The Uncarved Block

 
In your heart, you already know.~ Zen saying

Depending on the space we happen to be in, the heart's knowing can be a curse,  blessing, or one more unanswered question. The hard part is getting our head into alignment with what we already sense, intuitively, to be true. A Zen master would probably suggest meditation might help, but that just puts me to sleep. Besides, I'm more an uncarved block kind of guy.

The uncarved block is a concept expressing naturalness and the oneness with nature embraced by Taoism. You may be familiar with the delightful book, The Tao of Pooh, in which the author, Benjamin Hoff, describes Winnie the Pooh as the uncarved block. Simple, uncomplicated, genuine -- these are words that describe Pooh. A complex bear he'll never be. His most severe problem involves getting his head stuck in a honey jar. Unlike me, unlike most of us.

Getting to the lowest common denominator in my own life has been a challenge and continues to be. Circumstances don't always cooperate with the effort and making a move in any direction can stir up a beehive of complications. The uncarved block, fortunately, isn't a way of living as much as a way of being. It's who we are more than how we live, though right being ought to result in right doing.

Living on this farm the past five years has been an exercise in simplicity and one that I've cherished. I've learned to consolidate errands because "town" is twelve miles away, down a curvaceous country road. Walking my dogs around the hayfield is a pleasure I can scarcely describe and gazing out the front window at a barn dating to the late 1770s is a childhood fantasy come true. I've never gotten past the sense that some late night I'm going to encounter the shimmering remnant of a colonial someone who lived here long before me.

When a person's focus is directed externally, it's difficult to be simple. The world does everything it can to tell us we've got to keep busy lest we be left behind. Complexity isn't the template for the uncarved block. A piece of wood that has yielded to knife and sandpaper no longer depicts its untouched state. The uncarved block must be seen with the mind's eye.

It's like that with people, when we intentionally overlook skin color, clothing, distinctions, differences -- foreignness. When we allow the potential for relatedness to take precedence over presumption. Turn on TCM (Turner Classic Movies) sometime when The Russians are Coming, The Russians are Coming (1966), is on the schedule, as it was last evening. It's a comedy depicting a Soviet submarine that runs aground in a small, New England harbor. The residents of the town are up in arms because it's the era of the Cold War and instead of the British, the "Russians" have arrived at their doorstep. Townspeople and Russian sailors forget national pride to help rescue a child and suddenly, they're no longer enemies. 

A year ago, when bombs went off in Boston, Islamic-American doctors risked their lives alongside European-American doctors and first-responders to help everyone they could. The uncarved block was all that mattered. Getting simple enough to see that, all the time, is hard, especially when the voices of paranoia crowd the media, warning us one false step is only a single step away. Paranoia isn't a guide; it's psychosis, it's madness. Taking each other as we are is a better one. I'm quite certain, Pooh would agree.


(Creative Commons image "The Uncarved Block" by Beth Hoffman via Flickr)

Lawn Mower Face

Ten day's stubble, that's what women want to see on a guy's face, according to a recent study. Full beards mean good daddy material; heavy stubble makes us look like men. Personally, I wonder whether the female study participants (males in the study responded similarly) really want to snuggle up with Mr. Scratchy or they simply like "the look." 

Marketing likes it, that's for sure. Check out the male models in the latest L.L. Bean or Land's End catalog; almost every one has several days accumulation of 5:00 shadow. True, they're also young (20s, early 30s) and muscular, with finely chiseled facial features, characteristics no doubt chosen because of their presumed appeal to women. I'd like to know where all the mature male models have gone. You suppose, after a certain age, we don't have to try to look manly, we just do?

If maturity is a sign of masculinity, it's a darned good thing because whenever I've enjoyed more than a day of unshaven bliss, forget about women gazing at me with undisguised "I want to have your children" yearning on their faces. They only glance long enough to make a cross with both index fingers and point it in my direction. Makes me wonder if I've been watching too much True Blood (HBO) lately. Anyway, Daniel Craig's 007 looked pretty scuzzy in Skyfall (2013) after a few weeks hiding out in paradise. Even M noticed. So, what gives?

Maybe it's a shift in women's ideas about masculinity. Instead of a sensitive soul who wears his feelings on his sleeve, they want someone who appears and probably acts, a little tougher. Not in the sense he's inconsiderate or abusive -- qualities more accurately reflective of narcissism than genuine masculinity -- rather he has a kind of durability that says he can take life on the chin.

The authors of the study seem to think women consider a shaven face as too youthful, while a full beard makes men seem older, hence better candidates for parenting. Stubble characterizes the guy in the middle, situated on the cusp of masculinity. He has enough testosterone to develop a beard but not so much that he might be considered overly aggressive. "On the cusp," however, usually means "at the point of beginning." From that perspective, a man on the cusp of masculinity is still a boy, something worth remembering when you go out on a date. Appearances can be deceiving.

