What's Up?

“How ya doin’?”

“Fine.  You?”

“Fine.”

“Howzitgoin’?”

“It’s goin’.”

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothin’.”

I’m a little tired of the impersonal greetings most of us use when we see each other.  Often when we meet acquaintances and coworkers our casual greetings and inquiries seem disingenuous.   This evening I saw someone I knew only casually.  It was nice to see him, but he fired off, “Howzitgoin’?” and before I even had the chance to answer he said, “Oh, fine, fine, thanks.”  I don’t even think he realized I hadn’t asked yet. 

I’m guilty too, both on the giving as well as the receiving end of the exchange.  After my mom died, when I saw someone who didn’t know that I’d lost my best friend, the one who held me to the ground – even though I was as hollow a I had ever been- when someone asked, “How are you?” my reflex response was, “Fine, thanks.  You?”  It was like jerking my leg after the doc hit my sweet spot with the triangular rubber hammer. 

Sometimes I’d catch myself after the auto-pilot response and retrofit a sincere response.  “No, not really.  I’m hurting…  I miss my mom.”

This morning as I was considering writing a piece about how shallow our meet-and-greet responses are, a teacher bud walked into the work area.  “Howzitgoin’?”  “Fine, you?”  “Fine.”  Then I stopped myself from walking away from that meaningless exchange.  I saw that she was running off some really interesting math work for her kids.  I asked how her math instruction was coming.  We had two or three minutes to share ideas about math for the rest of the year.  It went from a rather bland ‘good morning’ to a fun and interesting few minutes for us to reconnect.  Simple but effective.

I thought of that old show CHEERS from years ago.  One of my favorites.  For a few years it came on right next to Sienfeld.  Great stuff.  Anyway, whenever big old Norm Peterson would come in for a beer, the crowd would say his name in unison – “NORM!”  That was usually followed by a bland – howzitgoin’- question from one of the barkeeps.  The one that came into my mind was this – Woody, innocent and gullible, country (well, Indiana country) and sincere, says, “Hi, Mr. Peterson.  What’s up?”

And Norm says something like, “My nipples.  It’s freezing outside.  Get me a beer, Woody.”  Wouldn’t it be great if we could come up with something besides, “finehowareyou?”

So I googled around and found some Normisms, some interesting responses to some mundane greetings.  I don’t laugh aloud all that often.  I did with these.  Enjoy this first installment!

1. "What's shaking Norm?"
    "All four cheeks and a couple of chins."

2. "What's new Normie?"
    "Terrorists, Sam. They've taken over my stomach and they're demanding beer."

3. "What'd you like Normie?"
    "A reason to live. Give me another beer."

4. "What'll you have Normie?"
    "Well, I'm in a gambling mood Sammy. I'll take a glass of whatever comes out of that tap."
    "Looks like beer, Norm."
    "Call me Mister Lucky."

5. "Hey Norm, how's the world been treating you?"
    "Like a baby treats a diaper."

6. "What's the story Mr. Peterson?"
    "The Bobbsey twins go to the brewery. Let's cut to the happy ending."

7. "Hey Mr. Peterson, there's a cold one waiting for you."
    "I know, if she calls, I'm not here."

8. "Beer, Norm?"
    "Have I gotten that predictable? Good."

9. "What's going on Mr. Peterson?"
    "A flashing sign in my gut that says, 'Insert beer here.'"

10. "Whatcha up to Norm?"
      "My ideal weight if I were eleven feet tall."

11. "How's it going Mr. Peterson?"
      "Poor."
      "I'm sorry to hear that."
      "No, I mean pour."

12. "How's life treating you Norm?"
      "Like it caught me sleeping with its wife."

13. "Women. Can't live with 'em...... pass the beer nuts."

14. "What's going down, Normie?"
      "My butt cheeks on that bar stool."

15. "Pour you a beer, Mr. Peterson?"
      "Alright, but stop me at one... make that one-thirty."

