Here's To Life

                We were on roughly Hour Six of the long drive to Anchorage when I first heard it. I was fifteen-years-old in the backseat of our then-new Ford Explorer wedged between the interior of the rear-passenger door and a mountain of convenience store foodstuffs and other forms of entertainment separating me from my brother, Brian. By that point, most civil forms of distraction from the monotony of car travel had been exhausted and Brian and I had resorted to the inevitable game we called “Electrical Pole”, which was really just an excuse to hit each other as hard as possible in the shoulder or leg. Think “Slug Bug”, only anything was fair game. “Tree!” BAM! “Mountain!” BAM! “Asphalt!” BAM!  The sight of an electrical pole could bring the dreaded “Boom Crane” punch, which probably would have resulted in permanent shoulder damage for both of us had we not grown up in rural Alaska where large electrical poles were about as common as Volkswagen Beetles in other parts of the country.

                Anyway, it was during a brief and precarious truce that we had convinced our parents to turn on the radio and had them navigate it to Anchorage’s only alternative rock station. It was then that I heard Banditos by The Refreshments for the first time. Both Brian and I loved the song. It was catchy and funny and we immediately wanted to hear it again. The problem was it was 1996, before the days when the internet was in everyone’s pocket, and after hearing the song the first time we didn’t even know who the artist was. It wasn’t until finally arriving in Anchorage, heading to Sam Goody, and embarrassingly having to sing a few lines to several record store employees that we found, now one of my favorite albums of all time, Fizzy Fuzzy Big and Buzzy.

                For my last birthday, Alecia bought me tickets to see Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers. Roger Clyne was the front man and driving force behind The Refreshments and when the band broke up following disappointing sales of the release of their second studio album, Roger and drummer P.H. Naffah, formed RCPM. I’ve been to many RCPM shows and, as usual, this one rocked. Roger always performs tirelessly, pouring everything he has into each note, pounding one tequila shot after another, encouraging crowd involvement as he mixes harmonica and mariachi solos into his heavily guitar laden 90’s-style alt-country anthems. Sets at his most popular show, Circus Mexicus, which he does twice annually in Rocky Point, Mexico can literally last upwards of five hours. And although his style may not resonate with everyone, to me it’s beyond fantastic.

As we were walking out of the show with adrenaline pumping and ears ringing I began thinking about my life and how, through everything, there’s always been Roger’s music. There are other musicians I have grown to really enjoy, but no one for quite so long or who brings up quite so many memories as Roger. I’ve met friends through the common interest of being Roger fans, reunited old friends at his shows, traveled to Mexico several times with different groups of people, introduced his music to new girlfriends, listened to his music after break-ups, drank to it, sang to it at the top of my lungs, shared an appreciation for it with my wife, my brother, friends from college, and friends from work. In a sense, no matter what has gone on in my life, Roger has been there. His vigor on stage and his obvious love of life are inspiring to say the least.  He is living evidence that it’s completely possible to do what you love and love what you do.

I am thrilled to be entering a new stage in my life, that of fatherhood, with many monumental events ahead all of them occurring with just a little bit of Roger’s soundtrack in the background. And because I really can’t end this any other way, here from Roger’s Mekong, “As cliché as this may sound I’d like to raise another round and if your bottle’s empty, help yourself to mine. Thank you for your time and here’s to life! Here’s to life!”

Trapline

                It was the isolation he liked most. Nothing but himself and the wilderness. The early moon cast an ice blue glow on the relentless powdered snow, the twisting fingers of naked aspen, the peeling skin of birch. Brittle evergreens, white spruce, their bows sagging with the pristine weight of winter’s precipitation. Wind hadn’t blown in a while. He paused and listened to the virginal silence enshrouding him. Nothing moved this morning. It was too cold. The world was frozen.

                He pressed on, feet clad in thick layers of wool surrounded by white army-surplus rubber boots upon the webbing of old snow shoes. Cold War relics, made for Siberia, defense against the weather, made to keep it from conquering the body’s heat. The dry snow crunched, slightly depressed with each step he took away from his Bearcat 570. Checking the trapline on foot. The stillness and endless quiet snowshoeing step after step, his mind traveling, envious of the ancient French fur trappers scouring the westward expanses of the New World for pelts worth their weight in gold, living off the fat of the land. Those days long gone, but he replicated their work, walking whenever possible and carrying his supplies on his own back.

                The last day of the season, he was not only checking for furbearers, but would be pulling the sets as well. First stop was a series of three cubby sets, each about 15 yards apart. The sets beneath tiny log cabins, snow covered like sugary dried icing cascading the sloped roof of the cubby. Barely standing out against the vast wintery whiteness. There was no yield. He removed his backpack and released the springs slowly, unwound the wire fastening, and placed the steel in the bag before repeating the process at the other two empty sets. Fingers feeling numb from the dexterous work, he blew warmth into his beaver mittens.

***

                Last summer, early August, the fifth. He’d been outside in front of the garage changing the oil in his silver F-150. Shirt off on such a glorious day. He smoked a cigar to keep the bugs down. Just a cheap Swisher Sweet. It was as much a guilty pleasure as bug repellent. He worked slowly taking breaks to watch musical, scarlet-breasted robins bounce across his lawn in their endless feeding quest. Somewhere in the distance he heard the unmistakable purr of a chainsaw slicing dry cord wood. The world smelled of cut grass, wildflowers, spruce, dust, and oil. Summer at its best, everything so full of life.       

                He let the oil drain and threw a tennis ball for Jack his black tail flying in controlled chaos, front paws up and down, pink tongue, joyful yelps. The dog never tired of retrieving.

                House and garage were at the end of a long, gravel drive, nearly a half-mile long lined with blooms of fireweed—living garnets and pink sapphires. The drive weaved through fields before curving through a final stand of trees and opening up into their yard. Another toss to Jack and he heard a car coming. The blue Subaru wagon rounded the bend. He hadn’t expected her quite so soon. He turned away, took a big pull on the cigar, and tossed the ball to Jack a third time.

                He heard the car door open and slam shut. She called the dog’s name first and Jack ran to greet her completely unaware of the tension in the moment. She crouched and ran her hands over Jack’s head, scratching gently around the collar so his hind leg involuntarily rose and imitated assistance. Jack let the tennis ball roll slowly out of his mouth, before flopping on his side and rolling to expose his underbelly. She laughed at the dog, but it was strained. “Hi Michael,” she said, finally.

                He took another pull and met her eyes. They were beautiful as always, but they had no trace of their usual bright spark. The way her eyes used to smile at him when they greeted each other was completely absent. Slightly bloodshot and eyelids rimmed red, the drive over had been a tear-filled one. “Katie,” he nodded in acknowledgement.

