Gone Since November

Every weekend since November, either the Mrs or me have been working or out of town or had friends or family visiting. Since November. So it has been well nicer than nice to have two consecutive days at home as a family. 

It has been well nicer than nice.

Like Father, Like Son: On A Broken Hand

Just like my boy, I've broken a bone. No, he didn't drop me down the stairs. Instead, I succumbed to my own stupidity while playing basketball. I'll leave it at that. Needless to say a broken hand makes life difficult. Taping up my arm at 6am to shower is no easy task. Neither is changing a diaper.

Isaac hasn't noticed. He's paid about as much attention to my injury as he did to his own. He still expects to chase me around the house, wrestle with me and have me give him baths. And while I have been considerably and understandably slowed at tasks around the house and notably at work, his perspective has gone a long way to solidify my own. I am not as adaptable as he was when he broke his leg, that experience is fresh in my mind: the energy and adaptability of a child is truly amazing.

May I be like my son.

Chaos Theory: Winning The Pennant

I have this talent of being able to put myself anywhere. To close my eyes and imagine I'm surrounded by a completely different type of environment. I use it most when I am writing and reading. Trying to get into the pre-WWII England. Going on a safari in the shadows of Mt. Kilimanjaro. In these times I feel certain things about where ever I've gone, smell others, hear still more. And last night, days, weeks and years from now I will remember. Remember exactly where I was and what I was doing.

You see the celebration. You see Coco make the gutsiest catch I've ever seen. You see the Little Man do the big thing. You see moments that stretch across this culture to another. You witness it all from the most historical boundaries in baseball. For some, being at Fenway last night -- or wanting to be at Fenway -- was the greatest of experiences. But not for me.

I sat uncomfortably in my ironic easy chair for much of the game. When the time called for it I sat frozen. Unwilling to upset some balance. Unwilling to be the butterfly that caused the typhoon. Ah, the chaos theory of postseason baseball. But when the moment arrived, I changed seats. Opting for the recliner. And I brought along a companion for the remaining three outs, the final stretch, the light coming around the bend.

With all the lights out, the game at a moderate level, I went and got my son up. Pulling him from his crib, blanket and all, he joined me in the recliner. Quickly he woke up. Quietly too. Like something was happening. Sometimes being awakened disrupts and disturbs him. But not in this case. He sat on my lap, eyes forward and tired, staring at the television. And we sat there, moving only to the floor seconds before the final out. Quietly we watched. Quietly I cheered. Silently I held him and we watched. I told him this doesn't happen much, if ever. I told him one day I'll be able to tell him he saw it happen, even if doesn't recall or remember. I told him, whispered into his ear, his eyes fixed on the television, sitting silently in my arms, I told him the Red Sox were going to the World Series.

And I'm sure it was said louder and crazier in some spots of New England. I'm sure in Boston it was bellowed from rooftops and alleys. I'm sure sitting there at Fenway you couldn't hear anything else. But it wasn't said any better. In our home in the capital of Ohio, in a neighborhood either asleep or stunned, it was said simply. And it was understood.

That's baseball. As simple as it is complex. Enjoyed in screaming masses and understood in the words of a father to a son on a quiet night.

The Red Sox are going to the World Series.

On Being A Dad

So this past week has been especially trying. Thank you for all of the condolences on this blog. My family appreciated it. Much more could be said about my recent trip up to Maine following Grammie's passing. Like the first trip to Grammie's house. The conversations with Grandpa. There's a lot I've still got tied up inside, still knotted and unkempt. But those are tasks and memories and thoughts for myself alone.

What I will share with you involves Isaac. He made the trip with me. Just he and his Dad. Flying up early Wednesday and coming home yesterday. The Mrs. was also able to be there, coming later and leaving a day earlier. So, for a time, it was just Isaac and I.

Normally in these situations Isaac looks to his Mom as his protector and comforter in a strange place with unfamiliar faces. But with her not always there, I fell into this role for the first time. Hearing his cries for me. Having him curl up in my arms when he was tired. Me being the one whom he expected to make him laugh. It's marked a change in our relationship. Not that I'm not fully involved in Isaac's life, but, let's be honest, the Mrs., his Mom, is his lifeblood. The connection between the two of them is amazing to watch. And this week, a very difficult week, Isaac and I shared that connection as strongly as we ever had. I told the Mrs. I felt like a Dad this week for the first time.

