It's a Boy!

I’ve never really dreamed of saying that…”It’s a Boy!” And as the father of three daughters I’m often asked if I wished that we would have tried one more time for a son. And my answer has always been the same…we were never “trying” for anything in particular. In fact, knowing now the precious nature of each of our daughters, had we been trying, I hope that we would have been trying for girls…perhaps we were.

That being said after nearly twenty-five years of fatherhood, and with little effort on my part, it looks as if we may finally begin buying a few boy toys. And Denise and I are indescribably thrilled about that. On September 19, 2009, exactly nine months from today, my male kindred will be delivered in the form of a son-in-law as our eldest daughter Jenna has pledged to wed Matthew Golz in a ceremony in Seattle. I couldn’t be happier for them both, nor more proud as the father of this future bride.

The news came to Denise and me a week ago. And although I remain somewhat guilt ridden, Jenna and Matt claim to laugh as they recall Jenna’s first sharing of engagement news with her parents.

We were at the “after party” following my office’s Christmas dinner when my cell phone rang. Habitually since our daughters were quite young, I’ve kept my cell phone close in the event that they need me. Fathers love that feeling of “needy children”…at least I do. And I hope it’s of some comfort to them to know that their “help line” is open 24/7. But I digress…my cell phone rang. Stepping outside to escape the clatter of the Holiday cheer, I remember the conversation verbatim:

Me: “Hello?”
Jenna: “Hey Dad”.
Me: “JENNA! Hey, what are you up to?”
Jenna: "Oh, I don’t know, what are two you doing?”
Me: "We’re at my office Christmas party and I just stepped outside to answer the phone. "
Jenna: “Is Mom right there?”
Me: "No, she’s inside. What’s up?”
Jenna: “Matt and…”
Santa Claus: “Ho-Ho-Ho. Merry Christmas.”

Me: (No words just dead air on the phone as I instinctively lowered the phone from my ear and tried to register the reality of a Santa Claus approaching up the drive in the cold of the night.)
Jenna: "Dad?'
Santa: "Ho-Ho-HO!'
Me: “Chuck?" (Chuck Olson is my jolly neighbor who's currently dressed in a Santa suit)
Santa: "Ho-Ho-HOOO!"
Me: "Chuck? What are you doing here?"
Jenna: "Dad?"
Santa: "Ho-Ho-HOOO! Merry Christmas!"
Me: "Jenna, Santa’s here...gotta go.” CLICK.
Santa: "Ho-Ho-HOOO!"
Me: "Santa, you should probably go inside."
Santa: "Merry Christmas!"

Yes, I had just unwittingly hung up on my daughter during perhaps the most important phone call of her adult life. Doah!

A few minutes later I again stepped outside and returned Jenna’s call.

Me: “Jenna, sorry about that. What was it you called about?”

The balance of our conversation was predictably joyous and befitting the great news and the holiday season.

A Wing and a Prayer

Sixty-five minutes into our fourteen minute flight, and after several failed attempts at approach in the brightness of snowfall illuminated by landing lights, the crew finally gave in and the plane finally gave trust, climbed and banked steeply. Darkness again fell over the wings and the windows and the passengers as we aborted our landing and ascended into the hollow of the cold winter's night.

Squeezing the PA the attendant acknowledged the existence of a "situation". What a dreadful term to use on a plane. It's filled with so many secrets. He explained that sensors indicated that our left landing gear had failed to deploy. Although it may very well be locked into its proper position, there is no means for confirmation and therefore we must trust the sensors and presume to land without it. And he stated that we were now returning to Chicago where a runway was being prepared for our emergency landing. The last words hung in the air like a silent echo and their lingering presence served to uncloak all secrecy surrounding the now seemingly innocuous term “situation”.

The distance from South Bend, Indiana to Chicago O'Hare would be traversed in under 20 minutes. And except for the cyclical sounds of thrusting and sighing engines burning off fuel, there was nothing currently to witness but the terrible isolation brought upon us by a combination of cold and darkness and silence...and circumstance.

As we approached the lights of the Second City an attendant ushered the forward and aft passengers toward the center section. The structural skeleton of the wing supports, he explained, being the strongest part of the aircraft and thus offering the most protection for its most precious cargo. A woman a few rows ahead moved across the aisle to fill the empty seat beside her teen aged daughter. Another attendant prepared exit row passengers immediately ahead of me for various evacuation scenarios. I thought to myself that this was perhaps the first time in his career where everyone appeared genuinely attentive to his instructions. All of the exits were identified and assigned numbers representing their respective order of egress priority. I reached for my coat and slipped it on. A woman behind me began to sob. The stranger next to her said that he was scared too but it would be ok. The seat to my right remained steadfast and unshaken-empty as it was. Perhaps it was not so empty as my mortal eyes would have had me believe. And I trusted that to be the case.

We descended out of the darkness and back into the brillent reflectance of the snowfall within our light beams. The lights of the city neared and I snugged my belt. The attendant, on PA now, repeatedly barked his orders for position and bracing. Then there were flashes of runway lights. The tail dropped and tipped starboard favoring our trusty right landing gear. Feet flat. Head down. Depressurization. Bracing. Bracing. Deep breath. Impact.

The plane hopped along on its right landing gear until gravity and inertia and friction equalized themselves into steadily rolling wheels. The nose dropped next, and as its wheel touched the plane continued at full speed precariously balanced upon two points. Then cautiously, and yet to brake, the pilot eased the left wing downward, feeling ever so gently for our troubled landing gear as our plane continued to propelled itself ahead on the lengthy runway...nothing.

