My dad was a fan of superheroes — Batman, Green Hornet, the Flash, and, yes, Superman — for his entire life. He drew pictures, collected comic books and action figures, and saw the art that was brought to life within the pages of a comic book.
He also was a teacher, someone who taught art and history for more than 30 years and a person who affected the lives of thousands of students. When he retired, three years before his death, he questioned whether he had made a difference — even though those who were in his classes knew he had.
I looked up to my father — and to my mom, whose career also was spent in classrooms — and respected his opinions, even though they differed greatly from my own at times. Today, watching the opening of “Waiting for Superman,” I wondered what he would have thought.
Davis Guggenheim’s new film has ramped up the debate about our nation’s public schools in a way that the best films do. He hitches the narrative to sympathetic, interesting characters and draws them into a sort of good vs. evil battle with the highest stakes of all — the education of our children. But in doing so, he also misses the mark.
“Superman” does not feature the staple of what makes superhero stories interesting — a great villain. By casting teachers and, more specifically, teachers unions in this film’s role, Guggenheim opts for a convenient target. (Examples of school boards and traditional administrators are shown in films made in the 1950s and ’60s — another cynical slap at traditional public schools.)
And while the brush is not quite broad enough to paint charter schools as the be-all, end-all for public education — more than 80 percent underperform their traditional counterparts, by the way — the only success stories shown in the film are charters. I know, having covered education for a number of years, that you can find many traditional public schools that are doing great jobs as well.
Guggenheim’s case is boosted by five adorable children — all with loving, sincere parents who are seeking admission to high-performing charter schools via a lottery. Innovative, charismatic reformers — Geoffrey Canada, who provides the source of the title, and Michelle Rhee, the controversial Washington, D.C., chancellor — are without question upheld as the heroes.
You can’t help but feel for these families as the lottery balls drop, and knowing the outcome in advance — I won’t spoil it for you here, but needless to say it’s not a fairy tale — makes the inevitable ending all the more heartbreaking.
As the credits roll, Guggenheim notes that, “The problem is complex but the steps are simple.” By failing to properly outline the complexities found in our public schools, he has done a disservice to viewers who are being called into action. In the end, nuance is all but lost in the interest of drama.
Make no mistake, as a drama, “Waiting for Superman” works. But the more I think about the film, I keep coming back to a problem with its central thesis. By casting unions as the central villain, and noting that some people scam the system (and ultimately, the kids) for their own self-interest, Guggenheim takes the simplest path to make his point. This uneasy mix of cynicism and naïveté, while it works in telling his story, also feels somewhat contradictory and disingenuous to someone who knows how complex schools are to operate.
I can’t help but think my father, who was no fan of unions, would have felt the same. He knew the superheroes he loved were characters from a comic book, and that real-life heroes could be found in traditional public schools every day. I just wish Guggenheim and those who are so quick to bash would look for those heroes, too.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
"Joseph": Coming around again
One of our family’s favorite phrases is “What goes around, comes around.”
As parents, we try to teach this lesson to our kids, but I was reminded again tonight that it applies to theatre as well. And I’m not just talking about the Rodgers and Hammerstein shows that continue to be performed — often badly — year after year.
In this case, what goes around has come around not once but twice. Nicholas has been cast as the lead in his high school production of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” the catchy/kitschy Andrew Lloyd Webber-Tim Rice musical that is based on the story of Joseph in Genesis.
This is a huge accomplishment for Nick, who has been involved in theater for his entire four years of high school and plans to major in it in college. It’s a wonderful opportunity for him to develop and showcase his talents in a role he’s wanted to play for a long time.
It’s also an opportunity to revisit a show that has played a significant role at key points in our lives as a family.
In 1996, Jill performed in the “Joseph” ensemble for the Community Theatre of Greensboro and I volunteered to work one of the spotlights. Early on, we found out she was pregnant with Katharine, and wondered how we would break the news to our parents. I will never forget how Jill’s mother Betty found out.
We ate lunch with Betty before the matinee. Exhausted from tech week (and in Jill’s case, the first trimester), my lovely bride turned down an opportunity for a cup of coffee and my mother-in-law knew. She just knew.
Betty was a deeply spiritual woman who also was, ultimately, a realist. Sitting upstairs at the Carolina Theatre, she merged the two by mixing the word “holy” with her default choice when picking through the profanity dictionary. Little did she know what the next few years would bring.
Cut to 2007. We are living in Virginia. Kate, Emma, and Ben are dancing at Metropolitan Fine Arts Center, which had formed a new nonprofit company, Metropolitan Performing Arts Theatre. MPAT’s second show was — you guessed it — “Joseph.”
All three children auditioned — Ben was cast in his first big role (as Benjamin, the youngest of the brothers). The girls were in the ensemble with Jill, who had not performed on stage in several years. I was slated to be the stage manager and do the program. It was, for all of us, an opportunity to participate in something together as a family.