16. "How's it going Mr. Peterson?"
      "It's a dog eat dog world, Woody and I'm wearing Milk Bone underwear."

17. "What's the story Norm?"
      "Boy meets beer. Boy drinks beer. Boy meets another beer."

18. "Can I pour you a beer Mr. Peterson?"
      "A little early isn't it, Woody?"
      "For a beer?"
      "No, for stupid questions."

Touch

There are several kids in my class who still hold hands.  It seems like the most natural thing in the world.  Interlacing your fingers with another’s must be one of the oldest human gestures.  It says so much.  That singular gesture is invariably positive.  It demonstrates trust, compassion, comfort, and friendship.  It is a sign of love.

My finger, your finger, my finger, your finger, my finger, your finger, my finger, your finger, my thumb – your thumb.  The webs between my fingers contacting yours.  The bones of my hand entwined with yours. 

When we are little we reach up for the hand of the people we love – sometimes just to be sure of them.  When we are big we reach down to show that we are there, that we care, that we must cross the street safely together, that we won’t get separated in a crowd.  We reach down to grasp a little hand almost as a reflex.  To express our love.  To show simply that we are within reach.

Babies are born with an intense need for touch.  Babies who spend a lot of time in hospitals and orphanages where they do not receive skin-to-skin contact fail to thrive.  I read about this interesting study where librarians were asked to alternately touch and not touch the hands of their students as they gave back their library cards.  Those whose hands had been touched by their librarian reported “far greater feelings about themselves, the library and the librarians than those who had not been touched.  This occurred even though the touch was fleeting and the students didn’t even remember it.”

In our classroom we touch pretty unselfconsciously.  Certain kids zoom in for a hug every morning.  Others opt for a fist bum or a hand slap.  Some will come in quietly without checking in with me.  I usually give them a noogie or a high five when we do catch up.  But we touch.

There are many girls who still hold hands in our classroom.  They grab hold when we walk to the public library, or to the recess field or to the cafeteria.  Some boys may still hold hands at the beginning of second grade, but by the end of third it is a rarity.  There are a couple of guys who are always sitting close enough so that their legs touch when they are on the floor.  And we do a lot of teaching and learning from the floor.  Our girls often touch, run their fingers through or smooth out each other’s hair.

This morning as my students took a big, high stakes test in our computer lab, the feeling in the room was one of intense concentration.  This was the kind of test that pushed every child to the wall.  I’ve written about this before.  It started out easy, but as they answered simple questions correctly, the subsequent questions were more and more challenging.  Glancing over their shoulders at the answer choices, I was amazed at how difficult this must have been for them.  And yet no one complained.  No one whined.  No one cracked under pressure.  I walked around the room every few minutes just checking in with a touch on the shoulder or a pat on the back.  To soothe, to connect, to praise them and to show my gratitude for their effort.   It was a gesture that words can’t quite explain. 

It’s sad to me that many of us become self-conscious about touch as we get older, especially guys.  At some undetermined age, and it is probably a little different for everyone, little ones (especially boys) stop holding hands with their friends, brothers and sisters and parents.  Girls are lucky in my opinion.  They can hold hands freely with their besties. 

I suppose holding hands for little boys is like crying when you hurt yourself.  At some point we stop crying for physical pain.  Comments like, “big boys don’t cry” probably help to extinguish it. 

When I was in Rwanda I saw men holding hands routinely.  My friend Brandon took a picture of two very rough looking soldiers in camouflage, each with a machine gun slung over his shoulders, holding hands walking down a busy street.  It was as natural as anything there. 

Adult guys can still hug briefly if there is a manly slap on the back at the end of the embrace.  Let’s not read anything too personal into this hug, right?  Shaking hands is the norm.  No weapons, right?

