Dear Spike:
Far more people have argued about the Mojave Desert Cross than have actually seen it.
I'm pretty sure I passed it, once, just about 10 years ago, while taking a shortcut from the Marine Corps base at 29 Palms to Las Vegas. But if I noticed the simple, white structure, jutting from the top of a 30-foot rock outcropping, I certainly don't remember it now.
So I would never again have thought of that lonely drive had I not heard, this week, that the U.S. Supreme Court was going to hear arguments about whether the 75-year-old war monument should be torn down in adherence to the principle of separation of church and state.
Turns out folks have been fighting over this for years. Hiring lawyers and filing petitions. Building coalitions and organizing legislation. Fighting and writing and wrything in despair over two pieces of steel pipe, affixed at the center, painted white and planted in the middle of nowhere.
Here's the irony of it all: The people on both sides of this issue are good Christians. The man who filed the original suit asking for the cross to be taken down is a devout Catholic who says he is opposed to the government's exploitation of the most sacred symbol of Jesus Christ's sacrifice. Those who want the cross to remain where it is say they're defending that same sacred symbol against anti-religious zealots who want to destroy all vestiges of God in government.
I wonder if either side has given much thought to the resources that have been squandered in this years-long legal battle. What else could those thousands of hours have done? What else could those millions of dollars have bought? Whose lives could have been bettered — or saved?
How is it possible that neither side has decided to turn the other cheek, as Christ commanded? To give to Caesar what is Caesar's, as Christ commanded? To use what limited resources we have in this world to help those who need it most, as Christ commanded?
There are things in this world worth fighting for. Choose your battles wisely. I often fail in this regard. And so I am in no position to cast any stones — only to offer some advice.
Fight the fights that are worth fightin' — and leave the rest to God.
love,
dad
Showing posts with label lessons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lessons. Show all posts
Monday, October 5, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
POURING SOME HONEY
Dear Spike:
I hear you were very brave — and I couldn't be prouder. But I am very sorry you had to meet the business end of a honey bee earlier this week.
You were on a walk with your mother clear on the other side of the park when it happened. You were batting away some nasty summer gnats when a bee landed on your hand. When you tried to swat it away, too, it sank its stinger into you.
You were still sobbing, a bit, when you finally made it home, but you held up your hand rather proudly to show off a tiny red spot on your finger.
You held out that same hand, yesterday, as I was pouring some honey into a coffee mug.
"Some honey, daddy?" you asked.
I obliged, dropping a dab on your finger.
"Mmmmmm," you said as you tasted the thick golden liquid. "Some more?"
For a moment, I felt like helping you make the connection between two moments — one sweet and one painful.
But then I thought better of it.
"Here you go," I said, squeezing another drop from the bottle. "Enjoy."
Love,
dad
I hear you were very brave — and I couldn't be prouder. But I am very sorry you had to meet the business end of a honey bee earlier this week.
You were on a walk with your mother clear on the other side of the park when it happened. You were batting away some nasty summer gnats when a bee landed on your hand. When you tried to swat it away, too, it sank its stinger into you.
You were still sobbing, a bit, when you finally made it home, but you held up your hand rather proudly to show off a tiny red spot on your finger.
You held out that same hand, yesterday, as I was pouring some honey into a coffee mug.
"Some honey, daddy?" you asked.
I obliged, dropping a dab on your finger.
"Mmmmmm," you said as you tasted the thick golden liquid. "Some more?"
For a moment, I felt like helping you make the connection between two moments — one sweet and one painful.
But then I thought better of it.
"Here you go," I said, squeezing another drop from the bottle. "Enjoy."
Love,
dad
Monday, June 29, 2009
TELL A STORY
Dear Spike:
Your imagination is blossoming like a summer rose, full of color and life and fragrance — an absolutely beautiful thing to watch unfold.
This evening, as I was working on my computer in the shade of our porch, you came outside wearing a set of butterfly wings and one of your mother's silk scarfs. "Would you like to come to a birthday party, Daddy?" you asked.
Well, who could say no?
"You have to wear this hat," you said, handing me one of your mother's straw hats with a purple bow.
No problem at all. I dutifully put on the hat and followed you into our home to find a table with a Play-dough birthday cake and a gang of costumed animal sitting on pillows all around.
"We've been playing birthday for the past half-hour," your mother explained, herself wearing a funny hat and scarf.
"You set this all up?" I asked her.
"No, she did," your mother replied, gesturing in your direction.
Later in the evening, you were bouncing on our bed like a caffeinated monkey on a trampoline when you suddenly decided you wanted a change of pace.
"A cave!" you cried, diving under the blankets. "Mommy and daddy come, too."
We all ducked under the blanket together and you began to tell a story.
"Once upon a time, a long, long time ago..." you began.
The story was about Goldilocks, the Three Bears — and you.
"... and then they all cleaned up the house together," you explained.
You can make a telephone out of anything. Once when we were out to dinner with your Uncle Papa, you spoke to Barack Obama on a pickle.
This afternoon, your mother tells me, you were on the line with someone of even higher stature.
"She was talking to God," she told me.
I wonder what She told you. Maybe tomorrow you'll tell me all about it.
Love,
dad
Your imagination is blossoming like a summer rose, full of color and life and fragrance — an absolutely beautiful thing to watch unfold.
This evening, as I was working on my computer in the shade of our porch, you came outside wearing a set of butterfly wings and one of your mother's silk scarfs. "Would you like to come to a birthday party, Daddy?" you asked.
Well, who could say no?
"You have to wear this hat," you said, handing me one of your mother's straw hats with a purple bow.
No problem at all. I dutifully put on the hat and followed you into our home to find a table with a Play-dough birthday cake and a gang of costumed animal sitting on pillows all around.
"We've been playing birthday for the past half-hour," your mother explained, herself wearing a funny hat and scarf.
"You set this all up?" I asked her.
"No, she did," your mother replied, gesturing in your direction.
Later in the evening, you were bouncing on our bed like a caffeinated monkey on a trampoline when you suddenly decided you wanted a change of pace.
"A cave!" you cried, diving under the blankets. "Mommy and daddy come, too."
We all ducked under the blanket together and you began to tell a story.
"Once upon a time, a long, long time ago..." you began.
