Tag Archives: love

The Bunny’s Story


The Bunny’s Story


There are four of them . . . at once . . . in two different states.

Sure, I’m a supernatural figure with the ability to contort the space-time continuum in order to hit every single kid’s house in one night but you have to understand something. The wear and tear that has on a bunny is astronomical. Not to mention the singing the fur takes when you do it.

Luckily the oldest, off in another state in college, was okay with an early basket. Well…it was more of a box, but the candy and a present were in there. Some of it was Dad’s suggestion, sure, but there you have it.

I was most curious, though, to see what the three still living with the Dad were going to do. They, obviously, still have that inkling of belief in me. It’s a wonder to me how they still have it. Most of their friends and school mates likely don’t, which is a shame, really. Still…their Dad stopped believing far earlier but I still brought him baskets. He still has the Isaac Asimov book I gave him years ago sitting on the bookshelf in their living room. He’s even told the boys about it.

The ability to jump that continuum lets me peek in on select families here and there. I wanted to see how these guys were handling things. They’ve been without their mother for four years now, but this is the 5th Easter they’ve had without their mother. I know these things. Sure, I’m a bunny…but I’m a supernatural bunny. You have to get with the program and suspend some of that disbelief, you know.

That first of the five, that was a hard one. Dad’s parents were there and it made things so much easier on him. I don’t know if he’d have been able to handle things that year. Yet he did and with their help had an amazing Easter dinner and they visited the same relatives they are visiting this year.

But this year . . . I have to say, five Easters in as a new sort of family . . . what a difference the years make, no?

To begin with . . . I don’t know how the Dad does this. It was 4:30am . . . I hadn’t left that long before when the oldest of those twin boys got up.


I gave him that giant bunny. Couldn’t help myself, I have to admit. He saw it in a store and kept saying how soft it was. To give him credit, he waited until 5am to go into his Dad’s bedroom. It was a bit difficult to watch as just before I dropped off the candy and the little gifts (well, it’s a big bunny, but so am I!) the youngest twin had a nightmare. I sprinkled the idea in his head that Dad had just gone to bed (and he had) and he jumped in, shaking from his dream, and Dad rubbed his head. It was a nice touch.

Sad for Dad, then, that just a few hours later the brother woke him up. I had to cover my whiskers to not laugh.
“Can I get up, Dad?”
Dad was groggy as all get-out.
“What time is it?”
“NO! Good lord, give me at least another hour.”

That lasted 10 minutes. I used the time to hit some other houses in the Pacific before coming back to peek.

5:10am . . . “Dad . . . ”
The poor dad sighed his resignation.
“Fine…go on.”

That woke up the other son.


I gave him a bunny, too. Dad made cinnamon rolls, god bless him, even through the haze of exhaustion.  They’d already started climbing the walls from the cream eggs, jellybeans, peeps and chocolate bunnies I gave them. Had to keep with the theme, after all.

I thought Dad would be melancholy, tired as he was, and revisit Easters past. Instead, they trundled ahead, seizing the day as it were. They went outside while Dad had coffee, checking the grass they’d planted in the backyard.

By noon they’d grabbed flowers for their aunt’s mother-in-law (yeah…I’m a mythological bunny and even I had to think about that description a bit) and were over meeting their late mother’s sister by noon. They had an egg hunt and the twin boys, usually taking every egg they could find, followed behind a little girl and snuck their eggs into her basket. Not that they didn’t have ones of their own.

They ate well, hugged new friends and family . . . and played games.


I thought sure they were going to break an ankle on the 3-legged race. Instead, in the pouring rain, they laughed out loud when they fell, face-first into the grass. When it rained harder they danced in the rain instead of avoiding it.

I sprinkled another idea in the youngest twin’s head . . . “people should see your Dad. He’s exhausted and doesn’t care!”
“Dad . . . YOU need an Easter picture,” he said. Handing his brown bunny to his father the boy took his Dad’s phone and snapped a picture.


Bags under his eyes and all, by evening he was smiling, laughed all day, and even made them a full Easter dinner that they ate at the table. They listened to an old jazz record while they ate and it was there the topic of their mother came up.

But no tears were shed.

No . . . much to my own amazement – and in centuries of doing this very little amazes me now – they all laughed and smiled. They called the oldest who talked about her day and remembered Easter dinners in other states, too.

There was no sadness here. There was joy. There was hope.

For a bunny . . . particularly a supernatural mythological one . . . you hope that your gifts bring joy. I get the impression, though, that this day would have played out exactly the same way if I hadn’t visited their home.

That’s all a bunny can ask for, isn’t it?


E. Aster Bunny.


A Spectacular Day

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A Spectacular Day

How do you spend a day that everyone assumes would be really difficult?