                Every impulse in his body screamed at him to go to her. Hold her, toss his cigar and stand forehead to forehead, like they used to when everything was all right and they were both still happy. But he refrained, it would only make things harder. “Thought you’d bring a bigger rig,” he said, motioning to the Subaru.

                “Jillian’s on her way. She’s bringing her truck.”

                “Makes sense,” he exhaled a sigh he hoped was invisible, but it was accompanied by a jet-stream of sweet tobacco smoke, “I’m just about done with the oil, if you’re desperate, I can take a load.”

                “We’ll be fine, Michael.”

                “You really sure you want to do this? I mean, maybe there’s still some way we could…” his voice trailed off and he looked at the ground. She made no attempt to reply, just dragged herself toward the house to start collecting boxes. He watched her every movement as she walked toward the house, climbed the five stairs purposefully, empty, facing forward, away from him. He stared at the back of her head where her beautiful raven hair was pulled into a lifeless pony tail without energy or spring from her sullen steps. She didn’t so much as glance his way when she opened the door and closed it behind her. He stood, staring at the closed door and heard the robin’s song, a gentle breeze through spruce bows, the whine of the chainsaw, and maybe a raven’s caw far in the distance. Jack was panting heavily at his feet, smiling in enthusiastic anticipation the way Labradors do. He methodically threw the ball and watched Jack give chase, tail wagging, feet churning, happy barking. He shook his head to dislodge the thought of going inside, to be with her once again, and turned his attention back to draining black oil.

***

                He choked on the cold and broke from the warmth and sadness of the reverie. He pulled his scarf up to his eyes. He felt enclosed in the cold like an animal in one of his traps. There was no ignoring it, nor escaping it. It served as a constant reminder of man’s fragility against the Alaskan wilderness. Little mistakes led to frostbite and lost fingers and toes. Big mistakes led to loss of life. He curled his fingers into his palms to collect any escaping heat.

                He trudged onward to his next sets. It wasn’t a good day for trapping, so far he’d had no fur. These sets were no different, all three empty. He carefully released the springs and disconnected the fastenings. The darkness was giving way to the first glimpses of dawn, no sun yet, but through the trees he could see the ice-covered pond, and beyond that traces of the mighty Alaska Range peaks. Between them miles of forest, trees like a congregation peering upwards to the mountains to steal a glimpse of the almighty.

                Spending only a few minutes taking in the scene, he began moving. Movement, one of the best weapons against the omnipotent cold, he pressed on. 

***

He had gone to the states for college. The “Lower 48”. People had warned him before he went. “It will change you. You’ll never come back,” they said, “It’s too liberal, too violent, too secular, too promiscuous. Stay here,” they said. But he’d wanted to see what was out there. To live outside his small world for at least four years. To come back and report that maybe dissenting opinions were sometimes worth considering. That, just maybe, there was some gray between the black and white and so he left. Packed up the August after high school graduation, all his earthly possessions in a huge green duffel bag, and flew away to college.

Washington State University a medium-sized school in a small town, but both school and town seemed gargantuan compared to Delta Junction. The 21,000 students at WSU meant the campus was ten times larger than home. The university perched upon a prominent crest situated in the Palouse of Eastern Washington. The Palouse, a golden fleece of land rising and falling as if draped gently over billiard balls only breaking to the east for the tidal wave of the dark Moscow Mountains. Comparatively, gumdrops to the Alaska Range, but elevation nonetheless. They were Idaho marking its territory. A strikingly unique geographical setting for a lovely red-brick campus.

He would study engineering. Mechanical engineering. He loved the way things worked. How a bunch of pieces fit together could create something entirely new and functional. He could work with his hands and build, construct, remodel, improve. Math had always come easy to him and he looked forward to being challenged to creatively improve the real world.

And then there were the girls. Ten-thousand girls between 18 and 22. The temperature in Pullman was sizzling in the fall and spring and those were his favorite times. Short skirts, tiny shorts, low-cut blouses, halter-tops, tanned skin, legs, the dimples on the backs of knees, hair up, ponytails off-the-neck, exposed thongs and seductive tattoos. Martyrs die for 72 virgins, but this was far better. At home he’d been quiet, enjoyed the solitude of the wilderness, had only one high school girlfriend, but here he let all that go. At college he was going to live. His roommate had brought a speaker system and their Streit Hall room was alive with sex and infused with alcohol.

His body, big-chested, abs, muscular from years of bucking bales and splitting kindling made him nearly irresistible and he didn’t resist any female interest. His two years in Streit were a lonely-man’s fantasy, but second semester junior year, he met Katie and everything got better.

Freshly 21, at the Valhalla with buddies. The Cougs had just steamrolled Washington so the atmosphere was lively, loose, happy. That was when he first saw her. He noticed her laugh first, not the sound, the Valhalla was too loud, but the way her whole body laughed. Light skin, blue eyes, black hair. Later she’d proudly told him she was Irish, her ancestors from County Galway. She dressed modestly, which was somehow even more enticing. He approached and she ignored, which of course hooked him in more. He employed every tactic he’d learned. Grab her attention with some line that might be mistaken for being mildly insulting. He was in luck because she had worn purple. Seriously, what was she thinking? “I didn’t know they allowed dawgs in here.  I thought that’s what the bouncers were for, keep the ugly out of here.” He knew he’d be the only guy that night that would approach her without telling her how beautiful she looked and she’d remember that. Then, he brushed her hand with his own and caught her eyes directly, winked and walked away. He proceeded to walk the bar making flirtatious advances to at least half a dozen other girls, always in her line of vision. An hour or so later he’d rejoined his friends and no more than ten minutes later she’d sided up to him. “I know what you’re doing. I’m actually a pretty savvy chick.”

“Is it working?” he asked.

“That’s to be determined. I’m heading out. You’ve got the walk home to convince me. I walk fast so you’ve got about ten minutes starting now. It’s Katie, by the way.” She turned for the door with a quick glance over her shoulder and the unmistakable smile of a girl he’d hooked. He handed a twenty to a friend to cover his tab and followed in quick pursuit.

                She didn’t take him to her place, but he followed blindly, to Martin Stadium. They climbed a short fence designed to keep out exactly no one and she pulled him to the fifty-yard line. “Do you like football?” she asked.

                “It’s not hockey, but I’ll take it,” he answered.

                “Well, the question here is, are you going to score a touchdown or are you gonna fumble?” She walked him to the twenty-yard line.

                “I’m usually a touchdown kind of guy, but I left the old pigskin back at my apartment tonight.”

                “You won’t need it. First, what’s your name?” she asked.

                “Michael.”

                “That’s a sexy name. Ten yards, first down.” She grabbed his arm by the elbow and moved him up to the thirty. “Okay, what’s my name?”

