man.

~ K.J.
the pit

February 23rd, 2020

In the kitchen. Taxes on my mind. Knowing I need to get them done because if done right, we’ll get money back. We need this money to live this life we’re living. I understand that the sum of your belongings means nothing. But once you accumulate and have, you expect. It’s ridiculousness at its best.

So, I’m making French Press coffee from beans I’ve just ground. Starbucks French Roast. And I’m falling into the pit of guilt. It’s not the guilt’s fault. See, I do this often. Every day. Many times each day. Instead of enjoying an experience, like a silky, smooth cup of coffee, I start thinking of the people waking up on the street. In the cold. People with real problems, like aching, starving bellies. Pain that they can’t get prescribed away. Humans, that for one reason or another, have chosen the street. Their decision-making may have not been well-informed and certainly could have been affected by mental illness, substance abuse, lack of education, disease, and general hopelessness. Or sometimes, people just get a bad shake. They are, of course, without choice. Surviving by sheer will.

And that’s only the beginning. I’ll find one of these folks in my head. See them, hear them, feel them, and wonder, how can I help? What am I able to do from my place here on the 45^th parallel to get the war vet to the soup kitchen and a counselor? How do I help the opiate addicted illegal immigrant and her three young boys out of the car their living in and into a home? And what about the old man living in his shack out in the sticks with no running water, no phone, no electricity? He can’t walk anymore. He finds it impossible to do much of anything. He sits in his chair, looking out over his frozen front yard toward the road where his mailbox used to be. It’s gone, he thinks. The snowplow that came through last week blasted through it, sending his disability check flying off into February, only to be buried out there somewhere with another layer of snow. Not that it matters. He can’t get to town to cash it, anyhow.

I sip the coffee. Damn, it is good.

I check my watch. An Apple watch, of course. Those are the gifts we give each other. Obnoxious. Does anybody really need to have the world strapped to their wrist? But it is telling me to get moving. Yesterday, I smashed my move goal. Burned just over 1,600 calories. Jogging, walking, elliptical, and free weights. And I’m shameful. How stupid is that? I’m ashamed that I’m able to do these things, look out for my health.

And I love the watch.

I head down to the basement. Get here to these keys. This computer works well. It’s taken the thoughts from inside of me and saved them for the past five years. That’s the typical age when one should consider replacing a laptop. I admit it. I’ve been looking at the 16” MacBook Pro.

Wasn’t it an apple that supposedly got all of us into this?

I’ve been abusing these keys for about twenty minutes. I’m at that point where I know I could go for hours—probably write The Great American Novel—but it’s here again. The pit. My daughter has friends over. Two of them. They slept over last night. It was my wife’s idea. She’s up there now, sipping tea. Touching her iPad Pro. Playing Candy Crush or shopping for clothes for our Spring Break trip. We’re going to Jamaica. But, I’m not up there, you see. Those little girls are chatting, munching cereal, slurping milk. There’s nothing I can do up there. I have nothing to offer, but I’m supposed to be up there. My wife may not actually think this, but that’s what the pit is telling me. I shouldn’t be down here writing, cleaning out the noggin’, getting myself centered, doing what I love—stringing words together. I should be up there.

And once I’m up there, doing whatever it is I can to help—putting away dishes, vacuuming, sitting on the couch and watching TV, just BEING there—the pit will remind me of what I committed to years ago, when I was just a kid.

I’m going to be a writer, I said.

But it will have to wait. At least until the taxes are done.

~ KJ
the giving

December 14th, 2019

My kids go round the block. My daughter to her friend’s place. Within sight. Within earshot. But sometimes she goes left instead of right. A shortcut that eliminates 67 steps.

My boy rides his bicycle to Bay View to play basketball. He runs too. From our street, up 1^st, to Ripley, to 2^nd and back home. They have been out and about in this neighborhood for ten years. Playing, walking, skipping.