I have a sneaking suspicion character or manliness are more accurate terms for the qualities that came to mind when the participants viewed stubbly male faces. With a nod of the head to evolutionary psychology, I don't think women are so shallow as to be mainly interested in how closely we approximate our prehistoric ancestors. The problem is, unlike the onset of facial hair, character and manliness don't accompany puberty. They have to be earned and the proof a man possesses them is demonstrated by the way he treats others and the standards he maintains for himself, implying an investment in time and experience. We may be born male but we have to grow into manhood. Facial stubble may signal "sexy" but if Lawn Mower Face is all a fellow's got, he doesn't have nearly enough.  


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(Creative Commons image by Twaize via Flickr)

Behind the Scenes with Dr. Bob Z and John Livingstone

 
I love a good backstory. More than deleted scenes, it tells the tale behind the scenes, the storyline that may or may not find its way into print or onto film. Backstory means getting a glimpse of the life J.K. Rowling imagined, but didn't fully reveal, for Harry Potter between his final duel with Voldemort and the end of the story, 17 years later. Similarly, I've been taking a long look at the conversation between Dr. Bob Z. and Jessie's father, John Livingstone, on the occasion of John's birthday, in Pink Hats 20: Untarnished and In Uncharted Territory, and I'd like to tell a bit of their backstory.

Let's start with the basics of what we already know about them. John has been widowed and raised three children, putting them through medical and veterinary school, on his own. At 72, he operates a full-time, large-animal veterinary clinic along with his son and serves part-time as an unpaid pastoral minister in his late wife's church. Bob is 62, divorced, and his father is dead. A former opthalmologist, he eventually changed direction, completed a second residency in pediatrics, and has a busy practice in Portland. This isn't your typical confab between a young man starting out and an older, established parent of the bride-to-be. Our characters are grown men who have experienced some of the worst and best life has to offer.

If Bob were thirty years younger we'd naturally expect their exchange to have a somewhat different tone as well as focus. Bob would nervously do his best to speak convincingly of his love for Jessie and describe his prospects for the future. John would patiently offer advice about life, marriage, and what he himself has learned about being a good son-in-law. But that's not the case here and the conversation has to ratchet up several notches to take this into account. Bob is a mature man and he and John are more likely to relate as peers, a subject that comes up again in A Different Drummer.  

The pace of the conversation is also different. Both are direct, get to the point, no nonsense New Englanders. John has known marriage was on his daughter's mind since visiting with Jessie several weeks earlier (Life is too Short for Playing it Safe), so he's had time to do some thinking. It would make sense for him to have talked it over with her siblings, too. We can presume he's been observing Bob throughout the festivities, noting how he, Jessie, and the rest of the family interact, and no doubt, he's formed some impressions. By the time the two of them are sitting on the front porch, I think it's safe to say, he's already got a pretty good idea whether he's going to bless their relationship. What he needs to hear are the reasons for doing so in Bob's own words.

Now, unlike a younger prospective husband, Bob has clarify why he believes he should ask for Jessie's hand. I'm reminded of medical school admissions interviews and having to explain, Why do you want to undertake something of this magnitude now? It's not exactly the kind of question you're going to get if you're 22. Though John appears to casually break the ice by saying, "So, you want to marry my oldest daughter," what he's thinking is, Sooner or later Bob's going to ask, why not make it easier on us both? Bob knows he really doesn't need to ask because asking, in itself, implies a power differential that doesn't exist between peers. He wants John's blessing, however, because he understands how important her family is to Jessie. Asking, for him, is an act of love. It's undeniable proof he means it when he says, "She's always been more important to me than I was to myself." John also knows they don't need his approval -- Jessie can make her own decisions -- but Bob's desire to seek it anyway says a great deal about the kind of man he is and the kind of man she's getting. 

There is another element these men have in common, besides Jessie, that alerts us to the possibility their conversation will take us in directions we might not imagine. Both are admittedly skeptical about religion. John deals with his doubts by actively debating with his faith. Bob is more of a theologian than he gives himself credit for, but his theology is existential; it grows out of his experience of living and loving. John's is, too, but it bears the marks of conscious reflection and that enables him to help Bob make sense of, and give expression to, the deeper implications of what he's feeling and saying.

While some relationships entail one partner secretly wishing to remake the other into a romantic ideal, Bob openly wishes he was more like Jessie. He admires her as much as he loves her. He tells John that he feels as though he's being changed as a consequence of their relationship, but he's not sure how to describe it. He feels, not "young" as we'd expect, but "new and untarnished," which is much different. John interprets Bob's experience in terms of baptism -- death and resurrection -- and points out how some relationships, such as his with Jessie's mother and now theirs, can be profoundly transforming. What Bob is describing isn't simply a metaphor; it's real and observable. In essence, he says, relationships like yours don't come along every day, but when they do, there's no mistaking them. John can see the effects in his daughter and Bob can see them in himself.

I like this conversation and I hope I'm not alone. It reflects not only Bob's appreciation for Jessie and her family, but also the quality of his experience of being a son, an often neglected aspect in romantic relationships. How well we  integrate our same-sex parent into our identity as adults has an enormous impact on the kind of spouse we're capable of becoming. Bob exemplifies someone who, despite his father's absence, maintains their relationship through memory and demonstrates its influence in the way he treats those he loves. His children won't know their paternal grandfather like they'll know John, but through their father, they'll know him just the same. 