The story was about Goldilocks, the Three Bears — and you.
"... and then they all cleaned up the house together," you explained.
You can make a telephone out of anything. Once when we were out to dinner with your Uncle Papa, you spoke to Barack Obama on a pickle.
This afternoon, your mother tells me, you were on the line with someone of even higher stature.
"She was talking to God," she told me.
I wonder what She told you. Maybe tomorrow you'll tell me all about it.
Love,
dad
Monday, March 30, 2009
BELIEVE IN LEARNING
Dear Spike:
It's been nearly a year since I decided to take the plunge back into school. Today was the day I actually hit the water.
In deference to my unpredictable work schedule and my often sleepless nights, I've elected to enter an online program at California State University East Bay, which happens to be the same stately institution that your grandmother graduated from when I was a boy. As of midnight, I'm a Pioneer. With any luck, I'll be graduating with a master's degree in education sometime before you start college.
Your mother and I don't see eye-to-eye on everything in this life, but one thing we wholeheartedly agree on is education.
Not as a route to a job. Not as a path to more money. Not as a way to bolster our personal and professional credentials.
We believe in education just for the sake of education.
We believe in the nobility of knowledge and the sanctity of its pursuit. We believe that the very foundations of our society can be found in the relationship between teachers and students. We believe in learning.
And we expect you believe, as well.
That doesn't mean you have to spend your life in school. Although we expect you to go to college — and anticipate that you might stick around for graduate studies — you'll have free agency to make your own decisions about these matters. We will only ask you to recognize and respect the amazingly fortunate lot you've drawn in this life, and to pay heed by striving to learn as much about this world as you can.
In all things, ask questions.
In all things, seek answers.
Share your thoughts and thirst for the thoughts of others.
Explore and experience.
Read and write. Read and write. Read and write some more.
Create. Appreciate. Be.
Learn. It's what this life is for.
Love,
dad
It's been nearly a year since I decided to take the plunge back into school. Today was the day I actually hit the water.
In deference to my unpredictable work schedule and my often sleepless nights, I've elected to enter an online program at California State University East Bay, which happens to be the same stately institution that your grandmother graduated from when I was a boy. As of midnight, I'm a Pioneer. With any luck, I'll be graduating with a master's degree in education sometime before you start college.
Your mother and I don't see eye-to-eye on everything in this life, but one thing we wholeheartedly agree on is education.
Not as a route to a job. Not as a path to more money. Not as a way to bolster our personal and professional credentials.
We believe in education just for the sake of education.
We believe in the nobility of knowledge and the sanctity of its pursuit. We believe that the very foundations of our society can be found in the relationship between teachers and students. We believe in learning.
And we expect you believe, as well.
That doesn't mean you have to spend your life in school. Although we expect you to go to college — and anticipate that you might stick around for graduate studies — you'll have free agency to make your own decisions about these matters. We will only ask you to recognize and respect the amazingly fortunate lot you've drawn in this life, and to pay heed by striving to learn as much about this world as you can.
In all things, ask questions.
In all things, seek answers.
Share your thoughts and thirst for the thoughts of others.
Explore and experience.
Read and write. Read and write. Read and write some more.
Create. Appreciate. Be.
Learn. It's what this life is for.
Love,
dad
Saturday, February 21, 2009
WITH SUCH CONTEMPT
Dear Spike:
Today, we recognize the practice of segregation for what it was – an abhorrent system of discrimination that continued to tarnish our nation long after we abolished slavery. And it is hard to believe that decent people could have ever thought differently.
In 30 years, I assure you, we will recognize laws preventing the legal union of loving partners with comparable dose of historical repulsion. And it will be difficult to understand how good people ever believed otherwise.
And so it is, I believe, that by the time your children are having children, we will have come to a similar conclusion about another practice that we fail to recognize for its obvious iniquity — placing upon our children and their children the burden of our fiscal irresponsibility.
Although it is suddenly en vogue for conservative pundits to wag their fingers at “generational theft,” this is not a problem of the left or the right. The national debt has risen and fallen under Democrats and Republicans alike. It has grown and shrunk — but never disappeared — through bull markets and bear markets, during war and peace, in prosperity and recession. In this republic, we all share the shame of believing that today’s needs — however pressing they may seem at the time — are of greater importance than the needs of our children.
So it was that, before you’d even learned to speak, you were indebted to the tune of $35,000 — the per capita cost of generations of deficit spending for guns, butter and trips to the moon. And so it is that, in the past few months, that debt has soared still higher, most recently with the passage of a $787 billion stimulus bill that, if successful, will create 3.5 million new jobs.
That’s borrowed money, of course. And although you and your children were not permitted to sign for the loan, you’ll be responsible for paying it back — a quarter-million dollars from your generation for each new job for my generation.
In 50 years, I believe, we’ll all recognize these practices as an arrogant and cruel assault from the past upon the future.
Perhaps then it will draw comparison to other errant chapters of our nation’s history. And perhaps we will wonder how decent people could ever have acted with such contempt for their own children.
In the meantime, I’m simply sorry. So very sorry.
Love,
dad
Today, we recognize the practice of segregation for what it was – an abhorrent system of discrimination that continued to tarnish our nation long after we abolished slavery. And it is hard to believe that decent people could have ever thought differently.
In 30 years, I assure you, we will recognize laws preventing the legal union of loving partners with comparable dose of historical repulsion. And it will be difficult to understand how good people ever believed otherwise.
And so it is, I believe, that by the time your children are having children, we will have come to a similar conclusion about another practice that we fail to recognize for its obvious iniquity — placing upon our children and their children the burden of our fiscal irresponsibility.
Although it is suddenly en vogue for conservative pundits to wag their fingers at “generational theft,” this is not a problem of the left or the right. The national debt has risen and fallen under Democrats and Republicans alike. It has grown and shrunk — but never disappeared — through bull markets and bear markets, during war and peace, in prosperity and recession. In this republic, we all share the shame of believing that today’s needs — however pressing they may seem at the time — are of greater importance than the needs of our children.
So it was that, before you’d even learned to speak, you were indebted to the tune of $35,000 — the per capita cost of generations of deficit spending for guns, butter and trips to the moon. And so it is that, in the past few months, that debt has soared still higher, most recently with the passage of a $787 billion stimulus bill that, if successful, will create 3.5 million new jobs.
