Baking Memories

K and I decided one day last weekend to bake cookies. And what a grand decision that was. It always is. We followed (generally) our family recipe accurately and affectionately entitled “Grandma Jo’s Sugar Cookies”.
_______________________

Grandma Jo’s Sugar Cookies

1 cup butter
2 eggs
1 cup powdered sugar
1 cup white sugar
1 tsp baking soda
1/3 tsp salt
1/4 cup cooking oil
2 tsp vanilla
1 tsp cream of tarter
4 ½ cups unsifted flour

Mix butter, oil and sugars.
Beat in eggs and add vanilla.
Sift dry ingredients together and add to mixture.
Refrigerate dough for no more than 45-50 minutes.
Roll out and cut with cookie cutters.
(Sprinkle flour onto counter top to prevent dough from sticking to counter).
Place on ungreased cookie sheet and bake for 10 minutes at 350 degrees.
_______________________

I’m not sure if there is anything unique about this recipe but it was the one my Mother used and as current baking endeavors ensue they always conger up fond memories and familiar aromas from the respective childhoods of me and my children. And in recent years this has become the recipe of my wife Denise whose cookie making prowess commands the attention of every cookie eating friend and relative that I know. And now, the natural progression of things has obliged our daughters to assume their inherent roles as keepers of our family’s cookie knowledge treasures.

In my opinion, and I’m absolutely certain of this, being skillful at baking has little to do with the physical act of baking. No, the three key ingredients that combine to make a good baker are patience, imagination and ingenuity. After that the second tier of prerequisite attributes would probably be a working knowledge of math, a keen sensibility toward the organization of future thoughts and movements and a rather large and well defined sense of space. Of third tier importance is the possession of tools and supplies with which to bake, an ample supply of willing consumers of baked goods and of course a partner who enjoys cleaning up while you continue to perpetuate the motion of substantive ingredient transformation. Notably absent from this grab bag of baking skills is beer drinking. I’m certain that this is why steaks are grilled and quiche is baked. After all, beer drinking is the first skill of grilling, right before firefighting. But I digress…

Possessing all three tier one attributes in great abundance, K is a natural baker. I’m a bit of a reluctant baker, patience being my weakness. But I thrive on interaction with my family. It is my fuel. No, it’s beyond mere fuel. My family time acts more like a synergy together with my eager spirit – the combined effect being much greater than the simple sum of the individual effects.

Baking cookies consists of three main parts – mixing of stuff, flattening and cutting of stuff and heating of stuff. After the cookies are baked comes the good stuff – decorating and devouring.

The mixing of various ingredients in proper proportions to create usable dough is the most arduous task involved in the cookie baking process. It’s brutal. The task involves much cracking and sifting and beating. It is also where most of the math is involved…“Let’s see, if one batch requires 1-1/2 cups and we are making two batches but Grandma Jo always adds a bit extra but since we mistakenly used 1-1/2 teaspoon in lieu of 1-1/4 teaspoon of….”.

For our mixing stage K measured sugars and flour, I cracked eggs, we sifted the mixture and then we mixed and we mixed and we mixed. Then we subjected our mixture to a bit of "relaxation" in the refrigerator. However, lacking proper fortification we contrived a makeshift security measure lest our booty of cookie dough be pillaged whilst we rested from all of our incessant mixing.

Proper flattening of dough requires more skill than is readily apparent to the casual observer. And the actual flatness is the least of the worries. The sticking and breaking of dough are troublesome but are controlled through careful steadiness and tricks of the trade, here-to-fore unknown to non-bakers like myself, such as flouring the surface below the dough and sugaring the ever flattening top. And during the flattening proceedure, maintenance of a uniform thinness is paramount.

Since flattening is where most of the patience comes into play, K was our designated flattener. K skillfully rolled and flattened the doughy mound into a uniformly thinned disk that validated her deftness of patience.