The opportunity was bittersweet, however, when life intervened again. My dad’s blood disorder had turned into an aggressive form of leukemia. I went to Texas 13 times that year and just five weeks before the show went up, he died on July 29.
The diversion of doing “Joseph” — the little show with the big themes — was good for all of us, although I missed most of the rehearsals due to the back and forth and we were gone to Texas for a week for Dad’s funeral. Everyone involved — from cast to crew — was extremely understanding.
On Sept. 8, “Joseph” premiered for the first of its two weekends. It was an aggressive and expensive undertaking for a small theatre company, but overall it was a success and a huge step forward for MPAT.
Three days later, on Sept. 11 and before the second weekend of shows, my second “mom,” Fran, passed away. We waited until the second weekend was done before returning again to Texas for our second funeral in two months.
Much of that period, understandably, is a blur. But what I remember most vividly is how wonderful it was to have my family — biological and since extended — together for much of that time.
Only one of my children did not get to participate in the show: Nicholas. When he was with us in Virginia, he came to the rehearsals. Sponge that he is, he learned all of the colors in order in “Joseph's Coat" — one of the show’s signature songs. He also memorized much of Joseph’s big solo, “Close Every Door.”
Since he’s been in high school, Nicholas has tirelessly lobbied for “Joseph,” which despite its loving but slightly irreverent look at a religious story is perfect for his Catholic high school to perform. Now, as he starts his senior year and looks ahead to college and beyond, he gets to play the title role.
As we circle back, we move ahead. And we are reminded again that, at least in theater, thankfully what goes around comes around.
Break a leg, son.
As parents, we try to teach this lesson to our kids, but I was reminded again tonight that it applies to theatre as well. And I’m not just talking about the Rodgers and Hammerstein shows that continue to be performed — often badly — year after year.
In this case, what goes around has come around not once but twice. Nicholas has been cast as the lead in his high school production of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” the catchy/kitschy Andrew Lloyd Webber-Tim Rice musical that is based on the story of Joseph in Genesis.
This is a huge accomplishment for Nick, who has been involved in theater for his entire four years of high school and plans to major in it in college. It’s a wonderful opportunity for him to develop and showcase his talents in a role he’s wanted to play for a long time.
It’s also an opportunity to revisit a show that has played a significant role at key points in our lives as a family.
In 1996, Jill performed in the “Joseph” ensemble for the Community Theatre of Greensboro and I volunteered to work one of the spotlights. Early on, we found out she was pregnant with Katharine, and wondered how we would break the news to our parents. I will never forget how Jill’s mother Betty found out.
We ate lunch with Betty before the matinee. Exhausted from tech week (and in Jill’s case, the first trimester), my lovely bride turned down an opportunity for a cup of coffee and my mother-in-law knew. She just knew.
Betty was a deeply spiritual woman who also was, ultimately, a realist. Sitting upstairs at the Carolina Theatre, she merged the two by mixing the word “holy” with her default choice when picking through the profanity dictionary. Little did she know what the next few years would bring.
Cut to 2007. We are living in Virginia. Kate, Emma, and Ben are dancing at Metropolitan Fine Arts Center, which had formed a new nonprofit company, Metropolitan Performing Arts Theatre. MPAT’s second show was — you guessed it — “Joseph.”
All three children auditioned — Ben was cast in his first big role (as Benjamin, the youngest of the brothers). The girls were in the ensemble with Jill, who had not performed on stage in several years. I was slated to be the stage manager and do the program. It was, for all of us, an opportunity to participate in something together as a family.
The opportunity was bittersweet, however, when life intervened again. My dad’s blood disorder had turned into an aggressive form of leukemia. I went to Texas 13 times that year and just five weeks before the show went up, he died on July 29.
The diversion of doing “Joseph” — the little show with the big themes — was good for all of us, although I missed most of the rehearsals due to the back and forth and we were gone to Texas for a week for Dad’s funeral. Everyone involved — from cast to crew — was extremely understanding.
On Sept. 8, “Joseph” premiered for the first of its two weekends. It was an aggressive and expensive undertaking for a small theatre company, but overall it was a success and a huge step forward for MPAT.
Three days later, on Sept. 11 and before the second weekend of shows, my second “mom,” Fran, passed away. We waited until the second weekend was done before returning again to Texas for our second funeral in two months.
Much of that period, understandably, is a blur. But what I remember most vividly is how wonderful it was to have my family — biological and since extended — together for much of that time.
Only one of my children did not get to participate in the show: Nicholas. When he was with us in Virginia, he came to the rehearsals. Sponge that he is, he learned all of the colors in order in “Joseph's Coat" — one of the show’s signature songs. He also memorized much of Joseph’s big solo, “Close Every Door.”