The showering sparks were magnificent and ferocious as wing met concrete at 200 mph. They silently pierced the Chicago night filling focused eyes and prayerful minds and seized the breath from every living soul within the plane, as well I’m certain as those on the ground watching dutifully from their respective positions of readiness.

Then came the brakes...or "brake" as it were. Our leftward lean was pronounced and braking was slow but steady as we slid to a stop. Straight ahead, right down the middle. We bore the entirety of our burden upon a front wheel, a right landing gear, a left wingtip and many concentrated prayers.

Evacuation was remarkably swift and orderly despite our "situation" and its now steeply side-sloping floor. We assembled as a group in the cold beside one of many emergency vehicles and counted off. All present and accounted. Then we stood and witnessed the rest of the excitement from a glorious vantagepoint surrounded by the awesome sights and sounds of flashing lights and scurrying firemen and the many moving planes on a brightly lit runway seemingly in the center of the World's second busiest airport. Whoa!
The young pilot stood alone in the terminal. I approached and reached out my hand in appreciation. He extended a still trembling hand. "Nice job tonight." I said. "Thanks...I'm still shaking but we're all fine." he stated with a smile, although it sounded more like a question. "Don't let it happen again." I quipped. He smiled again and then a large pink woman hugged him voraciously.

Later I sat in the comfort of a fresh plane with most of the same passengers on our way again to South Bend. I now understood that today's planes are engineered to withstand a landing such as this. Hardly routine but hardly disasterous. The aircraft's structural frame, the skid plates on the wing bottoms, the laterally braced landing gear, the attendants discipline, the pilot's training, the emergency response readiness, and countless other unseen things, resulting from foresight and lessons learned, all work together to ensure safe travel. But still, recounting the earlier events I found it eerily disquieting to realize that amidst all the emergency vehicles at the ready for disaster, we waited 20 minutes on the runway in the cold night for the arrival of a vehicle suitable for the transport of 28 able bodied passengers.

And now as I watched the other passenger's heads bobbing above their seat backs I wondered what would become of us all as we diverge tonight back into our seperate lives. And as I walked off the plane I was pleased that this last flight had proven to be marvelously boring. Wheels up to touch down...fourteen minutes.

Masquerade

“Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome.”
- Isaac Asimov

Every two or three years since Denise and I have been married we’ve held a costume party on the closest Saturday to Halloween. The event is traditionally billed as the “Halloweener” and over the years we’ve had the privilege and pleasure of seeing most of our relatives, friends and co-workers dressed in masquerade to varying degrees of success, complexity and inhibition...or lack thereof.

It's naturaly awkward to invite guests to a party that bears any resemblance to your own birthday. But periodically the Halloweener tradition beckons to us, birthday notwithstanding. This year’s list of invitees was smaller and was primarily comprised of neighbors and a few longstanding friends. And as a result of their elaborate Trick-or-Treat surprise J, M and K were all in attendance.

In years past I've been Zorro, a pirate, a suckled swine, a butler, a western sheriff, a disco dancer, a nerd, a bitchin’ biker and on, and on. This year I thought that I’d symbolize the passage into my fifties by being dead…not “death” but “dead me”. To compliment this ruse, Denise chose to assume the role of my flirty widow. Touching yes…but she was frightfully good at it. Our girls maintained their guise as the three blind mice from their Trick-or-Treat surprise of the previous night.

Traditionally, and predicatably, the men dressed as ballerinas or transvestite hookers seem to garner the bulk of the attention. Although this year’s gossip centered mostly on a friend from my office, whom most did not know, who dressed as a very (fake) pregnant police chief from Fargo. She caught endless glances and caused many whispers as our shocked guests watched in horror as this unknown young expectant mother nursed beer after beer. It was magnificently eye-catching!

What can you say about a host of friends who will go to such pains to be silly in the presence of others? The feeling of masquerade is a rarity among adults indeed. Everyone is equally out of their element and seems to enjoy the freedom. It’s oddly thrilling....like being ten again.

To celebrate annually would seem a bit much but three times a decade has proven to be a most tolerable frequency. And much like all the others, Halloweener IX was spectacularly enjoyable. Click here for a few pictures of this and other Halloweeners and Costume Parties.

Trick-or-Treat

“The happiest moments of my life have been the few which I have passed at home in the bosom of my family.”

-Thomas Jefferson

Yesterday was my birthday and there’s little doubt that I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.

A Halloween birthday offers one the luxury of remembrance. And I remember many birthdays. As a child my birthdays were often characterized by the costumes I wore and the treats gained. My parents would usually allow friends to gather at our home still in costume. We would sit in a circle on the floor in our capes or sheets or uniforms and inventory our loot. Then, as if grocery sacks full of candy were not enough fuel, my Mother would deliver us ice cream and cake. Oftentimes she would then ratchet up the excitement with some sort of energy releasing game. Silly by today's standards I'm sure, but pin the tail on the donkey was always popular when I was young. Image six or eight boys already buzzing from the excitement of costume, candy, cake, ice cream and the ceaseless running, bouncing and noisemaking. Then blindfold them and spin them around and around just to mess with their senses a bit - not to mention their digestion. Although integral elements in the game, the tail and the donkey were of little consequence to our fun-having experience. These childhood memories are priceless. If only I were still friends with one or two of these boys.