That’s borrowed money, of course. And although you and your children were not permitted to sign for the loan, you’ll be responsible for paying it back — a quarter-million dollars from your generation for each new job for my generation.
In 50 years, I believe, we’ll all recognize these practices as an arrogant and cruel assault from the past upon the future.
Perhaps then it will draw comparison to other errant chapters of our nation’s history. And perhaps we will wonder how decent people could ever have acted with such contempt for their own children.
In the meantime, I’m simply sorry. So very sorry.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
IT'S GAME TIME
Dear Spike:
It’s the dead of winter, but you still remember the names of kids you met only briefly on the playground back when the weather was nice. Two months after our trip to Disneyland, you can still recall what rides we went on — and in what order.
You’ve got your numbers down and will proudly sing your ABCs for anyone willing to listen.
You know all the colors. And your command of animal taxonomy would make Carl Linneaus jealous.
“Isn’t that a pretty bird, Spike?”
“Ibis!”
“How about that over there? See that lizard?”
“Skink!”
“Um, that’s a cute monkey…”
“Capuchin!”
You make small talk — in Mandarin — with the folks at the Asian foods market, down the street.
And that little Bugsbunnian reverse-psychology trick we were using on you last week to get you to do things you didn’t want to do? You’ve pretty much turned the tables on us. (And, come to think of it, that may be why your mother and I ended up reading you books tonight a full hour after we told you “no more books, it’s time for bed.”)
I couldn’t be prouder of you, but I’m also feeling a bit panicked.
Because now it’s game time.
It’s not the intellectual curiosity that has me worried — it’s what that sponge-like nature of yours compels of me as I try to teach you to be as decent as you are smart.
I can’t just say “don’t lie,” because you’re watching. And you’re smart, so you’re going to know when I’m not telling the truth.
I can’t just say “be polite,” because you’re listening. And you’re perceptive, so you’re going to know when I’m being rude.
I can’t just say “respect your mother,” because you’re soaking it all in. And you’re sensitive, so you’re going to know when I fail in that regard.
I’m supposed to be teaching you. But in a really big way, you’re teaching me. You’re holding me accountable to the things I ask of you but don’t demand of myself.
You’re making me a better person.
I just hope I can keep up as a father, too.
Love,
dad
It’s the dead of winter, but you still remember the names of kids you met only briefly on the playground back when the weather was nice. Two months after our trip to Disneyland, you can still recall what rides we went on — and in what order.
You’ve got your numbers down and will proudly sing your ABCs for anyone willing to listen.
You know all the colors. And your command of animal taxonomy would make Carl Linneaus jealous.
“Isn’t that a pretty bird, Spike?”
“Ibis!”
“How about that over there? See that lizard?”
“Skink!”
“Um, that’s a cute monkey…”
“Capuchin!”
You make small talk — in Mandarin — with the folks at the Asian foods market, down the street.
And that little Bugsbunnian reverse-psychology trick we were using on you last week to get you to do things you didn’t want to do? You’ve pretty much turned the tables on us. (And, come to think of it, that may be why your mother and I ended up reading you books tonight a full hour after we told you “no more books, it’s time for bed.”)
I couldn’t be prouder of you, but I’m also feeling a bit panicked.
Because now it’s game time.
It’s not the intellectual curiosity that has me worried — it’s what that sponge-like nature of yours compels of me as I try to teach you to be as decent as you are smart.
I can’t just say “don’t lie,” because you’re watching. And you’re smart, so you’re going to know when I’m not telling the truth.
I can’t just say “be polite,” because you’re listening. And you’re perceptive, so you’re going to know when I’m being rude.
I can’t just say “respect your mother,” because you’re soaking it all in. And you’re sensitive, so you’re going to know when I fail in that regard.
I’m supposed to be teaching you. But in a really big way, you’re teaching me. You’re holding me accountable to the things I ask of you but don’t demand of myself.
You’re making me a better person.
I just hope I can keep up as a father, too.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
IN THIS LAND
Dear Spike:
Before it gets too far away from me, I’d like to share with you the experience I had last Tuesday – and what I think it means for the world you are inheriting.
Tuesday, of course, was the day in which our country inaugurated a new president. I watched the historic event unfold from the base club at Hill Air Force Base.
There, I sat beside a chaplain named Carl Wright and studied the way he beamed as his new commander in chief took the oath of office and delivered the inaugural address.
“I’m having a hard time believing this is all happening,” he told me. “I just have a deep sense of pride and awe."
He had good reason for those emotions. Thirty years ago, the chaplain was a young enlisted airman, returning home from his first duty assignment overseas, only to confront some of the uglier realities of life back in the land of the free.
As he tells the story, he was outfitted in his dress blues, waiting for a bus outside a military base in Charleston, South Carolina, when his pride was wrenched off its hinges.
The driver pulled up, stepped off the bus, and proceeded to take everyone’s ticket — except for the young black airman standing in the front of the line.
“I was getting worried,” the chaplain remembered. “I knew there were only so many seats on the bus, and I’d spent all of my money on this ticket, so I said, ‘excuse me, sir, are you going to take my ticket?’ ”
The bus driver looked him up and down and then, turning to the white passengers, mocked the young airman for having had the audacity to speak up -- throwing in a few cruel racial epithets for good measure.
With no other way to get home to Washington, D.C., the airman took the verbal assault and, when the driver finally consented to letting him on the bus, took a seat toward the back.
“I cried the entire way home,” he told me.
I’m sure this will sound as ancient history to you. As the television in the corner of the base club replayed images of black man taking on the role of our nation's leader, it seemed as ancient history to me.
But then I thought to ask…
“Chaplain,” I said, “when was the last time you heard that word?”
“That word?”
“The word the bus driver called you.”
“‘Nigger?’ Oh, you know, you hear that word all the time.”
“I don’t mean in music. I don’t mean in movies. I mean directed at you. Like that. Like it was in 1979.”
“Oh, in that way? It’s been a few years.”
I could see him flipping back through a mental calendar before he answered more confidently.
Two years, he said
Two years. That all that separated this man — a decorated officer in the United States Air Force — from the last time he’d been disparaged in that ugly, awful way.
