Doc Bugs and Me

One of my favorite places to shop is anywhere Christmas decorations are sold. When I was growing up, my mother instilled in me a real love for rare, unusual, or antique ornaments. Thanks to her, the drawers of my ornament cabinet contain bells and glass bobbles that date from her childhood before the War (as World War II was known in our house). Over time I've added my own preferences for traditional wooden soldiers, dogs, moose, and cartoon characters, notably Snoopy and Woodstock.

One ornament has special meaning for me -- the one in the photo. I picked up Doc Bugs, as I call him, in a little out of the way place called The Spruce House, in Estes Park, Colorado. It must have been late fall, during my first year of premedical studies, when I found him hanging on a rack all by himself. Lone ornaments are hard to resist, especially if they stir up an emotional connection and you realize leaving the store without them is a mistake. 

Well, Bugs Bunny and I go way back. Tall, wise-cracking, with big feet, like me, he was my favorite cartoon character when I was a kid. Only this time, instead of his trademark carrot, he was holding a stethoscope and smiling as though he knew a secret I didn't. Right off I was certain he'd been "waiting for me" and took it as a sign that someday I'd be in his shoes, or paws, as the case may be. The next year, I came upon another version of the medical bunny, a ceramic Bugs looking rather distinguished in a long white coat holding a hospital record, another portent (except for the "distinguished" part). 

It's funny how, when pursuing a dream, you latch onto things that symbolize its fulfillment to give you hope. I'm not superstitious, but I definitely believe in the power of images to fuel our ambitions and sustain us spiritually. When such things hang on a Christmas tree, itself a very rich symbol of life and new birth, they take on deeper significance. It's as though they participate in all the tree represents and pass it along when we're most in need.

Doc Bugs has done that for me the past fifteen Christmases. Each year, taking him out of his box and hanging him in plain view has been an act of faith and each year I promised myself my time was coming. Last night, bringing Doc Bugs out once more, I said to my long-eared alter ego, "Well, Bugs, this is your first Christmas as a real doctor." It just so happens, it's mine, too.

May you have the most wonderful and joyous of Christmases and the happiest of Holiday Seasons.

(Photo copyright 2013 by the author)
   

The Night Train to Christmas

 
"Nite train!" he called, waving with one hand and holding his daddy's with the other, as they walked out the door. I'm guessing he was probably four years old and he'd been playing so quietly, it wasn't til he spoke that I realized what held his attention. 

I was wandering through my favorite toy store, Tree Top Toys, in the Old Port. The Old Port is a gentrified section of downtown Portland that abuts the harbor (hence, the name) and could easily be mistaken for the backdrop for A Christmas Carol, especially during the Holidays. My attention was held by a Schilling display of wonderful classic tin toys that echo a time before batteries, when toys were wound up by keys and ran on pure imagination. 

The store was crowded, though not so much you couldn't move, and he stood in a corner, near the entrance. His father watched from a few feet away, holding baby sister in his arms and ensuring both daughter and son were kept occupied, freeing mommy to play Santa. I noticed them at first just in passing, like I'd noticed other shoppers, picking up puzzles or stuffed bears, turning them over to look for prices or stroking their soft fur and turning into children as if on que. Some items go to the cash register right there and then, others wait for dreams of sugar plums and a jolly old man with a sleigh to find their way "home."

Like a fictional doctor of my acquaintance, a four foot tall stuffed giraffe resting high on a display rack with a smaller one planted between his hooves and a smaller one yet, between his, caught my eye. The clerk told me she'd recently sold one exactly like the tallest to a little girl who saw him last Christmas, fell in love, and saved her allowance the entire year to raise the purchase price. I brushed away tears at the thought of her carrying him home. Christmas brings out the magic of the heart in ways we rarely anticipate.

 Working my way back to the entrance, I heard a small voice call, "Nite train!" and looked over to see him leave with his parents and wave as though the cars and engine understood. And maybe for him, riding the night train to Christmas, they did, indeed.

(Photo of horse-drawn carriage in the Old Port copyright 2013 by the author)

So Much Fun

 
The snow started so timidly last night, I could count the flakes drifting cautiously past the shadow of my CRV, as though they felt self-conscious being seen. By midnight, their courage having grown in proportion to their numbers, enough had gathered for me to shovel an inch off the front patio; by morning, they reached, shamelessly, halfway to my knees. 

Depending on your inseam, that can be a lot or a little. Mine's 36 inches, so this was a lot. The dogs, by the way, agreed with me. When we went out for morning bathroom break #1, my Yellow Lab took one step, then looked at me and intuited, "Where did all this come from?" 

"From the sky, big guy," I responded, aloud.

Now, if I was a kid, an arguable point on days like this, I'd be torn between anticipation and lament. Anticipation because it snowed and that meant play, lament because it fell on Sunday and not Monday, guaranteeing a snow day. Overall, though, I'd be gladder than sadder since this much, this close to Christmas, ensures this year it will be white. 

We didn't spend much time shoveling snow when I was younger, certainly not in comparison to what I did today. My father would clear off the back walk to enable my mother to reach her car, but otherwise, we'd trudge through the drifts to the barn to feed the horses. If we'd had a snow thrower, it would have been different, but as they hadn't been invented yet, it makes no difference. Besides, dad was raised on a ranch where knee-deep snow was common and no one thought twice about it. 

I probably wouldn't think about it either, but for the fact that snow accumulates in Maine. At the foot of the Colorado Rockies, where I grew up, snow is like a relative, just passing through. Back here, the snow moves in and sets up housekeeping. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of snow days I had in high school. Back here, it takes both hands and a few toes to keep track of them.

One thing is incredibly similar, though, between the snows of my older youth and those of the younger one I discovered as a medical student, and that is, any snowfall is a chance to play. My new snow brush -- the one I use on the car? -- has a  movable head that lets me pull the snow off the car in sections, creating little avalanches as I move from the hatchback to the windscreen. 

With snow flying in all directions and oblivious to the cold, it came to me: I cleared the cars the same way as a kid. All I had then was a straw broom, so my avalanches had to move away from me. The push broom from my father's shop was okay, but the brush was too soft to work very well. My new one is perfect and as it was then, creating avalanches is still, so very much fun.

Am I ever glad.

© 2013 All Rights Reserved (text and photo) by the author.

A NORAD Christmas Reprised

A relative of mine once said, a little sadly, "Christmas is for children." I was young at the time, how old I'm not sure, but I remember thinking, Christmas isn't for adults, too? Looking back, I think he must have felt he'd lost something along the way, a loss he felt most acutely at Christmas.

Entering the holiday season with baggage from long ago isn't unusual. Often, adults find tears come as easily as smiles. The Christmastime when I was young, the magic and the wonder, but colors dull and candles dim, and dark my standing under, isn't just a song lyric, it's a reality for many. They're the kind of things that got me thinking, back in 1999, about Christmas when I was young and how my parents and I spent evenings like this one with my aunt and maternal grandmother. One thing led to another, and the story that follows was born. Some elements are true in the sense they actually happened, others are made up, expressing wishes of the heart as much as anything.

It's title stems from one of those real events, the night I first heard of NORAD tracking Santa. I remember it as though it was happening at this very instant and it's something I'll never forget. I'm sure you've had similar experiences that you treasure in much the same way. Originally posted at Christmas in 2009, I'd like to offer it again with the hope that this Christmas is all you've dreamed it could be.

