Steve Dublanica's Blog, page 9

Enameled Loss

When I left work today, I ran into my boss in the hallway. 

“Leaving early?” he said. 

“I have to go grave shopping today,” I said, putting on what I thought was an appropriately solemn look. “Find a place for my father’s ashes. Volunteers are covering the pantry.” 

“Well, good luck, That’s never fun.” 

Half an hour later, I pulled in front of the gigantic mausoleum at a Catholic cemetery and headed for the office. Workmen were busy with power tools somewhere in the cavernous building and, as the sounds echoed of the marble walls, I turned down the volume on my hearing aids. So much for “Heavenly Rest.”

“Mr. Dublanica,” the salesmen said, greeting me. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I apologize for the noise,” he said. “We’re building a new wing in the columbarium.”  

“That’s okay,” I said, “I doubt the guests will notice.” In response, the salesman’s mouth pulled into a tight, “I guess it takes all kinds,” smile. 

After my brother and mother arrived, the salesman gave us a tour and went over options and prices. Some of the niches were as cheap as $1200 while others were over thirty grand. There were niches fronted with marble while others had transparent glass which allowed you to see the urns, some of which were quite ornate. But, as with all real estate, the costs depended on location, location, location, The higher up or nearer to the ground you went, the lower the price. Eye level? You pay. 

As we walked around, I noted that many of the spots were pre-purchased with the name and birth dates listed sans expiration date. One was a double for a couple named Vito and Angela with birth years in the 1980’s and no death date. Now that’s thinking ahead. But what happens if one of them dies and the other remarries? Something tells me Vito won’t be up for an eternal threesome. Or maybe he would be. 

Lost in my humorous reverie, I half listened as the salesman rattled off an endless array of internment options. Marble, flat glass or curved? Upstairs or down? High up in the rafters or foot level? “Would you like a picture cameo?” he asked. “It’s not a photo. It’s a hand fired enamel portrait. Guaranteed to last for generations.” 

“How much are the glass niches?” my mother asked, leading to quotes that were all over the place. Many of the choicest niches, however – even those without markings – were already spoken for.  Slightly irritated, I remembered how my yuppie restaurant customers freaked when told that empty best table in the house was already reserved. So sorry. 

“I wonder if you get a discount if you’re by the fire extinguisher,” my brother muttered. 

‘Maybe we should get a plot outside and bury him,” my mother said. “And get a headstone.” Having already reviewed the prices and knowing an “al fresco” option would cost even more, I tried to gently dissuade my mom from that course of action. “Mom,” I said. “It’s air conditioned and heated in here. It’s open every day expect Christmas, wheelchair accessible and there’s a bathroom.” Bathrooms are big when you’re elderly. 

When my mother and brother sauntered off to look around, I turned to the salesman and said, “If I got one of these niches for my wife as a birthday present, how do you think she’d take it?” 

“Would both your names be on it?” 

“Just hers.” 

“I can see that raising a few eyebrows.” 

Looking around as I waited, I noticed an urn with an enameled portrait of a young woman looking at me from behind the glass. She was born after I graduated college and died not long after I got married. Ouch. In a side chapel, I also spied an older man sitting on a bench with a Styrofoam cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee, a bunch of books and doodling on a sketch pad. I also noticed there were a lot of Italian names on the walls and idly thought of asking the salesman if Jimmy “Two Face “ Gigante was lying around somewhere waiting for the Rapture. That might’ve been too much. 

When my mother and brother returned, I saw she looked overwhelmed. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. 

“You don’t have to make a decision today, Mom,” I said. “There’s enough set aside to get whatever you want. Sleep on it. Turn it over in your head for a while.” 

“But you want to get this done.” 

I wanted to inter dad’s ashes sooner than later because I wanted to avoid the inertia that leads people to leave their loved ones moldering in a basement until the final trumpet sounds. Judging from the earthquakes and eclipses happening lately, that could be tomorrow. “It’s your decision, mom,” I said. “Take your time.” Dad’s not going anywhere. 

After making our goodbyes and getting the salesman’s card, he escorted us to the door. While we waited for my brother to bring around the car in a sudden downpour, I noticed the man with the Dunkin Donuts cup had taken a break, leaving his belongings on the bench. Probably had to use the convenient bathrooms. Coffee will do that to you. 

Curious, I asked to me excused for a moment and walked over to where the doodling java drinker had been sitting.  And there, through the glass, a portrait of another young person enameled on an urn stared back at me, the inscription stating he died six years ago. He was Dunkin Donut man’s son. “Jesus Christ,” I whispered. 

Suddenly, nothing seemed funny anymore. 

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The Loved One

A couple of hours after my father died, I was sitting in the back office of a funeral home waiting for the director to arrive when I heard a car pull up and the sound of a heavy door opening and closing. Getting up from my seat, I went to the window and pulled back the curtain, watching as men wheeled a gurney out of a minivan and guided it through a service door. Then, after a moment, I heard an elevator lurch into action. 

