Dear Spike:
It broke 90 today. Maybe hit 95 in some parts of the city. Whatever, it was hot. And summer only just started.
Seems like just yesterday that everyone was complaining about the cold, wet spring we'd been having. Heck, it practically was yesterday — well, it was last week, in any case.
Last week!
"Oh my heck," they were saying. "I just don't know why summer isn't here yet."
And then, this week: "Oh goodness gravy, it's just so hot!"
Here's the thing about Salt Lake City: We're sitting at about 4,300 feet altitude, so winters are pretty damn cold. We're also sort of in the middle of the desert, so summers are pretty damn hot.
And there's really not that much in between. A bit of a wet fall, a wetter spring — neither lasts too long.
None of it's intolerable. The cold stuff comes along with an awesome snowpack in the Wasatch Mountains — almost 800 inches this year, in the canyons. I went snowboarding on Memorial Day in a foot of powder. The warm stuff opens up those very same canyons for hiking an biking and camping and bird watching. It's all minutes from our front door.
Don't complain. It's silly. It doesn't change anything. And it disrespects the very forces of Mother Nature that hold us here.
It's supposed to drop back into the 80s for the rest of the week. Nice stuff.
Don't get used to it.
Love,
dad
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
EVERY DAMN TIME
Dear Spike:
Your fourth birthday fell on a Saturday. We celebrated on that day with your grandparents and then, the following Saturday, with your friends. You and the gang painted flower pots, costumed up for an impromptu street parade, and devoured a (pralines-and-cream) ice cream cake. It was a dandy time.
My 33rd birthday came the following Wednesday. It wasn't such a dandy time.
We were planning to go out for a fancy family dinner that night at my favorite restaurant (the delightful and delectable Mazza — which also happen to be your favorite restaurant) but you had a bit of a melt down while trying to decide which bow you would wear in your hair.
And so you went to "time out." And while you were sitting there in the corner, whimpering like a wounded Yorkshire Terrier, your mother and I changed out of our swanky clothes and resigned ourselves to an uneventful, un-birthdarific evening.
I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty. That's not my style and, besides, my birthday has never been all that important to me.
I tell you this because I want you to understand what happened after we canceled dinner:
You screamed. You flailed. You sobbed. You gasped. You begged. And you cried, off and on, for the rest of the night.
And even though you're a well-behaved kid, (the best kid I know, in fact,) we knew this was going to happen, because there ain't nothing you like more than puttin' on the Ritz.
Truth is, it would have been a lot easier to just let you get over the small hissyfit you were having about that damned bow, then clean you up and march ever-forward to Mazza. That certainly would have been easier for your mother and I, but would have been wrong for you — because it would have deviated from our standard parenting procedure.
That is to say: When you commit the crime, you serve the time — every time.
Every. Damn. Time.
So sure, this was supposed to be a special night — but any other time, your little melt down would have resulted in the cancellation of whatever fun thing we had planned for that day. And while folks can (and probably do) criticize our parenting on a variety of levels, I don't think anyone would ever accuse us of being inconsistent with you when it comes to discipline.
And I really believe that is the reason why nights like the one we experienced on my birthday are so rare with you. You understand our expectations. You understand what happens when those expectations are not met. You make decisions accordingly.
That's not to say that you don't occasionally make the wrong decision (as evidenced by Wednesday night's tantrum, you most certainly do make the wrong decision sometimes.) But you never have to guess — and so you have very little incentive to test our limits.
Someday you'll probably have your own kids. And I'm certainly not the type of guy who will be standing over your shoulder to tell you how to raise'm right. Everybody parents differently, after all, and it's not my place to criticize — so I'll just offer this observation: The most convenient decisions for parents are not often the best decisions for their children.
And come to think of it, that's not just a good rule for parenting. It's a good rule for life: The most convenient decisions are not always the best decisions for anyone.
That doesn't mean you always have to do things the hard way. It just means you should always at least consider the hard way, along with its costs and its benefits.
