One Piece at a Time

“The story of our lives. Written page by page. Careful what you write. You gotta read it all some day.”

When I was a child staying at my grandmother’s in East Texas, inevitably I had to take food to Mrs. Douglass’ house.

I viewed this as penance for some yet-to-be-committed sin, in part because Mrs. Douglass and I had nothing in common and I was not interested in a career in the pharmaceutical industry at age 11. At this point in the story – Mrs. Douglass was a white haired, frail widow in her early 80s – conversation revolved around the variety of doctor’s appointments and prescriptions she was taking.

Mrs. Douglass was inevitably polite – although bitter about her lot in life, it seemed to my childhood self – and she always seemed to enjoy my visits. The pattern rarely deviated: I sat on the couch and, after a 30-second description and acknowledgment of the home-cooked meal my grandmother had made, listened to her describe her various ailments and what they prevented her from doing. After 15 or 20 minutes, I was escorted to the door and told to come back soon.

“I never want to be like that,” I told my grandmother more than once.

She nodded, pursed her lips slightly, and gave me a half smile.

••••••

“You can give away some things. That you never will get back. One piece at a time. And you never will get them back.”

My father-in-law is 80. Over the 15-plus years I’ve known him, the conversational window has narrowed considerably. At one point we could talk about photography; recently he barely looked at the pictures I showed him, even though most were of his grandchildren. At another, he could provide you with a dissertation examining the merits vs. the weaknesses of any sport involving the University of North Carolina. Now he barely talks about his beloved Tar Heels.

The relationship Jill and her brother have with their father is fractious, prickly, and tense. This is nothing new, but rather an extension of feelings that have been there since childhood. The undercurrents of lives that constantly overlap and occasionally intersect are never far from the surface.

Jill (I know) and her brother (I’m sure) have spent countless hours trying to figure out the enigma who is responsible for their place on this planet. And while it’s not my place to say what they think, I believe it comes down to this: Don’t mistake gratitude for kindness.

Like Mrs. Douglass, Bob’s life seems to revolve around two things — his visits to the doctor and the various prescriptions that he is taking to extend his life. He too is bitter, so focused on those things that he doesn’t seem to care about much else.

Recently, I drove to Boone as part of a Virginia/North Carolina trek that also involved parents’ weekend at Nicholas’ college (more about that in a separate post). Jill and her brother are trying to see Bob at least once a month and this gave me an opportunity to help.

Bob appeared grateful. He appreciated my taking him to the doctor and taking care of the things he has on a never-ending list. He talked of wanting to leave the assisted care facility to return to his house full time, although he’s not in good enough health for that to happen.

His charm with others not close to him remains intact. The person who has cut his hair for years spoke of his wit (and his love for Carolina sports). As he shuffled through the lobby, where a community band honked through the “Gilligan’s Island” theme at a 5:30 dinner concert, a couple of his fellow residents perked up, said hello, and waited for his acknowledgment. He gave them a nod, but didn’t sit with them.

Meanwhile, his temper simmered just below the surface, and he struggled not to bark or bellow. His temper, while infamous, is not something his children talk about, and you can tell he struggles to control it.

On more than one occasion, I’ve heard Jill mention that her father is not a kind man. I didn’t see it fully, however, until this visit, when I realized all along that I had mistaken gratitude for the kindness I had hoped to see.

••••••

“You need a strong heart. You need a true heart. You need a heart like that in a world like this. So you don’t get faithless.”

Four years ago, on Sept. 11, my second “mom” passed away. In many ways, she had died 3 1/2 years earlier.

If you follow this blog for any period of time, you will discover that I had two sets of “parents” — my biological ones and Fran and Bill, who lived across the street from us growing up. We moved into my childhood home on 22nd Avenue in Texas City when I was 4, and my parents became fast friends with the couple across the street and one house over to the left.

Much more than my parents, Bill was my personal familial enigma, although unlike Bob we reached a much more peaceful resolution in the end. With my mom facing a much more difficult juggling act (work, kids, sick husband) than any of us knew, I often turned to Fran for advice and support.

And Fran freely dispensed it, in what my mom called her “Yankee” way. (Ironically, it took me a while to realize that mom’s definition of Yankee includes the south side of Chicago.) Fran was always quick with an opinion and never afraid to share it, whether it was about my choices in music or literature. Unlike my grandmother, she didn’t partake in the rock and roll era (more about that in a future post, too).

Like my father, Fran had health issues for much of her adult life, and it took me some time to realize just how much she relied on Bill for everything. Without children of their own, all they had was each other, even though they treated us like their kids.

Fran marched in lock step with her Catholicism, never missing a mass and politically aligned largely with its beliefs. But after Bill died in 2004, she started questioning everything, including her own belief about the end of life.

One afternoon, during one of my 14 trips to Texas in 2007 to see my dad in the hospital, I stopped by Fran’s house for a visit. She was using oxygen, largely confined to bed or her chair.

Like Bob and Mrs. Douglass, most visits with Fran at the time were conversations about doctors, her various caregivers, and her medical treatments. The conversations had narrowed so much that a person I once could talk to at any time ran out of things to say in just minutes.

But on this mid-May day, we sat in her bedroom, went through pictures of the kids — unlike Bob, she remained interested — and talked about life’s trivia. She even endured a song I could not get out of my head at the time — Jon Dee Graham’s “Faithless.”

She put her head back on her chair and listened, eyes closed.

“In the deep blue dark down under. Tell me what you’re thinking of…”

She smiled.

“The things we find. The things we lose. The things that we get to keep. Are so damn few. And far between. So far between…”

She teared up, but rebounded at the conclusion.