I know where some sex offenders live. Everybody that wants to know can. The ones that register their whereabouts, anyway. They can be seen on a map. I have advised the kids areas to avoid. Reminded them time and time again to not believe anyone that approaches them. To kick them in the nuts. Bite. Pull hair. Scream. To run. Run as fast as they can from whomever it may be.

Recently, a man approached children at the bus stop a block from our place. He wanted to give kids a ride to school, even though he was on foot. My kids don’t ride the bus. I drive my son. My wife drives my daughter. But the kids that were there were in danger. The bus came. He left. But people didn’t forget. It was reported. And he was arrested.

He may be out on bail tonight.

Sitting in his home.

I can see his place from here.

My wife is out with her girlfriends, celebrating Christmas.

My daughter is at her friend’s house.

My son is at the in-laws.

I am sipping a drink. Watching our Christmas tree. Loving this time of year. The lights. The warmth. Remembering where I am from. How hard people worked and sacrificed so that I could be here. Happy and safe. Strong. Very much aware that there are people waiting to take it all away.

And I consider taking a walk. Bundled up. Around the neighborhood. Stopping, only once—for as long as it takes—to improve my kids’ chances of success.

He wouldn’t see it coming.

I’d make it as quick and painless as possible. I’d be saving him, really.

And that’s what this season is about, right?

The giving.

~ KJ
Devotion – Chapter 1

December 4th, 2019

CHAPTER 1—STARLITE BEACH

Maggie and I marry on Starlite Beach. A quiet, quarter-mile stretch of sandy shoreline in Thunder Bay, Michigan. We are barefoot and all smiles as we watch giant black-and-blue clouds roll over Lake Huron. They are electrified with lightning.

Thunder rumbles, the storm inches closer, and Reverend Romanowski—one of Maggie’s Dad’s long-time drinking buddies—leads us through our vows. He is sober for now but moving us along quickly, and I don’t think it’s because of the weather. Twenty yards away, under the pavilion near the BBQ pits, public showers, and toilets, there’s enough alcohol for three hundred people. We are expecting a hundred and seventy-five.

We say I do, the sky breaks and rain christens our first kiss as husband and wife.

“We better head for cover,” the Reverend says.

He puts his old, leather-bound Bible over his head and hightails it to the pavilion where guests are drinking and snacking, waiting for us to arrive.

“This is perfect!” Maggie says.

And in this moment, I agree. It is only us, the beach, the big lake, and the rain. We kiss again with wet lips, and I feel that great, hungry urge to eat her alive as our bodies press together. I pull her closer, tighter. Try kissing her, but she pulls away.

“Stop!” she says. “We’ve got our whole life for that.”

A gaggle of old ladies huddles at the corner of the pavilion closest to us, smoking and drinking, cackling away. A few look familiar—aunts and distant cousins, I suspect—but there’s little connection to be made. They pop umbrellas in unison then walk toward us, waving and smiling—coming to save us from the treacherous downpour, no doubt. My guts roll and rise. I do not want to be trapped under a canopy of trembling umbrellas with a bunch of perfumy old bags smoking like chimneys and flirting with broken hips.

“Oh, God,” I say. “Not now.”

And then, lightning strikes. It is so violent and close that old ladies shriek and stampede back to the pavilion.

“Wow!” Maggie says, “That was close! I smell ozone!”

“I smell burnt hair and toasted diapers.”

“You’re awful!” she says, then takes my hand and we run from the beach through the wet grass and puddles toward the reception—an event so overdone and overblown I can barely stand it. Gold and silver centerpieces, monogrammed napkins, and frilly tablecloths. Gaudy decorations and assigned seating for friends and family attending, not out of love and support—we haven’t seen these people in ten years or more—but for the catered meal. A choice of roast beef tenderloin or salmon from Thunder Bay’s nicest restaurant, Jack’s Sawmill, and for the open bar stocked with kegs of Killian’s, Oberon, and Summer Shandy—not to mention the bottles and bottles of top-shelf booze.

