Category: middle class life

satisfied with what we’ve done

March 17th, 2015

(from the book, CUTTING TEETH)

Tomorrow she’ll be one. Already, she has given us a lifetime. What they say about kids and marriage and parenting and love—all of it—is true. It is the hardest work you will ever do. It is not for those seeking instant gratification. It is not for those unwilling to give more than they have. It is not for those that need constant applause. Family life—good family life—is not for the weak or for the selfish. Family life, I think, is for those of us seeking more. Call it God. Call it “making it.” Call it hitting the sweet spot. Call it Truth. Whatever it is, you cannot know it until you are in the thick of it. Smack dab in the middle of shitty diapers, tantrums, saying hurtful things to your wife. And struggling to make ends meet. Those times—the ones when you want to cut ties, say fuck it, and leave—those are the ones that test the gut. Punch you with perspective. Kick you square in the nuts and make you, somehow, want more.

And goddammit, I want more.

I want two hundred more of my daughter’s birthdays. I want a million more fishing trips with my son. I want to hug my wife until my arms work no more. But I know better. And I know what waits.

It is not a happy ending. It is not where I’ll want to be.

But fading to black is something we practice at the end of each day. And so tonight, I’ll think long and hard about the end. Finishing up. Giving way to whatever else comes. Everything or nothing. A bright light or constant dream. And I’ll know that if I die in a car wreck tomorrow, everything is as beautiful and true as it should be.

But there’ll be no wrecking.

Like Amanda Davis in a plane.

Plath and the oven.

Hemingway cleaning his shotgun.

I’m not good enough for that. And I don’t want to be.

If I had my choice, I’d always be not good enough and write sentences too plain to make good stories if it meant I’d never die. That tomorrow would always come.

Because my daughter turns one tomorrow. My son is itching to go fishing. And watching my wife makes me realize I’ve married up. That I’m in a better place than I deserve. And that even though we are only pilgrims keeping at the keepin’ on, what we are doing is important and big and lasting. And when it is time to turn the final page, we will be satisfied with what we’ve done.
UFOs, black holes, and how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop

February 27th, 2015

What do we know about UFOs, black holes, and how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop?

**

My son wears the same underwear for days. He can’t shut off a light. Has to be reminded to brush his teeth. And he whines more than I ever imagined a nine year old would. But tonight, as we sat together and he rested his head on my shoulder and we watched freaky YouTube videos about unidentified flying and submersible objects, I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

He was intrigued. Had plenty of questions, but I didn’t have the answers. Half of the stuff we were seeing was bogus. Phony. The other half I was convinced may be partly real. After all, I’ve seen strange, bizarre, unexplainable things in the sky.

“But what is it? How can it move like that? Where did it come from? Where did it go? How is that possible?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

He snuggled closer.

I could see his gears turning. Amazement brewing, and as I looked over at my wife and our eyes met, I could sense what she was thinking.

Why in the hell are you watching that with him before bed?

But what better time to watch such crazy shit than on another boring, below-freezing night after stuffing our faces with pulled pork sandwiches, strawberries, and avocado?

I was sure there couldn’t possibly be anything better as I queued up another video—this time one about a zippy silver disc outrunning two fighter jets then splashing, almost playfully, in and out of the ocean with ease—when my five year old daughter, still soaking wet from the tub, streaked through the living room singing a song about Tootsie Pops and riding a pink dune buggy into the center of the universe with her ferret, Mr. Beasley, and her boyfriend, Trevor, only to get swallowed by a big black hole that was actually full of love and made them fart rainbows until they were safe and back home again.

**

I love to listen as our kids make stories with letters and colors, song and dance. They make me question things and think things I’ve never thought of thinking. They make me revel in the beauty of life, the potential we have, and the innocence that’s ever-present, always trying to get us back to the place we belong.

**

Another cold day eases into another cold night. I walk them to their rooms to say prayers, have thumb wars, and tuck them in for dreams. And as I give one more hug and one more kiss, and one more I-love-you-sweet-dreams-I’ll-see-you-in-the-morning, I walk away buzzing with energy and wonder.

~ K.J.
bringing the stars closer

January 26th, 2015

Out to the driveway to the camper in my pajamas to drink a little wine and string together letters—one key at a time—in an attempt to unify wants and needs, desires, expectations, roles and fears and distractions, so I can strip away the layers, minimize this big existence by focusing on the stars and planets that twinkle with possibility so close, but so far away for you, for me, for everybody.

Kids are throwing grenades in the Middle East.

Islanders are drinking rum in the Caribbean.

An old woman in a care home simmers shamefully in her very first pair of adult diapers.

