I‘ve never written a post on a plane before.

But here I am up in the sky and on my way to new adventure. The acid of the unknown has settled, finally fleeing along with the feeling that there’s something I’m forgetting – that emotional carry-on that seems to accompany every flight.

Before I land, I’d like to make a promise. But before I do I would like to say thanks to the trinity of people who have saturated my days and nights with their eternal support and unflinching faith.

You three have been there to see me type my fingers down to raw and blistered digits, to constantly inspire and encourage, and to hold me on the rare occasion when I finally vented a cry, wondering with shuddering tears if I would ever make it.

Cindy, you never doubted it. Mia, you never stopped reminding me I was the world’s best writer, no matter how many times I assured you I wasn’t. And Max, it would be impossible for you to love me any more. Believe me, buddy, the feeling’s mutual.

We set to render our online dreams to reality and we have, though at times we’ve had to hack through the hedges of Hades to get here. Back when we first started, our dreams were fresh, and they alone were enough to give us all the energy we needed. We worked the preschool by daylight, then flipped the candle and burned the other end until well past midnight. Night after night after night.

Write a fresh post, answer comments and emails, get my name out there as much as I could. Go to sleep spent, then wake up and do it again.

“I promise,” I said. “It won’t be this way forever.”

You believed in the dream.

We closed our school and the money dried immediately. We tightened our belts and prepared for hard times. Even poised, things were a high multiple worse than expected.

Our dream was clear, but far away. Like a mountain’s peak looming at the edge of an endless sweeping plain. Though we remained forever hopeful, we were under no illusions.

It would be difficult.

And it was.

Month after month our dreams mushroomed in cost and our horizon continued to pixelate. My ambition to write for a living shifted to cruel mockery. I dreamed of writing fiction and gorgeous prose that might someday pass between friends and lovers. In reality I wrote about lawnmowers, barbecues, DUI’s and auto warranties – when I was lucky.

I wrote garbage articles that no one would ever read. As much as I loathed them, I did my best to keep the smile on my face. The three of you needed to see it, and though the pay was pennies, pennies made dollars and we needed them badly.

Every morning you would rise, Cindy, to the tip-tip-tapping of my keyboard. Max would climb on one side and Mia on the other. My arms would snake around the smallish set of similar shoulders, but I kept tip-tip-tapping the entire time.

Off to school, then home again home again, jiggity gig… The sun low in the sky, Daddy was still tip-tap-tapping.

“Daddy needs more time,” Mommy would say, “But he’ll be down for dinner.”

A bite to eat, a glance at the homework, then back upstairs. Another few hours of hammering at the keys, racing to minimize the next days to-do’s while my mind tried to part the creeping fog that always seemed to settle in around midnight. Eventually, I’d slip into bed exhausted.

Cindy, I’m sorry for every night you waited up for a me who was too exhausted to speak. And I’m sorry for every night you waited on me, only to succumb to sleep before I arrived.

The seven day scheduled stretched for far too long. When we finally took the Macbook in to get the keyboard repaired, the Apple Genius said he’d never seen one so battered.

“I promise,” I said, looking all three of you in the eyes more times than I can count. “I’m only working this hard now so I won’t always have to.”

You all believed me because I’ve never let you down before.

Eventually the nickel and dime articles evaporated and David and I managed to build our business to a point where all our needs were being met. A growing list of happy clients were in love with our work, eager to book, and even willing to wait in line.

Then, after waiting so long for our patience to yield triumph, I’ve gone and laid it all on the line. I’ve embraced the gaping chasm of a certain unknown and pulled those I love most, once again into the trenches of risk.

And you haven’t flinched.

Cindy, your faith is unwavering as always. Max and Mia you both believe in me with a pristine perspective that I find both inspiring and entirely humbling.

Thank you.

The gentleman sitting to my left probably thinks me sad. It might be my red eyes and shallow breath, or the tear that’s nested at the edge of my eye, threatening to fall.

And though that tear will make good on its promise, I’m sure, before I finish this page, I am not sad in the least.

Just reflective.

Perhaps it’s being thousands of feet in the air, miles melting between us by the second. Or maybe it’s because I’m about to turn a decisive page in our family history. Could be because in another couple of hours I’m going to shake the hand of a man who has become impossibly important to all our lives, and yet whom I’ve not actually met until today.

I’ve taken the long way around my thoughts today. I suppose it’s because for the first time in I don’t know how long, I’m writing without hurry. I look outside the tiny window and see nothing but sky. I close my eyes and see nothing but the wide expanse of pregnant promise.

Despite my meandering thoughts, I’ve not forgotten my point.

I want need to make a promise.