As time passed, pin the tail became bob for apples, became hide and seek, became roam with friends, became beer in the dorm, became kegs in the apartment and periodic costume parties. And this steady progression of birthday festivities went on for twenty-five years. Then at twenty-six my birthday suddenly changed. Now I had my own children to decorate for the hunting and gathering of treats. Times had changed though and our young children were escorted along their routes. I always loved this. I loved watching my kids brimming with pride in their costume as they approached a door, expressed the obligatory “trick-or-treat” and eagerly awaited their new found bounty. Hearing a genuine “thank-you” was always a bonus to me and seldom would I find need to remind them. I would however always remind them of their obligations as "taxpayers”. This "daddy-tax" usually netted me the less precious spoils like small packs of M&M’s or an apple or a McDonald’s gift certificate. Never, or at least not until later years, would I get the prized Reese’s or Butterfinger’s or any of the full-sized candy bars. But still, taxed they were and I was satisfied.

Then, as our children grew older, Halloween became for them a time to be with friends. And Halloween became for me a time to remain at home alone with Denise and greet the neighborhood children. The doorbell rings and we marvel at their costumes and they present their open sacks for the filling on the porch of our house. And at the end of their night our children would always return home, ring the doorbell and trick-or-treat me. And this late evening tradition of homecoming children has become for me another fond birthday memory.

This year marked my fiftieth Halloween and I had grayed my hair to mark this occasion of wisdom at the office, lest anyone remain uncertain of this. And this fiftieth Halloween was the first where all of our children were away. J is in Seattle, Washington, M is in South Bend, Indiana and K is in Ames, Iowa. Each ring of the doorbell brought memories of the past and thoughts of the distance from our children. And each "trick-or-treat" reminded me of how much I love them and how much I miss them. But I tried to keep busy and purposely avoided the door. Denise stayed close though and assumed all of our treat distribution duties.

As time became late the porch became still. Denise found herself busy with something upstairs I found myself in the silence of our empty house. And suddenly I was alone on my birthday for the first time in my life.

The doorbell pierced the quiet and startled me. It was late and I arose and approached the door for the first time on this Halloween. I grabbed the remaining candy bars and opened the door to greet these last few treat seekers. They were blind mice - three of them. And they cried out in unison a most exhilarating “Trick-or-Treat!” Curious…I know these three. But no, it can’t be. They’re all away. They’re all too far away. And yet here they are. “Trick-or-Treat…TRICK-OR-TREAT!!” Stunned I just stood there in the doorway counting. One, two, three…yes all three right here, right now. Then finally came “Happy Birthday Dad!!!”

Many months of conspiring had brought these three blind mice on a migratory journey homeward. And ironically, I was the one blinded. They converged in secrecy from three different time zones upon the airport in Omaha. Then they changed into costume as their car sped for their childhood home where they would spring their surprise on their oblivious father on his fiftieth birthday. And with this wonderful surprise our daughters had managed to maintain their late evening Halloween homecoming tradition for one more year.

For me, this Halloween ended spectacularly. I love these girls! And after fifty Halloween’s this was undoubtedly for me the best of many happy birthday memories.

Awakening

“Then both (the rebellious younger son and the resentful older) sons in me can be generally transformed into the compassionate father. This transformation leads me to the fulfillment of the deepest desire of my restless heart. Because what greater joy can there be for me than to stretch out my tired arms and let my hands rest in a blessing on the shoulders of my home-coming children?”
-Henri J. M. Nouwen; The Return of the Prodigal Son

I awoke early following a thoroughly restful sleep. And I awoke with the memory that I had dreamt of travel - at least it seemed like travel. There were mountains and trees and rocks and seas and sand and surf and a great expanse of wide open golden autumn prairie. Denise was there with me as were J, M and K. My parents and grandparents and their parents were with us too. And yet, with all this variance of geography and in the presence of all these people, we were always here at our home. I awoke without thought of more travel but with the contentment of being home...grounded. And I awoke also without conscious thought of its arrival.

Later, I stood looking eastward from the crest of a hill just north of my Nebraska home with the valley of the Missouri River laid out before me. This is a tranquil place beneath oak and pine, with constant breeze and a grand sweeping view of the valley below.

The Missouri River Valley traces the journey of the Missouri River from its beginnings as the Madison, Jefferson and Gillatin Rivers converge in Montana to its confluence with the Mississippi River in Missouri. At 2,300 miles (3,700 km) long this valley drains one-sixth of the United States, and is the longest river valley on the North American continent.

Here, on this east-facing hillside, there is nothing to impede the approach of an endless series of sunrises. Mornings arrive as a trumpeter to time eternal upon this peaceful home to lives gone by. And on this day I was drawn to this place. For it is here that my family entrusted the earthly remains of my Mother after her death on September 17, 2001. That was a day and a time from which a part of me can never return. And it was fitting that it arrived on this day and in this place. A half-century prior to this very moment, I entered this world within ten miles of this place. And today “fifty” has arrived and it has found me here.

I find it fascinating how one thing affects another. Not like the rain affects the watershed which in turn affects the flow and convergence of rivers. That connectivity implies a certain predetermined outcome. I think that life is more “fluid” than water in rivers. Life refuses the encumbrance of banks and contours and gravity. I have never before really thought much about this but I am astonished at the pervasive nature of past decisions upon our current and future being. And I stand here today in testament to a pivotal day fifty years ago when my mother would decide my fate, and ultimately that of my wife and children as well.

Four months prior to delivery, her ominous breaking of water appeared to doom her unborn son. Acting against the advice of physicians she listened instead to a Catholic nurse and to her heart. She would reject the presented notions of “complication” and “probability” and she would instead choose life. She understood, and resolved to assume, the awful risks and rewards of that lonely choice of life long before “choice” and “life” came to define opposing viewpoints.