“You need a strong heart. You need a true heart. You need a heart like that in a world like this. So you don’t get faithless.”

For a moment, she seemed more confident. “That’s how I feel on so many days,” she said. “I get so frustrated. It’s so easy to do.”

Fran told me how much she enjoyed the visit. I gave her a kiss and let myself out. In less than four months, she was dead.

“ … I AM NOT FAITHLESS.”

Tell A Story in 100 Words or Less, Part 6

My niece had just left her cousin's wedding, all dressed up in her beautiful white dress. She held on tightly to a balloon from the church, out of the camera's view. My father zoomed in as the balloon popped, and my niece — slightly blurry in the picture — started crying. Her distant cousin walked up and offered to find her another balloon. They walked off, hand in hand, her arm rubbing at her eyes. As I watched the video, I saw myself as a little boy, the string from the popped balloon still in my hand, no cousins nearby. 

Random Thoughts: Don’t Get Pithy With Me

Why these lodge in my brain, I don’t know…

• After Osama Bin Laden was killed: After 9/11, we united in mourning. Tonight, we united in celebration. Let's hope the next reunion doesn't take almost 10 years.

• Rapture Observation #1: Sign of the pending apocalypse #2747 — The person cutting your hair compares your cowlicks to crop circles.

• Rapture Observation #2: Note to friends who like R.E.M. — If it really is the end of the world as we know it, then why am I not feeling better about the situation?

• Rapture Observation #3: OK, so who said the Rapture had to occur at 6 p.m. EST? Not that I'm worried or anything, but I think we gotta give it until 6 p.m. PST. No wait, what other countries are not in our time zone? Should we wait until 6 p.m. their time, too? At this rate, it could be Tuesday here before it's Rapture time somewhere else, so I guess I just have to stay tuned... Or not.

• When the Day is Just Not Going Well #1: I’ve had the sort of day that can be summarized in this lyric: "Sometimes you're the windshield. Sometimes you're the bug."

• Religion and Sports: I enjoyed reuniting with Seekers (not the Rapture kind) for three hours of softball practice/scrimmaging today. Despite not having played for almost a year, I was in midseason form. (Of course, when you have no form, the time of the season truly doesn't matter...)

• Obscure Pop Culture Reference #1: Airing tonight on TNT in a 24-hour continuous loop — "An Easter Story" (2011). Ralphie's grandson is relentless in his pursuit of a new golf umbrella as he walks the streets of Manhattan. The only problem: His parents won't let him get one because they're the only parents who believe that umbrellas will poke someone's eye out.

• Why Would Anyone Do This? Bumper sticker of the day, seen on a car pulling into a Wal-Mart: "My baby daddy was inmate of the month. Freedom Bail Bonds."

• When It Is 105 Degrees Outside … In June: I’m not terribly familiar with the game of golf, but I'm convinced that Mother Nature needs a mulligan.

• Beauty Tip of the Day: I can assure you, if I ever get to take a vacation, you won't see a picture of my feet by the water. Nothing against the water; I just don't like my feet.

• Obscure Pop Culture Reference #2: There's so much spam on Facebook today (Osama, how you look in 40 years) that I'm starting to feel like a Monty Python group member at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

• The Power of Creativity: I’ve been listening to music this evening — the usual diverse groups of musicians who make no sense on anyone's mix tape — and am reminded of the power of creativity that electrifies our lives. If I can tap into that collective for just a few minutes, then life as I know it will be complete.

• When the Day is Just Not Going Well #2: It's a bad day when you feel like approaching the convenience store clerk with a 12-pack of beer and asking if they have a co-pay.

• The After the Sleepless Night Because of the Hurricane: Based on Facebook status updates in the Greater Washington D.C. area, WTOP has announced that a "nap watch" will start at noon today and move into a "nap warning" by 3 p.m.

• After a Hurricane and an Earthquake in the Course of 2 Weeks: My nominee for Time's Person of the Year — Mother Nature.

• Overheard at Lunch: "Nothing ticks me off more than eavesdropping on a boring conversation."

• OK, So This One is Pretty Pithy: You know you're a grown up when writer's block replaces penis envy on the top 10 list of stressors in your life.

• When the Day is Just Not Going Well #3: It's a bad day when you walk into a meeting and the other person excuses himself to get his wet blanket out of the car.

Reflections: 9/11

For the past couple of weeks, as the coverage of the 10^th anniversary of 9/11 has moved into full 24/7 media frenzy, I’ve thought about addressing it here. And I don’t know how.

Memories that I thought had receded have rushed back like the floodwaters that hit Northern Virginia earlier this week. But my perspective is personal, not societal, and my memories by comparison are nothing next to the feelings that others must be experiencing today.

I remember it like it was yesterday, just like you do. I know what I was doing when the first call came in, just like I remember vividly seeing the Challenger explode in the sky 15 years earlier, or where we were when the levees broke in New Orleans four summers after my generation’s Pearl Harbor.

I remember frantically trying to call my family — I was in Pennsylvania writing a story, Jill was in Virginia, my parents were in Texas. I remember the eerie silence when I returned home the next evening, and how it lingered until planes were allowed to fly again from National Airport.

I remember the pledges of cooperation among our political leaders, and the vows to track down the people who had done this. And how that spirit of cooperation — that feeling that we all are in this together — didn’t last, at least among our members of Congress.

I remember riding my bike to the Pentagon and to Arlington Cemetery at 7:30 a.m. on the first anniversary of 9/11, pulled there by something but silent even then.

