Betty

Five years ago today, my mother-in-law passed away in a Greensboro, N.C., hospital, a person taken before her time.

The death of Betty Ruth Hodges McFarland was the second in a series of tragic events that befell the Cook/McFarland families over a four-year period from 2004 to 2007. I have written about my dad, as well as the loss of Fran and Bill, but not about Betty.

Sitting on a bus, heading from New York to D.C., I started to wonder why I haven’t chosen to discuss the woman who — under most circumstances — would be a terrific character in almost any novel. Fiercely protective, full of contradictions and wonderful intentions, my mother-in-law was a brilliant woman who was both ahead of and a product of her time.

Or, as I once described her, a “liberal Presbyterian with a severe Southern Baptist strain.”

Betty took care of people — her mother, her brother, her children, her sister’s children — often at the expense of her own pleasure or happiness. She loved her family deeply, even though nurturing seemed difficult for her at times.

An English professor who loved nothing more than good literature, she had a big picture perspective and a rigid eye for the minutiae in life. Many times, minutiae won out over the big picture, preventing her from taking leaps of faith toward the happiness that was so elusive.

After retiring, several years before her death, she did take a leap, moving from Boone to Chapel Hill, and ultimately, to Greensboro. She joined a church and decorated her new home. She took care of her grandchildren, who miss her to this day, as do her daughter, son, and his family.

I guess the mother-in-law factor is one reason I haven’t written about Betty until now. It would be easy to characterize it in a stereotypical sitcom manner, but that would not do it justice. The fact is, I would not be together with Jill if not for Betty. Another fact: Once Jill and I were together, it's fair to say that the relationship I had with my mother-in-law was at times prickly. 

Words were our mutual playing field, and we both liked to parry and thrust. Just now, I wonder what she would say about my characterization that our relationship was prickly. She would probably look at me, drop the "ly," and toss it back to me with a smile. Others miss her for their own reasons; I miss the banter we shared.

One example: Due to, or in part because of, her contradictory nature, she could parse the language in ways I never imagined. "Well,” she told me once. “It’s not appropriate, but I guess it’s acceptable.” 

Betty’s death shook our family to its core. It still reverberates through Jill and Kate — who bears a resemblance to her physically and in terms of personality — and others who are close to her.

Two weeks before she died — from abdominal mesothelioma at the too-young age of 67 — Betty gave a deposition about the circumstances that led to her cancer diagnosis. I do not know how anyone who was suffering so much could have gone through what she did and held herself together to sit there. On that day, she showed an internal strength and fortitude I will always admire.

I never had the chance to ask her how she did it. But I know what her answer would be: “My family.”

Her life, and what she represented, lives on to this day — in that family.

You know you’re in trouble when…

• Someone tells you that karma has no impact on your success or failure. (Tell that to karma…)

• Seeing an old friend on the street feels like the “Amends Nostalgia  Tour.”

• Monday comes in 47 different languages over the course of several days.

• You’re the last person to realize that a snake never goes in a straight line.

• The honey-do list has morphed into a dead sea scroll.

Ben's golden age

I'll never forget the first time I took my son to a movie.

It was Thanksgiving Day in 1999. We were living in North Carolina, and my family was visiting from Texas. On a whim, we decided to take the foursome to Toy Story 2, even though Ben and Emma weren’t yet 2.

We knew it would be a challenge, and true to form, Emma and Kate decided to check out every seat, and lap, in our row. Nicholas kicked back amid the madness and feigned moderate interest; he had already seen the movie.

Ben sat in his chair, riveted, the entire time, eating his popcorn by the kernel and taking occasional sips from his Sierra Mist. His feet extended barely past the seat cushion.

We should have known something was different then.

••••••

Parents of child actors are on the periphery. You observe, evaluate, question, and wonder. You pursue PhDs in personal and professional juggling, trying to strike the balance between the actor, your other children, and your respective careers.

And you schlep — a lot.

At age 9, Ben decided he wanted to pursue this as a profession, with the encouragement of his dance teacher and a couple of others who had spotted his talent — and, more important, his presence — on stage. Talent is something you can nurture and teach; presence is innate. You either have it or you don’t.

Making this level of commitment was something Jill and I were willing to do, but we agreed in advance to several rules that we would not bend. Among them:

• He has to maintain good grades; none of this matters if he ends up flunking out of school.

• He has to be professional when he’s on the job.

• He has to be a kid when he’s not.

We also decided that we would make a conscious effort not to be your stereotypical stage parents, those who constantly criticize and critique everyone else’s work while extolling the virtues of their “perfect child.” You see these parents over and over at tryouts, acting/dance classes, and other informal gatherings rife with politics that could rival any legislature or Congress. (Suburban PTA meetings have nothing on a professional audition.)

Some parents want to sit and watch auditions and rehearsals and are shocked when they can’t, not realizing that this is work. (After all, would you want to accompany your teenage child to a job in a fast food restaurant? “Hey, Mom, can you please move? I’ve got to get this customer their fries.”)