Through much negotiation we settled upon a seemingly random scattering of chosen cookie shapes -big stars, little stars, clovers, hearts, dog bones and Space Needles. We rejected such shapes as witches, snow men, bunnies, pine trees, circles, turkeys, snowflakes and pumpkins. Armed with the agreed upon shapes and subsequent to K’s artful flattening, I assumed the role of the cutter. Cutting fits me because I like efficiencies. I enjoy combining various orientations of shapes and sizes to maximize the cookieness of the flattened dough and to minimize the scraps between cookies. I find this task to be oddly sporting. Never mind the fact that these carefully hewn remnants betwixt cookies are easily collected and recycled into the next flattened mass thus rendering the efficiency of my cuts meaningless.

And so we operated as a team - K flattened and I cut. Then we wadded up the scraps, added more dough and K flattened and I cut some more. We repeated these actions several times until we had exhausted all of our doughy resources.

Next came the baking. Again, this is the simple mindless part. Sure you’ve got to calculate the proper time and temperature of baking but these are more a function of the flattening process…thin cookies cook faster than thick ones. The only real difficulty in baking is to not forget to stop baking. Don’t leave them in too long. You need to take them out of the oven before they are fully cooked as they will continue to cook somewhat while they cool on the pan.

Surprisingly, our favorite part of cookie making is not the final “devouring” stage. K and I find the decorating to be particularly stimulating. It is a creative outlet. We enjoy smearing and troweling and splattering on frosting in various colors to create abstract works of art. Well, it’s actually more of an abstract mess but who’s to complain? All of the would-be complainers have their jowls too full of cookie to offer any discernable criticism.

Having spent several hours together on a common task with much conversation and laughter, we felt fulfilled. We made some great memories and at the end of the day we ate cookies. And they were good.

Take Me Home

Today the mundane ritual of retrieving the morning paper aroused a dormant migratory desire and positioned it squarely in contrast with my deep appreciation for being home. And as I considered this, it became readily apparent that these conflicting desires would neither resolve nor relent on their own.

As I slipped out through my front door the effects of the transformation were immediate. I was in Seattle. No, I was not transported to Seattle in a literal sense. Rather, in a way, it was brought to me. Seattle has been 1,700 miles (2,735km) to the west-northwest of Omaha for many millennia…and there it remains. But the smells, the climatic feel and the pure sounds of early morning nature were very much responsible for whisking me away, imagination and all, back into the Great Northwest.

OK, so there are no mountains, no Puget Sound or Lake Washington in Omaha. There are few cedars or firs and there are no bears in our back yard. And I don’t remember the last salmon run in Nebraska. But this morning it was 50 degrees and slightly damp and overcast. There was a fresh little breeze that cleared the air of everything except the sweet sounds of the many returning migratory birds. The morning air was full and empty at the same time. It was gorgeous!

I walked slowly down the drive, carefully taking in everything that the morning had to offer. I noticed the greening grass contrasted against the still barren trees. I looked at our neighbors houses up and down the winding road where we've called home for almost seventeen years. Then recalling my purpose, I slowly stooped and clutched the morning newspaper. Standing again I felt the cool breeze sweping past with the fond memories of the friends with whom we shared an equally gorgeous evening the night before. I thought of the fellowship born of much talk and laughter as the "food, wine and deck season" finally returned to Omaha, drawing good friends from their dwellings like the winter's frost from the ground. I drew in several deep breaths and then turned and thoroughly enjoyed my leisurely stroll back to the house. Wow, no WOW! I love this early spring weather. And I love our home.

Perhaps due to the pleasant outdoor conditions or perhaps due to some fundamental longing in my heart, I really felt the sense of being within striking distance of the mountains, the water, the seafood and the wine of my favorite domestic vacation spot. And moreover, I truly felt the sense of being within hugging distance of our most remote daughter J. I rushed into the house, grabbed my coffee and quickly dashed through the rear exit and onto the deck. There I witnessed the frailty of the rising sun as it attempted to break through the morning’s brume. As I struggled to maintain this transcendent feeling I caught myself humming the melody of the only country song that I’ve ever really loved…John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads.” And as I stood there at home scanning the western sky, I sensed the presence of Mt. Rainier veiled behind the soft morning haze.