(Creative Commons image of a front porch such as the one where John and Bob have their conversation by nanetteturner via Flickr)

Advising Mitt

 
I sort of feel sorry for Mitt Romney. He did what most of us have done, or I have anyway, and wished almost immediately we hadn't. Opened our mouths and watched as the unspeakable came out seemingly of its own accord. Maybe we were angry or afraid or eager to be viewed as acceptable and be embraced by others. At the time, it might have seemed innocent enough -- we thought we were in a protected environment -- and of course, we weren't, as demonstrated by the fallout we're unable to duck no matter how deep we dive into the shelter. Now, we're left, picking up the scattered remnants of our self-esteem, detritus from stepping on one of our own land mines.

Have you ever noticed how easily, on such occasions, a person  says, "But that wasn't me"? Well, if it wasn't, then who was it? It sure looked like me, it sounded like me, people say it was me. I haven't been cloned lately, so far as I know. It sure wasn't Robin Williams doing his best Beggar imitation. I "inhaled" in high school but my sensibilities have long since moved in other directions. I can't blame alcohol -- with my limited tolerance, slurred words are far more likely than misspoken ones. True, at least this way I'll never have to explain how "what made Milwaukee famous, made a loser out of me." (Thanks, Jerry Lee Lewis -- wish I'd written that line.)

So, basically, it was me, or you, or in this case, Mitt. Now, in retrospect, I'm sure he wishes he'd never said anything about the 47%, but it was caught on tape and splattered onto the news, so there's no denying it. The problem is, he's attempting to do what anyone would under similar circumstances, i.e. try to dissociate himself from the image he just created. That's normal -- we don't want people to think of us in terms of what we say or do when we wish we'd said or done something else -- and would if, please God, just this once, is it okay if we turn back the clock?

On the other hand, I sometimes wonder if a better strategy might be to simply own up and admit the truth. Instead of trying to convince us that he really is empathetic, state for the record, "Yes, I'm an elitist. I have a strong preference for associating with wealth, I don't relate well to the working class, I disapprove of welfare and those who depend on it, I'm opposed to government restrictions on business and given the opportunity, I'll lower taxes on people like me and if you want to see my tax returns, watch how fast hell freezes over."

You don't think that's going to get him elected. Well, you're probably right, I suppose it is asking a bit much. But trying to pretend he's someone he's not is even worse. The unconscious has a nasty way of making itself known and frequently does when least expected or welcomed. We all have an inner trickster who absolutely delights in making us appear foolish and the harder we try to keep her/him locked in the closet, the more determined s/he becomes to make us regret it. So, Mitt, if you still aspire to the presidency and you don't mind my unsolicited advice, admit you need to change. Trust me, it won't hurt. Okay, it will, but only your pride and most of us can use a little bit of that now and then.  


(Creative commons image, "Trickster Tales Sketch" by Amanda Schutz via Flickr)

Letting the Chips Fall

I was getting some work done on my car and enjoying a visit with the mechanic when it happened, but I'll get to that in a minute. I like talking to mechanics and it's unusual for them to allow customers in the auto bays -- liability, you know. But this fellow's doubled as his waiting room, which, by the way, says a lot about the size of his operation. Anyway, since one of the two chairs was occupied by a morbidly obese collection of tools, greasy parts, and half-empty cans of WD-40, I sat down in the other.

I'd actually brought a book along to keep myself from distracting him with questions, but he wanted to talk and so talk we did, mostly about this and that. In which of the neighboring towns did I live, had I been there long enough to know his sister, when is the next snow coming. The kinds of things that make up life outside medical school and are common to small-town Maine. Probably small-town anywhere, for that matter.

Then he asked what I did for a living. If not the first question men ask one another, this is certainly the second or third. Men talk about work, what we do, how long we've done it, have we done it all our lives and where. It's how we size each other up, determine if we're responsible, reliable, if we can be taken seriously. I thought he handled my answer, that I was a medical student, rather well. It only took him about ten seconds to recover from the initial shock -- he did, however, turn around sharply and look at me like I'd just offered him a thousand dollars for a job he'd bill at ten -- before composing himself to ask what I'd done before. A guy my age must have done one or two somethings, maybe a few more, before sticking his neck out.

"I was a psychotherapist," I said in the most benign tone I could conjure. He picked up the theme like it was a favorite wrench he kept near at hand and related tales of family members who'd engaged the county mental health service, saying how he'd love to "get outta this garage" and do something with his life, while there was still time. Before standing on an uninsulated concrete floor in the dead of winter crippled him like it did his father. He reminded me of the bartender in Billy Joel's Piano Man.

He walked away from the window he was repairing in my passenger side door, shattered late one night by small-time crooks too stupid to realize a 2001 Honda was too old to have a navigation system they could pry free and fence for drug money. If they'd taken time to look in the window before throwing a brick through it, they'd have known. He stepped through the maze of tires and boxes, found a radio sitting on an oil drum, and switched from classic to alternative rock to country, listened a moment or two, and returned to my window. Watching him, I ducked my head and smiled; it was the same thing I would have done.

"Have you always been a therapist?"

