The Crooked Steeple

Thursday Night Freewrite – My Son’s Soccer Practice and Forgetting Regrets

May 8th, 2015

It’s hard sometimes. To get away from all the shoulda, coulda, wouldas. Even when you’re in the best place you’ve ever been. Living a blessed life with a pretty wife and two terrific kids—another Gen-Xer that’s gone soft and has given in to comfort, happiness—doing what it takes to make ends meet, keep the family safe and smiling, slowly correcting all those moments of sin that came before the married life.

Dark nights and even darker days.

But by God, you had fight then.

You could run and drink and eat and fish and fuck then. And you could write. Boy, you could write.

There was time for everyone and time for yourself and time it seemed would never run out.

**

I tried not to watch my son too much tonight. I was at his soccer practice roasting in the heat, smacking away bugs, remembering what it was like to be nine years old and have open fields to run. Barefoot and wild like some child of the woods. Every time I saw him moving around so freely and flawlessly I had to look away. I believed that if I only watched in spurts it would last longer and that I would have more of him to keep. Dozens of nuggets of memories to revisit and relive again and again.

**

I sat on the swings next to my wife. Watched my daughter make friends with a stranger’s kids. Pointed out a rainbow. Wished the sky would break. Bring us the rain we need.

**

The coach kept blowing his whistle. Trying to maintain control. Exercise authority. Teach kids to stay in position, go after the ball, know their place in the field.

**

Wishing I would have made other decisions is silly. I see now that they were made for me. All I could do was learn how to accept them. And that’s what I’ve done. The world does break all of us. Hemingway was right. And I can sense him tonight. Sitting across the table from me. His big hands pecking away at his Halda portable. A whiskey and soda at the ready. He and I writing it all out—all of it except for a few drops—some starter fluid for a tomorrow that is not guaranteed, but that we know waits. Patiently. Like a good wife and good kids, as you do whatever it takes to mend the broken places and be stronger because of them.

~ K.J.
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.
wondering when it will end

February 23rd, 2015

I wonder when it will end.

I think sometimes it’ll come suddenly, while running after my son with a Nerf gun. Both of us laughing, ducking behind furniture, peeking around corners. And finally, a bit of fat will break loose to clog an artery. Down I’ll go with a great thud and the kids will scream and my wife will hover over me as she dials 911.

Or it’ll happen slowly. Splitting wood with the axe while my daughter sings from the swings in the first wave of spring. We’ll want just one more fire because the temperature is supposed to drop as the sun falls down and as I’m daydreaming about winter leaving us for good, I’ll swing and miss the mighty oak and chop my foot in half and bleed and bleed and bleed.

Or maybe my wife and I will string together enough time and money to finally get away. Just the two of us. And as we’re taking a morning swim in the ocean, rediscovering the love that brought us together, I’ll drift into the path of a jellyfish.

I wonder all the time how it will end, but I think that’s part of this gift. This blessing. This life. Knowing that it’s out there moving toward me without fail or fear or feeling makes me more aware. More in tune and thankful. Happy and brave.

Death isn’t meant to make us afraid. It’s meant to give life its meaning.

~ K.J.
having lunch at my daughter’s school

February 6th, 2015

Sometimes it takes lunch with a hundred kindergarteners.

Smiles. Laughter. The chatter.

To bring you back around to where you’re supposed to be.

Just a boy on a ball of dirt

and lava and rock and water and hope and fear and love,

rotating on an axis that clearly does not exist

but can be seen on maps and in books and

can certainly be felt on a wintry February night

somewhere near the 45^th parallel in the place,

not far from the lake,

that you have decided to anchor your roots and stay.

Kids shoot straight.

They make you remember

innocence is not lost—it is only forgotten—and

it can be regained when we choose to love unconditionally.

It was the 12:20 lunch.

The visit to my daughter’s school

where she giggled with friends

and I looked across the table at my wife as she listened

to a sweet, roly-poly boy talk about

his dad and his dog and his love for string cheese,

and it was that good solid minute

when I looked around the gymnasium

at all the children of different shapes and sizes and colors and dreams and

I believed they were mine.

~ K.J.
my dog

January 28th, 2015

She didn’t like fire. A few times, out of spite, she peed on our bed because we had fires in the living room. She wanted to be in there with us, but the fire kept her out. Because of that, she felt we deserved a little surprise when we crawled into bed at night.

