Dear Spike:
I always said I'd go down with the ship. But the ship is sailing on. And, it would appear, it is doing so without me.
After a decade of chasing scoops and beating deadlines, I'm leaving my job as a newspaper reporter.
The reasons are myriad, but not all that complicated. I love what I do and would be very pleased to know that I could do it for the rest of my life. But the future of the newspaper industry is murky, at best. More than 30,000 newspaper employees in this country have lost their jobs in the past three years. Hundreds of papers have stopped the presses.
I was perfectly aware that this could happen when I got into this business. I'll never forget the day that my father came home, arms wrapped around a cardboard box, after the newspaper at which he worked closed its doors in 1993. I'll never forget the look on his face.
So yes, I knew the waters would be rough.
But damn the torpedoes, I said. Full steam ahead, I said.
That was before you came. I've always been willing to go down with the ship, but I'm not willing to bring you down, too.
And thankfully, I knew something:
The year after his paper closed, your grandfather helped bring the World Cup of soccer to the United States. Two years later, he helped found Major League Soccer (we benefited from his hard work just the other night when we watched Real Salt Lake defeat the Columbus Crew 4-1.) When he'd seen enough of the ugly side of the beautiful game, your papa bounced back into the newspaper industry for a few years before finally landing in the New Haven Unified School District, where he helps keep students, parents, teachers and administrators connected to their schools and to one another.
At every step along the way, he found purpose and satisfaction and joy.
And so I knew that I could too — no matter the ship on which I sailed.
Since shortly after you were born, I've been working toward making a transition from journalism to teaching. And today all that work came to fruition. I have accepted an offer to become an assistant professor at Utah State University.
The job comes with a lot of great benefits — not the least of which is the time and freedom to continue to commit acts of journalism. Yes, I'll be keeping my toe in those rough waters.
But the new job also comes with some sacrifices.
For the past three years, I have been blessed with the ability to work at home, with you by my side. It wasn't always easy to juggle my duties as a father with my duties as a journalist, but you helped me make it work. I would not trade the time we spent together for anything in the world.
Next year, you'll go off to school — and I'll be commuting to a job that is 90 miles away from our home. The department chair has pledged to help me arrange my schedule in such a way that is conducive to being both a good teacher and a good father and husband. I'm so grateful for his support, but it's still safe to say that there will be days that you and I won't see much of each other, if we see each other at all. That's going to be hard for me.
The trade-offs are weekends without the prospect of breaking news. School holidays. Summertime.
And, yes, a little bit of security.
That's not to say that these waters couldn't get rough, too. They very well might. But, at least for now, we sail on smoother seas.
Love,
dad
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Saturday, August 30, 2008
LOSS FOR WORDS
Dear Spike's Friends:
A lot of you have e-mailed to ask about Cuba. At the moment, I'm still at a loss for words to describe the geopolitical pit of poppycock that Fidel Castro, in cooperation with every American President since JFK, has managed to make of such a beautiful country — one with such enormous economic promise.
I'm working on several articles about Cuba which I'll link to at dearspike.com when (if?) they are published. Among my subjects: The resurrection of Cuba's sex trade; the explosive growth of protestant churches in Havana's poorest quarters; life in the long, dark shadow of the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay; and the precarious return trips being made by Cuban exiles.
In the meantime, I've posted a slideshow of photos of the trip on YouTube. You can watch it here.
Thanks for all of your kind words in the wake of the burglary, during my time away, and while I've been recovering from my nasty case of Fidel's Flu. As always, you can reach me at dearspike+at+gmail+dot+com
Love,
spike's dad
p.s. — Yes, I'm still planning on posting the letters from the Dear Spike project here. Stay tuned.
A lot of you have e-mailed to ask about Cuba. At the moment, I'm still at a loss for words to describe the geopolitical pit of poppycock that Fidel Castro, in cooperation with every American President since JFK, has managed to make of such a beautiful country — one with such enormous economic promise.
I'm working on several articles about Cuba which I'll link to at dearspike.com when (if?) they are published. Among my subjects: The resurrection of Cuba's sex trade; the explosive growth of protestant churches in Havana's poorest quarters; life in the long, dark shadow of the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay; and the precarious return trips being made by Cuban exiles.
In the meantime, I've posted a slideshow of photos of the trip on YouTube. You can watch it here.
Thanks for all of your kind words in the wake of the burglary, during my time away, and while I've been recovering from my nasty case of Fidel's Flu. As always, you can reach me at dearspike+at+gmail+dot+com
Love,
spike's dad
p.s. — Yes, I'm still planning on posting the letters from the Dear Spike project here. Stay tuned.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
BE HOME SOON
Dear Spike:
I'm off this morning, bright and early. My plane leaves Salt Lake City at 7 a.m. By early afternoon, I'll be in Mexico. By midnight I'll be in Havana, Cuba. And if all goes well, within 24 hours of arriving in Cuba, I'll be on the easternmost part of the island, looking out over the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay from the same vantage as Cubans have had for more than 100 years — nearly 50 of those in which the base has been an international flashpoint, first in the so-called Cold War and now in so-called the War on Terror.