                “Katie,” he responded quickly, relieved he had paid attention back at the bar.

                “Impressive! Twenty yard gain!” This time she ran up to the fifty yard line and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You’re on an impressive drive, Michael, let’s see if you can keep this going. Where are you from?”

                “Delta Junction, Alaska.”

                “Holy crap, you’re a long way from home! Ten yard gain for being from somewhere interesting.” She smiled and marched him to the forty. “When’s the last time you read a book that wasn’t for school?”

                “Come on, that isn’t fair, all I ever do is read for school. Probably last summer, I guess.”

                “Oh, lousy answer! You’re sacked for an eight yard loss, but luckily you held onto the ball.” She playfully pushed him back to the 48. “Alright, it all comes down to this. Fourth down, one second left…”

                “Now wait a minute, that was only second down!”

                “Don’t get stuck in the details, Michael, like I was saying it’s fourth down, one second left, and you’re down by four. You’ve got to get by the defense and score or this game’s over. Line it up!” She moved directly in front of him, flashed a smile and crouched like a defensive lineman.

                “Wait, I have to get by you?”

                “What, are you afraid? I need to see what you’ve got!”

                He went along with it, crouched down, gave her a sneer and then winked, “Blue 41…hut…hut…hike!” She charged at him with more force than he’d expected, but he lowered his shoulder, wrapped his left arm under her right, his right arm under her knees. He felt her arm around his neck, no resistance, just hanging on, and he charged the entire 48 yards to the end zone carrying her like a knight would a rescued princess. He set her down and raised his arms in triumph.

                “Thanks for not spiking me,” she smirked before putting her hands on his chest, and running them down his hard-as-tempered steel sides she felt her teeth involuntarily bite her bottom lip and whispered, “My god, you’re He-Man.”

“Well, by the power of Gray Skull,” he said carefully brushing a loose wisp of black hair out of her eyes and over her ear and took a well-earned kiss while standing on the crimson “G” in the middle of the Cougars’ end zone.

***
               

                They dated through college. He finished with a degree in mechanical engineering, and her, library science. Convincing her to move to Delta Junction hadn’t been that difficult. Alaska an irresistible adventure for a daring suburban girl.

                There had been a position open at the local library, the position vacated after being held 30 years by a kindly woman whom the town adored, but who’d moved on to Kona to retire in warmth surrounded by hibiscus, ocean breezes, and mai tais. She had been offered the job twenty minutes after the interview and he’d been hired on the nearby Army base working for Raytheon. They’d chosen their house together, a cute little modern log cabin, down a long driveway that ran through empty farm fields whose only crop was government subsidy. It had vaulted ceilings with a loft and was filled with the pleasing smell of spruce and light wood varnish.

                A wood stove kept them cozy through the winter and they’d sit in front of the fire and read or play cribbage until they could no longer stand the happy tension and would make love on the carpet by the fire smiling and staring into each other’s eyes as the icy wind raged relentlessly outside.

                They married after a year of living together. She had wanted to give it a year after his proposal on top of Donnelly Dome, just in case, she’d told him, but it had been a lovely year and there were no more reservations. It was a Delta wedding, at Quartz Lake State Park. It seemed the whole town showed up. They’d brought their four-wheelers and Sea-Doos and strapped barbecues into their pickups. They’d brought ground patties of moose and sheep and buffalo. There was reindeer sausage and early vegetables harvested from gardens green houses. She’d told her mom and dad a few months before, and they were somewhat skeptical at first, but they’d come up along with aunts and uncles, grandmas and grandpas, and cousins. After they’d said their vows and he’d kissed her, someone had brought fireworks and as they kissed, lit the fuse and they exploded high above the lake with celebratory bangs and crashes, but the colors invisible in the bright Alaskan June night sky. Everyone had loved the wedding and the reception where there were kegs of Bud Light and car stereo systems cranked Journey and Bon Jovi and White Snake until batteries died, and then Mr. Wells, who’d been Michael’s kindergarten teacher, grabbed his guitar from the bed of his old Dodge pickup and played and sang old Hank Williams and Woody Guthrie songs and people danced or sang along. They’d left at 1:00 in the morning, but were told the last people didn’t leave until mid-morning the next day.

                Katie loved her job and the Alaskan culture, as she called it. He always told her there was no such thing as “Alaskan culture,” but she would point out all kinds of things he’d never really thought about.

                “For example,” she would start, “everyone talks about how bad the roads are, and then they drive fifteen miles over the speed limit anyway, everyone talks about how much they hate the government, but the life of the town completely depends on it, people ride snowmachines to school and to work, and while we’re on the topic of snowmachines, they are called snowmobiles everywhere else on the planet! If nothing else, the culture here is guns, Jesus, and high school hockey, the importance of which probably falls in that order unless a hockey game was scheduled for Sunday morning at 10:00. How is that not an Alaskan culture? Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but that’s what it is.”

                She could point out just about any truth with blunt honesty, and that was one of the many things he truly loved about her.

***

                She fit in quickly and kept friends through her work. The library kept her busy with grant writing and basket sales, organizing author visits and children’s books clubs. Sometimes all she was involved in was too much for Michael to handle.  When it got too crazy, he loved to get away, to go fishing, check his trap line, hunt. He craved the quiet, stillness of the wilderness and feeling the complete immersion into his natural surroundings. Sometimes, he’d leave when she was at one of her library functions and be out for three days without telling her where he’d been or that he was going.

                It was after one of these extended departures that they’d had their first fight. She had hosted a basket party, which brought women from all over town to their home to bid upon baskets with varied themes: the gardener’s basket, the hostess basket, the winter wonderland basket. It was held on a Saturday afternoon, but Michael had left after work on Friday without coming home first and didn’t get back until late Sunday night.

                When he opened the door, Jack came bounding over with exclamatory yelps, soft, wet kisses from his pink tongue, black body twitching wildly balancing his furious tail slashes. Michael put his hands around the dog’s ears and scratched him under the collar where he liked it best. He lowered himself to a knee to look level into the dog’s eyes. He stood and glanced over at Katie without saying a word.

She was perched on the sofa, slippered feet upon the seat cushion, hands around her ankles and her head rested upon her knees listening to the off-beat rhythms of a new jazz album she had ordered for the library. He noticed a steaming cup of chamomile tea steeping on the table beside her. She looked tiny to him then, but beautiful. Hair pulled up, pajama bottoms patterned with wintery trees and snowflakes, miniature crimson Cougars t-shirt under her partially opened purple bathrobe. He loved her so much, but couldn’t bring himself to go to her or say anything.

She straightened up and turned to face him when he’d shut out the weather and Jack had settled down. She was trying to be strong, but Michael could see her lips quiver as she began to speak. Her glass-blue eyes darted around the room before landing upon his and she feigned the brief hint of a smile that faded more quickly than she had forced it.