Earlier this evening, we made another run at going out for a fancy birthday dinner. Afterward, we went next door for some gelato.
And you were an absolute angel.
It was the best birthday present ever.
Love,
dad
Your fourth birthday fell on a Saturday. We celebrated on that day with your grandparents and then, the following Saturday, with your friends. You and the gang painted flower pots, costumed up for an impromptu street parade, and devoured a (pralines-and-cream) ice cream cake. It was a dandy time.
My 33rd birthday came the following Wednesday. It wasn't such a dandy time.
We were planning to go out for a fancy family dinner that night at my favorite restaurant (the delightful and delectable Mazza — which also happen to be your favorite restaurant) but you had a bit of a melt down while trying to decide which bow you would wear in your hair.
And so you went to "time out." And while you were sitting there in the corner, whimpering like a wounded Yorkshire Terrier, your mother and I changed out of our swanky clothes and resigned ourselves to an uneventful, un-birthdarific evening.
I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty. That's not my style and, besides, my birthday has never been all that important to me.
I tell you this because I want you to understand what happened after we canceled dinner:
You screamed. You flailed. You sobbed. You gasped. You begged. And you cried, off and on, for the rest of the night.
And even though you're a well-behaved kid, (the best kid I know, in fact,) we knew this was going to happen, because there ain't nothing you like more than puttin' on the Ritz.
Truth is, it would have been a lot easier to just let you get over the small hissyfit you were having about that damned bow, then clean you up and march ever-forward to Mazza. That certainly would have been easier for your mother and I, but would have been wrong for you — because it would have deviated from our standard parenting procedure.
That is to say: When you commit the crime, you serve the time — every time.
Every. Damn. Time.
So sure, this was supposed to be a special night — but any other time, your little melt down would have resulted in the cancellation of whatever fun thing we had planned for that day. And while folks can (and probably do) criticize our parenting on a variety of levels, I don't think anyone would ever accuse us of being inconsistent with you when it comes to discipline.
And I really believe that is the reason why nights like the one we experienced on my birthday are so rare with you. You understand our expectations. You understand what happens when those expectations are not met. You make decisions accordingly.
That's not to say that you don't occasionally make the wrong decision (as evidenced by Wednesday night's tantrum, you most certainly do make the wrong decision sometimes.) But you never have to guess — and so you have very little incentive to test our limits.
Someday you'll probably have your own kids. And I'm certainly not the type of guy who will be standing over your shoulder to tell you how to raise'm right. Everybody parents differently, after all, and it's not my place to criticize — so I'll just offer this observation: The most convenient decisions for parents are not often the best decisions for their children.
And come to think of it, that's not just a good rule for parenting. It's a good rule for life: The most convenient decisions are not always the best decisions for anyone.
That doesn't mean you always have to do things the hard way. It just means you should always at least consider the hard way, along with its costs and its benefits.
Earlier this evening, we made another run at going out for a fancy birthday dinner. Afterward, we went next door for some gelato.
And you were an absolute angel.
It was the best birthday present ever.
Love,
dad
Friday, May 27, 2011
OUR BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION
Dear Spike:
Today is your fourth birthday — and we certainly made the most of it.
We started the day with a tradition that I hope you will continue to uphold as your grow older: We gave your mother a present — a emerald bracelet — to thank her for everything she did to bring you into this world.
And then it was your turn. You made out like a bandit, but your favorite presents, by far, were the two costumes that your grandmother hand-stitched for you: A Cinderella dress and a cowgirl outfit. Both are lovely, but my inner feminist prefers the latter — and indeed, that's the get-up you wore as we took our birthday celebration to Liberty Park.
We started the day at the Tracy Aviary — one of your favorite places (and, conveniently, just a short walk from our home) where we took in a bird show (your mother and grandmother both were chosen to participate) and fed a flock of Sun Conures. You bravely let the curious little birds jump onto your arm and eat an apple slice from your fingertips. And your smile was as bright as their rainbow-colored feathers.
