The Dalmatian

I was on autopilot—seeing the road, but not really seeing it, driving the speed limit, but not fully cognizant. It was a morning like so many others, a day like countless days. Darkness of pre-daylight savings time, headlights, foggy mist, occasional streetlights, windshield wipers slapping back and forth on intermittent. Bob Edwards reading the news on NPR, snoozing boys in the back seat of the old Toyota.

All at once, a dim silhouette moved across the road from my right. My instincts kicked in, and I hit the brakes, swerving left, making sure I was not in the path of oncoming morning rush hour traffic.

As if lit by a camera flash—a black and white dog was captured by my headlights. A dalmatian. My headlights reflected bright in its eyes. My grip, fierce on the wheel, I pressed the brake hard, knowing what was about to happen. I was moving too fast. It ran straight into the path of my car.  

I heard and felt the impact as the right front bumper connected. There was a sickening, crunching sound, and a dull vibration. The right headlight went dark. The steering wheel shuddered as I swerved back into my lane. 

I searched the rearview mirror as I pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of a small private gym. The dimly lit sign read, BIG GUYS.

Throwing the shift lever into park, I looked into the backseat. Devin and Colin slept peacefully. The sound, the collision, and my erratic driving didn’t disturb them in the least. I pressed the flasher button on the dashboard. 

A cool, damp mist cascaded down as I exited the car and peered down the highway. 

The dog lay sprawled on the wet road. The silhouette of a man ran across the road to where the dog lay. He scooped up the limp form and darted across to the other side of the highway. I was reluctant to leave the boys in the car, but neither did I want to wake them. I didn’t know exactly what I would see as I crossed the highway—but I was pretty sure a sleepy kindergartner and second grader didn’t need to experience this.

Two guys emerged from the BIG GUYS gym; both muscular and athletic. 

“What happened?” one of the guys asked. He had a short black flattop that was popular with my dad and his friends back in the 60s. The other guy had a regular military buzzcut. They looked a lot alike. Brothers?

I kept moving, the two guys catching up to me. “I guess it was his dog. It ran into the road.” I searched their faces in the dim light. No accusation there, just concern. 

Buzzcut asked, “Didja hit it? We heard brakes and a smack.”

“Yeah. I did.” We waited together to cross the busy roadway. Car and trucks flew by, spraying water up in trailing mists.

Between cars and trucks, I could see the man kneeling on the wet ground, the big dog in his arms, his head bowed as if in prayer. 

When there was a break in the traffic, the two men from BIG GUYS and I hustled across. The man on the other side sat on the ground, heedless of the traffic and rain. The mist had changed into a steady drizzle. Over the sounds of fast-moving cars and trucks, I heard him moan. 

“…So sorry… Obie… so sorry…”

He was oblivious to our presence—sitting in the dark, in the early morning drizzle, in his tears, in his pain. 

We crowded around him on the cindery shoulder—off the highway, but not by much. Each car and truck sprayed us with oily water from the rain-slicked road. And while there were four of us in that crowded space, the man was alone with his dying dog. 

His hair hung damp in his face. He wore a red plaid shirt, blue jeans, leather work boots, and thick glasses. Obie lay across his lap, brilliant white coat with coal black spots, limp head hanging down. He was a beautiful dog, muscular, sleek, probably young. His eyes were glazed and blood trickled from his nostrils. The blood looked black in the early morning dim. 

The drizzle turned to rain; the guy’s horn-rimmed glasses were filmy and wet. “Oh, Obie.” 

I squatted down next to them. “Man, I’m so sorry. He was just there. I couldn’t stop.”

“Wasn’t your fault.” He spoke barely above a whisper. 

The muscle guys shifted from foot to foot. They were uncomfortable but weren’t heading back to the gym just yet. 

“I shouldn’t have let him off the leash,” the man cried. I couldn’t see his tears, but I could hear them in his voice. “I never let him off the leash. He’s not much more than a puppy.” 

“I’m so sorry,” I said again. I reached out to touch his dog’s head, to rub him behind the ears the way my dog liked. 

“No,” he said more insistently this time. “My fault, not yours.” He sighed. “What’s your name?”

“Tim.”

“So sorry, Tim. This is the last thing you need on your way to work.”

I didn’t know how to answer. 

“Dude,” the guy with the flattop said. “Do you want to get your dog to a vet? Maybe there’s time to save him.” Cars flashed by.

“No. It’s too late.”

We looked at the beautiful animal. He was breathing weakly. When there was a break in traffic, we heard rattling in his chest, saw blood drizzling from his nose. 

Definitely too late. We all knew. 

“What’s your name?” I asked in return.