I suppose, like I did, you’d take the day off just to be there for your kids and to handle whatever emotional time bombs might be resting in the wings, waiting for you to get close.

But this day started like any other. I got up, made breakfast, and took the three kids to school.

The only indication in the beginning that this was the day my wife, their mother, had passed away was the fact that I bought a dozen roses and put them on her grave.  I did it alone, after dropping the kids at school.  They don’t like going  to the cemetery anyway. It was beautiful morning. The cold breeze was blocked by trees and the sun was warming just the perfect spot by her stone on the row. I talked to her, in a private conversation I won’t recount here, and went home.

I spent the morning and early afternoon with my oldest daughter.  We had lunch, eating at a cafe near my house, and talked about school, movies, her friends, my work, like any other conversation.

This could have been a hard, terrible, sad day.  But when I asked my daughter if she’d seen video of her mother when she was a TV anchor she said “no.”  We brought up the video and she marveled at how she looked, how she was the very age my daughter is now…and the scary fact that her voice sounds a lot like her mother’s.

“It’s so funny, though” my daughter added, “because it doesn’t sound like her. She had a TV voice going.”  When another clip hit, one pre-recorded with her voice deeper my daughter’s eyes got brighter and she added “there’s the voice I remember!”

There were no tears, no glassy eyes, nothing.  She just smiled and liked seeing a part of her mother’s past she hadn’t seen before.

I made BBQ, cornbread muffins, and we ate until we were bursting.

Then we went to the carnival.

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We rode the Ferris Wheel three times.  We spun around and around. I rode a glider ride with my daughter.  We played games that are obviously fixed so that we lose and didn’t care.

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We rode a carousel . . . just because.

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Went down the super slide at breakneck speeds.  My son got queasy after riding something called the “Thunderbolt” too many times. I heard my oldest daughter screaming in delight constantly and smiling so hard her face hurt.

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We played, laughed and hugged and it was just . . . fun. It was going out late on a school night.

We rode the wheel again and watched the orange horizon turn to purple and electric blue and meld with the lights from the carnival. We bought cotton candy, caramel apples and licorice and went to the car . . . sitting and grinning as we went home.

It is a perfect, living metaphor, you see, for what our lives have become. We look at the woman we all love . . . for we still love her. That will never change. We don’t really get over losing her, we live with the memories. Those memories were painful, stinging us four years ago with every daily remembrance. It’s a tribute to the love we have for her that those memories now are fondness, remembrance and caring. We smile in her honor.

But those memories are what we have left. While she remains where she is . . . we continue to live. It’s the best thing in the world, by the way, life. Sure, it’s just a local carnival . . . but I dare you not to smile when you hear the screams of delight from four kids all shouting at once.

If you listen close enough . . . you can hear the delight in their mother coming through when they mix together.


Worrying about the Worryer

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Worrying about the Worryer

Every brood has a child that, at one time or another, becomes the handful.  They want to be the center of attention or be in on the action or just want to be noticed.

When you have a family of five, where four of you are children, the voice becomes that much harder to project.  That’s even more the case when your Dad is the only parent and he’s got the daily details to deal with.  Then you tend to push and shout and be obnoxious in an effort to get attention.

This weekend it was my son.

It wasn’t that he was being noisy or obnoxious or anything.  It’s that I could totally relate to what he was going through and it hurt.

My son is a worry-wart.  Let’s just get that out of the way.  I know of which he speaks, by the way.  When I was little I was shy – painfully shy.  Some of that was just being a know-it-all, at times.  I had no idea that I was being annoying.  When I found something fascinating, I wanted to share it – I assumed the rest of the people around me would find that fascinating, too.  It was a cold realization that you don’t always meet people with the same interests.  I was young, naive, and it hurt.  I grew very shy as a result.

I know you’re wondering, by the way, why choose being in the media then?  You have to talk and meet people.  I overcame most of that shyness.  When I met my wife, Andrea, by the way, I still had a lot  of that.  I was in my late teens and early twenties, and she had none of it.  Took me by the hand and that was it.

Any apprehension that might have remained before 2011, when my wife passed away, vanished.

My son had a birthday party to attend.  For a week he was thoroughly excited.  Then came the day of the party – going to a basketball game – and he was almost in tears.  I didn’t back off, I knew he’d enjoy himself…but he has the unfortunate happenstance of getting the worst parts of both parents.  He’s shy – painfully so – and has that habit of thinking everyone will like his interests.  He also has the tendency to over-worry to the point of near panic.  That was his Mom.

I dropped him off, stayed longer than I should have to that he was comfortable…and then he got to go to a basketball game for a party.

Then I sat and worried.  I worried and worried as I sat for dinner with their sister.  I worried that the phone would ring and he was sulking or said something wrong.

