Susan Reynolds just wrote to tell me that the anthology of stories about fathers with an excerpt from my childhood memoir is available on Amazon now. It’s not going to be available until May 18, but you can always do your Father’s Day shopping early.
I just realized I get to buy someone a Father’s Day gift this year!
This is a subversive little movie.
Everyone in it is fighting the power: Despereaux is a small mouse with big ears who refuses to be meek like all the other mice. Roscuro is a shipwrecked rat who mostly refuses to be evil, like all the other rats. And there is also a soup chef who refuses to abstain from cooking soup. I enjoyed it, even if it’s message seemed a little heavy handed at times.
I saw it with Holly and the kids during our trip to California. Holly, who writes Children’s literature, came away disappointed. Apparently the book is much darker and better (it won the Newbery medal in 2004) than the movie. Aaron, who also read the book, seemed pretty blasé about the whole thing. I have been amused at Aaron’s reaction because there is talk on the Web that the movie’s G rating was inappropriate for its dark story. I didn’t share this opinion, but up until now Aaron has always been our bellwether of frightening movies. Kennedy, who hadn’t read the book and was incredibly interested in seeing the movie, just about fell to pieces because her mother and brother were already comparing and contrasting the movie with the book as the credits rolled.
Writers write, and they write, and they go on writing, in some cases long after wisdom and even common sense have told them to quit. There are always plenty of reasons—good, compelling reasons, too—for quitting, or for not writing very much or very seriously. (Writing is trouble, make no mistake, for everyone involved, and who needs trouble?) But once in a great while lightning strikes, and occasionally it strikes early in the writer’s life. Sometimes it comes later, after years of work. And sometimes, most often, of course, it never happens at all…. But it will never, never happen to those who don’t work hard at it and who don’t consider the act of writing as very nearly the most important thing in their lives, right up there next to breath, and food, and shelter, and love, and God.
—Raymond Carver (introduction, Best American Short Stories 1986)
Valkyrie is an historical thriller about Nazi officer Claus von Stauffenberg and his failed attempt to assassinate Hitler toward the end of WW2.
The challenge with historical movies is that the audience already knows the outcome. One way to overcome this is to add a love story, like Titanic. You have to give the audience something. Valkyrie gives us two things: suspense and Tom Cruise.
I am no expert on this period, but I had heard about the Stauffenberg plot and the movie seemed pretty faithful to history. I was also on the edge of my seat through most of it. Tom Cruise does a great job, especially toward the end as the wheels come off.
We’re back home, as of last night. What a trip!
Three weeks ago, Holly took the kids to California. The plan was for me to get some work done and then follow on the weekend. But then Seattle got socked in with snow. I went to the airport three times and purchased five one way tickets before I finally made it down there with them. What an adventure! I am still fighting to get a refund from Virgin America, who took advantage of my plight and are only offering a credit. With the lousy economy, I hope they don’t go belly up before I can use the ticket.
I met up with Holly and the kids so late, I decided drive back with them instead of flying. I wouldn’t have been able to get much work done anyhow: the campus (as well as most of Seattle) was mostly shut down due to weather. Seattle grinds to a halt with an inch or two of snow. We had over a foot.
I enjoyed the time off. We took the kids to Disneyland, Hollywood, both of Holly’s parent’s house, Portland and numerous hotels between here and there.
Holly and the kids outside of our Long Beach hotel. Aaron is wearing his Haunted Mansion hat from Disneyland.
We went sightseeing in Hollywood. The kids were amazed that Hollywood was even real. Once they got a load of Hollywood and Vine, they were less so.
Holly’s Dad, Wild Bill.
The decorations on this house cracked me up. If you look closely, you can see Santa just kicked an extra point in the far goal (It’s good!). Around the corner (not shown) is a life-size nativity scene.
No trip to California is complete without a celebratory drop into Powell’s book store in Portland on the return leg. We can never get out of Powell’s without and armload of books.