At the end of my mom’s life I was blessed to have been there for her final week.  We touched so often.  The first night I was there in New Mexico at my sister Ruthie’s I spent in the office guest room.  Then for the next several nights I slept with my mom.  I needed her touch.  And I think she needed mine.  I think she needed grounding.  I think she needed to be sure of me.  We slept with our legs touching or my hand on her shoulder, or holding hands.   And through the days and evenings when she was awake we sat close enough to touch.  During her final hours, when she had lost consciousness, Ruthie and I stroked her hair and rubbed her back.   We held her hand - just as she held ours when we were little, to protect us, to make sure we didn’t get lost or frightened, so we could be sure of her. 

I can smile when I remember her touch now.  But I miss that touch like nothing else.

I can think of my mom now and not cry every time at missing her.   I expect that I will cry for a long time when I remember her and miss her touch.  Even though big boys don’t cry.

Playlist

It’s interesting to look at someone’s bookshelf.  You can tell a lot about a person by knowing what they read, that you might not be able to see otherwise.   In our home we have three main sets of shelves with some nooks and crannies here and there with smallish stacks.  We also have baskets of books – mainly mine – that are on the “to read” list.  I have one basket that is just from my mom’s house, the last few books left around there since she gave away her books almost as fast as she read them.  There is the smallish stack on the nightstand (and under it).  There is a magazine rack next to the sofa. 

The same is true when you see folks’ music collections.  Do they like Sinatra, The Talking Heads, Taylor Swift?  Nine Inch Nails, The Doobie Brothers, The Doors?  The Beatles, Creed, Linkin Park?  Of course, these days a lot of people keep their music collections privately tucked away on their ipods.  No longer can you browse a record collection and even CDs are becoming a thing of ht past.

This morning I was cleaning out a file cabinet drawer (the detritus of many years that I couldn’t bring myself to toss).  I found some old writer’s notebooks with snatches of songs I wanted to write, short stories I wanted to complete, some original songs that did make it to their playable stage, outlines for letters I wanted to write (some I probably did).  And lists.  I used to play out a lot at this coffee house in southern Indiana.  Sometimes I played with my buds in a band called EMERALD.  Other times it was just a loose connection of friends who sat in with each other whenever we played and they would show up with their instruments.  A lot of times I just played by myself.  I played a mix of originals and cover tunes.

Before playing at The Daily Grind in Nashville, Indiana, I would create a list of possible songs to perform, songs I knew by heart.  I knew lots of songs back then but, of course, could only play about 25 or so in an evening.  I had the list there for comfort.  I didn’t want to draw a blank on what to play next.  So I kept this little notebook with me with my current playlist, tunes I wouldn’t screw up too bad if I had the notion to play them.

I think a person’s playlist says a lot about them – in the same way that their bookshelf does.  This particular one was dated May 3, 1986.  It was probably one of the last times I played at The Grind.  Depending on your age and stage, you may not recognize many of these.  There were only a few top 40 songs in the mix and those are old folky songs.  I don’t remember exactly what I played that night all those years ago, but more than likely – the set came from these.

Heart of Gold – Neil Young

Mercedez Benz – Janis Joplin

You Show Me Yours and I’ll Show You Mine – Kristofferson

Sugar Mountain – Neil Young

Fish and Whistle – John Prine

Needle and the Damage Done – Neil Young

Paradise – John Prine

A Love Song – Kenny Loggins

Till The Morning Comes – Neil Young

Cripple Creek Ferry – Neil Young

Moon Shadow – Cat Stevens

Father and Son - Cat Stevens

The Boxer – Paul Simon

April Come She Will – Paul Simon

House of the Rising Sun - Traditional

Summertime – George Gershwin

That’s The Way The World Goes ‘Round – John Prine

Illegal Smile – John Prine

Teach Your Children – Graham Nash

My Heroes Are Cowboys – Willie Nelson

Brown Eyed Girl – Van Morrison

I’m Not Saying – Gordon Lightfoot

Friend of the Devil – Jerry Garcia

The River – Dan Fogelberg

There’s a Place in the World for a Gambler – Dan Fogelberg

Lookin’ Out My Backdoor – John Fogerty

As the Raven Flies – Dan Fogelberg

Tequila Sunrise – The Eagles

Don’t Cry Blue – Jonathan Edwards

Sometimes – Jonathan Edwards

Desperado – The Eagles

Peaceful Easy Feeling – Jack Tempchin (Eagles)