“Mark.” He started to cry again, his shoulders heaving. Mark’s head was down. Snot dripped from his nose. He didn’t care. 

I think the two guys from the gym cried, I know I did. We stayed like that for a long minute. It was a tender moment I’ll never forget. Sitting with strangers in the cold rain, at the edge of an early morning South Carolina highway. A dying dog. Speeding traffic. Sleeping boys. Tenderness for this sad stranger. Two tough body builders with big hearts. And tears. And rain. And pain. 

A big tractor trailer threw up an uncomfortable splash. The three of us watched as Mark cradled Obie. The dalmatian drew in a deep breath and exhaled raggedly. It was his last. The temporary kinship we’d built was broken when Obie’s body gave out. 

“I’m so sorry, Mark,” I said again. 

“He was a good friend. I know that sounds stupid, but it’s true.”  

“No, man. I get it.”

I had to get back to the car. It was unlikely that the boys would be awake. Once we were on our way, they generally stayed asleep for the 45 minute comute to school. But it was possible that the lack of motion would have awakened them, and I didn’t want them to be afraid if they woke up and found me gone.

“Let’s get you back,” said the guy with the buzzcut.

“Yeah,” Mark said. “I know.” 

I took hold of one of Mark’s arms, the guy with the flattop took the other. Mark rose slowly, still holding Obie, his good friend. 

We led him across the highway, pausing in the turn lane for a break in the predawn rush hour traffic before hustling over to the other side. 

“Sorry about your dog, Mark,” said the flattop guy. 

“Yeah, that’s tough—real tough,” said his buddy. 

They meant it too. I was grateful they were there to reach out to a stranger in need. 

I peeked into my car. The windows were steamed. Sure enough, Colin and Devin were still sleeping peacefully. 

“Where do you live, Mark?” I needed to assess the damage to my car and get to work. More than likely the only damage to my old car, aside from the headlight, was cosmetic. We’d get to my classroom later than usual, but I needed to stick around for a few minutes. 

Mark stood still, his expression vacant, Obie limp in his arms. “Hmm?” He was alone with his thoughts. He hadn’t heard my question. 

“Where do you live? Can I give you a lift?”

“That’s okay. We live at Victorian Lakes. Just up the road.”

Victorian Lakes was a modest trailer park. Nothing Victorian. No lake. 

“Hey, I’m sorry about your car,” he said. It was clear that a headlight had been shattered. 

“Don’t worry about it. You sure you’re okay? What are you gonna do?”

“What am I gonna do?” he repeated. The rain was coming down hard now. It dripped from his ears and nose. “I’m gonna bury my dog.”

“You want a hand?”

“No, thanks. You get on. This is something I need to do myself.” He turned back the way he and Obie came. His head down, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his beloved pup—his good friend. 

I watched him for a minute as he walked back to the trailer park. I was soaked and we still had a half hour drive to work. 

Climbing in the car, I switched on the AC and turned the temperature up to clear the condensation from the windows.  I watched him in the rearview. He stopped under a streetlight. He turned around looking confused. Then he sank to his knees. He knelt in the cone of yellow light cast by a streetlamp over his head. 

He tilted his head back, rain soaking his face, kneeling in the yellow light—and cried. I couldn’t hear him. My windows were up, rain drummed on my car, and the sounds of traffic drowned him out. But that big tough man, dressed in his working clothes, held that limp, beautiful dog in his arms and sobbed. 

I never saw Mark again. That was about 25 years ago. Our boys are big, strong men themselves. Since that early morning so long ago, we have buried two dogs at the bottom of our hill. The second one died just a few months ago. 

Her muzzle was turning white, and she was creaky when she got up in the morning. 

Me too. 

We Pray for Children

I came across this poem many years ago. Not sure about its history but I've used it many times when speaking with teachers. I was a teacher for 38 years. It's important that we don't just teach math or reading or social studies. We teach children. 

On the first day of Trump's war of choice in Iran, as many as 175 people were killed. Most of them were schoolgirls between the ages of 7 and 12. This poem by Ina Hughes isn't strictly about war, but it reminds us that we should pray for children.

