My 100th Post: 50 Days in Our Lives

January 8: So, here we are, riding on a train to New York again. Ben is napping next to me, having finished a 13-hour, two show day only a few hours before, and we are going to see "Billy Elliot."

It's the final show on Broadway, a place we left behind three months before when Ben joined the “Billy” national tour. For the past four weeks, the tour has been at the Kennedy Center, a 20-mile drive from our house and one of the places where this journey began.

Immediately I flash back to our first train trip almost five years ago, when my little boy was trying to learn Gavroche's song. He didn't really know what he was doing, didn't really understand how the audition process worked, didn't really comprehend what was ultimately ahead.

Neither did we.

The "Les Miserables" audition was not a success, obviously. Nor was the first of many "Billy Elliot" auditions that started when he was 10. But there was progress; he kept getting calls to go back. And he kept going back.

At that point, we had no idea where all this would lead, just that we had a child who had found an all-consuming passion and managed to remain a kid at the same time.

That's our job as parents, striking the delicate balance between nurturing the passion and ensuring that he is a regular kid. The questions Jill and I receive most often are around this subject.

"Has this changed him?"


••••••


January 30: Three very long weeks have passed since I started writing this essay, and it’s been since last fall that I’ve contributed to this blog. That happens when you live in a Petri dish of puberty. Change is the constant in your life, and the weeks are long ones.

Today I’m driving to Pittsburgh to pick up Ben and Ginno, the fifth “child” in our household. Ginno, who cared for Ben for the last several months in New York, has been serving as his guardian on the road for the past two weeks. He truly cares for our son; we’ve been fortunate to have him in our lives, along with Brian, Jill’s cousin and another one of the masses that help take care of our little boy.

The 570-mile drive up and back is arduous and long, something I’ve gotten used to as a long-distance parent. For several years when my oldest, Nicholas, was in high school, I made the drive to North Carolina and back on the same, long day. Now Nick can come see us — a blessed development. He has matured so much and, at 19, is rapidly becoming the adult I always hoped.

For the longest time, I have said I’m interested in being friends with my kids when they are adults. With Nicholas, there is reason to be encouraged.

Ben has an Achilles tendon strain, which occurred in a ballet class in Cincinnati, and he’s out of the show for an undetermined period of time. Even though the injury is considered minor, it means he won’t play Michael, Billy’s best friend, because he’s supposed to be training for the show’s lead character.

Billy, the elusive Billy Elliot. A boy who has warmed the hearts of millions and changed a lot of people’s worlds since the 2000 movie and subsequent stage musical. Ben has pursued the part for almost four years now, his first audition coming just after he received his first professional gig in “A Christmas Carol” at Ford’s Theatre.

That seems so long ago.

••••••


February 11: It’s a stressful time, and we’ve become pros at handling stress.

Kate, our oldest daughter, is struggling. It’s something that seems to happen during this time each year, when the days become shorter and colder. She spent 18 days in an outpatient program over Christmas and New Year’s. Her freshman year in high school, which started so promisingly, has deteriorated.

Starting shortly after Thanksgiving, Kate became progressively more manic. Her chances for academic success, which are subject to the cycles that come with being a bipolar teen, seem to be deteriorating as well.

We are trying to transfer her to another school, one that is better equipped to serve students with emotional disabilities. One of her teachers — her case worker, no less — explains that if she would just turn in her work, her grades would be better.

Duh.

It’s become a familiar drill: Every time something new happens — new school, new meds, new teachers, new counselors — Jill and I have to recite again what has brought us to this point. Diagnoses, family histories, flaws, foibles — all are exposed yet again. Improvement, continuous though fragile, is the long-term goal.

Ten weeks into a hyper manic cycle, we are worried.

I had a chance to talk to Nicholas at length this week while waiting for the kids to get out from a movie. It was great to catch up, learn about his classes — he’s taking a buttload of hours and getting a new roommate — and hear about his upcoming audition. It’s a stressful time for him, too, but I’m proud of how he’s handling it all.