Since he’s been in high school, Nicholas has tirelessly lobbied for “Joseph,” which despite its loving but slightly irreverent look at a religious story is perfect for his Catholic high school to perform. Now, as he starts his senior year and looks ahead to college and beyond, he gets to play the title role.
As we circle back, we move ahead. And we are reminded again that, at least in theater, thankfully what goes around comes around.
Break a leg, son.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Tell Me About Your Child
For the past few days, Kate has been rapid cycling. For those of you who are fortunate enough not to know what this means, think about a light switch run by a small person who thinks it's cute to turn on and off the lights in rapid succession.
Except in this case, "On" is manic, with thoughts racing a mile a minute and exaggeration flowing at all times. "Off" is horrifically sad and angry — adolescence on steroids.
It's exhausting, not just for us and for Emma, but for Kate as well.
So, in our ongoing search for life's little ironies, we discovered one tonight. Digging through our daughter's book bag, Jill found a letter from Kate's creative writing teacher: "In a Million Words or Less … Tell Me About Your Child!"
The assignment was handed out last week; the due date, of course, is tomorrow.
Below is what I came up with and attached, along with the essay I posted earlier this evening.I hope each provides you with some insight into parenting a bipolar child.
Kate’s highlight reel reads like this:
Born two days after Christmas. Always restless and difficult to soothe as an infant and toddler. Walked at nine months. Twin siblings born before she turns a year. Diagnosed with ADHD at 5. Accepted into GT program between 2nd and 3rd grade. Diagnosed as bipolar at age 10. Hits an academic wall in 5th grade. Mood disorder never goes away. Sixth grade hits a major wall and pulls out of GT. Enters middle school and has to be in basic skills.
Starting over. Struggling to find letters B through Y in the alphabet; prefers to go straight from A to Z instead. Always has enjoyed art. Finds comfort in drawing and sketching. Wants to be a fashion designer, but has no patience to sew. Loves to run and does so like a gazelle. Loves to dance; ironically ballet calms her. Has many ideas racing through her mind at all times; the mind never shuts down. Never. Until it overloads.
Wants to have and make friends. Doesn’t know what the give and take of friendship really means. Anything can be solved by giving someone a present, usually used and/or created. Doesn’t matter what it is; it’s the thought that counts.
Has anxiety. Sometimes so severe that it’s almost crippling; other times it’s like sending the space shuttle into orbit.
Like any adolescent, both loves and loathes her siblings. When she’s rapid cycling, the two emotions overlap, causing confusion.
It’s hard, this life. No one understands me. And no one tries, even though that’s what we’ve spent her entire lifetime trying to do.
From an intelligence standpoint, she should not be in special ed. She — and her parents — are alternately saddened and proud that she has the label. This year, she knows that she’s been labeled, and she — like all teens — is both ambivalent and cares too much. Kate’s dual exceptionalities represent a conundrum that school systems are ill-equipped to face, and we say this both having worked as educators in various capacities.
Kate is someone who is almost incapacitated in her search for emotional equalibrium. She is beautiful and talented and so incredibly creative. She just hasn’t found the true outlet that she can hold on to that allows her to express her thoughts and emotions adequately.
Now she’s trying creative writing, something that should — and can — be a natural outlet for her, especially given her parents’ backgrounds. The struggle will be in harnessing her innate creativity and not allowing herself to get bogged down and overwhelmed by the mechanics.
Here's what I didn't tell the teacher: I love my daughter with all of my heart and soul, but her illness doesn't make it easy. My wife and I desperately want to do everything we can to make a difference in her life, and we're trying as hard as we can without getting bogged down and overwhelmed as well.
Wish us luck. We need it.
Except in this case, "On" is manic, with thoughts racing a mile a minute and exaggeration flowing at all times. "Off" is horrifically sad and angry — adolescence on steroids.
It's exhausting, not just for us and for Emma, but for Kate as well.
So, in our ongoing search for life's little ironies, we discovered one tonight. Digging through our daughter's book bag, Jill found a letter from Kate's creative writing teacher: "In a Million Words or Less … Tell Me About Your Child!"
The assignment was handed out last week; the due date, of course, is tomorrow.
Below is what I came up with and attached, along with the essay I posted earlier this evening.I hope each provides you with some insight into parenting a bipolar child.
Kate’s highlight reel reads like this:
Born two days after Christmas. Always restless and difficult to soothe as an infant and toddler. Walked at nine months. Twin siblings born before she turns a year. Diagnosed with ADHD at 5. Accepted into GT program between 2nd and 3rd grade. Diagnosed as bipolar at age 10. Hits an academic wall in 5th grade. Mood disorder never goes away. Sixth grade hits a major wall and pulls out of GT. Enters middle school and has to be in basic skills.