I remember the first time we took our kids to the World Trade Center site, reading the names of the missing and dead on a cold winter day two years after it happened. I remember how my stomach sank as we scanned the list, just as it did when I walked through the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C., for the first time at age 18.

I remember reading about and watching — with a mixture of insatiable curiosity and morbid fascination — the first season of “Rescue Me,” the show about the brave but damaged firefighters suffering from survivor’s guilt after making it through 9/11.

I remember revisiting the story I was writing on 9/11/01 for the fifth anniversary, determined to do it justice even as I was taking on a new job.

I remember the death of my second “mom” — Fran — on the sixth anniversary of 9/11, just six weeks after my dad’s death.

I remember sitting in the assistant principal’s office at Ben’s new school two years ago, having just moved him to New York, and listening as the administrators debated the exact times to have moments of silent reflection. I remember leaving the school and walking to a memorial service honoring those killed from the Engine 54 station down the street.

I remember the little boy standing quietly, dressed in his FDNY dress blues and hat, not saying a word. I remember how his mom held the boy — who likely was a baby when 9/11 occurred — tightly to her and how he turned to give her a hug when the ceremony ended.

Leave the commentary to the pundits. Watch what you will — or don’t. I saw what I needed to see when that boy hugged his mom.

On a day like this, these moments of self reflection — realizing just how fortunate I am to be where I am and to have the family and friends that I do, thanks to the selfless sacrifice of others — are enough.

I don’t know what else to say…

The "Why" Factor

At some point in a child’s nascent development, he or she starts asking “Why?” It’s nice to think that it’s because your son or daughter is trying to better understand the issue at hand. But quickly you realize the underlying factor: “Why?” is just the first salvo in the negotiation process.

• “But why do I need to finish my homework now?”

• “Why should I do that? It’s her turn.”

• “Why won’t you let me do that?”

• “Why would you embarrass me like that?”

Of course, when you have teenagers, "Why?" can take on another form. For example, you tell them you're cleaning the bathroom and their response is, "Why?"

Every response, regardless of political disposition, starts sounding like Ronald Reagan: “Well…”

“Smiling at Costco”

Given the start of school — and the running around we must do to get supplies — stores like Wal-Mart and Staples are slammed this time of year. Earlier this week, a friend sighed when I asked if she was prepared for another school year to begin.

"Nope," she said. "I've got to spend this weekend running around to get all of the supplies. Costco is going to love me by Monday."

That reminded me of a former work colleague, who several years ago told me that her then-boyfriend seemed to like Costco more than he liked her. They later got engaged and, as a "present," I wrote this tongue-in-cheek "country song."

Needless to say, the relationship didn't last, although I don't think this was to blame for it.

“Smiling at Costco” (to the tune of any George Jones song)

On our first date they made us show ID.
He pulled out his card, winked and said, 
“Let’s see.”

I blushed and turned away,
Not knowing what to say.
Who knew this was his favorite place to be?

I’d never seen anything like it before.
Where I grew up,
There’s no room for this type of store.

I asked him if this was where he brings all his dates.
He checked his watch – “It’s getting late.”
We hurried inside, and I did not know
Where my life was going to go.

We sampled microwaved food at the various stops.
“Fresh corn,” the vendor said. “Nearby crops.”
Her plastic covered hand offered me a chance to say,

I wish he’d smile at me
The way he smiles when
He’s in Costco.

As we walked down the aisle,
The fluorescent lights blinking all the while,
I wondered if this is what life should bring.

He says there’s no need to sulk.
You can’t buy what we have in bulk.

Wouldn’t ya know, it’s my luck.
But I won’t say that this just sucks. 

I just wish he’d smile at me
The way he smiles when
He’s in Costco.

I thought I’d found it all
But as I waited for his call.
I wondered if he really knew.

He works the floor like a pro.
Shows me the tires and the towels
And the Mop-and-Glo.

He loves the size of econo-paks
And swears it’s not something that I lack.
I wish I had the tact
But I can’t turn back now.

I wish he’d smile at me
The way he smiles when
He’s in Costco.

He says there’s no need to sulk.
You can’t buy what we have in bulk.

I thought of my wedding day.
You can’t find this sort of guy at Sam’s – no way.

I’ve harbored a secret dream
To get married on a cement floor.
Sometimes I suppress a scream.
But I’ll never show him the door.

Cause I know that someday soon
He’ll smile at me
The way he smiles when
He’s in Costco.

Tell A Story in 100 Words or Less, Part 5

My 3-year-old son and I went to see my parents in Texas. It was his turn to ride on a plane. Benjamin wasn't nervous; he entertained rows 18-30 with tales of swimming ("If you don't move your feet, you'll sink like a stone!") and said landing was "just a big bump." In Texas, Benjamin and his grandfather shared a common love of toys, and Granddaddy gave him several Superheroes to take home. On our way back, he played with the plastic toys, then leaned up, smiled, and gave me a kiss. For a brief moment, I was his Superhero.

Why, hello there…

It’s been a while.

I periodically take breaks from writing to concentrate on other things in life — job, spouse, children, the usual stuff. Ideas are constantly coming and going like cars on the autobahn, but something prevents me from turning them into something that’s at least somewhat entertaining.

Recently, when I’ve had the time to work on a blog entry or something for work, my brain/fingers don’t cooperate. When the brain is working – shower, in the car -- the time is never right. And then everything else gets in the way.

I realized earlier this week that I had not filed a blog entry since early July. Wondering why, I decided to check my version of a diary — status updates on Facebook. (Remember, all status updates start with your name. I try to finish the phrase by starting with a verb, but that’s not always successful.)