I know these last two weeks have swallowed me and that it’s probably scary for you.

I know I promised I was only working so hard so that I wouldn’t always have to, and that in the last several days I’ve returned to some of my old, worst habits.

I know that we grow older each day, that there are no do-overs and that I owe all three of you the best possible life.

I’ve not forgotten a thing.

I promise that you will always come first and that if this change isn’t right for us, then it will not be right for me.

Years will pass and I will remember the chaos of the past two weeks, but the specifics will fade to haze.

But Max, I will ALWAYS remember out picnic adventure, “boys time” last Saturday and the way you made the most of every second we had together. I wish I could have been less distracted. You certainly deserve it. I promise I’m not oblivious. I misted you too.

Mia, I will always remember you coming home with Pepper, and a smile as wide as a sunset at sea. I know that your ”not wanting to talk about it“ was your way of silently saying, ”I really wish you wouldn’t leave, Daddy.“ You are my first born and my life has been richer every day and in every way for having you in it.

Cindy, I will always remember how you squeezed my hand tighter, thought harder and said more with your eyes than I can sometimes manage with a pen full of ink.

Thank you for trusting me through this transition. I promise my aim is true and we will hit our mark.

Mia, I’m sure you are reading. Would you please do me a favor and read this to your brother?

Max, tuck in the lip buddy, I’ll be home soon.

Cindy, thank you for everything. We are but two books in a single volume.

I love you all.

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Dear Sean,

You know how I love “stuff”, and there is nothing better than sharing my “stuff” with those I love. It’s great to find these treasures but even more fun when I see the excitement in my grandchildren’s eyes when “grammy brings them a treat.”

This probably goes back to when I was a little girl and my “nina” used to spoil me rotten. My aunt and uncle had no car but they would take me all over the place on the greyhound bus and the “red car” streetcars. My family had very humble beginnings, but there was never a shortage of treats, even if it was a box of cracker-jacks with the much coveted prize at the bottom.

My dad was the king of chotchkis, as you well know.

Before I was born he had been in the shoe business and the “sample size” back then was a size 4, which coincidentally was my mom’s size. She had shoes to rival Imelda Marcos!  Dad always had a new pair of shoes, a handbag or a piece of costume jewelry for her and it didn’t matter how cheesy some of the trinkets were, her eyes would light up as though he had presented her with a box from Tiffany’s. They were in their late eighties and he was still giving her goodies!

When you and Megan were growing up I always picked up goodies for you whenever I went somewhere that I felt warranted a souvenir because you were not there with me. (even if it was a nintendo-saurus shirt I chose to make for you at the arts and crafts trade show, much to your chagrin). So please understand that I have had a lifetime of this gift giving habit, either on the giving or receiving end. Old habits die very hard!

The Dora the Explorer house was a real feather in my cap! I think you are wildly exaggerating about its condition. It was in great shape and had most of the accessory pieces to go with it, and as I recall, the kids were very excited and played with it all night.  The glamour might have worn off sooner than I thought, but for the instant gratification, it was great!

When I saw it sitting on the curb I could not believe that someone would be so wasteful as to throw it out for the trashmen. They could have donated it to a women and children’s shelter or a church nursery. I guess everyone does not have the same preservation/recycling ethic that I do.  How many children have no toys or very few toys because their families can barely get by with the necessities?  I had to rescue it!

I knew the kids would have a good time.  I will never be deterred from salvaging other people’s perfectly good things that are put out  to further engorge our landfills so that the kids can have the newer model of whatever it was. In the future, however, I will donate these things to charity.

Now, the donkey…..ah yes, the donkey…..I WAS ELATED  when I saw him sitting at the Goodwill, just waiting to be adopted.  I wondered how in the world I could get him to fit into my little Honda Element. I just KNEW  WITHOUT A CRUMBLE OF DOUBT  that the kids would go berserk when I walked through the door with him…..and they did!  I did not notice that the tail was missing until I got to your house. Apparently, the tail had dropped off in the parking lot.

I thought that it was hilarious that two weeks later when I walked into the store they remembered I had bought him and saved the tail for me.  Sorry I keep forgetting it…It’s probably cleaner than the donkey at this point and won’t match.

Ok, so no more presents for my grandkids….nah, no can do!!  BUT….. I promise to keep them at a very minimum and make them either edible, wearable, miniscule in size, or disposable with a short shelf life, such as stickers, paperback coloring books or crafts we can do together.

I propose explaining the problem to the children and giving them the option of one new goodie in, one old goodie out.  They could even make a “treasure chest” of things they are willing to donate forward with the prospect of receiving a new treat.  We can designate one “grammy nite” a month as “treat night” if you wish.

