Don't Want to Miss the Fun

   I woke up today and went in your room to try to rouse you.  There are only a few more days of school left, so I promised you could sleep as late as you want, and of course you won't.  I remember not long ago, when I asked you "Why are you awake so early when you don't have school?"  And you said, "Because.  I don't want to miss the fun!"

    Up until this moment, I never really considered those words.  I think they adequately describe your spirit. 

    8 years ago, Mommy and I were confident we had plenty of time before your arrival.  You, however, had other ideas and shocked us by coming into our lives 21 days early, on June 2nd, instead of the 23rd due date.

    Growing up, I always thought there comes a time when you simply attain all the knowledge you are going to need, and I thought I already had that moment.

   But the second the nurse put you in my arms, I knew I hadn't learned nearly enough.

   I learned to laugh again.  I learned to see things as though for the first time.  I learned that no heart is big enough to contain all the love I feel for you.  I learned to hope again.  I learned that your little smiles, your first words, those first few steps were a more significant triumph than all the accolades in the world.

   I learned to have fun again.

   You taught me so much in your first years, Kendra Marie.  There are times when I can barely remember what my life was before you came along.  I can't even recall whether it was good or bad.  In essence, fatherhood's taught me to live again.

   When I write my characters, I imagine their childhood, their parents, their life as kids.  It's a great way to give them depth, to know them as well as I know myself.

   If you were a novel, kiddo, it's the best I've ever read, and I'm only starting chapter 8.

   You've gone from a quiet, studious little toddler, to a formidable debater.  I can no longer trick you into thinking the moon is made of cheese (even though it is) because even as of chapter 6, you were smart enough to check with Mommy, knowing she'd give you a straight answer.  You even took the time to counsel me on the error of my ways. 

   I narrated much of your story in those earlier chapters, but now the pen is in your left hand and this story is yours to tell.  I'm demoted to the background as the rock where you can always lean on, as the sage who will always guide you.  These next chapters are yours.

   But I love what I helped you write and I often go back and read it again, and before I know it, I get to the page you're working on.

   It's staggering to witness the changes in you.  It's amazing to constantly wonder where you're heading with your story.

   You now have very little of the baby I held eight years ago.  Now you're tall and your voice is strong and confident.  You possess such grace and elegance in your movements, it's almost hard to believe you're just a kid.  You have no problem exerting your will, and you defend your arguments with the tenacity of a well-prepared attorney.  You have an unwavering focus when you paint, when you do your homework, when you play.  You have an understanding of right and wrong that defies logic. 

   You invited over a girl who picked on you and made you cry, because you figured if you got to know each other better, you'd be friends.  Kendra Marie, me you're by far a bigger person than I would've been at that age.  That idea was yours and yours alone and I remember Mommy and I lying in bed, mute in awe of your maturity.

   You know how to laugh, God! You know how to laugh! 

   You've made this world of ours a prettier place with nothing more than your smile, and you're growing more beautiful each and every day.

I can't write enough about the pride I feel when I look at you.  I wish I could take the credit for the kind of person you've become over these eight years. 

   And your story keeps getting better. 

   Just when I think I will burst from so much emotion, you'll do something else that makes my heart swells with love. 

   Keep writing your story, baby girl.  It's the best tale I've ever read.  I can't wait to see what happens next.  I don't want to miss the fun!

   Loving you always,

   Daddy

  

   

  

  

  

The First Commencement

 "I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

   To listen to these words in your little voice, in unison with your classmates hit me with a greater impact than the day I spoke those same words in the company of forty-five other people, when I became an American citizen. 

   To me, that point marked the first commencement of my life, and I looked ahead, determined to make my mark in my new homeland.

   Amber Gabrielle, today you ran around, skipping in total jubilation with the knowledge that school was done after today.  Your smile faded a bit when you ran into the little office and told me, yet again, "I'm done with school!"

   I didn't mean to frighten you when I pulled you into my arms and kissed your little forehead, a feeble attempt at hiding the emotion brimming in my eyes. 

   "Aw, I love you too, Daddy."