See if you notice a trend...

End of June:

• I've spent the days of summer (3 thus far) in a darkened auditorium taking pictures of my girls (and anyone else I could shoot) doing 5 hour rehearsals of "Grease" (w/dance recital material thrown in for good measure). It is almost July, and I still look like someone who has not had sun since 1998.

July:

• It's been a good day ... on many levels. Wish Jill was here to celebrate the many things we all have to be thankful for. (To my editor friends, sorry for ending that last sentence in a preposition, but it's late.)

• Has had a wonderful day with Emma. Toured the Harry Potter Exhibition at Discovery Times Square (her version of nerdvana), ate treats at the Cake Boss cafe (see 13th b'day pics if you want to know why that's important), and had a good time with Ben, Neil and Ginno during the dinner break. It's been a lot of fun.

• Made the pilgrimage to the Lincoln Memorial with the kids tonight, something we do every time Nicholas is in town. I'm truly amazed by how much they have grown up over the past year.

• Congratulates Ben on his one-year anniversary in Billy Elliot! He has performed in 416 consecutive shows without missing a beat — a remarkable feat for anyone, let alone a 13-year-old who also went to school full-time. We are very proud of you, son!!!

• Has another one of those weekends lined up. Jill is in Boone today and tomorrow moving her dad. Kate is at a camp. Emma is meeting me in NY tonight and we'll get Ben. Nick is in North Carolina and going out of town. Yes, it is summer...

• Survived the midnight premiere of the last "Harry Potter" and is at work while the kids sleep in...

• Has taken Ben and Neil McCaffrey (happy 13th birthday, Neil!) to the train station, is schlepping Kate to camp, and has seen Jill off to her meeting in Georgia. And it's not even 9 a.m...

• Took Katharine to a two-week wilderness camp today, a 520 mile roundtrip that featured three vicious storms, a 12-mile stretch of interstate that took an hour and a half to slog through, a few photos of rural Virginia, and a very happy 14-year-old. So I guess it was worth it...

August:

• Is getting ready to leave NY with Ben, who after 451 straight performances in Billy Elliot is doing something he's never done in his professional life — taking a vacation.

• Had a great time with Jill and the kids. Of course, we had dinner and a show. Ben sang, Emma danced, Kate laughed (at herself, not her siblings), and Nick created food art in the middle of his plate. A typical family evening!

• Has put Ben on a NY bound train. Nicholas is heading back to NC with the McFarlands this afternoon, while Jill and the girls are returning from Wintergreen. As for me, I'm going home to take a nap, and it not even 7:30 yet...

• Had an amazing evening at Steve Earle's show (thanks again, Jill and kids), which reminded me of the power of music and how it can rejuvenate the mind, body and spirit. As part of it, saw/heard a new favorite band called The Mastersons. Check them out on FB; some of the best new music I've heard in some time.

Last Week:

• Blew two tires just before 1 p.m. and thought that would be my news of the day. Just before 2, at a gas station next to a very pregnant woman, the earthquake hit. 45 seconds later, we stood there wondering what happened. She said, "I thought my water just broke." I told her, "I'm sure a lot of people felt the same."

• Presents the week in headlines: Ben as Michael; 4 tires and an earthquake; Kate in field hockey scrimmages; Nicholas off to college; finding a way home to VA in a hurricane watch with Emma. Next week's prediction: Frogs falling from the sky.

• Amid unprecedented plans to shut down NYC, Emma is on a roll. We're scheduled to be on — literally — the last train out of the city, and she wants to stop at American Eagle one last time. My response: I've been shopping with you more this summer than at any time in your life, so why now? Fluttering her eyes (I swear), she said: You've raised my expectations.

• Is back in Virginia with Emma, exhausted and thankful that the train ride was smooth. Full, but smooth...

Given our lives for the past two years, it was an unusual summer. Nothing earth shattering, just a lot of back and forth, and — fortunately — some quality time spent with all of the kids. I guess you could say there hasn’t been much to blog at home about, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

But now that it’s September, and things are picking up steam, I’m sure I’ll be back in this space soon.

Dimming the ‘Lights’

It’s fitting that my favorite television show is ending its run with episodes tonight and next week, and I won’t be there to watch it. After all, I have seen only two or three episodes of “Friday Night Lights” in real time any way.

And that’s OK, because I never really wanted to watch the show when it started.

I’m a big fan of H.G. Bissinger’s 1990 nonfiction book, which told the story of a northwest Texas and the obsessive fans who rooted for the Odessa Permian football team. I also enjoyed the 2004 film based on Bissinger’s book, but had no interest in a fictionalized TV version.

I didn’t, it turns out, want to go home again.

My family is scattered across the state, from the petroleum-fueled Gulf Coast to the barren West Texas town of Albany to Longview’s piney woods in the east. Football was, is, and forever shall be the center of everything in many of these tiny communities.

That last statement is overly simplified, of course. It's just like the one from the person who says, “The only reason you have December, January, and February is to celebrate Jesus’ birth and to mark the time between the playoffs and the start of spring practice.” (I know that statement isn’t true because I spent almost a decade in North Carolina, where people live for December through February because that’s the heart of ACC basketball season.)

Texas was my home state for 28 years, and for much of that time, the town I grew up in felt stifling. Why look at fiction when I could recall my reality in bright, living, humid color?

The show’s pull loomed large, however, as its first season ended, appropriately when I was traveling back and forth to Texas to see my dad, who was dying of cancer, So I purchased the first season on DVD, but never could watch it. I couldn’t commit.