I'll be gone a little over a week — by far the most time you and I have ever spent apart. While I'm away, your grandmother (you call her "Gak") is coming to stay with you and your mother — a last-minute change to our plans precipitated by the burglary of our home last week. She and your mother will take good care of you while I'm gone.
Still, I don't want you to forget me. So I've recorded a few of my normal letters to you on video and also made you a slide show of photos of you and I together. I know it's not the same as having your father home, but I thought it might help, if only just a little bit.
I'll be home soon.
I miss you and I love you.
Love,
dad
Thursday, June 12, 2008
A MAGICAL PLACE
Dear Spike:
I'd like to claw my eyes out. It feels as if someone sprayed battery acid up my nose. And even the insides of my ears hurt. When you've got allergies like mine, Spring yard work comes with some pretty nasty consequences.
But it's a jungle out there. I'm losing the battle of the seven-foot weeds. And we've got a bunch of people coming over this Saturday for a barbecue.
So I wrapped my face in a red bandana, picked up the weed whacker and went at it. Three hours later I stood on our back porch and admired my handywork.
OK, it still looks like a jungle — but a kinder, gentler jungle.
And when the weeds are hacked down and the garden is in bloom and the grapes vines are flush with leaves, as they are now...
... and when the peonies are in blossom and the roses are budding and the lilac is flush ...
... I can see the promise in this place — the vision I saw when your mother and I entered into our Faustian bargain with the bank to purchase this home, nearly four years ago.
This is going to be a special place for you — I know this to be true — just as my family's big, big backyard was a magical place for me.
True, we don't have the same kind of space for baseball and soccer and volleyball and badminton that my parents had in their backyard. And we don't have acres and acres and acres of forest, like your mother's parents did in their backyard.
But we'll have berries and grapes and a garden rich with tomatoes and squash and peppers — all for your delight. We'll have chickens for you to check on, every day, to see if they've left an egg or two. We'll have giant rose bushes and sunflower gardens and little hidden spaces for you to go and make friends with the faeries. We'll have stepping stones — and maybe a little fountain — and bird feeders scattered about the yard.
And if it take a few runny noses and itchy eyes to get there, that's OK.
It's gonna be a magical place. I promise.
Love,
dad
I'd like to claw my eyes out. It feels as if someone sprayed battery acid up my nose. And even the insides of my ears hurt. When you've got allergies like mine, Spring yard work comes with some pretty nasty consequences.
But it's a jungle out there. I'm losing the battle of the seven-foot weeds. And we've got a bunch of people coming over this Saturday for a barbecue.
So I wrapped my face in a red bandana, picked up the weed whacker and went at it. Three hours later I stood on our back porch and admired my handywork.
OK, it still looks like a jungle — but a kinder, gentler jungle.
And when the weeds are hacked down and the garden is in bloom and the grapes vines are flush with leaves, as they are now...
... and when the peonies are in blossom and the roses are budding and the lilac is flush ...
... I can see the promise in this place — the vision I saw when your mother and I entered into our Faustian bargain with the bank to purchase this home, nearly four years ago.
This is going to be a special place for you — I know this to be true — just as my family's big, big backyard was a magical place for me.
True, we don't have the same kind of space for baseball and soccer and volleyball and badminton that my parents had in their backyard. And we don't have acres and acres and acres of forest, like your mother's parents did in their backyard.
But we'll have berries and grapes and a garden rich with tomatoes and squash and peppers — all for your delight. We'll have chickens for you to check on, every day, to see if they've left an egg or two. We'll have giant rose bushes and sunflower gardens and little hidden spaces for you to go and make friends with the faeries. We'll have stepping stones — and maybe a little fountain — and bird feeders scattered about the yard.
And if it take a few runny noses and itchy eyes to get there, that's OK.
It's gonna be a magical place. I promise.
Love,
dad
Monday, April 14, 2008
WINNING THE GAME
Dear Spike:
It's April 14, which means it's time to start working on our family's taxes.
You can call it procrastination if you'd like, but I don't see it that way. For me, Tax Day is a holiday of sorts, not unlike Independence Day or Memorial Day. It's a time to reflect on what this country means to me — and what it's worth. And just as I can't stand it when I see Christmas ornaments on store shelves months before December 25, it's never felt right to rush into April 15, even if I do have a big refund coming.