That, of course, is a bit of an exaggeration. Many parents, like us, are making tremendous sacrifices for their children. But, just as in any competitive sport, we've seen some kids that are either coddled or pressured to such an extreme that you wonder how they will survive it. And sadly, tabloids have been littered with those who ultimately didn't.

Our philosophy always has been to be as unobtrusive as possible. We are there for support, not to interfere, which largely translates into a lot of picking up and dropping off. Our big questions are of the “Is he doing OK?” and “How can he improve?” variety. It’s the same approach we use with Ben and his other siblings with regard to school. While we have opinions, we’re not the professionals at this, and far be it for us to tell professionals how to do their jobs.

Most important is this simple fact: Our personal success is not rooted in Ben’s professional success. Instead, it’s rooted in whether we help our good, talented children become good, talented adults.

••••••

Today, at 12, Ben has worked more than some adults I know. Over the past year, he has been in four productions -- two of the "Ragtime" revival and two world premieres ("The Heavens Are Hung in Black" and "Golden Age").

In many ways, this is his golden age.

Two years ago tonight, he finished a role as Young McDuff in the Folger Shakespeare Theatre’s production of “Macbeth.” It was a spectacular show, filled with magic, illusion, special effects, and buckets (yes, buckets) of blood. Pretty cool for a then-10-year-old, eh?

As parents, we were initially queasy about our son dying on stage 53 times, and watching him be stabbed and then carted off by his shirt (he had to wear a harness underneath) was shocking the first time.

But as the play’s run progressed, it started becoming routine.

“So how was the death scene tonight, son?”

“Pretty cool. I made a lady scream from the balcony.”

“Great.”

••••••

Theater is filled with these types of situations, populated as it is by exquisitely talented people who are wonderful characters in their own lives as well as on stage. Few are anarchists about earning “a decent wage,” but they are willing to do whatever it takes in exchange for the love their craft provides.

By and large, the people Ben has met in the professional world are not your stereotypical divas and jerks, although we know those folks are out there. In his case, it’s been exactly the opposite; people have been extremely supportive of him as a child actor navigating his way. They see his joy for the stage, his genuine love for the craft, and they see someone who — no matter what happens down the line professionally — is a lifer. And they have responded to that.

As much as Ben deals with the actors, most of our interaction on a show is with the “handler” — also known as a “wrangler” — who is hired to follow the child around and make sure that he/she is on time, always safe, and ready for his/her cues. (They also serve as big brother/big sister, psychiatrist, watchdog, and gentle chastiser.)

In many ways, it’s a thankless job, but one for which we are grateful. Ben has formed many deep, wonderful relationships with the people who were assigned to watch over him. We don’t know what we — or he — would do without them.

••••••

Two years ago, when “Macbeth” ended, Ben was extremely down, having come face to face with the reality that his life would be a series of meeting and making miniature families that would disintegrate when the curtain fell one last time.

Unfortunately, that’s the business piece of the art, which he also has learned the hard way in a short period of time. The closing of “Ragtime” remains something he doesn’t emotionally grasp, although he accepts with dismay the practical reality of it.

All of this has had an impact on his family, too. Emma, his twin sister, has learned to become more independent without him around. She no longer trails in his shadow. Nicholas is learning to appreciate the talent that his “little brother” has in addition to the opportunities he has not received.

Jill and I are learning to endure time apart, which makes our time together that much more precious. (Look up the clichés on absence and hearts and you’ll get my drift.) In life’s grand scheme (hey, I was in the cliché dictionary just a second ago), we realize our time doing this is relatively (and blessedly) short.

If I’ve learned anything from this, it’s how to become a cheerleader for my children. In addition to providing me with rafts of great material — this blog for example — they also bring me great joy. Having watched my own father struggle just to stay afloat, I realize how blessed I am to have the good health (as well as a good job) that allows me to give this back to my children.

I am proud to be a stage dad; in many respects it’s the best job I’ll ever have.

••••••

One thing we learned early on is that Ben feels lost without having a show to do. He is relentlessly creative, and at an age in which he is a sponge for knowledge, but having the structure of a regular schedule comforts him. This is the same child who, at age 3, wondered aloud what the schedule was, and was visibly upset that we had nothing planned on a Saturday.

“Dad,” Ben proclaimed recently (at 12 he is prone to proclamations), “I can’t begin to tell you how much I’m enjoying being around adults. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a kid, and I like kids. It’s just that kids are… so limited. I think adults are much more interesting.”

After the premature demise of “Ragtime,” we were fortunate that Ben was back on the job within a few weeks. This time, it was a new play — Terrence McNally’s “Golden Age” — at the Kennedy Center.

Ben was the only child in “Golden Age,” which was set backstage at the premiere of an opera in 1835. It’s not your typical topic for a 12-year-old who is content to make nerf gun videos during his time off. (As if to rub his still somewhat analog father’s nose in it, he announced today that he has more than 1,000 subscribers to his bentwins10097 YouTube channel)

But remember, this is the child who didn’t like to read, then found himself doing Dickens and Shakespeare in his first two plays. Whether he realizes it or not, the training he is receiving is in the work of some of the greatest playwrights of all time, and he gets to work with top-of-the-line actors, directors, and others as well.

