What if

The classic Father's Day gift!

For three decades, I’ve had no temporal connection to Father’s Day. And with time, my emotional connection faded. This isn’t a martyr’s tale – just a factual assessment. Having lost Dad and not having any children, the day passes pretty much without notice.

Tonight, I attended an exhibition of joy, talent, and family pride. My friends at the Tree of Life Studio in Chelsea, Michigan (I’ve featured them before, see: Dancing Wildflowers) had their annual exposition of dance and drumming featuring their students and some guest performers. Their overarching theme was a tribute to the late Michael Jackson and different video and audio effects were weaved into dance and drumming to celebrate the King of Pop’s talents while tip toeing past this eccentricities. Overall, this was a very entertaining, professional and nearly flawless endeavor.

I say “nearly” with love.

Third on the program was a dance interpretation to the hit “Beat it.” The cast featured a very talented dancer who (I’m guessing) was a teacher at the studio, three young ladies of approximately 8-10 years, one young lady (again, a guess) of about six and a young lad, Justin A______, who may have been five. The teacher and the older children executed a fun set of moves that even Michael would have cheered. The six-year old danced very well – on her own terms (I loved it). The lad, well, he had a blast.

Not sure when to do any particular move, he eyed the teacher throughout the number and stayed a happy three or four beats behind. Whenever he would approximate a step in keeping with the choreography, the crowd went crazy. I’m lousy at describing dance, but one particular move involved being almost in a crab walk but supporting one’s torso on a single arm. The other arm is extended upward and the feet chop alternately to the driving beat. Justin liked this move – he’d finesse his arm upward and chop his feet well into the next stanza while his fellow cast members executed several other steps. Undaunted, Justin would stand and await the next time he got to chop.

I found myself cheering for him and actually felt a tear welling up. This was the most earnest performance of the evening (no detraction from any of the other performers – I just thought this little guy was neat) and I found myself moved. I ask: is this along the lines of what a father would feel if his son or daughter was in the show, playing peewee baseball, or catching his/her first fish?

My job allows me to interact routinely with 18 – 30 year old university students and I’ve also cheered their successes and viewed them through pride's prism. I’m a real and adopted uncle to some wonderful young men and women. I distinctly recall attending my God-daughter’s soccer game when she was four – game is truly a generous description. It was more of a blob of little girls chasing a ball to and fro (again, it was awesome!).

Five young men and women have bagged their first deer on my property – I get more excited by their success than my own.

I don’t know, maybe this is mostly a reflection on the road not taken – but I want to tell all the fathers out there how lucky they are.



Tie image courtesy of: http://www.clker.com/clipart-necktie.html

Decisions beckon

Those who know me well will smile after this next statement: I tend to over think things.

Oh, it isn’t limited to agonizing decisions nor life changing situations – it includes daily questions such as what is the most efficient set of steps to make cold cereal; should I start at Lowe’s or the locally owned hardware store; what is the optimal position in the garage when I park the car?

I’m pretty sure it isn’t more than mild OCD – but I think it serves me well. This includes my plan for my annual garden. Not only does one need to consider where the tomatoes are best planted (if here, I can tie to the fence as they grow), but it’s imperative to consider the best ways to water a 17’ x 8’ planting bed. I’ve made progress, but I’m not 100% satisfied.

These plans pale in comparison to what my pal Howard is considering.

Tonight, I got a chance to visit (it’s been about five weeks) with Howard. Other than a common cold, his health was good relative to what I’ve previously reported. He still can’t gain weight and is eating a scant 800 – 900 calories daily (“I used to have a big appetite. This bothers me.”).” I’m ranging between 139 and 144 pounds,” he shared. “The biggest issue is that all my pants have 36 inch waists and I’m about a 30 now.” I offered to buy him suspenders.

He told me of his childhood – his mother died when he was age 5 and he was raised by a series of housekeepers and his father. He recounted which were the best of his housekeepers and, without question, Mrs. Whitney was his favorite. “She was an amazing cook, had two children of her own, and managed them and us despite having been deserted by her husband.” This was in the 30s. When Howard reached 14 years, the housekeeping and cooking became his responsibility.

His mother’s name was Emma. Howard led me to his den and showed me a picture – classic hat, fur coat, and ringlet curls. She was a concert violinist and his only clear memory of her was that she practiced each morning.

In that same den, Howard showed me some possessions that were dear to him: a 150 year old Persian rug; a bronze statue of a rooster acrowin’; a magnificent cabinet crafted in Korea that had its interior lined with Korean newsprint from the 40s – a treasure of Hangul script on degrading parchment.

We returned to his main sitting area and I asked how he was feeling. His answer was brave with couched hope. He’s been pondering moving to an assisted living facility. He’s also been doing the math and doesn’t believe he should spend up to $50,000 annually to live in a 900 square foot apartment when it costs him (taxes, utilities, upkeep) about $28,000 to live in his 2000 square foot home. A setting that allows him to live among his life’s treasures.

He’s decided that a frank discussion with his two sons will be in order. I wish them all well with a decision that, at best, can only be second guessed when all is said and done.

This past weekend, he attended a dinner to honor the graduates of Chelsea High School who achieved cum laude or better. He had mentored one of the students through his church and knew another who was his Pastor’s son. “These young people are amazing,” he concluded.

I’m glad I get to visit with Howard and learn of the rich history of the Ann Arbor area and enjoy his hospitality. Among tonight’s gems was learning that at one point, there were six different theaters in downtown Ann Arbor. Most of these buildings exist today as restaurants or retail outlets.

No huge points tonight. Just a nice visit with my friend.