                “Nice to have you back,” she said with a mix of emotion Michael couldn’t read.

                “I was ice fishing.”

                “You’ve been gone for days, Michael. I don’t worry about you anymore, you’ve done this way too often, but I can’t stand the feeling of abandonment. You’re gone all the time and I have no way of knowing where you are or how long you’ll be gone and it’s just me here. Me and Jack and the library. I love you and I love it here, but ‘us’ has seemed to blow away with the Delta wind. I want us back, but I’m afraid that we’re gone and it’s only me and you and I feel trapped and I need to be let go.”

***

                True to her word, Jillian showed up with her truck, an old Silverado.

                “Katie’s in the house,” were the only words he could muster and Jillian responded with a slight nod of her head. She was cute, if not a little round, but Michael had always admired her fast appetite for life. Snowmachine racer, quad jumper, angler, “Girls Kick Ass” sticker displayed proudly in the middle of her rear windshield only partially concealing the gun rack.

                Michael finished up with the oil as the two women collected everything that went with Katie. The wind had picked up as he watched the Subaru trail the Silverado down the long drive, the dust flitting away with the dreams he had once had for their relationship. And while he often craved isolation, he felt only hollowness now and for the first time in his life, he felt truly alone.

He stood and stared at his empty driveway for what seemed like eternity until he heard a soft thud and noticed Jack had dropped his tennis ball, his tail beating back and forth as if there were no other care in the world. Michael picked up the ball and with the force of an Olympian hurled it into the woods. Jack left him, chasing after the ball, but he would be back. Jack always came back.

***

The crunch of the snow underfoot, the gentle friction of parka fabric were all that cracked the silence and stillness of dawn. The sun brought no heat, but flat light filled the forest and mountain peaks took a ghostly glimmer. Before long ice crystals on the untouched snow would begin to sparkle like minute glass prisms catching and redirecting soft sunlight.

It was in his last group of sets that he saw her. A lynx. A beautiful cat, white fur, black spots, tufted ears. The trap around her left front paw as she lay sleeping. Peacefully subdued in the tranquility of the early morning. He watched her for a while, the slight heaving of her ribs, barely noticed under her thick winter coat, the wisps of her last few breaths rising smoothly and evaporating into the day.

She was gorgeous. He moved closer and she startled and looked at him with huge, skeptical, yellow eyes. She pulled at the trap feebly and lied back down. Michael carefully slipped his noose over her head. He could feel her strength as he held firm, knowing the struggle would not last long. He felt her losing consciousness falling into submission and seconds before all life had escaped her, he let go. The fight had left the cat, but not her life. She again looked at him, yellow eyes glowing in the hinted sunlight. He loosened the noose and removed it.

Swiftly, he discarded his parka and immediately felt the chill through to his core. His heart pounding, acting quickly so there would be no time to change his mind his tossed the parka over the cat and pounced. He could feel the animal writhing, squirming, fighting him every inch of the way with every ounce of strength that remained. He respected her ferocity and perseverance as he reached for the release. He felt the resistance of the spring as he fought to keep the cat still and leapt backward, pulling his parka with him. He fell on his back in a drift of soft snow, but looked up just in time to see the lynx bound straight ahead, her huge paws keeping her atop the snow as she glided through the spruce and aspen and birch without sound, but with all the majesty and wonder of nature.

Michael brushed out the inside of his parka and put it back on, a shield from the cold that would soon overpower his adrenaline. He peered at the wide tracks disappearing into the forest and with a sigh that rose into the frigid air he felt some of the hollowness, that could so easily be confused with loneliness, leave his body and for the first time in months he felt right about letting her go.

Tiny Socks

                As a teacher, some of the most special moments come when I get to see parents sharing exciting moments with their children. Poetry readings, awards assemblies, graduations, the day the class leaves for camp, music performances, sporting events. There are smiles, hugs, ruffling of hair. There are teary eyes, clasped hands, cameras, “let’s take another one just in case”. Kids with huge smirky grins, sometimes toothless, sometimes all tooth, always beaming happiness because they can’t miss their parents’ adoring expression of pride and admiration for one of the most important people in the world. This little person they brought here with hope and expectations and dreams and it’s in these moments that glowing, admiring parents get just a little confirmation they’ve done something right and their smiles are unconcealable as the classroom or cafeteria or gymnasium fills with unquantifiable paternal love. They soak it all in, give all they have, hang on tight and don’t miss a moment of this precious gift of childhood. It’s a beautiful thing.

                In anticipation of the birth of our son in February, friends who are parents of two boys, gave us, among many other things, two boxes of clothes; one for 0-3 months, one for 3-6. “You’ll end up with a lot of clothes for 0-3 months, people love giving those as gifts,” he told us, “but your son will grow out of them so fast, and then you’ll be like, ‘Now what does he wear?’ So, you’ll probably want to hold onto a lot more of the 3-6 month sizes.”  I thanked him for the heads up and put the boxes, along with a Pack & Play, swing, backpack into the trunk. We got home, I unloaded them in the garage and that’s where they sat for a week.

                Today, Alecia and I went through the boxes. They were filled with onesies of pastel shades of blues and greens. Patterns of happy baseball players, dinosaurs, bears, farm animals, Winnie-the Pooh, puppies, monkeys, and cars.

And then, at the bottom of the box, there were socks. So many pairs of tiny socks, not much bigger than thimbles, all neatly folded like little knit cotton balls and I couldn’t help but think of the tiny feet that will fill those tiny socks in such a short amount of time. The adventures that will be shared from the little kicks we are feeling now to first steps to the first day of school to poetry readings, awards assemblies, graduations, camp, music performances, and sporting events.

                I know there will be sleepless nights and early mornings, that priorities will change, that money will get tighter, and that there will be uncountable dirty diapers. There will be battles about bedtime, about what to wear, and what to eat. But as we carefully refolded the thumb-sized socks I couldn’t help but think how we will also get to be like so many parents that I’ve seen throughout my career filled with all that admiration and pride, and how we will be the ones with the shaky camera and unhideable smiles holding onto priceless moments just as long as we can, experiencing the deepest feeling of love for this precious little person, our son, whose feet will soon fill those tiny socks.

               

                 

The Call: A Short Story

                Hunched over my desk like The Thinker, I glanced at the back of my left hand. The red ink was still there. Three loopy digits, hyphen, four loopy digits, smiley face. My heart skipped a beat as I thought back to 7^th period that day. Science class. Megan and I were lab partners. We’d spent the hour dissecting a small fish. Mr. J told us that every fish has a bone in its ear called an otolith, or something like that, which scientists can use to figure out its age. I’m not sure if we found the otolith or not, but I had found Megan’s hand while reaching for my lab notes. Her soft, warm skin sent fireworks through my body. I’d just meant to touch her, but before I realized what I was doing I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Where had that come from?