“Golden Age” was presented as part of a trilogy of McNally’s plays devoted to opera; the others were the Tony Award-winning “Master Class” and the superb “Lisbon Traviata.” Like many new plays, it is a work in progress, but the writing is often funny, thought provoking, and in many instances for me, very profound. It is the work of a true artist, a combination of thoughts and perspectives on critics, commerce, and the joys and fears of creating something new and different, something the world needs but hasn’t yet seen.

Now “Golden Age” has ended, and the five-week DC to New York respite we received has ended, too. We’re back in the land of “Who knows what’s next?” again, facing a variety of new and sure-to-be interesting transitions.

And with that coda, I have only one last thing to say: Run like the wind, Bullseye.

March Madness

In our family, March is one of those months — like December — that makes me shake my head. Somehow, without help from the NCAA Tournament, we have managed to jam a year’s worth of madness into a single 31-day period we revisit every 12 months.

From birth to marriage to death, our family has it all. And considering that we’re a theatrical bunch, we also have musicals, comedies, and dramas.

The last week of the month is larded with psychological landmines, none more than March 27, the day of my parents’ wedding anniversary and the day in which my second “dad” died.

Bill’s death, six years ago, fell on my parents’ 40th wedding anniversary. It was not completely unexpected, because he had been in poor health for several months. What was unexpected was the chain of loss that would follow, with my father and second “mom” (Bill’s wife, Fran) and Jill’s mother dying in the next three years.

This year, I was fortunate to be with my mom on March 27, doing something I would not have thought possible in 2004: Driving more than 600 miles in one day to see my son, Nicholas, in a play. (The reason we drove up and back was because she saw Ben in his show the next evening.)

Although it was a long day, the trip was nice. We didn't focus on the past, but looked more at the present and future. And it's a bright future because my mom, thankfully, is in a good place now. For the first time in her life she is financially comfortable, and traveling as all people who worked for their entire lives should get to do.

More important, she has rebounded spectacularly from a hellish year that no one should replicate, in which she lost her husband, her best friend of more than 40 years, another close friend, and the woman who raised her — all in a four-month period.

The circle backs were in full swing on this day. We drove through Reidsville, where I lived when I moved from Texas to North Carolina, got a divorce, met Jill, had three children in a year, and saw the course of my life change forever. We were going to see Nicholas in “South Pacific,” a play I had seen only a few weeks earlier with Ben in New York, and one that tells the stories of servicemen and women similar to my grandfather’s.

As it tends to do, our conversation meandered from topic to topic. No great revelations, no family ghosts looking for skeletons. The occasional nod to the past.

Just a nice day.

The Man in the White Suit

As I mention in the post above, last week marked the sixth anniversary of Bill Waranius’ death. Bill was my second “dad,” and his death on March 27, 2004 — ironically on the 40th wedding anniversary of my birth parents — set the stage for a series of losses for which my family will never be the same.

Digging around in my computer files, I found the eulogy I wrote for Bill’s funeral service. I did so at the request of Fran, his beloved wife. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.

Most important, Fran seemed satisfied. I would speak at her funeral just 3 ½ years later.

Here it is, with a few new edits and trims. (Once an editor, always an editor…)

••••••

How do you describe someone who was an enigma to you for 30 years and one of your best friends for five?

Some would say that it’s the typical parent-child relationship. But my relationship – and my family’s relationship – with Bill was anything but typical.

I have so many memories of growing up with what I describe as two sets of parents. It has been such a blessing, although admittedly I did not always think so.

For years, I referred to Bill as my second dad, a description that always drew quizzical looks and required convoluted explanations. He and Fran redefined what family means to me. And I can’t help but find irony in the fact that a man who knew more about chemistry than I could imagine found family in a way that has no relation to science.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always needed to express myself through words, to gain acceptance, to be loved. The difference, if there is one, between my biological parents and Bill is that public acceptance and love on his part was not unconditional. Or obvious, at least in the beginning.

Many of you know that Julie and I grew up across the street from Fran and Bill. When we moved into the 22nd Avenue house in Texas City, I was 4, and the Waraniuses had already been there for several years. Julie was born two years later, and Fran and Bill were happy to become godparents to my sister. Little did they know at the time that they would become lifelong “parents” to us and lifelong friends to my mom and dad. Heck, even Frisky became a two-family dog in her final years.

I can’t begin to tell you how much I’ve talked to – and relied on – Fran since I was a child. But to Bill, I was always the kid. And you would think, at least on the surface, that we didn’t have much in common. A chemist and a writer. A talker and a thinker. But later, much later, I realized that we were more alike than either of us thought. We both had wandering minds and an endless desire to solve life’s puzzles – whether they were in a laboratory, or a kitchen, or in observing others to learn what makes them tick.

Several years ago, I met and married the love of my life – Jill – after a complicated courtship that was difficult to explain to my committee of parents at first. When Bill met Jill – no, not when Harry met Sally – he saw that I was finally on the right track. After all, this is a man who fell in love on a first date, and kept dating his wife for more than 40 years.

