The Sweetheart of Blogopolis

November 25, 2008 By 46 Comments

“It’s your heart, not the dictionary, that gives meaning to your words.  A good person produces good deeds and words season after season.  An evil person is a blight on the orchard.  Let me tell you something: every one of these careless words is going to come back to haunt you.  There will be a time of Reckoning.  Words are powerful; take them seriously.  Words can be your salvation.  Words can also be your damnation.”

~ Jesus

Jamie Simmerman should be the sweetheart of Blogopolis.  She is kind, funny, and always pays toward the interest of others.  She is also honest, and even if she thinks you’re awesome, is never shy to tell you how she thinks you could be even awesomer.

Except that Jamie would never use a word like awesomer.  She runs Blue Duck Copy, a Christian company, specializing in SEO content creation and blog management.  Jamie knows her stuff, and clarified more basic writing tools for me in a single, rather brief email, than any teacher I’ve ever had.  Here’s what Jamie said about the semi-colon.

Semicolons, (this thing ; ) are used similar to an equals sign (this thing =).  Both halves say the same thing, in different ways.  Doing it right makes editors do this thing:  : )

Crystal clear.

Enjoy Jamie Simmerman, the sweetheart of Blogopolis:

What a Vacuum Hickey Can Teach You

I am not very mechanically inclined, but I do all right. I can hook up and program the DVD player as well as troubleshoot small appliances when they go wacky.

I have a love/hate relationship with my vacuum. It seems we generate an abnormally large amount of dirt and debris here on the farm, because I am constantly unclogging the suction hoses on sweepers.

Vacuum Colonoscopy

We have a routine around here that requires sticking long objects up various parts of the sweeper to remove unmentionable balls of disgust. I have done this so many times that my oldest son now knows when I sit down on the floor and turn the vacuum over, he’s to fetch the supplies for the vacuum’s *colonoscopy*. Life on a farm is great.

Attack of the Ladies

The joys of living in a 200 year-old house are unique. If sweeper-killing mountains of dirt were not enough, we also have a problem with ladybugs. Every time the temperature fluctuates, the ladybugs come out in droves. They flock to the warmest side of the house, where the bedrooms are. They crawl along the seams where the ceiling meets the wall; they crowd into corners, and kamikaze the TV (and my snoring husband). Eventually, they land on the floor in a stupor and die.

It was time to vacuum.

All Grown Up

Feeling quite every bit of his eight years, my son announced he could handle the stinky bugs and wanted to have a go at it because, evidently, that kind of stuff is cool to an eight-year-old boy. I gladly handed over the hose and began folding laundry.

After a few minutes, the vacuum began to sound strange.

Being the mechanical genius that I am, I reached over and knocked the vacuum around a little. It resumed its more pleasant humming and we went back to our cleaning. A couple of minutes passed and I heard the same strange noise coming from the vacuum again. I reached over and shut the machine off, preparing for another vacuum colonoscopy.

I looked at the boy to ask him if he was ready to help and I noticed a mischievous grin on his little face.

“What?” I asked slowly.

“Nuttin’ ” came the sly reply. Then the giggling began and I knew something was up.

“What!” I yelled through my own giggles. He lifted his shirt and smiled big.

Are You Insane?

He removed the vacuum hose, revealing a big round red spot on his belly. “Ah!” I cried, “What’s wrong with you, are you insane?” He grinned big, “Probably, I’m your kid!”

I gave him a swat with the pillow from the bed and asked him what he thought he was doing. He explained that a ladybug flew down his shirt and the vacuum tickles. Huh, perfectly logical.

I picked him up and gave him my best bear hug until he yelled for backup from baby brother. We wrestled on the floor, getting ladybugs stuck in our hair.

Little moments like this remind me of how great being a mother really is, and just how precious children are.

Now I just have to figure out how to explain the vacuum cleaner hickey to my husband…

You can subscribe to Jamie’s feed here.

Writer Dad

Sean Platt is a ghostwriter for hire, specializing in custom blog posts and wedding vows.

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Soaring

November 10, 2008 By 116 Comments

“Would you like to see my business cards?” Mia said.

“Of course I do,” Karen smiled.

Mia proudly pulled two identical slips of paper, seemingly from nowhere, then slipped them into Karen’s hands.  “Here you go,” she chirped.

Karen looked at the card, then read it out loud.  “Mia Maria,” she looked down at my daughter, who is not and never has been named Mia.  “Who is that?”

“Me,” she said, shaking her head, as if there existed no other possible answer.