Starting over. Struggling to find letters B through Y in the alphabet; prefers to go straight from A to Z instead. Always has enjoyed art. Finds comfort in drawing and sketching. Wants to be a fashion designer, but has no patience to sew. Loves to run and does so like a gazelle. Loves to dance; ironically ballet calms her. Has many ideas racing through her mind at all times; the mind never shuts down. Never. Until it overloads.
Wants to have and make friends. Doesn’t know what the give and take of friendship really means. Anything can be solved by giving someone a present, usually used and/or created. Doesn’t matter what it is; it’s the thought that counts.
Has anxiety. Sometimes so severe that it’s almost crippling; other times it’s like sending the space shuttle into orbit.
Like any adolescent, both loves and loathes her siblings. When she’s rapid cycling, the two emotions overlap, causing confusion.
It’s hard, this life. No one understands me. And no one tries, even though that’s what we’ve spent her entire lifetime trying to do.
From an intelligence standpoint, she should not be in special ed. She — and her parents — are alternately saddened and proud that she has the label. This year, she knows that she’s been labeled, and she — like all teens — is both ambivalent and cares too much. Kate’s dual exceptionalities represent a conundrum that school systems are ill-equipped to face, and we say this both having worked as educators in various capacities.
Kate is someone who is almost incapacitated in her search for emotional equalibrium. She is beautiful and talented and so incredibly creative. She just hasn’t found the true outlet that she can hold on to that allows her to express her thoughts and emotions adequately.
Now she’s trying creative writing, something that should — and can — be a natural outlet for her, especially given her parents’ backgrounds. The struggle will be in harnessing her innate creativity and not allowing herself to get bogged down and overwhelmed by the mechanics.
Here's what I didn't tell the teacher: I love my daughter with all of my heart and soul, but her illness doesn't make it easy. My wife and I desperately want to do everything we can to make a difference in her life, and we're trying as hard as we can without getting bogged down and overwhelmed as well.
Wish us luck. We need it.
Kate: The Early Years
Editor's note: I wrote this essay when Kate was 18 months old. She's now 13. Interesting how we knew something was up even then, isn't it?
She walked at nine months. She had twin siblings before she turned a year.
It’s no wonder my daughter Katharine made it to the “terrible twos” several months early.
We are now in that period of parenthood that my seasoned, been-there-done-that friends refer to as the “teenage preview.” They shake their heads and say, “Just wait ‘til she turns 13.”
At times, I wonder if my wife and I can make it until she turns two. Little did we know that parenting a pair of infants would be a breeze compared to chasing a toddler with an attitude any high school sophomore would be proud to possess.
Part of it is the circumstance. With three children under age 2, life around my house is never less than interesting. Going to the bathroom can require an act of Congress and a signed letter from the president. And with Katharine in her present phase, you never know what you’ll find when you get there.
I’m more convinced than ever that the “terrible twos” are a simple way of identifying “toddler schitzophrenia,” the developmental stage all parents must endure. I just wish they had “toddler Prozac” to help the parents cope.
One minute, she’s wonderful, working the room like a career politician.
“Hi, I’m Katharine Cook, candidate for leader of the toddler party. My platform is more beanie weenies, less Spam for all. Glad to meet you.”
The next is like listening to an air raid siren, battle lines having been drawn when I tried to take something out of her hands.
“This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. For the next 60 seconds, I’m going to let out a scream that will make you think the entire area is under nuclear attack. Please stand by.”
And so it goes.
For her parents, moments of quiet have resulted in near “I wonder what she’s gotten into now” paranoia.
And yet there are moments when I wouldn’t trade this time for anything.
With the insanity around my house, it is easy to forget Katharine is only 16 months old. She’s had to change rooms, move from a crib into a bed, and share the attention with twins who — by virtue of their unique nature — naturally snatch a spotlight that once was exclusively hers.
Partially because of all the changes, Katharine is remarkably self-sufficient for her age. She’s at the phase where she absorbs words and actions like a large sponge sitting at the bottom of a vast ocean. And yet, as much as it makes us cringe, it’s also easy to understand why she occasionally enjoys sitting on her sister’s head. She’s still a baby herself.
In those rare quiet times, however, all it takes is a certain look to make you forget all of the bad stuff. Her eyes, which are as expressive as her mother’s, alternately make me swell with pride and reach to my face to feel the tears roll down my cheeks.
Recently Katharine has started waking up in the middle of the night. And even though it usually takes her mother to get her back to sleep, I have made several half-groggy attempts to soothe my daughter.
In the small rays of dim light provided by the blinds in the bedroom window, I start to rub my little girl’s back, much like I do with her mother. As I watch her eyes move slowly, alternately opening and shutting, I flash forward to those teenage years my friends talk about.
On some nights, I project even farther into the future. College graduation. The day she has my grandchild. I wonder briefly if her daughter will be as beautiful as she is.