A NORAD Christmas...

I can't help it -- oh, I guess I could, but I don't want to -- Christmas is my favorite season. Somewhere around Halloween I come down with a serious case of "holiday fever" and don't recover until well after New Year's. Each holiday brings a spike in my temperature until, by December 25th, I feel more alive than at any other time of the year. It's as though I'm caught up in something that has a life of its own: a season of changes, a time for new birth, a time for starting over, for filling Life with mirth.

One particular Christmas Eve forces itself into my memory each year. It began as did most when I was a child. Early in the evening, my parents and I gathered presents, bundled up against the cold, and drove to the home of my maternal grandmother, miles away in the city. We lived in the country and the city lights formed a dim halo about the crest of the hill that rose slowly from our front door. The night sky was clear and starlight glittered on the newly fallen snow coating the farms and fields along our way.

My grandmother lived in a two story, white stuccoed survivor of the Roaring Twenties, with a huge arched window facing the street. In anticipation of our arrival, she kept the house dark except for the lights from her tree pouring through the window and onto the flagstone walk at its feet.

I had scarcely gotten out of the car when my maiden aunt burst breathlessly from the house. She had not-quite-flaming red hair, and when I think of her now, fire engines come to mind. My aunt displayed incredible energy in all she did and whenever a problem threatened to burn out of control in my life, she was always there with her "fire hose" to lend a hand. Sweeping me up in her arms, she asked, "Did you write your letter to Santa? Did you mail it in time?"

"Yes! Did you?"

"Oh, yes, I mailed mine a week ago!" she replied, her eyes bright with laughter.

Greeting my parents, she ushered us into the house, then rushed from lamp to light switch, flooding the old house with light. My aunt loved Christmas and spent days preparing for the holiday. The dining table would be laden to overflowing with cold cuts, marshmallow salad, peanut brittle, almond bark, and my favorite, spearmint ribbon candy. With carols playing on my grandmother's aging Telefunken stereo, a gift from her youngest bachelor-son, we visited, snacked, and opened presents.

Finally, my grandmother growing festively weary, we gathered our coats and stepped out into the night for a final glimpse of the stars before driving home. My aunt leaned down and whispered, as always, "Do you suppose this will be the night we see him? I'm listening for sleigh bells..."

The long drive home made me sleepy and I'm sure I must have dozed because the next thing I knew, my father was carrying me into the house. The hour was late, but we stayed up to watch the news and relax. I sipped hot chocolate and read the comic pages from the morning paper when my father nudged me.

"Listen to this!" he said.

I stopped reading and looked up as the announcer reported that an unidentified flying object had been sighted over the Arctic and NORAD, the North American Aerospace Defense Command in Colorado Springs, was tracking it. I became immediately excited because I loved science fiction and was certain it had to be an alien craft.

"Just wait," said my father, "there may be more."

Sure enough, moments later, the announcer interrupted the weather segment with an update. "NORAD reports the object sighted over the North Pole has been identified by Air Force jets based in Alaska. It is, in fact, Santa and his reindeer, and the pilots have been instructed to escort him safely into United States air space."

I looked at my father with what must have been absolute rapture. Not only did my aunt and I believe in Santa Claus, so did the Air Force -- more than that, they'd actually seen him! If I might have ordinarily had difficulty sleeping on Christmas Eve, you can be sure I had even more that night.

A long time has passed since I've spent a happy Christmas with my aunt and grandmother. Both of them are years gone and those evenings live in memory. Thankfully, however, some things don't change. After Christmas Eve candlelight church services, my wife, our children, the dogs, and I curl up with hot chocolate by the fire to watch the late news. When the announcer faithfully reminds us that NORAD has sighted a sleigh in the northern sky, the kids turn to face us with eyes like starlight and smiles even brighter.

And every year, once the house is quiet and the kids asleep, each one snuggling a well-loved dog, my wife and I step outside for a final glimpse of the stars, and we wonder, will this be the night...?

(Copyright (c) 2009 by Patrick W. Conway)

"Merry Christmas," She Said.

Not wishing to remove my gloves in the cold, I said, "I'll catch you on the way out." It would be simpler, I thought, to keep my wallet handy once I'd finished at the cashier's. She smiled and nodded, not missing a beat, our conversation another verse to the song she played inside her head.

I didn't have to say anything; her back was to me, I could have walked on, completed my business, then done as I intended. No one needed to know; none would be the wiser.

Except that I wanted her to know because so many just walk on by. I almost forgot myself, until the last second when I saw her again and remembered. I marveled at her patience, at her consistency. It wasn't like she expected everyone to stop; only those who were supposed to. She was on her appointed rounds, waiting for her people to show up, even if they didn't realize they were hers until that very moment. In the meantime, she kept on, ringing what I heard as Jingle Bells and she maybe something else, her eyes peeking over the rim of a muffler wrapped round her face, twinkling in good faith.

I would get impatient, I'm sure. Impatient, disgruntled, discouraged and then cynical, passing judgment, playing God. It would be easy to do, to forget how easy it is to be guarded in times like these, to blame the unfortunate for their misfortune, to cross to the other side of the road like the Priest and the Lawyer once did and a Good Samaritan didn't.

A Samaritan, by the way, who wasn't like we paint him, one of the good guys going about doing good deeds at Christmas, someone you'd like to have living next door or upstairs. He was a Black man in 1950s Alabama who dared touch a White woman who'd been raped and left for dead. Or, maybe she's homeless, living in a tent constructed from cardboard boxes. The Good Samaritan was like that, unacceptable by the book, but caring anyway.

She was also a Salvation Army Bell Ringer on a frigid Portland morning waiting for me to step up and be counted. To stuff a bill in her bucket. To render aid. To follow her example, to not cross the street and walk on by.

"Merry Christmas," she said.


(Creative Commons image by miliu92 via Flickr)

I Heard Sleigh Bells

She must have been about four, old enough to go shopping with mommy but still too young to make the entire trip without being carried to the car afterward. She was holding her mother's hand, waiting, as was I, for the Portland Williams-Sonoma to open. 

If the holidays are magical -- and for me they definitely are -- Williams-Sonoma has a corner on the market. From peppermint hot chocolate to china to cookie and pie cutters (my target purchase this time) -- I wonder sometimes if they don't have a direct line to the North Pole. I realize Thanksgiving is a couple of weeks off, and you're right, it really is too early to be writing about Christmas. I mean, Madison Avenue is bad enough. Turn on the tube two days before Halloween and from the ads, it appears Thanksgiving is nothing more than a minor bump on the road to December 25. But what was about to happen in front of Williams-Sonoma would be enough to make even the most jaded forget about the date and simply be glad the Holidays are here at last. 

I was standing with my back to a long hallway leading to the mall offices, preoccupied by my sweet, diminutive fellow watcher and waiter and her fascination with the window dressings. A toy train bearing the name, The Polar Express, rolled round a track decorated with artificial pine bows, green ribbons on red packages, and a tiny town replete with a snow-capped mountain. She couldn't steal her eyes from it and neither could her mother -- there they were, two little girls, hand in hand, riding The Polar Express. 