Even on days when the world seems forever changed, you’ll sometimes get reminders that this planet actually turns quite slowly.
You should not ignore those truths. But neither should you allow those momentary darknesses to snuff out the lights of change.
Chaplain Wright told me that he doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking of the day he cried from Charleston to D.C. And he doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking of the times, between then and now, in which he’s been treated as a second-class citizen in this land where all men are created equal.
He prefers to recall a day, not long back, when he stepped off the airplane from his most recent overseas duty in Iraq.
“There were people there to greet me, to shake my hand, and I was thanked for my service."
That, he said, is all he ever wanted.
Love,
dad
Before it gets too far away from me, I’d like to share with you the experience I had last Tuesday – and what I think it means for the world you are inheriting.
Tuesday, of course, was the day in which our country inaugurated a new president. I watched the historic event unfold from the base club at Hill Air Force Base.
There, I sat beside a chaplain named Carl Wright and studied the way he beamed as his new commander in chief took the oath of office and delivered the inaugural address.
“I’m having a hard time believing this is all happening,” he told me. “I just have a deep sense of pride and awe."
He had good reason for those emotions. Thirty years ago, the chaplain was a young enlisted airman, returning home from his first duty assignment overseas, only to confront some of the uglier realities of life back in the land of the free.
As he tells the story, he was outfitted in his dress blues, waiting for a bus outside a military base in Charleston, South Carolina, when his pride was wrenched off its hinges.
The driver pulled up, stepped off the bus, and proceeded to take everyone’s ticket — except for the young black airman standing in the front of the line.
“I was getting worried,” the chaplain remembered. “I knew there were only so many seats on the bus, and I’d spent all of my money on this ticket, so I said, ‘excuse me, sir, are you going to take my ticket?’ ”
The bus driver looked him up and down and then, turning to the white passengers, mocked the young airman for having had the audacity to speak up -- throwing in a few cruel racial epithets for good measure.
With no other way to get home to Washington, D.C., the airman took the verbal assault and, when the driver finally consented to letting him on the bus, took a seat toward the back.
“I cried the entire way home,” he told me.
I’m sure this will sound as ancient history to you. As the television in the corner of the base club replayed images of black man taking on the role of our nation's leader, it seemed as ancient history to me.
But then I thought to ask…
“Chaplain,” I said, “when was the last time you heard that word?”
“That word?”
“The word the bus driver called you.”
“‘Nigger?’ Oh, you know, you hear that word all the time.”
“I don’t mean in music. I don’t mean in movies. I mean directed at you. Like that. Like it was in 1979.”
“Oh, in that way? It’s been a few years.”
I could see him flipping back through a mental calendar before he answered more confidently.
Two years, he said
Two years. That all that separated this man — a decorated officer in the United States Air Force — from the last time he’d been disparaged in that ugly, awful way.
Even on days when the world seems forever changed, you’ll sometimes get reminders that this planet actually turns quite slowly.
You should not ignore those truths. But neither should you allow those momentary darknesses to snuff out the lights of change.
Chaplain Wright told me that he doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking of the day he cried from Charleston to D.C. And he doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking of the times, between then and now, in which he’s been treated as a second-class citizen in this land where all men are created equal.
He prefers to recall a day, not long back, when he stepped off the airplane from his most recent overseas duty in Iraq.
“There were people there to greet me, to shake my hand, and I was thanked for my service."
That, he said, is all he ever wanted.
Love,
dad
Thursday, January 22, 2009
JOY OF LEARNING
Dear Spike:
Today was a day of firsts for you.
For several weeks you've been convinced that the highest number in the universe is 2. Today, with a little help from some decorative wooden apples that were resting in a basket near the fireplace at a local bakery, you got all the way up to 3, which is rather good, because up until that point you were living a life devoid of odd prime numbers. Three is also a good numeral because it is the number of people in our little family, the number of chickens in our backyard and the number of meals most people eat in a day.
You also figured out how to spell your name today, which is also a very good skill to have. The ability to spell your name comes in rather handy when applying for jobs, writing letters to friends and making purchases online. It's also good for those occasions in which you lose your voice in a freak fishing accident and have to communicate with people from a quaint Maine fishing down with only the use of a little chalk board -- it'll just makes things easier if they know what to call you.
Life is full of firsts — and the joy of learning something new is not something you have to give up as you age. Do something new every day. Commit something new to your memory every waking hour. This is one of the many ways that your life can be rich and rewarding — even if you don't have three pennies to your name.
I'm proud of you.
Love,
dad
Today was a day of firsts for you.
For several weeks you've been convinced that the highest number in the universe is 2. Today, with a little help from some decorative wooden apples that were resting in a basket near the fireplace at a local bakery, you got all the way up to 3, which is rather good, because up until that point you were living a life devoid of odd prime numbers. Three is also a good numeral because it is the number of people in our little family, the number of chickens in our backyard and the number of meals most people eat in a day.
You also figured out how to spell your name today, which is also a very good skill to have. The ability to spell your name comes in rather handy when applying for jobs, writing letters to friends and making purchases online. It's also good for those occasions in which you lose your voice in a freak fishing accident and have to communicate with people from a quaint Maine fishing down with only the use of a little chalk board -- it'll just makes things easier if they know what to call you.
Life is full of firsts — and the joy of learning something new is not something you have to give up as you age. Do something new every day. Commit something new to your memory every waking hour. This is one of the many ways that your life can be rich and rewarding — even if you don't have three pennies to your name.
I'm proud of you.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
HISTORY TO YOU
Dear Spike:
Will you shiver when you hear this speech?
Yes, I know you’ll probably shrug.
What is historic for me will be history to you.
A black man in the White House?
OK, you’ll say. That’s fine.
Now give me a woman.
Give me an immigrant.
Give me a homosexual.
For this is the way of our Republic.
The way of our Revolution.
Thirst.
Insatiable.
For a more perfect union.
Love,
dad
Will you shiver when you hear this speech?
Yes, I know you’ll probably shrug.
What is historic for me will be history to you.
A black man in the White House?
OK, you’ll say. That’s fine.
Now give me a woman.
Give me an immigrant.
Give me a homosexual.
For this is the way of our Republic.
The way of our Revolution.
Thirst.
Insatiable.
For a more perfect union.