   I didn't realize I had said that to you, but I did.  Of course, I did. 

   You looked at me with your little grin and asked me if it was time to go yet.  Your graduation was set for six, and it was only one o'clock.  You were so impatient throughout the afternoon until Mommy announced that we'd best get ready, and you flew up the steps to put on your dress and curl your hair.

   All I wanted to do was jam the mechanisms of time, just to keep you little, for just a little longer.

   Since I had no wrench big enough to throw into the cosmic works of time, I had no choice but to accept another milestone that takes you a few steps closer to the big girl you want to be, while pulling me away from the baby I still want you to be.

   You sat with your little classmates, giggling, showing off your dress, and making comments on what everyone else was wearing.  It dawned on me that you were blissfully unaware of the significance of your first graduation, the first, I hope, of many.

    I was so glad to be part of your first commencement, perhaps something of no consequence to you whatsoever. But to see you in your pretty dress as you stood and shook hands with your teacher after taking your first diploma, gave me a sense of pride I've never felt before. 

   Where is that little baby girl with the light brown bangs over her eyes, and the lopsided grin?  Who is this little lady reciting every word of the Pledge of Allegiance? 

   After hugging your teacher, you walked away, not once looking back, as though far more than ready to face the next challenge, to climb the next step, to put another landmark behind on your way to the person you will one day be.  And God willing, Mommy and I will make that journey with you.  We'll be with you and your big sissy, every step of the way.  

   Happy Graduation, babygirl, I love you.  Your first commencement is no small thing to me, and I couldn't possibly describe how proud I was of reciting the Pledge with you.

   Daddy.   

   

How Writing Saved My Life

Note:  I'd written this letter while working on THE GAZE, never thinking it would see the light of day, but this is what happened...

   "Again?"

   I turned to see my daughters stare at me with a frustrated look on their face.

   "I'm just replying to a message, we're still going for ice cream."

   Their frown turned upside down.  It's amazing the type of absolution a cone of Dairy Queen's finest can buy you.

   "Dad, why are you always writing?"  Kendra asked with severity after her little sister left the room dancing for joy at the prospect of ice cream.

   "Maybe I'll write it in a letter for you."

   "Just for me?"  Her hazel eyes shone with anticipation.

   "Just for you."

   "Okay," she said with satisfaction.  "I'd better get my shoes on."

  

   Kendra and Amber, here's the letter.

   I started writing you these notes because since you both came along, I've lived moments I never wanted to forget, but also in the hopes of helping you understand why your mommy and I do the things we do.  When I was your age, I didn't understand much of what went on in my parents' lives, and when it was clear I wasn't the center of the universe, I'd wrongly get upset.  So while the moment is fresh in my mind, I wanted to commit these thoughts to the page so when you come of age, you may be privy to the answers I kept from you when you were little. 

   Writing saved my life.

   Not just once, not even twice.  Writing kept me from shattering during times when I could've easily fallen apart. 

   When I was a kid and we moved from Ecuador to Connecticut, loneliness was my only companion.  I couldn't utter more than three words in English and there was no chance of making friends.  Your grandparents and aunt were going through a similar hard time, and I couldn't in good conscience burden them with my discontent.  There were some people that offered me plenty of temptations to escape from reality, but I couldn't disappoint my parents after everything they sacrificed for me to have a shot at life here, in this amazing country.  So I turned to writing.  I wrote and wrote about anything and everything.  Little by little I gained a handle on enough English to get me by and then I discovered what a beautiful language I had to play with.  So, when you go through your hard times, if you feel the need to escape, please do something constructive and don't harm yourselves.

   I'll tell you the story of Mommy and me, and how almost losing her nearly undid me.  I once again turned to writing, where I vented my heartaches, and eventually found the determination to win her heart.  One day, you will know what a heartbreak is.  It's just one of those things we all seem obligated to endure, but if you stay courageous and don't forget your worth, you'll be stronger for it all.