                I shook my head and broke off the science daydream. I glanced at my phone sitting, innocently enough, on the desk. “You can do this,” I thought, but even my inner voice was trembling. I flipped open the phone and watched the screen light up. It was 5:30. She probably wasn’t eating dinner yet. I typed in the first digit, 8, followed by a 9, and then stopped. I flipped the phone closed.

***

Mr. J had told us that we were going to have to choose new lab partners for the fourth quarter of the school year. The news had bummed me out. Dave and I had been partners all year and we were a great pair. He was a math wizard and checked all our calculations and I saw to it that our lab write-ups actually made sense. We knew we could count on each other to always get A’s. But now, during my last quarter of middle school, I’d be diving into the great unknown. Mr. J had told us we could choose anyone in the class to be our partner, but this time there were a couple of new rules. First, we couldn’t work with somebody we’d already been partners with and second, it would have to be someone of the opposite sex. There were several giggles after he’d said the word.

***

I lifted my head from its cradle of fingers and reached, once more for my cell and flipped it open. 5:43. I’d call her at 5:47, I told myself, it would be bad luck to call when the digits in the time descended, 5-4-3. I opened up Tetris and began to place the pieces.

***

I had been scanning the room for someone I could work with that would be even remotely as good as Dave. I was ticked at Mr. J for his ridiculous rules, but he told us that boys and girls think a little differently and he wanted us to have perspective. Whatever. I was just about to go ask Debbie when I felt a tap on my upper arm. I wheeled around and there she was. Megan. It was a sunny day and a beam was perfectly illuminating her beautiful blonde hair, which settled on her shoulders like golden autumn leaves. Her blue eyes sparkled like sapphires, her skin was angelic, she smiled as our eyes locked. For just a moment, it was magical, but then I could feel my face flush with color and I quickly looked down at the beige asphalt tiles on the floor.

“Um, hey,” she said, “do you, um, want to be my lab partner?”

My heart fluttered, my hands turned to ice, and every form of language skill I had acquired over my 14 years decided, at that moment, to make themselves completely unavailable to my tongue. I stared, frozen, like an ice-sculpture of my former self.

“Jackson?” she asked twisting her right foot into the floor and twirling a thread of pale hair. I heard the classroom door open behind me and a gentle breeze blew in, which caught her blonde wisps and teased them like perfect wind socks. She looked like a model. I could have collapsed and I leaned on a desk for physical and moral support. I composed myself as best I could.

“Uh…what?” was the best reply I could muster.

“Well, like, Mr. J said we have to pick someone of the opposite…,” she trailed off, much to my relief, before continuing, “and, like, I was…well…you know, you and Dave, you’re always partners and me and Elise we’re always partners. Well, it’s like, Dave and Elise are gonna be partners now, so I just was like…”

“Yeah!” I said, just a little too excitedly, my voice cracking with a shrill tone that surprised both of us.

***

My phone vibrated when my Tetris pieces had completely filled up my screen. I exited the game and saw it was 5:49. I’d missed my own deadline. I glared at my phone and tried to use sheer willpower to get someone, anyone, to call me.

***

Megan and I had been lab partners for two weeks, when Dave announced he was going to ask Elise to the spring semi-formal dance. “You should totally ask Megan, man. No one’s asked her yet and Elise says she’s totally into you, and besides, she’s super-hot. It’ll be like a double date.” Dave was right about one thing, Megan was hot. Crazy-hot. She was one of the smartest kids in eighth grade, star of the basketball team, and wore clothes that were modest, yet perfectly form-fitting. She would win the triple-crown of sexy if there were such a competition. In 7^th grade, she had been voted Most Likely to Succeed, Most Athletic, and Most Fun at a Party. She had actually been voted Most… in every category, but Ms. Cavanaugh, the school principal, had told the journalism students they had to limit her to only three. I didn’t feel like I was good enough for her.

***

“Jackson, it’s time for dinner!” shouted Mom, “Are you doing your homework up there?”

“Yup,” I lied. I glanced at my phone before heading downstairs to eat. It was 6:17.

***

               

“Did you hear?” asked Dave as we walked into English class that morning.

                “Hear what?” I said. Dave was always into the latest gossip.

                “Bryan Saunders totally asked Megan to go to the semi-formal after school yesterday.” I could feel a lump in my throat and it felt like I had just been punched in the gut. All of a sudden it felt hard to breathe and the words Bryan and Saunders seemed like the two most horrible utterances imaginable. He who cannot be named. “But the thing is,” Dave continued, “she totally said no. Dude, she’s totally holding out for you, man, but you’ve gotta get on this. She’s a girl and she’s hot and she’s not gonna wait forever, that’s for sure.” The lump temporarily subsided and my gut no longer ached until I realized what it was I had to do.

                Throughout the day, I carefully weighed my options. I could just go up to her and ask, but if she said no, science lab wouldn’t really work out anymore. I just wasn’t sure if I could go the rest of the quarter working with her after that kind of blatant rejection. I could write a note, but that seemed so fifth grade. By the time science rolled around, my plan was solidified.

***

               

I ate dinner quickly and headed upstairs. I was glad Mom hadn’t said anything about the number on my hand even though, in a weird sort of way, I had wanted her to see it. Earlier in the year Mr. Benson had taught us the Latin phrase, “carpe diem.” He said that it meant seize the day. I decided to heed that advice. I picked up my phone and dialed Megan’s number without hesitating. It was 6:58.

                “Hello?” said the voice on the other end of the line. It was Megan’s dad. My heart sank. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to me that she would give me her home number. I’d never really spoken to Mr. Martz before, but he came to all Megan’s basketball games and his voice was always heard above all others yelling at her coaches and the refs. He was intimidating with a capital I. I was speechless. My lexicon had left the building.

                “Hello?” Mr. Martz said again, this time clearly perturbed.

                “Um, hi,” I squeaked, “um is Megan around?”

                “Who’s this?” he inquired.

                “Jackson,” I managed to choke out, “it’s Jackson Bernard.”

                “Jackson! Well, why didn’t you say so? You wouldn’t happen to be calling to ask Megan to that semi-formal she’s been talking about incessantly for the past two weeks, would you?” His voice had completely changed, not only did he seem glad I was calling, but he was acting as if he’d known me for years. Somehow the eeriness of it all made me even more nervous, if that was even possible.

                “Yes, Mr. Martz, sir,” I said, the words pouring out like lava, unintentionally formal.