Then he proved me wrong.

After nine I got the text they were on the way back and as he walked in he excitedly informed he how the game came down to the last shot…as the buzzer went off…and the Kings won!

On the way home he was smiling, happy, and had a great time.

I hoped he got the idea…and the lesson that I did at that moment: sometimes you can worry too much.  The rare occasion that something bad happens isn’t the worst.

The worst is the damage you do to yourself when you worry too much.

Tales of a Beat Up Rocking Chair

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Tales of a Beat Up Rocking Chair

It was bought a couple decades ago, close to five states away.

It’s a product of its time.  The white paint in stark contrast to the natural pine finish is, without a doubt, manufactured and painted in the 1990’s.  It places the chair starkly in the mass of furniture, equipment, bottles, diaper bags and clothes that every first-parent buys.  Once the first has come and grown, you recycle those items for each successive child.

I’d have to say there’s no affinity, no tie or nostalgia for this piece of furniture.  It’s dated.  It’s not even particularly comfortable.  Until an unfortunate spat with an infestation of ants that was nearly lost by the small humans in my household just this year, the chair’s seat was covered by a big, fluffy, bright red pillow with a white and yellow daisy in the middle of it.  Alas, powerful ant killer and dead insects do not a safe combination make.

In 1994 I had wanted an antique, creaky old rocker that would have history and time and comfort seeped into the pores of the wood.  I was vetoed.  The rocking chair, you see, matched the crib.  Never get in the way of a woman decorating her first child’s bedroom.

Every Mom feels a need for a rocking chair.  The motion is natural, of course.  A baby is awake, fights sleep with all its tiny body parts, every one of them moving in complete disarray yet with the same intent…to fight Mom and Dad’s attempt to get them to bed.  I tried this rocking chair on many an occasion.  It hurt my back, hurt my butt, made noise as it ground back and forth on the floor.  It was, without a doubt, one of those pieces of furniture you used . . . because it was there.

The chair became a source of comfort.  It also became a piece of furniture that my wife used far less than I did.

When my oldest daughter was allergic to all food . . . Andrea couldn’t breast feed, the regular formula and even soy formula made the baby violently ill…I sat with her in that chair, every feeding, every night, comforting the baby whose tummy was so sour her frown made you want to cry.  At the age of two months she had to have a scope look at her intestines and stomach.  I comforted her in that chair after she would throw up what little food she could keep down her stomach.  It took a couple weeks to get a formula that worked.  I used it then to rock her to sleep.

The crib and chair continued its existence from child to child.

When my second was born, shortly after coming home, she contracted RSV.  I sat in that chair, every two hours, giving her albuterol treatments followed by a bottle and rocking her to sleep.  When she was nine and had Whooping Cough – her vaccine had waned and others around us didn’t vaccinate at all, helping spread the Pertussis epidemic –  I would rock her to sleep in the same chair.

When the twins were born, I gave their mother a break from feeding them and held them together, in the chair, feeding them bottles at the same time.

The chair moved from Nebraska to Texas to California.  Eventually, the crib was given away to a family member who needed it.

The chair remains, and a funny thing happened.

That antique chair I wanted, filled with history and memory…it just appeared one day.

Tonight I sat in the white chair, placed next to the boys’ bunk beds, so I could read a chapter of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.  I noticed the chipped paint, dirty arms and beat up finish.  I found myself, out of sheer habit, rocking back and forth like one of them was in my arms, so small I could hold them in the corner of my elbow again.

The chair has history and comfort, even though in the beginning we thought it was thoroughly uncomfortable.  I looked up and saw the lights of two sets of eyes, looking through the rungs of the bunk beds and I slowly began to rock back and forth, like so many times before.

“Mayhem at the Ministry…”

There Blows No Wind

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There Blows No Wind…

The line is from a Persian poem, written many years before Shakespeare wrote Romeo and Juliet but dealing with the same themes of forbidden love and loss.

While the theme here isn’t forbidden love, there’s a good deal of loss, even four years on.

The poem, depending on the translation, goes like this:

I am yours
However distant you may be
There blows no wind but wafts your scent to me
There sings no bird but calls your name to me
Each memory that has left its trace with me
Lingers forever as a part of me

I’m a writer, sure, but poetry hasn’t been my forte.  (I know, musician but no poetry…don’t start with me)

The strangest things trigger memories.  They sit, strong, vivid, painfully obvious when loss first comes.  I don’t care if that’s your wife, father, mother, brother, sister, daughter, son…you get the picture.  The littlest things are memories.  You are surrounded by the person you lost because your surroundings are their surroundings, at least they were.

Years on the strength of the memories isn’t as great.  Still, they can come, and at this stage in the game they can come at the most random times from the most random of reasons.

