ON THE MOUNTAIN

Dear Spike:

You were excited. And that excited me.

After all, I’ve been longing to share this pastime with you for as long as you’ve been around. But until recently, I was under the impression that your snowboarding career would have to wait a few years.

Earlier this winter, however, I shared a lift with a man who had recently taken his three-year-old daughter on her first ski outing. “She did great,” he told me. “You can’t push them at that age, of course, but if you offer it to them and they want to do it, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

I made a calendar in my head and drew a little circle around Dec. 21, 2010 — the first day of next winter. That, I thought, would be the day you met the slopes.

But then, on what I thought would be my last day on the mountain for this season, I ran into a kid who was trying to unload a couple of passes. I scored two for $25 — the deal of the century.

But between work and school and everything else that life’s been throwing my way, lately, I only had time to use one before Spring arrived. And although you often can ski through June at some of Utah’s resorts, it’s not particularly good skiing.

So when winter took a few parting shots at us, this week, I felt compelled to use up my last pass. But at the same time, having just returned from a business trip, I wanted to spend some quality time with you.

And thus a plan was born. Why wait to turn three? Why not just get started now?

“Spike,” I said, “would you like to go snowboarding with daddy?”

“Yeah!” you answered, and you jumped to your feet. “Let’s go!”

Such enthusiasm. That’s daddy’s girl. We threw on our snow clothes, wiggled into the car and headed up Big Cottonwood Canyon.

Less than an hour later, you were set up with boots, bindings and an adorable little purple snowboard. And we were ready to hit the bunny slopes.

But first things first: Safety.

“OK, let’s just slide on this helmet,” I said.

“Noooooo!” you screamed. “No helmet! No helmet!”

I’m not sure what it was about the helmet I offered you, but something had freaked you out pretty good. You cried and sobbed and begged me not to make you wear the helmet. And even when I showed you that other kids were wearing their helmets, you wouldn’t budge. “When I am older I can wear a helmet,” you said. “But not right now.”

I didn’t understand your logic. But it didn’t really matter. I couldn’t get you into that helmet, and I sure as heck wasn’t going to hop on the chairlift without making sure you’re precious little brain was protected.

Finally, I explained to you that we would have to go if you didn’t wear your protective equipment. And you agreed that was a very good idea.

As we headed back to the ski shop, I asked if you would like to try out your snowboard, sans helmet, just on the flat areas near the lodge. You accepted.

I was hoping that, after sliding around for a bit, you’d be willing to put the helmet so that you could keep going.

No such luck. You were fine with the idea of sliding down the hills. You just wanted to make sure your head was free while you were doing it.

And so it was that, for several hours, I carried you up a very small hill near the parking lot and then ran alongside of you, holding your hands, as you slid back down.

Up and down. And up and down. And up and down we went. You were having the time of your life. And I was gasping for breath.

To be certain, this is not the way I had envisioned your first snowboarding outing would go. But the truth is, when you’re parenting, nothing ever goes according to plan. When you try to push your children to hard, too fast, sometimes they push back. And when they do, it’s not always in ways that you might expect.

And so you've got to stay flexible.

I’m still not sure what your problem is with wearing a helmet. But, by God, when we do hit the slopes next year, you’re not going to win this battle. You will wear a helmet, or you’ll be confined to the hill next to the parking lot.

But nonetheless, I’m proud of you. You looked good on that board. And I’ll bet you’ll look even better next year — or whenever you’re ready.

love,

dad

YOUR OWN SKIN

Dear Spike:

You've got the rest of your life to wear clothes. And your penchant for spur-of-the-moment stripping has (mostly) been confined to our home. So I'm not too concerned about your recent turn as a nudist.

But you'll have to enjoy your freedom while it while it lasts, because eventually you're going to have to don some duds.