                “Oh, please, call me Dan,” he said, “Unfortunately, Meggie’s in the shower, but I’ll have her call ya back as soon as she’s out. Shouldn’t be more than 10 or 15 minutes.”

                “Thank you, sir,” I spit as I tried with all my might to suppress my mind from picturing water droplets running the length of Megan Martz’s beautiful body while her dad was still on the other end of the phone line.  

***

               

I’d gotten it all figured out halfway through sixth period algebra. I knew we were going to be dissecting a fish and would have to write a lab report soon. I’d make a couple of jokes about the data we were collecting being ‘fishy’ and then just as smooth as a silk scarf I would reach over her hands for something, just barely dusting her skin. She’d look at me and then I’d say something like, pardon me, but I was reaching for your digits and then she’d laugh and give me her number immediately. It didn’t quite happen that way.

                We were all done dissecting the fish when Mr. J told us that we’d get extra credit if we found the otolith. I hadn’t had a chance to carry out my plan yet, so this was remarkably lucky. Megan and I had switched sides leaving my notes in front of her. There would be no better chance. I reached for the notes just as her right hand was moving forward. NASA couldn’t have planned a better landing on a foreign object, instead of just dusting her skin, our hands locked together, my fingers were above hers, my thumb nestled perfectly in her palm, and at that moment, as if the sparks weren’t already flying from every angle, I squeezed her hand and at the same moment released a massive sneeze that sent a spray of spittle all over our hands and the science project.

***

               

At 7:08, my heart was racing. It had been ten minutes. We had entered the range where Dan, or Mr. Martz, or whatever, had assured me I would be getting a call. I tried to play Tetris, but I couldn’t focus on the game. The seconds were feeling like hours.

***

               

I was so embarrassed and Megan was giggling nearly uncontrollably. “Bless you,” she laughed as she turned on the water and began to rinse her hand. I couldn’t stand it, I walked out of class and headed for the closest bathroom. I felt like folding myself into the smallest space possible and never coming out.

                I splashed water on my face and managed to compose myself enough to head back into Mr. J’s class. I went to the back of the room where the lab tables were, sat down on a stool, but could not bring myself to look at Megan. As the bell rang, I made a beeline for the door. I was fast, but not fast enough. As the class spilled into the hall, I felt a familiar tap on my upper arm. I turned to see Megan, a smiling angel. She took my hand and without saying a word pulled a red pen from her backpack and scrawled her number across the back of my hand. Then she gave it a gentle squeeze and drew a smiley face. She winked. As she walked away, she turned around once and it was hard to tell, but I thought she might have even blown a kiss.

***

               

At 7:21, I was feeling desperate. I still hadn’t heard a thing. I took out my algebra book and began the homework set. I was halfway through problem number 23 when my phone began to ring.  The number on the caller ID matched the one on the back of my hand. It was 7:49 when I flipped the phone open and said, “Hello?”

Don't Stop Believin'

I am a shower singer. I love those relaxed bathtub acoustics, the confined quarters, and the three smooth, wet walls that create a steamy recording studio where I croon any song on my mind without reservation or concern for the actual lyrics or who may be listening. I switch between genre and style and artist with eggshell-smooth transitions that are completely nonsensical to my audience, who is never larger than one: my patient, kind-hearted, and ultimately crazy-awesome wife, Alecia. She laughs when my rendition of James Taylor’s Fire and Rain flawlessly shifts to 2Pac’s California Love and then to Lady Gaga and then Frank Sinatra and then a number from Westside Story or some such progression that touches upon any tune that happens to be drifting through my subconscious. There’s no method or thought behind it, I simply sing the songs lodged in my head at the time and somehow it makes sense to belt them out loud enough to occasionally inspire head-tilting and inquisitive glances from the neighbor’s backyard dog. As far as I’m concerned, behind the curtain, anything goes.

I’ve been known to sing in just about any forum. As a member of the University of Arizona Symphonic Choir, at karaoke bars, and in front of the captive audience that is my fifth grade class. I’ll slip into song just about anywhere without even realizing it. Once at an Arizona Wildcat softball game I was shushed by a fellow spectator when I started singing an elementary school tune about frogs jumping into a pond in the middle of an intense fourth inning rally. In all honesty, I hadn’t even noticed I was doing it. I’m not a particularly gifted vocalist, it’s just that I perpetually have songs embedded in my brain and releasing them seems to be a stress-relief of sorts.

Since I’ve broken into song in front of unsuspecting audiences for as long as I can remember, singing tunes in public is not something that frightens me. I was made for the karaoke microphone and used to go with relative frequency, but as it turns out, many people do not share my shameless approach to the art of song. In fact, I’ve found for many the idea of standing in front of a group of strangers singing off-key pop songs in the dingy limelight of a dive bar is about as appealing as leaping naked into a patch of thorny Himalayan blackberries. In short, unless the group has already partaken in considerable amounts of confidence-inducing libations, rounding up a group for such an outing takes convincing far beyond my persuasion ability level and I’d probably have better luck pushing for the aforementioned blackberry dive in the buff.

It was just a few weeks ago that Alecia and I were looking for a movie to go see. Nothing looked all that appealing, but in the search I happened to see a review for a karaoke bar in the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Seattle called the Rock Box. The Rock Box, unlike most typical karaoke bars, has various rooms to let to parties from two to fifteen people. For an hourly fee, you and your party could sit in a room and sing as many songs as possible without the risks of embarrassment or the shady characters that haunt normal karaoke bars. I just had to go check it out.

We got there at 7:00, were given an iPad and two microphones and then were led through a labyrinth of dimly-lit corridors by a dainty woman in geisha-like dress despite being decidedly not of Japanese origin. Finally, she opened a large soundproof door and we entered a tiny room painted in red and black smaller than most closets. For a second I felt like an eighth grader who’d just accepted a dare and was about to begin my seven minutes in heaven. With eyes quickly adjusting to the shadowy darkness I noticed one side of the room had a small bench, the other a fairly large flat-screen. The only other piece of furniture in the room was an upturned wooden crate upon which two binders of song lists sat. Our graceful kimono-clad escort told us she would be our server and that we could take full advantage of happy hour prices for the next hour. She recommended the sake sangria, of which we ordered two before she retreated with a clasped-handed bow.

We then quickly set about creating our playlist, starting with songs we knew well and could sing together. Fire and Rain was our first choice, followed by another James Taylor classic, Country Road. It was halfway through the second song that our server showed up with our drinks. Now as I’ve stated before, I have almost no shame when it comes to singing in public, but there was something about that first intrusion, something about being caught by a stranger while closed in a closet with my wife singing at full-lung capacity that brought an immediate end to rocking that song. She apologetically handed us our drinks and we ordered Japanese macaroni and cheese, which turned out to be pretty much ordinary macaroni and cheese with toasted Panko crumbs (delicious) and curry fries which were even more delicious…kind of like spicy poutine, which is an artery-clogging delicacy simply everyone must try.