Suddenly, I heard a loud, "Ho! Ho! Ho! M-e-r-r-y Christmas!" and quickly turned to see Santa Claus step from the hallway into the mall. Oh yes, you bet I smiled and waved, I never miss a chance. He smiled and waved back, then greeted other shoppers who stopped at the sound of his voice to wave. Then, I heard something else, a rapidly indrawn four-year old breath that made me look down. With eyes like saucers, she whispered in awe, "S-a-n-t-a." At first, I wasn't sure how it would all unfold -- did he notice her? Of course, he did, he's Santa, he knows when we are sleeping, he knows when we're awake -- not a child on the planet goes unnoticed by him and that includes this one. 

His two female elvish helpers continued on to his "workshop," unware he'd halted in front of Williams-Sonoma and knelt down on one knee. He reached a mitted hand to his face, thoughtfully stroking a beard I'm absolutely certain had to be real, and softly said, "Merry Christmas, Jennie." She looked up at her mother, whose face was a study in amazement, then broke free and ran into his arms. I didn't hear what was spoken, that's between she and Santa, and maybe nothing was. Maybe her actions said everything. I know they spoke clearly enough that when he released her and tenderly touched her hair, rising to his feet he looked at me with eyes moist with tears. Yes, Virginia, Santa has a heart, you can be sure of it. 

Something told me only a fool would let this moment pass, so I followed after him and laid my hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry to intrude, but..." He interrupted me and said, "You want to know how I knew her name. Well, Beggar -- yes, I know yours, too -- after a few hundred years at this, you start to develop a pretty good memory. Merry Christmas." Then he smiled once more and winked. As he walked away, I could have sworn I heard sleigh bells.. (Creative Commons image by dkjd via Flickr)

Thanks, Norm.

The coffee in my brand new mug from the Norman Rockwell Museum this morning, tastes as good as I hoped it would. The material from which a mug is made and the manner in which it's fired, really does impact flavor, you know. For instance, dark roasts taste cleaner in my white bistro mug with the letters U-N-E stenciled down the side in blue (see Pink Hats, chapter 9). In The Black Dog pottery mug given me by my dog and cat for Christmas last year, dark roasts seem to mellow. The Rockwell, as I think this new one should be christened, strikes me as midway between the other two, but we'll find out, once I'm back in Maine and writing on some bleary, early morning. That's the acid test, when I can barely see the keyboard, what's the coffee like then?

How I happened upon The Rockwell is a story in itself. I thought the museum housing this treasure was located in Sturbridge, 50 or so miles east of here, my destination on the 30th for an osteopathic students' conference. "Not so, Mr. Schuyler!" to borrow a line from Lord Lindsey, Chariots of Fire (1981). It's in Stockbridge, a little town memorialized by James Taylor in his song, Rockabye Sweet Baby James, the merest drive down the road with a turn left, then right, then back left, from here.

I was wandering through Richmond, a village that reminded me of my home away from home in Maine because both are mostly countryside and locating a "town" is an exercise in futility. If there was one once, there's not one anymore. But it's a lovely place and it felt so familiar I was on the outskirts of West Stockbridge before I knew it. A gentle nudge on the steering wheel from an oddly convincing feeling took me past the real Nook and Cranny coffee house (Pink Hats, chapter 3), up a long ridge, over the Mass Pike, and all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I saw a sign directing me to the Norman Rockwell Museum, 3/4 miles away. And they say there's no unconscious.

I grew up reading old copies of The Saturday Evening Post I found at my aunt's and having Rockwell's covers take me out of my comfort zone in the West through my imagination to parts unknown. It was his "Stockbridge Main Street at Christmas" that led me to think I might make a home somewhere in New England someday. Standing in front of the original and trying to explain what that meant to a beautiful septuagenarian on the museam staff, reminded me trying to say anything at all at moments like this is useless. I'm going to choke up, so I may as well shut up and write about it, instead. But I never do and we both end up crying because childhood dreams have finally come true.

Standing outside his studio was like hanging with a pal who knew the things about you your family would never understand. I was the kid raised on Country music who fell in love with classical. It baffled my father worse than anything adolescence could have thrust into his path. Why his son, of all sons, liked "high brow," quite frankly, blew his mind. That was alright, I couldn't explain it either. Johnny Cash and Marty Robbins would just have to learn to share the stage with Brahms and Beethoven. Rockwell somehow knew what this was like because he created images that were just as evocative and made just as much sense to me. Like Stockbridge at Christmas. And a few minutes later, I was right there, standing across the street from the Lion's Head Inn, in New England, of all places.

Thanks, Norm.


(Photo of Norman Rockwell's studio on the grounds of the Norman Rockwell Museum copyright 2011 by the author)

The Mouse Writer

Coffee in hand, I was starting to get comfortable this morning, wondering about the next step to take with Pink Hats and a Mack Truck, when I heard what sounded like a triumphant announcement, "Spring has sproing!"

"Don't you mean, 'sprung,'" I asked, pausing between sips.

"No, I meant what I said. It's too nice outside my window for traditional spellings and pronunciations. On top of that, 'sproing' gets a reader's attention." He definitely had mine, completely.

"Well, what are we going to write about?" he asked, stressing the personal plural pronoun as though the endeavor was predictably corporate.

"What do you mean, we? Have you got a mouse in your pocket?"

"Very funny. Witty, even. Better than your usual attempts at humor, I must say, and speaking of which -- whom might be better -- how could I have myself in my pocket? Just because I am a mouse, doesn't mean I'm also a contortionist."

I was talking with Hinsley, my inking partner, as he's fond of describing himself and what the writing process would be if my laptop were a typewriter. I suppose you could liken "inking partner" to a drinking partner, except neither of us wakes up hungover. Anyway, he's a little grey fellow about the size of a 16 oz. mug of deep, dark, nutty, English brown ale, clad in a red plaid waistcoat and scarf, with a tail nearly as long as he is tall. I rescued him from a fate worse than death, or so he said it would be, when we met at Starbucks this past Christmas. I was doing my annual shopping, looking at coffee accessories, when I felt him tug at my sleeve.

"You've got to help me," he said, whispering breathlessly, as though he had just completed a 100 yard dash before his competitor, the Jamaican sprinter, Usain Bolt, could get out of the starting blocks. "See that woman over there? Not the pretty one, she works here. I mean the other one, the woman with bags on each arm and even larger bags under her eyes. The one who smells like she bathed in her grandmother's perfume and then sprayed herself with an entire bottle for good measure. She bought a friend of mine last year and he hasn't been heard from since. Come on, be a chum."

I wasn't certain whether his concern was the result of spending far too much time inhaling the caffeine-injected atmosphere, but he was cute (psst, don't tell him I said this, he really does hate it) and as his tag read, The Mouse Writer, I truly felt compelled to act. Writers have to stick together. So, now he sits, happily, on the bookshelf across from me, guarding a medical text dated 1866 alongside his friend, Barclay, a similarly-sized raccoon I discovered a few years ago, trying to scramble out of a drawer in my late mother's secretary. Destined, I think, to become a dog toy, he managed to burrow into some old papers and there he stayed, safe but forgotten, until he heard me inspecting the contents of the old cabinet after my father was gone.