I suppose that, in an ideal world, none of us would wear clothes, save for warmth or style. If you buy the Biblical account of Adam and Eve, that's how it was supposed to be — up until the whole forbidden fruit incident, that is. And if you're more inclined toward an evolutionary view of things, you're likely to note that we're the only animal on the planet that feels compelled to wear the skins of other animals. (OK, I suppose there's an argument to be made about hermit crabs and chihuahuas, but humans are still a relative oddity in Animalia.)

But this is nothing like an ideal world. This is a world that has been hyper-sexualized. This is a world that is exploitative. And increasingly, this is a world in which nothing you do stays private for long.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that we don't always get to choose whether something is innocent or not. And so modesty is as much a public virtue as it is a personal one.

I reckon this might cause some tension between us someday. And although it's probably easier here in Utah (where weather and culture encourage modest dress) I have no doubt in my mind that there will come a day when we're not going to see eye-to-eye on your preferred skin-to-fabric ratio.

And, such is life, I'm equally certain that there will be plenty of times is which you might feel compelled — whether by love, friendship, trust, drunkenness or momentary insanity — to... um... "run free," as it were.

Be careful. Be considerate of your future. And for goodness sake, consider your father, too.

I pray that you will never feel uncomfortable in your own skin. Our bodies are a beautiful gift — a gift to be shared with the right people at the right time and in the right place.

Until then, like any gift, it's nice to keep things under wraps.

Love,
dad

SOMETHING WE DO

Doris "Granny D" Haddock
1910-2010

Dear Spike:

Doris Haddock knew what she had to do.

When a fellow Democrat absconded from the race to be the next U.S. senator from New Hampshire in 2004, Haddock seized the moment. With four months to go before the election, the activist known as "Granny D" announced her candidacy — entering into the dog-eat-dog world of national politics at the age of 94.

But inspired as that decision may have been, on the eve of the debate with her incumbent opponent, Granny D was feeling tired, overwhelmed and scared.

"Please God," she prayed, kneeling at her bedside in a flannel nightgown. "Don't let me make a fool of myself."

Maybe the Almighty called down a favor. Or maybe Haddock simply rose to the occasion. Whatever happened, on that following day, Granny D kicked her opponent's ass.

Seventy-five percent of those watching the debate said she'd won the war of words.

But this isn't a story about miracles. In a nation where political debates are low-ratings events and politics is a big-money game, the enormously outspent great-grandmother didn't have a chance. She lost the election 66 to 34 percent.

It doesn't matter. Even if Granny D had succeeded in her Quixotic quest, she would have found herself one voice in a hundred-person choir of corruption. And although she allowed herself to believe that she had a chance to win the race, Haddock knew her fight was about something even more important than winning.

"Democracy is not something we have," she said. "It's something we do."

Granny D Haddock walked the talk. We should all be so brave.

Love,
dad

AFRAID AT NIGHT

Dear Spike:

It used to be, when it was bedtime but you just weren't ready for sleep, you'd hide under you covers, kick up your feet to make a little tent, and sing songs to an audience of stuffed animals until you were finally tired enough to slumber.

But lately you've been having trouble entertaining yourself in your room in the dark, and so you end up at our bedroom door — a blanket in one arm and a stuffed bear in the other — and plead to sleep in our bed.

"I'm scared," you say.

"What are you scared of?" I ask.

You pick something. The animals perched on your shelf. The elephants painted on your wall. The drapes hanging over your window.

"That's nothing to be scared of," I say.

"But I'm scared," you say.

And who am I to argue with that?

I tuck you into bed, kiss you on the head, and go back to my room.

Five minutes go by and the process starts all over again, this time with your mother.

I'm not sure why it is that children are so often afraid at night. Perhaps fear of the dark is an evolutionary trait that kept little homo erectus young ones from running off into the jungle after the sunset. Or perhaps it's just another random, unexplainable eccentricity of our species, like ice curling or the Osmond family.

But I do understand. I remember being afraid of the dark, too. And sometimes when I'm locking up the house at night or heading to the kitchen for a midnight snack, I get that frighteningly familiar chill on the back of my neck — and I am briefly reconnected with the way it felt to be very little in a very big, very dark place.