When Bill met our children, who were even more adamant about being accepted than I was, he didn’t have a choice. They jumped up in his lap and stayed. And a transformation of sorts occurred in Bill; he discovered he enjoyed the physical closeness of a child. He spoke of having long conversations with Emma, of the endless energy of Katharine. When it came to Ben, he just looked and shook his head. And then he smiled.

Several years ago, before our family moved from North Carolina to the Washington, D.C., area, Fran and Bill visited our home for the holidays. We had a wonderful time. He took Jill under his wing and started looking for gadgets to improve our kitchens and our home. And for what seemed like the first time, we actually talked. The subsequent conversations we have had are ones I will treasure.

This past November, Fran and Bill defied the odds yet again to join us for one more Thanksgiving. And during that trip, Bill and I sat in my office at home and discussed the state of affairs in both of our lives.

What I remember most is Bill sitting in the recliner, hands across his chest, talking about the kids and Jill. “You’ve done pretty well, son,” he said just four months before his death. “We’re proud of you.”

Those nine words touched me more than you can imagine. I’m proud to say that I am his "son."

Up in the Air

Note: “Up in the Air” was my favorite movie of 2009. Unfortunately, as the following essay attests, I have issues when I’m up there…

This is a helluva way to start a story. I'm sitting on a plane buried deep in coach, putting all of this down on a Blackberry. I tried to start it on my laptop, but that would require the gentleman (and I use that word loosely) to "push his seat into the upright position" instead of putting it into the current spot 6 inches from my face. I'm sure I won't finish here: after all, the flight is only 3 hours and I'll be lucky to get 15 paragraphs done by then.

Funny thing, air travel. Unless you can enjoy the comforts of first class, the phrase "Sit back, relax, and enjoy your flight" means nothing, especially when the airlines still allow people to crank their seats back so far that they can examine your nasal hair.

I digress, which is something you shouldn’t do on a Blackberry. Of course, given the level of interruptions on any given flight, I shouldn’t be surprised. As long as the pilot doesn't digress and we make it down safely, things should be OK.

Back to the present: "Watch your feet," the attendant said just a minute ago as she and a co-worker moved through the aisle with their large metal cart, forcing me to compress my body further into my already cramped quarters. The man whose seat is in my lap just extended a gnarled hand to grab a 6 ounce plastic cup of carbonation and some "stadium style" peanuts in a 1/2 ounce plastic bag, the shells conveniently removed for the comfort and safety of the airline's customers.

I want to shout: "You're not asleep, dammit! Scoot up your f'ing seat!" But that would be impolite, and as much as I would like to blame situational Tourette's for my profanity-laced outburst, I just can't do it.

Did I say this was a helluva way to start a story? I think I did, but I don't exactly remember how to get to the top of the document on the Blackberry and I'm having too much fun watching the device look for ways to auto-correct itself to scroll through the millions of options on the clickwheel. These things are so damn smart that they'll add apostrophes and caps where necessary, and they'll correct atrocious spelling, even mine.

If they could fix bad handwriting, we wouldn't have this problem. But after 20-plus years of working on computers, my penmanship has been downgraded from awful to worse. And so, in the interest of salvaging at least portions of this beginning to what I hope will be an enjoyable journey for us both, I am required to type it all out. Its a long way from the IBM Selectrics and my nasal typing teacher who snorted "asdf, jkl-semi" at me in the ninth grade, but it will have to do.

Another digression: Portable devices are 21st century crack. The ability to have 24-7 access to all aspects of your professional life is just too tempting for companies to resist, and for kids raised on generations of video games, it's yet another way to bring adolescence into the workplace. Before long, we all will have carpal tunnel of the thumbs. Some prescription drug company is lining up scriptwriters now to exhault the virtues of "a new treatment for thumb pain."

"Ask your doctor about (fill in the blank). Side effects may include constipation, impotence, and the inability to eat with a fork."

Speaking of which, my thumbs are getting tired, plus I've got to try and salvage some space while I still can. The woman sitting beside me started involuntarily playing a game of footsie in between loud snores, and I've got to put a stop to it. After all, I do have my standards.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Glenn Cook (via Blackberry)

Welcome home...

For the next several weeks, Ben is back in Northern Virginia, performing as the page in Terrence McNally's "Golden Age." The play has a short three-week run at the Kennedy Center — thank God for those circle backs — and gives us a chance to be together as a family for just over a month.

More on the play later, but I thought you might want to know how Ben's siblings greeted him upon his return. Emma, sweet Cook that she is, made him a cake. Kate, whose ADHD/bipolar inspired ditziness masks a wicked sense of humor, contributed this:

Gotta love big sisters, don't you?

Parenthood, not the show

"How would you describe parenthood so far? And I don't mean the show."

Emma, in case you haven’t noticed, cuts to the chase.

We were watching “Parenthood,” the new show that premiered tonight on NBC. I loved the movie on which it was based, the cast is terrific, and the show runner is the same guy who is in charge of “Friday Night Lights,” my favorite show of the past decade. Plus, it has the added advantage of coming on at 10 p.m. thanks to the network’s decision to shun Jay Leno and his yuk-yuk humor to late night again.