Across the state, my baby nephew smiles, kicks his legs, watches the multi-colored mobile that turns above his crib, and is happy to move and coo and drool as day moves him to closer to another nighttime feeding from mom.

Twenty feet away, my wife sits in the living room. There is a warm fire solid with orange coals that will last as long as she feeds it. The kids are asleep. Teetering on the edge of dreams. And I’ve stuck myself out here in the cold because I want to believe we can rise above our fear of evil and poverty and gods and guns and money and sex and death and the big silent unknown that’s working its way toward us one tick at a time.

Your day is coming as is mine, so maybe it’s best not to get too serious like this. It is, after all, a Sunday night. There’s only a few hours before the workweek begins and if I think too much about every instance that connects us I’ll forget the importance of this small life in this small town with my pretty wife and kids and there’s a very good chance I’ll get nowhere with this—drinking a little wine, one key at a time—in hopes of bringing the stars a little closer for you, for me, for everybody.

~ K.J.
a girl draws a picture

January 17th, 2015

He’s angry at work because customer orders are going late again and again.

She’s mad because the waitress brought her a fork instead of a spoon.

Every moment, the scale moves to and fro. Negativity. Positivity. Evil and good. An unbearable state of grey. And every day we move closer to the grave. That big, secret ending working its way toward us with each step we do or do not take.

None of us get out alive. That’s what the cynics say. The realists. The smart, sometimes condescending people that don’t need faith or love or God or hope—not anything at all—because they’ve got it all figured out. Everyone is stupid. Plain and simple. Easy to wrap it up nice and tidy and forget that where we’ve come from and where we’re going is magical. Something only kids seem to understand.

As I write this, my daughter appears. She’s made me a drawing.

To dad fum Oogie, it says.

There is a sun at the bottom of the page and a sun at the top. There is a flower growing out of the sky and a flower growing out of the ground. In the middle of the page is a giant, smiling frog.

For about fifteen minutes tonight, my little girl sat on her bed thinking of nothing else but making something nice for someone else. Her dad.

What did I do for even five minutes today that made that much difference in the world?

What did you do?

It’s hard to believe that a dead baby was found in a dumpster today.

That there was a double-homicide just fifteen miles away.

That a man climbed a giant TV tower to freefall through the sky only to discover his parachute wouldn’t open.

It is chaos, not God, they’ll say. All randomness and nothingness and science and facts and proof and theories and psychology and whatever else they can come up with to make themselves feel like that’ve got a handle on life. That they’re in control.

And tomorrow, they’ll be angry again.

Frustrated because equipment was delivered to the wrong dock.

Disgusted because the cashier at the counter was chewing gum.

But the magic will continue. As it always does. In mysterious ways.

A girl will paint a picture. A boy will share his lunch. Children will keep trying, again and again, to overcome the bad, the evil, the negativity with nothing but innocence and good.

~ K.J.
actions speak louder than words

January 17th, 2015

When I was a kid, just seven or eight, and it was bitter cold like this—the wind killing our cheeks, icing our eyes, and easing through even the most solid surfaces of our double wide—I woke every morning to the sound of Dad crumpling and rolling newspapers to light a fire two hours before the rest of us were up so that when we finally got out of our warm beds we wouldn’t be shocked by the cold.

After he lit the fire, he’d pack his lunch. I’d hear the delicate clink of a knife against the butter dish. The cap of the horseradish jar coming off, a spoon rattling around the glass, then the cap screwed back on. The clunk of the lunch meat drawer in the fridge. The rattle of a paper sack. Then the long pour of coffee into his tall gray thermos.

After he scribbled notes for all of us—mine was typically a list of chores: KJ, empty the ash drawer, feed and water the dogs, bring in kindling, bring in firewood, straighten your bed, and shovel the porch—he cranked the old Chevy Nova to life, scraped the windows, then roared away to Besser Company. The place he’ll go to tonight. Forty-three years later. To work a midnight shift.

It’s hard to find loyalty like that today.

And hard hands.

And a strong back.

And shoulders like iron from caring for a wife, three sons, and carrying loads and loads of silence—the heaviest thing a man will ever handle. Because good advice is given quietly and without judgment even when you see your sons making the same mistakes you made over and over and over again.

They don’t make men like Dad anymore, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try. So tonight, I showed my boy the art of crumpling and rolling newspapers to start a fire. The importance of proper spacing between kindling and logs, and that sometimes to keep a fire going it just takes time. And as my son ate his apple sauce and watched my every move, I remembered to say nothing because actions speak louder than words.

(Here’s to May 2015, Dad…retirement is soon.)
sometimes things need to be just so before you move on

January 17th, 2015

I want to write about the bitter cold and how pretty the snow looks over everything. I want to write about the twenty-three brown apples hanging from the tree in our backyard and how my five-year-old daughter noticed them.