Here it comes, I thought. No, I said, I'd also been a minister since about 19 aught 3, or so it seemed on weekends when I came home from rotations, dog tired, with two days to catch up on a week's sleep deprivation. Trying to salvage the situation, I added, but medicine had always been simmering on the back burner and just before my dad died, I finally gave myself permission to move it to the front. Too late, his demeanor had shifted as subtly as the tectonic plates and as noticeably as the Richter Scale identifying a tremor. Some things never change.

Up til then, we'd been two relatively ordinary guys talking about life and limb; a stranger would have sworn we'd known each other for years rather than 30 minutes. All that vanished so quickly it felt like it had never been there in the first place. I was a minister now and he was on his best behavior.

I didn't say it then, but I really haven't spent my adulthood with my head buried in the sand, fearful seeing the world as it was would sully my spiritual sensibilities. If I ever had them, and I feel sure I must have, they've been knocked down, brick and stone, by my own fallibility. A religion that's only good for Sunday morning rarely has much value the rest of the week. Some clerics like the interpersonal distance a collar or title provides; I like risking honesty. I like people who are sufficiently real to swear and not give a damn whether I notice.

In any case, I wasn't eager to put on my minister's hat quite yet and my friend couldn't see me wearing anything else. It's going to take some time. I'll go back to get my snow treads installed, and we'll talk again. Maybe eventually we can find a middle ground, one where he's him, I'm me, and we let the chips fall where they may.


(Creative Commons Sharealike image via Wikipedia)

Things Dads Do

For a long instant, it felt like Thanksgiving this morning, stepping into a warm living room from the chilly garage where I keep my ready access firewood. With four inches -- nearer six or eight if it was powder -- of firmly packed, heavy, wet snow covering the hayfield, it looks like Thanksgiving. It also looks like a few of the Halloweens of my youth when the end of October mistook itself for the beginning of winter. With a fire softly burning (thanks, JD, for the image) in my study...by the way, we didn't have a fireplace when I was growing up, have I told you?

Our house was small -- three bedrooms, one bath, kitchen/dining and living room, all heated electrically. The closest we came to a fireplace was a small wood-burning stove in our unattached garage that my father used as his saddle shop for several years. Hardly a stove, it was a twenty-five gallon oil drum turned onto its side with a door cut into one end and four welded feet. How he worked out there, winter after winter, is a testimony to a father's love and determination.

I split firewood for him. I remember grousing about it at first, as any kid might, torn from afternoon cartoons to trudge out to the woodpile near the barn. I'm supposed to play, not work, I thought. He overlooked my complaints and taught me how to set up a block of wood, take aim for the middle, and swing without missing. It wasn't long before I began enjoying standing there in the snow with my axe and carrying armloads of split logs into the shop, losing myself in a "living-on-the-ranch" reverie. Writing about all this, I recall a day when I grew up a bit, realizing how my "work" kept him going. I must have been around nine or ten, but I began appreciating my father more than I had before.

Shared tasks, working together, those were his values and he passed them along to me. He was raised in a time and place where everyone had a task and everyone contributed to the family's welfare. He and his siblings had chores, a word one rarely hears anymore and tends to be associated with black and white reruns of old western television shows like The Rifleman on AMC. When used now, it's often in the pejorative sense, life is a chore. And some of his were all of that, especially when he was too young to ride after the cows and had to content himself with milking them, instead. Reality fails to imitate art every now and then.

He wasn't heartless about chores, though, and perhaps that comes from his own experience. One afternoon after school, he'd been too busy to cut wood into sections as he usually did, leaving them for me to split. So I started in with my axe, intent on doing both the man's job and the boy's. He came out a short while later and in a gentle tone he reserved for just such moments, told me I could stop, he had enough wood for now. I was hesitant -- the wood box was nearly empty as anyone could see -- but he assured me he was fine and to go on into the house and get warm, The things dads do.

A person has to wonder where the desires of the heart come from. I still love fireplaces and going out into the forest to cut wood. The axe of my youth has been replaced with a splitting maul, five pounds of steel at the end of forty inches of Ash. There is a sectioned tree trunk, well over a hundred pounds itself, sitting in the garage, the legacy of the doctor who lived here before me, that is our common chopping block. The open rafters are high enough for a full-armed swing.

Sheltered from the weather, it's not the barnyard of my childhood. Nor is my work that of my father. But the appreciation for a warm fire on a cold morning we share, as well as the effort to bring it to life. From whence comes the desires of the heart? I can't always say. What I know with any certainty is, I can't plunge my maul into a block of wood without thinking of all those afternoons, splitting wood in the snow, and my father who taught me how.


(Creative Commons image by Gadget_Guru via Fkickr; "a fire softly burning," Back Home Again, words and music by John Denver, copyright 1974)

Missing Megan Fox

I really like Megan Fox, but not necessarily for the reasons you might think, me being a guy and all. Sure, she's drop-dead gorgeous -- I'd have to be blind as a bat not to have noticed and trust me, I've noticed. But what I like about her so much is her role in the first two Transformer films. No, I'm not talking about the cutoff jean shorts she wears in both, though I noticed them as well. I mean her character.