Normally, 10 p.m. is Emma’s bedtime, but she has her father’s nocturnal nature. Contrast that to Katharine’s ability to be shot out of a cannon between 5:30 and 7 every day and you now know why I never sleep. I decided to let her watch the show, and while I lay on the floor, she snuggled under the covers of my bed amid the pile of unfolded laundry.

“So,” she said during a commercial, then asked her fateful question.

I decided to go for the complex answer, something such a perceptive comment deserves.

“Challenging,” I said. “It’s the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced.”

“Is that it?”

“Rewarding,” I said. “I’ve learned so much from being a parent.”

“Uh huh … And?”

Nothing like being put on the spot. I hoped that the limited commercial interruption would end soon.

“Fun sometimes. Hard, too. But it’s always worth it.”

She nodded, letting me off the hook. The commercial ended and we were quiet through the rest of the show.

When it ended, she leaned down and said, “That was pretty good. Not bad." Then, "I love you, Daddy.”

She kissed me on the head, leaned on my arm and said her prayer — the same one we’ve done for the last nine years — and walked toward her bed.

At that moment, parenthood was great.

Tell a Story in 100 Words or Less, Part 2

How many different people will you meet in your lifetime? Say it’s one new person a day, on average. Over 50 years, that’s more than 18,000 you come across, say hello to, fall in love with, help, hurt, or touch in some way. That seems ridiculously, even outrageously high. Ponder this: The vast majority you won’t see more than once. Some will cross your path regularly. A smaller number will become friends or family. Even fewer will have a lifelong impact. How many people have you met and touched in some way? How many have touched you?

See next entry...

Got a minute? We need to talk...

I’ve always loved to talk. People who know me say I could start a conversation with a wall, and fill in the parts when the wall doesn’t respond.

Of course, talking to the wall sometimes is the only intelligent conversation I can find.

I’ve used that pithy response many times over the years, largely because it’s my best self-defense. Looking back as an adult, my perception is that I had a lonely childhood. And I believe that perception has a lot of truth, at least as I see it now.

Since I was a kid, my mind has run a million miles a minute, thoughts skipping from one to the next like a game of hopscotch. My brain was an RSS feed, anxious to deliver opinions and observations on anything that crossed my cerebral cortex. To paraphrase, I could have been ADHD before ADHD was cool.

In reality, I was a person desperate to connect, and I didn’t know how. I needed someone to understand, to listen, to acknowledge these often disparate — and occasionally fleeting — thoughts. Of course, few people have the capacity for unfiltered, 24/7 access to what someone is thinking, even if the thoughts aren’t mean or malicious. It’s just too tiring.

Oddly, on several administrations of the Myers-Briggs, I have straddled the line between the “I” and the “E.” Depending on the day, I’m either classified as an introvert or an extravert, which only contributes to my personal mystery. It also partly explains why, despite needing the occasional dose of Immodium for my mouth (or, in this case, fingertips), I hate it when people speak in meetings just to hear themselves talk. Amazingly, despite my ongoing inner dialogue, I have learned not to speak out unless I have something to say.

That’s one reason I find the phenomenon of social networking so interesting. Sitting behind a computer screen evens the playing field. It’s an emotionally safe way to make those connections. Even if the friends we have are only casual acquaintances, or long-ago people we knew as children (Facebook is in many ways the high school reunion from hell), the fact that it thrives speaks loudly to our need to share our thoughts with the world.

How this manifests itself in my children is interesting. Despite lacking a formal diagnosis, Nicholas is the first to tell you he’s ADD, while Katharine is the recipient of ADHD with extra sprinkles. Ben always must express himself, even if he doesn’t comprehend fully at times what he’s trying to express. Only Emma has thus far escaped that portion of my DNA; in so many ways she reminds me of her mom, which is one reason she has that special allocation of space in my heart.

Talking, and the ongoing desire to connect, does have its advantages. But accessing those does not come without a key skill, the ability to listen. What I found when I became a journalist was that I had the opportunity — and often the privilege — to listen to the stories of others. With and through them, I built the life that today allows me to tell my own.

I believe everyone needs to connect to others in some way. But I’ve also learned that sometimes it’s OK to have dead air. Silence, after all, has its place.

Homework Hell

It’s something that happens to every parent, something so tried and true that it has become the Mom and Dad equivalent of, “It was a dark and stormy night…”

It’s the homework project from hell. Or in formal education terms, it’s called project-based learning.

“OK, fine,” the teacher seems to say. “You leave them with me 5½ hours a day, 180 days a year, expecting me to impart my wisdom and knowledge so they can be successful. You are therefore expected to spend money on art supplies you use once, subject your household to more crafts and pieces of cardboard and paper than you ever thought possible, and help them come up with something unique that can show what they have learned.”

Sounds fair, on the surface, except that it fosters this underground competition that subjects parents to peer pressure like we haven’t felt since seventh grade. There’s nothing like telling your child to “do your best” and “hang in there” when you know that her papier-mâché diorama stands no chance next to the four-camera exhibit complete with visual effects commissioned exclusively from Industrial Light & Magic.