Love,
dad
Sunday, January 18, 2009
OH HOLY HECK
Dear Spike:
I couldn't help but sigh when your social security card came in the mail, a few weeks after you were born. The nine digits on that baby will follow you around for the rest of your life, giving employers, insurers, creditors, educators and the government a way to keep tabs on you.
The idea that Big Brother already had you on his grid was depressing enough. But it was those first three numbers were especially depressing. Most folks don't know it, but that prefix is code for the state in which you were born.
And so, no matter where you go, what you do or what place you ultimately come to think of as your home, you will always be a...
... sigh ...
... Utahn.
Your mother and I came to Salt Lake City thinking it was a good stepping stone to somewhere else. A rest stop on the road of life. We figured we'd spend a few years here en route to another place — probably a bigger town on the west coast.
Portland would have been nice. Seattle too. San Francisco or San Diego, oh yeah.
We'd leave Los Angeles to your Aunt Kelly, but anywhere else would have been swell.
But we found a nice home here, right across the street from one of the coolest city parks in the country. We found some good friends, too. We grew to love the mountains and got used to the sweltering summers. The winters? I hardly even notice the cold anymore. And every time it snows, I glance up at the canyons, do a little fist pump, and check our bank account to see if there's enough in there for a lift ticket.
When you came along, we did some thinking about the issue and recognized that this wouldn't be too bad a place to raise a kid.
The clincher came when your mother got hired at the elementary school a few blocks away. It wasn't just the proximity. She'd found a place where she was making a difference — a place where like-minded people were teaching their guts out and where it really mattered that they were.
And yeah, the five-minute bike ride was nice, too. Suddenly, neither of us had a commute. You can't put a price on that.
I like this place. I like our life here. And if we end up staying here for the rest of our lives, I wouldn't be sad about it.
But for whatever reason, I've resisted calling myself a Utahn. Maybe it's just that the word is so funny. Maybe it's that, for whatever reason, I've long held onto the very Californian idea that being from California makes you so much cooler than being from anywhere else. And maybe it's that, for whatever reason, I really came to feel like an Oregonian during the six years I lived there — a period in which I found my calling and found your mother. (And yes, I love the rain. I love, love, love, love, love the rain.)
Or maybe it's that, for most of my life, Utah was little more than an endless plain of salt, a stinky lake, a boring desert, a place so desolate that, after being run out of every other town on the continent, a sect of religious fundamentalists managed to form its own polygamous nation without anyone really noticing or caring, because — hey — it was only Utah.
So for all the effort this state has put into re-marketing itself — and it is true, absolutely true, that Utah has "the greatest snow on Earth" — I just couldn't bring myself to call myself a Utahn.
But you? You were ...
... are ...
... forever will be ...
... oh holy heck ...
... fer goodness sake ...
... gol' dang't fetch ...
... a Utahn.
At least, that's what your social security card says. I resolved, however, to raise you up like the west-coaster I know you really are.
But there's nature...
... and there's nurture ...
... and then there is everything else.
And today you reminded me that no matter how hard your mother and I try, there will be parts of this place that will seep into your veins, that will course through your body and that will, alas, confirm that three-digit prefix is accurate.
It was no small slap in the face that all you did, to make me realize all of that, was to repeat something I said.
We were at the dinner table and your mother passed me a napkin.
"Thanks," I said, wiping the corner of my mouth. " 'preciate it."
" 'preciate it!" you repeated.
I dropped the napkin and stared at you.
" 'preciate it!" you said again. " 'preciate it!"
I shook my head. Your mother laughed hysterically. And you just beamed.
We're Utahns.
Fine.
But if you ever so much as think of cheering for BYU, you'll be out on the street faster than you can say "Provo."
Love,
dad
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
GAGA WOULD SAY
Dear Spike:
Her hands were soft as rose petals. And her heart was big as the ocean.
Your great grandmother, Dorothy Meath, died Friday, just a few hours after your mother reached her bedside in Oregon. "Gaga," as we called her, was 92 years old. She was gracious and kind and strong and decent. And we will miss her very, very much.
Although you will not get to know your Gaga the way we would have wished, there is still a lot you can learn from her. Of course, your mother will have far more stories to share with you than I will, but let me whet your whistle, as Gaga would say...
Stand by your man, but with your own two feet on the ground:
Gaga lost her husband decades ago and she never stopped loving or admiring him — but she also did not let his life define her life. Having lived through the Great Depression, she knew the value of work and she understood the importance of independence. She often told your mother that it was crucial for women to be able to stand for themselves, so that they could walk away from a bad husband with a moment's notice, if need be. There's probably more romantic things to be said about marriage, but none more practical.
There is nothing worse than war:
Gaga was born in 1916, two years into World War I. That was supposed to be the war to end all wars, but she lived to see many more. Her son, Don, fought in Vietnam. She despised the way that war tore apart families. The only time I ever saw her become angry with me was when she learned that I was contemplating returning to Iraq over your mother's objections. She called me "a nincompoop" and refused to speak to me for the rest of the night.
If you can't say something nice, say something even nicer:
Gaga didn't care much for your given name, and she made no secret of her dislike for your nickname. But that didn't chance at all how she felt about you. You weighed no more than five pounds the first time she held you. She called you "my littlest, littlest angel." And that's what you are.
Love is a system of unspoken agreements:
Gaga used to help your mother get ready for school in the morning. On days when your mother would ask, Gaga would make her an ice cream sundae for breakfast. Your mother never abused this arrangement, and so Gaga never had to turn her down when she asked.
You'll never be alone in the kitchen:
Gaga loved fresh produce. And she loved to cook for her family. There is a photograph of Gaga and your mother, from our wedding day, on the windowsill in our kitchen. Even before she passed away, we called her "the saint of the kitchen" and imagined that she was there whenever we brought home a bag of veggies from the market, or started a soup on the stovetop, or sliced into a warm loaf of bread. Now we don't have to imagine anymore. Gaga is there. And she always will be.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
CHASING YOU NOW
Dear Spike:
I don't know how it happened or when it happened.
But I know why it happened: The sun rises and sets and rises again. The moon comes and goes, waxes and wanes. The Big Dipper — that simple, stalwart sign under which I fell in love with your mother — spins round and round and round again.
Time passes. Children grow.