We pray for children

who put chocolate fingers everywhere

who like to be tickled

who stomp in puddles and ruin their new pants

who sneak popsicles before supper

who erase holes in math workbooks

who can never find their shoes

And we pray for those

who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire

who can't bound down the street in a new pair of sneakers

who never "counted potatoes"

who are born in places we wouldn't be caught dead

who never go to the circus

who live in an x-rated world

We pray for children

  who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions

who sleep with the dog and bury goldfish

who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money

who cover themselves with band-aids and sing off key

who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink

who slurp their soup

And we pray for those

who never get dessert

who have no safe blanket to drag behind them

who watch their parents watch them die

who can't find any bread to steal

who don't have any rooms to clean up

whose pictures aren't on anybody's dresser

whose monsters are real

We pray for children

who spend their allowance before Tuesday

who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food

who like ghost stories

who shove dirty clothes under the bed and never rinse out the tub

who get visits from the tooth fairy

who don't like to be kissed in front of the carpool

who squirm in church or temple and scream in the phone

whose tears we sometimes laugh at and whose smiles can make us cry

And we pray for those

whose nightmares come in the daytime

who will eat anything

who have never seen a dentist

who aren't spoiled by anybody

who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep

who live and breathe but have no being

We pray for children who want to be carried and for those who must

for those we never give up on 

and for those who don't have a second chance

For those we smother... and for those who will grab the hand of 

anybody kind enough to offer it.

                     Ina J. Hughes

I See You've Called in Dead

IF YOU'RE READING THIS FROM YOUR PHONE, TRY TURNING IT SIDEWAYS TO SEE THE COMPLETE TEXT. OR GO TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE AND CLICK ON "VIEW WEB VERSION."   

I’m listening to this great book, I See You’ve Called in Dead: A Novel, by John Kenney. It follows this guy named Bud Stanley who is an obit writer. It delves into love, loss, and the complexities of life. I know it sounds bizarre, but he drunkenly and accidentally publishes a fake, if very funny, obituary of himself at the big paper where he works. He’s probably going to be fired, and he sort of wanders through life for a short while, flashing back to people he’s known, losses he’s endured, falling in love with someone who, while obsessed with death, makes him think differently about life. 

Rarely has a book made me laugh aloud like this one, or made me back up and relisten and think about the deep thoughts we hide from ourselves, or rethink paragraphs or passages that are clever, thoughtful, complicated, wise-assed, and wisdom-filled. 

Bud has this conversation with the brutally honest, wide open, and quite endearing Clara.

Do you believe in God?” she asked.

“I swear for a second I thought you said, ‘Do you believe in golf.’”

She tried to suppress a grin. 

“My officemate, Twan, asks me the same thing sometimes,” I said. “It seems unfair to ask me that here.” [They’re in a cemetery.]

“That’s not an answer,” she said, looking at the names and dates on the stone. 

“I don’t know.”

“You’re standing at a cemetery, atop the souls of hundreds of people. You’re middle-aged. You must have thoughts.”

“I’m only forty-four.”

“That’s almost fifty. The best years of your life a distant memory.”

“You should be on morning TV. You have that upbeat vibe.”

She grinned as the wind blew strands of hair across her face, and she moved it back behind her ear. 

Don’t move, I thought. Stop time. I want to remember this. Whatever this is. 

She stared and waited for my answer. 

“I don’t know,” I said, more quietly than I’d expected. “I want to but… I don’t know.”

She continued to stare—a look on her face that was open and curious. 

“You?” I asked. 

She wiped again at the gravestone and said nothing for a time. 

And this is the part that got me. The part that, as I was running around doing errands, when I heard it, I wanted, needed, to write it out for myself. Because in a way it perfectly sums up what I think. Which is a definitive—I don’t know, I’m not exactly sure, I’m uncertain, I haven’t figured that out yet, and—That’s a good question.

“When I listen to talk radio, no. When I fly on a plane, yes. When I take AMTRAK and go through northern Philadelphia and see how people have to live, no. When I sit in my kitchen in the winter with coffee and watch the sunrise, yes. When I volunteered at Memorial Sloan Kettering in the children’s unit, no. When I see the parents, who sleep next to their children for weeks at a time in that unit, yes. When I make the horrible mistake of glancing at the New York Post, no. When I see some tough looking kid on the subway, who I’ve mentally judged based on how he looks give up his seat for an elderly woman, yes.”

She stared at me. Perhaps that’s how it starts. Just a look, a nothing moment where you see someone a bit differently. Maybe feel something that catches, that seems fully alive. Not the rote day-to-day.  

I guess I feel both ways too. 

When I see the brutality against people of color in Minneapolis—no. 

When I hear the voice of people in song, rising against the brutality—yes. 

When I see a little child in a Spiderman backpack being led away by officials to what is basically an internment camp—no.

When I see him returned to his home, along with his father, at least for the time being—yes.

When I think of Alex Pretti, standing between an innocent woman, the victim of CBP agents, getting pepper sprayed, beaten, disarmed, shot to death—no. 

When I think of the thousands of people braving the sub-zero cold to protest his death and the brutality of ICE and CBP—yes. 