Then, two months after my father died, I saw a few minutes of the Oklahoma-Texas game at a restaurant and thought immediately of him. He refused to miss any UT game that was on, sitting in his chair in his Longhorns coat, a football fan until the end.

After Oklahoma won by 7, I thought again about growing up in Texas. The next night, I went and found those DVDs. Four bleary eyed days later, fueled by insomnia and the fictional Dillon Panthers, I was ready for season 2.

Fortunately, that season was cut short by the writer’s strike, in part because it had an ill-advised plotline that everyone agrees was a mistake. Still, even in its most ludicrous moments, the show had passages that were absolutely sublime.

The beauty of “Friday Night Lights” is that it’s not just about football, but life in a small town. It is not afraid to deal with issues of class, economics, and race — all of which are facts of life in any small community.

Most of all, it captures the little details so beautifully – the rebellion, confessions, religion, community, mistakes, and connections between neighbors, family, and friends. The marriage between the coach and his wife feels real. The other characters, all with flaws and redeeming qualities, sometimes in equal measure, are archetypes of those we all know.

I know this now having watched all 76 episodes in marathon stretches, always after it has been released on DVD. I usually buy the season on the day it becomes available, intending to watch right away, but inevitably I repeat the season 1 pattern. I dance around it, then watch in a single gulp.

Because season 5 was released before the show started this summer on NBC — its last three seasons were a split arrangement between the network and DirectTV — I’ve already seen the final episode that ended the series run in a typically classy fashion. As the last two episodes approach on television, however, I’ve continued to reflect on “Friday Night Lights” and what it has meant to me.

Why does it make me cringe with memories and smile privately at the same time?

I guess, because when I’m watching from a couch 1,500 miles away, I have a little piece of home — the home where I grew up — with me. As I raise kids of my own, I’m finding more and more that that little piece is a big thing.

Quoting My Kids

Facebook has become the 21st century vehicle for “Kids Say the Darndest Things,” the Art Linkletter/Bill Cosby sketch show that started on radio, moved to television, and now — thanks to social networking — is on the keyboards of friends far and wide.

As I’ve mentioned before, it’s a challenge to be both profound and pithy in just a few words, but fortunately Facebook gives you more than the 140 characters you get with Twitter. (Twitter is too pithy, even for me.)

I especially enjoy my sister’s status updates, which show a dry wit that recalls my dad. Of course, with five children — two of them still relatively small — she has fresh material on a daily basis.

Now that my kids are teens, I don’t get as much “They said what?!?” material as I once did. Still here are a few gems you might have missed:

A recent exchange with Emma as we drove the obstacle course that is Northern Va.:

— E: I heard it was pothole awareness month.
— 
Me: Do you think they're doing anything about it?

— E (hoping she doesn't fall into one): Funny, Dad. You're funny.

• From Ben: "If a boy can still sing 'Gary, Indiana,' then I'm telling you, his voice has NOT changed."

• Tonight's words of wisdom come from Kate, after drinking a Slurpee to mark getting her braces off: "My tongue looks like my hair did" when it was dyed. "But then, my head looked like a fire hydrant."

• From the boy in the bubble: "I'm confused. What's this about the Giants drafting a Prince and a wedding involving a Prince? They aren't the same thing, are they?"

• From Kate, the visual artist (who also kinda likes science): "Lips are tough, but I hate drawing ears. Every time I try to make them look realistic, they look like my small intestine."

• From Emma: "Sure they tell you that you can eat all the ice cream you want when you have your tonsils taken out. What they don't tell you is you won't want to eat a thing after that happens, and that sucks."

• From Ben, during his brief trip home to Virginia for the 1st time in months: 

— "Have you noticed that British people don't talk like us, but when they sing you can't tell the difference?"

— Upon being told that the conductor would be watching him as he rode unaccompanied on the train to New York: "I don't know about that. I'm not sure I want him watching me watching 'Dexter.' That could be a little awkward."

Of course, raising kids gives you material of your own. Here’s my contribution to the cause:

• Another way you know you have teenagers: You tell them you're cleaning the bathroom and their response is, "Why?"

A Reality Tale

Recently, a friend asked, “Is it wrong to want my child to have the fairytale?”

The reference was to the loss of her son’s team in the semifinals of the local Little League championship. The team had gone undefeated through the season and into the playoffs, only to lose to another squad that had less talent on paper but was peaking at the right time.

Watching your child deal with a tough loss is heartbreaking, because it’s natural as parents to want our sons and daughters to have the fairytale ending. And more often than not, we rediscover over and over again that fairytales are just fiction, that “real life” rarely ends the way we would like.

Still, we try. That’s why we buy lottery tickets and compete in contests with little scraps of scratch off cardboard, hoping we’ll be the 1 in 8,373,722 that gets picked. It’s why parents twist and contort schedules and make them look like the intersections of the interstate highway system, just so our children can have opportunities we did not.

••••••

Call me a cynic, but I’ve always thought something was fundamentally wrong with fairytales. First, the creators start with the premise that the protagonist’s family has to be screwed up, with at least one parent dead or absent. (The word “grim” predates the author, but it seems to be the embodiment of Grimm’s Fairytales.)

Second, the derring-do section of the story always involves the handsome prince — “Here I’ve come to save the day!” — swooping in and rescuing the princess before the inevitable “happily ever after” ending. Except, in fairytales, the prince looks nothing like Mighty Mouse or Andy Kaufman.