“Mr. Dublanica,” the director said, entering the room. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

“Was that my father who just arrived?” I asked. 

“It was.” Sighing, I sat back in my chair, oddly comforted that I’d been there at the end of Dad’s journey. 

Since I’d preplanned the funeral a month earlier, signing the paperwork was mostly a formality. My father was to be cremated and the funeral director told me, by law, they couldn’t cremate a body until 24 hours after death. I’m sure that law was passed after somebody screwed up. Ouch. 

“But that’s not an issue here,” the director said. “Your father’s isn’t going to be waked until next Wednesday.”  

“That’s because you have er, other customers.” 

“Yes, we have services all weekend and early next week.” 

“That’s fine,” I said. “That’ll give us more time to prepare.” Then the funeral director told me that, also by law, someone had to identify the body. 

“I can do that right now,” I said. “He’s here.” 

“No need,” she said. “You’ll see him at the wake and that will serve as identification.” 

“Because if it’s the wrong guy in the box, we’ll know.” The director smiled wanly, so I decided to screw with her a bit. 

“I have a friend whose mom died a couple of years ago,” I said. “When they saw her in the casket, they said, ‘That doesn’t look like mom,’ but, you know, people often don’t look like themselves after they die.”   

“That can be the case,” the director said. 

“So, they didn’t say anything and went through with the funeral and the ceremony at the cemetery. Then, just before they lowered the casket into the ground, the funeral director confessed they has mixed up the bodies.” 

“What!” the director yelped. 

“Yep. Two families had two wakes and two funerals with the wrong body, and my friend had to do the services all over again. As you can imagine, the lawsuit was tremendous.”  

“Oh my God,” the director said, “That’s my worst nightmare.”

“So, I’m sure they’ll be no mix-ups here.” 

No, sir. There won’t be.” 

I chuckled to myself. My father had only been dead a couple of hours and here I was cracking wise. While that’s in keeping with my personality, I also knew that I was in some weird euphoric state of shock – so I decided not to ask if she’d be interested in a ground floor opportunity setting up a Tower of Silence for the local Zoroastrians. That might’ve gotten me sent to the emergency room. 

I had met with the same funeral director a couple of months earlier to help a financially strapped client bury his father. They were wonderful, waiving their fee and doing everything possible to give the departed an honorable farewell. Their kindness is why I chose them to handle my dad – that and they’re two blocks my office. As we talked, however, I noticed the director used careful euphemisms while discussing cremation with my client.  When it was my turn, however, I was having none of it. 

“I know what goes on,” I said as she lurched into her spiel. “You don’t have sugarcoat it for me.” I don’t know if the director was relieved that she could lower her professional guard a tad or concerned. Probably fifty-fifty. Later, upon reviewing the bill, I noted the cost of the “rental casket” that my father would be waked in. “You have to take caskets from Costco?” I said, looking at her over my glasses. “Correct?” 

“We do, actually.” 

I grinned. “My wife loves Costco. When it’s her turn she’ll want her box from there.” Again, the director smiled wanly – or was figuring out how to make her escape. Then, when everything was said and done, she walked me to the door. 

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll take good care of your father.” 

“Listen,” I said. “When people kneel at the casket during the wake, you know what’s prayer they all say?” 

“No,” the director said, looking surprised. 

“One, Mississippi two Mississippi…” That elicited a genuine laugh.

“I’ve never heard that one,” she said. 

“And you’re a funeral director?” Then I left, quite certain that she locked the door behind me rather quickly. 

By chance, I ran into the owner of the funeral home outside my favorite luncheonette a few hours later and my wife bombarded him with questions. “How much like Six Feet Under is your job?”  she asked, “Really?” 

The owner laughed. “We enjoyed the show,” he said. “But a lot of it was ridiculous. Trust me, no one’s eating lunch next to a dead body.”  As my wife peppered the owner with more questions, I listened as he described the worst case he’d ever handled which, of course, involved a child. It was so bad he had to call in another undertaker to prepare the body. 

“So,” I said. “There’s such a thing as an undertaker’s undertaker,” 

“Not so much now,” the owner said. “It’s all so corporate. But back then we all supported each other.” 

“Sounds like you have to be a special person to do this job,” my wife said. 

“You have to be about service,” the owner said. “When we get someone who dies under the age of eighteen, we do everything at cost. I mean, how can you profit on some parent’s tragedy?” Upon hearing that, I teared up a little, knowing that I had indeed trusted my father to the right hands. But I also knew there were cutthroat bastards out there who wouldn’t hesitate to plunder a bereaved person’s bank account. 

In the end, however, there were no mix-ups, the funeral home performed over and beyond to perfection, and I’ll never be able to thank them enough or stop singing their praises. Burying the dead is a corporal mercy in the Catholic faith and, when you’re reeling from a loved one’s passing, their ministrations are a great comfort.  The cost was also very reasonable. Finding a final resting place for my father’s ashes, however, made me conclude that cemeteries are the real racket. 