Forgotten or lost toys are one of life's saddest things, I think. I don't know why, exactly, maybe it's the lost memories that go with them. Perhaps it's the reason I keep them, an old Lionel steam locomotive, fire trucks, and a couple of faded, worn teddy bears. They aren't much, I suppose, but they were mine and still are. They remind me of a line from Kenny Loggin's, The House at Pooh Corner.

After all's said and done, I was watching my son,
sleeping there with my bear by his side;
So, I tucked him in and kissed him, and as I was going,
I could swear that old bear whispered, 'Boy, welcome home...'

"Are you going to reminisce all day? I don't know about you, but I'm ready to work!" Mouse Writers are inclined to impatience.

"Aren't we telling your story? Surely, that counts, wouldn't you agree?"

He hesitated, tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat, straightening it, and said, "Well. Yes, I do believe you're right. Proceed, maestro, but please, please don't say anything about my being cute. I just don't think I could 'bear' it, should your views on the matter become public knowledge. I do have my dignity, you know."

"Oh, I know, all too well. As to cute, however, I'm sorry, but the cat's already 'out of the bag,'" I said, playing the pun card back to him.

"Now why did you have to go and say, 'cat?!'"


(Photo copyright 2011 by the author. The House on Pooh Corner, words and music by Kenny Loggins)

Pink Hats 28: Like Arrowsmith

"If Barack Obama had yo' hair colah, the two uh you could be twins."

"Ted, I've got three inches and twenty pounds on him, not to mention the other, rather obvious differences between us. You think my hair color matters that much?" Bob asked, grinning.

"No, I mean you both have or soon will have beautiful wives and two daughters, and that's a fine comparison to make, wouldn't you agree?" asked Ted, dropping his ethnicity for emphasis.

"I would, indeed, though as much as I admire him, I wouldn't trade jobs for love nor money. Difficult as mine is now and then, I'd rather be in hell with a fractured spine than have his. Though I suspect he'd say the same."

"Maybe, maybe not. Sometimes I think he'd like to be a healer, but some of his 'patients' are recalcitrant-prone."

"Mine only have tantrums."

"So do his," Ted said, with a wink and a nod, "especially the ones in Congress."

"You know what a tantrum is, don't you?"

"After four kids, not including yours, and nine grandkids, I'd say I have a fair idea."

"It's what he must feel like having when he wishes he could lay a few of them across his knee and apply the hand of cooperation to the seat of partisanship. And that's why I wouldn't want his job. You can make kids stand in the corner, but senators and congressmen?"

"Besides that," said Jessie, handing each of them mugs of steaming peppermint hot chocolate from a tray Halley was holding, "the only 'White House' I want to live in is the one we're buying. Any political aspirations will have to wait until all our children are grown and I'm tired of having you underfoot." She leaned over and kissed him sweetly. "Don't count on that happening anytime in your lifetime -- or mine, understand?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am, I do," Bob said, solemnly. He turned toward Ted, "I'm practicing saying that, both 'yes, ma'am,' and 'I do.'" Ted roared with laughter.

They were relaxing in the Green Granite Inn's lounge at Cranmore Mountain Resort in North Conway after a day of skiing punctuated by Bob's first snowboarding lesson. He and Jessie had taken turns with Halley and Ted, babysitting and occasionally pulling the girls round the lift area in a miniature sleigh Jessie and Halley purchased on a recent shopping outing. It was the same day Jessie also found a navy blue wool sweater woven with a reindeer across the back for one of Bob's presents. "He loves reindeer," she confided to Halley.

The Holiday was a week away and the Inn had been transformed with wreaths on every door, pine bows, poinsettias, a traditional solitary New England candle in each window and a huge Balsam Fir, wrapped entirely in star-blue lights brushing the ceiling, near an equally huge stone fireplace. After all that had gone on in the past few weeks, the couples decided a day and a night away was certainly what any doctor with a healthy dose of common sense would order. Jen and Chuck, fast becoming an item after meeting two weeks earlier at Bull Feeney's, offered to take care of Sam.

"So, did you decide on the giraffe, Bob?" asked Halley.

"Shh, make sure the twins are still asleep, first."

"They aren't going to understand you, not yet at least," she responded, drawing the blankets back from each of the unconscious pair in their carriers, "Yes, they are, now did you?"

"Come Christmas morning, Sam is definitely going to have a surprise waiting next to the tree, and the girls? Well, I know it will be a few years before they can really appreciate it, but one look and I couldn't resist." He was referring to a five foot tall stuffed giraffe he and Jessie had seen at Tree Top Toys in the Old Port. Far too big for anything but occupying space at the moment, it grabbed his attention when they walked in and he couldn't leave without it.

"They say having children is a chance to re-experience our own childhood, do you believe that, Bob?" asked Ted.

"I don't think it's our own so much as it is seeing the world as an adult through the eyes of our children, but in either case, it's something I've missed, I know that much. And, I'll tell you this, I'm deeply grateful life doesn't hold grudges when we don't get everything right the first time."

Jessie reached up and stroked his hair. "I got an email from my dad this week and he said something I think you'll appreciate. He said relationships like ours do far more than simply give us second chances. They give us the ones we've never had. You could say -- and I'm definitely saying it -- this is our first, at long last, and I'm going to make sure neither of us misses a single minute of it."

"Like Arrowsmith? You don't want to miss a thing?"

"Just like Arrowsmith."


(Photos copyright 2011 by the author)

Pink Hats 24: "Yes," Was All She Said

Ordering an engagement ring from Boulder's Cronin Jewelers the Monday after Thanksgiving was easy. A phone call with a Visa card number and ring size was followed by the promise UPS would deliver it by next-day air. Bob wished the rest of his life was as simple.

Attending group education classes as part of the adoption process added an evening complication to his already busy schedule, though Jessie joined him when her's permitted. Since he was going to be, at least initially, the legal entity in the process, he was the one who had to show up for these meetings without fail. But he was surprised at how much he was learning about blended families, helping children who eventually wish to know their biological parents, and so forth. The things they don't teach you in medical school, he thought.

Following the Monday evening group, he was at Halley's, seeing the girls."So, are you finally going to turn me loose on the hospital gossips or what?" she asked. "I still keep up with my sources and they've been chomping at the bit since I retired to take care of Hannah and Clara." Bob and Jessie had decided to name the twins Clara, after her mother, and Hannah, after his.

"Wait a few more days, okay? I haven't proposed and it's always possible Jessie could fool me and run, not walk, as fast and as far away as she can get."

"Oh, come on! You know that's never going to happen. You're more likely to get cold feet than she is."

"I know, I know." He said, chuckling. He looked down at the baby in his arms and said, "It won't be long before we'll be rocking away every night in your very own room." He stroked her palm gently and she wrapped tiny fingers reflexively around his.

Halley watched them, father and almost-daughter. "Little did we know, that afternoon in the ER."

"Nope. Chuck called them a 'Mack Truck' heading my way. It was the best auto-pedestrian encounter I've been involved in."

Halley smiled and nodded in agreement. "Have you thought about where you're going to propose? You have to plan this, you know."

"I've made reservations at Twenty Milk Street in the Portland Regency for Friday evening. Ted took you there for your anniversary last year, didn't he? Seems to me he said he did." She nodded in assent. "It's all done up for the holidays and I'm thinking drinks in the Armory Lounge and then dinner. You remember the fireplace at Twenty Milk, right? I've arranged for one of the tables next to it and champagne to be served at my signal -- if all goes well, that is. With snow in the forecast, the Old Port should be magical, like it always is at Christmastime, and we can walk the streets afterward."