You're no longer a baby. You're a genuine little girl.
The pigtails may have had something to do with it — not with your transformation from infant to toddler but with my late-in-coming recognition of that change. Your mother fretted over the haircut we gave you until she found that she could gather up your remaining locks into splendid tufts on either side of your perfect little skull. The effect is rather devilish. Naughty. And I dare say it suits you, kiddo. But, alas, it's the hairdo of a little girl.
You talk like a paid-by-the-case public defender who has borrowed just a taste of her client's meth. A thousand words a minute. Ten thousand. A whole dictionary of animals, colors, shapes, names.
Nouns. Lots and lots and lots of nouns.
Our last stroll around the park sounded something like this:
"Tree. Car. People. Running. Doggy. Doggy! Doggy!! Please doggy! Ah, Doggy. Pet? Pet. Doggy. Bye bye. Tree. Sky. Cold. Cold. Daddy! Cold! Daddy! Thank you. Tree. Running. Bike. People. People. People! Doggy. Doggy? Doggy! Doggy!!!!!!!!!"
And you understand. You really understand. Enough to follow directions. And enough to be maddeningly obstinate. You know "no." Oh no, how you know "no."
You play games. You sing songs. You know our daily routine. Even still, you cry when you mother leaves for work in the morning — not, as I once believed, because you fear she'll disappear forever, but rather because you know very well that she'll be back and you know how much you'll miss her while she's gone.
You ask questions. You make statements. You tell jokes. All in one- and two-word bursts.
You run. Ready. Set. Go. You run. Sometimes you hold my fingers and let me run along.
I'm chasing you now, little one. When did it happen that I started chasing you? When did any of this happen? It's all such a beautiful blur.
Sometimes I wonder how on God's Green Earth it all came to this, but mostly I just laugh and smile and marvel at how damn fun it all is.
I do not lament the days behind us. You and I and your mother are making the best of what we've been given. And when every minute is better than the last, why would I stop to fret over the passing of time?
Time passes. Children grow.
You're no longer a baby. You're a genuine little girl.
And I couldn't be a happier father.
Love,
dad
I don't know how it happened or when it happened.
But I know why it happened: The sun rises and sets and rises again. The moon comes and goes, waxes and wanes. The Big Dipper — that simple, stalwart sign under which I fell in love with your mother — spins round and round and round again.
Time passes. Children grow.
You're no longer a baby. You're a genuine little girl.
The pigtails may have had something to do with it — not with your transformation from infant to toddler but with my late-in-coming recognition of that change. Your mother fretted over the haircut we gave you until she found that she could gather up your remaining locks into splendid tufts on either side of your perfect little skull. The effect is rather devilish. Naughty. And I dare say it suits you, kiddo. But, alas, it's the hairdo of a little girl.
You talk like a paid-by-the-case public defender who has borrowed just a taste of her client's meth. A thousand words a minute. Ten thousand. A whole dictionary of animals, colors, shapes, names.
Nouns. Lots and lots and lots of nouns.
Our last stroll around the park sounded something like this:
"Tree. Car. People. Running. Doggy. Doggy! Doggy!! Please doggy! Ah, Doggy. Pet? Pet. Doggy. Bye bye. Tree. Sky. Cold. Cold. Daddy! Cold! Daddy! Thank you. Tree. Running. Bike. People. People. People! Doggy. Doggy? Doggy! Doggy!!!!!!!!!"
And you understand. You really understand. Enough to follow directions. And enough to be maddeningly obstinate. You know "no." Oh no, how you know "no."
You play games. You sing songs. You know our daily routine. Even still, you cry when you mother leaves for work in the morning — not, as I once believed, because you fear she'll disappear forever, but rather because you know very well that she'll be back and you know how much you'll miss her while she's gone.
You ask questions. You make statements. You tell jokes. All in one- and two-word bursts.
You run. Ready. Set. Go. You run. Sometimes you hold my fingers and let me run along.
I'm chasing you now, little one. When did it happen that I started chasing you? When did any of this happen? It's all such a beautiful blur.
Sometimes I wonder how on God's Green Earth it all came to this, but mostly I just laugh and smile and marvel at how damn fun it all is.
I do not lament the days behind us. You and I and your mother are making the best of what we've been given. And when every minute is better than the last, why would I stop to fret over the passing of time?
Time passes. Children grow.
You're no longer a baby. You're a genuine little girl.
And I couldn't be a happier father.
Love,
dad
Saturday, November 29, 2008
LIVE WITH DISAPPOINTMENT
Dear Spike:
I've said it before, I'll say it again: If you're going to root for The Beavers, you're going to have to get used to disappointment.
One win away from earning its first Rose Bowl appearance since the Vietnam War, OSU couldn't get the best of the team in the ugly green and yellow uniforms from Eugene. That team (the name of which shall not be spoken in our family) racked up a huge win...
... against Oregon State's injured quarterback and Oregon State's second-string running back.
Oooh. Impressive.
And this, my darling little daughter, leads us to today's lesson in how to live with disappointment: You can't win all the time, but you can almost always find some way to undercut the significance of the other team's victory.
That won't make you happy, but it'll annoy the enemy. And on days like today, that's at least something.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
YOUR OWN HERO
Dear Spike:
It all kind of happened in slow motion.
You were sitting on the playground, minding your own business, running your fingers through the tanbark near the base of the slide. All of the sudden, a boy about a year your senior grabbed a handful of bark and, point blank, threw it in your face.
Maybe I'm a bad father, but I didn't really do anything.
It's not that I didn't want to. Every basal impulse in my body was telling me to march right up to that little punk, grab him by his Gymboree jacket collar, and toss his smug little mug into the mud. And that impulse was even stronger after his mother, who watched the whole thing unfold just as I did, sauntered over to let me know that her little pookey "probably didn't mean to hurt your daughter."
So your kid's not savage, just stupid? I should throw you into the mud too, lady.
Luckily for all of us, you were none the worse for the wear. A little stunned, maybe, and with a mouth full of playground nastiness, but not in any sort of pain, so far as I could tell.
I suppose I could have jumped into the fray — I could have swept you up from the spot where you were playing next to that cruddy little kid and whisked you away. I could have run you over to the park restrooms to wash out your mouth and wash off your face and hair, which had little pieces of bark dust stuck in it. I could have packed you back into your stroller and headed home for a bath and a change of clothes.