Is this a good compromise?

I understand your quest for minimalization, but please do not deny me my grammy spoiling rights altogether. that’s what grammies are supposed to do! Within a few years they will be too old to be dazzled by fun little trinkets.

Like Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, Grammies were destined to bring stuff!

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Dear Mom,

You know I love you right? I enjoy your weekly Grammy night, along with the mirth and merriment you bring to the dinner table, even though you’re almost always late.

But please, please, PLEASE! stop bringing stuff over every time you visit.

I know you think it’s sweet, and part of a grammy’s job, but your just one little thing here and there have accumulated over the last half decade. Grains of sand scattered over the last five years have turned into a beach.

You’ve been coming over for dinner once per week for five years now. For each of those years I’ve consistently asked begged you to please stop bringing stuff over.

Let’s do some simple math!

52 weeks in a year times five years is 260 weeks. Times two children, that’s 520 tchotchkes. And sure, there have been a few random weeks when we either didn’t have Grammy Night or you showed up empty handed, but you and I both know you love to make up for these occasional deficits with a tsunami of surplus the following week. And always with certain glee gleaming in your eyes.

PLEASE STOP!

Your grandchildren do not need any more things. If you choose to spoil them, great, please do it with the gift of your time. Show up when you say you’re going to and spend time playing with them, preferably on their level and speaking their language. It is difficult for me to see you constantly grooming them to expect some sort of prize every time you knock on the door.

I’ll never forget the shocked, and rather hurt, expression on your face the first time you showed up empty handed and Mia said, “Grammy, what do you have for me today?”

You told her that was spoiled. You were right. But gee, Ma, whad’ya expect? Pavlov’s dog got slobber on the rug after the ding of a bell for a reason. It is precisely what I was cautioning since she was still bald.

I do not want our children to equate your visits with gifts.

Though I’d rather not bore anyone with a long list of the many things that make my eyes bleed every time I pass them, I do believe an example might be in order, as I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m an ungrateful son who doesn’t appreciate the kindly gifts his generous mother brings each week.

I’d like to highlight two examples of “other people’s garbage” which are now part of my decor.

The Dora the Explorer Play Set

You were 45 minutes late the day you knocked on the door with this one! Most of your wonderful gifts come directly from the thrift store, but this one actually came from the side of the road! What’s that?!? you thought, flying by at 40 miles an hour. After making a U-turn to investigate the plastic play set that had been surrendered to the following day’s garbage pickup, you loaded the play set (roughly the size of Rhode Island) into your car and brought it to our house.

This thing is a big behemoth of molded loathing, played with until the edges were sharp and then abandoned. Mia and Max played with it for maybe twenty minutes on two different days. Yet it is a Grammy present which I am therefore not permitted to throw away.

Multiply this times 520.

The Donkey

I would rather have 42,741 Dora the Explorer Play Sets than this one donkey. And though I rarely use the word hate, I HATE this thing with a volcanic intensity.

I almost had a heart attack the day you brought this over. Grinning like a Cheshire, immeasurably pleased with yourself, this heinous Tijuana roadside eyesore has been the daily evil eclipsing my eyesight. It has migrated from room to room, carrying it’s diabolical filthiness everywhere it goes. Though you have been promising to bring the tail over for three years now, I do not want it…

Oh, I didn’t mention that? Yeah, in addition to the matted fur, and undisclosed history, this life-sized donkey (YES – LIFE SIZED!) has a gaping rusty hole where it’s tail should be.

I couldn’t make that up.

We are doing our best to teach our children that less is more, trying to teach them that time is more important than material goods.

Yet every visit undermines our teaching.

I do understand that you’re just trying to be “Grammy.” I get and accept that, but by making every visit special in this way, none of them truly are.

I know it feels good for you to buy things. Finding something at a thrift store and adding it to your endless inventory of priceless finds feeds something inside you. But it makes something inside me hungry.

Perhaps if I piled all the bunkum together in a single mountain you might listen, but I decided to write this letter instead. Hopefully, reading it at your favorite site will help to make my dream come true!

Thanks, Ma. I love ya!

P.S. Of course I would never publish this without showing it to my mom first. Not only has she read it, I’ll be posting her reply tomorrow.

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When I was a kid, I never cared too much for Thanksgiving. I hate to admit it now, since I think it’s a wonderful thing to sit down on a designated day each year with friends, family and excellent food and take the time to acknowledge those things we are most grateful for. It is an excellent time to reflect, not on those things we want or wish we had, and not on what we could do better or must endeavor to improve. Christmas and New Years are waiting just beyond Black Friday to serve those particular emotional masters.