Next to the aviary is a small amusement park, and your grandfather and grandmother treated you to turns on the Ferris wheel, carousel and other rides. We ate over-priced hot dogs and sweet potatoes fries from the park's concessionaire, and then we headed home to set up your new tent in the backyard.
In the evening, we shared a meal of your choosing (soup, salad and bread) a cake that you made with your mother (homemade chocolate with green butter frosting and candied pansies).
In the end, today will likely melt into all the other birthdays of your young life. You might not remember it all that clearly — if you remember it at all.
But I assure you, we all had a blast.
Love,
dad
Today is your fourth birthday — and we certainly made the most of it.
We started the day with a tradition that I hope you will continue to uphold as your grow older: We gave your mother a present — a emerald bracelet — to thank her for everything she did to bring you into this world.
And then it was your turn. You made out like a bandit, but your favorite presents, by far, were the two costumes that your grandmother hand-stitched for you: A Cinderella dress and a cowgirl outfit. Both are lovely, but my inner feminist prefers the latter — and indeed, that's the get-up you wore as we took our birthday celebration to Liberty Park.
We started the day at the Tracy Aviary — one of your favorite places (and, conveniently, just a short walk from our home) where we took in a bird show (your mother and grandmother both were chosen to participate) and fed a flock of Sun Conures. You bravely let the curious little birds jump onto your arm and eat an apple slice from your fingertips. And your smile was as bright as their rainbow-colored feathers.
Next to the aviary is a small amusement park, and your grandfather and grandmother treated you to turns on the Ferris wheel, carousel and other rides. We ate over-priced hot dogs and sweet potatoes fries from the park's concessionaire, and then we headed home to set up your new tent in the backyard.
In the evening, we shared a meal of your choosing (soup, salad and bread) a cake that you made with your mother (homemade chocolate with green butter frosting and candied pansies).
In the end, today will likely melt into all the other birthdays of your young life. You might not remember it all that clearly — if you remember it at all.
But I assure you, we all had a blast.
Love,
dad
Sunday, May 8, 2011
AS SHE IS
Dear Spike:
Today is Mother's Day. And as it happens your mother is working overtime on your behalf today.
Sometimes, the things in life that could most certainly go without saying are the most important things to say. And in this spirit, let me say something about your mom:
She's amazing. And she loves you like nothing else in the world.
You're a lot like your mother — more and more every day — and I figure that's a wonderful thing, because there is no better person on this planet for you to be like. If you are kind as she is, and if you are passionate as she is, and if you are capable as she is, then you will grow up to be a very amazing person.
As she is.
It's been a very long couple of days for me here (and you both, there, I know) — and the days ahead are almost certain to prove to be even more challenging for all of us. But I am strengthened by the absolute knowledge that you are in the absolutely best hands in the world.
Be good to your mom. Today and always.
Love,
dad
Today is Mother's Day. And as it happens your mother is working overtime on your behalf today.
Sometimes, the things in life that could most certainly go without saying are the most important things to say. And in this spirit, let me say something about your mom:
She's amazing. And she loves you like nothing else in the world.
You're a lot like your mother — more and more every day — and I figure that's a wonderful thing, because there is no better person on this planet for you to be like. If you are kind as she is, and if you are passionate as she is, and if you are capable as she is, then you will grow up to be a very amazing person.
As she is.
It's been a very long couple of days for me here (and you both, there, I know) — and the days ahead are almost certain to prove to be even more challenging for all of us. But I am strengthened by the absolute knowledge that you are in the absolutely best hands in the world.
Be good to your mom. Today and always.
Love,
dad
Saturday, May 7, 2011
MAKE US HUMAN
Dear Spike:
You cried off and on all morning long. But when it came time to say goodbye, you were very brave.