"Or get a room?" Halley said, with an arched eyebrow.

"Use your imagination," he said, "it's active enough for both of us."

WGME's chief weather meteorologist did not disappoint when, five nights later, the Old Port resembled the North Pole, replete with decorations and a light snowfall adding to the accumulation that had been piled along the edges of the sidewalks, turning them into corridors in front of the shops. Bob and Jessie had foregone the valet parking in favor of a walk, arm in arm, along Fore Street, and were now deep into New York Sirloins by the fire at Twenty Milk.

"I've been thinking more and more about your 'house,' Bob said, "The real estate broker called this week, apparently the owners liked us and suggested they might be willing to deal. I told him I'd like to sell my place first and when I mentioned the location, he said he might actually have a buyer. He wants to bring them by for a look sometime next week. If all goes well, we could be moving after the first of the year."

Her fork halted in mid-air. "Are you serious? Oh, Bob..."

"Serious as a heart attack, Babe. Eventually we'd have to add a bedroom or two, but right now, there's plenty of space, as we saw when we toured it, and I really do like the idea of living in the country again."

"So do I," she said, and reached across the table, laying a hand on his. "It would be a dream come true."

After dessert of Pumpkin Bread Pudding with pecan pralines and cream, they sipped coffee and let the nearby conversations drift away.

"There's something I'd like to talk to you about," he said, taking a deep breath, "and honestly, I'm not entirely sure how to begin."

She set down her cup as this time, he reached across the table, taking her hands in his.

"Ever since we met, though I didn't fully realize it at the time, my life has been different. I know I keep saying that, but it's true. The next day, when we ran into each other in the parking lot, I could tell."

She smiled, remembering. Hi there, Splenda gal.

"The funny thing is, when class was over and I got into my car to head back to Portland, I knew exactly what I wanted to say to you, and of course, I couldn't and wouldn't for reasons you already know. But I knew it anyway. I've thought about how to say this, over and over, tried to imagine being more eloquent, and all I can come up with is this."

He let loose of her hands and she watched him slowly stand, then kneel down on one knee in front of her. "Jessie," he took another deep breath, "my sweet, sweet Jessie, I love you like I've never, ever loved. You're all I want, you're all I could want if I lived forever. Will you," his voice trembled and he swallowed, "will you please marry me?" Her eyes swam, but before she could answer, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small velvet-covered box, opened it, and set it down in front of her. Inside was a diamond ring with the Flatirons carved along either side of the stone.

The room had been growing quieter and quieter and all eyes were turned toward a couple near the fire where one knelt before the other. A waiter serving food stopped as if frozen. A dropping pin would have made more noise. Jessie took the ring, slipped it on her finger, and looked at it for a second that seemed to him like hours. Then she framed his face in her hands and kissed him.

"Yes," was all she said.


(Photo of Portland's Regency Park Hotel copyright 2011 by the author)

Pink Hats 22: A Different Drummer

After-hours coffee and Danish from the Nook and Cranny had the earmarks of becoming a ritual between friends. Despite his pediatrics rotation having been complete around mid-September, Chuck continued drop by Bob's office throughout the first of his two required six-week internal medicine rotations and now an elective two weeks in radiology. On the other side of four more in OB/GYN lay psychiatry, at last. What he didn't expect was the residual effect of his initial month with Bob, Jessie, and the twins on his future.

"I keep thinking about that child-adolescent fellowship and it's all your fault," he said, hanging his head and faking misery.

"I've been blamed for a lot of things," Bob replied, ruefully, "including a baby when I was seventeen that I had absolutely nothing to do with -- and couldn't have even if I'd wanted to because I was on a Scouting trip during conception -- but this is a new one. Tell me."

They were sitting in Bob's office with their feet propped up on opposite sides of a massive roll top desk he'd inherited ten years ago from his pediatrics instructor who, at 80, decided it was a good time to retire and sail around the world. He made it, by the way, and now, he and his wife were trekking in Nepal, in celebration of his 90th birthday.

"Well, I thought I had everything planned out. Adult psychiatry was my bailiwick. Sure, I loved kids, just like you, but I enjoyed psychotherapy so much it was hard to see myself in another role. Then you came along -- and Jessie -- and the twins -- and the next thing you know, I couldn't get enough of pediatrics. Especially the kids with ADHD and parents who're going nuts trying to cope, the occasional bipolar disorder we've seen, and the substance-abusing teens. And frankly, I miss them. I feel like saying, along with the prophet Isaiah, 'Woe is me, for I am undone.'"

Bob pursed his lips and nodded, as though he had anticipated the news. "I had a feeling we were going to be a bad influence. It's even worse when the kids like you, and clearly, they do -- that's a trap waiting to be set. Top it off, when you can get teenagers talking -- well, all I can say is, you are in way wicked trouble, my friend." He broke into an appreciative smile.

"Looks like it. I don't know all the details yet, but I've got plenty of time -- see? You can't get rid of me, can you? Now, about the dream you mentioned a couple of days ago in passing, the one you had on the way home from Concord --"

"-- yeah, what did you think of that?" Bob asked, interrupting.

"It was a good one, especially coming on the heals of meeting Jessie's father."

"You're saying a dream's timing is as important as its content?"

"From the perspective of interpretation, yes. Dreams are one thing, the way we view them afterward, is another. My impression is, this one is suggesting you have your own rhythm. Kind of like Thoreau's comment, 'If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it's because he hears a different drummer.' In your dream, the bass drum was a stethoscope -- you're maintaining the 'beat' of the music all right, but in your way. Timing enters the picture because, from what you've told me about Jessie's dad, it sounds like he's inclined to do similarly. It's probably another one of the benefits of you being older, allowing the two of you to establish a more mature connection."

"I agree, but that didn't make it any easier. Sure, we were more likely to develop a peer-type relationship than would have been possible if I was nearer Jessie's age, but he's still her father and truthfully? I felt like I was 22 once again, sweaty palms included. I guess none of us are as 'together' as we'd like to believe."

"That holds true for me, I'll tell you. One thing you can definitely count on is your relationship with her father making life a great deal easier for Jessie."

Bob was in mid-bite on his Danish. He stopped, put it down, and said, "I would assume that's a 'given.'"

"It is, but there's more. It tells her she doesn't have to love one of you at the expense of the other. It gives her a deep, abiding sense of security about two of the most important relationships a woman can have with men. And a woman like Jessie, who clearly wants someone with more maturity than a guy closer to her own age might possess, has the unspoken expectation that whoever she brings home, should be someone her father can respect as well as one who respects him. You already know this, but she's really an extraordinary woman -- I hope I get half as lucky." With a gleam in his eye he added, "Wait a minute. Didn't you tell me she has a sister? Anyhow, looks to me like you hit this one out of the ballpark. When are you going to pop the question?"

Bob laughed, "One at a time. First, yes I did and she's available, but I think it would look better if Jessie played matchmaker. A professor setting up a date might appear as unfair advantage. As to the second, I haven't quite decided, but I'm thinking around Christmas. It's our favorite time of year and even a romantic moron like me can pick the right place. I need to find a ring and I haven't figured out how to get her size without coming out and asking. I could do that, I suppose, but then the cat would be out of the bag and I'd like this to be a surprise. Not that we haven't talked or at least alluded to it. I just want very badly for her to have the 'fairy tale,' you know?"