Of course, this year that does not appear to be the case. I've spent the past three hours poring over our family's W-2s, receipts and student loan interest statements. I've calculated and recalculated the square footage of my home office. I've checked and double checked to make sure that Daddy's Little Tax Deduction (that would be you) has properly been accounted for. And by the looks of things, we're still $500 in the hole. Seems your mother's new job (and it's associated pay bump) swept us right up into a new income bracket. And even with rather large deductions for the interest we paid on our home and the baby we brought into the world, we simply didn't withhold enough over the past year.
The game's not over yet, though. I've still got to calculate out the mileage I put on our family's car for work — that'll save us a few bucks. I'm also trying to figure out whether my daily cup of coffee is a business, child care or medical expense. (A note to the good folks at the IRS, a government agency for which I hold the deepest respect: I'm just kidding! I know very well that coffee is, in fact, a charitable contribution!)
Even if I'm able to zero out our additional tax liability (I call this "winning the game") we'll still have paid roughly $14,000 in state and federal taxes this year. That doesn't include the money your mother and I threw into the great black hole that is Social Security, or the cash we tossed into the even greater, blacker hole that is Medicare, or the 6.6 percent sales tax we pay on just about everything we buy at the store or the 45 cents-per-gallon fuel tax we pay every time we hit the gas station.
All told, it's a lot of cash. But in exchange, we get a lot of stuff.
We get roads. And police officers. And firefighters. And clean drinking water. And safe food.
We get national parks. And school nurses. And dog catchers. And well-regulated slot machines.
We also get some things that I wish we didn't have.
We get ill-advised wars. And billion-dollar weapons. And unconscionable foreign policy. And federally-mandated education policies. And poorly regulated mega-businesses.
When we pay our taxes, we get a bunch of stuff we want and a bunch of stuff we don't. And that's all part of living in a semi-free market, quasi-socialized democratic republic.
For a lot of folks, it's really frustrating to think of all the great things our nation could have if we would simply reevaluate our priorities — and sometimes I feel frustrated, too. But in the years that I lose the game and we have to pay Uncle Sam a little extra, I try to think about all the good our money might do, and I make a wish that in the coming year, we'll become just a little bit wiser.
And in the lower left corner of the check, I write: "For America."
Love,
dad
It's April 14, which means it's time to start working on our family's taxes.
You can call it procrastination if you'd like, but I don't see it that way. For me, Tax Day is a holiday of sorts, not unlike Independence Day or Memorial Day. It's a time to reflect on what this country means to me — and what it's worth. And just as I can't stand it when I see Christmas ornaments on store shelves months before December 25, it's never felt right to rush into April 15, even if I do have a big refund coming.
Of course, this year that does not appear to be the case. I've spent the past three hours poring over our family's W-2s, receipts and student loan interest statements. I've calculated and recalculated the square footage of my home office. I've checked and double checked to make sure that Daddy's Little Tax Deduction (that would be you) has properly been accounted for. And by the looks of things, we're still $500 in the hole. Seems your mother's new job (and it's associated pay bump) swept us right up into a new income bracket. And even with rather large deductions for the interest we paid on our home and the baby we brought into the world, we simply didn't withhold enough over the past year.
The game's not over yet, though. I've still got to calculate out the mileage I put on our family's car for work — that'll save us a few bucks. I'm also trying to figure out whether my daily cup of coffee is a business, child care or medical expense. (A note to the good folks at the IRS, a government agency for which I hold the deepest respect: I'm just kidding! I know very well that coffee is, in fact, a charitable contribution!)
Even if I'm able to zero out our additional tax liability (I call this "winning the game") we'll still have paid roughly $14,000 in state and federal taxes this year. That doesn't include the money your mother and I threw into the great black hole that is Social Security, or the cash we tossed into the even greater, blacker hole that is Medicare, or the 6.6 percent sales tax we pay on just about everything we buy at the store or the 45 cents-per-gallon fuel tax we pay every time we hit the gas station.
All told, it's a lot of cash. But in exchange, we get a lot of stuff.
We get roads. And police officers. And firefighters. And clean drinking water. And safe food.
We get national parks. And school nurses. And dog catchers. And well-regulated slot machines.
We also get some things that I wish we didn't have.
We get ill-advised wars. And billion-dollar weapons. And unconscionable foreign policy. And federally-mandated education policies. And poorly regulated mega-businesses.
When we pay our taxes, we get a bunch of stuff we want and a bunch of stuff we don't. And that's all part of living in a semi-free market, quasi-socialized democratic republic.
For a lot of folks, it's really frustrating to think of all the great things our nation could have if we would simply reevaluate our priorities — and sometimes I feel frustrated, too. But in the years that I lose the game and we have to pay Uncle Sam a little extra, I try to think about all the good our money might do, and I make a wish that in the coming year, we'll become just a little bit wiser.
And in the lower left corner of the check, I write: "For America."