But that is a lifetime away. A lifetime that will pass much too fast. Ahead is a childhood that I hope we both can enjoy.
If we survive it, that is.
She walked at nine months. She had twin siblings before she turned a year.
It’s no wonder my daughter Katharine made it to the “terrible twos” several months early.
We are now in that period of parenthood that my seasoned, been-there-done-that friends refer to as the “teenage preview.” They shake their heads and say, “Just wait ‘til she turns 13.”
At times, I wonder if my wife and I can make it until she turns two. Little did we know that parenting a pair of infants would be a breeze compared to chasing a toddler with an attitude any high school sophomore would be proud to possess.
Part of it is the circumstance. With three children under age 2, life around my house is never less than interesting. Going to the bathroom can require an act of Congress and a signed letter from the president. And with Katharine in her present phase, you never know what you’ll find when you get there.
I’m more convinced than ever that the “terrible twos” are a simple way of identifying “toddler schitzophrenia,” the developmental stage all parents must endure. I just wish they had “toddler Prozac” to help the parents cope.
One minute, she’s wonderful, working the room like a career politician.
“Hi, I’m Katharine Cook, candidate for leader of the toddler party. My platform is more beanie weenies, less Spam for all. Glad to meet you.”
The next is like listening to an air raid siren, battle lines having been drawn when I tried to take something out of her hands.
“This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. For the next 60 seconds, I’m going to let out a scream that will make you think the entire area is under nuclear attack. Please stand by.”
And so it goes.
For her parents, moments of quiet have resulted in near “I wonder what she’s gotten into now” paranoia.
And yet there are moments when I wouldn’t trade this time for anything.
With the insanity around my house, it is easy to forget Katharine is only 16 months old. She’s had to change rooms, move from a crib into a bed, and share the attention with twins who — by virtue of their unique nature — naturally snatch a spotlight that once was exclusively hers.
Partially because of all the changes, Katharine is remarkably self-sufficient for her age. She’s at the phase where she absorbs words and actions like a large sponge sitting at the bottom of a vast ocean. And yet, as much as it makes us cringe, it’s also easy to understand why she occasionally enjoys sitting on her sister’s head. She’s still a baby herself.
In those rare quiet times, however, all it takes is a certain look to make you forget all of the bad stuff. Her eyes, which are as expressive as her mother’s, alternately make me swell with pride and reach to my face to feel the tears roll down my cheeks.
Recently Katharine has started waking up in the middle of the night. And even though it usually takes her mother to get her back to sleep, I have made several half-groggy attempts to soothe my daughter.
In the small rays of dim light provided by the blinds in the bedroom window, I start to rub my little girl’s back, much like I do with her mother. As I watch her eyes move slowly, alternately opening and shutting, I flash forward to those teenage years my friends talk about.
On some nights, I project even farther into the future. College graduation. The day she has my grandchild. I wonder briefly if her daughter will be as beautiful as she is.
But that is a lifetime away. A lifetime that will pass much too fast. Ahead is a childhood that I hope we both can enjoy.
If we survive it, that is.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Next to Normal
I stood on the corner of 8th Avenue and 48th Street in Manhattan this week and my son said goodbye.
“See ya, Dad,” Ben said, his backpack filled with school supplies. “Gotta go. I’m good.”
The “I’m good” was 7th grade code for “You don’t need to walk me to the front door of school anymore” — a transitional moment that makes me vaguely uncomfortable as a parent and proud at the same time.
The day before, in Virginia, Jill saw Kate and Emma off on their respective buses — they’re going to different middle schools — and said she felt the same set of conflicting emotions.
This is “normal,” I guess. A normal moment in what feels like, at times, an abnormal life.
As a child, I went to the same elementary school for five years, the same middle school for three, and the same high school for four. I was raised in the same house that my parents lived in until my father died.
Today, I’m a parent with four kids in four schools in three states. Nicholas is a senior — gulp — driving himself to school in North Carolina. Kate and Emma are in 8th and 7th grade, respectively, still jumping on the bus. And then there’s Ben.
Last year at this time, he was our “Little Boy,” having moved to New York to play that role in “Ragtime.” This year, he’s “Tall Boy” in “Billy Elliott,” having booked his second Broadway show in just nine months.
While he’s still small for his age, the image of me standing on that street corner watching him walk the last 100 yards to school is a vivid reminder that he is growing up.
And fortunately for us, when he says “I’m good,” I know what he means.
“See ya, Dad,” Ben said, his backpack filled with school supplies. “Gotta go. I’m good.”
The “I’m good” was 7th grade code for “You don’t need to walk me to the front door of school anymore” — a transitional moment that makes me vaguely uncomfortable as a parent and proud at the same time.
The day before, in Virginia, Jill saw Kate and Emma off on their respective buses — they’re going to different middle schools — and said she felt the same set of conflicting emotions.