“Why are some niches more expensive than others?” my mother asked as we reviewed the cemetery columbarium’s “menu.” 

“You want eye level,” I said, “It costs more. High up in the rafters is cheaper.” 

As we reviewed the prices, I chuckled at the capitalistic insanity of it all.  If you wanted to be buried or “inurned” in this Catholic cemetery after lunch – or on a weekend or holiday- you must pay a healthy “overtime fee.” Not that I blame them, however. The Church has a lot of bills to pay. My father, however – God rest his soul – was routinely driven into apoplectic fits over how the Church’s cemeteries cared for its dead. One time, outraged over the trash routinely found strewn over his parent’s grave, he collected it all and dumped it outside the responsible bishop’s office. Yeah, we Dublanicas snap sometimes. 

A while later, after pondering all this funereal stuff, I found myself thinking about The Loved One, a satirical 60’s film about the death industry. Filmed in black and white and adapted from a novelette by Evelyn Waugh, it’s about a young Englishmen who goes to live in LA with his uncle, a knighted movie producer played by John Gielgud who, soon after his nephew’s arrival, hangs himself after getting sacked from the studio he’s worked at for thirty years. Left with making the final arrangements, the young man find himself drawn into a fantastical world of unscrupulous batshit morticians and falling in love with one of the funeral home’s cosmeticians. Trust me, just watching Liberace upselling caskets is worth the price of admission. 

Johnathan Winters also plays multiple roles in the movie, including the owner of the whole absurd death conglomerate – Whispering Glades. A pious and unctuous minister in public, he’s a psychopathically ruthless businessman in private. When told he could make millions converting his cemetery into a retirement community, he grouses over how to accomplish this feat and growls the best line in the movie – which I say whenever I pass a graveyard:

“There’s got to be a way to get those stiffs of my property.”

As the film’s poster proclaims, “This movie has something to offend everybody!” so I’ll admit it’s not for everyone – and I wouldn’t watch it soon after a loved one has passed – but it’s side splittingly funny. I’ll watch it, of course, because humor is how I handle tough times – but I’m also aware that grief cannot be denied. So far, I have cried in the shower, the car, workplace restrooms, and it all seemingly comes out of the blue. Upon awakening this morning, I forgot for a moment that my father had died and, when I remembered he was now ashes waiting to be interred, I lost it. I’m sure there will be many days like these ahead. Grief is like love that has nowhere to go. 

Of course, the good people at my dad’s funeral home were the complete opposite of the craven maniacs at Whispering Glades and, as I struggled to find a way to thank them for all their kindness, I was hit with a stroke of genius. So, I hopped on Amazon, made a purchase and, when it arrived the next day, put it in my car. When I go to pay the bill later this week, I’ll give them a DVD of The Loved One. I’m sure they will enjoy it. 

That or never open the door when I come calling again. 

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Eulogy for John Dublanica

March 7, 2024 

When my brother and I were children in the 1970’s my father loved to play records on the old hi-fi in our living room. His choices were, of course, as varied as his eclectic tastes– ranging from classical music, recordings of Shakespeare plays, songs by The Beatles, The Doors, The Eagles, and, sadly, when we got that eight track player, the stylings of Barry Manilow. But what do I know? Barry’s making a comeback and even my daughter likes singing “Copacabana.”

But I distinctly remember the time my dad sat me down and made me listen to the song “The Impossible Dream” from the Broadway musical, Man of La Mancha. If you’re not familiar with it, let me share some of the lyrics with you.  Don’t worry. I’m not going to sing. 

To dream the impossible dream

To fight the unbeatable foe

To bear, with unbearable sorrow

And to run where the brave dare not go

To right the un-rightable wrong

And to love, pure and chaste from afar

To try, when your arms are too weary

To reach the unreachable star

And I know, if I’ll only be true

To this glorious quest

That my heart will be peaceful and calm

When I’m laid to my rest

And the world will be better for this

That one man scorned and covered with scars

Still strove with his last ounce of courage

To reach the unreachable

The unreachable

The unreachable

Star

And then, when the song was over, my father looked me in the eyes and said, “If everyone thought like this, the world would be a beautiful place.” I never forgot that. 

If you haven’t guessed it, my father was a bit of a dreamer and was occasionally criticized for being too idealistic, sometimes unwilling to see the duplicity and cruelty of the people. A fair criticism? Perhaps. And I guess this is the part of the eulogy where I’m supposed to chime in and say that dad wasn’t perfect, that he had his faults, and yes, he had a few. I remember when he had his midlife crisis and brought home a 1968 Bahama yellow Porsche 911, and then tried to convince mom it was an “investment.” And let’s not even talk about the time he took me to see JAWS in the movies when I was seven. Small wonder I don’t like the ocean. But Dad’s foibles were just the garden variety mistakes people make in life. Nothing serious. But The Impossible Dream and the idealism it represented, was in a real way, the guiding force of my father’s life. No surprise he became a teacher, a career where you’re not rolling in dough.  And during a forty year career as an educator, Dad not only helped guide and train countless teachers, but enabled thousands of students to follow their own star. 