Love,
dad
Friday, April 11, 2008
OUR LITTLE DANCE
Dear Spike:
Most mornings find you and I engaged in a bit of a dance. I shovel some food down your throat while deleting e-mails from people who want to sell me Viagra or help me secure a fortune in African gold. You start rummaging through your toy box as I make a few phone calls. I take you to the potty and, while we're downstairs, I grab a cup of coffee for me and a bottle of milk for you. Then back to the e-mails — this time the ones I actually have to read — with you on my knee. Then I work on my newspaper blog while you munch on some cereal. Back to the potty. Maybe a quick moment for a book. OK, maybe two. Back upstairs for (hopefully) a nap (alas for you, not me) while I confirm my appointments for the afternoon. More with the potty, more with the phone calls (two days ago I was quite litterally holding over the pot while speaking to a United States congressman.) And so on.
Sometimes I feel bad that you have to share your father's attention with soldiers and thinktankers and politicians. And I dream about days like today, when we spent the first two hours of the morning playing together on your bedroom floor, then got dressed for an excursion to the city library. There, we read books and stomped around in the the nooks and crannies of the children's section, then rode the glass elevator from the first floor to the fifth and back down again.
And back up again.
And back down again.
After we got tired of that, we went to the grocery store to pick up some baby food and yogurt. And on the way home you fell asleep, so I parked the car at the park and watched the geese splash down on the lake as you slept.
I didn't miss the daily grind, not one bit. But I won't be sorry when Monday rolls around and we're at it once again, me at my laptop and you at your toybox. Most folks aren't blessed with the opportunity to have every day be bring-your-daughter-to-work day. And so while I'm always relieved to see your mother walk through the front door in the afternoon, I always miss our little dance.
Love,
dad
Most mornings find you and I engaged in a bit of a dance. I shovel some food down your throat while deleting e-mails from people who want to sell me Viagra or help me secure a fortune in African gold. You start rummaging through your toy box as I make a few phone calls. I take you to the potty and, while we're downstairs, I grab a cup of coffee for me and a bottle of milk for you. Then back to the e-mails — this time the ones I actually have to read — with you on my knee. Then I work on my newspaper blog while you munch on some cereal. Back to the potty. Maybe a quick moment for a book. OK, maybe two. Back upstairs for (hopefully) a nap (alas for you, not me) while I confirm my appointments for the afternoon. More with the potty, more with the phone calls (two days ago I was quite litterally holding over the pot while speaking to a United States congressman.) And so on.
Sometimes I feel bad that you have to share your father's attention with soldiers and thinktankers and politicians. And I dream about days like today, when we spent the first two hours of the morning playing together on your bedroom floor, then got dressed for an excursion to the city library. There, we read books and stomped around in the the nooks and crannies of the children's section, then rode the glass elevator from the first floor to the fifth and back down again.
And back up again.
And back down again.
After we got tired of that, we went to the grocery store to pick up some baby food and yogurt. And on the way home you fell asleep, so I parked the car at the park and watched the geese splash down on the lake as you slept.
I didn't miss the daily grind, not one bit. But I won't be sorry when Monday rolls around and we're at it once again, me at my laptop and you at your toybox. Most folks aren't blessed with the opportunity to have every day be bring-your-daughter-to-work day. And so while I'm always relieved to see your mother walk through the front door in the afternoon, I always miss our little dance.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
ONE DUMB MOVE
Dear Spike:
I only turned my head for a moment.
I was leaning in to speak to a friend at work when I felt my balance shift and heard a sickening thump on the ground.
One moment you were snuggled in your baby carrier, which I’d set on my hip as I chatted with my friend. The next moment you were face down on the floor — doing that silent, shaky, red-faced, mouth-opened, oh-my-God-what-have-you-done-to-me thing that you do right before you scream.
And scream you did. Oh, scream you did.
Loud.
Phones dropped. Conversations ended. Every set of eyes in the building were fixed on us as I cradled you in my arms and rocked you back and forth, desperately trying to soothe you.
I did a quick inspection:
Two eyes, still relatively well aligned. One nose, still set straight. One tooth, still firmly implanted in your lower gums.
You had a little pink mark on you cheek, but otherwise, seemed no worse for the wear.
Unfortunately I can’t say the same for my ego.
Some of my colleagues at work have taken to calling me “Britney.” That’s a not-so-kind reference, I‘ve learned, to America’s favorite White trash mommy and Mickey Mouse Club alumna, Britney Spears, who was caught on film a few years ago nearly dropping her son (but somehow managing to hold onto the drink she was carrying in the process.) Others just greet me with the word “oops!” which, to my utter and eternal shame, is apparently the first thing I said when I realized you’d done a swan dive out the side of your chair.