We put more songs on our playlist and were getting much more confident. Every song we could think of we were singing, loudly. It was also fun to listen to guests in other rooms. Periodically a chorus of feminine shrieks of joy would be followed by famous guitar intros by Journey or Bon Jovi or Pat Benatar followed by exuberant laughter and a reprise of out-of-tune vocalists. It was great!

As the evening wore on, we grew braver too. James and Paul Simon and Don McLean were replaced by the likes of Sublime and Usher and LMFAO. I didn’t even care when our server showed up with my Sapporo in the midst of me rocking Sexy and I Know It, “Girl, look at that body. Girl, look at that body. I work out. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle…oh, um, hey there, thanks!” She clearly didn’t care either and it quickly dawned on me that she was probably familiar with the gamut of vocal talents and ours didn’t register at either extreme of the bell curve. This was shower singing to the extreme due to the mic and the ability to know the lyrics to essentially any song.

When the door to our little closet opened one final time and we were informed we had just long enough remaining on our reservation for one more song, I wondered how the last two hours had slipped away and it was with just a slight hint of sadness that we tuned up our best testicle-pinching Steve Perry pipes and cranked Don’t Stop Believin’ like we thought we honestly never would and never will. We left our little room and weaved through an excited and merry, if not mildly inebriated, crowd that had assembled in the lobby waiting for their room, turned in our microphones, and headed into the cold, rainy Seattle evening with ear-to-ear smiles.

There’s an old quote, to whom I’m not sure credit belongs, that reads something similar to, “Dance like no one’s watching, sing like no one’s listening, love like you’ve never been hurt, and live like it’s heaven on Earth,” and I think there’s some truth in the adage. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy to put aside judgment or the thought of being judged and truly live by it. I can get there with a bathtub shower stall, but on days where just a little more is needed, I know a great place with a closet and a microphone that provides the confidence and atmosphere to dismiss all vocal inhibitions and let loose like no one is listening or cares and you can wail like you’ll never stop believing.

Snowy Owls and the Point Roberts Fiber Fest

A cold, windy Saturday. Typical for a Western Washington February. Powerful gusts shook our old house while rain droplets pelted our windows with an inconsistent, steady rhythm like an experimental percussionist. Alecia and I were inside under a blanket, warmed by our fire, coffee in hand, reading the morning paper—The Daily Herald. One particular article was about migrating snowy owls that were currently occupying a small patch of land in Boundary Bay Regional Park just outside Vancouver, British Columbia.

Having spent the previous week at IslandWood Outdoor School with my students where we spotted two barred owls, this was very exciting to me. The article explained there were roughly 30 snowy owls, that the park was an easy daytrip from Everett, and that they would likely be gone by the end of the month. It also had several spectacular photos of the birds. I was sold, we were going to Canada!

The drive up was wet, but uneventful until we reached the border crossing. It was an unusually short wait and after about twenty minutes, it was our turn to be questioned by the Canadian border authorities. The guard was a younger guy, late twenties or early thirties. He had an eerie resemblance to Aziz Ansari, who plays Tom Haverford on the sitcom Parks and Recreation. We handed him our passports and the questioning got underway.

“Where do you live?”

“Everett.”

“What brings you to Canada today?”

“We’re heading to Boundary Bay Regional Park to see the snowy owls.” Apparently the guard had not been privy to the Herald article because he looked at me as if I had just escaped from a state hospital. I could have just as easily told him we were heading to Kamloops to see the famed somersaulting penguins or that we were off to Whistler to scout out the migrating heard of endangered ant-eating antelopes. His brow furrowed and his previously kind-looking eyes glared at me with cross skepticism.

“What?” he replied in question.

“There’s a parliament of migrating snowy owls at Boundary Bay Regional Park,” I answered unwisely instituting my newly found knowledge that a large group of owls is known to birders as a ‘parliament’. Luckily, the exciting expansion of my lexicon was lost upon the guard. I proudly handed him the newspaper article I had brought along. He gave it a three-second glance before handing it back through the open driver-side window.

“So, you both must work in the conservation field, eh?”

“No, no,” I replied, “we’re school teachers. We’ll be taking lots of pictures that we can share with the kids.” His face showed nothing but utter bewilderment as his shoulders dropped and he exerted an annoyed “Hmpf.” He clearly needed more time to process my statement and he took a lap around our CR-V. He simply couldn’t rationalize spending several hours in the car and crossing an international border to stand out in the driving rain to look at a few birds. Owls were obviously not the type of hooters this guy would ever go out of his way to catch a glimpse of. As he rounded the car, he stopped and carefully inspected something on the front bumper with great interest.

“So you left your kids to come up here for this?” he asked as he returned to my window. At first I was confused, but his meaning dawned on me quickly.

“No, I meant we’ll take pictures to share with our students.” That answer seemed to satisfy his concern, but he still wasn’t done.

“You’ve got a dented plate up front, you know. Did you hit something on your drive?” At this point I was beginning to question the purpose of this Canadian excursion as well as my own sanity. Truth was the license plate had been dented years ago in a rather embarrassing fashion, but considering how telling the truth was working out for me so far, I made a quick decision to go with his diagnosis.

“Yup,” I said with a quick shrug of the shoulders.

“Hmpf,” was his only response. He asked several more questions, all of which I answered as honestly as possible, all of which seemed to increase his distrust, but he finally let us go and on we went.

The park was only a few miles from the border and soon after our encounter with the guard we were very near our final destination. The road ran through acres of muddy fields painted white with flocks of thousands of seagulls, however, it didn’t take long to notice it wasn’t only seagulls dwelling in the mud-covered plains. Dozens of enormous eagles mingled with the gulls. The human equivalent of this phenomenon would be like Shaquille O’Neal teaching a kindergarten lesson. We stopped and got several photos, braving the wind and rain, before heading the remaining short distance to the owls.

When we got to the park, the wind was so strong opening the car door was difficult. We climbed to the top of a dyke that seemed to stretch endlessly in either direction. The slate-colored waters of Boundary Bay crashed in violent waves upon the shoreline. Raindrops and ice pellets stung our faces and hands as they drove into our skin like so many needles. There were a few other hardy souls to the northwest, some with colossal telephoto lenses balanced precariously on tripods that wobbled in the incessant wind. Leaning into the gusts, we fought our way to where the cameras were perched.