His faith in beautiful dreams also can be found in his 57 year marriage to his beloved wife Barbara, an example of faithfulness in good times and bad that we can only hope to emulate. He also passed down his ideals to my brother Mark and I, which, in its own time and way, helped to make us better people than we had any right to expect. And now Dad’s dreams will live on in his grandchildren, Natalie, and Ethan, and one day in their children. Or will they?

Because a dream is just that, a dream. How many of have awakened only to forget them by the time we’ve had our morning cup of coffee? How many of us, beaten down by life, have given up on our dreams?  Our hopes to be a better spouse, friend, or parent? To do that good deed, overcome that obstacle, or even forgive?  How many of us have left our idealism in the dust, saying that dreams don’t pay the bills and that the world just doesn’t work that way. 

Then again, look where we are and what we’re doing – gathering in a church to talk about resurrection and eternal life. To many people that seems not only an impossible dream but magical thinking. But then again, the Gospels have always seemed like an impossible dream have they not? Preached by a poor commoner also scorned and covered with scars, who told us upside down things like the last shall be first and that the meek will inherit the earth. Who told a wealthy young man that money and the trappings of success are unimportant. A teacher who proclaimed God is a father who adores us no matter what and whose resurrection turned the judgment of mankind on its head and showed us that love is how the world truly works. Is that an impossible dream? Maybe. But it certainly is a beautiful one.   

My father believed in the impossible dream and yearned for a beautiful world – but the beautiful – beauty – is also an upside down, strange thing. Have you ever been terribly sad only to find to your shock, maybe even to your offence, that it’s still a beautiful day outside? That despite your anger and grief, beautiful moments and people keep appearing? That’s because beauty lavishes its gifts upon us no matter how we feel, no matter what’s happening, or whether we deserve it or not.  We may not always sense its presence, but it is always there, and it just keeps giving and giving and giving.  And it can do that because beauty is very patient and very kind. It doesn’t keep score or score points. Beauty bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things, and never fails.  Of course, beauty is just another word for love and, if in your pain, you’ve missed lovely moments in life, you needn’t worry, because there will always be more to come. That is, when you think about it, an impossible mercy – and Beauty, Love, is indeed merciful, because it whispers to us that in God “nothing is ever lost, and the substance of hope lies in the knowledge that God has given – and will give – again.” And just from the smile on his face when he would see my daughter, I know Dad knew that too.  So, when we leave here today, I think the greatest tribute we can give my father is to be like that Man from La Mancha – to keep dreaming and strive to make the world a more beautiful place. 

Now Dad, you have now reached the end of your glorious quest. Your heart is peaceful and calm as we lay you to rest. And the world is better for this, better because you were here. And, in a way that surpasses all understanding, you are now truly awake, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that the dream was never impossible, because nothing – nothing – is impossible with God.  

Dad, you have finally reached that unreachable star. 

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Remarks At My Father’s Wake

March 6, 2024

When I was a small child the synapses in my brain finally linked up and I realized that I had a whole life in front of me – and that I’d eventually need to get a job. So, I churned through all the possibilities little boys consider. Maybe I would become a fireman or police officer. Or how about a doctor, astronaut, cowboy, professional baseball player or even President of The United States?  But above all else, whatever path I chose, like all sons, I was anxious that my dad would be proud of me. Being a bit of a chatterbox, I know I must have bounced all my career options off him constantly – probably driving him to distraction.  And yet, perhaps sensing I was worried about disappointing him, my father took me aside one day and told me, “Stephen, even if you become a garbageman, I’ll always be proud of you.” 

I would become none of things I imagined I’d be as a child. Point of fact, my life took many circuitous turns before I finally grew up – which I’m sure drove Dad a bit nuts – but I always knew in my heart that he was always there for me. I’m sure my brother Mark feels the same way. Our father may not have always said what we wanted to hear, or did what we thought needed doing, but he was always there for us when it counted. When I published my first book in 2008 and was caught up in the glare of the cameras, many people said to him, “You must be so proud of your son.” And he was, but then again, I knew he had always been proud of me and my brother. We were his sons, and nothing would ever change that. 

Even though dad lived eighty-one and a half years and had a full life, it’s still very tough to realize that I will never see him on this earth again. What keeps me standing on my two feet is my hope that, in the end, “All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” And, when I had a moment alone with him before he died, I kissed Dad on his forehead and said, “I’ll see you later.” That is my faith. 