Megan (if she's reading this, I hope she doesn't mind the familiarity) plays Mikaela Banes, a pretty young woman with a past. Her father has a prison record for grand theft auto and she, a juvenile record for having been his presumed accomplice. She has another liability, however, and that's her beauty and sex appeal. Like far too many women, she has a history of being regarded as a trophy.

In the first film, her boyfriend is a muscular, good-looking, football player who treats her like a possession once too often. She knows there's something wrong with the guys she's chosen to date, she doesn't like the pattern, and she has sufficient inner strength to do something about it. As she's walking home, along comes the film's hero, Sam Witwicky. Sam is everything the other guys could never be: overtly insecure, honest, and down deep, utterly courageous.

In the first installment of the trilogy, Mikaela is not only a match for Sam, in some ways she is even more heroic. For instance, when they're attacked by a mini-decepticon, she grabs a power saw and goes to work, rescuing him. During the final battle against Megatron, she is determined to save Bumble Bee by hooking him up to a tow truck and then drives it backwards down a wreckage-strewn street while he shoots at the bad guys. I love that scene.

In Revenge of the Fallen, her character is a little more traditional and her biggest challenge seems to involve convincing Sam to tell her that he loves her. Sam, how crazy do you have to be to have someone like her around and dither about saying, "I love you?" Get a clue, buddy. Anyway, that bothered me, the fact that she wasn't permitted to be the totally gutsy chick she was in Transformers. Her character wasn't just beautiful, she was admirable.

Now we come to Dark of the Moon and there's no Megan Fox. Instead, we've got a blond babe whom Sam has decided is the love of his life. She flirts with other guys and then minimizes her behavior, she's essentially focused on the accumulation of expensive toys, and perhaps, worst of all, she has absolutely no idea what makes Sam tick. You tell me what's wrong with this picture.

If we wanted to get psychological, we'd have to ask why Sam hooked up with her in the first place. According to the story line, he and Mikaela had a fight, broke up, and rather than do what any man with a lick of sense would do, i.e. turn himself inside out to get Mikaela back, he lets her go. Sam clearly has far too much pride for his own good. It's what kept him from declaring his feelings in Revenge of the Fallen and it comes back to haunt him in Dark of the Moon. We could be Freudian and say the new girl is more like his mother, but we really don't have enough character development to go that route. We do know, however, that Mikaela and his mother are two very different kinds of women and that could explain a lot.

For whatever reasons the producers decided Megan's character wasn't meant to be a part of the last film, I miss her. I liked Mikaela's resourcefulness and willingness to take a risk. Her response to Sam's question, "Fifty years from now, when you're looking back on your life, don't you want to be able to say you had the guts to get into that car?" is one with which I, as an older medical student, can well identify. I also liked the fact that she wasn't squeaky clean. She had a past she was ashamed of but she refused to let that prevent her from something better. Her wounds made her human and more interesting. Best of all, I think, she didn't allow herself to be paralyzed by fear. She could be counted on in the clinches and was capable enough to be a participant in the action rather than a hand-wringing damsel-in-distress. Definitely the right kind of gal and why I'm missing Megan Fox.


(Image of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen via RottenTomatoes.com)

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)

Nuts R U

I so suck at small talk. Some people are masters of the lingo and I truly admire their facility. Even with friends, sometimes I end up babbling like the little fishy dude in The Return of the Jedi. Remember him? Lando Calrissian's co-pilot on the Millenium Falcon in the final, epic battle against the new Death Star? When he spoke, it sounded like he was saying, "Blabbada, blabbada, blabbada." Well, that's me.

If only social situations were like writing. Not texting, because my fingers are so big and the keyboard on my iphone so small I have to hunt and peck with one finger. Even with text shorthand, "hi how r u?" takes so much time that my co-communicant has gone on to "nice 2 see u bye" before I'm halfway through the conversation. I mean real writing where nouns are nouns and verbs are verbs and they follow one another in the sweet company of polite punctuation. Not likely, huh?

I don't know if I freeze up inside or what, but when confronted by situations where a dissertation is inappropriate and a few choice words are poetry, my brain goes blank and my mouth takes on a mind of its own. And that's where writing would help because I could always backspace and erase a comment before hitting "enter." Not that this guarantees anything but it does allow editing. The other way, where what you say is what they hear, it's anyone's guess whether I'm going to come off like a nice guy or a goof ball.

Now, it's very true that asking other people questions, giving them an opportunity to talk about themselves, is generally a safe bet. If you can listen well, and therapists are usually pretty good at that, you're covered. Inevitably, however, there comes a point when you run out of questions or they'd like to hear about you, and then the good ship and crew are in peril.

Occasions like these make me wonder about the extrovert business. On any given day, that's me, energized by interaction, eager to engage. In casual social settings, Mr. Introvert takes over and even Forest Gump would have a better chance of making a good impression. Maybe I should memorize some of his better lines? When someone asks how I'm doing, respond, "Well, life is like a box of chocolates, sometimes you get a smooth center and sometimes it's nuts." Just so long as they don't walk away thinking the nuts r u. That would probably be bad.