Simple Twist of Fate – Bob Dylan

Colours – Donovan Leech

4 and 20 – Stephen Stills

Redneck Friend – Jackson Browne

Something Fine – Jackson Browne

Ready or Not – Jackson Browne

Rosie – Jackson Browne

The Captain and the Kid – Jimmy Buffett

He Went to Paris – Jimmy Buffett

Never Been To Spain – Hoyt Axton

Boney Fingers – Hoyt Axton

Inch by Inch – Dave Mallett

Carolina On My Mind – James Taylor

Hey Mister, That’s Me Upon the Jukebox – James Taylor

Right Between the Eyes – Graham Nash

Little Boxes – Malvina Reynolds

I Know You Rider – Traditional

Black Cat Blues – Bill Wilson

Flowers are Red – Harry Chapin

Carefully Taught – Rogers and Hammerstien

I can’t play a lot of these any more.  I’ve forgotten how some of them go and I’ve lost my chord sheets for others.  But just typing out the list brings back those smoky evenings in that wooden space with the sounds of cappuccino machine and clinking silverware and laughter and conversations.  And it brings back those old friends – most of whom I have lost touch with. 

I still play out at church and in the classroom with my young friends, I still jam every once in a while with my friends Dave and Chris.  I swap songs with my son Colin occasionally.  We have a few sing alongs ‘round the campfire every year.  But I miss those evenings playing for ten-bucks-and-tips and free coffee and the precious moments of having someone call out the name of an original song or when folks would sing along to an old familiar tune.  

Get Well Soon

One of my kids is out of school for a while with surgery to both of his legs.  He was so brave about it!  He never showed fear about the pain or discomfort that surely lie ahead for him.  His wonderful parents let him know that all of this would be for his eventual good.  He is mature enough to understand.  He was actually kind of looking forward to it. 

“You know,” he confided in me a few days ago.  “I might come back to school in a wheelchair.” 

“Yes.  I figured as much.  That’s some pretty serious stuff you are going to go through.”

“Mmm hmm.   But you know what about the wheelchair?”

“What’s that?”

“People will think I’m a superstar.” 

“You’re probably right, my friend.  Not many kids get the chance to wheel around the school in one of those.”

“You know, you all could write to me while I’m gone.  If you want to.”

“Oh, we’ll want to all right,” I said, smiling.

“And you could call.  Here, I’ll give you my mom’s cell phone number.  You could put it on the speaker phone and all gather around so everyone could talk.”

“That’s just what we’ll do,” I said.  And that’s just what we did. 

I just love the fact that he didn’t think about the pain or the physical therapy, or even the fact that he’ll be so different from the rest of us when we have to wheel him around in a chair or that he’ll have casts on both of his legs for a while or that he may have to use a walker.  He knows that the kids in his class love him. 

Love

The children in our class would do anything for him.  And I think that is pretty much the way it is for the entire school.  If anyone sees him having trouble with a door, or picking something up, or needing a book – it will be done.  Without asking.  

Here is a guy who accidentally hit a friend in the class last year playing dodge ball.  He hit her hard.  In the head.  When she cried, he wrapped his arms around her and cried along with her, saying how sorry he was.  She forgave him quickly. 

Here is a guy who hugs me regularly and tells me how much I mean to him.  And I tell him I love him right back. 

And so on Monday, the day of his surgery, the class sat down with Miss Liz, our student teacher, and wrote letters to cheer him up, to tell him to feel better soon, to let him know that he is missed.  The letters had colorful drawings with lots of stylized children playing O-Ball (our version of dodge ball), and peace signs, and rainbows, and sunglasses on suns.  There were pictures of unicorns and fairies and books.  And clouds, and butterflies, and silly faces with tongues sticking out.