This morning, laying in bed, the Mrs. brought Isaac in and placed him between us. He laid there for few moments, before rolling over and curling up next to me, cuddling in my arms. He had never done that before. And it makes life around you easier, in those moments.

On Metaphors

There has been so little to do and so much time over the past week... Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. The folks were in for a week, helping us with Isaac and the new house. My dad and I set to work on several projects: repairing sections of the fence, rebuilding the side of the shed, re-grouting the bathroom. We didn't get it all completed, but got a rather large portion of it all done.

Over this past weekend, we accomplished the bulk of our tasks. None of which originally included a geyser of blood, a pulled back muscle, a fear of little bugs or a tetanus shot. But as is expected when you have things to do and little time to do it, the unforeseen happens. Of note, three out of the four unforeseen events happened to me. I stabbed myself in the knee with a cro-bar. I punctured my hand with a rusty nail. I really can't deal with small bugs that flitter and flatter and creep up over your foot or your hand when you pick up a piece of wood. It was my father who hurt his back this week... golfing.

But I built something. With my own two...er... hand and a half. When we went to repair a small section of the shed apart, we found the problem went much, much deeper. One that led to a new floor and completely re-enforcing the foundation. But we rebuilt it; even added some new doors.

The poet Stanley Kunitz once told prospective poets this:

"Do something else, develop any other skill ... turn to any other branch of knowledge. Learn how to use your hands. Try woodworking, birdwatching, gardening, sailing, weaving, pottery, archaeology, oceanography, spelunking, animal husbandry — take your pick. Whatever activity you engage in, as a trade or hobby or field study, will tone up your body and clear your head. At the very least it will help you with your metaphors."

I've certainly got some new metaphors. But I'm not trying to be a poet. At least I don't think so. Who knows with school coming up. Maybe I'm an old shed that needs a new foundation. Maybe grad school is the repair job that will rip away and rebuild.

Maybe I still need to work on my metaphors.

How To View My Bookshelf

It is one of my favorite things to do when we move: organize my bookshelf. For years I have compiled a small, but respectable amount of books (limited only by space. Until now). There are enough books to fill an entire bookshelf, one that stretches from floor to ceiling. The challenge is always arranging them.

I never have the same arrangement when I move. I don't take the books down in order so that I many put them back up the same way. Much of how my shelf is arranged depends on where the shelf sits in the room, it's overall size and access from other key areas. Also: climate changes are a factor. In the new house, it's located behind the desk, easily visible as you come down stairs and a shelf you walk by when going to the laundry room. You can't miss it.

There are several ways one can arrange a shelf.

1. In alphabetical order, either ascending or descending down the shelf. I detest this method. It shows no care, no love for the books. It proves nothing, other than you know your alphabet. Books should be arranged proving you read them; not arbitrarily by author. It's degrading to them and to your efforts in reading them.

2. By topic. This is a little more typical of many shelves I've come across (indeed it is the first thing I look for and take note of upon visiting a new home: where are their books and what are they). For me, topics include: philosophy, theology, classic literature, sci-fi, a couple of sports books, Calvin and Hobbes. This way shows a little more effort. Shows you put some care into the organization of the shelf. That you remembered what you read enough to place it accordingly. But it's not quite enough.

3. Syntopically. Borrowing from Adler's great work, this is how I elected, this time, to arrange my shelf. Not only are my books arranged by topic, they are arranged by transitioning from topic to topic through a synergy of similar ideas present in the books. In short, in order to 'read' my bookshelf, you've got to understand a little about the books on it.

For example, I've got a philosophy shelf. It goes from left to right from eras (Plato, Aristotle) to subject (several books on moral philosophy) and ends with the Problem of Evil (more than 5 books on the subject). Then, at the end of the shelf I've placed two books by Dostoevsky (Brothers and Crime and Punishment). Unless you've read or are familiar with the books, the transition from the Problem of Evil to The Brothers Karamazov will seem haphazard; trivial.