   When you asked me why I'm always writing, I couldn't possibly give you an understanding of what the ebbs and flows of the economy meant to my job, the job that kept me away from you for entire days at a time.  I couldn't let you see how afraid I was of losing everything we've worked so hard for, because the job suddenly wasn't enough.  I couldn't let you see the regret in my face when I realized we just had to move and start over, for I knew what that meant to you, to Mommy.  I couldn't let you know that I've felt like I've let you down despite knowing how absloutely you counted on me.

   When all the mounting despair got the best of me, I pasted a smile on my face for you, and when you went to sleep, I kissed your foreheads and silently asked you to forgive me for my errors.  And to escape that kind of recrimination, I sat at the keyboard to write. 

   All that writing I did when I was a kid, and all the people I wrote about, gave me enough to weave a story, a story that a few people like enough to have given me a glimpse of what a career in writing would mean for all of us.  I just wanted an opportunity, and I was determined to work as hard as I could to get to that point.

   One day, you'll read this letter and hopefully have your answer.  By then I pray to God that whatever sacrifices you had to make when you were little, have been well worth it, and thus grant your father a level of absolution that all the ice cream in the world may not have bought.

   I love you both more than you could ever know, 

   Daddy. 

The Drive

THE DRIVE

The air was still and even when it came to dislodge more yellow leaves off the maple tree, it was cool rather than cold.  The sun shone high in a sky of pure azure, untainted by any clouds.  Light came in seemingly through every window in the small two-story little place we called home.  On our front porch, an arrangement of pumpkins and gourds sat at the foot of an inflatable comic rendition of Frankenstein marking the first holiday of the fall. 

A distant rumble prompted me to fire up the tractor and the gas trimmer to pretty up the front yard.  I changed into old jeans and a ratty sweatshirt and walked out into the sun, greedily inhaling the cool air.  Once I was done with the trimming, I brought the tractor around and started rumbling through the yard when I became aware of a pair of eyes locked on me from the front door.

My four year old daughter Kendra stared wistfully at me, a sure way to earn herself an invitation.  Successful in her attempt, she hopped down the concrete walkway and seemed to glide on the grass as she came up to me.  I readied a pair of earplugs and helped her put them on.  Then I sat and propped her up on my lap, her small hands firmly holding the wheel. 

The rumbling of the engine made conversation difficult so I just hooted and hollered as she cut the wheel sharply, making the rear tires spin on the grass.  I could not see her face but the tilt of her cheekbones bespoke of a wide grin as she drove.  At that moment, the years fell away and I was suddenly transported back to when I was fifteen…

Dad reluctantly put away his coffee mug and seemed to buy himself some time as he moved slowly to the door.  He moved with the easy grace of an athlete, my father, my best friend, my hero.  Perhaps I found it easy to put him on a pedestal because today, Dad was taking me driving.

He offered me the keys, but was still standing still as I opened the door and climbed behind the wheel of our camel brown ’79 Chevrolet Chevette hatchback.  The last time he had let me drive his car, I was eight and the little mini Austin pickup kicked up gravel and dust as I let the clutch out too quick and Dad’s face turned white with fright.

Seven years later, taller than Dad, I felt the same fright emanating from him as I pulled out onto the road and tried hard to repress the building laughter as he checked mirrors and every window, while telling me to keep my eyes on the road.  I had not broken 25mph when he told me to slow down, his foot pushing a hole through the floorboard on an imaginary brake pedal.

We drove up a steep street into a network of back roads that led to the high school.  I figured I would spend the day driving in the safe realm of the school parking lot but to my surprise, Dad signaled for me to go past the school.

There were a few scares as I nervously edged away from oncoming traffic while Dad literally jumped off his seat to take control of the vehicle but after a half hour, a curious thing happened.

Dad’s shoulders fell as he leaned back in his seat.  He told me about one of his bosses, who told him to learn to drive because it was part of the culture.  The man had practically forced him to drive his Mercedez Benz. 

The blacktop unfolded like water under a bridge and it felt more as though the road itself straightened out rather than the wheels turning to conform to its curves.  We commented on that, the same way we had years before when I was a little kid.

I graduated into a main road and we followed it through a beautiful New England fall landscape as we drove through Huntington and into Trumbull.  I must have been doing impressively well, for Dad had me take the highway to get back home.