(Public Domain image via Wikipedia)

Call It Fiction If You Like

Evenly yoked, that's how my friend and fellow blogger from Australia, Crystal Mary Lindsey, puts it, referring to an ideal romantic relationship. Her image is of two oxen paired in a yoke, pulling together instead of pulling apart. Matching them is the challenge, finding two of similar strength and temperament that permits placing them side by side to achieve a common task. Since Crystal's comment is related to the fictional characters, Dr. Bob Z and Dr. Jessie Livingstone from Pink Hats and a Mack Truck, I've been thinking it might be a good idea to take a look at their relationship and see what makes it exemplary of being "evenly yoked."

The first thing that comes to mind, for me, is the freedom they experienced from the very beginning. Jessie described it as something that allowed her to feel like a woman. She never got the sense Bob needed her to be a girl or mother figure. This is important because we often take on roles in a relationship that we unconsciously perceive the other person needs or wishes us to fulfill. Her faculty adviser explained how Bob was obviously comfortable with Jessie being herself and for Jessie, this meant feeling like a mature equal. It was present in their first contact, when she laid her hand on his arm and suggested he try Splenda instead of sugar in his coffee.

Bob describes their freedom as the permission to be genuine and spontaneous, and it's exemplified by his almost flirtatious, "Hi there, Splenda gal," when they ran into each other the following day in the parking lot. He wasn't flirting, he was simply being ingenuous and very much himself. He didn't know her name as yet, but he was willing to be friendly and open with her and she felt, once again, like a woman. Freedom is contagious -- one has it and another catches it. With Bob and Jessie, however, it seems they felt it at the same time. But she demonstrated it first and he couldn't help but follow her lead.

They also have "chemistry," that vague and difficult-to-describe attraction that makes some relationships go romantic and others remain friendships or merely acquaintances. It's like sodium and chloride. There's a quality to these elements that makes salt whenever they're in close proximity to each other. Put sodium nitrate in a solution with potassium chloride and water (don't try this at home -- inorganic chemistry was never my strong suit and for all I know, the combination may be explosive), and darned if the sodium and chloride don't find each other, making salt once again. They can't help themselves. That's how it's been with Bob and Jessie.

Chemistry is what makes their relationship interesting. We're drawn to them because they're drawn to each other in ways we'd like to think we might be drawn to someone. There is respect, admiration, and playfulness -- they aren't simply in love, they truly like each other, and liking is as important as loving. Liking reflects chemistry and it's hard to imagine stable, dependable, energizing romantic love without a healthy dose of it.

And then there is the matter of the twins. This is a huge issue for Jessie although she doesn't seem to make as much of it as we might imagine. In part, this is because she's already dealt with the issue of Bob's age. The freedom she's experienced enables her to trust her own judgment and view him as a whole person, inclusive of the age differential, and decide whether she's willing to engage or back off. That she chose to pursue him, so to speak, is based on several factors, including her highly positive relationship with her father and her desire to be with a man who possesses a considerable measure of maturity. She knows being with him will likely entail becoming a mother right off and her decision to go ahead draws, not only on her love for the twins, but also upon her knowledge that he is going to be a package deal, period. If she wants him, she has to adjust her expectations to include Hannah and Clara. As Chuck says of her, she really is a remarkable young woman and honestly, I admire her courage and integrity tremendously.

What I've noticed about Bob and Jessie is how their relationship has developed with ease. A friend of mine and regular reader of this blog once told me "easiness" is an irreplaceable quality. While I didn't quite understand her at the time, I have come to appreciate the subtleties of her comment far more in recent years and I believe she was exactly right. Relationships like the one between Bob and Jessie aren't like trying to fit a size 13 foot into a size 12 shoe. Oh, it can be done all right, and maybe the shoe feels okay in the store, but once you walk around a bit, your toes start to rub and it's time to bite the bullet and go back for the right size.

Bob and Jessie have never had to try to fit together, they just do. As a consequence, they work out the details of life with a mutuality and obvious intentionality that places each other first. Notice how, again and again, Bob becomes concerned about one thing or another and Jessie reminds him they'll figure out a solution, as long as their relationship is their first consideration. And so, like Crystal Mary's oxen, they pull together, not apart. They're evenly and equally yoked. Call it fiction if you like, it really isn't. It certainly doesn't have to be, anyway.


(Public Domain of Splenda package via Wikipedia)

Pink Hats 26: Jessie and Atticus Finch

Image via WikipediaIf you were to ask, Jessie would say she strongly suspected Harper Lee of being a neighbor when she was growing up because Atticus Finch was so like her father, the resemblance couldn't be coincidental. It just seemed that way when she saw Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird on television as a teenager and checked the book out of the school library the next day. It wasn't a physical resemblance, though both Peck and her father were tall and parted their hair on the right. It was his way with his children, Scout and Jem. That, coupled with the fact it was one of her father's favorite novels and he was fond of quoting it.

"Courage isn't a man with a gun in his hand," he said, often enough that she knew the words by heart long before she found out Atticus had said them first, "It's knowing you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do." It must have been courage, she thought, that saw him through raising a son and two daughters alone. They had aunts and uncles and some lived close by, but for the most part, as with most families most of the time, it was him and the children. 