Maybe any of those things would have been the right thing to do. But I didn't do any of those things.
Instead, I sat back and watched as you looked dumbfounded at the boy and then, quite calmly, went back to digging your fingers into the dirt.
I'm not sure, but I think that was an OK outcome. You took a lump and kept on going — and, at least in a very small way, figured out how to handle the situation on your own, without daddy sweeping in for the rescue.
Someday, I imagine, you're going to need me to sweep in and do what big, angry men do — to thump my chest and pull you away from danger and right the wrongs and generally take care of business.
But most of the time, you're going to need to be your own hero — to remove yourself from danger, to right the wrongs that can be righted, and to generally take care of your own business. Or, when appropriate, to just turn the other cheek as you did today.
Sometimes, I think, you know better than I do. Thank goodness for that.
Love,
dad
It all kind of happened in slow motion.
You were sitting on the playground, minding your own business, running your fingers through the tanbark near the base of the slide. All of the sudden, a boy about a year your senior grabbed a handful of bark and, point blank, threw it in your face.
Maybe I'm a bad father, but I didn't really do anything.
It's not that I didn't want to. Every basal impulse in my body was telling me to march right up to that little punk, grab him by his Gymboree jacket collar, and toss his smug little mug into the mud. And that impulse was even stronger after his mother, who watched the whole thing unfold just as I did, sauntered over to let me know that her little pookey "probably didn't mean to hurt your daughter."
So your kid's not savage, just stupid? I should throw you into the mud too, lady.
Luckily for all of us, you were none the worse for the wear. A little stunned, maybe, and with a mouth full of playground nastiness, but not in any sort of pain, so far as I could tell.
I suppose I could have jumped into the fray — I could have swept you up from the spot where you were playing next to that cruddy little kid and whisked you away. I could have run you over to the park restrooms to wash out your mouth and wash off your face and hair, which had little pieces of bark dust stuck in it. I could have packed you back into your stroller and headed home for a bath and a change of clothes.
Maybe any of those things would have been the right thing to do. But I didn't do any of those things.
Instead, I sat back and watched as you looked dumbfounded at the boy and then, quite calmly, went back to digging your fingers into the dirt.
I'm not sure, but I think that was an OK outcome. You took a lump and kept on going — and, at least in a very small way, figured out how to handle the situation on your own, without daddy sweeping in for the rescue.
Someday, I imagine, you're going to need me to sweep in and do what big, angry men do — to thump my chest and pull you away from danger and right the wrongs and generally take care of business.
But most of the time, you're going to need to be your own hero — to remove yourself from danger, to right the wrongs that can be righted, and to generally take care of your own business. Or, when appropriate, to just turn the other cheek as you did today.
Sometimes, I think, you know better than I do. Thank goodness for that.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
LOVE LIKE WINE
Dear Spike:
It's close to harvest time in our small backyard vineyard. Soon you'll be knee-deep in bright purple grapes, stomping and sloshing away, adding a bit of your soul to our wine.
Most of our wine finds its way to those we love, often in the form of a birthday, wedding or anniversary gift. This week we delivered a bottle of last year's vintage to our friends, Chris and Ashley, to celebrate their wedding.
Here's what I wrote in the card that we slipped into the bag with the bottle...
Love, like wine,
Is best between friends.
Shared in full reminiscence
Of the sun,
And the dirt,
And the rain,
From which it was born.
You're going to learn a lot from your mother and me. And you're going to learn a lot from your teachers in school. And from your grandparents and from your aunts and uncles and from your friends and from your neighbors.
But some of life's best lessons come in unexpected places.
Never underestimate what you can learn from a bottle of wine. Or from taking apart a car engine. Or from a sunrise hike in the mountains.
Never underestimate life's capacity for unexpected joy.
Love,
dad
Saturday, September 6, 2008
THE RELAXING PART
Dear Spike:
Ah, the weekend.
It's supposed to be the relaxing part of the week, but we chock it full of visits to the farmer's market, and hikes up the canyon, and visits to the zoo, and trips up to farm country, and visits to the supermarket, and parties with our friends, and house cleaning, and errand-running and everything else that we just can't manage to do during the workweek.
Then, before you know it, it's Monday. And we're not relaxed at all.
I'm making matters worse: working a bit this morning and then most of the day tomorrow. That wasn't really my choice — its just how the cards fell this week — and I'll get a day off sometime next week that we can totally devote to each other.
And so, here's my vow: We're going to do just that.
We might take a hike. Or we might go to the zoo. Or we might hit up the market. But we're not going to do all of that. We're going to move at a slow and leisurely pace — baby steps, if you will — and enjoy each step as it comes. We're not going to think about what we're doing an hour later, or even a minute later.
We're just going to be. You and me.
Love,
dad
Ah, the weekend.
It's supposed to be the relaxing part of the week, but we chock it full of visits to the farmer's market, and hikes up the canyon, and visits to the zoo, and trips up to farm country, and visits to the supermarket, and parties with our friends, and house cleaning, and errand-running and everything else that we just can't manage to do during the workweek.
Then, before you know it, it's Monday. And we're not relaxed at all.
I'm making matters worse: working a bit this morning and then most of the day tomorrow. That wasn't really my choice — its just how the cards fell this week — and I'll get a day off sometime next week that we can totally devote to each other.
And so, here's my vow: We're going to do just that.
We might take a hike. Or we might go to the zoo. Or we might hit up the market. But we're not going to do all of that. We're going to move at a slow and leisurely pace — baby steps, if you will — and enjoy each step as it comes. We're not going to think about what we're doing an hour later, or even a minute later.
We're just going to be. You and me.
Love,
dad
Friday, July 18, 2008
HAS THE VOCAB
Dear Spike:
You're a talkative little girl. I suppose you take after you dad in that way.
Just to be sure you don't take after your dad (who did time in the Navy and has the vocab to prove it) in other ways, your mother and I are on a no-swearing campaign. And let me tell you, it's fucking hard.
Oops.
So far, at least, our vow against cursing in your presence seems to be working. You probably know 50 words now — and not one of them will get you sent to the principal's office.