This is “normal,” I guess. A normal moment in what feels like, at times, an abnormal life.
As a child, I went to the same elementary school for five years, the same middle school for three, and the same high school for four. I was raised in the same house that my parents lived in until my father died.
Today, I’m a parent with four kids in four schools in three states. Nicholas is a senior — gulp — driving himself to school in North Carolina. Kate and Emma are in 8th and 7th grade, respectively, still jumping on the bus. And then there’s Ben.
Last year at this time, he was our “Little Boy,” having moved to New York to play that role in “Ragtime.” This year, he’s “Tall Boy” in “Billy Elliott,” having booked his second Broadway show in just nine months.
While he’s still small for his age, the image of me standing on that street corner watching him walk the last 100 yards to school is a vivid reminder that he is growing up.
And fortunately for us, when he says “I’m good,” I know what he means.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
12 Random Thoughts
Random thoughts and observations from the past month:
• When asked to describe Kate, I have said, “Kate is 13. She’s bipolar.” Heads nod. Then I say, “She’s 13 … and she’s bipolar.” That’s when the looks of sympathy begin.
• We went to the beach recently with the kids, which provided another opportunity for me to clarify a key definition. Some, naively, call family outings like this a “vacation.” I call them a “trip.” Vacation, for me, is an opportunity to do things on my schedule. I can sleep when I want, wake up when I want, read when I want, and talk without fear of being interrupted by someone who is not yet of legal status. Everything else is just a “trip,” often in more ways than one.
• I can’t help but feel sorry for Nicholas. It must be tough (and confusing) to be anal-retentive and ADD at the same time. Or you could just call it being a teenager.
• Two things I’ve always wanted to do: draw and sing. The talent fates intervened, however. I can’t draw a stick figure and I lip-synch “Happy Birthday” even (or especially) in large crowds. Fortunately, I’m surrounded by a family of singers and artists who allow me to live with and through them somewhat vicariously.
• The maturity and creativity of my kids — and conversely, the lack thereof — astounds us daily. This is especially true when Nicholas is here. I never know what project, poster, performance (or mess) is lurking when I walk through the door.
• Emma and Kate remind me of the sisters in Jennifer Weiner’s book, In Her Shoes. The only thing they will end up having in common is shoe size. Right now, their theme song should be “Cat Scratch Fever”; parents of teen girls are old enough and have the experience necessary to understand that Ted Nugent reference.
• Speaking of which, I never thought I would include Ted Nugent in anything I ever wrote. Of course, I never thought I would come close to agreeing with Glenn Beck on anything either. But the other day, I found myself nodding at his recent non-confrontational stand on gay marriage. Further proof that it’s a strange world we live in, folks.
• I still can’t get over the fact that I have four kids in four schools in three states, or that the baby of the family (by a minute, as Emma proudly notes) is living, thriving and holding a steady job in Manhattan at the ripe old age of 12. Go, Ben!
• As a child, I was always frustrated by the things I couldn’t do (see the previously mentioned drawing and singing). And, believe it or not, I hated to write. Then I found a keyboard and realized that I finally had a tool that could match the speed at which my brain works (plus the value-add of spell check). Recently, I decided to take up non-kid related photography and started snapping just the things that catch my eye. Finally, I’ve found another outlet for artistic expression.
• Kate has a new theme song, and it’s a mash-up of two pieces you might be familiar with: “It’s just another Manic Monday … Tuesday, Wednesday — Happy Days!! Thursday, Friday…”
• I may have said this before, but just in case: Emma is the Marilyn to our Herman, Lily, Grandpa and Eddie. And, with all due apologies for mixing my 1960s sitcoms, I’m sure there’s a Cousin It thrown in there somewhere for show.
• A work discussion about the merits of cloth vs. disposable diapers led to this epiphany: I now know why I have certain reading habits.
(Editor’s note/Public Service Announcement: The following statement is not necessarily for the squeamish and may qualify as TMI.)
The aforementioned habit is the result of my mom — a teacher through and through — putting a calendar in front of my face while I potty trained. Little did she know that by teaching me numbers — “Mommy, what is 2 and 1…?” — she was planting a seed while I sat on the plastic bowl.
The less said here, the better.
• When asked to describe Kate, I have said, “Kate is 13. She’s bipolar.” Heads nod. Then I say, “She’s 13 … and she’s bipolar.” That’s when the looks of sympathy begin.
• We went to the beach recently with the kids, which provided another opportunity for me to clarify a key definition. Some, naively, call family outings like this a “vacation.” I call them a “trip.” Vacation, for me, is an opportunity to do things on my schedule. I can sleep when I want, wake up when I want, read when I want, and talk without fear of being interrupted by someone who is not yet of legal status. Everything else is just a “trip,” often in more ways than one.
• I can’t help but feel sorry for Nicholas. It must be tough (and confusing) to be anal-retentive and ADD at the same time. Or you could just call it being a teenager.