Like many of my generation, I love The Princess Bride, which tweaks this fairytale premise in such a smart and clever way. (I still remember the line on the back jacket of the tattered paperback: “What happens when the most beautiful woman in the world meets the handsomest prince in the world, and he turns out to be a son-of-a-bitch?”)

My first exposure to the book was in Mrs. Selman’s 9^th grade world history class; every Friday, she read us a chapter and acted out all the parts.

I don’t remember a thing about World History. I will never forget The Princess Bride. It still is one of my best memories of high school.

•••••••

I’m not so jaded that I fail to understand the appeal of the fantasy, but my worldview tends to tilt more toward the “Reality Bites” side. More specifically, it should be dubbed “Reality is Waiting to Bite.”

That’s why I tell my kids all the time, “Don’t court bad karma. If you do, it will find you. And it might anyway, but you don’t want to go looking for it.”

Someone once told me that children in the throes of adolescence lose 10 years of maturity the moment they reach 13. For some, it starts coming back around age 17 or 18; for others, it never seems to return.

So, emotionally speaking, I’m supposed to be back in the land of 3 and 4 year olds. And there are times when I can see that in all of my children.

For the most part, that’s not the case. As parents, Jill and I are very lucky, but we know it’s not a fairytale by any means.

Still, we won’t stop pursuing the happy ending… You never do with your children.

Transitions

The school-to-summer transition always is a strange time.

May and June, like the holiday period from Thanksgiving to New Year’s, always is a crazy period in our lives. Inevitably, we’re dragging the kids to the finish line for school, tired and weary ourselves from getting up early and going to bed late. Meanwhile, all the end-of-year activities jam the calendar, leaving us to rush from one place to the next at a more chaotic pace than usual.

As I write this, I’m sitting in a Starbucks in Alexandria. My daughters are up the hill, dancing in the first of two performances of “Grease.” Ben is in New York, performing in the matinee and evening “Billy Elliot.” Jill is in Seattle at her conference. And Nicholas is in North Carolina with his other family and his girlfriend.

For the first time, it looks like our family won’t be able to take an extended summer vacation. As the kids get older, and activities become even more diverse, it’s becoming more and more difficult to string a week of days together that everyone can be together.

This is a transitional period in our lives as a family, a cycle that every nuclear unit goes through to a certain extent. It has been extremely difficult for Jill, much more so than for me, because I find transitions and changes generally come easily. For Jill, this time of year is doubly hard because of the work/family conflict caused by her conference and the recital always falling on the same weekend.

Despite our best efforts, cloning is not something we’ve managed to master.

••••••

At times like this, it’s hard to imagine that we’ve lived in Northern Virginia for 10 years, that my kids really were 3, 3, 4, and 8 when we moved here.

This year, more than any other, I’ve been aware of that transition, which is one reason I’ve been hanging around the auditorium where the “Grease” dress rehearsals took place. Normally, I can’t wait to get out, to the point where my kids have perfected the tuck and roll as the van hits the parking lot.

But this year is different. It likely will be Kate’s last year to dance; she’s planning to play field hockey starting this fall when she enters high school. Over the last few months, her enthusiasm for dance has waned. You can see she wants something different.

Emma, on the other hand, has really stepped it up. If anything, it’s another part of her emergence from the wide shadow cast by Ben and Kate, another example of how she is growing into her own.

Watching the girls and their peers, you can see transitions occurring for other families, too. Some are getting ready to go to college, like Nicholas. Others, the ones you remember from grade school, are driving themselves to the theatre.

Little kids — fortunately I’m seeing a lot more boys this year — are dressed up in their costumes and don’t want to leave. Their parents, having not been through the drill before, can’t wait to go home.

They’ll learn.

The 'Normal' Minority

In our house, being “normal” means you are decidedly in the minority.

Meet Emma — in many respects the most normal kid I know.

Developmentally at the apex of the bell curve, I like to say my 13-year-old twin came out of the womb a 40-year-old adult. More than one person told us, “That one… She’s been here before.”

Sometimes I feel like she has.

In some respects, Emma has gotten a raw deal in the DC-to-NY shuffle. On one front, her twin brother — the person she is most connected to in this world — is away in another city and having a ball. On the other front, she is at home with her sister, who is her exact opposite in life.

Almost since they were born, I have described the Emma-Kate relationship in a series of obscure visual metaphors that only serve to illustrate just how different they are. Among them:

• Some days I feel compelled to introduce my daughters to each other: “Oil, meet water.”

• With apologies to Ted Nugent — never something I thought I’d say — the background music when they go at it should be “Cat Scratch Fever.”

• If there is ever a community theatre version of Jennifer Weiner’s “In Her Shoes,” I know the two girls who could play the leads.

Same sex sibling relationship aside, Emma has taken what could have been a crushing experience — losing day-to-day contact with her twin — and turned it in her favor through sheer will and determination. She has terrific grades in a challenging academic program and, more important, takes charge of her homework, priding herself on not asking for help.

That means she doesn’t enjoy middle school on some days. Example: "I don't like science. The teacher turns off the lights, turns on the movie, and pfffft, that's it. I'm asleep." Say what you will about the teacher, but it also says something about a child who is both nocturnal and needing to be stimulated and engaged.

What also has been amazing to watch is an ongoing physical transformation, which started when she decided to work like a bull terrier to get into shape. Earlier this year, Emma and her mom ran a 10-mile race, and plan to do so again next spring. The girl who used to be proud of her belly now watches everything she takes in, and while she’s not above the occasional ice cream cone, has mostly sworn off fast food.