This year Holly and I told the kids that Santa isn’t real, but then the kids didn’t believe us.
I didn’t want to burst their Christmas bubble, but it seemed like the right thing to do. Most of the other kids in their fifth grade class don’t believe in Santa anymore. Aaron has been pointedly asking me if Santa were real, and I’d been holding him off by shrugging my shoulders and telling him I believed in Santa. That’s not an entirely untrue statement either: I believe a little faith and imagination will take you places you can’t get on reason alone. I would have let the whole Santa business go right there, but then Kennedy started to draw some uncomfortable associations between religion and Santa. “Jews don’t believe in Santa,” she told my wife. The little kids celebrating Hanukkah were telling Kennedy that Santa isn’t real. She would drift toward her church friends on the playground and say things like “You’re Christian. You believe in Santa, right?” But this only elicited eye rolls and other reactions that Kennedy didn’t understand. Holly and I decided we probably ought to tell them Santa isn’t real.
A few weeks ago after dinner, Holly brought up Santa. The kids gave us their full attention. Holly said Santa was a legend, based on Saint Nicholas, who used to sneak around putting gifts into shoes that poor people left out at night. Holly talked about the Spirit of Giving. Generosity. The Meaning of Christmas. That sort of thing. The room got quiet as a funeral.
“No North Pole?” Aaron asked.
“Nope,” Holly said. “And no reindeer.”
“I knew it,” Aaron said. His voice was even, but disappointed.
Kennedy surprised us by asking a bunch of questions. She wanted to know who bought the Santa gifts. And why the tags on the Santa presents were in a different handwriting than the tags on the rest of the presents. “And who eats the cookies, who drinks the milk?” she asked.
We answered her questions and then started to clean up. I felt terrible. While Holly and I loaded the dishwasher, I wished we could go back in time and do the last ten minutes over. A few days later, I forgot all about it. But then the strangest thing happened: Kennedy said she didn’t believe us!
At first she thought Holly and I were just pulling her leg. She kept asking questions and disbelieving the answers. Soon she convinced herself that Holly and I were out of our minds. It’s probably just a sign of how things are going to go as they get older, but it couldn’t have happened at a better time. Kennedy was planning to prove her theory by writing a secret Santa letter and then asking for something only she and Santa could know about. Fortunately Holly talked her out of it.
Turns out, a little boy has been needling Kennedy about Santa since kindergarten. Her whole focus has been showing this kid up, proving to him that Santa is real. Holly suggested that Kennedy believe what she believes and let her little friend believe what he believes. A lesson that downplays proselytizing and promotes tolerance all rolled up in one. Can I get an amen?
Kennedy even brought Aaron around to her way of thinking. Earlier this week as we were saying prayers, Aaron blissfully slipped into full blown Santa denial and expressed regret for asking Santa for a 14 karat gold plated portable gaming device. I was pleased. Not just because he was believing in Santa again, but because he was showing contrition for being greedy. What kind of kid needs a gold plated PSP?
I couldn’t be more happy with how this year’s Santa reveal turned out. My faith in the unknowable mystery of life has been renewed.
And I hope Aaron and Kennedy believe in Santa Claus until they’re a hundred and fifty.
Very soon now, my son, Timmy, is going to be a father all his own. Here is one of the first pictures of his little one.
And the tummy you’re looking into belongs to Carrie, who I have heard a lot about and can’t wait to meet. When I found out she was pregnant, I got so excited I made Timmy put her on the phone and chat with me, which was probably the wrong thing to do, because she sounded sleepy. But she was kind and sweet to me, and we made small talk. I can’t wait to meet her.
I can’t wait to hold this little baby.
I love to curse.
When I was growing up, colorful language was the rule. Aunt Polly loved to swear. Aunt Carol could hold her own. Mom seemed more reserved—she would say eff this or eff that. If her sisters got too vulgar, she would chide them to cool out. I would sit in the living room, pretending to watch TV but listening to every word.