"Yes, I do, and she'll love you for it."


(Creative Commons image by Allie's Dad via Flickr)

Taking the Hit

When I was a kid, New Year's meant the Tournament of Roses parade and football afterward. It also meant Christmas break was almost over and I'd have to face the prospect of going back to school. It was really hard to get excited about a holiday with that kind of baggage. I've never been one to "party hardy," so as an adult, I tend to spend New Year's Eve at home, explaining to my dog and cat why New Year's is such a big deal. They usually end up falling asleep somewhere in the midst of my soliloquy and I don't blame them.

Last night, however, I got an unexpected treat when the 2006 film Rocky Balboa showed up on commercial television. I hadn't seen it in quite a while and all I could recall was, Rocky is an older, retired fighter who has a chance to come back and tackle a younger and presumably, hungrier opponent. I'd forgotten some of the things that made it such a moving film the first time.

Mostly, I'd forgotten Rocky's impassioned speech when his son appeals to him to turn down the invitation to fight the reigning world heavyweight champ on the grounds he has felt eclipsed by his father's name and reputation. "The world ain't all sunshine and rainbows. It is a very mean and nasty place and it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain't how hard you hit; it's about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done. Now, if you know what you're worth, then go out and get what you're worth. But you gotta be willing to take the hit, and not (be) pointing fingers saying you ain't where you are (or wish to be) because of him, or her, or anybody."

Listening to Rocky's character, I couldn't help but think about people I've known (and know, by the way) who've had experiences that lead others to ask, "Haven't you had enough? Isn't it time to rethink your options?" And instead of rethinking anything, they find a way to keep moving in the direction they've chosen. Not stubbornly, mindlessly, without regard for life or limb, in the name of an overblown sense of pride. But out of commitment to something larger than themselves, a dream, a vision of their future they're unwilling to abandon simply because the way has gotten tougher than they thought it might.

I'm impressed by their determination, but especially by their integrity. When they've called or written to say they've taken a hit, they don't talk about how they've gotten a bad break or who's to blame for their situation. They consistently tell me what they've done and how their actions have resulted in what they're facing now. If they blame anyone, it's themselves, but not in an off-handed way that suggests they think someone else is responsible after all.

These are the people who keep me going. When I'm tempted to feel sorry for myself or think I'm all alone in a big blue sea of things that didn't go right, they're out there, swimming against the tide instead of treading water. The waves wash over their heads, they sputter, clear their faces, take another breath, and keep on going. They know land is ahead whether they can see it or not and refuse to quit until their feet touch solid ground. If they can do it, so can I.

From my dog and cat, Dr. Bob Z, Jessie, and all the rest -- including me -- Happy New Year!

(Creative Commons image by Lord Henry via Flickr)

My Father's Gloves

Well, the snow has stopped for now, but the wind continues to howl, imitating the sound of a passenger jet flying low overhead. Or the sound of traffic on the highway from the patio of my apartment in Champaign this past fall. It's funny how one thing triggers the memory of another. Oh, it's started again -- snowing. We had a couple of inches before Christmas, enough to qualify for a white one, and I have an idea Maine has seen the last of the soil until spring.

This is the kind of snow I loved and hated as a kid. Loved because my gloves didn't soak through while playing, hated because it was too dry to pack. No snowballs or snowmen will be forthcoming from this one. The wet snows were my father's bane. First, my gloves would get wet, so I'd come inside and tell my mother. She'd produce another pair, usually my dad's, and I'd go back out and play until those were too wet and cold to wear. Once again inside and "Mom!" Another pair of my father's, and you guessed it, he'd come home later to find all of his, side by side with mine, dripping in front of the radiator. This did not make him happy.

"Son, I needed gloves so that I could do some work in the barn and feed the horses."

"But I needed them to play." I felt badly -- really, I did. While I was playing, though, it was hard to see further than the next snowball.

"Mm. Well, do me a favor, next time leave me at least one pair, okay?"

"Okay." The lessons of my youth.

I think about those days when it snows because, as soon as it stops snowing, I'll go out and start digging my way from the door to the driveway, and then from the barn door to the street. My polartech gloves will be the first to dampen, then my old wind-proof gloves I got at REI in Boulder, and finally, if it comes down to it, my leather work gloves.

Thankfully, if all else fails, I still have a pair of my father's in a drawer. I guess I could always resort to those. Psst. Don't tell him, okay?


(Creative Commons image by Grant MacDonald via Flickr)

The Healing Clause

Image via Wikipedia I mentioned yesterday, in addition to The Santa Clause, The Santa Clause 2 was one of my favorite Christmas films. The reason is, both of these, but especially the second, points out the significance of Santa Claus for adults. This isn't something one usually thinks about, the presumption being, Santa, his elves and reindeer are the stuff of fairy tales and, as everyone knows, fairy tales are for children. The thing is, that's not entirely true.

Fairy tales, as they are written, as "they lived happily ever after" stories, are for children. As a vehicle for communicating truths about life, however, fairy tales are for adults and most of the literature you'll see concerning their meaning applies to adults. Movies and television can be helpful as springboards for discussion because we all see the same image played out and have the same frame of reference. 

In The Santa Clause 2, Scott Calvin aka Santa, has a problem. In order for him to remain Santa, he has to fulfill The Mrs. Clause, i.e. he has to find a wife. It helps to read the fine print before signing on the dotted line. Anyway, in the course of searching for one he can live with, he actually finds one he wants to be with, but wouldn't you know it? she has a problem, too. When he tries to reveal his identity, she refuses to believe him. This is not a minor detail. We can't very well expect her to marry a man she can't or ought not to have believed, can we? I know of women (men, too) who've done it, but they lived to regret it. Well, Carol, our character, has a reason for her disbelief. She was very seriously disappointed as a child when her parents informed her there was no Santa.

Now, this isn't like Lois Lane's incredulity over Clark Kent telling her he's Superman. Carol was hurt so badly by her parents' revelation that she continues to be extremely sensitive about anything related to Christmas. As a result, she's done what anyone might under similar circumstances, i.e. set up defenses to avoid being hurt again. But this only makes it harder for her to trust, and before she can experience Scott's love, she has to be willing to trust.

Carol's not the only one character with Christmas "issues." We see her, Scott, and the faculty of a school where she is principal, at a Christmas party, and it's a lifeless one. There is no joy or frivolity, no one is dancing -- they all act like they've come down with a bad case of the blues. In an effort to intervene "therapeutically," Scott introduces the "Secret Santa." Although Carol whispers to him there is no Secret Santa, he insists there is and produces a bag of gifts to prove it.

When the packages are opened, each person discovers either a toy from childhood they wanted but kept to themselves or one that was especially meaningful. These aren't just any toys, these are special toys, healing toys -- ones that possess the power to touch a person, not only where they've been hurt, but where the pain lingers. In a sense, they are sacramental, conveying the grace of genuineness, of letting go, of playing with abandon. Self-consciousness vanishes as the party goers are free to be themselves.