A couple of shelves above that, where one's eye is even with the shelf, I've included my favorite books, all the, what I believe, are the most enjoyable in my collection. This transitions down the line to three books, the best, not only in my collection, but the best books ever written: Summa Theologica, Orthodoxy, Mere Christianity. Of note, these books have been laid lengthwise, on their backs. An obvious eye catcher because they are laid differently. Like I am saying, look at these books.

On the highest of the shelves, I've include more literary works that are part of my collection, but not necessarily my favorite. In the center of this shelf is the lynch pin, the Rosetta Stone to my arrangement. Lying lengthwise: How To Read a Book. If you've read it you'll understand my madness. If you have not, you'll note the book's significance at the very least because it is laid differently.

Laying on top of this book is something equally important. It's a book a friend gave me at one of the most difficult times in my life. It's not a great work. Not something I recommend really (a very difficult read). But my friend wrote his own words on the inside cover. Those words mean quite a great deal to me. Their impact on me then and now is immense. It is his words belong on my shelf, just above the key to the entire arrangement. In plain view for me to see and be reminded of.

The book is all everyone sees. But I see those words and I remember the day I received it from him in the mail. How I was feeling before and how I felt after. How much strength, encouragement and hope he gave me during a difficult time. How he gave me a book.

That's how you arrange books. Prove you read them. Prove they had an impact on your life. Prove they are more than words or bindings or authors. Prove they are books.

On Having A Home

The move is complete. At least, the part that involved the transfer of everything we owned into the largest thing we've ever owned. There's still much, much work left to be done. "So little to do, so much time." Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. All apologies to my readers, but the blog takes a backseat to that.

It's quite a surreal feeling, owning a home. We've been in and out of our place for the last month: fixing walls, carpeting, washing floors, painting, etc.. But sleeping in the house last night, waking up early this morning and locking the doors as a stepped out into the chilled morning air, I looked out on the neighborhood that had a slight fog settling over it. I was leaving home.

On tap for today is the living room -- setting up all the entertainment related stuff, sofa, chairs and what not. Then it's off to the Man Store to by a grill so we can cook tonight. I'd already planned to get a nice grill sometime this week, but a faux pas on my part resulted in us not having any gas in the house, i.e. no hot water. So in order to avoid eating out for the 15th straight day, it's off to buy a grill. Then tonight, I imagine, we'll grill out, sit on the lawn and enjoy what should be a very nice evening.

Of course, for all that to happen, I have this little thing I must do that will set it all in motion. This simple, but slightly profound exertion on my part. This soon-to-be taken for granted practice. After I leave work: Go Home.

On Comings and Goings

For years I've made trips back home. Back to my grandparents' homes in the ever-growing beachfront that is Old Orchard Beach, ME. Back to see the most important thing in my life: my family. And OOB has been a rendezvous point for my immediate family. For my brother and sisters and parents. A point where we can sit in the shade of pine trees and traces of sea breezes and reminisce and remember and remember what we've forgotten.

For Isaac, it was his first trip back to this idyllic location. His first conversations about torque wrenches and the sharpening of lawn mower blades. His first, covert attempt to ruin the cranberry sauce. His first discussions over national league pitchers. His first taste of rhubarb. His first looks upon my nana, my grandpa, my grammie and my grandpa.

Isaac handled it well. Laughing at his second cousin. Falling asleep in his great-grandmothers arms. Staying an evening with his nana and grandpa while the Mrs. and I ate pizza and fried dough and held each other on the darkened beach around the pier. Responding to coos and ahhs and "Mr. Isaac's" that seemed to fill his every waking moment. And fighting sleep whenever he could because he didn't want to miss an instant of this experience.

But I'm not sure he realized he's gone. That that experience, his first, is over. But it was not lost on me, on the Mrs., on the family who clamoured over and around him. His coming was marked with joy. A happiness I've never seen in the eyes of those most dear to my heart. And it echoed louder as we left. Isaac is a blessed child. Blessed with the love of so many.

The hardest part of coming is going. But more so, the hardest part is staying away. Staying away from instant coffee (well, maybe not instant coffee). From the raw rhubarb growing out back. Staying away from the tangible and unrelenting love of my grandparents.

That's the thing about coming and about going. It's about not staying away.

On A Trip To Maine

Taking my son on a trip to Maine...