The speed matched my spirits, not because it was one of the first times I was in control of a car, but because I was with my dad, sharing an intimate experience that I knew I'd remember forever...

And here I was now, back in the present, with my daughter, experiencing the same thrill I had felt all those years ago. 

She cut the wheel right, then left, then right again, and squealed with delight when I pointed her to the dirt and gravel lane near our house we so fondly call “The Buggie Forest”.

Kendra and I drove the tractor under a canopy of pine needles bouncing on the gravelly road before emerging onto our street and heading back home.  At only four years of age, she has a pretty good idea of how to keep the tractor on a straight line and I beam with pride at her prowess.

We pulled up in front of the front door where Mommy nervously smiled at us from behind the glass.  Kendra shut off the engine, removed her ear plugs and jumped down to tell her all about it.  I was smiling, shaking my head with joy as I watched her.  Then she stopped and ran back to me.  I thought she would want to jump back on but she put her hands on my arm and sweetly thanked me for the fun she had.

I thought of the unfamiliar look on Dad’s face when we walked back in the house after our drive and for the first time, I understood what he'd been feeling at the time.  That mix of pride and joy and utter love that is intoxicating in its power when as parents, we see our kids do well.   I knew then that Kendra would never forget the experience as I will never forget mine. 

Thanks Dad.

Cool Daddy

   "Wow!"

   I followed Kendra's gaze to a shiny, candy apple red Harley, motoring down the road. 

   "Wow is right, kiddo.  That's a Hartley Davidson."

   "You know that guy?"

   I laugh, and I'm thankful for the levity after pouring another sixty dollars into the tank of my Minivan. 

   As usual, Kendra gives me her well-rehearsed bit of "I could sure use a drink, the sun is hot and I'm thirsty."

   Her favorite drink?  Some concoction with a whole cup of sugar called Buggie Juice.  I'm pretty helpless against the batting of her long lashes and the polite way she asks for a little bottle of the stuff after running her pitch by me. 

   The sun is hot, and we have a bit of a long ride today. 

   She rewards me with a "Yay!" when I agree and we go into the store to pick up some snacks, her Buggie Juice and two bottles of water.  (because I know she'll be parched once the sugar crystallizes in on her palate.)

   When she climbs back into her seat, another motorcycle rumbles up to the gas pump in front of us. The rider is a thick man with tattoos on his arms, and a long dark beard.  He peers at us from behind smoke-colored wrap around sunglasses and nods in greeting.  I've yet to find a biker with poor manners.

   "Nice ride," I tell him, sincerely.

   "Thanks, man.  Good day to ride."

   We smile at each other and he stops and waves comically at Kendra, who regards him with a shy little glance and the phantom of a smile.

   "Have fun today, little cutie," the biker says in a voice that utterly detracts from the tough biker image.

   I stare longingly at the bike, a Harley Davidson Road King, in gleaming black with shiny chrome accents throughout its body.

   "I need a bike," I think aloud, my mind already conjuring an image of the wind in my face with the occasional bug slapping my cheek.

   "You don't need a bike!" Kendra protests.  "You have a van!"

   "Vans aren't cool, especially minivans.  Don't you want me to be cool?"

   Kendra gives me a look I've seen on my wife seemingly on a daily basis over the last thirteen years.  "You don't need to be cool!"

   "I don't?  Why not?"

   "Because," she says with the exasperation of a teacher losing patience with his pupils.  "You're a DADDY!"

   I sigh, thinking girls must be born with some genetic code in their brain that enables them to lecture a man with finality; a way that makes any argument futile.  With that one short sentence, she's covered every reason my wife has thrown at me each time I get the weepy eye over a motorcycle, though for some reason, I often find a way to quickly forget her arguments, which are often longer and much more eloquently delivered.  But coming from my seven year old, the meaning couldn't have been clearer. 

   I'm her daddy.

   And with the title comes a great responsibility to this little girl who depends entirely on me.