In television and magazine terms, today, they call it a “trigger warning” when the publisher or broadcaster thinks people might have a severe emotional reaction to something they’re about to publish.  That is well and good when you know it’s going to trigger something.

But how do you prepare for a smell?

Andrea and Abbi . . . during the Pharmacy School era

The last couple weeks someone in my building at work has either a perfume or a lotion that – I think – must be exactly the same as one my late wife, Andrea, wore.

It’s subtle, by the way.  Some people bathe in perfume or lotion and you can smell them coming from miles away.  This isn’t that at all, in fact it’s light and just a wisp, carried in the air for the smallest of lingerings.  It may pass by most people with no thought whatsoever.

I hadn’t noticed what it was in the first couple exposures, if I’m being honest.  What I realized was that I was a bit melancholy, nostalgic, thinking of my late wife more than I normally did most days.  I couldn’t put my finger on why.

This afternoon, though, I was through a hallway and the scent was stronger, making me realize why I felt this way.  It was like hitting a wall . . . not a wall of smell but like the hallway disappeared and I was standing in a kitchen that barely afforded room for one person to move and she would move behind me so we’d be stuck, between sink and refrigerator and Andrea would have to put her arms around me, hugging, to skirt by.  It was the Thanksgiving where so many people came to our small home that we couldn’t actually get around the table…we had to go outside, into the back yard, and through the back door to get to the kitchen.

It was whimsy and youth and farcical and it was as if those days weren’t really as far away as I had placed them in my memory. As I passed through the hallway and back to my desk the smell lingered.  I can’t be sure if it was really there or if it had dissipated while my brain still processed the millions of nodes that danced in the delight of the smell.

The funny thing is, the smell was a delight.  I ached to stay in that moment, the memories rushing through like rewinding an old videotape.  It’s confusing too, though, because I miss her but I wouldn’t go back, either.  It’s a series of great memories and the smell becomes tactile.  I feel her hand on the back of my head and the hairs on my neck stand on end.  I want it and fight it at the same time.  Eventually I take a deep breath . . . and it’s gone.

It could very well belong to some twenty-something intern, which would be odd for me, considering I have a twenty-year-old daughter now.  Part of me thinks it would be best not to know who wears it, I couldn’t look her in the eye.  I miss my wife, but I don’t want to go back there, either.  The upside here is it doesn’t take me to the end.  Today, nearly four years later, I relish the good memories and the mere fact of its existence doesn’t make me realize how she’s gone.  She’s been gone for awhile now.

In the end, it’s a scent, but it’s a memory…a good memory.

It lingers forever as a part of me.

Lessons Learned

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Lessons Learned

Meet the old dog.  He’s the guy up there on the right, with the four kids in a booth at an IHOP over the holidays.  Old dog isn’t supposed to have any new tricks nor is he supposed to learn anything about what’s happening.  It’s the constant issue, the reverse philosophy that so many Moms go through, I suppose.  TV sitcoms talk about Dad and he’s the befuddled, confused, lazy guy who’s always just about two or three steps behind the rest of the household.

That, usually, if you watch the sitcoms, includes the kids.

Old dog isn’t supposed to learn nor is he supposed to be authority figure.  After all, if you watch commercials there’s always the Dad/husband/boyfriend/significant other standing in the doorway with a surprised look asking how he’s supposed to do those dishes, make that food, clean those clothes, or just get on with daily life.  Sometimes it seems as if Old Dog would forget to breathe if there wasn’t that other person – be it his parents, kids or wife/girlfriend – to remind him it was necessary.

I get it.  I have known a lot of those Old Dog men.  I’ve seen the kids whose dads were at the soccer games shouting and screaming more because they saw the victory of a 9-year-old soccer star as vindication of their own misspent youth.

But I’m not here to rail against Madison Avenue or Hollywood.  My own wife, friends, and sphere of influence have never looked at me that way.

Society in general or casual acquaintances…well, we’ll just say that’s a whole other story.  I get the “you must be super Dad” or “I don’t know how you do it” a lot.  Here’s a secret for you, I don’t know how I do it…but I do it.  Not always well.  Not always comfortably.  I lose my temper with a teenager and fall prey to persistent pestering by twins.  I’m nowhere near perfect.

But I’m not that Old Dog.

So here’s the thing: I have learned some lessons along the way the last 3-odd years.


It’s okay to have a mess here and there.
I used to try and clean up everything in those first days.  It was a pain in the behind and I never felt like I could keep up.  Once in awhile…the papers and dishes can wait until morning.  My sanity (and at least a few hours of sleep) were more important.