And since then, my life has been wondrous…at least to me. And, as I’ve often heard “older” people say, it’s passed by in a blink. Never before had I thought to sum up my life as a series of key moments. Try this for yourself. At first thought, there seem to be only a scarce few really pivotal moments that define, or alter the course of, your life. But once considered there are countless causes for influence. And they are not all big, and they are not all yours. One change here, one seemingly small decision there, another choice, another turn, another event…the list seems to grow and expand upon itself like the universe. And everything works together symphoniously to deliver you and those around you to here and to now. It’s remarkable and marvelous. What a blink it’s been!

Thinking back to my dream, I realize that perhaps it was the literal impression of my life. And as I considered this possibility, I realized something more. My entire life has been about childhood…first my own, and later my children's. And today, as fifty settles into my psyche, I suspect that I am now ready to embark upon adulthood.

Thanks Mom – I love you.

Drinking In the Wallas

Denise and I have just returned from a wonderful week in Washington State with J and MG. We arrived on 17 September, the Irish Equinox. After a couple of days knocking around Redmond and Seattle our plans called for a road trip southeast through the Cascades toward the Columbia River Valley. Our destination was the wine country of Walla Walla.

Rumor has it that Seattle occasionally experiences gray and damp dreary weather. Can this be true? My first visit to the “City of Rain” was 2-1/2 years ago when I moved J to the City following her graduation from ISU. Since then Denise and I have visited J six or seven times and have witnessed the phenomenon of atmospheric condensation only once…on our way to the airport. Typically, we have enjoyed variations of 70’s and sunny and gorgeous! Moisture of every kind - rain, drizzle, sprinkles, mist, even humidity - has generally respected our presence in the Great Northwest and awaited our departure to settle in with its dreariness. And we’ve always thanked MG and J for this. They’ve performed admirably at keeping all aspects of our visits under tight control and thoroughly enjoyable.

Imagine our surprise as we awoke on our third day to a steady Seattle misting. Perhaps this was a common occurrence in September, but not on my watch. The mist, not quite a drizzle just hung in the air, not really falling, not really accumulating. It just "was". And to me the morning misting was nothing short of spectacular. But alas this day of weather, only the second that we have ever encountered here, would be left behind as we made final preparations to depart for our road trip.

We headed southeast from Redmond (A) through Issaquah and Snoqualmie and onto I-90 through the Snoqualmie Pass (B). Snoqualmie Pass traverses the Cascade Range at a maximum elevation of 3,022 feet and is the largest east-west mountain route across Washington State. On this day we traveled through a steady battery of fog and drizzle as our vehicle approached and climbed the Cascades. Near the summit of the pass however, we whisked through a virtual wall of weather and escaped into a clear blueness of sky, brilliance of sunshine and dryness of land. This instantaneous change was a striking climatic phenomenon that stood in stark contrast to the weather held at bay by the rising terrain of the Cascade Range.

We proceeded through Ellensburg, Yakima and Zillah and after three hours we had traveled 190 miles to Prosser, Washington (C). We paused our journey for fuel and a long awaited release of spent Starbucks. Not so coincidentally, we found ourselves just down the street from three wineries. 11:00 a.m. and the tasting room is open. Halleluiah!

Prosser is located in Washington’s first appellation, the Yakima Valley. It’s located in the south central portion of Washington State, approximately equidistant from Seattle, Portland, and Spokane. It sits on the same parallel as the famous Bordeaux region of France.

The vines at Airfield Estates date back to 1968. Today, they grow 26 different wine grape varietals. All of their vineyards are within 3 miles of a former WWII airbase. They served six wines in their tasting and being their only “customers” we also enjoyed the luxury of a short tour of their facilities. Naturally we purchased several souvenirs.

We offered equal opportunity to each of three vineyards…Airfield Estates, Olsen Estates and Willow Crest Winery…mmmBoy! Unfortunately, we failed to frequent the remaining twenty-one wineries that reside within a 4-mile radius of our location including Columbia Crest, Hogue Cellars, Kestrel Vintners and Masquerade Wine Company…Next time.

Within two hours we were back in the car and slightly abuzz. We continued eastward paralleling the Columbia River and the Oregon border. We traveled 80 miles in a little over an hour and arrived safely to our destination.

But wait! Lest you misunderstand my intentions, I’d like to stop for a moment and quell any silly notions that there is some sort of double entendre here with the title ”Drinking in the Wallas”. Despite our enjoyment of these winemaker’s wares and our pure satisfaction with the refreshing nature of their products, you must remember that "Drinking in the Wallas" is all about the scenery!

Let’s break it down this way…

drink·ing [dring-king]
-noun, habitual and excessive consumption of alcohol: His drinking caused him to lose his job.
…I know what you’re thinking but that’s not what I meant.

-adjective, The practice of partaking to excess of intoxicating liquors
. Addicted to or indulging excessively in alcohol: Is he a drinking man?
…Well, maybe but not technically “addicted”.

-verb (used without object), to show one's respect, affection, or hopes with regard to a person, thing, or event by ceremoniously taking a swallow of wine or some other drink (often followed by to): They’re drinking to his victory.
…Hmmm, a nice concept but it didn’t happen to me.

-verb (used with object), to take in through the senses with eagerness and pleasure (often followed by in): They’re drinking in the beauty of the place.
…That’s more like it. Perfect. Now for the Wallas.