Ben and I went out to take pictures today. It was bitterly cold, and the wind made things that much worse, but it was good to get out for a while. The boy has been housebound largely since he got home, although the PT has gone well and he seems to be feeling better. Ginno has returned to New York; we still don’t know what Ben’s training will look like.

The sunset, however, is beautiful.

••••••


February 17: I’m in Houston, visiting my mom for the first time on her home turf in two years, attending a conference related to my work. The weather stinks, but I manage to sneak out and take some pictures. Photography is a source of comfort, especially when I’m having such trouble writing.

We’ve decided to send Ben back to New York, still not knowing with certainty what will happen with Billy and the tour. He needs to be away, to get back to some semblance of the life he has lived for 2+ years, and we know that. We’re still not sure what the next few months will bring. Even though things seem to be taking shape, we still have questions.

Ben is not used to long periods of inactivity, not surprising given that he has worked steadily for the past three years. He is bored and restless, trying to make the best of the first major injury he has had as a performer. New York seems to be the perfect temporary antidote.

As parents, that can be tough to accept, to realize your child — at the tender age of 14 — belongs in a place so far removed from the nuclear family life. And yet Ben has done the three things we’ve asked of him — stayed engaged in school, acted and worked professionally in a professional environment, and yet somehow remained a kid who still loves and needs his family.

Once he plays Billy, Ben will be only the second child in North America to play the show’s three young male roles (Kylend Hetherington, one of the current Billys on tour, is the other.) That speaks to Ben’s versatility and, ultimately, his will.

I don’t know how he does it. I’m not sure I understand how we do it, either.

The doctor has changed Kate’s meds, but getting her into another school has been slowed by yet another bureaucratic hurdle, as has the process for getting Emma into her high school of choice. Emma has done everything right; she has good grades and exhibits patience at home and school that are beyond her years. But red tape threatens her ability to attend the school where she has thrived.

In Houston, I call an official at the school that both my daughters — for completely different reasons — want to leave behind. Because a long holiday weekend is coming, we won’t get a call back until Tuesday.

••••••


February 21: Things are starting to take shape. A plan is moving into place for Ben, who will resume his formal Billy training in Los Angeles in April, then return to New York in May for five weeks before rejoining the tour in June. If we’ve learned anything about life with “Billy Elliot,” it’s that patience is required.

The school official calls. No word on Emma’s placement, but we have a transfer meeting set up for later in the week for Kate. I’m back in Virginia for three days before we head to New York to see the boy and Ginno. The bigger task: moving out of the apartment we’ve had for 2½ years.

One problem: I left my wallet on the airplane when I came back from Houston.

Fortunately, I don’t have a pile of credit cards to cancel, but it’s still painful. And it’s really no surprise, given everything that has taken place over the past couple of months, that I would do something so stupid.

Almost two months before, driving in D.C. with Ben and a very volatile Kate, I had a minor fender bender. No one was injured, but I struck a car that was being driven by a member of the District of Columbia’s law enforcement community. And the car I was driving — a 2002 Volvo with 150,000 miles on it — decided it was time to hang it up.

Things have to get better.

••••••


February 27: Today is Kate’s last day at her old school. Later in the week she will start fresh in a new program. She is more stable than she has been since before Thanksgiving, and for that we are thankful.

Jill and I drove up to New York the day before, to start packing the little apartment we moved into when this adventure began with “Ragtime.” It’s a day we’ve dreaded, in part because we’re leaving our son and some wonderful friends and memories there, and because it represents the end of a tremendously significant era in our lives.

One reason Ben is on the tour is because it gives him a chance to play Billy. Another is because he could play Michael, a principal role, when the show was at the Kennedy Center over the holidays. Sadly, the show’s closing on Broadway meant that he made the right move in leaving New York when he did. Happily, going on tour gave him a chance to perform in front of friends and acquaintances that otherwise would not have seen why we do what we do.

Now all we have to do is finish packing.