Heroes

Yesterday was spent at the funeral of Denise’s uncle Pat. Interestingly Denise’s father’s sister is roughly her same age and therefore her uncle, by marriage to her aunt, was merely one year older than me…51. And his untimely death has left his wife and three sons, 27, 23 and 17 with many questions and few answers. Naturally explanations for the ending of relatively youthful lives are often beyond the grasp of mortal minds. But in their years together as a family it is evident that these remaining loved ones have each nurtured an inner strength that allows them to persevere. And further, they appear to be replete with the proper personal values to carry on into their future lives with a steadfast moral compass that seems poised to lead them each toward success.

As a homebuilder in the central Nebraska town of Kearney, Pat touched many lives. This was evidenced by the standing room only crowd of 700 plus mourners who turned out on this day to honor this homebuilder at St James Church in the cold wet wintery mix of Nebraskan March weather.

The Priest’s message was one of answer seeking and of the eternal loving embrace of the Father upon the Son and upon the returning flock. The message seemed to find its mark with the audience as best as it could under these most trying of circumstances. There were many in the church of similar youth to whom this message struck home within their personal lives and inspired thoughts of their own families. The message was clear and touched upon everyone’s private fears of mortality and their life’s affect upon their acquaintances and closest of friends and their precious loved ones. Eyes were damp and hearts were weary.

Then the priest indicated that T, the youngest son, had asked to say a few words on his father’s behalf. There was an immediate and noticeable collective stiffening and taking of breath by the entire congregation. These next few moments would be powerful indeed and our individual struggles to maintain composure would be sorely tested.

As T stood and walked onto the chancel and took the podium, everyone braced with uncertainty for the emotional blow that was about to be delivered. And as T struggled with his first sentence, the jolt was immediate. “Today I’m here to bury my hero” he began. What precious little space within the volume of this church that was not saturated with the lingering presence of these simple words was quickly filled with the muffled sounds of pulled tissues, falling tears and crumbling hearts. Drawing breath he continued on. “But I don’t consider this a good bye. I know that I will see him every day in the many homes he’s built and in the friends and family that he’s touched." T grew in strength and gallantry with each passing word. “I’ll see him in the words and deeds of my brothers and if I’m lucky, maybe someday I’ll see a little bit of him in the mirror…”

I wish that I could remember the rest. But I, together with every living soul within earshot, was struggling against the gushing of personal thoughts within and the ever expanding blanket of this extraneous barrage of emotion. And the emotive source was much deeper than his words. It seemed to emanate also from his virtual passage into manhood that transformed seemingly before our very eyes. These were words wrenched straight from his heart and delivered precisely and directly upon the wanting emotions of the large congregation of mourners. And they were delivered by this young son with the courageous fortitude of the hero himself.

I thought of my own children and our family’s unique yet parallel paths through the last quarter century. I thought of their three sons and of our three daughters all roughly the same ages. I thought of the designation of “hero” upon this departed father. And I thought of the importance of our daughter’s lives within the past, present and future lives of Denise and me. It’s interesting, this difference of perspective between parent and child. Through positive influence and mutual respect, lives lived with purpose and righteousness are then reflected back upon themselves through the actions of the other. A parent looks pridefully upon their maturing children. A young adult looks admiringly upon the aging parent. And as families evolve, countless forgotten sacrifices of the past are repaid ten-fold in the coming of age of subsequent generations of goodness and virtue.

And I thought again of these three young men and how proud their “hero” would be to see their strength and common bond on this of all days. He would see them all now as we see them individually…the children, the young men, the heroes of the future. And as composure's were regained the truth was self evident. T and his brothers had grown unquestionably to be, and remain, their hero’s heroes.