• Two things I’ve always wanted to do: draw and sing. The talent fates intervened, however. I can’t draw a stick figure and I lip-synch “Happy Birthday” even (or especially) in large crowds. Fortunately, I’m surrounded by a family of singers and artists who allow me to live with and through them somewhat vicariously.
• The maturity and creativity of my kids — and conversely, the lack thereof — astounds us daily. This is especially true when Nicholas is here. I never know what project, poster, performance (or mess) is lurking when I walk through the door.
• Emma and Kate remind me of the sisters in Jennifer Weiner’s book, In Her Shoes. The only thing they will end up having in common is shoe size. Right now, their theme song should be “Cat Scratch Fever”; parents of teen girls are old enough and have the experience necessary to understand that Ted Nugent reference.
• Speaking of which, I never thought I would include Ted Nugent in anything I ever wrote. Of course, I never thought I would come close to agreeing with Glenn Beck on anything either. But the other day, I found myself nodding at his recent non-confrontational stand on gay marriage. Further proof that it’s a strange world we live in, folks.
• I still can’t get over the fact that I have four kids in four schools in three states, or that the baby of the family (by a minute, as Emma proudly notes) is living, thriving and holding a steady job in Manhattan at the ripe old age of 12. Go, Ben!
• As a child, I was always frustrated by the things I couldn’t do (see the previously mentioned drawing and singing). And, believe it or not, I hated to write. Then I found a keyboard and realized that I finally had a tool that could match the speed at which my brain works (plus the value-add of spell check). Recently, I decided to take up non-kid related photography and started snapping just the things that catch my eye. Finally, I’ve found another outlet for artistic expression.
• Kate has a new theme song, and it’s a mash-up of two pieces you might be familiar with: “It’s just another Manic Monday … Tuesday, Wednesday — Happy Days!! Thursday, Friday…”
• I may have said this before, but just in case: Emma is the Marilyn to our Herman, Lily, Grandpa and Eddie. And, with all due apologies for mixing my 1960s sitcoms, I’m sure there’s a Cousin It thrown in there somewhere for show.
• A work discussion about the merits of cloth vs. disposable diapers led to this epiphany: I now know why I have certain reading habits.
(Editor’s note/Public Service Announcement: The following statement is not necessarily for the squeamish and may qualify as TMI.)
The aforementioned habit is the result of my mom — a teacher through and through — putting a calendar in front of my face while I potty trained. Little did she know that by teaching me numbers — “Mommy, what is 2 and 1…?” — she was planting a seed while I sat on the plastic bowl.
The less said here, the better.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Apologies
To the few of you who follow this, my apologies for not posting recently…
To those of you who don’t, read below and see what you have missed…
To those of you who don’t, read below and see what you have missed…
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Parenting amid the holidays
For this year’s Fourth of July, I took three of the four to New York, where we met up with Ben. Within a few minutes, the familiar patterns emerged:
• Nicholas: Developed a specific list of things he wanted, wanted to accomplish, and just plain wanted, with a variety of opinions on things he did not like/appreciate/enjoy.
• Kate: SHOPPING!!!! NOW!!!! (All caps, with minimum of four exclamation points required at the end of every sentence, unless it’s a question that starts with, “Can we go to…?”)
• Emma: Channeled her inner Eeyore and added a Dead Sea Scroll of “don’t likes,” starting with the fact that New York is busy, dirty, and, well on the rest she would just have to reserve judgment before liking the experience.
• Ben: New York is where I’d rather stay. I get allergic smelling hay. I just adore a penthouse view. Darlings I love you but give me Park Avenue.
I guess that’s why they call it parenting.
• Nicholas: Developed a specific list of things he wanted, wanted to accomplish, and just plain wanted, with a variety of opinions on things he did not like/appreciate/enjoy.
• Kate: SHOPPING!!!! NOW!!!! (All caps, with minimum of four exclamation points required at the end of every sentence, unless it’s a question that starts with, “Can we go to…?”)
• Emma: Channeled her inner Eeyore and added a Dead Sea Scroll of “don’t likes,” starting with the fact that New York is busy, dirty, and, well on the rest she would just have to reserve judgment before liking the experience.
• Ben: New York is where I’d rather stay. I get allergic smelling hay. I just adore a penthouse view. Darlings I love you but give me Park Avenue.
I guess that’s why they call it parenting.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
From Closing to Closure
Just after Ragtime’s stirring opening number, Father says something to Mother as he leaves on his year-long journey: Nothing much happens in a year.
Hogwash.
In many ways, this is a typical Saturday morning. I’m writing this and procrastinating. On the agenda is grocery shopping, doing laundry, running a few errands, cleaning up the apartment, and muddling through some leftover work tasks. Ben is sound asleep on the couch, not yet stirring, and anxious to go to his dance classes. Tonight, Jill will arrive, and we will have a rare weekend together in New York.