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Don’t throw out the shoe boxes
They take up space, are a pain the neck, and they’re just eating up valuable spots on the shelf.  However…the moment I recycle those cardboard boxes a note will come from the school that one or all the kids have to do a diorama or other project.  Then I’m scrambling to find something to take the place of a shoe box.  It’s worth it for the future peace of mind.


It’s okay to go out to eat once in awhile
Sometimes even just a burger at Johnny Rockets or In ‘N Out is worth its weight in gold.  But…on that note…

Where are My Cookies?!

Homemade treats aren’t near as hard to make as you think
I initially thought that I should make stuff homemade because it was what my Mom did for me.  I then realized that if I made homemade cookies or treats my kids were far less hyper than if they ate a bag of M&M’s.  (Nothing against M&M’s, they’re great)  Somewhere along the way, though, I came to realize that the time it takes to drive to the store, pick up the treats, put them in baggies, whole nine yards…not much less time than making them myself and they taste better.

On a walk with my boys
On a walk with my boys

Losing weight, eating healthy, unfortunately, is a whole change in things
God, I wanted this not to be true.  I fought it for at least a couple years.  I used to weigh about 50 pounds or more than I do now.  That whole “eat less, exercise, change your lifestyle” thing is true.  I wish it wasn’t.  I hate…hate…hate getting up at 5:30am and running.  It’s a pain in my ass to lose weight in it.  I do it because I just have to do it.  I want to be healthy and I still have a ways to go.  That wasn’t enough.  Those treats I make up there?  Those are for moderation, too, not inhaling a whole pan of cookies at once.  I switched from hamburger to ground turkey.  We eat red meat once or twice a week, that’s it.  We eat smaller portions and we go on walks and to the park.  It’s just a change in how we live now and we’re getting used to that.

One of our nightly musical excursions.
One of our nightly musical excursions.

Music is important
You may not agree, but how many of those stupid Buzzfeed lists stating “Ten Things You Didn’t Know about ’80s hitmakers” or “Ten things you never saw in a Katie Perry Video” or what have you do you have to click on before you realize…your life has a soundtrack.  It might get nostalgic and you’re singing Duran Duran songs or it might be rocking and you’re screaming “Whipping Post” with Gregg Allman.  Or you might write and record songs.  Either way…it’s a way to accentuate your lives.  You should love that.


We can’t do all the things we used to do

I used to take the kids to basketball games, we did swimming, cub scouts, guitar lessons . . . we were exhausted, too.  When I lost my wife it was more than just a companion or friend or confidant.  She was a co-cab-driver and another person who helped to get the activities of the day going.  My kids weren’t insanely excited to be part of them, either.  I couldn’t take them to practices or lessons when their sister – with a driver’s license – left for college.  I found there are other things to make up for all that, though.

You play in the leaves when you’re raking them, even though you have to get out and go rake them again.


You make music and have the kids participate with you.  You even make a video now and then.


Do something you all love…together
My kids love the movies.  Not all movies, but going to them for stuff they want to see.  It’s my splurge for them.  That picture was their birthday…and they got to go into the projection booth of the theater for it.  (We saw Captain America)  Movies we do together, we eat candy (on a rare occasion it’s okay, believe me!) and spend two hours laughing or crying with strangers it’s fine and it’s fun.  This one leads to my last point:

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We’re Stronger Together than When We’re Apart
This is a simple one we learned early.  We may not all be in the same place.  I may be at work.  My oldest may be at school.  But there’s a trick this old dog learned as soon as he became a single parent . . . old . . . dog . . . (maybe that didn’t work as well as I hoped).  Together we are mighty.  Together we can do amazing, beautiful, wonderful things.  That’s not together in a room that’s together, united, a family of people.  Our family was broken but it was still working.  It’s still good.  I may not be able to say what my wife did to cheer up my daughter when she’s feeling down and needs words from her Mom.  I can, however, share stories about her Mom and tell her how proud I am and she would be.  I can see the woman she’s becoming.  We’re stronger together and together we’ve taken on the world and survived.

These are lessons we’ve learned.  You might very well learn from them yourself.  They’re not easy ones and not particularly comfortable.

Then again, nothing worth doing is ever easy.

Say It Loud, Say It Clear

The musician and his daughter
The musician and his daughter

Say It Loud, Say It Clear

Over the weekend I watched a documentary on a free preview of the Showtime network.  I’m not afraid nor am I ashamed to admit that it was on the band Genesis.  I know there’s some backlash, particularly since the shift from music in the 1970’s to the 1980’s and today when people have some chip on their shoulder about the band.  I’m not sure why, perhaps it was the second lead singer, Phil Collins, having been everywhere from on television to a cop on the film Hook to doing the soundtrack to Disney cartoons.

That said, I’ve always liked them, no shame or afterthought to that statement.