When I think of Renee Good, who had just dropped off her child at school, whose last words were to the ICE agent who killed her while she was driving away, “That’s fine, dude. I’m not mad at you.” When I think of her wife, her children who had to return home without their dearest loved one—no. 

When I think of the roughly 250 pastors of many different faiths, who showed up to peacefully protest, knowing that they’d be arrested—yes.

When I think of the thirty-two people who died in ICE custody last year, the details of which are largely unpublished, and unspoken, of the family separations, of the open racism and racial profiling—no.

When I think of a nation waking up to the brutality of this administration, of people saying this isn’t what they voted for, of the many peaceful protests in cities large and small, of social media posts with hashtags like #FedUp and #Enough, of boycotts, of a small but determined group of Republican leaders voicing concern, calling for reforms and oversight—yes. 

Anyway, this post is part book review (HIGHLY recommend), part internal monologue, part rant. Hope it isn’t too personal. 

Thanks for dropping by. 

Bob - A Christmas Story

IF YOU'RE READING THIS FROM YOUR PHONE, TRY TURNING IT SIDEWAYS TO SEE THE COMPLETE TEXT. OR GO TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE AND CLICK ON "VIEW WEB VERSION."  

Bob – by Tim O’Keefe

The wheelchair he uses is clunky, old-school, worn. Scars of rust mar the metal parts formerly covered in chrome.

He believes he’s 49. No one has said “Happy Birthday!” in many years. His memory is keen, but he can’t quite remember his age. He has a difficult time keeping up with the date, but he knows Christmas in in two days.

His hair is graying at the temples. One can see his scalp through the thinning strands. His haircuts are infrequent. It doesn’t bother him until it gets in his eyes. His hair, like the rest of him, is washed infrequently. His glasses are filthy, and that vexes him, for he’d like to see the world clearly. He’d prefer to be cleaner, to have his clothes changed more often. But that’s impossible in this place. His hygiene is at the whim of his caregivers. 

He lives in a retirement center. He appreciates the irony. Because he hasn’t retired from anything—never had a job. 

His upper body muscles are weak; his lower body has no muscle tone. He wears a diaper, which stays wet much of the time. And often worse. 

He rolls into the common room because there will be Christmas music. He’s seen and heard these performers before. Not bad. 

Red and green streamers decorate the ceiling and there are three Christmas trees with colored lights placed randomly around the space. He painstakingly pushes himself close to the musicians, a couple of guitar-wielding older guys with a crappy sound system. As he waits for them to set up, he remembers…

~~~~~~~~~~

When he was five, he learned to walk. Sort of. It was more of a shambling, clutching, cruising-around-the-furniture kind of walk. But his mom rejoiced, for she never thought he would achieve this milestone. She didn’t know how short lived this success would be. 

Christmas that year was fine. The tree was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen with its colored lights, and tinsel meticulously applied by his mother, the piney fragrance filling the living room. It was the only year they bought a real tree. He rode with his mother when they picked it out at the roadside stand. It was a challenge for her to get him in and out of the car, so it was a big deal. “Two dollars is a lot of money,” she’d said, “for a plant that’s already as good as dead. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.” Then she laughed at her own joke. Bob laughed too. 

His uncle gave him a cheap baseball and a glove that year. Even at five he knew it was a joke. His mother’s eyes were full of hurt. She knew he’d never throw a ball—he’d never wear a baseball glove, never make a hit, never run the bases. Never run at all. 

His uncle laughed, and coughed, and lit up another smoke.

His uncle was never invited to their house again.  

~~~~~~~~~~

The two musicians tune up. One plays twelve bar blues while the other keeps fiddling with his instrument, completely absorbed by the tuner at the end of his guitar. 

Bob likes the blues, although no one knows that except himself. 

“Check! Check! One-two-three!” The guy who’s already in tune says into the microphone. There is a squelch of feedback. The man dials something back on his amplifier. 

Several more of the long-term residents wheel into the common room. Some under their own steam, some in front of the attendants. He’s heard some of the attendants are called therapists, some referred to as rehab specialists. That’s humorous. He’s never had any rehabilitation. 

A few residents nod to him. Most wear blank expressions. Some residents likely don’t even know where they were. 

Attendants wheel them in because at least it’s something. A different scene from their four walls and droning TVs. It probably makes the musicians feel better to have a couple dozen people in the room. Presumably, they’re playing for free. 

It likely makes them feel good, doing this service for the poor, unfortunate old folks at Christmas. They’ll go back to their comfortable homes, their adoring families. After the winter holidays they’ll return to their jobs, where they save for retirement, maybe set aside money for their kids’ college, or some luxury item like a boat or motorcycle. They’ll think about upgrading from their current homes, cars, TVs. 