So even though I'll most often send you back to bed and remind you that it is your job to stay there, I'll never be angry at you for this.

Sometimes we feel scared. That's just part of who we are.

Love,
dad

FOR VALENTINE'S DAY

Dear Spike:

Every year on Valentine's Day, I count myself among the luckiest schmucks in the world.

Take today, for instance: While other people were running around buying candy, picking up flowers, making dinner reservations and selecting risqué gifts for their significant other, I was spending the day snowboarding.

You see, your mother spent several years working at a Hallmark gift shop. After that, she's sort of lost her taste for Valentine's Day. So I help her celebrate, each year, by doing the least romantic things possible. For instance, today I took our only car and left her to care for you all by herself a while I sought to feed my adrenaline addiction in Big Cottonwood Canyon.

Wasn't that sweet of me?

Truth is, though, that I'm not an unromantic guy. I just choose to perform gratuitous acts of affection on days in which I have not been told to perform gratuitous acts of affection. After all, flowers aren't really all that romantic if it takes the annual celebration of the death of a mythical martyr to remind you to buy them. Follow me?

So I say to you, my child: Do not settle for false romance. When it comes time for you to fall in love, make sure you respect that love with kindness, selflessness and generosity on every day of the year.

And if you have to let your outward affection lapse for just one day, Feb. 14 ain't a bad date on the calendar to do just that.

Love,
dad

BRAVER AND STRONGER

Dear Spike:

You could have screamed, cried, hit, kicked, bitten or thrown a tantrum.

Any of those responses would have been a common way for a two-year-old girl to react when a friend takes away the toy with which she was playing.

But none of those responses would have been appropriate. Not even for a two year old.

And somehow you knew this.

Thus, you turned to your friend and said, quite simply:

"It made me sad when you took away the toy I was playing with."

You make me so proud.

Someday you're going to learn that most people would much rather scream, cry, hit, kick, bite or throw a tantrum than discuss a dispute with the sort of grace you showed today. And someday you're going to learn that not everyone will respond as well to this level of maturity as your friend Savannah, who briefly considered your words and promptly returned the toy.

No, they'll respond as a two year old might.

They'll shush you. Insult you. Humiliate you. They'll tell you you're not worthy to speak — not even on your own behalf.

You may consider this alongside all the other pieces of do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do advice I have offered to you, for I have not always responded well to such affronts. Not at all.

But you can. For you are smarter, braver and stronger than I ever was or could ever hope to be.

So hold your head high and wear a thick skin. Meet ignorance with intelligence. Meet anger with grace.

And when you are presented the opportunity to take the high road, seek an even higher road.

It will be the road less traveled, to be certain. It will be steep, narrow and in all other ways difficult to traverse. But if you convince yourself that it is the only road worth taking, it will be.

And the view will be beautiful.

Love,
dad

STANDING BEFORE TIGERS

Dear Spike:

The tiger thrashed against the wall, gnashing its teeth and growling like a 57 Chevy.

I knew, of course, that an inch of bullet-proof glass was separating us from the deadly cat, but my first impulse was to scoop you up and run.

But when I looked down, you were just laughing.

I realize, of course, that in the days and months to come it will be my job to teach you to be wary of things that could hurt you. But at least for now, it brings me great joy to see that you are not afraid of this world — not even man-eating beasts.

When I tell you stories about a little girl who shares your name, they always start like this, "... she was smart, and brave, and beautiful, and tough — and very, very kind."

We've known for a long time that you are a smart little girl. And although I'd like to take some credit for that, I fully acknowledge that your mother had more to do with it.

And my, you are a tough one, too. I learned that in the hospital on the day you were born as I watched you fight your way into this world — and somehow I think that's when you learned to be tough, too. You take your bumps and bruises like a seasoned bull rider. No sense crying over skinned knees.

And I can't help but think you're beautiful. Everyone else says so, too. They say that about all kids, of course, but when they say it about you they actually mean it.

And yes, I see you practice random acts of kindness every single day. I'd always thought the Golden Rule was a learned principle of humanity until I met you.