No surprise, then, that as an adult I don’t have good boundaries when it comes to my kids and foul language. Case in point: Last weekend Holly and the kids were watching Spaceballs, an old comedy from the 80s with a surprising amount of cursing.
Holly has been exploring old movies and TV shows with the kids, but this was the first with a good amount of cussing. Aaron and Kennedy don’t curse. This is all due to Holly’s good home training, but the kids have really taken to it. I’m a little disappointed. In our house the D-word is dumb and the S-word is stupid.
“Stupid,” I say with mild scorn. “Stupid is a bad word? That’s retarded.” And Aaron slugs me in the arm.
Spaceballs’s Major Asshole scene nearly tipped the old time movie viewing scales in our house. Holly threatened to turn off the TV, but the kids protested. “We’ve already heard all these words,” Kennedy said.
“Where?” Holly asked.
Immediately both kids cried in unison, “DAD!” When Holly told me this story, I laughed. I love to curse.
Here is my favorite cussing story:
I joined the military when I was seventeen. This was back in the days when the Company Commander routinely cursed out the entire squad, just for good measure.
It was the first week and we were all—leaders and lambs—trying to feel out the situation. The Company Commander’s task was to break us down. He stormed up and down the barracks. We stood at attention at the end of our bunks. He was doing a pretty good job cussing us out. Something he said reminded me of sitting in the living room listening to my aunts swear in the kitchen. I snickered at in inopportune moment and he got right in my face.
“Are you amused, recruit!” he shouted.
I looked at my feet. I thought it was a retorical question, but he actually wanted an answer. He repeated his question, this time even louder and closer to my face.
“What’s so amusing, recruit!”
I was terrified. I didn’t know what to say, but decided honesty was my best apporach.
“SIR,” I shouted. “YOU SOUND LIKE MY AUNT POLLY, SIR!”
I said it with earnestness and enthusiasm. He just looked at his feet. Out the corner of my eye, I could tell he was trying to hide a grin. After a few seconds, he said, “Aunt Polly likes to curse, does she?”
“Sir,” I said. “Yes sir.”
“Okay, then.”
Today is my sober anniversary!
Twenty years ago today I appeared on the steps of the building pictured above, 19-25 Saint Mark’s Place in New York City’s East Village. That morning I had traveled from my home in Pennsylvania to attend a rehab in the Bronx, but then I had been denied admittance to the rehab and had nowhere else to go. I was literally penniless.
I was also hungry. It was about 5pm and I hadn’t eaten anything that day. Dealing with the Bronx rehab’s admissions person, a Puerto Rican man named Americo, had been an epic fiasco, all of my own making. When he gave me the subway token and directions to the East Village, I felt terrified. Really scared. But by the time I got off the train, I had already acclimated to my new situation.
I asked the other homeless people at the shelter if there were any food. People looked to their left and right. Someone coughed into his hand, another person brushed lint from her shoulder. Food was tight. Finally a large black woman took pity on me and ladled a heap of plain macaroni noodles onto a paper plate. She waited for me to respond to her kindness. I looked at the plate in front of me.
“What, no tomato sauce?” I asked.
The black woman chuckled. “Aren’t you something,” she said. She was absolutely right. I certainly was something. And twenty years later, I hope I’m something else.
Plenty to be grateful for this year.
This afternoon we took a little holiday trip to Seattle to hang out in the market, laugh at the fish monger’s antics, and then ride the carousel.
Thursday we had dinner at a friend’s house.
It was a collaborative effort, but we got off easy. Tamara, our good friend, made the bird and a ton of delicious food. I made tabbouleh and Holly made a string bean dish, but somehow we managed to bring mostly sweets. We were responsible for those cupcakes pictured below and there were pumpkin pies.
I had an excellent time. Aaron said it was one of his favorite thanksgivings ever.
Present Tense 