To be fair, teachers always say, “This needs to be your child’s work.” Some parents take that literally, while others use it as license to create a life-sized replica of the U.S. Capitol out of cake batter.

It doesn’t help that your child waits until the night before said project is due before informing you that she needs glue sticks and a packet of construction paper. Seeing other parents in the supplies aisle of an all-night CVS takes on the appearance of a support group meeting.

Again, to be fair to the generations of parents who preceded us, this is something that is wired into every child’s DNA. More than once, my mom has said my epitaph should be, “If I could only do this tomorrow.” As a kid, I believed procrastination should be considered an Olympic sport with no time trial.

So you can imagine the flashbacks I had when Emma announced that she needed help on a project for National History Day. Mind you, this is a project that has been three months in the making, and it was due this week.

Emma, in many respects, is the Marilyn to our Herman, Lily, Grandpa, and Eddie.  She is the child located perfectly in the center of the bell curve. She is a very good student, conscientious and with an innate desire to be successful. She also is the most linear human being I’ve ever met, a child who would alphabetize her prayers if you let her.

You would think, given these traits, that she would understand the difficulty of conceptualizing large, outside-the-box projects. Not this time.

Emma’s decision to take on the “History of the Steam Engine” was fraught from the start, but never more so than when the deadline loomed this week. When she finally admitted that she needed help — and glue sticks — it was almost too late.

And so I faced the parenting dilemma, the choice of whether to let her do it herself or join the Industrial Light & Magic crowd. I opted for a compromise position, offering to help with the project’s broad parameters while relying on her to do the actual work herself. 

Over the next 36 hours, she cut and glued and groused while I made suggestions. Work projects that lingered for me remained on hold. At one point, our family computer failed, losing documents left and right. I helped Emma retype the work.

Slowly, agonizingly at times, it started taking shape. As midnight loomed on the day before it was due, amazingly, it was done. The next day, we were both bleary eyed, but I saw my daughter’s obvious pride in her work. It was better than she thought it would be, and I helped her get it there.

We don’t know what her final grade will be, but for once, I received an “A” in parenting. 

On Valentine's Day

I come to you with empty hands


I guess I just forgot again


I only got my love to send


On Valentine's Day


I suck at Hallmark moments.

It’s not that I don’t try. Truly I do. I’ve bought cards, sent flowers (live and nearly dead ones), delivered champagne, searched out romantic restaurants. But mostly my inner barking seal seems to come out and, well, bark.

Somehow, in those connect-the-dots moments between Christmas, Groundhog Day, and the most romantic day of the year, I see my shadow, declare six more weeks of winter, and hibernate until it’s too late.

There's so much I want to say


But all the words just slip away



The way you love me every day


Is Valentine's Day

Unfortunately, my sense of bad timing also can be applied to birthdays, and odd-numbered years that coincide with my wedding anniversary. (Of course, the dysentery on Mother’s Day that year wasn’t a great choice either; I prefer to think of it as an extraordinary case of bad timing. It certainly was the last time I’ll opt for an all-you-can-eat buffet on a major holiday.)

If there is anything that convinces me that my inner nerd — complete with pocket protector — is capable of overwhelming my inner romantic, or that I should do everything in my power to eliminate the 11 federal holidays and 47 pre-programmed greeting card days from my life, it’s times like this.

For some reason, my situational Tourette’s kicks in, and I say or do something to screw it up. It feels like Butch and Sundance jumping off the cliff into the rapids below. The fall may not kill me, but I definitely cuss on the way down.



If I could I would deliver to you


Diamonds and gold; it's the least I can do


So if you'll take my IOU


I could make it up to you


Until then I hope my heart will do


For Valentine's Day

Thanks to Steve Earle, I can pass along what you have just read in the italic passages. I can pledge to try again, no matter what the fates may choose to say about it. And I can thank God for the 350 or so non-holiday opportunities that I have each and every year to say how much I love and cherish the wife and family I have.

I don’t need a Hallmark moment to tell me that. Fortunately for me, they don’t either. 

Transitions, Creation, and Evolution

As a writer, I pride myself on transitions, leading the reader in the process from one thought to the next. As an editor, there is nothing worse than reading a story where the transitions are the equivalent of shifting from fifth to first without hitting the clutch.

Transitions are part of life, the chapter breaks in our story. Sometimes they make sense, a natural progression. Others come all too abruptly, with little rhyme or reason.

For the past month, I have mulled this entry over in my mind, as our family embarks on yet another in a series of never ending transitions. And every time I have sat to write it, the words just don’t seem to come.

One reason I hesitated in starting this blog was that I didn’t know if I would have enough material to write on a regular basis, knowing full well that the fall of every year brings so much to light that I could chronicle things by the hour without a loss for words.

There’s something about winter, however, that makes us burrow under. The post-traumatic stress disorder of the holidays is followed by the cold snap — some would say slap — that January and February bring. In our Virginia subdivision, we rarely discover our neighbors until the spring, or so it seems.