But bravery – that strange elixir of courage, principle and stubbornness — is harder to quantify and harder to detect in a tiny little girl.

It's more than just standing before tigers. It's more than racing down snow-covered mountains with a sheet of fiberglass strapped to your feet. It's more than jumping out of airplanes or stepping into a hockey rink or even marching off to war. Any of those things might indicate bravery, but also might indicate simple stupidity. And while some people might believe there is a fine line in between, I don't think that's true.

Bravery is standing up for yourself when you know that it's going to hurt. Bravery is standing up for others when you know that they might otherwise be hurt. Bravery is understanding that the human condition, by law, is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short — and deciding to do something to make it communal, rich, beautiful, kind and long.

And I see all of this inside of you. More and more, every day.

love,
dad

OUT OF CONTEXT

Dear Spike:

Among the hundreds of men uniformly clad in black T-shirts, orange pants and black Converse sneakers were murderers, muggers, rapists and drug pushers.

In the now-famous exercise yard at the Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center in the Philippines, they danced to the music of an accused child molester — to viral worldwide admiration.

In that context, it's a rather unsettling scene. And yet, out of context, it would hardly be worth remarking upon at all.

If you limit your appreciation to that which is created by those whose lives reflect your own standards of morality, integrity and decency, you'll miss out on a lot.

The King of Pop was, at very least, a radically inappropriate adult companion to young children at his Disneyesque mansion. But if you disregard his songs out of contempt for his lifestyle, you'll be missing out on a canon that changed the way the world thought about popular music.

One of the greatest filmmakers of the 20th Century is a decrepit coward who has spent the past three decades avoiding punishment for raping a 13-year-old girl. Yet if you never see Roman Polanski's The Pianist, you'd be missing a film of enormous power, grace and humanity.

One of the greatest golfer of all time is a philandering jackass who defiled his marriage, his duties as a father and his status as a role model in exchange for a trashy troupe of cocktail waitresses and skin models. But if you never saw Tiger Woods play golf, you'd miss the opportunity to see a man so good at his craft that he is often only in competition with himself.

Jackson Pollock redefined painting. He was an explosively abusive alcoholic.

Bill Cosby has made generation after generation of Americans laugh and came to be known as "America's Dad." He also cheated on his wife and allegedly drugged women to get them into bed.

And those prisoners? Who knows the extent of evil that resulted in their incarceration at Cebu. But millions upon millions of people have watched their joyful dances — and been made joyful as a result.

Art is beauty sometimes borne of beast. But it is beauty nonetheless.

Love,
dad

AT ONE POINT

Dear Spike:

You sang "I'm just a little black rain cloud" today.

Over and over and over again.

At one point in my life, I might have found that annoying.

Not anymore.

Love,
dad

A WARM HEART

Dear Gaga:

It's been just over a year since you left us, and I wanted to let you know that I'm still keeping my promise.

I'm taking care of your "littlest angel." And of the tiny one that you called "my littlest littlest angel" — the girl I call "Spike."

Oh, I know you didn't like that. But there's a method to our madness, there really is. And you'll be happy to know that, despite her nickname and much to her father's chagrin, she prefers dresses to pants and likes to wear her hair in bows. She dances until she's dizzy. And she likes to pretend she's Cinderella.

At the same time, she'll pitch off her tricycle at full throttle, hit the floor with a thud and be back on her feet before the bike rolls to a stop. She doesn't mind getting dirty. And she's not shy around anyone anymore.

She's tough. And in that way, she takes after you.

She asks about you all the time. At first we told her that you were in our hearts — and that's true. But after a while, the literal idea of that was sort of freaking her out. So finally your littlest angel told your littlest littlest angel that you died and went to heaven. And that's true, too.

She knows a lot about you, too. She knows that you were a great cook and that you were a kind person. She knows that you had soft hands and a warm heart.

She knows that you were her great grandmother.

And we won't let her forget.

I promise.

Love,
Spike's dad