We’ve decided to let Ben stay in New York for the next month, return to school during that time, and see how things go until he resumes training. Friends that we’ve made because of this experience — Ginno, Carol, Bernadette, Katie, Ruby, Todd, and Carole — are helping us with the transition.

Last night the Oscars were on, and we sat on the couch and watched as they marched predictably to form. Cheers went up when Meryl Streep won in what proved to be the night’s only surprise.

Today, Jill left to help Kate get ready for her new school, and found a surprise — a letter informing us that Emma will get into her school of choice as well. Ginno, Ben, and I continue packing. As day progresses into night, I go to my neighborhood bar with a friend.

While there, I get a message I never expected. Ben is nominated for an award for playing Michael in Washington, D.C. On our last night in New York, he gets recognized in his adopted hometown.

Things indeed have come full circle, tying us in knots at times in the process as we go through the extreme highs and the equally tough lows. These past 50 days have been one of the roughest periods we’ve experienced as parents and as a family.

Fortunately the pebbles we stumble across slowly fill the potholes along the way.

Home Movies

Another writer's stretch: I've always admired songwriters who could tell stories in song. As someone with little to no rhythm — I lip-synch "Happy Birthday" — songwriting is not something in my skill set. But again, when you are writing based on observation, or something you know, sometimes things come out OK.

The little girl’s eyes flashed in the light

Head tilted to the right.

I wondered what she was thinking when

The camera turned back again.

The little boy laughed at his daddy’s smile.

Wondering all the while

Why his daddy was pointing at him

The red light growing dim.

It was just another day

Not much happening anyway

Who knew way back then

That it would mean something again.

Taking those home movies

Dancing on the video

Ready for the silver screen

Tell me what it really means.

The little boy stands in the living room

His father fumbles for the zoom.

The tassle sticks out and covers his face.

He’s embarrassed by the place.

Her mother sits nearby,

Looks at her teenage son and starts to cry

It’s time for some home movies

Dancing on the DVD

Ready for the silver screen

Wondering what it really means

The little girl in her dress

Standing all of four foot eight

Really mom, is it really great?

Her blue eyes shining through the lens

An older soul from within.

Twenty years pass and the film starts to fade.

Reds become pinks and blues are now jade.

Is it worth it now, the parents ask?

Are these memories something that will always last?

Watching those home movies.

Dancing on the big TV.

Ready for the silver screen.

It’s time for some home movies

Dancing on the video

Ready for the silver screen

Wondering what it really means

Family Stories, Part I

When I was growing up, my parents were storytellers. And sadly, I gave them no shortage of material.

Because they were both teachers, they loved to note how I mangled grammar and pronunciation. Of course, reminding them that I was a toddler at the time didn’t help.

“Garwhineits” was Weingartens. “Maimee Farceame” was Mainland Pharmacy. And there were others. But the biggest story — and I think one of my mom’s proudest moments — was when she learned I could read.

“Ford,” I said as the drove past the local car dealership. I was just 10 months old, and at that point, my academic career had nowhere to go but down.

I never understood why I heard these stories over and over again, except that I knew they found them funny and interesting. Now I realize that they were reliving a time that was not terribly complicated, a period from the first few years of marriage before my dad got sick and before life became a series of doctor’s visits and medical bills.

The Commuter

Editor’s note: This is my attempt at a short story. It came from watching and observing different people on the train and fictionalizing their lives. This person’s story stuck with me for some reason, probably due to its resemblance to my own. I would love to know what you think…

He ran.

His loafers rubbed at the already thin socks on his feet, adding to the calluses on his little toes and pushing on his heels. His suit jacket flapped out, pants drooping under his belly a little more.

Thirty feet to go, then the 22 stairs. The whistle blew. He had to make it, or sit and wait for another hour.

Tie slung over his shoulder, he turned the corner and took the stairs two at a time — 2, 4, 6, 8 … 18, 20, 22. He waved to the man in the funny little hat and shouted for him to hold the train. The conductor nodded, silently telling him to hurry.

••••••

He started testing time a few months ago, more than anything to add some excitement back into his life. The commute into his office held little to no mystery, so pushed back when he left the house for the train station.