I entitled this post, The Healing Clause as a word-play on the film's title, because it seems to me the mythic role Santa plays in the lives of adults is that of healer. It may be something we experience with our children, watching them light up at the sight of Santa at the end of Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade or any other parade of the season. Smaller ones, too, like Boulder's Lights of Christmas, where I've stood on the sidewalk, with gloved hands round a rapidly cooling cup of hot chocolate, alongside children who were cold as icicles until they saw Santa and his reindeer and everything changed.

Something happens as we remember old hurts and the jolly old man in a sleigh somehow touches our hearts and we begin to let them go. I don't understand it, maybe it's the power of myth, maybe it's the Season, maybe it's beyond me, but wherever the magic comes from, I know it's real because I'm different and others are different around me. If you've experienced it, you know what I mean and if you haven't, I hope someday you do. You'll be glad you did.


(Fair use of low-resolution image of copyrighted movie poster for The Santa Clause 2 to provide critical commentary on the film itself and not merely as an illustration. Source: Wikipedia)

The Good Samaritan Reindeer

For the record, let me say The Santa Clause is my favorite Christmas film, hands down. What makes it so special for me is the way Scott Calvin is changed on the inside by circumstances he clearly can't control, as well as the impact of those changes on those around him. It's a theme repeated in The Santa Clause 2, another favorite, one that I'll revisit later this weekend. Right now, what I'd like to do is ask, whatever happened to poor Rudolph? Have you ever noticed, he's not included in Santa's reindeer? Did the filmmakers mess up? What's going on here?!

Well, I think the explanation may have crept into my head sometime between cup of coffee #1 and #2 this morning. The first description of Rudolph appeared in a booklet written in 1939 by Robert L. May on assignment by the department store giant, Montgomery Ward. Eventually, his story became a song and the rest, as they say, is history. Rudolph has been a fixture in Santa Claus mythology ever since. But not in The Santa Clause.

The reason we don't see Rudolph in the film is simple. There are no foggy Christmas Eves. Rudolph's claim to fame results from a single night when Santa needed him. His is the tale of the "fool" who is rejected by all until the time comes when only he can save the day. He was never intended to be the ninth reindeer forever and he only shows up when the flying conditions are poor enough that Santa needs fog lamps. Not on snowy Christmas Eves or bright, shining moon-lit ones like last night's in Maine. But on foggy ones when not even the sharpest-eyed can find their way through the soup between the North Pole and points south.

Now, I think this is an important piece of information to have at hand, especially when our children notice, as they most certainly will, that Rudolph is missing. It's not an inaccuracy or a mistake or, as unbelievers would suggest, evidence that it's all humbug anyway. It's simply an accurate reflection of the fact that Rudolph has a unique role and only fills it when necessary.

I guess you could call him the Good Samaritan Reindeer. Kind of like the three people who came to the rescue of a woman trapped in a rollover crash last night near my home. They didn't have to stop and Rudolph could have told Santa he was busy, but they did and he didn't, the woman is recovering nicely and Santa made his rounds on time. I like that. Rudolph is a reindeer with a conscience.

So, remember, now, when you look up into the Christmas Eve sky, searching faithfully, as I do every year, for a sign, a streak of light, or anything at all that fulfills the desire of your heart to see him at long last, don't be disappointed if there's not a red spot in the lead. Not unless it's foggy that is, and then Rudoph's nose is all you'll see. And that will be good enough for me.

P.S. To all who have made this blog a part of your lives the past year(s), please accept my sincerest thanks and best wishes to you and yours for a wonderful and blessed Christmas and Holiday Season!

Beggar, the dog, and the cat

(Creative Commons image by Zoomloes via Flickr)

Revisiting A Charlie Brown Christmas: All You Need Is Love

For years, A Charlie Brown Christmas has, for me, been one of the heralds of the Holiday Season. I've never outgrown it and God forbid I ever do. My favorite scene, I think, is of Snoopy dancing on Schroeder's piano. His unselfconscious abandonment to the moment is something I dearly love.

At the same time, however, I'm also ashamed of Snoopy for joining in when the other children are laughing at Charlie Brown. I want to say, bad dog, no treats for you. But Snoopy's failure shows that no one is perfect and even those we rely on the most can yield to peer pressure. We all hope our courage will hold and we won't deny our friends "three times before the cock crows." It's at times like these when to err is human hits home the hardest.

Watching A Charlie Brown Christmas last night, in this, it's 45th year, something about the story crept up behind and whacked me over the head, something I've quite honestly never seen before, or at least in quite this way. Charlie Brown is depressed, as you know, and goes to Lucy for psychiatric assistance. She listens, so far as Lucy ever listens to anyone, and rather than offering him a diagnosis, she proceeds directly to treatment. "You need involvement," she says. In other words, what's wrong with you isn't important, just get busy and you'll be fine.

But Charlie isn't fine and taking her prescription results in treatment failure. His efforts to direct their Christmas play fall apart because he and the cast are coming from different psychological places, a situation Lucy might have anticipated, had she been able. That she didn't, stems from her presumption that, as an "expert," she knows best and depression, loneliness, or isolation are purely behavioral phenomena. The idea that he might, following Sioux wisdom, have a "bad heart," never occurs to her. Now, I realize I'm asking a lot of Lucy, but it doesn't take much to listen well. Children do it more often than they're given credit for; we just need to pay close enough attention to notice.

Charlie's cry for help, "Does anyone know what Christmas is all about?" tells us, superficially, that he very badly wants to know if there is a reason for all the activity, for sending cards, for giving and receiving gifts, or is it just something controlled by a big eastern syndicate, as Lucy suggests. What he really wants to know is the answer to the existential question asked at some point by everyone, i.e. is there any meaning at all for what I do?

I have to hand it to Charles Schulz for expressing some very profound truths very simply. Linus' response to Charlie's question, telling the Christmas story from Matthew's Gospel, does not, in itself, solve Charlie's problem. The function of religious faith is not to provide easy answers to hard questions. Instead, in the best tradition of pastoral care and theology, what Linus does is infuse Charlie with the impetus to go forth into the night to discover the meaning of Christmas for himself.

In the final scene, as I'm sure you remember, the other children gather round Charlie's little tree, remove the decorations from Snoopy's house, and "create" a fuller expression of a Christmas Tree. Linus says, "Maybe it just needs a little love," and then he wraps its trunk in his most prized possession, his blanket. It's the Gift of the Magi, and his action takes him beyond merely restating the Christmas story to enacting it. If we take the scrawny tree to represent Charlie Brown, the one kid who stands apart from all the rest, who, despite his best efforts, never seems to attain social acceptability, Linus' "diagnosis" takes us to the heart of the story.

Charlie doesn't need involvement. Like his little tree, he needs love, but he doesn't know it yet. Determined to not allow commercialism to ruin his Christmas, he places a decoration on the tree, it falls over with the weight, and he accuses himself of being incapable of doing anything of value. Charlie is still held captive by his feelings of being unacceptable. He needs what we all do, to experience appreciation for his unique perspective and contributions. He needs the affirmation of his community. He needs to hear, "Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown," in order to raise his voice in the chorus of others without shame.

Charlie Brown is us. Not just the disadvantaged or disabled, the elderly or children, but all of us. He is the voice within that says, "see me, feel me, touch me, heal me." John Lennon and, by the way, Dr. Bob Z from Pink Hats, are right. All you need is love.