One month ago today, “Ragtime” closed. Instead of pulling up stakes and heading home, we decided to stay with the back-and-forth commute so Ben could finish the school year in New York. It just made sense, although the wear and tear on us has only been exacerbated by work and family demands and a climate shift that has left us buried by record snowfall.

As I posted to Facebook earlier this week, Mother Nature definitely needs some Depends.

••••••

The little bullets you see above this paragraph are another form of transition. Perhaps I’m taking the easy way out this time, but a random thought crossed my mind that I’ve wanted to write about for some time, so why not do it now?

Recently I started a blog entry titled “Creation vs. Evolution.” (No, it wasn’t my attempt to wade into that debate, although anyone who knows me — and my politics — would know which side I come down on without giving it too much thought.) But like several entries I’ve started and aborted recently, I just couldn’t get it out.

“Creation vs. Evolution” was talking about the process of working in an art form. In this case, and this one only, I definitely come down on the creation side. There is something about making something out of nothing that always has fascinated me, whether it’s the process of reporting and writing a story, putting out a magazine, or putting on a show.

To me, creating is the fun part; I’ve always said that rehearsal is much more fun than performance. Once the paper is put to bed, or the show is up and running, it’s time to move on to the next challenge/project/ thing.

For the first 13 or 14 years of my career, I never stayed in one job more than 36 months. I went into each new position determined to learn as much as I could, knowing I would give it everything I could. (It’s one reason I call myself a workaholic in a 12-step program.)

Once I mastered the task or the job, it was on to the next. For me, boredom was (and still is to large degree) the equivalent of a slow death. It represents a life without fun and interesting challenges.

When I left newspapers in 1996, I changed careers and went into communications. It was time for a change, and the 4½ years I spent in that job definitely set me up for the position I’m in now. 

I didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into when we moved to Northern Virginia in 2001. I certainly didn’t think I would be at the same company almost nine years later.

But fate, combined with some fortuitous timing, intervened. And over time, I’ve been lucky enough to move from one position to the next to the next, each one presenting me with enough challenges to keep that dreaded boredom at bay.

Also, as I’ve gotten older, patience has slowly come to be a word I use without rolling my eyes.  Mature, I know, but I prefer to think of it as appreciating the nuance of evolution. Over time, I’ve learned that if you’re patient enough, you can watch the arc of your personal or professional life extend beyond the immediate gratification we all desire.

As much as I love theater, I never understood how some actors could go to work and do the same thing day after day after day. It wasn’t until I saw “Ragtime” over a period of months that I realized the actors’ performances were slowly, subtly evolving into something far deeper and more satisfying. It’s a shame that the evolution can’t continue.

••••••

So here we are in a state of transition again, not just for the purposes of this entry but as a family. Sadly, we won’t get to see Nicholas this weekend due to the weather that has buried the Mid-Atlantic region, making the roads treacherous from here to there and points beyond.

Things do seem to come full circle in our little world, however. Nicholas is trying out for “South Pacific” this weekend at his school; ironically, Ben went to see his good friend in the show here in New York tonight. (See the Musical Obsessions and Circle Backs entry I wrote on this for more instances of irony.)

And, thanks to a break in New York City’s school schedule, we do get to spend the weekend and all of next week together as a family in Virginia. I have a new employee coming into work next week, and it’s less than a month from now that Ben starts rehearsals on a show at The Kennedy Center.  (Another circle back.) Things are evolving amid our transitions.

Now that my writer’s block has ended, I pledge to return to this space more often as well. Creating a blog, I’ve discovered, was fun. The challenge, I’m learning, is how it will evolve over time.

Stay tuned…

Life, Death, and Other Simple Truths

Note: Last night, I found myself watching "Up" on DVD and it reminded me of this essay I wrote on the second anniversary of my dad's death. I posted it to Facebook but not to the blog, and wanted to put it up here.

Two years ago, my father died. Six weeks after, on Sept. 11, the woman I referred to as my second mom passed away as well.

It felt like the Twin Towers of my childhood were coming down around me. Fortunately, the foundation of much of that childhood -- my mom -- is still standing.

My entry into this not-so-exclusive club -- adult children who lose their parents -- was not dissimilar to many who are my age. Nor, as I continue to learn, are the emotions that to this day catch me off guard.

For example, I took my kids to see "Up," the new Disney movie, this past weekend. In what is a bravura sequence of filmmaking (animated, CGI, or not), the audience watches an almost 10 minute sequence that represents the arc of a lifetime for Carl and Ellie. As you watch the adventure they go through, that of the mundane day-to-day tasks and miscellaneous hardships and barriers that prevent them from going to the land unknown, I dare anyone not to tear up.

Or, as in my case (and to the horror of my suddenly self-conscious children), you might start blubbering like a baby.

The reason for this, I later figured out, was because the relationship represented everything I saw in my parents. Life's barriers, big and small, kept blocking their path, but they never stopped living their adventure. Not until after the very end.

Two years and two days ago, my father waved goodbye to me and to my sister before slipping into a final, fitful coma. His death, or some form of life without him, was something I had prepared myself for almost daily since childhood.

Truism #1: No matter how prepared you may be, you are never prepared for life after the end.