Some people, of course, think such talk is delusional and that there is no way to prove any of this God and eternal life stuff. But as a wise man once said, “Faith is not believing in something you cannot prove. Faith is the assurance that someone is there.” My Dad in that simple yet complex role of being a father, laid the foundation for my faith in a loving universe – just by being there.  I can only hope I can do same for my own daughter. So, thank you for being proud of us Dad. We were certainly proud of you. And even though we may not sense it now, you are still there for us. 

I’ll see you later. 

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Rest in Peace, Chuck

Charles Feeney, 1931 – 2023

Businessman, Philanthropist, and my hero. Your reward in Heaven will be great. I wish there were more people like you. “Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night sweet prince; and fights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”

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Superhero

Most of the deep philosophical discussions I have with my daughter occur when she’s in the backseat while I’m driving. Yesterday was one of those times. 

“How is God different from us?” she asked me as we waited at a traffic light.

“You and I are finite,” I said. “We have a beginning and an end. God, on the other hand, is infinite. He has no beginning or end.”

“How can he not have a beginning? He had to start somewhere.”

“Good question, dear,” I said. “What do you think?”  

“I think there was nothing,” Natalie said. “I mean nothing. No black, no white. No colors. No people. Then all of a sudden, bam, God appeared, and he said, ‘I’m gonna create stuff to make earth more interesting.’” 

“Nothing is also part of the infinite,” I said. “So, God is also in nothing.” 

“Huh?” 

“Infinity is everything,” I said. “And all that is finite, like you and me, fits into the infinite as well. So, you and I are also part of infinity.” Nothing like dropping Immanuel Kant on a nine year old.

“Well. I think sometimes God come down and lives with us. Like he doesn’t tell anybody who he is but goes to Starbucks to get coffee.” 

“I hope he leaves a tip.” 

“No, he gets free coffee.” 

“I think God would pay for his coffee.” 

“He could just make his own, couldn’t he?” 

“I imagine so,” I said. “But you know, the ancient Greeks thought the gods, they had many gods not one, would come down from Mount Olympus, that’s where they lived, and hang out with people. Even having babies with them.” 

“What? Babies?” Natalie cried. “They got all smoochy smoochy with people?” 

“Yep,” I said. “And the babies would be half human, half god, what they called a demi-god.” 

“Like Hercules.” 

“Very good, Natalie,” I said, mildly surprised. “You’re exactly right. But as time went by, religion changed, and all those little gods started getting replaced by the idea of one God. In the Bible the little gods, with a small g, were called theos, but the big God was called Ho Theos.”

“Where’d all the little gods go?” 

“Some religions still have lots of little gods, like Hindus in India. But most of them believe there’s still one big God who created everything.” I refrained from laying the term henotheism for her. 

“So, the one God creates everything.” 

“That’s the idea,” I said. “Honey, a good way to look at God is to think of him as existence itself, like he’s the reason there is anything at all.” 

“But then why did he create stuff?” 

“I don’t really know,” I said. “But when I was in school, I learned that even if God didn’t create anything, he’d still be God. He didn’t need to make us to be happy. He was already happy. So, if he made us, he made us out of nothing which was really cool because he didn’t have too – like he gave us a big present.” 

“I like presents,” Natalie said.

“Me too.” 

“When will we get to Grandma and Grandpa’s? I’m hungry.” 

“Twenty-minutes.” 

“I want a McRib and McDonalds.” 

“I don’t know if they have them now.” 

After digesting the unavailibiity of the McRib – which I’m not sure is even food –  Natalie said, “Daddy, can I ask you something?” 

“Shoot.” 

“When people die, do they come back as ghosts?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“But why don’t we see people after they die?” 

“Well,” I said, “One way to look at it is that dead people are so happy in Heaven they don’t want to come back.” 

“But if they’re happy,” Natalie said. “Wouldn’t they want to tell us?” 

“You’re probably right,” I said. “But there’s another way to look at it. In the Bible, when Jesus came back from the dead and appeared to his friends, he was still flesh and blood – he could be touched, could eat – but he could appear “poof” out of nowhere, walk through walls, all that stuff.”

“Kind of like a superhero.” 

“Yes,” I said. “Kind of like that. Now think about Superman. Imagine if there was a real guy who could fly, laser things with his heat vision, throw mountains into the sea, have bullets bounce off him. What do you think regular people would think about that?” 

“They’d think that would be really cool.” 

“You bet,” I said. “But other people would be very frightened at how different and powerful he was. Think about it. You’re dead and your soul goes up to Heaven. You now know more than anyone else on earth. Perhaps you’re now like an angel who can do all sorts of wonderous things like fly, walk through walls, whatever. But, like Superman, you’d be so different from living people that you’d have very little in common with them. You’d be like a god to them and might scare or confuse them. So perhaps there’s a good reason we don’t see the dead while we’re alive. They know you’re not ready for it.” 

“But that’s okay,” Natalie said, “Because everyone would see you in Heaven later and they wouldn’t be scared.” 

“I think you’re right.” 