As you'll hear from me many times, there is a time and a place for everything — ever cussin'.
But the truth is, most of us swear far more than we need to. And curse words are mostly laziness disguised as edginess.
The language we've inherited from our ancestors can be quite a pretty thing. And ne'er have I head it prettier spoken than when it is spoken by you.
You know enough of your body parts now for a good old fashioned game of Simon Says. Starting with the chickens in our backyard, you've added quite a few farm animals to your vocabulary. And thanks to our family pass for the Salt Lake City Zoo, you know the names of a few more exotic animals, too.
You know "up" and "down." And "peek-a-boo." And because you have a really bad habit of picking things up off the ground and stuffing them into your mouth, you also know the word "yuck."
You know your name. And your mom's. And once in a while, you say my name, too (though mostly, these days, you just want your mother.)
And this week, a breakthrough of magnificent proportions: You know the word "potty." Oh thank you, dear God, you know the word "potty."
Moreover, you're using it in the future tense. As in "I need to go," not "I just went."
Funny thing, that a word like "potty" could sound so pretty. But it does. Yes it does.
Our language is lovely in that way. In proper context, even the most scatalogical of words can sound quite beautiful.
Which is why I won't tell you that you cannot use any of the words that George Carlin, heaven bless his sinful soul, made famous with his "Seven words you can never say on television" schtick.
But yes, there's a time and a place for everything. And if you're uncertain whether you've come upon that time and place, you might just want to keep it clean.
Love,
dad
You're a talkative little girl. I suppose you take after you dad in that way.
Just to be sure you don't take after your dad (who did time in the Navy and has the vocab to prove it) in other ways, your mother and I are on a no-swearing campaign. And let me tell you, it's fucking hard.
Oops.
So far, at least, our vow against cursing in your presence seems to be working. You probably know 50 words now — and not one of them will get you sent to the principal's office.
As you'll hear from me many times, there is a time and a place for everything — ever cussin'.
But the truth is, most of us swear far more than we need to. And curse words are mostly laziness disguised as edginess.
The language we've inherited from our ancestors can be quite a pretty thing. And ne'er have I head it prettier spoken than when it is spoken by you.
You know enough of your body parts now for a good old fashioned game of Simon Says. Starting with the chickens in our backyard, you've added quite a few farm animals to your vocabulary. And thanks to our family pass for the Salt Lake City Zoo, you know the names of a few more exotic animals, too.
You know "up" and "down." And "peek-a-boo." And because you have a really bad habit of picking things up off the ground and stuffing them into your mouth, you also know the word "yuck."
You know your name. And your mom's. And once in a while, you say my name, too (though mostly, these days, you just want your mother.)
And this week, a breakthrough of magnificent proportions: You know the word "potty." Oh thank you, dear God, you know the word "potty."
Moreover, you're using it in the future tense. As in "I need to go," not "I just went."
Funny thing, that a word like "potty" could sound so pretty. But it does. Yes it does.
Our language is lovely in that way. In proper context, even the most scatalogical of words can sound quite beautiful.
Which is why I won't tell you that you cannot use any of the words that George Carlin, heaven bless his sinful soul, made famous with his "Seven words you can never say on television" schtick.
But yes, there's a time and a place for everything. And if you're uncertain whether you've come upon that time and place, you might just want to keep it clean.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
KIND OF MAGIC
Dear Spike:
When you were only a few days old, I discovered that I had a special power over you. When you would scream and cry — and indeed, this was common for you — I would hold your little body close to my face and tell you, "It's all right. You're OK. I love you. I love you so much." And soon, you would be out.
Later we discovered that banjo music — Earl Scruggs, in particular — has a special effect on you. And when you were inconsolable, we'd let Earl sooth you to sleep with his Foggy Mountain Breakdown.
Lately, though, old Earl and I just haven't had what it takes. You're going through a mama's girl stage — at least, I think it's a stage — where all you want, when you're tired and crabby, is your mother.
"Mamamama Mama Mama" you cry.
I imagine this is what professional basketball players feel like when they can no longer sink a 20-foot jumpshot or what door-to-door salesmen feel like when they realize they can no longer count on always making a sale or what old politicians feel like when they realize that they're just not as good at rounding up the votes like they once were. It's tough to realize that you no longer have a special kind of magic that you once had.
At least for the moment, nothing in my bag of tricks seems to work. So all I can do, when it's my turn to put you down, is to hold you and rock you and sing to you and let you scream, scream, scream yourself to sleep.
I can't imagine it's much fun for your mother to have to sit through it, knowing that she has the magic to soothe your screams, but we both know that it's best for you, and for us, if you learn that you can't always have everything — or everyone — you want, even when you're throwing a fit to get it.
These are tough lessons, but I suppose that's life.
I hope I find the magic soon, though, for I do so hate to hear you cry.
Love,
dad
When you were only a few days old, I discovered that I had a special power over you. When you would scream and cry — and indeed, this was common for you — I would hold your little body close to my face and tell you, "It's all right. You're OK. I love you. I love you so much." And soon, you would be out.
Later we discovered that banjo music — Earl Scruggs, in particular — has a special effect on you. And when you were inconsolable, we'd let Earl sooth you to sleep with his Foggy Mountain Breakdown.
Lately, though, old Earl and I just haven't had what it takes. You're going through a mama's girl stage — at least, I think it's a stage — where all you want, when you're tired and crabby, is your mother.
"Mamamama Mama Mama" you cry.
I imagine this is what professional basketball players feel like when they can no longer sink a 20-foot jumpshot or what door-to-door salesmen feel like when they realize they can no longer count on always making a sale or what old politicians feel like when they realize that they're just not as good at rounding up the votes like they once were. It's tough to realize that you no longer have a special kind of magic that you once had.
At least for the moment, nothing in my bag of tricks seems to work. So all I can do, when it's my turn to put you down, is to hold you and rock you and sing to you and let you scream, scream, scream yourself to sleep.
I can't imagine it's much fun for your mother to have to sit through it, knowing that she has the magic to soothe your screams, but we both know that it's best for you, and for us, if you learn that you can't always have everything — or everyone — you want, even when you're throwing a fit to get it.
These are tough lessons, but I suppose that's life.
I hope I find the magic soon, though, for I do so hate to hear you cry.
Love,
dad
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