The thing I admire most is that Emma has thrived at being “normal,” if there is such a thing. She has a sweet group of friends with whom she is sharing life in middle school, is easily embarrassed by too much parental involvement, and upset when there’s not enough. She can’t load the dishwasher to save her life, but is the first to offer to make you dinner when you most need it.

In a family where the only thing mellow is the drama, she is on a steady course, or at least as steady as one gets these days. For the most part, she is very straightforward about life, and knows that she doesn’t yet know what she wants to be when she grows up.

Recently, waiting at the bus stop — at the horrifically early 6:15 a.m. — I looked at my little girl and was struck by how mature she has become. "You've grown up,” I said. “How did that happen?"

Her matter-of-fact response: "Time..."

Yes, Emma is straddling this period between little girl and young woman just fine. Not perfect always, but just fine. And I don’t think she’d have it any other way…

Everything Changes

Sometimes it takes a little while for things to hit me. I usually prefer to keep a respectful distance between my emotions and the rest of my daily life.

Occasionally, however, I get blindsided at the most unusual times for reasons I rarely understand at the moment. When I do, it feels being hit by the wave you see in the opening credits to “Hawaii Five-O” (original, remake, and Emma’s TV show of the season).

That happened this past weekend, another you can file under the familial "One to Remember" category. Fracturing the time line, let’s start with Monday afternoon, when I went to the pool near our house.

Memorial Day is the ceremonial start of summer in Northern Virginia, the time when the various suburban HOAs decide it’s finally time to open the community pools. Freezing cold or scorching hot, families flock with their towels and sunscreen and stake claims to the lawn chairs. Some, like us, you will rarely see; others won’t leave until Labor Day.

I took a book — one of several I’ve been trying to read unsuccessfully for the past several months — and a seat next to Jill while Kate played with some friends.

The title — Everything Changes.

••••••

The pool and book were a nice way to end a weekend that at times felt more like Groundhog Day (the movie) than Memorial Day (the holiday). On a 900-mile roundtrip that lasted just over 48 hours, I watched as my oldest graduated from high school and my wife and brother-in-law took care of their ailing father.

It was an explicit reminder that we officially are part of the Sandwich Generation, even if our hoagie feels open faced/ended and overwhelmed by condiments. (And that was before I managed to rekindle old ties in the most unlikely of places…)

Because he is the family’s oldest child (and grandchild), Nicholas’ graduation is huge in varying degrees for everyone involved. His transition to adult life turns a large page for him (obviously), as well as both of his families.

The weekend’s activities were an opportunity to bask in nostalgia, to show how proud we are of him, and to take some time remembering what has happened in getting to this point.

But first, we traveled to Boone to see Jill’s dad, who marked his 80^th birthday this month by landing in the hospital with a broken arm and a cancer diagnosis. It was not exactly the way you want to start the ninth decade of your life, but Bob was happy to see his grandchildren, and to get some time away from the rehab facility where he currently resides.

 



Jill and her brother have an up-and-down history with their dad, but both are committed to ensuring that he has comfort, and above all else, dignity. They saw his desire to return to his house and are working to fulfill it as they can, even though we live 7 hours away and Jill’s brother is 3 hours from Boone.

Putting aside past wounds is tough, but admirable, especially in what will continue to be uncertain times ahead.

••••••

Two additional truisms/clichés were reinforced this past weekend: Irony is alive and well, and the world is a very small place. Both came courtesy of our newly coined high school graduate and two of his closest friends.

One disadvantage of Nicholas’ living in North Carolina and us living here is that we don’t know his friends and their families. On Saturday night, the McFarlands and Cooks had a chance to meet the first girl with whom he shares a his-and-her Facebook status. Ironically, she is working as an intern this summer with the person who encouraged Jill to try musical theatre when she was a child.

On Sunday, after graduation, we finally met Nicholas’ prom date — a longtime friend from middle and high school — and her parents. Except, as I discovered, we sort of already knew each other.

As it turns out, her dad and I met more than 15 years ago in Reidsville, N.C., where he opened and owned a local Subway and I worked for the newspaper. Our paths crossed on a number of occasions, and as people tend to do, we talked about our families — his little girl and my little boy.

They’re not so little any more.

••••••

When it comes to escaping your past, you’d have a better chance of swimming to shore from Alcatraz than shedding the vestiges of a small town. That’s doubly true if you’ve lived in Texas or North Carolina.

Despite what I may have thought when I left, I have no desire to escape the places that brought me to this point, or wipe them from my memory. My heart always will always have a special place for Reidsville — a place I’ve written about before — and I know I can’t fully leave it behind.

I think about this often, and was reminded of it again while reading Jonathan Tropper’s The Book of Joe, a comic novel about a man who returns to the small town where he grew up and realizes that everyone hates him, just because he had written a bestselling, thinly veiled piece of fiction about his miserable high school experience.

Tropper’s self-deprecating, faintly absurdist style appeals to me — I truly wish I could write like that — and I have been slowly making my way through his other books, of which Everything Changes is one.

Sitting at the pool yesterday afternoon, I looked around at others in the crowd and felt somewhat nostalgic. I remember when the pool opened, and what a big deal it was for our fledgling subdivision. I remembered the lifeguard getting on Ben’s case for running, and hearing him say, “I’m not running, I’m skipping.”

Then, as I went to get something out of my car, I heard a slightly deep — though distinctly teenage — voice say hello. I turned and saw a young boy/man whom I barely recognized. He asked about Ben and politely reintroduced himself, and I realized he was part of a set of twins who we met when we first got here in 2001. All four kids, plus Kate, started in daycare together and now are teenagers.

That’s when the emotions hit me.