But this isn’t about them, at least not particularly.  No throwback to the 1980’s or melancholy or wishing things were like when I was a kid.  Genesis is just the impetus of one of the sweeter surprises I’ve had in some time.

The picture up there is from the 1990’s, not long after my oldest daughter was born.  She’s the infant in my arms, on a stage, Clapton Stratocaster around my neck, while I have long hair and look something like a character from the movie Death at a Funeral.  My wife took that photo, though I can say I never thought she was particularly pleased to be there.  This was my band, with my brother a member, playing at a summer festival in Omaha.

My wife had little or no use for my being a musician.  It didn’t make a ton of money – which isn’t at all what I was performing for in the first place.  It didn’t focus on our relationship or on her, except the couple songs I’d written about her or us.  Neither of those was easy enough to pull off live so there was no focus for her.  She wasn’t at all convinced this was a good idea.  In my defense, I just cannot stop being a musician.  It’s in my DNA.  It’s like that Stratocaster is part of my left arm and if you removed it I may as well bleed out.  I will also argue that there were months, in the bleakest of times when she was in Pharmacy school and I was working two jobs to keep the heat on in our home that we ate due to the gigs I played.  It wasn’t a ton of money, but it was money and every dime counted.

Living Years

Watching the Genesis documentary they brought up each of their solo careers.  Sure, Phil Collins had one; a stellar one, in fact.  But the guitarist, Mike Rutherford, had a band and still plays much of the time with his own band, Mike and the Mechanics.  After a start with one singer they switched to another singer, from the band Squeeze, named Paul Carrack.  The album came out in 1988, some years prior to that photo of my daughter and I but it continued to get some airplay.

As Rutherford recounted the fact he couldn’t sing and that may have affected his ability to sell the millions of records like Collins, my daughter looked over at me with a smile.

“Mom always thought you sounded just like him, did she ever tell you that?”
I looked at my daughter and at the television and was more than a little bewildered.  “Like Paul Carrack?!”
“Yeah.  She never told you that?”
“No!  I would have remembered that.  That’s a helluva compliment.”
“She was right.”  She looked at my son sitting next to me and asked him . . .  “don’t you think Dad sounds like that guy?”
My son just looked up, matter-of-fact, “yeah.”
“I can’t believe Mom never told you that,” she said, confused.

In less than two months it will have been four years since my wife passed away.  We had an interesting relationship.  Always loving, always friends, and often contentious.  Music was part of our lives but not always a part she wanted.  I always had a dream, even with 1, 2, then 4 kids of making a living doing it.  She never thought that was practical or realistic.

But then she’d surprise me.  She always did.  I never made the connection nor have I ever claimed to be of the caliber that Paul Carrack is.  I’ll take the complement, nonetheless.

Now, almost four years after she’s gone, I hear that she heard my voice and heard possibilities.  I knew her well enough to know that’s what was going through her head.  When she’d dismiss recordings I’d make she’d tell her daughter or friends that her boyfriend/husband sounded like Paul Carrack.  Should I be mad that she never told me?  No.  Not a whip.

2014-11-22 19.31.13-1

Today I’m sitting home, recording, getting ready to find funds to hit the studio and hire a drummer and bassist to put a full record together.  Where I’ve been frustrated trying to get that chord progression right or my computer gives me CPU errors during a take or I just can’t get the lyrics the way I want I’ve been frustrated and silent of late.

And then this comes, out of nowhere, blasting through, and I feel a pride I hadn’t known for awhile.  Pride in the fact she heard something in my voice, even if she never voiced it to me herself, not in that way.

This weekend she said it loud, said it clear.

It’s just up to me to listen.

The Clearout

2014-11-29 19.15.40The Clearout

There are a million things happen after the change from year to year.  It’s not as though you wake up on January 1st and suddenly there’s a 2015 fairy floating around your head granting wishes and steering you in the direction you need to go.  In reality, it was a Thursday.  It was like any other Thursday, too, except we were all a bit tired from staying up too late and the stores were all closed so we had to do without several of the snacks that I forgot to buy the day prior.

There are, though, things that happen that make you see and feel the changes as they come.

The biggest is the clearout.  The annual weekend after the new year take down of all the Christmas decorations.  We, you see, have a vast array of decorations that I put up every year.  When we first moved, just nine months after my wife passed away, the decorations were filled with Andrea’s touches.  There were leopard spotted bows and velvet stockings and monogrammed pieces that were scattered throughout the house.

This year, though, more than most, this was our Christmas.  In fact, it was mine as much as ours.  I bought new ornaments.  I moved a tree to the living room so that we had Christmas decorations right where we spent most of our time.  Presents were under the live tree and I had an old artificial we’d had for years decorated just so it looked bigger, more festive, and just fun.