He regretted that now.

He punched his ticket, took the steps up to the car marked “Coach Class,” noticed theother man’s funny little tie clip on the third button of his shirt, and started looking for a seat.

His feet throbbed. He couldn’t stand the whole way. “Please let there be a seat,” he thought, almost aloud.

A ball of sweat rolled down his nose, even though it was just January. His skin turned splotchy red from the desperate run.

There was a place six rows up. And remarkably, someone wasn’t slouching in it, snoring away. He had the entire row of two all to himself. He sat, pulling up his pants as the train pulled away. He was exhausted.

•••••••

But he couldn’t sleep. That often happened on days like this. Mornings that started way too early and ran deep into the evening. He was lucky, and he knew it, because the man with the funny little hat and tie clip had recognized him and held things up. He wondered how, in the sea of faceless people, the man had remembered.

The train jerked slightly to the right, then straightened. It did this every time it pulled away from the station, allowing him to tell the veterans from the rookies. Regular train riders hardly noticed; newbies cocked a half smile and made an offhand comment to the person sitting next to them. He knew this from experience, plus he fancied himself to be a casual eavesdropper.

At least the newbies spoke. They and a couple of veteran riders who were trying to convert you in some way. Commuter converters, he called them. They made nice for the first couple of minutes, checking out your political leanings, whether you had a family, what your job was, occasionally wondering if you had a church, and then they started on their agenda. The sound and the fury varied, as did the subject matter, but the dulling effect on his senses felt the same.

The morning talkers were the worst. The previous week he had gotten stuck next to a newbie woman wearing too much perfume. She was heading to a job interview for a position that she would never get because of her smell. It didn’t compare to the strongest, fuzziest cup of coffee he had ever consumed, but he didn’t have the heart to say anything. By the time the train stopped at his station, he was too tired and woozy to work.

That wouldn’t happen today. He was on his way home, for one, and no one dared to sit next to him. He looked down at his belly and thought to himself, “Who would want to?”

••••••

He’d been on this train for 21 years, traveling up and down an hour each way into the city. His wife had wanted to live farther out, so they found a house that looked like every fourth house in their neighborhood and moved in. The kids — a daughter now in college and a son, now in high school — were bored suburbanites consumed by shopping and the Internet. His wife, the administrative assistant to the county judge, was looking at retirement soon.

The first stop took eight minutes, four seconds. By this time, he had settled into his comfortable routine. Take out the laptop, open up the reports and start to shuffle papers. By the third stop — 22 minutes and 19 seconds out, give or take — he had finished his task and started looking around. It was better than laptop Solitaire.

Twenty-one years on this train, he thought, and what to show for it? No major injuries. No wrecks or derailments. No robberies. He had not been conned or converted. He had seen towns grow and decay at each stop, wondering what was happening in the lives of those around him.

One morning, on the Amtrak, he met a woman with a scarf wrapped around her head and headphones poking out of her ears. She shifted occasionally in her seat, but remained still for most of the trip. He wondered where she was going and decided to ask. It wasn’t like him, but he couldn’t resist.

“I’m going home,” she said.

“Me, too. Where’re you headed?”

She told him of the town up north. She had been home to bury her mother, leaving her husband and seven children behind. Her husband was self-employed, and they couldn’t afford for everyone to go.

“They didn’t like her much anyway,” she said by way of explanation.

••••••

Usually, he didn’t talk, even though on some days he wanted to. He had been a gregarious type on high school and college, with acquaintances who seemed to appreciate his wit and playful nature. That’s one reason his wife was attracted to him. Or at least had been.

He worked for a government agency, like most everyone on the train, sitting inside a cubicle with his family’s pictures on the desk. Mostly, he pushed paper from one stack to the next, then into the outbox. Some mornings he daydreamed, with thoughts of playing hooky and touring the museums.