I’ve always fancied myself a pretty decent dad. So I guess this is what you’d call a big dose of comeuppance. And as in most things in life, there’s a lesson here, I think.
It’s good to have a healthy ego. But it’s also good to know you’re never more than one dumb move away from making a complete ass of yourself.
I'm lucky you can't talk yet. Because as guilty as I've been feeling, I'd probably buy you a pony if you asked.
Love,
dad
I only turned my head for a moment.
I was leaning in to speak to a friend at work when I felt my balance shift and heard a sickening thump on the ground.
One moment you were snuggled in your baby carrier, which I’d set on my hip as I chatted with my friend. The next moment you were face down on the floor — doing that silent, shaky, red-faced, mouth-opened, oh-my-God-what-have-you-done-to-me thing that you do right before you scream.
And scream you did. Oh, scream you did.
Loud.
Phones dropped. Conversations ended. Every set of eyes in the building were fixed on us as I cradled you in my arms and rocked you back and forth, desperately trying to soothe you.
I did a quick inspection:
Two eyes, still relatively well aligned. One nose, still set straight. One tooth, still firmly implanted in your lower gums.
You had a little pink mark on you cheek, but otherwise, seemed no worse for the wear.
Unfortunately I can’t say the same for my ego.
Some of my colleagues at work have taken to calling me “Britney.” That’s a not-so-kind reference, I‘ve learned, to America’s favorite White trash mommy and Mickey Mouse Club alumna, Britney Spears, who was caught on film a few years ago nearly dropping her son (but somehow managing to hold onto the drink she was carrying in the process.) Others just greet me with the word “oops!” which, to my utter and eternal shame, is apparently the first thing I said when I realized you’d done a swan dive out the side of your chair.
I’ve always fancied myself a pretty decent dad. So I guess this is what you’d call a big dose of comeuppance. And as in most things in life, there’s a lesson here, I think.
It’s good to have a healthy ego. But it’s also good to know you’re never more than one dumb move away from making a complete ass of yourself.
I'm lucky you can't talk yet. Because as guilty as I've been feeling, I'd probably buy you a pony if you asked.
Love,
dad
Thursday, January 31, 2008
A PROPER PLACE
Dear Spike:
Maybe, by the time you’re old enough to even recognize such things, the Miss America pageant will have faded into history like other throwback eccentricities of the 20th Century. A little footnote, it might then be, about how our society once found it appropriate to grade women like so much cattle through an auction yard.
More likely, the famous beauty pageant — which began as an Atlantic City bathing suit review and now bills itself as the nation’s largest “scholarship program” for young women — will still be around, the cultural causatum of a time in which it was acceptable to believe that women had a “proper place” in our society. And as such, it will be just one more thing you’ll have to contend with as you try to sort out what it means to be a woman in our nation, in our world, in our time.
I’m still sort of shaking my head over the surreal assignment I received to cover the pageant in Las Vegas this past weekend. The angle itself was worthy enough: “Miss Utah” Jill Stevens was a combat medic who did a tour of duty in Afghanistan. Her decision to compete for a tiara to go with her Kevlar helmet — and the widespread support she received in that endeavor — may be a clue into the changing way in which our nation has come to see veterans.
At least, that was the noble premise of the assignment that had me immersed in pageant-girl culture for three days.
But it nonetheless was strange — and more than a little bit uncomfortable for me as the recently minted father of a beautiful baby girl. The little four and five-year-old pageant girls who dotted the Planet Hollywood Resort and Casino were, to put it crassly — and, in fact, mildly — just a little bit creepy. That’s to say nothing of their mothers, one of whom I saw Christening her daughter in a thick cloud of hairspray while riding up an escalator in the casino and another of whom I overhead telling her little girl that Miss America would “never, ever, ever eat at a buffet!”
At one point I overheard Stevens mumble that she’d rather be back in Afghanistan. And I could relate.
And then my mind started to wander, as it sometimes does these days, 20 years into the future. . . Would I prefer you to be parading in a swimsuit on a casino stage or ducking incoming fire in another unnecessary war?
It’s a false choice, of course, as it is far more likely that you will be doing neither of those things. But I suppose the incredibly disparate possibilities do say something about just how far we’ve come away from the idea that there is any one “proper place” for women in America.
That’s a start. And I suppose it gives me hope that you’ll never be under the impression that high heels, swimsuits and evening gowns are in any way a prerequisite for being a woman.
Love,
dad
Maybe, by the time you’re old enough to even recognize such things, the Miss America pageant will have faded into history like other throwback eccentricities of the 20th Century. A little footnote, it might then be, about how our society once found it appropriate to grade women like so much cattle through an auction yard.
More likely, the famous beauty pageant — which began as an Atlantic City bathing suit review and now bills itself as the nation’s largest “scholarship program” for young women — will still be around, the cultural causatum of a time in which it was acceptable to believe that women had a “proper place” in our society. And as such, it will be just one more thing you’ll have to contend with as you try to sort out what it means to be a woman in our nation, in our world, in our time.