Fargo – A Tale of Vengeance

Recently my work has taken me from Omaha to Red Lake, MN on a monthly basis. And at 600 plus miles, driving on my schedule still beats flying on someone else’s…but just barely.

It’s a nine hour drive plus pit stops and weather related slow-downs. And over the past eight months I’ve settled into two dominant routes. The Ames Route - Omaha, Des Moines, Ames, Minneapolis, Brainerd, Bemidji, Red Lake. And the Fargo Route - Omaha Sioux City, Sioux Falls, Brookings, Watertown, Fargo, Park Rapids, Bemidji, Red Lake.

The Fargo route is a bit shorter but the Ames route offers me the luxury of popping in on K at Iowa State. Other than this, neither possesses a greater or lesser degree of scenery or excitement. My January drive through Fargo however has proven to be the lone exception.

Whenever I hear the word “Fargo” I immediately think of three things…my neighbors who graduated from North Dakota State, a colleague from the office who moved from Fargo to Omaha several years ago, and of course last but not least the Academy Award winning 1996 Coen brothers movie “Fargo”.

By the way, through built up curiosity I purchased the DVD yesterday. And I suspect that my recent viewing of Fargo may have signaled the extinction of the last remaining person on the planet who had never seen this movie...really! In case you've forgotten it is supposedly based upon a true story in Minnesota and tells of a car salesman who meets a couple of ne'er-do-wells in Fargo and hires them to kidnap his wife to extort a ransom from his wealthy father-in-law. But his plans go terribly awry and several brutal murders ensue. The case is then investigated by a police chief from Brainerd who’s quite pregnant. And the bad guys drive a burnt umber (medium brown) Oldsmobile Cierra and live in a shack on a lake. The movie is rated R for language and graphic violence.

So anyway, I’ve stopped for sustinence on my way home from the northern Minnesota lands of Paul Bunyan. And as dusk settled over the snow packed roads of Fargo I round the back side of the fuel station building to better approach the highway. Seeing the lights of a car backing out of its parking stall I slowed and then stopped four or five stalls back and well away to allow him room to maneuver. After clearing his stall he continues inexplicably in his backward motion, accelerating and finally coming to rest as his back passenger side bumper collides into my driver side front bumper, pushing my previously stationary vehicle backwards about eight inches. Damn.

A minute later, and having both survived the ordeal, we stood together in the packed snow staring mournfully at the shattered remains of my bumper through the curling vapor of our exhausting breaths. Then this stranger, kind of a funny looking fella, in a general sort of way, in his mid fifties says with all the polite Norwiegen-ness of his thick Dakotan accent “Sorry, didn’t see yuh there. Yeah, my back window there is so dirty I can’t see out don’tcha know.” Intrigued I wanted to respond with a nice “Yeah, you betcha." But instead, I looked up and sure enough he’s driving this filthy mud splattered older model Pontiac or maybe an Oldsmobile. Beneath the mud it appears to be medium brown colored, kind of a burnt umber. I can’t help but notice that his passenger is giving us (probably just me) the evil eye through the dirt caked window. Having not yet seen the movie my defenses failed to spike. I should have been thinking "Whoa...a couple of ne'er-do-wells in Fargo driving a tan Olds. Yikes, Fargo!" But instead I just stood there unaware of any real or imagined danger.

Then this scraggly little stranger says “Whose fault ya reckon this to be?” I looked at him and said “My car wasn’t moving. Whose fault do you think it was?” Then he sighed, looked back at the splintered bumper and said, “Yeah, ya got dat right. No damage to my car though. Looks to be less than $1000 dollars here and I’d hate to bother my insurance over it. Let’s trade information and I’ll pay for the damage”. Being momentarily stupid, I agreed.

Using my pen he wrote his name, address and phone number down on a napkin and gave it to me. “Jack D***, Valley City, 701-84*-**23”. We talked for a minute and he returned to old Evil Eye and his dirty tan Olds. So many missed Fargoean clues. As they pulled onto the highway I made note of his license plate number on the napkin “North Dakota HFC**4” and stuffed it into my pocket.