No, Thanksgiving is about looking your present day in the eye with a smile and saying thank you for the many wonderful things you already have.

This year I am thankful for many things, but I will limit my list to the following five.

1) I am thankful for my dreams. Yes, my muse is quite demanding and has me often running all over the place, wandering from children’s rhymes to horror and back, usually wearing a grin so wide I’ve considered traveling with a drool bucket. Yet having too many dreams, I am certain, is better than having too few or none at all. My dreams are fuel for my passion and my passion petrol for my future. I am grateful I can close my eyes and dream of all that will one day be any time I wish.

2) I am thankful for my family. Without my family as anchor, my most recent dreams would have never set sail. Cindy is my best friend, and though I know y’all are probably tired of reading about it, it’s true. She placed the pen in my hand and told me it was not only okay to dream, but that I deserved to stoke my desires. My children are so remarkable that I sometimes shudder when I ponder them too long; like dwelling on the scope of the universe or the concept of infinity. I’ve seen my sister more in the last few months than I have in the last couple of years and each moment has been wonderful. My mom comes over for dinner once a week, and though she annoys me without limits, I love her dearly and miss the days when we cannot connect. I don’t see my father nearly as often as I’d like, but he is often in my thoughts as well.

3) I am thankful for my health. Though I was 175 pounds of pure uncut pain and suffering a few weeks back, I am lucky to be as healthy as I am. I’m strong, with enough emotional and physical fitness to make what would have been a difficult year into just another hurdle to jump. In the past I have been guilty of wanting the perfect body, the type that gets a third look because the second wasn’t enough. Yet rarely have I been willing to embark on the difficult, sustained work required to make it happen. It took me until my early thirties to realize that fitness is far more than the definition in my abs. I’m now content with my daily sit-ups and push-ups, running up and down the stairs approximately 1,437 times per day, and keeping away from peanut M&M’s by the bucket. I’ve never felt healthier, even though I’m a tad soft around the tummy more often than I’m not.

4) I am thankful for an audience. Thanks to all of you, and to all the scattered readers across the Internet who read my words and help me to refine my purpose. I enjoy writing under most any circumstance, but it is a unique reward to write for an audience. For all who read my words and enjoy their rhythm, thank you. You make my world a better place and I truly appreciate it.

5) I am thankful for Cindy’s cooking. I think a large part of the reason I didn’t dig on Thanksgiving too much as a kid was simply that the menu did little for me. I know, I know I must be some kind of Un-American heathen helmet wearing buffoon to not like the Thanksgiving menu. It is possible I would like turkey a lot more if I wasn’t haunted by the memory of my mother buying a 97lb bird every year, even when it was just the four of us, because any turkey that weighed less than a kindergartner was “mostly carcass.” Cranberry sauce and yams = yucky. Mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie delicious. Everything else, okay. What’s my vice? Pasta, and lots of it. Every year Cindy makes three different kinds. See #3.

It would be nice if we stepped outside ourselves more often and acknowledged those things we are most grateful for with every meal, but the truth is that would mute much of the impact. I’m glad there is a designated time of year when we can pass appreciation around the table and nod our heads in gratitude.

This year, I am grateful for Thanksgiving.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!

Writer Dad

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My mother and I have a unique relationship. The two of us have batted banter back and forth in a nearly endless volley ever since I was small. These days we usually pick up one week at the exact same snarky moment where we left things the previous “Grammy Night” seven days earlier. It is odd, I imagine, for my children to see me in the cut and thrust wordplay which takes place between us, as it is not the sort of exchange I share with anyone else. After twelve years, Cindy is just now getting used to the rhythm.

My mom lives just one and a half miles away, though proximity does nothing to keep her from being regularly a half hour or so late to dinner. If were I to unroll the scroll of things about her which annoy me, it would easily kiss the concrete from my house to hers. Still, I do love the old lady dearly and credit her with much of my verbal aptitude. As far back as I can recall, she’s always spoken to my sister and me in full, articulate and sometimes rather silly sentences. Whenever we had questions, her answers were thorough, and she never steered too far from the more difficult topics or acted as though we were unable to understand.

My mom stepped into the 21st century a couple of months back with the purchase of her first computer. Since then she has been one of the most frequent commenters here at Writer Dad. Her comments are often quite sweet, though she doesn’t seem to understand that answering a comment is not quite as simple as answering an email and tends to get impatient. Last week my mom left her first comment at Blogger Dad, then emailed me several hours later, a slight undercurrent of panic between the lines, “Do you think Dave got my comment?!?! It said, ‘awaiting moderation,’ but that was HOURS ago!”