In the distance, across piles of driftwood, I saw four brilliant white owls perched on a large gray log. I was already psyched as I squinted to get a better look at the rare birds. I looked at Alecia and noticed she was looking in a different direction. I followed the direction of her gaze and noticed an owl only a few feet from the dyke. Looking northwest, I saw about ten more owls, each no more than twenty or thirty feet away. Their feathers were ruffled and they were bracing themselves against the wind. Their dazzling white feathers gave a strange glow against the gloomy February sky. They sat motionless except for their heads, which swiveled in a smooth gracefulness from the onlookers to the sea. We admired the sight for several minutes before our hands were paralyzed with cold and the camera was so fogged it could no longer take a photograph that wasn’t reminiscent of the blurred images of mythical creatures.

We had planned on taking a little more time with the owls, but the weather simply was not going to allow for that. It was then I happily realized we were within a few minutes’ drive of Point Roberts, Washington. As stated on its Wikipedia page, Point Roberts is “a geopolitical oddity.” It is at the end of a peninsula that extends just beyond the 49^th parallel. Like the entire state of Alaska, it is considered an exclave of the United States because it is not an island, but it cannot be reached from any point in the United States by land. The difference between Point Roberts and Alaska is the Point is less than five square miles in area. Being the maphead I am, I had been interested in that little patch of land since my childhood. We were this close, why not go now?

We drove through the relatively affluent and densely populated Vancouver suburb of Tsawwassen before reaching the border crossing, our second of the day. This particular crossing was faster, but it was surprisingly busy. We found out later that many Canadians enter Point Roberts seeking cheaper gas prices. Immediately after the crossing, we noticed many handmade signs in the shape of sheep placed chronologically like Burma-Shave advertisements. The sheep-shaped signs were promoting a community event called “Fiber Fest” that, as luck would have it, was taking place that very day, February 18. After spending about 15 minutes driving through the entirety of Point Roberts, which turned out to be a depressed looking little place much akin to a very tiny Appalachia, there was nothing left to do but check out the monumental fun that Fiber Fest promised to offer.

Fiber Fest was held at the community center and when we arrived, the parking lot was completely full, so we parked along the main road and made our way to the entrance. A very animated festival-organizer greeted us at the door. “You’re just in time, but you’d better hurry, they’re about to stop selling tickets for the quilt raffle!” We thanked him and told him we’d check it out. Turned out Fiber Fest, though its deceptive name sounded like a dietary convention to battle constipation and irregularity, was a festival celebrating local quilters and knitters and the local Point Roberts talent was impressive. Beautiful quilts and blankets draped the walls in all sorts of dazzling colors. Homemade baked goods and coffee were being sold and the tiny community center was packed with dozens of people chatting and spreading small-town gossip.

The items were mostly out of our price range and we did not buy a raffle ticket, but we took in the energy created by the joyful gathering of people making the most of their otherwise bleak day just like we were and it felt good to share the cheerfulness and warmth with them. 

I love days like February 18. I will remember days like these not because they were outrageously significant or epic or triumphant, but because they are small and special and beautiful. Someone had spent months organizing Fiber Fest and it brought a group of people together for no other reason than to look at their friends’ and neighbors’ crafts, which they had likely already seen, but it gave them a few hours of genuine happiness and joy and they shared that happiness and joy with us. We drove for hours to freeze in driving wind and rain to look at birds, but they were stunning and they brought people together who smiled and pointed and whispered happily to one another because they recognized the unbridled beauty of natural phenomena, which can be as simple as the gathering of 28 snowy owls. My interaction with the Canadian border guard was humorous, but I hope that one day, he too can appreciate these small but exceptional moments, because the Fiber Fests and owls and other little things are worth long drives and border lines and inclement weather because small moments, regardless of where they occur, are the things that make each of our days special and substantial and worth remembering.

The Voice of Time

I have countless wonderful memories of Grandpa Time. They are beautiful and when I reflect on them, each one brings comfort and happiness and warmth. But in all my memories, no matter the context, I always hear Grandpa’s voice. It was low and strong and powerful, but all the while he spoke with a poetic cadence, gentleness, and despite the topic of the story, or his lesson, or the thought he was sharing his words would hug me because there was love behind each one he spoke.

He was a teacher and never missed a teachable moment. I remember being on Great Grandma’s farm in Issaquah as a child and I can still hear his beautiful voice describing each type of cow pie. Teaching about watching my step and the specific ones to look out for. At the beach, he would tell about the little crabs that scattered when I turned stones. Later, when I grew into an adult, he taught about gardening. About growing tomatoes, trimming apple trees, and when to put in corn so it would be “knee high by the Fourth of July”. I’m not the master gardener he was, but every year I put in a vegetable garden I hear his voice patiently, lovingly explaining how to dig up the soil and mix it properly and how to put it back, in order to get the best crop.

His voice was powerful and he used it to give everyone a chance, to cheer for the underdog. He used to take me to Mariners’ games in the Kingdome and he’d see a rookie pitcher, just called up, playing catch in the bullpen, usually a kid 18, 19, 20-years old and he’d get so excited. You could just see him light up. And he’d start using that powerful, low voice, and he’d shout at Lou Piniella to get that kid in the game with as much voracity as if it were his own child out there and sometimes, I swear, Lou would listen and the kid would get his chance.

Years later, when I was grown and married, we would go to Mt. Si High School football games. He loved football and high school athletes. He had a knack for finding the kids who weren’t necessarily the most athletic, but poured their souls into the game. He loved those players. I remember that year Mt. Si had a kid named Dex. A big kid, their tight end. Grandpa spotted him right away because he gave it all on every play and he didn’t get the ball much at the beginning of the season, but as the year progressed and Grandpa cheered him loudly, Dex improved and became one of the best players on the team. I can’t help but think part of that was due to him hearing Grandpa’s voice, rising above the others, loud, powerful, and reassuring.

Once, Grandma and Grandpa took Brian and Stevie and Casey and me camping at Thousand Trails. The four cousins only got to see each other once a year and I always cherished those times. We got our own room in a cabin and were talking and laughing late into the night, and we were keeping Grandpa awake, but I think he loved it because he knew we were happy. He snuck outside, around the cabin, and let his voice charge through our window and scared the heck out of us and it was great and we quieted down after that.

He was a storyteller and a poet and I remember listening to his stories about past students, or his life experiences, or people he had befriended, which was just about anyone he ever met. And I remember listening to his voice and feeling warm and safe and happy and I knew that nothing could ever go wrong as long as he kept talking.

The last time I heard Grandpa’s voice we talked about the Super Bowl and football and I told him I loved him and he told me he loved me and I always knew he did because the love he had for his family was so pure and genuine and blended within all his words. I still hear Grandpa’s voice; powerful, kind, patient, and gentle. I hear the lessons he taught, his spirited shouts, and the stories he told and I hold these dearly and I treasure his love and the happiness and safety and warmth I felt when I was with him and I know he is still with me, and will be, always.