“I’ll miss you,” you said as we knelt together on the drop-off curb near Terminal 2. “But you will be home soon.”
“Yes,” I said. “I will be home soon.”
A bird flew past my luggage, landing on a bench nearby. “Can I chase it?” you asked.
“Not today,” I said. And with that your mother lifted you off the ground and hefted you into your car seat.
One more hug and a kiss — awkward as I leaned into the doorframe with my heavy rucksack on my back — and then I lumbered away. Heartsick.
I love and hate these trips.
The hate part is easy to explain. I hate leaving you.
The love part is tougher to put into words. This is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going to be a comfortable trip. It will take me six days of hard traveling to get to my destination in southern Ethiopia. Once there, we will camp outside of a tribal village and, over the next week, work to build trust with local villagers enough to get them to share with us a dark and disturbing secret. I don’t love the mosquitoes, the parasites, the burning hot African sun. I don’t love the prospect of dealing with layers upon layers of government officials who do not want me to share their shame with the world. I don’t hate those things, per se, but I don’t love them, either.
But I do love the prospect — however slight it might be — that my work might matter. It might change some lives. And, in this case, it might just save a few, too. That’s why I love this. That’s why I leave you.
It’s easy to love something. A person. A work of art. A job. A place.
And it’s easy to hate, too. (Far too easy, I’d say.)
But those things that make us feel both emotions at the same time — those things are what make us human, I think.
And I am feeling very human today. I’m anxious, excited, giddy and sad. I’m wary and tired and curious and proud.
I’m ready. And I’m not.
I will miss you, dear little one. And I will think about you every minute that I am away.
Love,
dad
P.S. — Dear Spike's friends: To learn more about out project, and what you can do to support it, visit mingistoryproject.blogspot.com
You cried off and on all morning long. But when it came time to say goodbye, you were very brave.
“I’ll miss you,” you said as we knelt together on the drop-off curb near Terminal 2. “But you will be home soon.”
“Yes,” I said. “I will be home soon.”
A bird flew past my luggage, landing on a bench nearby. “Can I chase it?” you asked.
“Not today,” I said. And with that your mother lifted you off the ground and hefted you into your car seat.
One more hug and a kiss — awkward as I leaned into the doorframe with my heavy rucksack on my back — and then I lumbered away. Heartsick.
I love and hate these trips.
The hate part is easy to explain. I hate leaving you.
The love part is tougher to put into words. This is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going to be a comfortable trip. It will take me six days of hard traveling to get to my destination in southern Ethiopia. Once there, we will camp outside of a tribal village and, over the next week, work to build trust with local villagers enough to get them to share with us a dark and disturbing secret. I don’t love the mosquitoes, the parasites, the burning hot African sun. I don’t love the prospect of dealing with layers upon layers of government officials who do not want me to share their shame with the world. I don’t hate those things, per se, but I don’t love them, either.
But I do love the prospect — however slight it might be — that my work might matter. It might change some lives. And, in this case, it might just save a few, too. That’s why I love this. That’s why I leave you.
It’s easy to love something. A person. A work of art. A job. A place.
And it’s easy to hate, too. (Far too easy, I’d say.)
But those things that make us feel both emotions at the same time — those things are what make us human, I think.
And I am feeling very human today. I’m anxious, excited, giddy and sad. I’m wary and tired and curious and proud.
I’m ready. And I’m not.
I will miss you, dear little one. And I will think about you every minute that I am away.
Love,
dad
P.S. — Dear Spike's friends: To learn more about out project, and what you can do to support it, visit mingistoryproject.blogspot.com
Thursday, March 31, 2011
FROM THAT SPARK
Dear Spike:
I'm not sure how it escaped me — and I'm not sure how I finally remembered, either — but this evening as I was sitting with your mother, it suddenly occurred to me...
... we have been together for 10 years.
I first met your mom in the kitchen of an apartment I shared with two roommates, Adam and Joel, in Corvallis.