The two guys upfront strum a few chords together to be sure they’re in tune.

~~~~~~~~~~

When he was six, his mom babysat a first grader from across the street. She was the best friend he ever had. She didn’t say anything about him being in a wheelchair, or about the funny way he talked. She spoke with him, not just at him. Her name was Ariana. She was pretty, and brown, and had fuzzy hair. She was kind. And while they were agemates, he figured they’d never be outside his home together. 

She brought her dolls and would sometimes play with them on his legs. He grinned. Only Ariana and his mom could tell when he laughed. 

His mom tried to get him enrolled in the local public school. She’d taken him up to meet the principal, a slender pinch-faced woman with a shrieky voice. 

He sat in his chair and listened as the two women appeared to battle—his mom disadvantaged from the start. 

“He’s very smart, but difficult to understand,” his mother said.

The pinch-faced woman tried to engage him. “Tell me your name. Can you tell me your name?” She shouted, as though that would help him comprehend. He understood just fine. 

“Bob,” he’d said. But it came out, “Buuuhhhb.”

“His name is Bobby,” said his mom, clutching her purse too tightly.

“Do you know your colors, Bobby?”

Of course he did. His mother taught him his colors before he was two. He wanted to tell the principal that her shirt was tangerine, which didn’t go with her salmon pants. He wanted to tell her that he loved looking at rainbows and that he knew the order of the colors, named after a guy called Roy G. Biv.

What he did was nod his head. He was embarrassed by how he sounded when he talked. And he knew his speech was getting worse. Only his mom and Ariana understood him. 

Principal Pinch-Face held up a notecard from her desk.

He wanted to say, “powder blue.” What came out was unintelligible. 

“He said, ‘powder blue,’” his mom interpreted. 

Pinch-Face pursed her lips. She wasn’t convinced. At all. “Can you wheel yourself, Bobby?”

Bob nodded and tried his best to show her by slowly pushing his wheels. His muscles were wasting, his arms soft and fleshy. He could move, but it was deliberate, and slow, his face wet with perspiration.

“I’m afraid he will be unable to attend Rosedale Elementary. I don’t know a teacher who would be willing to deal with his…” She paused, searching for the right words. “… issues. His speech, his immobility, his obvious… differences. He’d be the object of merciless teasing.”

“Bobby is not an object. He is a child of God.”

 Pinch-Face continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Perhaps most importantly, at this point, I must consider him a fire hazard. He’d never make it out of the building in case of emergency. For his sake, as well as the students of Rosedale, I’m afraid the answer is no. But rest assured that I will take it up with the superintendent of schools.” Bob knew she never would.

While his mother tried many times over the next few years, Bob never made it to school.

Fire hazard.

~~~~~~~~~

They begin with “Jingles Bells.” A few of the residents sing along, off key. Others sit in their wheelchairs, faces blank. Stephen Davies, drools. Bob’s sure Stephen doesn’t know his whereabouts. 

In Bob’s head, he can sing. Everyone knows the first verse and the chorus. But he even remembers the one that goes, “The horse was lean and lank, misfortune seemed its lot, he got into a drifted bank, and then we got upsot.” 

Of course he doesn’t sing aloud. When he tries to speak, he sounds like a monster. So, he doesn’t. He hasn’t spoken for a long time.

When the song is finished about half the residents clap clumsily. The caregivers applaud and cheer. Bob figures they’re trying to make the musicians feel appreciated. Bob wants to clap. He enjoyed the song. But if he uses too much of his arm strength, he might not make it back to room 103 unaided. He might not be able to feed himself. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Back when he knew his age, he was 10, he heard his mother on the phone. She didn’t realize he could hear through the ventilation ducts. She was in the kitchen, of course. That’s where the phone was. He was in his room reading Charlotte’s Web. He could still turn pages by himself with the eraser end of a pencil. His mother was speaking to a social worker. 

“I don’t know what will happen to him, Shirley.” His mom’s cough was deep and wet.

Bob had met Shirley before. She had sprayed-up hair shaped like a beehive and a sad face. He wasn’t sure if she wore that sadness for him or if it was her default.

“I’ve considered that,” his mother said. “I don’t have any relatives willing to take him on.” The only relative he knew was the uncle who brought him the baseball glove, whom he’d never seen again. His mom coughed, this time violently. It took a long time to catch her breath.

There was a pause while Shirley spoke. 

His mom said, “I don’t think I have much time I have left.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The two guys run through a bunch of Christmas songs people have heard a million times. “Rudolph,” “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” “Frosty,” and “Deck the Halls.” It’s clear to Bob that they had thrown this set together quickly and may have never played these songs as a duo before. They’re not bad. Bob appreciates the effort.