The death of my second mom was not as much of a shock, even though Fran's dramatic decline in such a short period was traumatic in its own way.

The numbness of these two events started wearing off after about 4 months. The holidays brought a flood of memories and feelings I had anticipated, but was not able to deal with at the time. No matter how “prepared” I thought I was, I wasn’t ready to see a movie I knew my father would like and not be able to call him, or to find a book or CD that he would enjoy and realize I couldn’t buy it and put it away for Chrismas or his birthday.

Truism #2: Memories live as long as you breathe life into them.

Over time, I found myself welcoming other friends into my not-so-exclusive club. We now exchange knowing nods, e-mails, and phone calls as critical days and anniversaries pass, times in which we are transported back to childhood and reminded of the things (big and small) that we encountered with our parents on life's great adventure.

Two years after his death, I remember my father’s life, and all that it represented. On days like today, days in which my mom and I share conversations about mundane things and find ourselves beset by awkward long distance pauses, I can’t help but think about the end.

On days like today, I wonder why I forget the simplest things, like remembering to put on my watch, or carrying my phone with me to a lunch meeting that runs late. I wonder why my mom’s phone call about finding some of my father’s sketches makes me feel like I’m 8 years old all over again, or why I feel compelled to write this now to share with the world.

I wonder why, on a day in which I received a promotion that would make my father beam with pride, I feel so ambivalent. And then I realize it’s because of what’s been lost, that nothing can replace the presence of a parent in your life.

And then I look at my own kids, those who exasperate and upset me so while bringing such joy to my life, and I know. I just know.

RIP: John Glenn Cook Jr., 1940-2007.

Our “time” to say thanks

Almost 10 months ago, our son joined a group of actors, singers, and dancers in a rehearsal hall at The Kennedy Center. Usually one or both parents accompany Ben to the meet and greets, whereupon we get to talk to some of the actors before we’re restricted to the stage door or green room to sit and wait.

Jill and I both attended this meet and greet because it was Ben’s first Kennedy Center show, his first Equity production, and his first time working as an understudy. He had just finished two Ford’s Theatre shows — “A Christmas Carol” and “The Heavens Are Hung in Black” — and was nervous but confident as this next journey started.

Little did we know what this journey would bring.

Ten months later, as I write this on a late Sunday in early January, I’m sitting on my bed in a New York apartment three blocks from the Neil Simon Theater. It’s quiet, although the 30 mph wind that has dropped temperatures into the low double digits continues to whip in and around our building. Ben is asleep in the top bunk near me, restlessly waiting for his return to school and to a life that in short time will be more unfamiliar than ever.

Because, one week from tonight, he bids farewell to “Ragtime” and to the extended family he has known for these past 10 months. It has been a time that has changed his life — and our lives — forever.

If this were an awards show, the list of people we need to thank would go far past the 45-second allotment that you get before they cut to a commercial. I would have to start with Ben’s siblings — Emma, Kate, and Nicholas — who have seen their lives turned upside down by all of this and proven to be remarkably resilient. Jill and I would have to give a special shout out to our employers and the people who work with us, for their patience and help as we juggle schedules. And we could not have done this without Laurie and John, the child helpers, or “wranglers” as they are known.

“Ragtime,” for those who haven’t seen it, has a 40-person cast and a 28-piece orchestra, plus a large crew that works behind the scenes. Almost half of the cast transferred with the show from the Kennedy Center, which means that Ben has spent the better part of a year with a core group of actors who have greatly influenced his life: Bobby, Dan, Quentin, Josh, Eric, Christiane, Sumayya, Ron, Mark, Donna, Aaron, Jonathan, Tracy, Bryonha, Corey, and Jim.

And of course I have to thank the kids, from mighty Miss Sarah and Christopher to Kaylie, Ben’s fellow understudy who joined the cast with 21 others from the New York area in September. And of those who joined the show in New York, I also have to give shout outs to Robert, Stephanie, Terence, and Carly. There are many, many more that I wish I had gotten to know better who also helped influence and support Ben.

Before my time at the podium runs out, I must move over to the creative team — especially Marcia the director and Jim and Jamie, the show’s musical backbone — that decided our son could be successful on the large stage. You have changed his life for all time.

And to Terrence, Lynn, and Stephen, as well as Tom and Michael, thank you for creating and nurturing such a wonderful piece of theater and allowing Ben to be part of that process.

We must also thank the crew from both companies, among them Peter, Shari, Brandon, and Kate, the stage managers who have been so supportive; John, Sunshine, and Roeya, the business folks behind the scenes; Rachel the dresser; and Errollyn the elevator operator, just to name a few.

As parents, we have learned to appreciate the people and what goes into the process of moving from page to stage, from creation to evolution as your work grows and changes over time. From our vantage point, somewhere on the distant periphery, we have witnessed the highs, the smiles, the lows, the tears, the questions of what happens next.

The reason “Ragtime” isn’t running for much, much longer will be one of many questions and much debate in the weeks, months, and years ahead. But we are so blessed to have had it be part of our lives for this past year.

Thank you again, from the parents of a Little Boy…