“Yeah Mom, I’m sure he got it,” I said.

Wednesday’s post about the teachable moment in the library ended with a short poem. My mom’s comment was a response in rhyme. The two of us went back and forth and then back and forth again. Our exchange was fairly rapid fire and offers a rather nice snapshot of our relationship. I thought I would share.

Enjoy!

ME:
4th graders are awesome, though best when they listen
Instead of the blah-blah-ing that gets them to missing
The info the teachers are spitting and spewing
To let the kids know what they’re supposed to be doing
Writing is fun – it’s like cake and balloons
On a Saturday morning spent watching cartoons
Except writing is better because you get to choose
What things you should keep and what things you should lose
You’re the creator – the world’s yours to build
Who gets to live there and how it is filled
Unicorns, dragons and men with red eyes;
Fairies and magic, an ending surprise
Fantasy’s fun if you break every rule
Decide what is dumb and decide what is cool
Be your best writer, place pen to the page
Write the best story, then be all the rage

GRAMMY:
We all like a story, the weirder the better,
The plot can turn fast, like a change in the weather.
It’s fun to learn how to spin a great tale,
Like pinnochio trapped inside of that whale.
A good teacher can train you, just give her a chance
To guide your ideas, put your mind in a trance.
You’ll be amazed at what you can do
It’s almost as easy as tying your shoe.
It’s how they all started, those authors of fame
Playing with words, but more than a game.
Once you get going, you’ll soar and you’ll fly
but don’t waste any time or you’ll ask yourself “why”?

ME:
I like that your’e spitting your comment in rhyme
It’s really a fun way to fritter the time
The words come so quick; like “you know” from a goose
They’ll rumble around until you let loose
Obviously my verbiage was nurtured quite well
Now I lay down the rhythm like ringing a bell
Thanks for always talking to me as a kid
Even with all the obnoxious I did
It’s one of the reasons I now think so fast
The skills of my present, piled onto my past

GRAMMY:
Yep, you were a wild one, I can’t disagree,
But they say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Encourage a young one with humor and praise
And it should pay off for the rest of your days.
I’m so glad you had such a great, twisted brain
Now you can write without feeling no pain 
Creativity’s fun, of that there’s no doubt
Just have the confidence to let it all out.
All this rhyming is making me dizzy and weak, I think
A big cheesburger I will go seek!!!!

ME:
How long can you do this, ’cause I’ve got all day
And you know I never run out of new things to say
I’ll rhyme in the morning and then rhyme at lunch
I’ll rhyme during dinner and I have a hunch
That I can keep going even when I am dreaming
The words in my head are all twisted and teeming
Foaming and frothing, all set to explode
Syllables spilling – I’m cracking the code
Chew on your cheeseburger, swallow your shake
Feast on your french fries and dream about steak
If you wanna keep going, you know I’m right here
I’ll keep this thread running till the end of the year

GRAMMY:
Oh, pshaw, boy, of that there’s no doubt
You have talent like a tile store has grout.
We could keep going like this, you and I
But you’re right, I would rather go eat some pie.
While this is great fun,I could go all day
I have things to do and places to play
Laundry to do, dishes to wash
Cats to feed , perhaps a roach to squash.
I’ll cut it short now and bid you adieu
See you at grammy nite with cookies or stew.

ME:
I’ll look forward to Grammy Night, as I always do
But please, there’s no need for your cookies or stew
I’d rather you knock on the door right on time
A Thursday on schedule would be so sublime
While we’re on the subject, my mother so dear
Can you please not bring any chotskys ’round here?
Seriously, we’re swimming in a sea of detritus
And I’m afraid the navigation will give me arthritis
Please bring your smile, your wit and your charm
Do it on time and we’ll ring the alarm
We’ll call in the media so they too can witness
Your attempt at finding some on the dot fitness

Writer Dad

My daughter has been sitting beside me for the last half hour while I edit this piece. She has her second post up over at Children Write the Future this morning, yet has been loathe to edit. She loves to write, but does not have the same feelings about the revision process and is under the false impression that her father does not need to edit. I pulled a Stephen King book from the shelf, the fattest I could find, and told her that even King, author of over 50 books, doesn’t ever get it right the first time. If you have a moment, either in the comments below or over at her post, “How to Know if Someone is a Good Friend,” please let her know that her Daddy is right.    : > ) THANKS!

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I‘ve been back from Vegas for a week and still feel like I’m barely catching my breath.