“There are more apples that won’t let go than there were last year,” she said to me as I mixed together chopped pickles, mayo, garlic powder, salt and pepper, and tuna for sandwiches.

“I know, buddy. Last year there were eleven. The year before that nine. Now, there’s twenty-three.”

“Why are so many hanging on?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“I bet it’s because they don’t want to die,” she said. And she ran away down the hallway to play cops and robbers with her brother. Something they started doing over Christmas break that really has a hold on them and has surprisingly brought them closer together.

I spent a long time mixing together the ingredients for my lunch. My wife thinks I’m crazy with many things and one of them is the amount of time I put into the preparation of food. Whatever I make—breakfast, a simple sandwich, dinner, or even BBQ—I have to start early because the process is like a ritual to me. Sometimes things need to be just so before you can move on.

Maybe that’s what the apples are waiting for.

Maybe my daughter needed that break in her day—looking out the big kitchen window when she was supposed to be arresting her brother for burglary. And maybe I needed her. To stop and remind me that time is running out and that there’s nothing we can do, but hang on and hope, even after the last bit of sunshine is gone, the nutrients are no longer working their way up the roots toward us, and all we can do is wait it out—the bitter, wintry cold that is inevitable and keeps coming, working us toward the end by way of snowdrifts that sparkle like diamonds, lopsided snowmen with crooked smiles, and a soft white blanket that covers the world.

(for B.K.: enjoy the otherside, big guy…we’ll miss you)
his boy takes a perfect swing at a piñata

January 17th, 2015

My son is eight, but looking like he’s twelve. He’s grown four inches since April. He is lean and strong and already getting too old for things like piñatas at holiday parties. Last night, my wife and I watched as he lined up with the other kids—there must have been ten of them—and he took his turn swinging a wiffle ball bat at a Minion from Despicable Me that none of the other kids could crack. He was not the oldest or the biggest. He does not play baseball, but has a natural feel for all things athletic, so when he gripped that bat like Ty Cobb it took some parents by surprise. With two swats he freed the treats locked inside and for forty-five seconds, as the other kids crawled around on the garage floor snatching candy up and putting it in paper bags, my boy was King.

These are the things I remember. The moments I want to bottle, save, and sip during later days when S.B. and I have the house to ourselves, more padding in the nest, and we’re living a life without kids. I will be writing. She’ll be painting. We’ll travel, socialize, be active in the community, but nothing will replace being Mom and Dad. And even though the path of parenthood is not lined with accolades, roses, and opportunities for rest, I’ll miss it.

I will stand at the big front window one Christmas Day waiting in silent excitement because he and his wife and kids are coming home for the holidays. It will have been months since I’ve seen him, hugged him, heard him say, “Dad.” And the wait will almost be too much. I’ll pour wine or mix myself a drink and pace the long living room keeping my ear tuned to the quiet street so as soon as I hear tires crunching snow in the driveway and car doors slamming, I’ll shout to S.B., “They’re here!” And as he walks up the steps onto the porch I’ll remember.

Pushing him on the swings, teaching him how to move his little arms and feet. Back-and-forth. Back-and-forth. So he knew what it was like to be free. Just a boy in the world in mid-air. Smiling.

Training wheels off and holding the back of his bicycle seat as we travelled up and down the sidewalk in the hot sun. Sweat pouring out of me. Running and running alongside of him as he tried again and again to master the art of balancing on two wheels.

My unstoppable smile as I watched him cast and reel at the break wall of the boat harbor. His practice making perfect as the sun set and bass surfaced and he threw lures with confidence and accuracy and told me he never wanted to go home, that he wanted to just be there with me. Fishing.

The shot of warmth deep in my gut after he spent two hours trick or treating in blowing snow and cold only to come home, turn on our front porch light, and pass the candy he earned out to kids still brave enough to be making the rounds that night.

Every day, little surprises. Hope and faith. A building up of belief in the midst of all the hard work of raising a son in a world that I know will not be as kind to him as he deserves. And when it’s all said and done and he has gone off into the world to succeed and fail and do all those things I’ve done, as selfish as it seems, I just want him to remember me as his Dad. The guy sitting in a metal folding chair at the back of the crowd getting a little teary-eyed—filled with joy—as his boy takes a perfect swing at a piñata.

~ K.J.
one arm, a dead cat, cancer

January 17th, 2015

It’s hard to give up when you think of someone else. It’s not as easy to pity yourself when you consider your kids and parents, your siblings and strangers. All too often we exaggerate the severity of our aches and pains, misfortune and loss because we’re focused on our own desires—our so-called needs and wants.