But this weekend, like much of this past year, also is atypical. Tomorrow, we head to a brunch that will have the feel of an extended family reunion, and then we will go to (eek!) the Tony Awards.
It’s something I never dreamed would happen in my lifetime, and only fantasized about in the broadest terms a year ago. But in a rare moment of wisdom, the nominating committee recognized Ragtime with six nominations — an amazing feat for a show that closed five months ago.
In many ways, the nominations bring a bittersweet sense of closure to a show that many feel should still be running. They represent long-deserved acknowledgement for people who have toiled in the business for decades, an affirmation of some whose careers are just starting to explode, and recognition of a production that forever changed the lives of everyone involved with it.
And a year ago, it had only just begun.
Ben was the last person from the original DC cast to perform, and his debut was on Broadway. Closing for him, and for everyone involved, represented a huge transition into the unknown.
Journalists are trained to work with the 5Ws and an H. The lasting lesson from my college training is to ask two more questions: “So what?” and “What’s next?”
In this case, the answer to the “So what?” is obvious. This experience has changed our lives for good. And fortunately, after months of uncertainty, we now know what’s next.
But for one last weekend, we can remember, recognize and reflect.
From closing to closure, we have a chance to celebrate.
And we will.
Hogwash.
In many ways, this is a typical Saturday morning. I’m writing this and procrastinating. On the agenda is grocery shopping, doing laundry, running a few errands, cleaning up the apartment, and muddling through some leftover work tasks. Ben is sound asleep on the couch, not yet stirring, and anxious to go to his dance classes. Tonight, Jill will arrive, and we will have a rare weekend together in New York.
But this weekend, like much of this past year, also is atypical. Tomorrow, we head to a brunch that will have the feel of an extended family reunion, and then we will go to (eek!) the Tony Awards.
It’s something I never dreamed would happen in my lifetime, and only fantasized about in the broadest terms a year ago. But in a rare moment of wisdom, the nominating committee recognized Ragtime with six nominations — an amazing feat for a show that closed five months ago.
In many ways, the nominations bring a bittersweet sense of closure to a show that many feel should still be running. They represent long-deserved acknowledgement for people who have toiled in the business for decades, an affirmation of some whose careers are just starting to explode, and recognition of a production that forever changed the lives of everyone involved with it.
And a year ago, it had only just begun.
Ben was the last person from the original DC cast to perform, and his debut was on Broadway. Closing for him, and for everyone involved, represented a huge transition into the unknown.
Journalists are trained to work with the 5Ws and an H. The lasting lesson from my college training is to ask two more questions: “So what?” and “What’s next?”
In this case, the answer to the “So what?” is obvious. This experience has changed our lives for good. And fortunately, after months of uncertainty, we now know what’s next.
But for one last weekend, we can remember, recognize and reflect.
From closing to closure, we have a chance to celebrate.
And we will.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
The Bipolar Gulp
I’m in recovery from a bipolar week, and Kate’s disorder is not the culprit this time.
“It” is still there, lurking as always on the surface of our lives. But the extreme highs and terrible lows that took place within a few short days pushed even her disorder to the periphery — a rare feat.
The adventure our family has been on for the past year has taken so many twists and turns that I thought I was prepared for anything. But as I sort through a series of events that occurred over a 48-hour period earlier this month, and the potential long-term effects on our family, I have only one (non-profane) word to describe it:
Gulp.
In short order, here’s what happened:
• “Ragtime” received multiple Drama Desk and Tony Award nominations, further validating the artistic success of a show that should still be running on Broadway.
• My magazine was named a finalist for six national education publishing awards, including Periodical of the Year, validating the hard work, dedication, and experience of our staff.
• Ben went to a final callback for a role in “Billy Elliot,” the show that has frustrated and challenged him in so many ways.
• Budget cuts at my office meant two of my staff had to be let go.
• My boss — a longtime friend and one of my career mentors — announced she was leaving in a reorganization that shakes up the top management of the association.
Gulp, indeed.
The purpose of this blog is not to examine or evaluate my professional career. Suffice it to say, my organization has suffered from the same economic smack down as others in the non-profit and for-profit worlds, and next year is not looking much better than the previous two. Sticking our proverbial heads deeper into the sand is not the solution; managing our way through an economic crisis is.
The result: A reorganization of some kind had been promised for some time, and that time is now. From a business standpoint, it's easy to understand why these events occurred.
From an emotional standpoint, things like this are never easy. And reeling is the only way to describe my initial reaction to everything that happened within those two days. From euphoria to sadness, with little to no equilibrium, I can only imagine this is how Kate feels in the course of her daily life, never knowing what’s coming next.
Gulp.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
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.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
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.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
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.
Just a nice day.
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.
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."
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