The guy who had difficulty keeping his guitar in tune steps away from the mic to fiddle with his tuners. The other man leans toward his mic. “Even though we’re in Minnesota, I bet you’ve heard this one.”

He plays a Hoagie Carmichael song that indeed many have heard before. Most of the 25 or so folks who were wheeled into the common room hum, nod, tap their fingers. Several know the words and sing along atonally. Stephen Davies, who was drooling earlier, saliva stains on his shirt to prove it, sits up in his chair as much as he is able. His eyes sparkle in a way Bob hasn’t seen in a long while. 

The singer, while he’s white, does a soulful rendering of the song patterned after Ray Charles’ version. Stephen, sings along, as clear and melodious as is possible for a ninety-something with no teeth. Bob’s heart fills to see Stephen come back alive after being away for so long. 

When the song ends, it receives the greatest applause from the retirement home folks. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Bob’s mother died when he was 11. She didn’t leave much behind; her house had 28 years left on the 30-year mortgage, she had $1,200 in her savings account, $78 in her checking. Bob heard her car described as a “piece of crap” and was sold for $250. The only valuable left behind her was, well, Bob. Although not many people felt anything but sorry for him. Because he couldn’t speak clearly, he was considered “feeble-minded” or “retarded.” While he was nothing of the kind, no one really knew Bob. He’d never been to school, rarely been in a car or even outside his modest home. Over the long years he often thought of Ariana, his only real friend.

Bob was institutionalized, where his mental and physical needs were largely unmet. While he had an occasional kind orderly, and a few medical professionals seemed to pity him, no one bothered to communicate with him. No one knew the bright eager mind trapped in the hunched and withered body.

~~~~~~~~~~

“We’ve got one more song for you,” says the musician who sang, “Georgia.” “If you know it, please sing along.”

He plays a verse of “Silent Night” as the introduction. The other player strums the chords while the main guys fingerpicks it. This one they rehearsed. This one is totally locked in. They start singing the first verse in perfect harmony. 

Bob tires of Christmas songs. How many times can you listen to “Jingle Bell Rock” every year before it becomes annoying? 

But not “Silent Night.” This song brings a thrilling sensation to Bob’s chest, he gets goosebumps.

~~~~~~~~~~

One of Bob’s most precious memories is when Ariana’s family took him to their Christmas service. He recalls her father’s muscular arms lifting him from his chair and placing him gently into the back seat of their old sedan. The smell of his Old Spice cologne mixed with Ariana’s mom’s perfume was lovely. Anna held his hand in the car. The touch of her hand in his gave him a rush of excitement. 