(Creative Commons image by manymeez via Flickr)

Pink Hats, Part IX: Life is too Short for Playing It Safe

Women are instinctive, Jessie knew that much, and in the past few weeks, her instincts had been working overtime. Surprising her with coffee first thing in the morning meant Bob had done his homework: he checked her schedule to make certain she was working and brought something special, a "box of chocolates" in the guise of a large mocha. Dinner at Grace Restaurant was her idea of giving him a glimpse, but only a glimpse, of the cards she was holding, and things had gone on from there. Those same instincts woke her from a sound sleep two hours before the alarm on a Sunday morning, whispering, Go to New Hampshire, talk to your father.

By nine-thirty, she and Sam were on 95, halfway across the Piscataqua Bridge, the point at which you leave Maine and enter the Land of No Sales Tax. From Portsmouth, she'd hop over to I-93. We’ll be in Concord before dad can shake hands with the vicar and tell him it was a fine sermon, she thought. 

A dedicated religious skeptic, her father married a 23 year old high school biology teacher and devout Episcopalian he met at a Grange Hall dance. That was 1975. Prior to, he did a stint in the Army complete with what he enjoyed calling an “all-expenses-paid vacation in Viet Nam.” Afterward, there was college and vet school. Seventeen years and three children later, she was killed when her car slid off an icy road and down a rocky embankment, the week after Christmas. The Sunday following her funeral, he walked into Concord's Grace Episcopal Church, and took a seat in the pew closest to the rear exit.

Jessie was thirteen, her sister eleven, and their brother sixteen. Somehow, they pulled together, and he managed to get them all through college, medical and veterinary school as a single parent. It took ten years for him to move from the back of his wife’s parish to the front row of pews, and five more to prompt him to enter the permanent diaconate. No one was more surprised than he. If you asked, he'd still say he was skeptical of religion, but this way, he feels closer to his wife. He'd also say it makes more sense to let his doubts argue directly with their source, rather than stand in the street and throw rocks at the windows. It’s the way he's generally approached life.

Jessie and Sam were waiting when he pulled his truck onto the meandering unpaved driveway that wandered through his five acres of orchards and tall grass. He was barely out of the truck when Sam was practically on top of him. Tail wagging wildly, he grabbed a hand as though it was a soft chew toy and led him back to the house. Sam was in charge of this walk. 

"And to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, wrapping his life-sized grizzly/teddy bear arms around his daughter and raising her on tip-toe, "my birthday isn't until next month." At 72, his strength never ceased to amaze.

"I missed you. I've been busy, you've been busy, and I decided I didn't want to wait."

He held her at arm's length. “Well, I'm glad to see you, too, honey." His eyebrow just then did a "Mr. Spock," and he added, "Hold on, something's different. Did you change your hair?"

She smiled and dropped her eyes, "It is? Leave it for you to notice. No, my hair's the same. What's that?" She nodded in the direction of a brown paper package he'd laid on the wicker porch table. She's changing the subject, he noticed.

"Bake sale at church. Abby Johnson's cinnamon rolls. You're mother would kill us both, if she knew. Twice the sugar, three times the fat, and all the flavor -- come on in, let's make coffee and put a dent in these."

Jessie's mother hadn't been a flower child, but she had sympathies. Organic farming was new and she threw herself into a study of its health benefits and used their orchard and large garden to experiment. Refined sugar and excess fat were strict no-nos at the dinner table except on holidays, and then she pulled out all the stops.

"Okay, sweetheart," he said, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin that mimicked a black and tan chessboard, "time for you to tell dad what really brought you all this way on the spur of the moment."

"I told you, it's because I missed --"

"No, no, no. My hearing is still good, apart from that incessant ringing, and Alzheimer's I don't have. Not yet. Let's cut to the chase."

"It's called tinnitus and aspirin therapy is probably to blame -- it's the price we pay for the damage Abby Johnson's baking does to our arteries. Tell your doctor, maybe he'll adjust the dose – and, I’ve met someone. That sounds recent, but we've either known or known of each other since medical school. Anyway, we've started dating and I…wanted to tell you about him."

"Former student?" He took a sip from a white bistro-styled cup with the letters U-N-E stenciled in light and dark blue down the side. Jessie brought home a set of four after her med school interview and he used one every day until she received her letter of admission, "for luck." It was the same with her younger sister.

Jessie took a deep breath, and said, "He was one of my clinical professors in pediatrics.”

He stopped in mid-sip, lowered his cup, and set it carefully on the table. “I see.”

“You're enjoying watching me squirm, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” he said, smiling smugly and then ducking as she pretended to throw her empty cup at his head. And that’s how the conversation went, with her tracing the outline of her relationship with Bob while he tried to listen without making her smile and lose her train of thought. It reminded her of the way she and Bob were, and silently she breathed a prayer of thanks to her mother for finding a man like her father.

“I could make it easy and say I like him, and I do, but it’s deeper than that. I think I’m in love with him, dad. He’s older, as you’ve probably already guessed, and while that’s not a problem for me, I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it…?”

“I think you’ve both been incredibly patient, to wait this long. What held him back, do you know?”

“Partly, he was recovering from his divorce and didn’t want to drag me into a messy situation. But he was also concerned, particularly during my residency, that no one could say my accomplishments were a consequence of him being in the background, covering for me. He wanted me to be able to take credit for my own work and be recognized for it. Meanwhile, I had no idea what was going on. We talked fairly often and even had lunch in the cafeteria a few times, but he consistently kept his feelings under wraps. When he told me all of this over lunch yesterday, I was speechless.”

“Not hard to understand why. Let’s go out on the front porch.” He stood up and walked over to a walnut secretary that stood against the wall in the dining room, opened a drawer and began rummaging around, eventually lifting a up an old pipe, an unopened tin of tobacco, and a box of matches. “I haven’t smoked this in years, not since your mother. But right now, it strikes me as a good idea.”

She settled in a large wicker chair letting her legs hang over one arm. Sam curled up at her feet and began snoring while her father lit his pipe and took a seat on the wide porch swing. Almost fifteen minutes passed before he said anything. “Baby,” -- he would call her that to his dying day -- “I think you may have found the pearl of great price. I don’t quote the Bible often, but I haven’t known many men who would put their girlfriend’s interests above their own quite like that, certainly not for five and a half years. Maybe it’s because of his age and presumed maturity or because he’s been divorced, but it sounds to me like he knows without question what’s important to him, and who.

Now, you wondered how I’d feel about his age. Well, the best answer I have for that is, your mother and I had nineteen years, seventeen of them married. If I had it to do over again, knowing I’d lose her and there was nothing I could do about it, I’d marry her in a heartbeat. If you love this man, and it sure looks like he loves you, whether he knows it or not, you’ve got something worth holding onto. Life is far too short to play it safe.” 

He knocked the ashes from his pipe on the railing and said, “This wasn’t near as good as I remembered it.”

She laughed. “Unlike Abby’s sweet rolls that get better each time she bakes them. I want you to meet Bob, and soon.”

“Oh, that’s a given, and the sooner the better. If I’m going to have a son-in-law, I need to start getting used to the idea.”

“Who said anything about a son-in-law?”

“You did. I saw it on your face when I said what I said about life being too short. And it is, Baby, never forget that.”

(Creative Commons Image of the Piscataqua Bridge, NH by plousia via Flickr)