And hearts.

Our class just started reading a biography together about Ann Frank.  We are studying geometry and geology and writing our own biographies about famous South Carolinians.  There is a lot going on.  But he is on our minds all the time.  His name seems to come up in nearly every conversation.  So here are some bits of what they wrote in their letters and cards. 

I dropped them off at the hospital on Monday afternoon.  At the time he was still a little dopey from his medication, but he was happy that I came, happy to get the notes. 

Kids say it so well.

I hope you feel better. That surgery must have hurt…  We miss your laugh, your love for history, your funny jokes.  Don’t worry.  We’ll catch you up on Ann Frank…  Tell me if you get lots of ice cream…  I hope you feel better history freak!  Just kidding.  You’re not a history freak.  You are a history wiz…  I’ll miss playing O-Ball with you and I’ll miss your humor.  This reminds me of when I gashed my leg…  When you get back we’ll play stinky sock tag and we will be beasts in O-Ball…  I’m sorry that you are missing the new literature study on Anne Frank.  It is good.  We will tell you what we have learned when we get back…  Did you see the double rainbow after the storm?...  I really want you to feel better because you are my best friend since kindergarten…  I hope this won’t mess up our playdate…  We will miss your happy face when you walk into the school. I will miss you so much.  I love to learn from you…  I bet you will be able to run faster now so you can run away from Mr. O. when he tries to get you in O-Ball…  Oh, you will be the O-Ball star when you heal…  I have a history joke for you. Q - Who was the sea creature in the Civil War?   A- Robert Eel E…  I miss your thirst for knowledge…  You always add so much to our conversations…  We are with you because we remember all the time you were with us when something was wrong…  

Insights from Brad Warthen and Barack Obama

I wanted to post something about Trayvon Martin, that kid in Florida who was killed.  And if I had written something it would have been reactionary.  I heard the 911 call from the shooter. I read  about the  cell phone call he was making while being stalked by the nutjob with the gun.

"He said this man was watching him, so he put his hoodie on. He said he lost the man," Martin's friend said. "I asked Trayvon to run, and he said he was going to walk fast. I told him to run, but he said he was not going to run."

Eventually, he would run, said the girl, thinking that he'd managed to escape. But suddenly the strange man was back, cornering Martin.

"Trayvon said, 'What are you following me for,' and the man said, 'What are you doing here.' Next thing I hear is somebody pushing, and somebody pushed Trayvon because the head set just fell. I called him again, and he didn't answer the phone."  From ABC

I would have painted with a broad brush about lack of reasonable gun control or how racism isn't even close to being over.   But I heard what Barack Obama said about the case.  He had to be careful.  Presumption of innocence and all that.  What the president said was so human.  So right.  Respond like a human, like a parent - not like a liberal or conservative, or a gun rights advocate or a someone in favor of tighter handgun controls.  Then I read what one of my favorite bloggers, Brad Warthen, wrote about it.  Brad, and Mr. Obama, said it far better then I ever could.  


Trayvon could have been one of my sons too.  They are about the same age.  They wear hoodies too.  Except it's not that likely.  They are not black.


God bless that poor kid and his family.

Obama: ‘If I had a son, he’d look like Trayvon.’

Written by Brad on March 23rd, 2012

On a previous post, Phillip said that he likes Bill Maher (or at least excuses him) because “I find myself agreeing with him about 99% of the time.” I made it fairly clear that I do not.

But there are people who I find myself agreeing with to a degree that it is remarkable — a rare experience for me, since I reject the orthodoxies of left and right (which enable the people who do adhere to them to find themselves agreeing with certain people a lot). A good example would be Tony Blair. When he expresses his reasoning behind a position, I am struck by how much it is just like what I would say — or wish I were clever enough to say.

I have a similar experience with President Obama. There are a lot of things I disagree with him on, rather vehemently in some cases. But then he expresses himself on an issue in a way that strikes me as just right, and I am deeply impressed. (Needless to say, on these occasions he’s being about as different from Bill Maher as any one person can be.)