“Oh?“  Karen raised her brows, “you made up a name for yourself?”

“No,” Mia shook her head.  “My daddy did.  He wants to protect my identity when I’m inside his stories.”

“Ah,” Karen nodded, then smiled even wider.  “A lot of authors do that.  It’s called a pseudonym.”

“I’m Mia Maria, %@#^& is Max, Daddy is Writer Dad, and Mommy’s Namas Daisy.”

I am by nature, both extrovert and exceedingly private.  For the last three years daily life has been punctuated by a never ending procession of people, populating our porch and the preschool that Daisy and I designed together.

This morning marks a significant segue in our lives; a tectonic shift in the rhythm of days.  As of sunrise, I am officially a writer.  This isn’t to say I didn’t identify with the title during yesterday’s dawn, but now I am paddling at sea and it is high time to sink or swim.  Daisy is now finishing out the final six weeks of preschool, while I turn my attention toward other endeavors.

This last Thursday, another door was opened, a portal I’ve wanted to walk through a while.  I came out as Sean, the Monday after we sent our families a farewell, but I’ve still held half myself in a shroud.

I started Writer Dad in secrecy.  The blog, I believed, would be a bit of an embarrassment.  Of course I wanted an audience, but didn’t expect anything of merit or measure for maybe six months.  Things have moved swiftly, and I’ve traveled in tandem.  I am an honest writer, and though I know little of what I will say as the Earth twirls from one day to the next, I always know the words will come from inside, and that there will likely be at least a nugget or two, mined from a vein, a bit deeper than where I expected to dig.

I believe in open doors, honest writing, and playing with a straight hand.  Those of you who are regulars to my thought, have seen a side of me that our families have not.  They who knock on my door know me in a different way.  They can place gesture with paragraph, and easily imagine the smiles behind my sentences.  I am thrilled at last to find myself on the far side of a sigh.  Being private has left me hesitant to have my thoughts hit the internet, chased so closely by a knock upon my door.

We told all of our clients about Writer Dad at the end of last week, with the anecdote above, and a link to go along with it.  For the first time, Writer Dad in my life is common knowledge, and the winds of change will now flutter a different flag.

I still don’t know precisely what Writer Dad is, other than a tornado that twisted into my life, invited, to pull my nearest and dearest asunder, and take us toward the technicolor promise of Oz.  One thing I do know, is that this is my podium.  A place in the world to clear my throat and unleash my mind.  I’ve never been more curious to find out what I have to say.

Writer Dad

Click to hire Ghostwriter Dad: Writer, SEO, and editing services.

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Adios, Otra Vez

October 28, 2008 By 36 Comments

“Grandfathers are just antique little boys.”

~Author Unknown

Last week, I spoke briefly of my Papí, a beautiful man who seemed ancient before I even knew what it meant.

Papí knew I was writing, but he never got to know Writer Dad.  Back in his final month, this blog was but a fast moving brainstorm still far from seeing sunlight.  Papí would have been amazed, and would have loved reading all the posts and comments, or at least having them read to him.

I displayed the wonders of the internet to an open mouthed Papí a couple different times before my grandfather passed.  He watched, silent as I bounced from site to site.  I showed him how you could fill an imaginary shopping cart at Target dot com, and then pay with a barely audible click.  I could only imagine how a man who came to this country when the Model T was still taking over the landscape was thinking about the invisible fabric now taking over our lives.

Papí understood the commerce, but had nowhere to hang it.  He thought the stores existed behind the screen.  I tried to clarify, but my explanation of the internet only made him want to eat candy.  So did breathing.

My Papí was extraordinary.  When he passed earlier this year, he was mere months shy of a century.  He was an inspiration in every way.  He lived with dignity, died with grace, and is forever in my heart.

For today’s Deja Vuesday, I’d like to go back to June 22 of this year, when I said adios to my Papí.

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Sure Mom, You Can Have a Guest Post.

October 22, 2008 By 64 Comments

“When you teach your son, you teach your son’s son.”

~The Talmud

My grandfather happened to pass, the day I told my family I’d started writing.  Every Saturday for the last few months of his life, I sat next to him in bed and read him my rhymes.  At his funeral, I read a rhyme I wrote for him.

The following Wednesday, my mom came to dinner with a page of prose to match the piece she’d heard.  Her tip of the bonnet to me.

When I told her I was planning a post on the power of praise, she asked if she could publish the poem she’d penned.

“Um… sure,” I said, preceding a twitter of nervous laughter.