“So, Daddy,” Natalie said. “When is the new Miraculous movie coming out?” 

My daughter was referring to her favorite cartoon about teenagers who transform into superheroes that are powered by mystical creatures called Miraculouses and fight bad guys in Paris, France. She’s watched every single episode and seen every movie. “I don’t know honey,” I said. 

I’d love to be like Ladybug,” she said, referring to the show’s central character. “Kiki! Spots on!” 

Smiling, I guided my car towards my parent’s assisted living facility. I know children, and quite a few adults, love the idea of becoming a superhero – to be able to do things no one on earth can do. Truth be told, I sometimes catch myself imagining I’m Superman too. But this idea of a “superhero” is quite old, even older than Hercules. The archetype is found in every culture and throughout literature ancient and modern. Perhaps that’s a “signal of transcendence” too, a dim glimpse of a reality that could await us, when we might all transcend this plane of existence and become something more – spirit that can go where flesh and blood cannot. Maybe, eventually we will all become superheroes, like gods, ourselves. That’d be cool. 

Later, as we ate at Mc Donalds and I watched my parents regard Natalie with pure delight, I felt very proud of my little girl. Not even ten and thinking deep thoughts about being, nothingness and infinity. I could take credit and say she’s a chip off the old block, but then again, Natalie’s already become a superhero in my eyes. Who knows what wonders she shall perform?

I can’t wait to see. 

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Not Being Nice

My father needed to have his hearing aids adjusted so, once again, I found myself going to Costco. Because there was a bad accident on the highway, we were half an hour late. 

“There won’t be any handicapped spots,” I said, frustrated. 

“You said that the last time,” my dad said. 

As luck would have it, an SUV was pulled out of a handicapped spot on my right, so I clicked on my blinker. Hidden by the SUV’s mass, however, another car was signaling to make a left into the same spot. Oh well. 

As I wrenched my car into the coveted spot, the face of the old woman behind the wheel of the other car twisted into a rictus of white hot rage and, although I’m not a lip reader, I’m pretty sure she called me an asshole. Shrugging, I got out of my car, hauled my dad’s wheelchair out of the trunk and wheeled him to the hearing aid department.  Because we were so tardy, I thought we might lose the appointment, so I pushed my dad past the line of old people waiting for the audiologist to plead my case. 

“Excuse me,” an old woman said, “I don’t appreciate you cutting in front of me.” 

“I’m not cutting in front of you,” I said, “I just want to ask the receptionist something.” 

“No,” she said. “When you cut me off in the parking lot. That wasn’t nice.” Just great. The lady who called me an asshole. Then I realized, despite whatever handicap this lady had, she’d got inside the store much quicker than I did. That I was escorting a person obviously frailer than she didn’t to seem to bother her a whit. 

I was taught to respect my elders and, most of the time, I do. But a therapist once told me, “People are cut from whole cloth. How they handle things when they’re young will probably be how they deal with things when they’re old.” Translation? If they were jerks when they were young, they’ll probably be jerks when they’re old. Feeling my gorge rising, I wanted to say, “My cripple trumps your handicap, lady so tough shit,” but kept my mouth shut.

Feeling the aggrieved oldsters’ eyes burning a hole in the back of my skull, I leaned over the counter, explained to the receptionist why we were late, and threw myself on her mercy. Luckily, seeing my dad in his chair, she took pity on us and said she’d fit us in. “You’ll have to wait at least forty minutes,” she said. “There are other people ahead of you.” 

“No problem,” I said. 

“Go to the food court,” she said, winking. “Get your dad some food they won’t let him have in the nursing home.” 

“Good idea.” I said, spinning my father around to go get a slice of pizza. 

“What happened back there?”  my dad asked after were safely away. I told him. 

“You always get worked up over handicapped spots.” 

“It’s a weakness of mine.” 

As my father and I munched on some pizza in the food court, I thought about my last experience at Costco – when I saw angel fire in a baby girl’s smile and creation’s spark in a kiss. But now, as I surveyed the mass of shoppers queued up at the registers, such beauty seemed elusive and I thought about the ugliness in myself. Should I have let that old lady have the spot? Been a kinder person? Be kind. Isn’t that the mantra I hear mothers telling their kids on the playground all the time? Then again, to quote a great sage, “I want you be nice until it’s time to not be nice.” But how do we know when it’s time not to be nice? 

A couple of years ago, I was talking with a military chaplain who had served in Iraq and Afghanistan. A problematic conflict to be sure and I asked him how he squared his role as a man of God while counseling young men in a combat zone. “What would have happened if the Good Samaritan showed up fifteen minutes early?” he replied. “Hold that man’s cloak while robbers beat him almost to death?” I’d never heard it put quite that way. 