I don't have the best memory in the world, but I remember that moment vividly.
She was wearing a pink sweater and black pants. He shoulder-length brown hair was pulled into a single ponytail. And she had the most striking eyes — one significantly more green, the other significantly more blue — I'd ever seen.
Just one problem: She was dating Adam.
Over the next few weeks we got to know each other, usually while waiting for Adam to get ready for their dates. He always seemed to take a really long time. And I didn't mind that one bit.
While she waited, we chatted. And while we chatted, we might have even flirted a bit.
And why not? She was funny and sassy and confident and intelligent. Absolutely beautiful. And while it seemed that she and Adam were having a good time together, it never seemed that their relationship was destined to be more than a college romance.
I learned that she was a local girl – she lived in north town with her parents. She learned that I was a bit of a cad — after a long relationship had gone sour, I was... um... exploring my new-found freedom.
I was getting close to graduation. She was in her freshman year. We both needed to take an astronomy class — and we agreed to take it together. At least, we reasoned, we'd have something to talk about when she was waiting for Adam.
Then, one day, Adam came home and told me that they'd broken up. No big deal, he said. They just weren't meant for each other.
And I started counting the days until our astronomy class began.
It didn't take long for me to convince her to ditch class...
... first for lunch at the New Morning Bakery, where we sat next to one another and she glibly mocked my vegetarian diet ...
... next for a picnic at Avery Park, where we shared strawberries and a bottle of wine and watched the Marys River trickle by.
I liked her. She liked me. But I was, I admit, a little standoffish. She knew I'd recently been seeing several women — and I didn't want her to think that she was just another one of the bunch.
Then, one evening, we took a stroll through her neighborhood and wound up facing one another on a sliding platform in the playground at her old elementary school.
I leaned forward. She did too.
I've shared a lot of great kisses with your mother, but none so soft and tender as that one. Ten years it has been, and I can still feel the wetness of her lips. I can still hear her stuttering breath as I touched the back of her neck. I can still see her coy smile as we parted.
It was only a matter of weeks later that we were living together. And just a matter of months before we were engaged. We were married in your grandparent's backyard on a stunning August night.
Ten years, we've been together. And while things are not always perfect — nothing in life is perfect, you see — I wouldn't change a thing.
Because out of that first meeting, there was a spark.
And from that spark, there was a kiss.
And from that kiss, there grew love.
And in that love, a family began.
No, nothing in life is perfect. But I couldn't imagine how it could be any better, either.
Ten years it's been. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
MY LITTLE PARTNER
Dear Spike:
Your mother called today with the good news: "She got into Highland," she said.
Yes.
Fist pump.
I might as well have learned you'd gotten into Harvard.
There weren't many openings at the preschool we'd chosen for you, but just the same we really weren't looking anywhere else. This school — mostly for the children of Salt Lake School District employees — seemed to have the right combination of location, curriculum and price.
We sat you down in the hallway to tell you the news.
You jumped for joy. I beamed with pride.
And then I went into my room and cried.
For nearly four years you've been my little partner at home. It hasn't always been easy, but we've played games and taken walks. You've gone with me on assignments and waited patiently for me as I've hurried through my writing chores. We've read books, watched movies, made cake. We've spent entire days at the park, in the mountains, at the pool.
Now I'm off to a new job and you're off to a new school.
Well, not for a few months more, at least.
So here it is: The last hurrah. You and me, kiddo. And, oh my, how we're going to make the best of it.
Carpe vicis.
Love,
dad
Your mother called today with the good news: "She got into Highland," she said.
Yes.
Fist pump.
I might as well have learned you'd gotten into Harvard.
There weren't many openings at the preschool we'd chosen for you, but just the same we really weren't looking anywhere else. This school — mostly for the children of Salt Lake School District employees — seemed to have the right combination of location, curriculum and price.
We sat you down in the hallway to tell you the news.
You jumped for joy. I beamed with pride.
And then I went into my room and cried.