I’m still sort of shaking my head over the surreal assignment I received to cover the pageant in Las Vegas this past weekend. The angle itself was worthy enough: “Miss Utah” Jill Stevens was a combat medic who did a tour of duty in Afghanistan. Her decision to compete for a tiara to go with her Kevlar helmet — and the widespread support she received in that endeavor — may be a clue into the changing way in which our nation has come to see veterans.
At least, that was the noble premise of the assignment that had me immersed in pageant-girl culture for three days.
But it nonetheless was strange — and more than a little bit uncomfortable for me as the recently minted father of a beautiful baby girl. The little four and five-year-old pageant girls who dotted the Planet Hollywood Resort and Casino were, to put it crassly — and, in fact, mildly — just a little bit creepy. That’s to say nothing of their mothers, one of whom I saw Christening her daughter in a thick cloud of hairspray while riding up an escalator in the casino and another of whom I overhead telling her little girl that Miss America would “never, ever, ever eat at a buffet!”
At one point I overheard Stevens mumble that she’d rather be back in Afghanistan. And I could relate.
And then my mind started to wander, as it sometimes does these days, 20 years into the future. . . Would I prefer you to be parading in a swimsuit on a casino stage or ducking incoming fire in another unnecessary war?
It’s a false choice, of course, as it is far more likely that you will be doing neither of those things. But I suppose the incredibly disparate possibilities do say something about just how far we’ve come away from the idea that there is any one “proper place” for women in America.
That’s a start. And I suppose it gives me hope that you’ll never be under the impression that high heels, swimsuits and evening gowns are in any way a prerequisite for being a woman.
Love,
dad
Friday, January 25, 2008
THE WHOLE DEAL
Dear Spike:
I’ll be heading out of town for a few days, starting this morning.
Viva Las Vegas.
I suppose I should be happy about that. Vegas is, after all, “The Entertainment Capital of the World” — or so the brochure says, anyway.
I am hoping to fit in at least a few hours to see some cards at the Binion’s poker room. I’ve been assigned to travel with my good friend, Rick Egan, the photographer with whom I went to Iraq in 2005. And the assignment I’ve been handed is different enough from what I normally do that it should definitely be an interesting weekend.
But really, I’m feeling rather uninspired about the whole deal. And I’m worried that I’m going to miss something while I’m gone.
It seems like every new minute you’re doing something completely different and amazing.
Last week, for instance, you started imitating your mother when she coughed — it’s really quite funny when you do it. And just this afternoon you started giggling when your mom tickled your feet.
And then tonight, just before bed, there you were in your crib, quoting Spinoza — from memory.
OK, I made that last part up. You had some notes scribbled on your hand, but I pretended not to see.
I’m going to miss you.
Lots.
And lots.
Love,
dad
I’ll be heading out of town for a few days, starting this morning.
Viva Las Vegas.
I suppose I should be happy about that. Vegas is, after all, “The Entertainment Capital of the World” — or so the brochure says, anyway.
I am hoping to fit in at least a few hours to see some cards at the Binion’s poker room. I’ve been assigned to travel with my good friend, Rick Egan, the photographer with whom I went to Iraq in 2005. And the assignment I’ve been handed is different enough from what I normally do that it should definitely be an interesting weekend.
But really, I’m feeling rather uninspired about the whole deal. And I’m worried that I’m going to miss something while I’m gone.
It seems like every new minute you’re doing something completely different and amazing.
Last week, for instance, you started imitating your mother when she coughed — it’s really quite funny when you do it. And just this afternoon you started giggling when your mom tickled your feet.
And then tonight, just before bed, there you were in your crib, quoting Spinoza — from memory.
OK, I made that last part up. You had some notes scribbled on your hand, but I pretended not to see.
I’m going to miss you.
Lots.
And lots.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
FOR THE SEASON
Dear Spike:
The park near our home has a strong wireless Internet connection, and so during warmer months, you and I spent a lot of time here. I’d push you around the lake with my laptop computer balanced on the cup holders on your stroller, reading and responding to my daily avalanche of e-mails while you watched the black and white geese splash land in the still water or followed the golden leaves as they tumbled from the trees.
But now it is cold. And so recently we have spent most of our days at our home. I sit at my desk and write. You play in your jungle gym and rest in your swing. When you sleep I make my phones calls. When you’re unhappy, I close my computer and play with you on the floor.
It’s a suitable arrangement. And it is better (and cheaper) than sending you to daycare every day.
But now the weekend’s storm seems to have killed our Internet connection, and the company that services the line to our home says they won’t be able to make it out until next Tuesday.