Instinctively I grabbed my camera from inside the car and snapped off a few crime scene photos; the finest of which shows the drivers side rear wheel and bears evidence of my backward motion, and no forward skidding, clearly visible on the snow packed pavement. Then I entered the fuel station and asked the clerk if she had some packing tape with which I could temporarily secure my fractured bumper for my lengthy drive home. I was amused by her hearty “Yeah. You betcha. Yeah.”

A week later, armed with two body shop estimates I dialed Jack’s number. Each of three tries yielded the same recorded message…”You have reached a non-working number. Please check the number and try again.” …Doah!

Google: Jack D***, Valley City, ND. Nothing.
Yellowbook: Jack D***, North Dakota, Minnesota. Nothing.
Anywho: Jack D***. Nothing…Son-of-a!

Suddenly the betrayal crystalized before me and I realized that “Jack” or whatever his real name was had given me the slip. Had one of my kids fallen prey to this lawless deception I’d be lecturing endlessly on their obvious and foreseeable blunder. As I pondered my predicament I realized that I didn’t even know the name of the fuel station and the license number does me little good without a witness because I can’t place the perpetrators at the scene. I could have just copied down anyone’s license number, or worse...I could myself be portrayed as the perp having slid into the back end of their car. I began to sweat. I can't go to prison, I just can't!

Regaining my senses I reasoned that I had nothing but a broken bumper, bruised ego and an appetite to exact revenge…Aaargh. A classic tale of retribution quickly came to my mind. Sadly, I thought first of the 2002 movie and not the classic novel mastered by Alexandre Dumas in 1844. None-the-less, I love the story of the Count of Monte Cristo. And at that moment I thought to myself “Vengeance is mine Monsieur Jack”. And so I pressed on with little more than a license number, a vague vehicle description, a date and the approximate crime location.

Next I took a virtual drive westward down Highway 10 on Google Maps/Streetview. This was an amazing journey. Back-tracking my route I eventually happened upon the building and signs in my photo. The arrow cursor left of the fuel pumps in the picture above identifies the approximate point of impact. I now had the exact location but my Google Streetview image nor my crime scene photos showed the name of the station. And the “Tesoro” franchise name yielded no usable information toward finding a phone number. With a cooling trail I feared that the investigation would have to await my next trip through Fargo.

In desperation I called the Fargo Police and asked to speak to a detective. Expecting a dead end or at least a cold shoulder, I was pleased when a detective answered. In all the excitement I regret that I missed her name. For convenience though, let's call her “Friday”. “Friday” not because of any resemblance to Sgt. Joe Friday, my boyhood Dragnet hero, but because I had called her on a Friday. Friday listened eagerly to all the gritty details of the crime committed upon my bumper and the lies perpetrated upon my naivety. Friday listened as I read the fake name, address and phone but was most interested in the very real license plate number. Then Friday said “Let’s run the tags” and placed me on hold. “Yes…hang the bastard” I thought to myself. To my utter amazement Friday returned in less than a minute and rattled off the name and address of the vehicle’s registered Owner. Jan D***, Page, ND. Then Friday gave me a real phone number 701-66*-**81. Cha-Ching!

The first six or seven tries at various times of day yielded no answer. Finally on a Wednesday afternoon a familiar but sleepy voice answered “Yeah.”

Me: “Jan?”

Jan: “Yeah.”

Me: This is Mike West. You backed into my car in Fargo a couple of weeks ago. I sure have had a difficult time find...”

Jan: “You got the wrong guy!” Click.