He wasn't perfect -- no one is, not even Atticus Finch -- but he raised his children respecting them and he taught them to respect themselves.  She loved the hymn, Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hid myself in thee, her mother sang as a lullaby, and after she was gone, Jessie imagined it was written about her father. Stable sprang to mind when she thought about him. He was firm and level and reliable when our world was rocked to the core. He showed us how to survive our grief.

She felt the same way about Bob. He was solid, too, solid and stable. He'd come through his own grief without bitterness and he loved so freely. As she got to know his friends, some going back to medical school, she saw reflected in their faces a man who'd rather die than let any of them down. One, a member of the hospital janitorial staff, said of him, "He doesn't think he's better than anyone else." And it was true, he didn't. She knew he would be there for the twins and their own children, as would she, and they'd be there for each other. Theirs was a relationship between equals.

She was watching him, asleep next to her on the couch, his collar unbuttoned, his tie loosened and straying off to his side. He'd thrown one arm over his eyes and draped the other around her. Now and then he'd release a soft, low snore, and she smiled. Her thoughts wandered back to dinner, his proposal, walking along the streets at night, the drive home, falling asleep together with Sam. There was a quality of serenity about it all, a peacefulness she'd felt around people who were right for each other. And we have it, too.

She sighed and reached over, undoing a button midway down his chest and slid her hand beneath his shirt, feeling his heart beat. "You have such a good heart, mister," she whispered, "it's why I love you so much. Your heart." She sighed again and he opened his eyes.

"Good Morning, Sunshine," she said.


(Public Domain image of Gregory Peck in the role of Atticus Finch via Wikipedia)

Pink Hats 25: Good Morning, Sunshine

Unlike many, when Bob received his membership card in the Newly-Divorced Club, he resisted diving head-first into the singles scene. Singles bars had never been his cup of anything, even when he was younger. He had opportunities to date and even Halley had offered to fix him up with a friend of hers who was a social worker and former Miss Maine. But by then, it was too late, he'd already met Jessie. After that morning in the Alfond coffee bar, there would never be anyone else. Not for him.

She had fallen asleep beside him on the couch in front of the fire, with Sam curled up next to her. Halley's comment about getting a room might have its appeal, but not tonight. This was an evening for romance. Besides, they'd already settled the other question. It was the Friday evening they'd watched Avatar when Jessie broached the subject.

"Do you know how attractive you are to me?" He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, not certain how to answer. "I put my hand on your arm that day in Alfond because it seemed the most natural thing to do. It's...our chemistry. You could have taken me in your arms and swept me away and I'd have gone willingly."

He ran his fingers through her hair. "I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to do that since."

She smiled and said, "I know, me, too. But there's something else I want for us. I want to wait. Not because I enjoy waiting or because I have reservations -- I don't. It's ...if we were to marry, like we've talked about...I want that to be the most wonderful night of our lives. And with you, I've never felt like I had to hurry."

"I've been thinking the same thing. I know it's probably not what couples usually do and yet, I feel like it's right for us..."

After toasting their engagement with champagne and receiving congratulations from nearly every table at Twenty Milk, they gathered their coats and walked outside into the night air, his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist. There's just something about kissing the woman you love on a cold and snowy night, he thought, as they stopped at a corner and he kissed Jessie beneath a dimly shining antique street lamp and brushed flakes from her hair. He said he'd never seen her more beautiful.

They drove to her apartment, announced the news to Sam who responded by leaping onto his hind legs and licking both of them, then lit a fire and snuggled next to one another, sipping Grand Marnier from a pair of crystal snifters she'd inherited from her grandmother. A few moments later, she laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. He took the snifter from her hand before it nearly fell to the floor. She smiled in her sleep and softly murmured his name. We've been so easy, so 'natural,' like she said. Maybe John was right, maybe we were meant to be.
He thought about all those times he went home alone, having seen her at a residency seminar or following a quick, innocent lunch in the hospital cafeteria. That piece of it had been hard. There were occasions he nearly slammed on the brakes and turned his car around to race back for her. Those were the hardest. When they were finally free to spend time together, he imagined it would be impossible to keep his feelings under wraps any longer and allow their relationship to unfold on its own. It wasn't though, and instead, it felt to him like falling in love with her all over again.

He set down his snifter, stretched his long legs toward the fire, and drew her close. He hadn't intended to fall asleep but the next thing he knew, her face was next to his, and she was smiling at him. "Good morning, Sunshine. Sleep well?"

He noticed the light streaming in the windows, looked at his watch and back at her. "Like I haven't in years, if ever -- so much for our 'first night' together."

She stroked the ring on her finger and kissed him. "It's not going to be our last."


(Photo of winter sunrise on Sabego Lake, 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 23: Conspiracy Theory

Holidays at the Livingstone House were a crowded, cacophonous intermingling of three generations, at least one dog, and abundant good food. This year, the din was periodically disrupted by squeals coming from the twins, "on loan" from their foster parents, who already had a house filled with their own children and grandchildren. Together, it made for the happiest Thanksgiving Bob could remember in a long, long time.