I put more lights up than ever.  This was a sticking point in my marriage because I wanted to lean more toward Clark Griswold and my wife wanted to lean more toward Pottery Barn.  This year I struck a balance and had lights and added to the trees up front.  It looked nice.

But the clearout is an annual thing . . . the lights come down, and my son – who’s deathly afraid of heights – asked to come up on the roof and help me remove them.  I obliged.  Within a few my oldest daughter, home from college, came out to help as well.

The next step, though, was shopping for a white dress for a sorority event my daughter needed.  You might think this is no big deal, go out, spend a day being driven mad by the hordes of shoppers at the mall and leave.

Reality, though, is that a white dress – just white, devoid of other colors, bright, pure, simple . . . that’s an impossible task.  Everything had spots, dots, stripes, prints and other types of things that made it a violation for said sorority.  We found, after two days and walking near 3 miles, one dress.  We found lots of other clothes said oldest child loved, but didn’t work for the project. “You’re a better man than I am,” said her uncle.

We also had to remove the tree so the Boy Scouts could pick it up and recycle it for us.

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The Sunday routine finished I looked at same daughter and asked “any thoughts on dinner tonight,” realizing as soon as the words left my mouth it was a mistake.
“Umm…not really.  I don’t know.”

That, you see, is the normal response from two girls and twin boys.  “I don’t know.”

“Who left this on the floor?”
“I don’t know.”
“Whose turn is it to unload the dishwasher?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why is there a bowl on the floor?”
“I don’t know!”

In the end I made spaghetti.  I decided.  I’m the decider “he said in his best George W. Bush voice”

But the reality is I have been for a long time.  Still…help exists.  And it helped immensely during the cleanout.


“A Scotch Sounds Good…”

IMG_4172“A Scotch Sounds Good…”

As little as three years ago my emotions were far more understandable.  I wasn’t cold, no, but I wasn’t moved in quite the same ways.  My wife would watch a sad movie and I could fathom and dissect the motivation in its scripting, acting and direction.  Now, I get wrapped up in the same emotions my oldest daughter has when, say, Bilbo Baggins loses it after his friend dies in The Hobbit.  (There’s no spoilers here . . . the book’s been out since last century!)

I’d say my brain went a little haywire, which could be the case, I suppose, but I don’t think that’s the case.  I wasn’t the grinch, my small heart didn’t “grow three sizes that day.”  I just didn’t indulge in those kinds of emotions.  Men were men, we didn’t emote that much and we didn’t lose it at random things.

This brings me to the reminiscence of the bottle you see up there.  I use the title for a couple reasons.

It might sound very cliche’d for me, a journalist, a man whose heroes are Murrow and Brinkley along with Schieffer and others, to like Scotch.  That very phrase, by the way, in quotes, is the last line of the film Good Night and Good Luck.  Even Will Ferrell lampooned it in Anchorman as the drink of choice for all real newsmen.

That would be an easy assumption, but you’d be wrong.  In fact it’s quite an acquired taste.  I didn’t normally drink it as I had not acquired the taste for the hard liquor.

No . . . Murrow and Bradley did not bring me a taste for the drink.

My wife did.  She seemed to think that the fact her mother, in an effort to stop her from crying when she was a teething infant, put a splash of Scotch on my wife’s gums.  That, she theorized, gave her a taste for the whiskey itself.

This isn’t a celebration of alcohol or its effects.  I am careful not to be driving if I have more than a glass and even then . . . I wait some time before I even contemplate going for my keys.

I can remember the very day that the drink seemed to magically sink in with me.  I had gotten two tickets to the Omaha Auto Show – a preview compliments of the sales department.  Also complimentary?  Drinks.  Andrea and I were married and she was working, her sister, I believe, watching our daughter.  I wandered the place and, feeling entitled, asked for Scotch.  It was the most expensive drink on the menu.  I had one glass . . . then another . . . and came to realize it was expensive, single-malt Scotch, making it far smoother.  It also gave my stomach no problems which, unfortunately, beer and wine did.

This particular bottle, though, is the end of a few things.

About two years before Andrea passed away her parents wanted to give me a very nice gift.  It was an 18-year-old bottle of Glenfiddich single-malt.  It’s an expensive bottle of aged Whiskey and it…was…smooth.

I kept the bottle for a very long time.  My wife and I would indulge when things were particularly stressful, and the last couple years of her life things were really very stressful.  So when Andrea passed away I had more than a few glasses, you can be assured.

That bottle wasn’t touched much after that.  In fact, there was enough for two glasses sitting in the bottle for the last year.  That would push the age to somewhere near 25, I think.  Not that it got better the longer it was open.