We're excited. He's grown so much in the past week. Already he's starting to crawl. Well, really he just raises his backside in the air and pushes with his feet, trying to crawl. He ends up pivoting around in a circle because he hasn't figured out how to reach out with his left hand. It's pretty funny and at the same time truly amazing.

I find myself unfamiliar with the position of my family this weekend. With the exception of my parents, no one has met him yet. And even my folks only met him in his first few hours of life. Now he is filled with so much life. Not knowing Isaac is something I can't comprehend. Isaac's infused with so much vivacity that I'm sure after this weekend, we all have something in common.

It's also one of the first opportunities I'll have with Isaac to share a part of me with him. Not that he'll remember it, but I will. I'll show him the ocean. The Pier. His family. Nana and Grammie's house I spent summers in. He'll hear Grandpy's stories and probably get directions to somewhere too. While he may not get any Strawberry Rhubarb pie this weekend, he'll hear about why it's so good. He'll meet someone who looks just like his dad and someone who speaks another language entirely.

Oh, Mom and Dad, Nana and Grandpa, Grammie and Grandpa, know this: I'm not changing diapers this weekend. Not a one.

On Accents

She answered the phone and, for a moment, I thought I was talking to my grandmother. Her voice was disjunct, cacophonic and rythmic. She spoke with a striking Maine accent. Imagine my surprise, living in Columbus, in the parts of the country where everyone sounds alike -- where there is nothing distinct in their voices. Nothing that hints of experiences or of places and times other than the present. And as she told me I'd have to "Come down here to the store", I grabbed Isaac and headed over to the Man Store (read: Lowe's or Home Depot) to finish ordering my carpet for the new house, but mainly to meet this woman.

I spotted her immediately. Staring at a computer screen in the flooring section. A little old lady surrounded by laminate floorings and carpet samples. Looking a little worn out by the years. Slightly hunched at the shoulders. Once blonde hair graying in just about every area. But a smile that reminds me of my childhood and a voice that, as she began to speak, became the narrator of my past.

Dispensing with the carpet business, I struck up a conversation with her. Asking her where in Maine she was from. She smiled, pondering aloud how I knew she was from Maine. I replied with a smile. I'm from Maine. That was all she needed to know before she launched into her story. And it was a wonderful story. Featuring details of her looming retirement sprinkled with her history living in the Portland area some 25 years ago. Living there long before the Maine Mall was a glint in anyone's eye. When Congress Street was filled with little shops. When time was much different than it is now.

It had been awhile since she had lived in Maine. I complimented her on her lovely accent. How reminiscent it was for me. How it brought me back to trips to Nana's house and to Grammie's house in the summers at Old Orchard Beach. And how it warmed my heart to know in just a few days I would hear the voices, that, just like hers, were near and dear to my heart.

To the untrained ear it sounds English. In fact, she even told me that many people in this area assume she's from England. Maine isn't even an option to them. But the people from Maine, she said, know she's from Maine. From there. Not from here. The ingredients in the elixir were there.

That's the Maine voice. A voice filled with experiences. Filled with summer afternoons and cold winter nights. With days spent looking at an ocean, and hours grieving over the tragedies of the ever-rescinding tide of life that pulls those things away. Of catching and cooking lobsters. Of the silences of listening to baseball games. Of spending Saturdays at yard sales. Of Sunday's at church and those afternoons at picnics in the churchyards. Of bitter cold mornings shoveling snow. Of the rustle of fall leaves cascading through a yard. It's a hardened voice. Filled with rich layers. A voice you can't nail down or imitate. An accent that is only picked up by experience. It's the voice of life.

As she told me how she hoped to get home for the fall this year to visit with her daughter and take a trip to the White Mountains, in the colloquialisms of that glorious accent she had me hanging on each word, each a needle poke, repairing a worn and too oft-forgotten tapestry of my past.

Towering over us were carpets, area rugs and just about everything a person can use to make a home their home. But a home is about the accents.

A home is in the voices.

As I told her what a pleasure it had been to talk with her she said she hoped we'd run into each other.

"Hopefully we will," I said.

"And maybe we can share some pier fries."

"With vinegar. From Bill's."

She smiled and said nothing more.

Won't You Be...