Today was such an instance, when the president carefully weighed in on the Trayvon Martin tragedy. I haven’t commented on it myself because I have thought that everyone else was commenting in such a facile manner — generalizing the incident to fit their own political and social predilections — and I couldn’t find a way to grab ahold of the matter in a way I found meaningful.

But then the president said this:

“I think every parent in America should be able to understand why it is absolutely imperative that we investigate every aspect of this,” Mr. Obama said. “All of us have to do some soul searching to figure out how does something like this happen.”…

“Obviously, this is a tragedy. I can only imagine what these parents are going through,” Mr. Obama said, his face grim. “When I think about this boy, I think about my own kids.”…

“You know, if I had a son, he’d look like Trayvon,” Mr. Obama said, pausing for a moment. “I think they are right to expect that all of us as Americans are going to take this with the seriousness it deserves, and we are going to get to the bottom of exactly what happened.”

Normally, I tend to react against such a personal, emotional response. But in this case, it was exactly right, and the president was wise to recognize it.

To me, this isn’t some microcosm of racial injustice or gun culture gone wild or any other generalization. This is a case — as near as I can tell, and my knowledge of the case is limited — of a confused, emotional, panicky, cowardly man with a gun in his hand pulling the trigger and causing a deep, personal, specific tragedy.

Yes, the president made a genetic, racial observation in saying that his theoretical son would look like the victim in this case. But the more important part of it is that he appeals to “every parent in America” to look at this situation AS parents, rather than as participants in a political debate. It says to whites who may want to recoil and get indignant at seeing, for instance, Al Sharpton exploit yet another tragedy, Set that aside. Look at the personal tragedy. Think of your own kids. That’s what I’m doing.

That’s the wisest possible thing he could have said.

If there’s anything else useful to say about this case, that is the best starting point.

The Roundness of Things

Our son Devin turned 20 yesterday.  It’s funny how that sounds to me.  20.  20.  20.

20 revolutions around the sun. 

Late in the afternoon of March 16, 1992, Devin Mills O’Keefe came into this world.  Born to a teenage mother who made the decision to give her child up for adoption, Devin’s delivery went well.  We were told that his birth mother was exhausted but healthy.  She had friends with her.  My God, was she ever brave. 

On that late afternoon when we received the call that Devin was born we were putting together his crib.   We had just gone through the legal procedures, the social work background checks and interviews, sold our condo, bought another place, moved, unpacked, painted… and waited for that phone call. 

After not being able to conceive ourselves for over three years, after having invasive tests and procedures, then conceiving identical twins seeing their tiny heartbeats in a single amniotic sac, only to have them miscarry at about 10 weeks, even after considering that we just might not have children – this incredible decision and opportunity came up within hours of each other.  Heidi tells the story so much better than me.

Dev’s birth mother decided not to have contact with us, not to know us.  And we know almost nothing about her – but for her exceptional bravery and trust that her child would go to a good home.  And he did.

On the way to Charleston on March 18, Heidi drove.  We thought we were ready for this responsibility, this joy, this sea change of life.  But of course one is never really prepared.  You go into this business of raising children flying by the seat of your pants. 

While Heidi drove, I roughed out a letter to Devin’s birth mother on a napkin, then a final draft on a sheet of paper to give to our doctor, to give to Devin’s birth mom.  I kept that scrap of napkin in my address book.  Tucked into one of the inside pockets, folded and coffee stained, faded, with hasty highway handwriting I wrote these notes. 

You’ll never know us.  Perhaps that is just as well but we would like for you to understand some things about us.  We have wanted to have children for several years.  By you making the sacrifices you have made that will be possible for us. 

You will never know how grateful we are and how much admiration we have for you for giving the gift of human life. 

Please understand that we will love this child as though he came from our own bodies.  We will nurture him and care for him the very best we can.  We will provide every opportunity possible for him to grow physically, emotionally and spiritually. 