Last night, the kids – all four of them – asked me to play Wii with them.  Bear in mind, as they were little, I used to kick their little behinds on games.  I knew Super Mario Brothers better and blew through them with ease.

Last night I found myself pining for my old Atari 2600 or a Nintendo NES as they pounded me in Mario Smash Brothers or Mario World.  The screams and shouts from them exacerbated a headache I’d seen coming for some time.

At the end I pulled out the Scotch, not thinking, and drank the last glass.

This brings my post here full circle.  In years past I’d have drank the amber liquid and given it not a thought.  However . . . this is the last big gift I got from Andrea’s parents.  Her father passed away shortly after last Christmas.  Her mother passed away earlier this year.  It was a rough 365 this round and it’s been filled with a lot of losses.

So I stared at the bottle, the empty glass, and realized that I was more than a little harsh to Andrea’s father in the last few years of his life.  We had disagreements, I had my grudges, and like times in my own past I held onto it for a long time.  It wasn’t right, I know that, but grief has a way of holding onto things that maybe it shouldn’t.  As I took the last swallow I felt some guilt but a twinge of happiness that I had at least shed the last of that anger shortly before he passed away.

So at the end of the night, I took the last of my glass, raised it to my father-in-law and thought very fondly of the woman who gave me a taste of the whiskey.

It may just be a bottle of Scotch…but it held a lot of memories.


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It would be easy seeing the headline to think I’m turning Ebeneezer-ish on this week prior to the Holiday.  You’d be wrong, though.

No . . . Humbug is a person who behaves in a deceptive or dishonest way.  That’s according to my good friend Miriam Webster, anyway.  In Dickensian terms it’s a fraud or hoax.  “More of gravy than grave,” in other words.

I posted something on Rene Syler’s Good Enough Mother on Sunday talking about how you should read aloud to your kids.  It’s worth looking at if you want to hear my soapbox exposition, but for now I’ll regale you of the offshoot to that very post.

Every year, you see, there are two books that dominate the lead-up to Christmas in my home.  The last few days before Christmas, of course, we simply must read Dr. Seuss’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas.  We’ll dutifully watch the cartoon as well.


Over the course of several days – ususally 5-6 of them – we read from a tearing, beat-up, 1900 American edition of Dickens’ Christmas tales.  It’s blue, the binding fraying, and we don’t care a whip.  It’s the kind of book printed on a real press, the letters and ink thick enough you can run your fingers over the page and feel the letters with your eyes closed.  There are things in that turn of the century edition that don’t appear in other more “modernized” renditions that you simply should not remove.

Sure, there are references to saints and holidays that nobody here in the US celebrates (and perhaps never DID celebrate) but that’s neither here nor there.

When the time comes to read from the book my sons will jump – maybe even leap – at the chance.  My daughters did in years past, yet they seem bored with it this year.
“We’ve heard it, like, 15 times guys…” is their response this year.  That has little change in my demeanor, though.

I take the blue book, open it gently, the spine crackling slightly, and read as the narrator for the open of the book.

“Marley was dead to begin with.  There is no doubt whatever about that.”
“Sheesh,” my son says, one line into Stave one.  “That’s a harsh opening.”
“Yes…it is a ghost story, though.  You’ll see why in a minute.”

Yet my sons are old enough now, resigned enough to the ritual as well, that they pay attention to the verbage.  Perhaps it’s reading A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy or other intelligently humorous books, but they catch the sarcastic, droll humor in the book.

“Mind!  I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail.  I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade.”
“Well…yeah, what is dead about a doornail,” my soon asks.

About 5 interruptions into the first paragraph I inform them that if we keep stopping after every sentence we’ll be celebrating the 4th of July before we finish the book.

My point, though, is that sneakily, steadily and strangely enough I’ve inserted Charles Dickens in with JK Rowling and Jim Rollins and Eoin Colfer.  The boys watched the Bob Zemekis motion-capture movie of A Christmas Carol and have realized, very quickly, that it’s more faithful to the text than most other versions have been.

They also know terms like “ironmongery.”

Reading aloud to my children is something I simultaneously enjoy and wonder in as the kids listen.  The boys are 11, the girls 15 and 20 . . . but they still will sound off a line here and there.

“But the Grinch, who lived just North of Whoville . . . did NOT!”

Ghosts, Grinches, Whos and Cratchitts. . . .they all live in our house.  It would be easy to say that in the last three years the holidays would be melancholy.  The first had its moments, for sure, since we’d just lost their mother a few months prior.  But we lived the holidays not in spite of the loss but regardless of it.  The holidays didn’t disappear without her.  By the same token, I celebrated them before I met her.

So Christmas creeps in . . . along with literature.  And we’re all happy to participate.

My boys and me . . . taken by Hannah before the movies one night.
My boys and me . . .