The people at the church were kind to him, even though he was the only white person there. It wasn’t pity. He felt genuinely welcomed. When they sang “Silent Night” at the end of the service, tiny flames were passed from candle to candle until the small sanctuary filled with flickering light. The memory of that golden reflection of the holy light in Ariana’s eyes made him cry. Ariana’s family moved south soon after that. He never saw her again.

~~~~~~~~~~

The singers in the retirement home are at their best, but they pale in comparison to his memory of that Christmas Eve night so long ago. 

Bob thinks of the real Christmas tree, his mother who tried to do her best by him, his young friend Ariana—who held his hand out of pure friendship, the African American church that blessed him with its sincere welcome, that “Silent Night” sung so long ago in the golden glow of shared candlelight. 

He closes his eyes and smiles more brightly than he has in years.

Beautiful People - A Love Letter

If you know me, you know that I went to Rwanda a while ago. I went with Immaculee Ilibagiza, a survivor of the Rwandan genocide, a phenomenal writer (Left to Tell), and all around beautiful person. I was 50. Now I'm closing in on 69. Even though it was a long time ago, that time still warms me—and still haunts me. I have my old notebooks and the photos I took. When I read through them, it seems like yesterday. Time does crazy things when you get older. 

This is from a letter I wrote to my Heidi while I was on the plane to central Africa. We were six time zones away, the furthest we've ever been away from each other. And while I was gone only a couple of weeks, She was always on my mind. So I wrote. I had just gotten an email account, but that wasn't working for me. I recorded most of my thinking in a red notebook, one that I still have. It's a time capsule of the most amazing, sad, uplifting, mournful, delightful, desolate feelings of my life. But I still had Heidi. This is from a notebook entry from early July 2007, on my journey to Rwanda. 

Rwandan children in Ntarama.

Heidi. I am so weary from lack of sleep. It’s Saturday 5:00 PM. No sleep since Thursday night/Friday morning. I guess it’s 11:00 AM your time. Every time I look at my watch I think of you. I wonder what you are doing – what you might be dreaming of. We are still on the plane but we must be getting close by now.

In the airport in Belgium I know you would have enjoyed watching all the people. Seeing thousands of faces (Charlotte, New York City, Brussels) always makes me marvel at how wonderfully unique we are. No two people are alike. Incredible. God. When I look into all of these beautiful faces I miss your face. Sometimes I’ll see someone from behind with hair that looks like yours or who walks like you or I’ll hear a snatch of laughter that sounds like you. Then you come swimming back to me. And I am grateful. Seated at the gate in Brussels we were with everyone going to Rwanda. Beautiful people, extraordinary people. So many have a look similar to Immaculee. Dark, beautiful smiles. I know that you would recognize their beauty. The God in them.

On the plane a little one has had a hard flight. She has cried and whined a lot. Some of the grown ups around her can hardly stand it. You can see it on their faces. Her beautiful mom just hugs her, sings to her, rocks her. And it makes me think of you because you would recognize the beauty in the mom’s kindness, in their love for each other. You hear music in babies’ cries. The God in them.

A Rwandan child with lovely elaborate braids is asleep on the fold down table. Peaceful. Serene. Two Belgian guys are walking down the aisle. Older guys. One stops for a moment and takes in the breathtaking beauty of this innocent little scene. One nudges the other drawing his attention. They both stare at her. Just for a few seconds and then move on. You would have appreciated that little moment. That Godness.

In the airport all announcements were in French, English and some other language (German?). The people who work there are so adept at subtly seeking your language before talking to you. I think French is the default language but they switch over so fast. Incredible to me. Cindy got me a bottle of water so when we got coffee I bought. $4.00 for water. $4.00 for coffee.

I think of you when I read words put together well or when I hear laughter, when I hear a baby cry or see an old man’s wrinkled smile. Because you would appreciate these things too. I see the world partly through your eyes. And my life is better because of it.

Rwanda

IF YOU'RE READING THIS FROM YOUR PHONE, TRY TURNING IT SIDEWAYS TO SEE THE COMPLETE TEXT. OR GO TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE AND CLICK ON "VIEW WEB VERSION."  

About 18 years ago I traveled to Rwanda. It's the heart of central Africa. Kind of a long story about how I got there. Maybe I'll write that in future blog posts. I was young (well, 50 years old, but a lot younger than my current 68). But an acquaintance, soon to be good friend, Cindy talked me into going. I had recently read Left to Tell, by Imaculee Ilibagiza. It's her personal story of faith and survival during the genocide that happened there from April 7 to July 19, 1994. I was immensely blessed to go on that trip with Immaculee. 

I don't know what I was paying attention to at that time, but it wasn't Rwanda. Somehow that was under my radar. Somehow, over a million people being massacred in three months did not make the news here very often. 

I kept a journal of my trip, a little red notebook that I filled up completely. I still have that notebook, a treasure, filled with the memories of the most beautiful people on earth. It's also filled with laughter, grief, love, and tears. This next piece is from an early entry of that small notebook. 

Thirty five thousand feet in the air. Humans have only been flying at all for 105 years. Now we are cruising at thirty five thousand feet above Nova Scotia. By the time we land in Rwanda we’ll cross six time zones. Three continents. 

Three hundred people, cruising at seven or eight miles above the earth, going six hundred fifty miles per hour, getting ready to cross the Atlantic Ocean. It’s 7:39 PM where we took off in New York City. It’s 1:39 AM where we’ll land in Brussels. I’m looking at a monitor that shows our progress as we cross the ocean. A tiny picture of a plane with a dotted line showing our direction, where we’ve been, where we’re going.