Following dinner, he drew Jessie's younger sister, Jennifer, aside on the pretext of discussing her family medicine residency at Central Maine Medical Center. "Jen, I need your help," he said, whispering and glancing at Jessie to make sure she couldn't overhear, "I'd like order an engagement ring for your sister, but I have no idea what size. Do you know what she wears?"

Jen, nearly a carbon-copy of her sister with the exception of auburn hair instead of Jessie's blond, said, "Of course, the same as me. We've always exchanged clothes and jewelry. I wear a six -- this is so much fun! When are you going to ask her?"

"Soon. There's a jeweler in Colorado -- I visited his store last year while attending a conference -- who has a design with filigreed mountains along the sides of the ring that I'd like to get for her. Let me show you." He took out his iphone, opened Safari, and turned to the page he'd marked. "What do you think? Too modern? Not traditional enough?"

"Bob, it's perfect! Jessie will be thrilled -- she's loved Colorado ever since she spent a summer out there working at a camp near Estes Park while she was in high school. You've got to get this for her!"

"She mentioned that but I never made the connection. I called this past week and they have sixes and sevens in stock -- so, anyway, we can count on you for family medicine, right?" He changed the subject as Jessie approached.

"What's the confab, you two? You look like you're acting out a scene from Conspiracy Theory," she said, taking a seat next to Bob and pulling him close.

"Shh. We're plotting to take over the medical school," he replied, with a wicked gleam, "by loading the clinical faculty with friends and family. I'm sure Chuck would love to get his hands on psychiatry, so that makes four of us and Halley makes five." She looked at him quizzically. "Someone has to run the place, can you think of anyone better?"

She covered her mouth, laughing, and shook her head as Jen looked from one to the other, asking, "Who's Chuck?"

"Oh, he was a student of mine during his first rotation. We're becoming friends over time. He's two years behind you -- "

"-- and he's single, good looking, and," glancing at Bob for his confirmation, "distinguished," said Jessie.

"Mm, 'distinguished.' By that do you mean 'older'?"

"Older than some, younger than others," Jessie said, with a playful but tantalizing tone. She's circling the bait, she thought.

"Older like, um, Bob?" Jen persisted, giving him a deliberate and appreciative appraisal. Now she's smelling it.

"Close but not quite," he said. "Honestly, I never asked his age, if you can believe it. I guess it's something guys don't think about. I'd say he's a few years younger than me." Then he added, "He did ask me if, uh, Jessie had a sister..." He ducked his head sheepishly and blushed.

"I see," she said, straightening in her chair and squaring her shoulders as though she was an elementary school teacher preparing to scold a misbehaving student. "Well. If he's anything like you, it sounds like you'd better tell him she does and she's interested." Aha! I've got you now!

"I don't know how much he and I are alike, but we are becoming friends, like I said, and I already did, the first part, that is."

"Then will somebody please tell him the second part while he's still interested!" she said, exaggerating for effect.

"Why, certainly," said Jessie, assuming a prim and proper demeanor, also for effect, "I'll get right on it. Now, what were you two really talking about?"

This time Jen came to the rescue. "Christmas presents, if you must know, now drop it before Santa puts you on the Naughty List!"


(Creative Commons image by alvy via Flickr)

Talk About Being Hard-Nosed

We were chatting about various issues, don't ask don't tell, the nature of relationships, and of course, politics, and how he imagined I might feel about them.

"I kind of expected, you being a man of the cloth and all, you'd think differently," he said.

"I'm sorry, but what does being a minister have to do with it?"

"Well, you know, the Bible says certain things just aren't right and I figured you being a minister, you knew the Bible better than most, and therefore you'd be pretty hard-nosed about those things."

He'd made a reasonable assumption, I just didn't happen to share it. To explain why, I told him the following story.

Once upon a time, there was a woman who had been caught, I assume by her husband, with another man. At this particular time in history, it was common practice to drag the woman out into the street, humiliate and then stone her to death. No one asked whether she had been abused or neglected and no one offered to represent her in court. As a matter of fact, there was no court except public opinion and in that one, she was guilty as charged.

Things were looking bad for the woman when Jesus happened by. The townspeople told him what was taking place and asked his opinion. He thought about it a minute or two and said, "Anybody who's never done anything they're ashamed of can throw the first stone." One by one, the people walked away. Then he said to the woman, "Looks like nobody's left to accuse you and neither do I. From now on, though, try not to get yourself into another situation like this."

"Yeah, but I'm talking about stuff that's unnatural," he said, "men and men, women and women. You got to be either for or against that."

"I don't have to be one way or the other on anything," I said, "because the One I work for wasn't. He dispensed with passing judgment except on those who thought they had a right to judge others. That didn't sit well with him. If he was here right now, you know what I think he'd tell us? Stop worrying about what other people do, whether it's right or wrong, natural or unnatural, and start being compassionate because some day you may need it as much as anyone else. And if you don't show it, you have no right to expect it."

Talk about being hard-nosed.


(Creative Commons image entitled "Hard-nosed" by Peter Giger via Flickr)

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)