Wal·las [wol-uhs]
- interj., In its singular form, often confused with the snobbish French term “voilà!” used to call attention to or express satisfaction with a thing shown or accomplished: Mix the ingredients, chill, and - voilà! - a light, tasty dessert.
…Although phonetically accurate and a perfect analogy to the products of the region, I’m talking about a place.

-pl. noun, of or pertaining to multiple Walla (often followed by another Walla): There are many fine wine tasting opportunities in Walla Walla; a town in southeastern Washington near the Oregon border touted as “the next Napa”.
…Excellent.

Now put them both together. Voi·là! Dinking in the Wallas simply means that we like being here and enjoy taking in all that these hills and valleys have to offer…scenery wise. And if necessary we’re willing to tolerate a bit of the vino to fill our otherwise idle time and stay here longer.

So, back to our story…

Walla Walla was incorporated in 1862 during a gold rush. Within ten years it was the largest community in the territory of Washington and was at one time slated to become the new state’s capital. Walla Walla is a Native American term meaning “Land of many waters” though proud residents brag that it’s “the town so nice, they named it twice”.

Up at the crack of dawn we enjoyed a hearty breakfast of chardonnay, merlot, cabernet and syrah. I think we also had some light wafers. We took in the natural beauty of the following wineries (listed alphabetically) on our second and third days…

a’Maurice Cellars, Ash Hollow, Basel Cellars Estate Winery, Beresan, Bookwalter Winery, Chateau Rollat Winery, Cougar Crest Winery, Dunham Cellars, Gifford Hirlinger, L’Ecole No. 41, Morrison Lane, Reininger, Three Rivers Winery, Trust Cellars, Va Piano Vineyards, Walla Walla Village Winery, Waterbrook Winery and Waters Winery.

This list was compiled by memory and rumor has it that we actually visited a few more. It just got a bit fuzzy there toward the end of the second day. My personal favorites were Airfield Estates (in Prosser and referenced above), Gifford Hirlinger and Waters Winery.

Mike Berghan is the winemaker for Gifford Hirlinger. He's pictured above with Denise and I. This is a small estate winery, meaning they grow their own grapes, owned and operated by the Bergham family. Gifford and Hirlinger were the last names of relatives on the paternal and maternal sides respectively that crossed the Country on covered wagons to settle in Walla Walla. The winery was established in 2001 on ten acres just on the Washington side of the state line. Their beautiful estate, wonderful winery building and tasting room and two charmingly friendly border collies named Charlie and Chewy make for a memorable visit. Their excellent wine is a bonus. They poured each of their three wines for tasting. We bought one of each.

Waters Winery is a small boutique winery established in 2005 by its Founder Jason Huntley and Winemaker Jamie Brown. They maintain that their winemaking approach is influenced by their “preference for distinct, old world wines that express the time and place of their origin”.

The approach to Walters Winery offers a spectacular view of the valley. And their winery building and tasting room is grande. Its tall wood and glass doors expand outward to covered patios with views of the surrounding rural farms and mountain landscapes…breathtaking!

The winery dog at Waters, a glorious black lab, was as aptly named for the dog as for the place as for the wine…Beauty. And again, the wine was a bonus. They were pouring seven wines for tasting. We bought five bottles!Inspired by the periodic table of elements, Waters Winery has collaborated with Gramercy Cellars to produce “Wines of Substance”. This is an economical brand selling for under $20 that is remarkably good. This brand won the best label design in 2007.

And when we were though, we ventured homeward with inner warmth born of the earth and the vine and the skillful hands and minds of many vintners. Safely stowed in the trunk of the car was the burden of several cases of “souvenirs”. This was indeed an enjoyable road trip. And I eagerly await our next opportunity to drink in the splendor of the Wallas.

Irish Equinox

Everyone should dream up a holiday and celebrate it annually. Since September 17, 2002, mine has been the Irish Equinox. My (semi-fictitious) historical premise it this…

The Irish Equinox is that famed moment on the Celtic calendar where modern man stands in the balance precisely equidistant between the sunsets of two concurrent St. Patrick’s Days. And all whose lips taste the extra-cold creamy surge and settle goodness of Guinness (or Harp Lager for a slightly lesser experience of fulfillment) precisely at sundown, will enjoy the good fortune of St. Patrick himself (except for the enslaved by Irish Raiders bit) until the next coming of this celestial holiday.

The word equinox derives from the Latin words aequus (equal) and nox (night). The word Irish derives from the Irish word Irish (Irish). More technically, according to Wikipedia, “At an equinox, the Sun is at one of two opposite points on the celestial sphere where the celestial equator (i.e., declination 0) and ecliptic intersect. These points of intersection are called equinoctial points - the vernal point and the autumnal point. By extension, the term equinox may be used to denote an equinoctial point.” By my calculations, accounting for age, body mass and past experience, my “equinoctial point” on this day is usually somewhere south of four pints!

This year I celebrated with Denise, J and MG at the Wilde Rover Irish Pub in Kirkland, Washington. Kirkland is a suburb of Seattle with a population approaching 50,000. Sunset descended upon us at 19:18 Pacific Time and was promptly met with the sound of pint against pint and a hearty Cheers! Another year of luck assured.

I have recently realized that some pubs celebrate this very day as their "six-months to St. Patrick's Day" celebration. This is good as you would be well advised not to screw around with future luck. So mark your calendars for next September's Irish Equinox and prepare to join me and any other luck-seeking blokes, for a pint of Irish luck in the pub of your choosing. We'll hoist “cheers to your health and that of your mother” at precisely sundown (local time).

Beloved Boo!