Last week flew by like a mad swath of cool and unexpected wind, wrapping my world in disarray and excitement. This week I’m heading to a quickie two day conference on the future of communication. A giant THANKS to Maya of the wonderful MemeTales who has given me the tickets for the conference. She will be speaking at the Publishing Gets Collaborative panel, which will explore the role of Twitter in bringing together writers, illustrators, editors and publishers to create the new publishing ecosystem.

As you can imagine, it is a panel I’m eagerly looking forward to.

So last Thursday Cindy came home and shut the door to our Sienna on the top of her head, the metal corner carving a zig zag ravine down the middle of her skull. Stubborn and rather Rambo like as my lady is, she refused to head to the emergency room. “It’ll knit itself,” she said. She was right – it’s been three days and it’s swollen and crusty, but healing. It was scary at first though, because in case you’ve never read a book or seen a movie – head wounds bleed. Like a lot. Two minutes after it happened she looked like an extra from True Blood.

I couldn’t be more proud of Mia, who ran upstairs and calmly delivered the news. “Mommy cut her head and it’s really really bad. There’s blood everywhere. It’s at least three times as bad as the worst time when I hurt my head. Mommy needs you RIGHT NOW.” Her words were silk whipping in wind, lost in flight but perfectly smooth.

Because I’ve been playing lots of catch up, haven’t sat down to really write, but I would love to connect and share my adventures. The best way to do this, I believe, is too rap out in my best conversational style. Go ahead and ask whatever you’d like to know in the comments and I’ll write a post that answers any question that comes in either Monday or Tuesday. I’m doing the same thing over at the Inkwell, so if there’s a question that’s more professional than personal, you’re welcome to drop it over there.

While we’re at it, I’m planning to do another video interview with each of my children soon. If there are any questions you would like to suggest, I would love to add them to the list.

Lastly, there is a new comment system downstairs. It isn’t terribly attractive and do I apologize for that, but it has a feature that I can’t argue with.

It allows me to answer comments through email.

This does everything for my workflow. Email is a natural rhythm of conversation for me. Whenever a comment is posted, I get an email. It is often when reading this email that I have my most natural response. It’s different when I come back to the site to answer them later. Being able to answer and post the reply into the comments by email is a wonderful option that I’m eager to explore.

I’m not married to it yet though, so feel free to let me know your thoughts. That troublemaker George Roper already gave me an earful.

See you tomorrow.

Writer Dad

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Today is my sister Megan’s birthday. It isn’t as big a deal as it was last year when I had to surrender the $20 I’d wagered a decade earlier that she would be obese by her thirtieth birthday. This year merely added a digit and maybe a few lines to her face (note: as first born it is my job to gently torment. Besides, the relationship is reciprocal).

This past summer has been the best of my life. I’ve spent the last three months absorbed in nudging my dreams to truth and, for the first time ever, enjoying the freedom of the year’s longest days alongside my wife and children.

One of the best things about summer was our frequent adventuring. Each day, somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, I would step away from the desk and the four of us would head out for our scheduled activity. Several times this summer our trips included Megan.

From our handful of expeditions, I think I enjoyed our trip to the tide pools the most. We crossed the Vincent Thomas Bridge out of Long Beach and into one of my favorite drives in the world, winding along the edge of the Pacific, just beneath the bluffs of Palos Verdes, where I have vowed to dock my ship when it eventually comes in.

Though a recent oil spill had swallowed nearly all the usual sea life – it was still fun to hop from rock to rock and see how far out to sea I could go. I hopped as far as I could, which turned out to be where the rocks stopped and the liquid road to Hawaii started. I stood parallel to a fishing boat and stared back at the shore, watching my sister strolling along with Cindy and the children.

Memories of my childhood rolled and crashed like waves upon the beach.

Though Megan is endlessly hysterical and breezy to be with, I believe it was those moments of fractured reflection that truly meant the most to me. Max and Mia LOVE their aunt. They respect her and appreciate that she speaks to them, not as small children who do not understand the world around them, but as developing people who are trying to breathe it all in, one experience at a time.

My sister and I did not always get along as children, mostly by my design, and I think we both look on Max and Mia in wonder. They truly are the best of friends and it is remarkable to see in them already what it took the two of us a couple of decades to find.

Both children tend to show their best side around her and I love to see the admiration dancing in her eyes. Megan has no children, nor does she plan to. She is one of those rare, intelligent creatures who is fairly sure of what she wants from life and is unwilling to drag an innocent child into even the slightest bit of indecision.

Her wonder makes me aware, gently reminding me to never fade in or out and to always see my children as others do. Though she may not ever be a mother, I’m quite certain she would make a wonderful one.