We now live in a neighborhood. Filled with the sounds of cars stopping at stop signs, kids riding their bikes, lawns being cut, wind blowing through tree tops and the distant hum of life moving at that speed that is just too fast sometimes.

We are out of that current now. Settling into our new little home. Tearing out carpet, removing hideous wallpaper, cutting the grass and scrubbing parkay floors in the kitchen (I'm trying to think of a name for the kitchen that pays homage to The Garden, but in a way other than calling it The Garden because I'm pretty sure we'll have an actual garden). There's a lot of work behind us and good deal more in front of us in the coming weeks. More trips to Home Depot -- the most manly thing I've done in some time because changing diapers doesn't elicit that Tim Allen grunt a guy needs every now and then. More yard-work, more housework and more realizing there's a whole lot more work to do.

Then there are the neighbors. Folks. Good people. I wasn't sure what to expect -- perhaps a "Hey diddily ho!" or a "Howdy, neighbor!". I've lived in an apartment complex for 2+ years and didn't know a soul other than the exchange student two doors down who frequently left his door open as he watched the EPL. But so far I've borrowed a couple of trash cans from a man who goes by Coop and have a request in for a ladder from another neighbor who's name I remembered because it was a vacation spot on Star Trek: The Next Generation.

Conversations between strangers are strange in that they are pacifying. They placate the fears of safety. And at the same time they open up obligations that are frightening. Requirements to make future conversations, to offer to help, to take moments to listen to the wind-blown tree-tops and ignore that distant hum.

Closing Time

A week after the original closing day, closing day has come and gone. The house is now our house. It is our home.

And as for me and my house, we begin tomorrow the re-tooling, refinishing, redecorating portion of owning a home.

As for me and my house, today it became our house.

Some Bathroom Reading

One week from today the Mrs., myself and Isaac will be the possessors of our new home. Needless to say it's been a stress-filled, yet exciting time for us. Between closing on a house and planning for the move into a home much larger than our current residence, we have been busy. Thankfully, our new home provides me with that needed respite. That longed for and welcomed moment of the day when no one wants to be around you and you won't no one around. Where it is just you and your thoughts. And sometimes some reading material.

A friend of mine has a book that provides summaries of all the greatest novels. Each books' summary can be read, well, in one sitting. The sports page is also common reading. My new home has something of the former adorning its walls. The previous owner, who gets major points for being clever here while having them deducted because of the location of the hot-tub filled gazebo, decided to paste pages of exceptional authors' works on the walls. All within plain sight. All easy to read. It's a rather ingenious idea, to post authors like Faulkner, Spinoza, Shakespeare, Bacon, Whitman, et al on the walls. And suddenly, these walls can talk.
I'm not sure where I'll start. On which wall. But I know I'll look forward to those chances I'll get to, well, sit and think. I'm just not sure how to reference them in footnotes on my graduate papers.

Home Sweet...

Well, not yet. But almost. We're in contract on a new house. Inspections to come. Needless to say it's been a crazy week and will continue to be one. It's a charming Cape Cod: 4 Bedrooms, 2 Baths, 1300 sq feet, plus 300 sq feet in a finished basement, a hot tub/gazebo deal, privacy fence, playground and shed, hardwood floors. The Mrs. and I couldn't be more excited. Or more thankful.

I'll have pictures eventually. For now, a tease. Don't be surprised if some future posts start with: As I was sitting in the bathroom reading the wall...

Seriously, it's the Greatest. Bathroom. Ever. And only I could think that.

Pining For The Fjords

The Mrs. and I have been doing some house shopping. From Condos to Ranch Homes to Split Levels to Cape Cods. We've given just about everything in our price range a once over. It's interesting what you can learn about a person by going through their house. A process which includes opening refridgerators, closets, and cabinets.

We've found a house we like. Two of them actually. Houses that we'll hope to re-visit and perhaps make an offer on by the end of next week. All-in-all we visited almost 20 houses over the course of two days.

My favorite house was the one with a dead bird in it. It was a vacated condo in a housing community. In the corner of the empty living room was the bird. It's neck contorted. Probably from flying into the window it lay beneath. And it was most certainly dead.

Our realtor mentioned that we could negotiate the bird in our contract if we made an offer. If we didn't and the bird stayed, I imagined it would go something like the following.