Here are a few things about us.  We love to listen to music, to read, to write, to laugh, and we love children.  Both of us are educators and have been longing for the day when we could have children of our own. 

What you have done, by allowing us to adopt, will change our lives so much for the better.  We know that it took a great deal of courage for you to carry this baby to term.  It took a lot of conviction and love to make this possible.

Please feel our gratitude and respect for you and know that the decision you made was the right one.

This child will be loved.

And he has been.  Who would have thought that we would be giving him a TV for 

his college apartment, a new vest for wake boarding?  Who could have projected out and seen this big, strong, smart, talented MAN who can pick up his mom and spin her around and look her in the eye and tell her that he loves her… who teases 

mercilessly and laughs and enjoys Asian food, who works out like a maniac… who comes home from college with dirty clothes and washes his little two-seater car in the driveway. 

…who has brought a beautiful and brilliant young woman into our lives whose sparkling laughter and obvious love for Devin gives us unimaginable joy.

And as I look at this crumpled napkin with this anxious cursive scrawl, I can remember that earnest youngish couple with an empty carseat strapped into the back – just waiting to take the ride of their lives. 

And what a ride it has been.

20 revolutions around the sun.

By Ourselves

This was automatically reposted from last fall after I was told to remove some images that I had infringed.  I didn't know.  Anyway, I thought I'd just leave it here.  It reminds me of a recent comment my friend Chris left about a small but powerful, everyday kind of memory.

Tonight was one of those evenings I spent alone with Heidi. Devin is at USC in his second year.He has an apartment now with a couple friends. He’s loving life. Colin is spending the evening with his girlfriend who is heading off to college herself. So Heidi and I had a regular evening together by ourselves.

This time, while we are alone, is a harbinger of the time to come. Next year Colin will be at college as well and I expect that we’ll have many evenings where it is just the two of us. I like these quiet times. We each had a regular workday. Heidi and I both taught at the Center for Inquiry. She taught her graduate class of earnest mostly young adults studying to be teachers. I taught my earnest third graders. And for a while our classes melded into one big learning community as Heidi’s students and mine got together for some literacy engagements.

When we got home we worked around the house, Heidi doing some gardening while I cleaned out my grungy car. Then we took a walk. Nothing too memorable. Except this is exactly the kind of night I would like to remember. Forever.

It was not a vacation somewhere big like Hawaii, or a wedding or the birth of a baby. I like the big box memories too, don’t get me wrong. But it is the every day little things that add up to make me so happy in this love and in this life.

When we walked to the dock with the dog (she can’t make the big walk with us anymore) we saw the most beautiful setting sun. The temperature has finally gotten into the comfortable range. The humidity is low. The light from that setting sun in Heidi's pretty green eyes made my heart beat just a little faster. It always does.

After dropping Sasha off we headed out to the point where there is another lovely view of the lake. We talked about the day, the boys, our families. We held hands, and gazed out at the birds. We laughed and got serious. There was this little green snake warming its cold-blooded self on the road. I almost stepped on it. Heidi pointed it out to me and we watched it slither up into the grass where it blended in so perfectly as it glided along that it became invisible to us in no time. I thanked her for showing me that little snake. I would have missed it.

When we got home she showed me the new blossoms on the moon vine we have out back. Two perfect, white, saucer sized flowers had just opened up and fairly glowed in the early evening light. I would have missed them if Heidi hadn’t shown them to me. I thanked her for those two flowers as well.

Then just a little while later, as I was doing the dinner dishes Heidi stuck her head in and told me to come quickly outside. Hovering around the big white flowers was a sphinx moth, one of those big beautiful moths that hovers while it sips nectar and looks amazingly like a tiny hummingbird. She knows what I love.

Now, Heidi is sleeping on the couch after this tiring day. I can see her chest rising and falling.Her face is relaxed and beautiful. Her breathing is music to me. Tuesday, August 30, 2011. 31 years and counting.