If we could just remember the others.

The smiling young man working the cash register at Wal-Mart. Scanning groceries, tallying totals, bagging everything up, as he talks with my wife, jokes with my kids, and I put full bags into the cart. When he hands me the receipt and wishes me Happy Holidays, I finally notice he’s got only one arm. My kids and wife have not let on as if they’ve noticed anything, so as I load groceries into the backseat and everyone buckles in, I look long and hard at my fingers and hands and I ask my family, “Was that kid missing an arm?” All of them groan and roll their eyes and wonder at my lack of perception.

The woman in the rusted out minivan with the half-flat rear left tire. She stops suddenly and parks across both lanes of traffic on Washington Street so she can pick a dying, big fluffy cat from the pavement and walk—tears streaming down her face—from door to door, asking each person she meets, “Is this kitty yours?” Cars buzz around her van and honk and people shout out their windows, but she does not hear them. She wraps the cat into her coat, sets it on her lap and drives to the vet to have it put down.

A four-year old girl up before the sun on Christmas morning. She walks across the cold, dirty floor, down the hallway toward the living room. Mom’s told her that she doesn’t think Santa’s coming this year, but she knows better and has hope even as she walks past her Mom, passed out and snoring, cigarette still burning in an ashtray balancing on the arm of the couch. The small plastic tree is lit. The red and blue lights twinkle and warm her and she sits down quietly to pray—not for gifts or candy or for a cure for the cancer that’s eating away her bones—but just to capture a glimpse of Saint Nick coming to her home.
wonder and worry and making ends meet

January 17th, 2015

To Goodwill tonight

For a kid’s Christmas sweater and

just to get out of the house

And be together and breathe a little better

In a big space filled with clothes and books,

Toys, lamps, skis, pots and pans,

And furniture.

Everything so beautifully worn,

Full of life,

Imperfect.

And calling to me.

S.B. and Oogie found a tiny, warm vest

Covered in cheetah print.

A pair of pink leggings.

A birdbath.

Little Man found a hockey stick,

A plastic dagger, a stuffed horse.

I found a NITE STAND for $9.99

That I’m sure was hers—

The elderly lady I sensed in House Wares—

That led me away

From a $4 yellow pressure cooker,

Past an end cap of coffee mugs and

To the wooden, 1940-something charmer

With dark finish, smooth round edges,

And a drawer lined with yellow, flowery wall paper.

Something like this—

Just an object saved from a thrift store—

Tells stories

Or holds secrets that draw us in.

These items somehow have always been ours.

Waiting

And whispering

In basements and attics and behind garage doors.

And as soon as we see them, we know it,

Feel reconnected, and we take them home.

To sit, not by my bed, as it did for her so many years ago—

Holding her Bible, her rings, her hairpins and teeth—

But to sit by the couch I come to at night

So my vodka tonic is not far from reach

And I can unwind,

Relax, and revel in the rest that arrives

After another long day of wonder and worry and making ends meet.
the December surf is frightening

January 17th, 2015

A big wind moves Lake Huron wave after wave. They roll and crest white and break in the bay and push ice against ice so there is a constant roar. Our inland sea is angry with the way Mother Nature threatens its freedom.

“Hear that?” I ask Oogie. She is five and tiny and I am her everything.

“Yes, Daddy,” she says and holds my hand as we walk the bi-path at Bay View Park.

My wife, S.B., looks at us and smiles. She’s pretty and bright-eyed and put together so well and so naturally that she looks like she belongs everywhere. Times Square. Navy Pier. Northern California. Iowa. Portland, Oregon. And here—our hometown—Alpena, Michigan. She is the sun, the moon, the stars I cannot see as we walk under the orange lights and I wish for all of us to keep this time. This moment. So we never part.

The lake howls.

“Sounds a little scary, doesn’t it?” I say to her.

“Not really,” she says, but that’s my S.B. She’s unafraid and graceful and somehow loves me unconditionally. At my best and my worst. In my past and into the days we’ve yet to know. Sometimes, I’m sure we’ve done this all before.

The air is cold as it blows over the big rocks along the shoreline. And the sound of the December surf is frightening.

“I’m not scared,” Oogie shouts. She releases my hand and takes off running after her brother, Little Man. He is older and braver and smarter and faster and stronger than all of us and he is climbing the hill near the band shell. He flops down into the snow, calls for his sister to come join him. He’s eight and on top of the world.

S.B. stops to watch. I keep walking. Move away from the sounds and my selfish wishes until I’m near my favorite tree—a twisted elm—and its stark, gnarly presence is exactly what I need to forget that I’m perpetually tired and stressed and stretched too thin and that I am fortunate to have this simple moment with my wife and kids.