Walking Wounded Dad

Playing with my kids is one of my favorite things about being a Dad...and recently when my kids come over we have gotten into the habit of playing basketball or bocce …and for the near future it looks like I will be playing more bocce than basketball…

Like most forty something year old men I think of myself as a fourteen year old who can drive and drink martinis (although not at the same time). We often forget that the needs and capacities of forty something year old bodies are different than those of a fourteen year old. However, nature has a way of reminding us that we are not fourteen…its called pain…excruciating, yell out loud pain…

My boys and I were playing basketball last week when nature reminded me that I am not fourteen. My boys and I have an ongoing game with Aidan and me are pitted against my oldest son, Oliver. These games are competitive affairs…however…Aidan and I are toast once Oliver figures out that we are really playing chess and not basketball.

So…back to the reminder that I am not fourteen…during what proved to be my last basketball game for a while…I passed the ball to Aidan on the wing and then moved to receive his return pass…Aidan threw the ball over Oliver’s outstretched arms, I caught it, moved to make a left handed layup, pushing off on my right leg as I did….and then I felt like I was shot in the leg…and as I landed in a heap I thought…so…I am not fourteen after all…

My boys helped me into the house and into my chair…meanwhile I was telling myself that I was way too young to need my boys help to get into a chair…For the next month or so I am going to be playing bocce with my kids after school…how do I know this? I have had this injury before…suffered last year…while playing wiffle ball.

Goodbye

As much as we wish this were not so...even the best of friends eventually part ways.

Last Friday I had to let my friend Joey go. I knew in March that we had turned a corner and were entering the home stretch of our run together. It was then when I promised him that when he was ready I would let him go. With this in mind, we had spent as much time as we could together. Sometimes he went with me to work or to run errands, but most of our time with each other was spent outside, sitting in the sun, and at night listening to the radio.

During the course of the summer my friend’s health continued to decline yet his puppy spirit continued to shine through, that is, until about a week and a half ago…when it was clear that it was time to let him go…he was ready for us to part ways.

Our last week together was a good one. I worked from home and as I did, Joey dozed at my feet, much as he had done for the last several years. My kids, knowing what was coming, paid more attention to him than usual…as for the first time they were about to lose someone whom they have known their entire lives.…Joey also received much love and support from many dear friends, old and new, who had shared in our journey.

My ex wife and I got Joey in 1995 from the Dedham Animal Rescue League. In those early days it was apparent that he was going to be a handful. While talking to her about Joey last week, she told me that she wanted to remember him as the out of control puppy she loved and who drove her crazy. I remember him, however, as an older dog who shared his life with me and who was my companion through good and through bad.

Thursday night I grilled a couple of steaks for us, served his on a plate, placed it next to him, and watched him devour an entire porterhouse in about three minutes. As he gnawed on the steak bone, I chatted with my dear friend who knew Joey well. A long time ago it she who gently told me that when the time came it really didn’t matter if I was ready to let him go… instead...I would need to let him go when he was ready.

Joey and I sat in the sun on our last morning together, ran a few errands, and then made one last stop at our favorite place. As we sat together on the Common, in the sun, as we did many times before. I thanked him for being my truest friend and for sharing his life with me. I told him that he was a good boy…

Finally…as he faded, I whispered to him our language’s saddest word….goodbye….

Silent Places

This space has not seen much action this past month. Not because of anything out of the ordinary happened or because I have been otherwise preoccupied…but simply because given the choice between writing and silence I took the novel approach and chose silence.

People often feel the need to fill in silent places with some sort of chatter…bloggers are no different. There were any numbers of things about which I could have written these last few weeks…I simply didn’t. Instead…I chose silence.

If you think about it…it can be a challenge to keep the TV off, the radio silent, and to allow the iPod to quietly remain in its dock. It is even a greater challenge to convince your children to do the same…to convince them that wisdom can be found in the silent places.

I have learned the most from quiet people and from them I have learned that it is in the silent places, those spaces between the chatter and noise are where you can learn much and hear the most…all you need to do is listen.

Vacation

Sunday morning, while heating up coffee in a frying pan, in my boxers, standing in my kitchen, at 6:15 in the morning, my phone rang....

It was my ex wife...

Sunday was not off to a good start...

I had realized the previous night that I had forgotten to pick up coffee at the local warehouse store and that if I wanted hot coffee the next day I would have to dip into my reserve of chilled coffee I keep in the fridge. Anyone who knows anything about coffee will tell you that hot coffee and iced coffee are two entirely coffee experiences and one cannot be substituted for the other.

So...inadequately caffeinated I was compelled to converse with my ex wife...

Ex Wife (who is already wide awake): "Hi Tom...can we borrow your tent?"

Tom: "grumble grumble...hmmmm...yeah..."

Ex Wife: "Thanks...when can you bring it over?"

Tom: "hmmmm...grumble...10:00?"

Ex Wife: "can you be over at 9:30...we are leaving at 10:00..thanks...bye..."