One day, I’m certain, my mom will join us in Blogopolis.  This will be good for her, and save me from random phone calls explaining the events of Xena, Warrior Princess, Angel, and Nip Tuck. Actually, now that I think about it, twitter would be right up my mom’s alley.

Without further ado, here’s Grammy:

When Sean was just a little guy,
he was the apple of my eye.
My first, my baby, my pride, my joy.
But oh my God, was he all boy!
He certainly put me through my paces,
with mischievous acts and silly faces.
Then along came a sister, we saw as a thrill;
he was a rascally Jack to her sweet little Jill.
A brand new playmate, the perfect target,
for pranks that would daily challenge Margaret.
When teachers called me to complain
about behavior quite insane,
I took it all with a granule of salt,
never wanting to launch parental assault.
Life is not black and life is not white.
It’s many shades of grey in my sight.
Kids will be bad, and kids will be good,
but kids should also be understood.
Sean was fun, a total charmer,
but true in heart, a never harmer.
I knew that in spite of his wit and his spunk,
immature actions and juvenile junk,
I saw the spirit of someone great
who could be a father and perfect mate.
Take some maturity, add on the years,
all life’s experience and some of its tears.
Sprinkle some patience, then you will see,
the outstanding man he was destined to be.
As I have grown in age and in girth,
I have never regretted once giving birth
to a rascally, bright, and challenging child.
Sometimes tender, occasionally wild.
He’s grown to be more than I could expect;
honest, straightforward, mature, and direct.
Still ten years old when we are alone,
but wise beyond years when needed at home.
His grandma and grandpa look down in pride
at the man he’s become, past history aside.
He certainly gave them a run for their money,
but now walks the path of his Papí and Honey.

Writer Dad

If you enjoyed these words, please subscribe (for free) by RSS or Email.  I tweet here, and Stumble here.  Thanks.

In an upcoming post Writer Dad’s gonna rap about the grueling difficulties of a good edit.. and how they’re exponentially worse when doing them with your mother.

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High Five!

October 20, 2008 By 79 Comments

“I can live for two months on a good compliment.”

~Mark Twain

Anyone who questions the power of praise, should test its undiluted strength on any random pack of children.

Picture this:

A dozen kids are sitting around a table, waiting on their wedges of fruit.  The youngest, at eighteen months, is mashing his mitts on the table; the oldest is sitting quietly with his  hands braided into a nest in the seat of his lap.  The remaining wee-ones are scattered in varying shenanigans.

“My goodness,” I say.  I draw my breath, and send my eyebrows climbing.  “Look how well William is waiting.”

Instant hush hovers over the table, thicker than if I’d said Santa was in surveillance.

“I’m being patient, Mr. Sean.”

This voice tweets from a toddler who, a split second before was yodeling Yankee Doodle.  His declaration fills the air, chased by an avalanche of echos.  Even the tiniest tot looks up from his high chair, relaxes his hands, and begins to wildly clap.

We all long for validation.  It is as much a part of our DNA as the tint of our eyes, only less visible, and infinitely more important.

With my own children, I never let sun and sky split without letting them know how proud I am of precisely who they are.  Their ears perk as they stand straight and smile wide, swelling to fill the outline I’ve drawn around them.  This verbal applause gives my words gravity.  My children love it when I tell them great job, but are loathe to find me upset, disappointed, or angry.

This isn’t new age hokum I’m spitting from the right side of my brain.  There’s plenty of research to document the infinite advantage of regular praise.  I know of no analysis to disprove the theory.

There is something inside each of us, that steady beat that makes us human, always searching for a rhythm to follow, eager to find license to a tempo that’s true.  We never shed this need for compliments, any more than we do our need for sun.  Like with our star, we can burn our soul if we soak too much, but this is still far preferable to the threatening gray of a rainy day.

Each day, Daisy tells me that she’s proud of me, and then she tells me why.  I do the same for her.  That may seem corny to some, but it isn’t; it’s feeding our flames with the finest of fuel, from the purest provenance possible.

We must practice praise with our children.  It’s important for who they are, and who they will one day be.  We must of course tell them how they can do better, but we must also never forget to tell them what they have done well.  There is nothing quite like watching them recapture the magic.

Writer Dad

If you enjoyed these words, please subscribe (for free) by RSS or Email.  I tweet here, and Stumble here.

Namas Daisy is talking about too much TV.  You’ll find that here.

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The Rest of the Story: KittyTown and the Quan

September 25, 2008 By 91 Comments

Advice to children crossing the street:  damn the lights.  Watch the cars.  The lights ain’t never killed nobody. 