Megan is also wonderfully artistic. Creativity sank its teeth into me just recently, but Megan has been harvesting artifacts from the right side of her brain for most of her life. We spent many years working side by side in our family flower shop where I saw her skills move from, “That’s so beautiful I want to cry,” to “Will someone please get me a tissue?”

Our family store has closed and Megan has opened her own Long Beach wedding flowers studio. Her work is stunning and she did all the web design herself. Like her brother, she prefers lots on her plate and also has her own line of rather amazing hand printed greeting cards. Unlike her brother, who desires a system to streamline everything, she is quite content to do things the old fashioned way, taking the time to make sure that everything is as beautiful as she is.

Happy Birthday, Megan. I love you and am looking forward to our donuts this morning!

Writer Bro

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How to Keep Your Family Connected

“I don’t care how poor a man is; if he has family, he’s rich.”
~Dan Wilcox, M*A*S*H

What if I told you about an easy to manage method for keeping you and your children so connected, they will be far less likely to unplug, even when settled beneath the stormiest clouds of childhood.

In the interest of full disclosure: I do not yet have two teenagers. You may call me starry eyed, but it is my emphatic belief that though the bonds in our house will certainly mature, they will never lose the core of what we have built from the beginning; I find it impossible to imagine that concrete poured deep into consistent habits will crumble, even when shoved up against the inevitable earthquakes of adolescence that can so easily tear families asunder.

The many minutes of our lives are often only loyal subjects to the whims of our daily schedules. Yet no matter the flurry or fury of a calendar week, it is rare to not find our family breaking bread and passing it across the table during our day’s final meal.

Every day needs an anchor – a dividing line to distinguish one sunset from the next; a manner to measure that breath that exists only between exhale and inhale. In our family it is never enough to simply parse our table into four sections and allow the seconds to elapse while dinner music does the heavy lifting. We listen to dinner music, but only as percussion. The melody of our future dinnertime memories drifts through the air alongside the shared details of our day.

It is there amid the easy comfort of automatic eye contact where the notes of our days harmonize into their singular song.

We rotate around the table, each of us in turn reciting the best and worst parts of our day – those moments that for better or worse drew distinction from that day’s light. Best and worst are given equal billing, as we teach our children that only by experiencing the sour of life can they truly savor its sweet. There are few better avenues for getting to know your child then giving them a stage to stand on, then fading into the background as they articulate those things that are most meaningful to them.

We model honesty. If one of my children has done something to cast a shadow across my day, I have no difficulty letting them know it was my worst part. We expect the same candor from them. I like hearing my four or seven year say things such as, “the worst part of my day was my behavior before rest time. I could have done better,” while never once shattering the fix of their gaze.

I enjoy this not because I like to revel in the shortcomings of my offspring, but because I feel as though this type of honest self reflection is rare. Catching it in childhood is like catching a caterpillar, not near as difficult as catching it once emerged from the chrysalis of adolescence.

Cindy and I were recently wondering out loud whether the best part/worst part tradition was one we passed to our children with intention. Neither of us could honestly commit. It was something we have done together since always. We can’t put too fine a point on it, but we know we’ve been doing it since sometime before we started living together but after we knew we always would.

By the time Mia was two, the best part and worst part had three even slices. Max, who looks to his sister to learn just about everything, was cooing on cue before his answers were whistling through a freshly cut set of teeth. We love how they’ve embraced the habit and hope to see it spread to the next generation. So far so good.

The other day I was absent for dinner, my presence required at an orientation for the parents of incoming kindergartners at Max’s new school. I returned home late, but Max wasn’t quite ready to bid farewell to the moon. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” I could hear his rat-a-tat-tat as I ascended the stairs. “We did not do the best and worst part of our day,” he declared, fingers in the air and eyebrows crawling together.

“You’re absolutely right,” I said, grabbing three of his digits and leading him toward the bedroom. “What was the worst part of your day?”

“That you weren’t here for dinner,” he looked down.

“How about your best part?”

“That you’re home now and I get to tell you.” His smile spread and I tucked him in with a sigh.

Writer Dad

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“If you don’t think every day is a good day, just try missing one.”
~Cavett Robert

Today will one day gild my memory in bold type, sprinkled as it was with moments of gratitude, justifying our family’s direction, rewarded our patience and promised to pull us toward a truly awesome mañana.

There was no singular bolt of lightning to pierce our sky, the day instead flocked with flashes and rays. It is spring break for the children and the loss of shuffling through hours of our day is not one I will spare a minute to mourn. My non working moments over the last three days have been instead spent on adventures; playing with Max and Mia while making eyes at Cindy.