“What a waste of money,” Maggie says. “All of this is so unnecessary.”

“It is quite the show,” I say.

“That’s my Dad,” she says. “The great showman.”

We walk around the back of the pavilion to avoid the crowd. The bottom of Maggie’s dress is muddy and wet, but the top is clean and white and tight around her breasts, and her cleavage is stunning. I kiss her neck as we stand at the bar, settle my hand into the small of her back and move it down slowly. She reaches around and pulls my hand away.

“The happy couple!” the bartender shouts.

I recognize him. He’s another of Maggie’s Dad’s drinking buddies, but I can’t remember his name, where he’s from, or what he does when he isn’t doing favors for friends.

“We’ll be happier after a few drinks,” I say. “Do you have our wine?”

“Nothing but the very best!”

He pulls a box of Carlos Rossi Merlot from under the counter.

“You remembered!” Maggie says, and she kisses my cheek.

“Just like the olden days,” I say.

I fill two green Solo cups to their brims.

“Cheers!”

We toast and drink and look out over the lake. The rain is still heavy, but herring gulls have come now and dotted the beach and are bobbing atop the waves. I think of Maggie and Starlite Beach, about Thunder Bay and about the way we used to play Monopoly and drink box wine and eat easy cheese on Triscuits at her place or mine. How we flirted and talked and listened to Pearl Jam and Radiohead and Dave Matthews Band. We watched Donnie Darko, Magnolia, and The Matrix. She was always happy to see me, and she liked being touched and she liked touching me and she enjoyed fucking in the greatest places and ways—bent over my kitchen table, rammed up against her shower wall, trembling on all fours in my living room, and my favorite, her tight body bouncing over and over again on top of mine on the squeaky spring mattress in her bedroom.

“I’m going to miss this place,” she says.

“Not me,” I say. “This town has given us a big bunch of nothing. We need to move so we can do what we’re meant to do.”

“And what is it that we are meant to do?”

“Write and paint and make babies.”

“You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

“I’m pretty sure of us.”

We kiss, and with my eyes closed I can taste the sweet dry wine and feel my heart pounding. It’s as if I’ve never touched or kissed or held a woman before. It is like this a lot with Maggie. Everything always feeling new.

Raindrops pound the pavilion’s metal roof. Maggie leans into me and we sway to the music of the band. Captain Perch and the Musical Minnows is a group of old farts that have known Maggie’s Dad since they were kids. They specialize in covering country-western classics and butchering songs by Elvis Presley and The Doors. They are finishing up Kiss an Angel Good Morning when the Reverend stumbles into us with whiskey breath and bear hugs.

“A toast!” he says.

We raise our cups.

“To the rain! A good omen! An indication of all the good that’s to come.”
Middle School Band Performance

November 26th, 2019

Parents

in camo and pajamas

reeking of cigarettes

and marijuana

and hard work

and BO

at the 7^th and 8^th grade show.

A bunch of kids

playing instruments

for people

that don’t really care.

Moms and Dads

swiping phone screens

talking

not giving a shit about anything

because they confuse being present

with parenting.

I wait for my boy to pound sticks against skin

as people return

again and again

to the spaghetti line

the ice cream line

the soft drinks line

and all I can feel is how much I love

being Dad

when I see him

doing this simple thing.

Making music

without knowing it

getting his insides out

in the middle of this

bullshit.
little boys

September 18th, 2019

Fingers through fences

pecked and nibbled

and bitten

by chickens,

beagle pups,

and bunnies.

We were

bare-chested,

blonde and tan

and we ran

barefoot and

we ran hard

turning green grass

brown and

flattening the yard

until the ground was hard-packed

like pavement.

Mom and Dad never had nice things,

a tidy house,

an immaculate lawn

because we three boys

were so filled up

with destructive love

pushing and shoving

laughing and hollering

that it was impossible for us

to slow down,

so windows got busted,

plaster cracked,

and treasures

met their fate.

Oh the damage

little boys

can do.