~Moms Mabley

Yesterday, I wrote about the Quan.  I emailed my sister, asking for a memory or two.  This is her response in its entirety.  I’ve changed nothing except the names.

Two things first.

I just set up an account with StumbleUpon.  Writer Dad was taken (now I know how you felt Dave; sorry).  My username is writerdaddotcom.  If you’d like to be friends, let me know.  

Also, I need help with my Feedburner feed.  Since I started, I’ve been unable to deliver full feeds.  Yes, I have the full feed plugin, and yes everything is set as it’s supposed to be.  If anyone can help, I’d really appreciate it.  Thanks.

Without further ado, Kittytown:

I’m a bit shocked and appalled that memories of the Quan are not crystal clear in your mind.
 
The Quan did not happen because we were bad kids.  The Quan happened because we were not allowed to have sugar.  I think that is the thing that is so shocking now… that MOM (our mother’s full name) would not let us have sugar.
 
The Quan could only happen when the stars were aligned just right.  By which I mean (of course) that it was Sunday and Mom went grocery shopping without us.  We never would have dared with Mom home.  I believe that if it was announced she was going without us, we had some sort of secret signal… a look… we just knew.  We had preparations to make:  finish our chores and then we would each go to our secret stashes of change and cram everything we could into our pockets.  Then we would make sweeps of the house looking for unclaimed change in corners and on counters, maybe under the couch. 
 
By the time Mom had her keys in her hand, we were ready.  Her car was barely out of the driveway before we told Pop we were going out to play and were out the door.  We would walk to the corner, doing our best to appear casual.  We probably thought we were sauntering with secret agent slickness, but I’m sure we were quite obviously up to something.  By the time we hit the corner of Golden and 20th, we’d look both ways and race off.  You pulling ahead of me on your scooter, me pounding my little pink moccasined feet against the pavement as fast as they would go.  We’d fly to the Quan, our hearts pounding and so excited we were barely breathing.  And I was not much bigger than Mia.
 
I can still see the candy display on the counter.  I remember the selection.  We’d get the big stuff first… the quarter candies:  boxes of lemonheads, red hots, jawbreakers, and the occasional box of boston baked beans.  No grapeheads.  Never grapeheads.  We neglected the chocolate because it was too expensive and we were bargain shoppers.  If we were feeling spendy, we would each spring for a 45cent jolly rancher stick.  Then we’d throw in some packs of hot dog gum and a few envelopes of cinnamon toothpics.  Whatever money was left would be traded for as many bazooka joe’s as we could afford.
 
Quan counter guy would sweep our candy into a plain paper bag, which you would then roll up and hide under your shirt.  We would race back home as fast as we could and then hole ourselves up in your room.  The candy would be dumped out on the bed and divided… some of it to be gorged on immediately (only what we could finish before Mom got home) and the rest would be horded away, hopefully to last until the next clandestine Quan trip.                                                                                                                           
This was probably the only time not involving action figures that  I was allowed in your room without being beat up.

Writer Dad and KittyTown

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The Quan

September 24, 2008 By 90 Comments

Before we start, I’d like to turn everyone’s attention to Blogger Dad.  His weekly eight questions is eighteen this week because his subject cannot ever stop talking.  Though to be fair, I answered only what was asked.  If you read it, and enjoy it, please consider a Stumble.  It could help two bloggers with one click.

Note to Writer Dad: Please do not assume your readers know the minutia of your everyday life, or expect them to read every post. Such behavior is arrogant. At the very least, provide a link to you’re previous discussion. Omission of such a simple blogging regularity is thoughtless. The writing, it’s okay. The blogging needs work. Please fix.

I’m on it, and sorry about yesterday.  

A habit is something you can do without thinking – which is why most of us have so many of them. 

~Frank A. Clark

 

Last week, my sister sent me an email.  

You should write about the Quan.

I should write about the Quan.

What’s the Quan?

The Quan was an everyday ghetto liquor store, located approximately four blocks from the house where I grew up. 

My sister was brief.  Here’s what she meant:

You should write about how when we were little, we used to sneak to the Quan to buy candy, then hide it so Mom wouldn’t find out.

If KittyTown doesn’t answer my email by the time I publish, then I’m saying we started embarking on these adventures around the time I was eight and she was six or seven.

We never would have designed such a plan ourselves.  Our original minister of mayhem was our half sister.  She lived in Arkansas, but came to live with us nearly every Summer.  