Two weeks later, and wielding a heightened determination I traced my recollected route and returned to the scene of the crime. It proved to be a Stamart Convenience Store at 2903 Main Avenue in Fargo. Ironically I assumed Jan’s old parking place and calmly strolled in. As I waited in line I located two video surveillance cameras and attempted to visualize their respective views of the property. One faced the pumps in the wrong direction and the other faced the pumps toward where Jan had stopped his vehicle after the weapon had delivered its damaging blow. Two clerks stood behind the counter. The friendlier of the two said “How can I help you?” As I began to recount my tale, the friendly clerk said “I remember you. You had the blue Civic that was backed into right out here.” And she pointed to the side of the building. “I gave you a roll of tape”. Another break in the case. I took a mental note of both nametags. A*** - Shift Manager and S*** - Assistant Manager. A*** went on to explain that she had just helped the perp with a propane tank and was walking into the side door when she heard the crash. She turned and saw the carnage. Yes! Esquire West calls his first witness.

The video surveillance system records still images at one frame per second. It records data to a digital video recorder that is "safely defended" behind a door marked "Manager". The hollow wood door is secured from the inside with a bathroom latch. The means of fortification when the manager was outside of the office was not readily evident to me. I was told that the hard drive retains data until it is either retrieved for use or overwritten after about sixty days. Judging by the sight lines and the estimated angle of vision, I had earlier surmised that there was no way that the collision was recorded on video. However, our culprit had pulled forward and into the cameras view after his little transgression and before getting out to inspect the damage and crafting his wicked deceptions. And there it was, playing out frame by frame. Oh the humanity!

Twenty minutes later I walked into the Fargo Police Department and asked to speak with an officer to report an accident. Officer Todd Wa** took my information and began a police report. Then he pounded out a trace on the license number and began to smile. He said my perp was indeed Jan D***. He wrote down his actual address in Page, North Dakota and he wrote down his actual phone number. I concealed the fact that I already had obtained this information through my own sleuthy skills. I thought of myself “nice piece of work Sherlock!”

Then Officer Todd picked up the phone and dialed Jan’s number. After a few seconds he frowned, hung up the phone and pounded into his keyboard some more. He picked up the phone and dialed again. This number found its mark.

Officer Todd: “Jan D***?”

Officer Todd: “This is Officer Wa** with the Fargo Police Department.”

Officer Todd: “I have a Mr. Michael West here and he claims that you two had a little fender bender a few weeks ago. And I know why you have given him a false name, address and phone number.”

Me (to myself): “What...you do? What do you know?”

Officer Todd: “And he is here filling out an accident report. And I can imagine that you might not want him to do this."

Me (to myself): "What...you can? What can you imagine?"

Officer Todd: "You see Mr. D*** I see here that you are driving on a suspended license and now you’ve falsified information at the scene of an accident. These are serious offences Mr. D***.”

Me (to myself): “Ooh. Oooh! Release the hounds!”

Officer Todd: “No sir. We believe that you were the driver. We have the surveillance video from the station Mr. D***.”

Me (to myself): “Whohoho...Book ‘em Danno!!”

Officer Todd: “Good. I thought so. Is it alright if I give Mr. West this cell number then Mr. D***?”

Officer Todd: “Good. Will you be at this number for awhile Mr. D***?”

Officer Todd: “Good. He’ll call you in ten minutes then. You be sure and cooperate now. Otherwise we can just finish up this report. Do you understand Mr. D***?”

Officer Todd: “Good. Good day Mr. D***.”

Ten minutes later I was in my car and dialed Jan’s cell phone. Predictably he was motivated to oblige my suggestion to satisfy the cost of the damages. I indicated that I had two estimates and that I was more than happy to go with the lowest one. He said that he was to deliver a load to the local elevator on Friday and that he would send a check on Saturday. This sounded a bit fishy but then again everything in Jan's little thiefdom was probably fishy. Plus I had the law on my side now. Timidly I gave him my office address and told I'd be expecting a check. I figured that were he to come busting in guns a blazin’ I’d stand a better chance there than if he caught me at home in bed.