"Sometimes we simply have to believe."
-Enzo Swift

It was October 1997 when Dover B Riley Boo! entered our lives as a fabulously unexpected surprise to our children. They were 13, 10 and 7. Lexi, our first dog, was almost 4 and Dover would prove to be a wonderful and worthy companion to all.

Both of our dogs are female American Eskimos. The traits of this breed (by my own personal observation) are snuggly yet protective, loyal yet independent, proud yet obedient, and remarkably clean, intelligent and hairy. We love these dogs!

Dover B Riley Boo! was named, as was our first dog Lexi Mae Bailey Bud, by grand family compromise. Initially K, our youngest, clung stubbornly to the name “Darlene” but soon softened. After a week or so with no feasible agreement in sight, I began to use the universally rejected “Darlene” name as incentive to achieve a viable compromise. That strategy proved quite effective as the name Dover B Riley Boo! quickly surfaced and sailed through the family arbitration process. At the insistence of our children, the “Boo!” was included as a reflection of the fall season as well as a declaration of their surprise at the sudden arrival of a second dog.

The naming of dogs is an interesting process. It is so permanent and so personal. And I suppose that everyone has their own reliable dog naming “system”. Mine is simple. First, imagine yourself standing on the front porch of your house in your underwear with a need to get your dog’s attention. Then, under these most precarious conditions, shouting your dog’s name either melts away your last remaining shreads of dignity or it doesn't. I think everything becomes either black or white when you're shouting on your front porch in your underwear. There's not alot of room for graytones. After all, it’s your porch, your dog, your voice, your underwear and your neighbors who bear witness. So, this name you've chosen either works or it doesn’t. DOVER!! works. DARLENE!! doesn't. LEX!! works. TRIXY!! doesn’t. See? It’s simple.

The use of real names versus short names or nicknames is another matter. This is purely a function of affection, urgency and efficiency. “Dover-B” and “Lexi Mae” were very popular with our kids. “Bud” and Boo!” were less popular but still frequently used. Sometimes I’d use “LEXIMAE!!” or “DOVERTHEDOG!!" if I was really intent on attention getting. Those always worked for me. My personal favorite though was always “TWO-DOGS!!!!" That seemed to get right to the point. It also fit my “underwear scenario” nicely and I enjoyed the increased efficiency over the repetition of individual name calling.

In stark contrast to Lexi’s purple-ribbon show dog genealogy, Dover’s pure-bred roots were that of a farm family. She was born on a small farm south of Missouri Valley, Iowa. Eleven years in the city limits of Omaha has never really diminished her natural desire to lay in the grass or the snow or the sun or the rain and scour the horizon of our property for intruders. She loves chasing rabbits and once trapped an opossum on our deck railing. But her favored nemesis' are the squirrels. She can tree a squirrel and sit for hours in the shade below looking upward as an angry squirrel returns the gaze in disgust and scolds her…chik-chik-chik!!! To Dover, a bad day of squirrel treeing beats the best day of ball chasing, pole sniffing and house sleeping.

And Dover's propensity for the outdoors leads her naturally to her favorite indoor spot at the front windows, looking out in wonder at the nature and activity beyond the glass. And her reaction to visitors gives the impression of being fiercely protective of our family and home. Upon the arrival of guests, she will often stand off in the living room and bark and "complain" despite our admonishments. To differentiate her from Lexi, our guests often refer to Dover as “the mean one”. Although utterly inaccurate, this pseudonym is almost universally deduced with the notable exception of our trusted HVAC man, a good friend, who Lexi leapt up and nipped in the crotch once. Lexi has since been “the mean one” to him. But after a short warming up period, Dover graciously accepts guests as she does our children. She is indeed the most snuggly of dogs and will tolerate any discomfort for another minute of lap lying. She loves to be held close.

Two weeks ago Dover began to pant in her sleep. Last week we noticed a prolonged hesitancy during her “yard breaks” and difficulty climbing stairs. She immediately underwent blood testing and x-rays which revealed a growth on one kidney. Yesterday, fifteen days prior to her eleventh birthday and fifteen days after we ushered the last of our three daughters off to college, Dover underwent exploritory surgery for potential kidney removal which revealed a pervasive malignancy agressively attacking virtually every organ. She never regained consciousness. We miss her terribly.

What is it about a dog that so deeply touches the human psyche? They seem to have such a keen awareness of their surroundings and of their “Master’s” emotions. They know when we are coming and going or when we're happy or sad. They sense anguish and attempt, in their own way, to comfort it. Their propensity toward obedience and their resolute loyalty are stunning to behold. And these wonderful qualities never change or diminish over time or through circumstance. But the trait of dogs that cuts me the deepest, especially today, is their unfaltering trust in their “Master”. It’s a steadfast trust without need for proof or further resolve. It’s a trust that allows them to happily shadow your life without judgment or question.

And despite my knowledge that advanced warning and alternative options were unatainable to us, the fact remains that yesterday, blind trust in me would calmly and quietly lead my beloved Dover into a room without doors. My parting image as I turned to leave her for surgery, and forever seared into my memory like a wicked brand, is of two faithful black eyes looking up at me, searching, searching, searching and finally finding…more trust. How is it that yesterday’s trust can today feel so much betrayed? I hate that. Perhaps time forgives or forgets.