Our sister was two years, and an entirely different life, older than us.  She had tattoos before I had braces, and if it hadn’t been for Stephen King, she probably would have been responsible for my first exposure to the really filthy words.

One Summer, she crafted a plan of elegant genius.  

We’d run to the Quan (it was practically next door), buy what we wanted (candy is cheap), and slip back home without being missed (Pop’s watching a baseball game and is going nowhere).

We lived on a quiet street, populated mostly by couples either at starting gate or finish line, providing us with precisely no on to play with.  Surrounding our street were scattered patches of danger.  

Each block from our house to the Quan grew progressively worse, until arriving on the corner of We Shouldn’t Have Done and What Were We Thinking?

At season’s end, big sis flew East.  Our taste for illicit freedom went nowhere.

My sister and I began to frequent the Quan.

I loved those adventures, but they’re only prelude to my message.

Years passed.  

I continued to visit the Quan.  Except the Quan was now my girlfriend’s house, at the other end of town, in what was widely regarded as the worst neighborhood in our city, and I needed two bus transfers to get there.

Like the Quan, I disregarded danger to own an opportunity.

I was never murdered, but I did get caught.

Twice.

Our habits are there until we exorcise them. 

We’re all responsible for our own behavior.  No excuses.  We should work to recognize our most negative patterns, then quell them.

Otherwise, we’re just spinning without launch.

My sister did respond, almost immediately (I love email).  Her words were funny.  Good memories.  

Partly because I’m lazy, and partly because I loved her email, tomorrow is Writer Dad’s first guest post.  

Don’t get excited.  Honestly, it’s just a copy and paste.  

Tomorrow: KittyTown’s taking on the Quan.

Writer Dad

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Kitty Town, Where Everyone is Awesome.

September 18, 2008 By 85 Comments

A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.

~Marion C. Garretty

I love the ownership of a blog.

I imagine if I worked for a newspaper, I wouldn’t get to choose my topics with such feral abandon each evening.

I’d have a salary, sure, but I probably couldn’t get away with throwing down five-hundred words to wish my sister a happy birthday. 

Which is exactly what I’m about to do.

My sister’s awesome!

You can count the number of exclamation points I’ve used since this site started.  Overuse punctuation, its worth diminishes.

My sister’s awesome!!!

  • I’m intimidated by few.  My sister’s one.  We get along great, but she’s wicked smart and, like any good sibling, will call me on anything at any time.  Good for her.  Everyone needs someone like that in their life; someone who has known us since always, and has always been a peer.
  • Her wit’s sharper than a Samurai’s sword, and she can make me laugh from the depths of my belly, causing my body to constrict or release.  Her humor’s born from brilliant observation, but that’s like saying a dinosaur comes from an egg.
  • She’s proud, but has no intention of using her degree from Berkley.  Wielding the right side of her brain, we worked side by side in our family’s flower shop, where we grew up as occasional indentured servants (that’s not me being clever; our mom used to make us twist dried flowers on to wired head wreaths.  When our fingers were raw, we got a quarter).  For several years we worked together designing wedding flowers.  I booked the weddings.  She did an amazing job on 90% of the flowers, and took 10% of the credit.  Check out these pictures, they’re all her.  She’s also designed a line of greeting cards.  They’re as perfectly cool as she.  Have a look see.
  • She’s a writer.  If I can do this, so can she.  She had a writing teacher in her first, maybe second year of college.  He told her she was the best writing student he ever saw.  She sometimes shows up in the comments as KittyTown.  If you see her down there, and I have a feeling you might today, tell her to start a blog.  Tell her it’ll be great, and tell her you’ll visit her once she opens her doors.

Before I go, here are a few things I’d like to publicly apologize for.  I’ll do a full list next year.

  1. Using the commercial breaks of the Hulk to make myself Hulk and you smash.
  2. For every teacher I ever had before you.
  3. For the million and one times you bore the burden of my being your brother.

Happy Birthday, KittyTown.  I love you,

Writer Bro

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Wiped Out and Ready For More

September 2, 2008 By 62 Comments

The time will come when winter will ask you what you were doing all summer.

~Henry Clay

I’m so tired.

There’s nothing so exhausting as a good vacation.

We took a four day weekend; our first four days off in a row since last Christmas.  We scheduled ourselves a long Memorial Day, but had a last minute houseguest.  Our visitor was low maintenance, but even an easy houseguest during an anticipated vacation is like getting to the front of the bathroom line, then holding it.

I knew I was tired, but I thought it was like Rhode Island fatigue… or maybe Maryland.