Ten days passed and no check. So I called Jan’s cell phone again. He said that the elevator was full on the day he was to deliver his load and that the weather was not yet cooperating for further deliveries. However, he was expecting a crop insurance check any day now. He would have a check mailed by the end of the week. I again smelled the deceptive fishiness of this yarn. I said "fine..." and for good measure I then threw in "I'll be in Fargo next week". What else could I do? If I show up at his woodsy little Fargoean shack he would still have plenty more excuses than checks. Plus, I was fearful of finding myself out back lodged in his chipper!

Ten more days passed and no check. So again I called Jan’s cell.

Me: "Jan? This in Mike West. You’ve lied to me four times now. This is the last time that we will speak. I leave for Fargo in a couple of days and my first stop is to see Officer Todd.”

Jan: "Oh now, don’t you be a doin dat. I’ve sent the check. I sent it yist'rdee."

Presuming that he had long since discarded my information I asked “What did you send and where did you send it?”

Jan: “$772...to that place you told me. Dodge Street!”

Me: “OK Jan. I won’t be calling you again.”

I hung up and sat there for a minute. I felt like such a thug. He sounded so scared. Damn.

Two days later a letter arrived from Page, North Dakota. It included a check in the amount of $772.00 from a Mr. Jan D***.

As I slipped the check back into the envelope I thought to myself “why is there no joy in this? Revenge, it seems, is at least as bitter as it is sweet." Then I thought “Yeah, you got dat right.”

The Dress

Historically I’ve not been much for shopping. Oh sure, I do my annual bit at the mall to update my selection of clothes for work – black pants and long sleeved, button down Oxford shirts in solid colors, a couple of Polo’s…nothing crazy. I’ll even darken the door of a store or two in Denise’s honor for Christmas but that’s it. My endurance is precisely measured by an internal clock that reaches alarm status at about 20-minutes per trip and at about 60-minutes aggregate for any concurrent twelve month period. Strangely, home improvement stores and electronics stores seem to be exempt from all these dire constraints of time.

Fortunately for me and (per Newton’s Third Law) equally and oppositely as unfortunate for Denise, our three daughters share the same shopping gene as their father. So when Denise and I traveled to Seattle to see Jenna and “shop for wedding dresses” I naturally assumed that this meant that I would be spending some quality time with Matt. I surmised that we would seek out a few of Seattle’s lesser publicized but wonderfully delectable coffee shops, take in some winery tours and tastings and then carouse around a few of Seattle’s scenic dog parks with Kasey and Maddox. We’d have a wonderful time and simultaneously Denise and Jenna would pick out a wedding dress and all would be right in the universe. But this imagined fate was not to be mine.

Rising early I enjoyed Matt’s home brew of coffee. I also enjoyed the assistance of Maddox as he "cleaned" my keyboard during my attempts to reply to a few pressing e-mails from the office. Then as Matt departed for work I was left wondering how in God’s name Jenna and I would survive an entire day of shopping for dresses with Denise.

Our journey began as it should in Seattle - in search of coffee. Following Matt’s suggestion we targeted Bauhaus Books & Coffee. This strategic move satisfied two pressing concerns. It served to quell my incessant whining and offered us an opportunity to plan our attack on the many shops and boutiques that would, in my estimation, serve as the girls' bliss and the boy's misery for the next twelve hours. And this was a great spot. Above the espresso bar looms a large period photograph of Walter Gropius, the German Modernist Architect who founded the Bauhaus School in 1919. True to its namesake we found Bauhaus Books & Coffee to adequately combine form and function to achieve quality espresso within a cozy urban atmosphere. I could have stayed here all day.

Our next stop was I Do Bridal. This was a smallish little boutique and by the street view looks of the place my natural instinct was to keep driving. But Jenna had a one-hour appointment for selection and try-on and we would indeed begin our quest for the perfect bridal look here.

Immediately upon entering the shop we were greeted by our “personal attendant”. I trust that there is an actual title for a person in this position but the technical term escaped me…as did her name. So for lack of an actual name and for convenience sake let’s just call her “Pam”. “Pam” because by way of description, the closest universally recognizable character to resemble our “personal attendant” is Pam Beesly, the bashful receptionist on NBC’s “The Office”.