Some time ago I bought Garth Stein’s novel The Art of Racing in the Rain. I finished it two weeks ago, just prior to Dover’s turn of health. This is a charming, yet heart-wrenching story about the triumphant life of an aged dog named Enzo Swift and his family in Seattle. The story is narrated by Enzo in the waning hours before his death. Enzo believes that in the end he will return to another life as a man. This is a “life’s lessons” book that can teach everyone through Enzo’s observations and notable quotes. And if you love a dog, especially an older one, this is a must read. I bought this in part to begin to prepare myself for the inevitable declining health of Lexi. Little did I know that we would suffer the sudden unforseen loss of Dover, four years younger, just days after reading it. I suppose that it helps at times to think of Enzo’s prophetic words. And I like to imagine Dover dashing effortlessly through endless fields of soft cool grass under the brillient blue skies of her new home. And somewhere, I'm certain a squirrel is climbing.

Note to Self...

Dear Friends,

Tomorrow you will awake alone in your home for the first time in twenty-four years. And as you prepare for your day you will notice a feeling that is initially unidentifiable. Things will just feel different, you feel different. Instinctively you’ll think of your children, all in their places. Seattle? check. South Bend? check, Home?…scratch that, your baby has just been delivered to Ames..first day of college classes…check? Your natural reflex will be to greet this recalled fact with a reluctance to accept that everything has changed. But has it?

You can't avoid change, and you can't avoid good-byes. Likewise, you can't avoid a bit of reluctance in their eventual coming. Sending a child away to college or to a permanent job and home far away can be devastating if you mistakenly view it with regret. Leaving fond times and places behind for new ones can be bittersweet. This feeling is natural...but should not be consuming. Accept this change for what it is - and for what it is not. Change it is, but it is not the end of anything really. More accurately, it's the beginning.

Remember, you have prepared you children for these lives of theirs. You’ve groomed them for this. Your collective goal has always been to be where you (and they) are today. And today they are well on their way to being the independent, intelligent, thoughtful, loving, respectful adults that you’ve tried so hard to raise. Is there anything for which you would trade this feeling of satisfaction? All of your past desires, for you and for your children, are being fulfilled and yet there is still a natural longing for time gone by...for memories.

Your experiences over these past many years, as a parent to children at home, has fostered a treasure of wonderful and timeless memories that cannot be erased by time or distance or change. These will endure a lifetime. And not just yours, but all of your children’s and their children’s collective lifetimes. You are all forever bound even without being forever together.

You are experiencing a moment of parental triumph. After all, your quiet home is really a reflection of satisfaction…a job well done. And those feelings that you struggle to identify are feelings of happiness. Not perhaps in a literal sense but more of an acceptance…a solace.

My best advice is simply... get used to this feeling of triumph...embrace it. Life is full of the memories of the past, the apprehension of the future and the satisfaction of dealing with it all. And don’t forget that “M&D” has never just been “Mom and Dad”. It began as “Mike & Denise” thirty years ago, before J, M & K and there it has returned…strong as ever and then some.

Remember all of this my friends, and you’ll realize that your “nest” is far from empty.

Love,
-M&D

P.S…Call your parents.

So Moved

"Don’t you hear it? She asked & I shook my head no & then she started to dance & suddenly there was music everywhere & it went on for a very long time & when I finally found words all I could say was thank you."
-Brian Andreas

Its arrival, unassuming and simple as it was, foretold a monumental impression upon my spirit that I wouldn’t realize for weeks. And it wasn’t really intended for me.

The invitation read, in part:
“With praise and thanksgiving to almighty God, the Church of Pittsburgh, along with the family of Joseph Michael Freedy, joyfully announce his ordination to the Sacred Order of Priesthood through the Imposition of Hands and the Invocation of the Holy Spirit.”

Deacon Joe Freedy was a fourth year theological studies seminarian at the Pontifical North American College in Rome when he entered M’s life by chance or perhaps by prayer. He entered as M sat for lunch in the small dining room of her studio in Rome. He entered noticing her alone and he stopped and sat and spoke. He entered by the Grace of God…and he stayed.

Their meetings continued following this first encounter in mid-December and grew to be somewhat frequent. M began to rely upon these conversations on faith, friendships and family as they served to massage her stressed and tired emotions. Their sharing of thoughts would lift and hold a seeking spirit and would continually rejuvenate it. I recall phone conversations and e-mails that seemed so alive with this newfound spark born of the caring and sharing of Deacon Joe. As days became weeks and weeks became months their friendship continued over coffee, over conversation and over prayer. This friendship in words and deeds held deep and apparent meaning for a young student far from home. Soon M was introduced to Deacon Steve and David. By January she was enjoying Wednesday evening basketball in their pickup league. My young daughter from Omaha was in competitive sport with the Deacons in the Vatican City. What a memory!

But when it came, M read the invitation and, considering the logistics of cost and distance, she rationalized that an RSVP was futile. And when it came, Denise and I knew instantly that this trip would happen. Our flights to Pittsburgh were arranged that evening.

When considering an appropriate gift for someone so dear to her, and for such a monumental occasion, M recalled one of her last talks in Rome with Deacon Joe. He had explained to M his feelings about the character and persona of his namesake Saint Joseph. Joe was forever disappointed with traditional depictions of Joseph, husband to Mary, as a ruggedish carpenter and an older man. So Joe had imagined an image of Joseph for himself - an image to be imagined again and again as he thought of, and prayed to, his namesake Saint. Joe had described this image to M in vivid detail and M had decided that her special gift would be a drawing of Saint Joseph that no one had ever seen.