Even amid all the helter skelter, our lives are often filled with such moments; even the worst of days can burn with brilliance if you take the time to gaze, at least with a passing glance, at a bit of what is both above and below you. Yesterday was one of those where those moments seemed to arrive in multiplicity and then arrange themselves with the wonder of a constellation.

I’ve been climbing toward a peak for some time now, and can smell the air at the top as it gently slaps the side of my face, but that doesn’t mean the climb hasn’t at times been like ascending the side of a chalkboard landscape with two handfuls of nails. Cindy and I have laid claim to high risk this past half year; a small part of the fair purchase price for promise. Climbing that mountain, today we arrived at an aperture in the side; an asylum from the altitude where the air was crisp and even the colors of our simple stew seemed to stand bold against the white of unfiltered sky.

The day itself was odd, with rolling waves of thunder punctuating the wind from midday sun to nighttime moon. Threatening rain, the sky hung pregnant but never delivered moisture or menace. Behind the ugly gray, our interior was cerulean. Taxes were paid, and thanks to our accountant Cindy and I sent every cent due, but not a nickle more. The in-box at Ghostwriter Dad wore a grin for most of the day as pleasant, appreciative people paid and praised my delivered work. The Collective Inkwell launch has been a long time coming and outstanding once here, and I love the contest David Wright and I cooked up together. It promises to be fun for the two of us and our readers alike.

Life is a constant climb, the amount of steps we choose to ascend is up to us as individuals. I want to spend my years in motion, covering as much distance as I can before before my mind will finally move me no further. Some of those steps will be difficult and I’ll feel the weight of iron chains shackling every forward inch. Other steps will see me gliding forward with the ease of a man waltzing across lunar soil.

It is impossible to fully appreciate one without sinking deep into the other. I am grateful for every struggle, for it is only the scuffles, mental or otherwise, that train me to think smarter or faster or at least more in tune with the best way forward. It is only the difficulties that allow my children to see me earning answers to the same lessons I must never forget to teach them.

I’m a writer and so appreciate the trials.  Today, surrounded by my family and momentum,  I felt indebted.

Writer Dad

The contest I mentioned earlier is awesome. Dave and I are giving away the premium WordPress theme Thesis, along with a custom header (and that’s just for starters). If there’s a writer inside you (and that means everyone!) then head to the Inkwell, read the contest details, and drop your entry.

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This is a guest post from my mom. I’ve spent the week saying farewell to a significant slice of my childhood. Today she would like to say adios to one of the threads that has woven our family together. Enjoy.

In 1980, we were a young couple struggling to raise our children and make payments on a newly purchased home. My husband had lost his job and we had started a small courier business for overnight photo developing. I crafted gift items which I sold to local stores to supplement our income. Whatever money came in we considered a blessing.

On the east side of town there lay an ethereal lakeside shopping center. One day we found ourselves there pursuing information on leasing a small kiosk for a photo booth. Could we afford the $250 a month? Suddenly stars aligned and through some smoke and mirrors we somehow managed to come into possession of not only the kiosk, but a newly abandoned flower shop, completely empty save for a very expensive built in cooler.

We were offered 3 months free. The angels smiled and the devil dared us. Could we do it? Bet your ass we were going to try. This was the chance of a lifetime. A month of garage sales and some serious scavenging netted us about $500 and lots of salvaged materials, including lots of discarded wooden delivery boxes (similar to soda crates).

My husband was quite creative and a pretty good carpenter and I was artsy-fartsy. A store was born. What emerged was a funky, eclectic, ahead-of-its-time bucket shop. We sold houseplants and small bunches of flowers bought directly from the farm. The ladies at the next door nail parlor loved taking a bunch of posies home.

Over the next four years posies evolved into arrangements and custom dried flower decor (we wasted nothing). We worked long, hard hours and as a reward were offered an upgraded shop on the other side of the artificial lake. The two of us collaborated to create a unique shop unlike any other. We added hand crafted folk art and gift items and incorporated thrift shop finds and antiques into our designs. Word spread. We were “Martha” before “Martha” was popular.

Sean and his sister grew up and worked in our family shop. They developed their art and people skills. The store enabled us to have a comfortable lifestyle in the 90′s, but we never forgot our humble beginnings and our children learned the value of hard work.

Changes in the flower industry and economy have necessitated the closure of this beautiful shop. It is the end of an era. I will always have wonderful and humorous anecdotes of Rainbows. The store is gone, but never the memories. I painfully say goodbye to a place that brought happiness to the community for almost three decades.

It will be nostalgically remembered and sorely missed.

Margaret

(WD note: These “art” skills my mom is talking about included forcing my sister and I to make corn husk dolls. Yup, I said corn husk dolls. We both still love her anyway.)

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