And so here we sit, in the car, in the parking lot near the greenhouse at the park. You’re resting in your safety seat in the back, I’m sitting at the wheel, looking out over the dashboard at the little old carousel. Like most things out here, it’s closed for the season.
I always thought that nostalgia only existed in decade-long increments — for childhoods long past and ball teams on which all of the players have long since retired. For a musty old church and the stale old hymns sung there. For the glamorous stars of the silver screen, long since whithered and wrinkled and retired from acting.
Today, though, I’m simply feeling nostalgic for the summer. I’m missing a time when you and I could sit together on a park bench and watch as joggers tussled with their dogs as they passed the lake and skateboarders perfected their tricks on the amphitheater steps near the old mill.
Don’t get me wrong, I do so love what winter does to this park. I love how the shadows of skeleton trees draw jagged gray lines on the snow. I love to watch sledders climb up the hill on the north end of the lake, then flop down on their sleds, rushing headfirst toward hand-built ramps of snow at the bottom of the hill.
But alas, I miss when this all was our “outside office.” And I’m looking forward to a time when it is again.
You’ll be nearly a year old by then. Perhaps you’ll be walking a bit. And soon you’ll be able to play on the swings and the slides and the sandbox. And I’ll watch from a park bench nearby, with my computer balanced on my lap and a cup of coffee on the ground by my feet.
And — who knows? — maybe I’ll grow nostalgic for the snow.
Love,
dad
The park near our home has a strong wireless Internet connection, and so during warmer months, you and I spent a lot of time here. I’d push you around the lake with my laptop computer balanced on the cup holders on your stroller, reading and responding to my daily avalanche of e-mails while you watched the black and white geese splash land in the still water or followed the golden leaves as they tumbled from the trees.
But now it is cold. And so recently we have spent most of our days at our home. I sit at my desk and write. You play in your jungle gym and rest in your swing. When you sleep I make my phones calls. When you’re unhappy, I close my computer and play with you on the floor.
It’s a suitable arrangement. And it is better (and cheaper) than sending you to daycare every day.
But now the weekend’s storm seems to have killed our Internet connection, and the company that services the line to our home says they won’t be able to make it out until next Tuesday.
And so here we sit, in the car, in the parking lot near the greenhouse at the park. You’re resting in your safety seat in the back, I’m sitting at the wheel, looking out over the dashboard at the little old carousel. Like most things out here, it’s closed for the season.
I always thought that nostalgia only existed in decade-long increments — for childhoods long past and ball teams on which all of the players have long since retired. For a musty old church and the stale old hymns sung there. For the glamorous stars of the silver screen, long since whithered and wrinkled and retired from acting.
Today, though, I’m simply feeling nostalgic for the summer. I’m missing a time when you and I could sit together on a park bench and watch as joggers tussled with their dogs as they passed the lake and skateboarders perfected their tricks on the amphitheater steps near the old mill.
Don’t get me wrong, I do so love what winter does to this park. I love how the shadows of skeleton trees draw jagged gray lines on the snow. I love to watch sledders climb up the hill on the north end of the lake, then flop down on their sleds, rushing headfirst toward hand-built ramps of snow at the bottom of the hill.
But alas, I miss when this all was our “outside office.” And I’m looking forward to a time when it is again.
You’ll be nearly a year old by then. Perhaps you’ll be walking a bit. And soon you’ll be able to play on the swings and the slides and the sandbox. And I’ll watch from a park bench nearby, with my computer balanced on my lap and a cup of coffee on the ground by my feet.
And — who knows? — maybe I’ll grow nostalgic for the snow.
Love,
dad
Friday, November 16, 2007
SORT OF MADNESS
Dear Spike:
It’s cliché — my God, it’s cliché — but you’ve really changed my life.
There was a time when I defined myself by my work. But today your mother and I spent a considerable amount of time contemplating whether we could afford for me not to work.
Ultimately we decided we can’t quite cut it. Your mom’s salary might cover our mortgage, insurance, student loans and car payment, but we do like to eat and heat our home in the winter. So at least for the time being, we’ll remain a two-income family.
But in a big way, that’s beside the point. We had a discussion about me quitting my job. And I wasn’t completely sickened by the thought. In fact, I was sort of excited by it.
Maybe that’s the exhaustion talking. I’ve always felt like I was rather adept at multitasking, but you’ve challenged that skill to new heights. Today I gave a lecture while holding you on my hip (in addition to being cute, you made a nice prop when the discussion turned to the subject of teen pregnancy.) I’ve gotten rather good at balancing you between my arms while I type (sometimes with just one hand when I’m feeding you.) And I’ve become pretty good at diapering you with one hand, too (thank God for Bummis.)
But it’s never easy to serve two masters. And at the end of the day I don’t feel like showering or cleaning the kitchen or even reading a book. All I want to do is sleep.