That exchanges such as these don't go well is usually my fault as I usually don't feel fully human until 11:30...but...I decided to keep my answers short thereby reducing the chances of verbal conflict...largely because my ex wife was leaving with out kids for a camping trip...

I arrived at the house at 9:45....handed her the tent...and my camera...and watched the four of them load the minivan as I held the kids' puppy by her leash...

The kids said their goodbyes...and off they went with their mom...with me...still standing in the front yard...holding the kids' puppy by her leash.

After buying coffee...I intend to fully enjoy my vacation...

Out For A Paddle

On his porch, last weekend, in one of the rare moments in the last twenty five years where we have been alone together, my brother asked me..."so...what do you do with yourself on the weekends?"

"I paddle" I told him.

I have a kayak...its 12 feet long, its fire engine red, and it represents the best $250.00 I have spent in a very, very long time.

Its not a toy however, and its not an indulgence.

My red kayak is my Prozac, my evening cocktail, my consolation, and my escape.

The elegant combination of water, boat, and paddle helps me effortlessly pass hours and to see myself and the world from a different perspective. And so far I like the view.

Tell Me A Story She Whispered; A Story Retold

There were certain quiet, intimate times, usually at an hour when only insomniacs and lovers are awake, while half asleep, I would be asked to share bits of myself that no one else knew. Feeling safe with no need to keep my guard up, I would have shared the secrets of the universe had I known them. Fortunately, I was wise enough to recognize those moments and remember them. I wish I had shared this story during one of those times.

This is one of my earliest memories, I must have been 3 or 4. It was a warm, humid, cloudy morning in September. Thinking about it now, a tropical storm must have been making its way up the New England coast. My father put me in the front seat of his truck and off we went. The cab of his pick-up truck smelled vaguely of engine grease and motor oil with hints of coffee and White Owl cigars. Rattling behind the vinyl bench seat were the tools in his tool box. My father is the sort of man who takes tools wherever he goes and he knows how to use them.

As we headed up Rhode Island Route 3 (these were the days before the Rhode Island stretch of I 95 was completed) it started to pour. I remember the rain coming down in sheets, the windshield wipers struggled to keep up with the torrential downpour. I remember not quite understanding why we were out and not knowing where we were going. We turned off the main road and headed up a gravel road. As we made our way down the road, I remember the sound of tree branches gently brushing against the side of the truck. As the end of the road stood a barn and a farm house. We were at an apple orchard.

Unlike today where orchards are agricultural Disneylands to which families take their annual rural excursions, this place was really a farm whose primary crop were apples. My father took these things very seriously. For my father, as was the case for generations in our family, September was a time to put away food for the winter. The apples we got each fall became preserves and apple sauce that were to last for the coming year. With more than 300 years of farming history in my family, my father was following an instinctual drive to prepare for winter. He took this seriously and I was expected to as well.

I remember standing under an apple tree, my father scrambling to fill up our bushel baskets, the rain coming down in torrents. I did my best to help him as he explained to me what constituted an apple worth picking and one that was better left behind.

My next memory of that day was sitting in his pick-up, wet, drinking hot chocolate that we had brought with us. I remember my dad sitting next to me and I remember being happy. I am glad for that day, when I was so young, where I felt protected, loved, and happy to be my father's son. I am also sad that we had so few days like that one.

This story should have been told at a late hour, in soft whispers, while feeling safe and warm and unguarded.

Fathers and Sons

Today is my father's birthday. He is now 77. I am writing with one eye on the clock as I need to gather up my kids and make the hour and thirty minute drive down to my brother's to be on time for my father's birthday party.

I wish I could say that my father and I have a warm and close relationship. We do not. I do my best to fulfill the responsibilities a son has to his father but I confess that I do little more. This is the way that it has always been and I am afraid that this is the way that it will continue to be. However, there are times when I feel closer to him than others. This past week was one of those times.

In the life of a very close friend, something happened last week, that at least temporarily, brought me closer to my father, and brought me back to a pivotal time in the life of our family. When I was 9 my father had his first heart attack. He was 43. He had his first triple bypass two years later when I was 11. Needless to say it was a time of uncertainty, anxiety, and fear.

My father responded to his health difficulties in a way that I suspect that is not all that unusual; he believed that his time was short and that he needed to get done as much as he could as quickly as he could. My father, brother, and I embarked on a series of projects that my father felt needed to get done quickly. In the span of two years we restored a truck, finished a basement, and built an addition to the house. My brother and I dug ditches, poured cement, broke rocks, sandblasted truck parts, shingled roofs, and pounded many, many nails. Work conditions were not optimal.

Now, with the passage of thirty years coupled with my own experiences topped off by what happened in my friend's life, I think I better understand what my father faced. As the sole provider for a family of five words such as fulfillment, satisfaction, and happiness were not a part of my father's vocabulary. He did his best, even during those difficult times, to ensure that his wife and children were provided for, even if the worst should happen.

At 43 I can see that my own father did what he thought was his best and muddled through. Realizing this will make today's drive down to Rhode Island a bit easier and makes me aware that someday my own children will be driving to my home to celebrate my birthday. I hope as the do it will be with kind and happy thoughts about their dad.