“You can be all meek and gentle and let invaders take your village without resistance,” the chaplain continued. “But what happens when the conquerors start killing all the military age men in the village, rape the women and sell the children into slavery? What did pacifism get you then? Even worse problems.” Maybe if that Samaritan showed up earlier, he’d have gone Roadhouse and opened a can of Patrick Swayze grade whoop-ass on those brigands. If I was being violently mugged, I pray someone would throw a few fists to save me. If my town was invaded by Russians, I hope some rough and ready men would parachute in to kick their asses. Sure, that isn’t nice, but the alternatives would be worse. 

As I have said before, being “nice” is sometimes a lie. A while back, a woman was raped on a Philadelphia train in full view of several passengers who did nothing to help her – other than record the attack on their cellphones that is. “Anybody that was on that train,” a police official said, “Has to look in the mirror and ask why they didn’t intervene or why they didn’t do something.” There’s probably lots of reasons why nobody helped that woman, but I’m sure, if you asked them, they’d all claim they were “nice” people.” Maybe they are, but they sure as hell weren’t decent. If it was my wife our daughter being attacked, I hope someone would lay that rapist out cold. That would be the decent thing to do. It would be the kind thing to do. 

Isn’t it funny that, despite all the appeals to “being kind” we seem to be living in the most uncivil of ages? Just look at social media, our politics, or how drivers are acting on the road today. It’s a vicious free for all, leading me to believe that brainwashing our kids to “be kind” is just a virtue signaling salve to help adults ignore their own savagery and selfishness. Of course, talking a handicapped spot from an old lady isn’t virtuous act like saving a mugging victim or repelling an invasion but, in my judgement, it was a necessary one.  My father needed the spot more and, judging from that woman’s lickity-split mobility, I made the right call.  That I felt guilty about it later doesn’t change the fact that it was a moment not to be nice.  

My nine year old daughter, who is on the receiving end of numerous appeals to “be kind” at school, places a premium on being nice. Since she’s so young and innocent, I’m content to let her but, a couple of months ago, she experienced some of the cognitive dissonance that occurs when being nice just doesn’t cut the mustard. Natalie had a playmate, a high spirited boy, who was annoying her, and she pushed back verbally – which embroiled me in a small kerfuffle with that kid’s parents. Could my daughter have handled it better? Have been kinder? Perhaps but, when she found out those parents wouldn’t let her play with their child anymore, she tearfully asked me if she’d done something wrong. “Not a thing,” I said. 

Being a girl is tough and the last thing I want my daughter to do is censor her feelings when she’s being wronged just to keep a relationship going. Teaching her to be “kind” when a guy’s being a jerk will just set her up for disaster later. Now, that boy’s not a jerk, just filled with the brio that results from a steady diet of snails and puppy dog tails. Lord knows I was miserable to some girls when I was his age but, as I recall, some of them had no problem smacking me upside the head. Kids tend to work things out amongst themselves but, when that mom castigated me for my daughter’s “behavior” I was stupefied. “They’re just kids,” I said. “And their playing nice right now.” But that, as they say, was that.

It was a blow to me personally because I got along very well with that boy’s father. He was a nice man who helped me with some construction projects around the house and I could tell we were kindred spirits but, if I had made Natalie apologize when no apology was necessary to salvage our friendship, then that would have been unkind to my child. Natalie must learn that sometimes sharp elbows must be thrown to get through life and, hopefully, the example my wife and I set will teach her when it’s time to be nice – and when not to be. It’s a tricky balance and I’m sure we’ll mess it up but, in the end, no number of mindless mantras will replace the example a parent sets. Now I know that boy’s parents are nice people and I’m sure they were just trying to protect him, but I mourn that their outsized reaction deprived their son of Natalie’s vivacious personality – and she of his. 

“You never know,” I said to my wife, months later. “This could all blow over and, one day, that kid will be asking to marry our daughter.” 

“Could make for some awkwardness at the wedding,” Annie said. 

“And we’ll be nice as pie.” 

But if that boy – or any guy who marries my daughter – isn’t good to her, I’ll go Roadhouse on his ass. Then again, from what I’ve been seeing, Natalie probably won’t need the help. 

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The Thirty-Six

I was heading to the break room to grab a cup of coffee when I passed by the collection box for the school supply drive my department conducts every summer. It was empty, which was concerning because we were giving the supplies away in two weeks.   

Feeling a ripple of anxiety, I had a vision of turning away needy children because we didn’t have any backpacks, lunch bags, notebooks, pens, pencils, crayons, or markers to give them. Then I chided myself for my lack of faith. After eight years doing this work, I knew the stuff would come from somewhere – but that never stops me from getting nervous. Then, after resupplying myself with java, I trudged back upstairs to my desk, looked at my to-do list, and started working the phones. 

“Bill,” I said, after he picked up, “Can you do me a favor?”

“What’s up?” 

“I’ve got an elderly couple on Anywhere Ave who can’t keep up with their property. We’ve been getting complaints from their neighbors. They’ve got a daughter living with them and she used to mow the lawn, but their mower’s busted and they can’t afford to fix it.” 