 Soft drinks, coffee, TV shows, magazines, ear buds, multi-channels in our arm rests, overhead lights, flight attendant call buttons, reclining chairs, little pillows, portable DVD players, MP3 players, headphones that cancel flight noise, laptop computers, expensive hardcover books bought in the airport, battered paperback books, the Bible, The Koran, Skymall catalog. Perfume, a baby crying, laughter, playing cards, adolescent boys punching each other in the arms, irritable stewardess, lovers holding hands. Humans are amazing. One million one hundred seventeen thousand deaths in the Rwandan genocide (that we know of so far… rounded to the nearest thousand). The US fussed about whether or not it was genocide. We watched. We knew. We did nothing. Humans are more than just amazing.

Clinton and Albright apologized for not trying to stop the genocide in Rwanda  (music video). Sincerely. How long before we apologize for not stopping the genocide in Darfur? Digital watches, iPhones, iPods, handheld video.games, in flight movies, CBS Sports on TV, sitcoms with canned laughter. Flying seven miles high over the Atlantic Ocean. Onemilliononehundredseventeenthousand Rwandans were killed in one hundred days. Over ten thousand a day. Humans are amazing.

Onemilliononehundredseventeenthousand stories. It’s almost too big to imagine, too big to believe, too immense to even think about. FREE PARIS HILTON. That’s what a sign said at the nursery and garden center by my house. FREE PARIS HILTON. Humans are amazing.

Blessings

  IF YOU'RE READING THIS FROM YOUR PHONE, TRY TURNING IT SIDEWAYS TO SEE THE COMPLETE TEXT. OR GO TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE AND CLICK ON "VIEW WEB VERSION."  

I wrote this piece years ago. A lot has changed in our lives since then. Our kids have grown into wonderful adults, and we have a beautiful grandson. Our sons have fine careers and homes of their own. We had Thanksgiving at Devin’s, where he and lovely Shae prepared a fine feast. We laughed, played with Baby Jack, reminisced, read some of the same books to Jack that we read to our own boys. And while life has certainly changed (I’ve been retired since 2020, cancer, aging issues, two of our parents have since passed away…), so much is the same. Here is a snapshot of my gratitudes from 17 years ago. The kids I taught then are in their mid-twenties. Many have families of their own. 

Here are todays’ blessings from 2008…

I woke up today at 5:00 and thought I'd keep a mental list of the greatest parts of my day. Now it's 10:15 on Friday night. I'm looking at the sleeping form of my wife on the couch. She dozed off watching the news. As I end this day, I think of Heidi, the greatest blessing in my life. We met in a college class in the winter of 1976. I have been deeply in love with her ever since. I remember the very day I fell in love (I cannot speak for her). I remember it clearly.  

Back to today's blessings...

*Waking up.    At all.    Just waking up.

*Waking up to the beautiful sleepy face of my wife, Heidi.

*It being Friday.

*Hawaiian coffee. Light roast, very strong. 

*This new book I'm reading - Same Kind of Different As You.

*The warm sleepy goodbye hug and kiss from same Heidi.

*John Fogerty's new album on the way to work.

*NPR, perhaps the only "fair and balanced" news on the radio.

*This subtle, graceful, pale blue/gray sunrise. Overcast. Breezy. Early fall.

*Time alone in my classroom.  

*The anticipation of a great Friday with my second graders.

*The sounds of children through my door. Hearing their excitement at being at school.  

*The first hugs, fist bumps, high fives and handshakes of my earnest children as they come into the classroom at the very beginning of the day.

*Playing chess with a seven year old.

*Helping kids understand some challenging math.

*Talking about the news with little ones.

*Learning about animals, addition with regrouping and place value, sharing a favorite book with second graders (The Prince of the Pond by Donna Jo Napoli).

*Discussing writer's craft with young writers. Finding craft in their writing.

*Talking about the election with an earnest group of learners. Watching together as history unfolds.

*Lunch with my students. Making each other laugh. Sharing story.

*Recess on our dusty field.

*The tears of a little one who has fallen.  

*Playing the best playground game ever.  

*Laughing, running and sweating with my new group of best friends.

*Walking to the public library. Looking for animals all the way there.

*Helping children check out good books.

*Walking back to school. Looking for bugs and spiders the whole way. Finding lots. Gold.

*Singing songs with children.

*My fingers which, however feeble, allow me to play guitar.

*My voice which, however creaky, allows me to teach these young ones to sing.

*The sense to stop singing and let them take it when they learned the song. 

*Listening to my best teacher friend, Tameka, read one of my favorite books (More Than Anything Else) to my old class and my new class. 45 of the best people I have ever known in one room. Gold.

*The quiet school building after the kids and teachers have gone home.

*Driving home.  

*Friday.

*Music.  

*The moon, rising through the hazy early evening sky.

*The early fall colors just now being revealed. The anticipation of another beautiful fall.

*Pulling into my neighborhood.

*That first evening kiss as I see Heidi.

*My dog's smile as she wags her entire body in greeting.

*Our Friday evening together.

*Sharing our respective days.  

*Remembering our own children when they were small.

*Looking into the beautiful sleeping face of my true love as she snoozes on the couch.

*Knowing that tomorrow is Saturday.

*The anticipation of my sleepy boys waking up tomorrow (I'll probably be asleep before they get home).

*Our beautiful home in the woods.

The thing is—this is just the tip of the iceberg. The tip of the tip. Even as I sat writing this, 

I knew that in a single day I have so many blessings that I couldn't name them all. We all do. Make a list someday. Even if it’s not Thanksgiving. It feels good.