I know your mother is tired, too. She spends all day with her kindergartners (someday ask me to show you the scene in the movie “Gremlins” where the monsters take over the movie theater — that’s what it is like.) Then she comes home and (if she’s lucky) she gets three minutes to decompress before I throw you into her arms.
And maybe this sort of madness might not sound like fun to some people. But in our rare, quiet and calm moments I look down at you and wonder aloud how I ever believed I was happy working without you. And on the days when I have to drop you off at the babysitter’s house for a few hours, all I want to do is get back as soon as possible to pick you up. And while the increasingly rare hours when you nap are my best opportunities to get any substantial work done, sometimes when you sleep I miss you and I feel like waking you up so we can play.
Obviously, I can’t take you to Iraq or Afghanistan with me. And next time I jump out of a helicopter or get Tasered by police officers, you won’t be invited along.
But you know what? Those things aren’t quite as compelling to me as they once were. And while I still feel committed to the profession I’ve chosen, it’s become less of who I am and more of what I do.
I do still like what I do. And that’s a good thing, I suppose, because it doesn’t appear than I’m going to be a full-time house husband any time soon.
But you know, I can dream.
Love,
dad
Monday, August 6, 2007
SO WE WAIT
Dear Spike:
I’ll make camp tonight on a cliffside in the Uinta Mountains, overlooking a freeway on which a small army of reporters has surrounded the entrance to Crandall Canyon.
We’re all waiting for word on six men who were trapped when the coal mine they were in collapsed early this morning. It’s been more than 16 hours now with no word from the miners. The mine owner says it may be three days before rescuers can get to where the men are trapped.
And so we wait.
I’ve only just begun to understand how fathers feel about their children. Many of the men trapped in this mountain are fathers. All of them have fathers.
I cannot imagine the depth of their fear, longing and dread this evening.
I’ll miss you tonight. And I will think of you all night long.
Love,
dad
I’ll make camp tonight on a cliffside in the Uinta Mountains, overlooking a freeway on which a small army of reporters has surrounded the entrance to Crandall Canyon.
We’re all waiting for word on six men who were trapped when the coal mine they were in collapsed early this morning. It’s been more than 16 hours now with no word from the miners. The mine owner says it may be three days before rescuers can get to where the men are trapped.
And so we wait.
I’ve only just begun to understand how fathers feel about their children. Many of the men trapped in this mountain are fathers. All of them have fathers.
I cannot imagine the depth of their fear, longing and dread this evening.
I’ll miss you tonight. And I will think of you all night long.
Love,
dad
Friday, July 13, 2007
NOTHING TO IT
Dear Spike:
I leave tomorrow for southern Utah, where a wildfire twice the size of New York City has made a living hell of this Earth.
I’m a bit wary of this trip. I’m still not sure I’ve recovered, entirely, from our two-week sojourn across the western United States. It was a bear of a drive and I’m still a bit worn out, but I will never forget the weeks that you, your mother and I shared on the road.
You were absolutely remarkable. Quiet and content (well, mostly anyhow) you spent more than 40 hours strapped into your car seat like a tiny little lunatic in our tiny little asylum, as we drove fro Salt Lake City to Boise and from Boise to Bend. From Bend to Portland to Salem and back to Portland again. From Portland to Corvallis to Eugene to San Francisco. From San Francisco to Salt Lake City.
In some 2,500 miles, we crossed mountain ranges and deserts. We saw the Pacific Ocean and traveled through the Redwood Forest. We saw the San Francisco Bay and passed twice through the 45th Parallel — the halfway point between the equator and the North Pole.
You met, for the first time, your maternal grandparents and great-grandmother, your paternal great grandparents, four aunts, six uncles, your God mother and an admiring public so vast that its members could fill every seat in Fenway Park.
And for the first time, you smiled — a toothless, gummy, open-mawed grin on the front steps of the home where I grew up.
You weren’t the only one smiling. Our family spent just about every waking moment together. And I never grew tired of it.
You might think, after spending just about every minute of the past two weeks together, a night or two away from home wouldn’t be such a big deal. I’ve done this plenty of times before, after all.
It’s a routine assignment. I’ll pack up early Saturday morning and be at the fire by lunchtime. Two or three hours later, I’ll file my first report. Two or three hours more and I’ll have sent another. By late Saturday night my head and clothes will be thick with smoke. And I will fall asleep on my hotel bed without so much as taking off my boots.
On Sunday, God willing, I’ll be writing this blaze’s obituary. And then I’ll turn my car north and come home.
Nothing to it.
Except, of course, that this will be my first trip away from you and your mother since you were born. You’re growing so fast. You’re doing so much. I fear I’ll miss something while I’m gone.
And I know I will miss you, and your mother, very much.
Love,
dad
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)