For nearly four years you've been my little partner at home. It hasn't always been easy, but we've played games and taken walks. You've gone with me on assignments and waited patiently for me as I've hurried through my writing chores. We've read books, watched movies, made cake. We've spent entire days at the park, in the mountains, at the pool.
Now I'm off to a new job and you're off to a new school.
Well, not for a few months more, at least.
So here it is: The last hurrah. You and me, kiddo. And, oh my, how we're going to make the best of it.
Carpe vicis.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
FRIENDS WITH CARS
Dear Spike:
He's got long blond hair and a devilish smile. And the other day he came rolling up in a PowerWheels Jeep.
"I just got a new car," he yelled out from across the street. "Want to go for a ride?"
Suddenly, your mother says, the future flashed before her eyes. Someday, she realized, some good looking young person is going to pull up to our home in a real car, rev the engine a few times for good measure, and invite you for a ride.
But the way I see it, you've got two choices in life: You can accept the future or you can't. And either way, the future is coming — or it's not, which is really not a very good outcome. So I've come to terms with the future, and much of what it entails...
... I think.
So yes, someday you will have friends with cars. And yes, someday you too will drive.
There will be parties. And concerts. And dates.
And inevitably you'll want to wear something that I don't want you to wear.
And inevitably you'll want to do something that I don't want you to do.
I get that.
I also know that you'll not always make the decisions that I would wish for you. About all your mother and I can do about that is try our damnedest to give you the confidence, morals and support it takes to make good choices in hard situations.
And I know you will. Mostly.
As for all those other times...
... well...
... please wear your seat belt.
Love,
dad
He's got long blond hair and a devilish smile. And the other day he came rolling up in a PowerWheels Jeep.
"I just got a new car," he yelled out from across the street. "Want to go for a ride?"
Suddenly, your mother says, the future flashed before her eyes. Someday, she realized, some good looking young person is going to pull up to our home in a real car, rev the engine a few times for good measure, and invite you for a ride.
But the way I see it, you've got two choices in life: You can accept the future or you can't. And either way, the future is coming — or it's not, which is really not a very good outcome. So I've come to terms with the future, and much of what it entails...
... I think.
So yes, someday you will have friends with cars. And yes, someday you too will drive.
There will be parties. And concerts. And dates.
And inevitably you'll want to wear something that I don't want you to wear.
And inevitably you'll want to do something that I don't want you to do.
I get that.
I also know that you'll not always make the decisions that I would wish for you. About all your mother and I can do about that is try our damnedest to give you the confidence, morals and support it takes to make good choices in hard situations.
And I know you will. Mostly.
As for all those other times...
... well...
... please wear your seat belt.
Love,
dad
Friday, March 18, 2011
BIT O' GREEN
Dear Spike:
Today is St. Patrick's Day. And although your ancestors came from all over this big, green earth, the biggest piece of 'em came from one big, green island.
You're Irish, kid. So today is your day.
Or something like that. Truth is that St. Paddy's is for everyone. That's what I really love about it. Each year on March 17, it doesn't matter if you're black, brown, white or whatever — so long as you're wearing a bit o' green.
Still, your heritage gives you the right to be particularly proud on this day. I think that's OK. It's good to be proud of who you are and where you came from — just so long as you share it equally with everyone.
Love,
dad
Today is St. Patrick's Day. And although your ancestors came from all over this big, green earth, the biggest piece of 'em came from one big, green island.
You're Irish, kid. So today is your day.
Or something like that. Truth is that St. Paddy's is for everyone. That's what I really love about it. Each year on March 17, it doesn't matter if you're black, brown, white or whatever — so long as you're wearing a bit o' green.
Still, your heritage gives you the right to be particularly proud on this day. I think that's OK. It's good to be proud of who you are and where you came from — just so long as you share it equally with everyone.
Love,
dad
Thursday, March 3, 2011
THOSE ROUGH WATERS
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
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
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