   Suddenly my mind begins to call out directives at the speed of light, exercise more, eat better, lose some weight, don't work so much, get plenty of sleep, don't take stupid risks like riding motorcycles in a world where everyone's got their thumbs on their phones while driving.  You're a daddy, act like it.

   "Okay, you're right.  No bikes."

   Kendra nods once, pleased with herself for winning the argument.  Definitely a woman in the making. 

   As I pull out of the gas station in my "cool" beige minivan, listening to her singing along with Taylor Swift, I'm assaulted by one thought that makes me laugh inwardly.

   Kendra is going to make one hell of a wife.  She's already one hell of a daughter.

 

(NOTE:  As cool as this daddy may think he is, Kendra won't be reading THE GAZE until she's at least 16.  In case any of you wonder...)

SuperDad

    When you were little, you walked towards me pulling your tiny toy car behind you.  The look on your silvery gaze spoke of a vast disappointment as you handed me one of the wheels.  In your own little language, which I am sure is the language spoken in Heaven, you conveyed to me the situation.  Your tiny hands gesticulated and pointed.  I obliged by nodding and telling you that I knew what you were talking about.
    I picked up the wheel and easily popped it back on its plastic axle and wa la!  The toy car was fixed!
    The grin on your little face was wide from ear to ear.  You threw your leg over the seat and sat, keeping careful eye on the once broken wheel now back in place.  As you pushed off to meet the seemingly endless carpeted road to the dining room, you threw me a look over you shoulder and I knew that behind the grateful grin was a healthy dose of unabashed admiration.  I was your hero.
    It was then that I vividly recalled watching this man bite his lip and expertly use a myriad of tools to fix anything that dared break around him.  There was nothing he could not fix, from a toy, to plumbing, to building furniture for the house, to even help me mend my broken heart as life ensured I received the required amount of hard knocks.  Through it all, my dad was my hero.  He is still me hero.
    He has the answer for everything, hardly ever admitting and reluctantly so, that he might not know something.  That's only a temporary condition.  He'll go to any length to find that elusive answer and vanquish once more the dragon of ignorance.  That's heroic in itself.
    When I was growing up, my father, your grandfather was larger than life.  He could make me laugh until my belly hurt.  He projected an aura of fun and he filled television-less afternoons with amusing stories of his youth.  I can't say that I have ever been bored around him.
    He was my strength when I cried, he was my fountain of knowledge when I could not find the answer, he was my shield when I felt sick, he was more than SuperDad.
    And yet, like it happens in all of our lives, the day came when he unknowingly gave me a gift. 
    No gift had ever been more alarming, or more intricately involved with the shaping of my future.  The gift consisted of something perhaps trivial and unexpected, it consisted of tears. 
    Although the reason escapes me, and it may be something I will never know about, I saw my dad cry tears of pain, tears of sorrow.  It had to be the scariest moment of my life but there it was at last.  Dad was just as human as I was. 
    Suddenly I did not see the Super Hero-Sage-Teacher-Councilor-Shield.  I saw beyond that and discovered a man behind the title.  I realized at that moment that my dad was first a boy, who endured much and one day found himself a husband and a father, maturing into the provider and hero that I've come to know.
    From that point on, our conversations slowly developed into discussions on level ground.  No longer teacher and pupil but man to man, especially once you came along and made me a father..
    I often say that if someday you speak of me just a fraction of the way I speak about Dad, I'll be filled with a sense of great pride and accomplishment, and I'll welcome my golden years with a fond smile. 
    You saw in me the SuperDad the day I fixed the wheel of your little toy car.  You may see in me the SuperDad as I hold you when you're sad, as I find an answer to your questions, as I protect you while you're small.  But as we grow together, you up and myself old, you will also one day see that I'm just human as you are, prone to the fears and insecurities that you will have to overcome through the journey of your life.

   One day, and I hope it's a long, long way from today, we will sit at the table and speak as equals.  We may share conversations about the roughness of the path of life, each of us with our own experiences of triumphs and defeats.  But until then, I will gratefully glow in the aftermath of those thankful gazes as another toy is fixed, another story is read, another day is saved by your SuperDad.
   

   Love you always,

   Dad