The Ordination was held at Saint Paul Cathedral, near the convergence of Pittsburgh’s three rivers, the Monongahela, the Allegheny and the Ohio. It was presided over by the Bishop of Pittsburgh, the Most Reverend David Zubik. The Ordination was a grand and powerfully moving event. But its power did not seem to emanate from one person or place or action. It was everywhere and it grew from the gathering, the procession, the promise of obedience, the supplication, the laying of hands, the investiture, the blessings, the calling of Saints and the many unified prayers. It grew from the visions of ritual, the rich aroma of incense and the heavenly sounds of the soprano Cantor. And it all wafted through the nave and transepts, from chancel to narthex and from floor to vault of the old Cathedral. It was all of this together; and it combined into a spiritual swirl and the unmistakable and absolute presence of the Holy Spirit! And in the end, there was a Priest...Father Joseph Michael Freedy. It was breathtaking.

There was a short reception following the Ordination at Saint Paul Cathedral. It was here where I was first introduced to Father Joe Freedy and received a blessing together with M by his fresh Priestly hand. I would later learn that a blessing from a newly ordained Priest holds a special power and meaning.

The lunch reception was held at the Student Union Ballroom at Duquesne University. This was my first opportunity to meet Father Joe’s parents and many of the Priests and Deacons that M had known from Rome. M and I shared a table with Deacons Steve and Ron and David.

The family’s evening reception was held at the home of Joe’s parents in Bethel Park. Upon our arrival M presented Father Joe with her drawing of Saint Joseph. This presentation was a powerful moment shared between them. He was predictably touched and clearly amazed. I decided to leave them alone to talk and found my way to the buffet and refreshments. Enjoying various conversations, I was quickly joined by Joe’s father. Over the course of an hour, I enjoyed wonderful conversations with Joe’s parents and each of his brothers and sisters. This is truly a wonderful family.

Father Ryan found me and introduced himself. We discussed Rome and his schooling and, to the best of my ability, we discussed the differences and similarities between Catholicism and Methodism. And then he slipped a small medallion from his pocket and blessed it. As he placed it in my hand, he began to explain the history and meaning behind this Miraculous Medal.

The Miraculous Metal was created by Saint Catherine Laboure following her sighting of the Virgin Mary. Mary reportedly came to Catherine wearing many rings, most of which shone rays of light. Asked why some of her rings did not shed light, Mary reportedly replied that those are the graces for which people forget to ask. Other imagery revealed in this sighting included a circle of twelve stars, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, the Immaculate Heart of Mary and the words “O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee”. Mary then asked Catherine to take these images to her father who should cast them into medallions. Mary said that all who wear them would receive great graces.

As M joined us, our conversation turned to The Rosary. M indicated that she had received a Rosary from Father Joe at her last meeting with him in Rome. He was on crutches with an ankle injury sustained during basketball. He had wanted to give her a gift but was unable to leave his home. Joe indicated that he had prayed that God would provide him a gift to give to M. On the morning of their meeting, Joe said that he was visited by a friend who was returning from travel and who gave Joe a Rosary he had brought from Lourdes, France. And this is the Rosary that Deacon Joe had given to M. M explained its significance and coincidence...a gift of Rosary from Deacon Joe and its origination in Lourdes, the location of the original Grotto replicated on the Notre Dame Campus. Then she held it out for us to see. It was little, but it was no small treasure to M. Unexpectedly, Father Ryan reached into his pocket and produced an identical Rosary. And pointing at himself, he said “I am the friend who traveled from Lourdes.” We were all three stunned by the sheer coincidence of this chance meeting. Before we left, Father Ryan held out his hand and gave me his Rosary saying, “You should have this that the two should stay close”.

Father Joe’s First Mass was a Mass of Thanksgiving on the Feast Day of St. Thomas More at Joe’s Family Parish, St. Thomas More Church in Pittsburgh. It was another incredible experience and such a privilege to witness.

Another reception followed. We spoke again with many new friends from the day and evening before. And as we prepared to depart, we thanked the Freedy family, Father Ryan, Father Mark, Deacon Steve and David. We approached the long line of Father Joe’s ongoing blessings of well-wishers with David. As David held the line’s attention, Father Joe turned to M and I and we received our blessings and said good-bye.

Then as we approached the exit, M caught the attention of one last person. The "Servants of the Pierced Hearts of Jesus and Mary" are a Diocesan Religious Institute founded in 1990 by Mother Adela Galindo in the Archdiocese of Miami, Florida. Mother Adela had led a group of Sisters to Pittsburgh to witness the Ordination of this young Deacon whom she had befriended in Rome. She had been a light for Joe, as he had been a light to M. M expressed her gratitude for past spiritual inspiration and said that we were leaving to catch our flight home. Mother Adela stopped and held M’s hands. Then as they talked, she noticing M’s necklace, and asked to see it. She studied the necklace. It held two Miraculous Metals. One miniature, received with blessing from a Priest who appeared from nowhere on bicycle as M approached the Catacombs south of Rome. The other received with blessing from Father Mark at the Freedy family reception on the previous evening. Smiling, Mother Adela held up the smaller medal and said “M, this is who you are.” And then lifting the larger medal, she said “…and this is who you will be.” I stood trembling silently behind my daughter, and was so moved, I began to cry.

I’m so grateful to have shared in the joy and triumph of Father Joe’s Ordination. The Deacons and Priests and Sisters were so incredibly wonderful to us. And the Freedy family all received M and me with such warmth that we felt very much at home in the midst of their family and friends. I knew the importance of this event to M but was unaware that the Ordination and First Mass would prove to be such powerful spiritual events for me…I'll never forget this. And I’m certain that Father Joe Freedy will remain a strong influence on M’s personal and spiritual life – now and forever.