Not Texas.

It’s been difficult lately, shutting my mind off.  My body is exhausted and begging for rest, but my brain just keeps on bouncing, belligerent.  I employ a multitude of methods, but every tactic is only an umbrella in a brainstorm.

I start to count backward from a hundred, but before my tally nicks ninety, I find myself pondering my yesterdays and tomorrows.

This has been routine:

Frenzy through the day until my body is no longer willing, and then lie helpless as my mind is mocking me with a million memories and estimations.

“Honey,” Daisy’s been repeating, “You need to come up for air.”

Of course she’s right.

Starting Friday, and moving all the way to Monday, I slept.

Sleeping in + afternoon naps + going to bed early

x four days

= I’m still tired

But I’m no longer exhausted, and I had the most relaxing vacation I’ve ever had without passing city limits.

The weekend was sprinkled with small indulgences; the kind that are rarely around when we’re trying to pull the best from our children, but abundant just before our family seasons are about to change.

Daisy and I ambled through long, lingering conversations; unbuttoned words born from rest rather than the ashes of fatigue.

Horizons were mapped and conclusions agreed on.

I’m still tired, but with an eager mind and undaunted soul.  After four days of relative serenity, I know exactly what I want from the last third of this year (and it isn’t just to get better sleep).

Writer Dad

If you enjoyed my words, please subscribe.  I’ll be back again tomorrow.

If you liked this post, you’ll probably love, “Sink or Swim,” “Torturing Tranquility Like a Treasonous Prisoner,” or “Leaving Our Shell Behind.”

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A Breath of Fresh Air

August 28, 2008 By 77 Comments

Everywhere is walking distance if you have the time. 

~Steven Wright

I had to gas up yesterday.

It made me sad.

No, not because of that, though I did pay with a fifty, and couldn’t tip the tank of the Toyota.

Back in early June, Daisy and I made a bet (with ourselves).

Mia’s Immersion program is on the other side of town, as is Max’s pre-school, so our schedule requires us to burn a bit of fuel.

With only two weeks left of schlepping, we decided to see if we could go the summer without gassing up a single time.

Well we certainly tried, and we almost made it.

We left the house nearly every day, but Max can count the number of times we got in the car.

From a variety of reasons, here are five:

  • Gas is ridiculous.  Last May, our gas budget swallowed our entertainment budget.  That’s like buying a ticket to wait outside.  
  • Mia’s program is amazing, and free, so it’s easy to consider transportation cost as cheap tuition.  That logic loses wings in summer.
  • Because we can.  All eight of our legs are in perfect working order, and we live downtown in a quietly large city.  We prefer to get all our laziness done on Sunday.  There isn’t any reason we can’t walk to 90% of the places we need to go.  Grocery store, library, movie theater, book store, ice-cream, Walmart (yeah, yeah, boo, hiss).
  • Miles are like dollars; sometimes they should be felt.  Just like using a credit card dulls the concept of money, getting inside a vehicle to travel further than three blocks, distorts the space between A and B.  We rarely use credit cards, and often walk.  We want our children to feel the distance, and understand it in terms beyond the number of traffic lights.
  • You see things through a different lens.  Life’s different, blurring by at thirty-five miles an hour.  In a car you’re a tourist.  On the street, a citizen.  Seated, I could never see the steam ascending a coffee cup as it loses it’s thick to clear air, sailing from the lips of a quiet man who looks too old in his solitude.  I would miss shadows wrinkling as the electric train idles in front of city hall and pedestrians in suits, both cheap and expensive, show displeasure at having to wait. 

Our children also see these things.  I know because we discuss them.

The walking is wonderful.  

We hold hands, and look both ways.

We ask questions, and wait for answers.

We anticipate our arrival, and feel reward when it happens.

I’m glad we did it.  It made me wonder why we need two cars.  We travel in a tribe, and the rare use of both at the same time melts a necessity into a luxury.

Maybe eight dollars of gas wouldn’t be the end of the world.  Maybe it’d be some kind of new beginning.

Writer Dad

If you enjoyed my words, please subscribe.  I promise I’ll be back tomorrow.

Barbara Swafford was kind enough to select Writer Dad as the New Blog of the Month. I feel really lucky. Check out the wonderful things she has to say.  Also, Writer Dad has a guest post over on City Mama today. The theme is the Eighties. If you have a couple of minutes, it’d be awesome if you dropped in.

If you liked these words, you’ll probably love, “Catalina Island,” “Adios,” or “Sink or Swim.“

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