Armed with a proper appointment Pam quickly shuffled us off into the “hanging and trying room”…again my terms. There must have been five hundred wedding dresses hanging there on rack after rack after rack. Were they all real? Or were there mirrors that somehow reflected various different repetative views of the same few dresses? The entire store reminded me of standing at the closed in center one of those triple hinged dressing room mirrors where as a kid, forced to waste time while his Mother shopped, I would pivot them about their hinges so that the three mirrors formed a triangular universe around me. And standing amidst the triangulated reflections I could see a multitude of me within my imagined infinity. This little room in this little shop had such a quantity of seemingly identical white wedding dresses that the enormity of our quest was beginning to weigh uneasily upon my gut.

And it is precisely here where this tale turns surreal so listen up dads.

Perhaps noticing the color leaving my face, Pam politely informed me that I could sit and wait in the chair by the mirrors. Tempting as it was I held my position at the center of the room of dresses. Then without any proper organization or coordinated strategy the three of them (Denise, Jenna and Pam) disseminated upon the racks and began slicing through the seemingly endless supply of dresses. They would disperse and converge again, moving in and out and up and down in perfect unified harmony like flocking birds. As they would return to the center of the room and reject or admire their most recent finds I began to notice subtle differences. Eventually I realized that there were vast differences in cut, fit, fullness, color, material, design, beading, etc. Soon my uneasiness passed and I actually began to enjoy my newfound role as fashion advisor to my appreciative daughter, amused wife and unassuming Pam.

After amassing a suitable collection of “could-be” bridal gowns, Pam whisked Jenna away to a dressing room and began the task of slipping on and synching up the first dress. I assumed my position in the previously offered "man chair" by the mirrors.

And then it happened. My little girl emerged from the dressing room in all her bridal glory. I’ll never forget the first glimpse of my Jenna in a wedding dress - my God! She was at once both my giggly little girl and a beautiful grown woman. I was swallowed whole by the significance of this moment. How could I have not seen this coming? To think that left to my own devices I would have missed this monumental occasion. Suddenly I loved this day even more as well as this little shop and my wife and daughter and her engagement and everything!

Dress one was gorgeous. Then back to the dressing room with Pam. Dress two was equally gorgeous but much different. Then back to the dressing room with Pam. I remember thinking that this would be a long painful day filled with impossible decisions.

Then catching a glimpse of Jenna as Pam finished clipping and binding and adjusting dress three. “Whoa!” I gasped to Denise, “That’s the dress.” And as she floated past Denise and I, approached the mirrors, and then turned and looked at us there was indeed a glow about her. We both secretly knew that this was special and that this dress had just raised the bar considerably. And as she backed away and caught her first glimpse of our daughter in dress three, Pam was inexplicably brushing back tears…as were we. This was truly one of those heartwarming moments in your life that can never be forgotten. It was priceless. As Jenna and Pam returned to the dressing room, I grabbed my phone and pounded out a quick text message to Matt. “Unofficially we’re done…don’t tell anyone. First shop, third dress.”

Then, after many other wonderful (but less likely) dresses we were off to Cynerellies Closet for another hour or so. Then to Amanda’s Bridal Boutique and La Belle Reve and on and on.

Upon the conclusion of our day, we returned to join Matt for dinner. Jenna told him that she had a great day and that she was almost certain that she had decided upon a dress…first shop, third dress. YES!

[Unless you are Matt you can click here for a picture of The Dress.]

Realizing that I had survived an entire day of dress shopping, I made a mental note of another exception to my internal shopping clock. Time stands still while shopping at home improvement stores, electronics stores and daughter’s wedding dress shops. The next day, while Matt and I were tasting wines, Denise dutifully selected and purchased a couple of clothing items for me and thus preserved a few precious minutes of my annual shopping time for later.

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.