It wasn’t a bad life. Just dull, he thought, as he saw the next group get ready to disembark. It was the fourth stop, 31 minutes and 40 seconds out. The person opposite his seat had gotten off one stop before. A woman and her child walked down the row, holding hands, sat next to him, their seat still warm.

The child, a girl of 3, looked nervous. She was the newest newbie he had seen in a while. Occasionally a group of school children went into the city on a field trip, pissing off the commuter converters who didn’t like to be squeezed in on “their” train. A little man who rode the same route always asked the tie clip attendant, “What the hell is this?” as the school kids got on, followed by, “I hope you’ll make sure they stay in their car.” It was the only time the little man, as he had been dubbed, ever spoke.

But this child looked different. She was younger than the school children, for one, and there was something about her eyes.

“Hi,” he said to the little girl, who buried her head in the woman’s chest. “It’ll be OK.”

The woman looked down at her child and kissed her on top of the head. The little girl peered at him, a thousand questions hovering behind those big, innocent eyes.

“Is this your first time on the train?” he asked.

She nodded.

“You’ll like it. Look out the window,” he said, pointing.

She lifted her head and saw the river, then said something unintelligible to her mother.

“Lift up your feet,” she said then, a little louder.

Her mom pulled up her knees. The little girl motioned to him, “Lift up your feet, or your toes will turn green.”

••••••

He did as he was told. The little girl’s mother looked at him and said, “It’s a little game we play; it keeps her occupied when we are in the car.”

He smiled, and asked the woman where they were going. One stop beyond his, she replied. They would be on the train together for the rest of the route.

The little girl looked out the window at the trees. “What’s that?” she asked repeatedly.

Her mother patiently gave her an answer every time she asked, occasionally looking over at him and rolling her eyes slightly. He was intrigued.

After the sixth stop, 44 minutes and 31 seconds out, the little girl started to squirm. They had had to wait much longer than usual, because an elderly gentleman had trouble getting down the stairs. He noticed the train attendant with the tie clip patiently helping the elderly gentleman down.

He thought of the two extremes, the little girl and the old man, that were on his train. And that’s the way he thought of it; after 21 years, it sort of was his train. If he had been the manager, he would have given the attendant high marks for his kindness. He would not permit perfume. He would add a beverage area, but with no alcohol. He would force people to speak to each other.

A northbound train zoomed past on the other track, scaring the little girl. She buried her face in her mother’s chest again, and started to whimper softly. At least she didn’t scream.

“Would you like to sit over here?” he asked in a kind voice, motioning to the two-thirds of a seat he had remaining.

The little girl looked at him with the big eyes. She looked up at her mother, speaking to her silently, and her mother nodded her approval. As the train left the station, she squeezed in next to him, her legs just extending past the seat’s edge.

They rode together for two more stops. She moved onto his knee, again with her mother’s silent approval. She asked about the trees, the silver door with the big red lettering that opened and shut. She pointed at a woman two rows up and asked if she was his mother. That made him laugh. She noticed the ripples in the second river they crossed together, and made him lift up his feet again.

His stop, 61 minutes and 34 seconds out because of the earlier delay, came quickly, and he didn’t want to leave. But he motioned to the girl’s mother that he had to stand up, that this was his stop, and she told her daughter to move away.

The little girl complied, then turned and hugged him around the leg as he stood.

“Thank you,” she said in a sweet little voice, pronouncing “Thank” as “Tank.”

“No, thank you,” he said, smiling. “I hope to see you again.”

She smiled back, an innocent.

It had not been a bad ride after all.

It’s been a little busy recently...

The typicals: Family, marriage, job, photography, raising four children — one in college, one in high school, one in dance, one on the Billy Elliot tour.

The atypicals: Four birthdays in December, which also includes Christmas, a small car wreck, a trip to the hospital (unrelated to the wreck), 10 to 20 trips to DC a week, one trip to the Billy Elliot closing in New York, major ticket brokering (with no commission) and the fact that the Cook Hostelry has been doing a thriving business for the past month.

That’s why I haven’t been here for a while. Lots of material and no time to write about it. I hope to be back soon…

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.