I told the young man goodbye and walked to my car, asking myself vaguely existential questions: Where did the time go? What happened to the last 10 years? Why did the time fly by in a blink?

There’s no easy answer to the last question, or a decent explanation for all the emotions attached. I’m still processing that one.

Life in Real Time

Last month, everywhere I looked during NSBA’s annual conference, officials from Missouri’s Joplin Public Schools were talking about Bright Futures. The district won the Magna Award grand prize for its program, which works to build partnerships between schools and community agencies to serve students in need.

Today, the immediate future is not looking as bright, and the entire Joplin community is in need.

On Sunday, a massive tornado struck this town of nearly 50,000, killing at least 116 people and injuring more than 1,100. It is the highest death toll from a single tornado since 1953.

The event was the latest in a series of devastating spring tornados that have pounded communities across the Southeast and through the Midwest. Just four weeks ago, 315 people were killed when a series of tornadoes struck in five states — Alabama, Tennessee, Georgia, Mississippi, and Virginia.

According to news reports, the late afternoon twister destroyed three schools, leaving two others and the central office seriously damaged as it ripped through the middle of this city 160 miles south of Kansas City. Graduation ceremonies for Joplin’s Class of 2011 were wrapping up at Missouri Southern State University when the tornado struck around 5:30; the high school itself was destroyed.

••••••

The stories from Joplin shook me.

Thirteen years ago, when we lived in Rockingham County, N.C., a tornado ripped through the small town of Stoneville. Two people were killed, including a young teacher, and 27 were injured.

At the time, I was the school district’s public information officer, just 18 months on the job, with a 14-month-old daughter and 3-month-old twins at home. Jill was working as a school counselor at Reidsville Middle.

The storms throughout that spring of 1998 were fierce. We were in a weather pattern much like the one we’re seeing now in the Southeast and Midwest. Severe thunderstorm warnings, almost every afternoon, came over the weather radio that we monitored. At one point later in the year, we had a hailstorm that was so bad my car was considered totaled.

Late on the afternoon of Friday, March 20, we got word of a tornado warning in western Rockingham County. Buses were on the streets, with children having been let out of school just an hour before.

Starting around 3:25 p.m., the tornado touched down and left cut a 12-mile path, missing four of our schools by less than 100 yards. The town of Stoneville was devastated. The teacher, Beth Mitchell, was killed just blocks from Stoneville Elementary; her mother, a library aide at the school, was seriously injured.

That Saturday afternoon, I was sent over to assist in coordinating the press coverage. It was trial by fire because I had no training in handling crisis management. I decided to treat reporters the same way I would have expected to be treated when I walked in their shoes. For the most part, they were respectful, although one tried to attend the teacher’s funeral despite requests from the family that it be kept private.

The staff, many of whom lived in the town, was shell shocked. School was cancelled until that Wednesday, and Jill and other counselors were on site when students returned.

The rest of that school year is a blur, glazed by mourning. The staff’s bond was so tight, but you could see transitions coming. It was hard on everyone involved.

Thirteen years later, I remain proud of the work of the staff in Stoneville, and of the board’s response to the crisis. It showed me how communities can come together in the times of greatest stress, a life-affirming message in the wake of a horrible tragedy.

••••••

Honoring the winners of the Magna Awards — the magazine’s biggest event at NSBA’s conference — is one of the favorite parts of my job. The program, sponsored by ASBJ and Sodexo School Services, recognizes school boards and district-level programs that go above and beyond the call to improve student achievement.

Another highlight is talking to board members from around the country and learning more about their work. Each year, it seems, I meet someone new at the start of the conference and then continue to bump into that person at odd moments throughout the event.

This year, that person was Joplin board member Randy Steele; by the end of the conference, we had seen each other so often that it had become a running joke.

Bright Futures, the program Joplin won for, is no joke. The 7,747-student district received the grand prize in the 5,000-to-20,000 enrollment category for a community engagement initiative that has helped reduce its dropout rate by more than 50 percent. Bright Futures also has resulted in the development of more than 230 community partnerships, and brought in more than $300,000 in cash and in-kind donations.

One unique aspect of the program is its use of social networking — primarily Facebook — in a “rapid response” system designed to meet the basic needs of students within a 24-hour period. The Bright Futures group has 4,800 people who “like” it; the district’s Facebook page has almost 3,000.

“Whether it is providing comfort to homeless students, eating lunch with children of incarcerated parents, tutoring struggling students, or buying a pair of shoes for a child whose family can’t afford it, every single need is being filled as it is identified,” Superintendent C.J. Huff said in the district’s application.

The needs are far greater today in Joplin, and in other districts and communities that have been devastated as well. Fortunately, the district has the infrastructure in place — an infrastructure that was being leveraged just hours after the tornado.

••••••

Communication always is a struggle when disaster strikes. Phone lines are jammed or down.  E-mail is non-existent. In the wake of such a devastating event, the greatest struggle can be just locating people amid the rubble.

We have not spoken to the superintendent, or to Randy Steele. Reaching people in the district via traditional methods has been impossible almost all day.

Except through Facebook.

Throughout the day, postings gave the district’s status on the Joplin Schools page. One, noting that the district was “in the process of accounting for the safety of our students, faculty, and staff,” had more than 275 comments in just six hours.

“I can’t dial out, but I’m safe,” said one.

“I pray for the safety of the rest,” said another.

“Thanks for checking on everyone,” a third said.

As the day progressed, postings were added to the Bright Futures page — requests for clothing, shoes, non-perishable food. A community conversation, in the middle of a town devastated, was starting anew.