She didn’t get into the water until this past summer. She was nine. We were at Bay View and out of the blue she decided she wanted to walk over the big rocks to where she could get into the water. She didn’t get in very deep, but she waded a short while and looked out over Lake Huron as if it was a whole new world. Me, S.B., and the kids clapped and cheered her on.

She liked playing with the ferret.

Hated other female dogs.

Shed all the time.

But she was mine.

She let the kids pull her tail and lay on her and do whatever they wanted.

She loved to hear S.B. say, “Oh, Chloe! You pretty girl! Come up here!” And she would jump up onto the couch and they would snuggle together awhile.

She protected us. Stood guard by the swing set and the apple tree and snapped and growled at bees if they came too close to us.

She ate sticks and rocks and hickory stick and cheese, but she did not like popcorn.

When she slept, she made puppy noises sometimes and moved her legs—running, I guess—free in dreams.

And she always—always—was at my feet when I was here at these keys. My writing buddy for nearly ten years. Silent, or sometimes snoring, but always here. Just waiting for me to finish another story.

But tonight she’s gone. Because at two-thirteen this afternoon we made that hard decision that always comes too soon. And we put her down.

~ 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.
good morning, sweet S.B.

January 24th, 2015

She sweeps, mops, washes, cooks, wipes runny noses, dries tears, runs errands, finds backpacks, mittens, and hats. She schedules the family schedule, organizes, and does the picking up and dropping off. She works, listens, and mediates, and does so much more than all that.

Life comes at her from all directions, but she is patient and smiles and any suffering and misery she feels is usually dealt with quietly, on her own. She never asked for this, never knew it was going to be this way—a middle class life abuzz with activity and ups and downs, spending 7 am to 9 pm in a whirlwind every day—but she is thankful and grounded and reminds our kids and me—her oafish husband—that happiness is within, not in the world around us. We need to stay positive, help others, and do the best we can.

My wife is a beautiful person.

I forget to tell her that sometimes.

She is filled with joy and sadness and anger and laughter and fear and hope and dreams and for some reason or another, she has chosen to spend her time—the days of her life—with me.

She isn’t always right. She’s not perfect. But she’s the one, and every day some way or another—the bounce of her curls, her touch of her lips, the way she treats others, and how she holds her coffee cup—makes me realize life is good. We fit. And we share something others don’t have. That’s the beauty of being married—knowing you’ve got a partner, that you’re a team, and that anything is possible because you’re working together to make sure that every day has the undeniable potential of being better than the last.

Good morning, sweet S.B. Thanks for fighting the good fight with me.

~ 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.
the girl that disappeared one night in June

January 17th, 2015

It doesn’t take a medium, a psychic, a private investigator, or the police to tell us she’s not coming back. When someone’s gone this long—going on three years—she does not suddenly show up at a cousin’s baby shower, her parents’ anniversary, or her son’s birthday. No matter how much people pray, point fingers, analyze the lack of evidence, or wish upon bright stars—like tonight, a cold but peaceful night in Northern Michigan—she’ll not return. Not in the form we’re used to.

When she’s home again, it will be because there’s been a confession. A conviction. The great reward for patience, determination, and truth. Men grow tired. Cowards have always been weak. And evil—plain and simple—never wins.

On the other side, when it comes to a good soul like hers, there isn’t the pressure of time, the worry of missing out. There are no regrets. And so, she watches them silently. Waiting and waiting and waiting for them to feel her breath in their ears. Her hand on the back of their necks. And hear her footsteps as she paces their bedrooms at night. Each of them one day closer to asking God, her parents, and her children for forgiveness.

They’re feeling it.

The three that made the pact—the so-called ring-leader, the defeated veteran, and the punk that ran away—believe they’re part of a brotherhood. That their bond of fear and selfishness and sin is actually something great and untouchable that will endure. But it will not. She tells me this sometimes. That sooner or later a missing piece will wash up, be found in ash and dirt, or show up shiny and new between floorboards. It will be a splinter of finger bone. A ring. A note. A tooth. It will be nothing and anything and everything all at once and be just enough to cause a break in the silent case of the girl that disappeared one night in June.