“Okay,” Bill said, “I’ll swing by today.” 

“Thanks Bill.” 

Hanging up, my next call was to the repairman who fixed my lawnmower after I ran over a large rock.  After explaining the situation with the elderly couple, I asked, “Can you fix their mower? I can pay you out of my funds.” 

“I’ll go get it tomorrow,” he said. 

“Just send me the bill.” 

“No charge. Consider it my giving back to the community.” 

“It could be an expensive repair,” I said. “The mower’s from the 70’s.” 

“Nothing I can’t handle.” 

After thanking the man, I continued to go down my list – a client needing help with her electric bill, another who couldn’t make the rent, a family facing eviction from their apartment with no money to put a security deposit on another, a guy who needed an air conditioner. and a homeless person living under the highway. After some more phone calls and fiddling with my computer, I paid the electric bills and back rent, bought an air-conditioner, arranged for the homeless man to be taken to a shelter and then called the family facing eviction. They had three kids and were understandably nervous. After reassuring them I could help, I ended the call.  

Feeling drained, I sat back in my chair and looked at the elementary school outside my window. Sitting empty, it looked forlorn, as if pining for its young students to return, making me feel that ripple of anxiety again. Then my phone rang. 

“Hey babe. It’s Barbara.”

“Hi Barb,” I said, grinning.. She always calls me “babe.” 

“You still need stuff for your school supply drive?” 

“Yes, I do.’ 

“I’m gonna drop off sixty backpacks my women’s group collected. You gonna be in tomorrow?” And, just like that, half the backpacks I needed fell into my lap. It’ll come from somewhere. Smiling, I thought about the Tzadikim Nistarim.

There is a legend in Jewish mysticism that there are always thirty-six righteous people in the world who, through their kindness and good deeds, keep God from destroying the world. Called the Tzadikim Nistarim or the Lamed-Vavnik, these people are hidden from the world, unknown to everyone else and each other. Even a Lamed-Vavnik doesn’t know he or she is a Lamed-Vavnik and, when one of their number dies, they are replaced by another. As the legend goes, God keep the world going solely for their sake but, if even one of them falls into sin, then it’s game over. Probably a good thing they don’t know their Lamed-Vavnik. That’d be too much pressure. 

There is a contemporary take on the Tzadikim Nistarim, however, that I like much better. According to Rabbi Rami Shapiro, the Lamed-Vavnik are “fonts of lovingkindness, pouring compassion on the world and using the gifts and talents they were given by God to raise up those around them,” and “Without their acts of lovingkindness, life on this planet would implode under the weight of human selfishness, anger, ignorance, and greed.” But, in his take on the Tzadikim Nistarim, they don’t have to be the same thirty six people. “I believe that people step into and out of the lamed-vavnik role,” he said. “And that at any given moment thirty-six people are stepping in.” 

Everything I’m able to accomplish at the food panty is directly the result of people acting as ‘fonts of loving kindness.” Whether it’s Bill doing free landscaping, that repairman fixing a lawnmower, Barbara giving me backpacks, or the people who donated money so I could help clients with rent, air conditioners or energy bills, it all came from individuals acting selflessly. Being human beings, none of these people are perfect, but I like to think that, for a moment, they all stepped into that Lamed-Vavnik role. 

When Covid-19 struck the people in my town banded together to deliver food and medical supplies to the vulnerable elderly – an example of people acting beautifully.  And how could I do my job if not for the countless volunteers who help me? They’ve all been Tzadikim Nistarim at one point or another. And this list of Lamed Vavniks goes on and on; the couple who donated thousands of dollars worth of gift cards to help my clients at Christmas, the lady who delivers supplies to my pantry almost every week, the schools and kids who run food drives, the church that gave me money to house families in crisis, the Rotary Clubs, Kiwanis, Scouts, Women’s Clubs, and mommy groups who’ve pitched in to help and, of course, all those who’ve donated money and food. 

Getting up from my desk, I pulled a binder off the shelf containing the hundreds of thank you notes I’ve written during my tenure. Leafing through it, my fingers traced over the people who’ve donated $10, $20, $100, or $400 to my pantry every month for years.  Or how about The Thrift Barn in town who, as the result of their hardworking volunteers, manages to gift us tens of thousands of bucks’ year in and year out? The kid who forsook presents on his birthday and asked for donations to my pantry instead? The memorial gifts for deceased family and friends? The two people who donate almost a hundred turkeys every Thanksgiving? The American Legion guys who helped an old veteran? My friend who gives me Visa cards all the time? They, and all the countless people I’ve neglected to mention are Tzadikim Nistarim all.  And they don’t even know it.

There are days when this job is a drag. On one particularly bad day I groused to a co-worker that I should just chuck it all and sell cars. Burnout always threatens but, as I held that binder, I knew the thing that keeps me going is the privileged perch I occupy – watching as countless angels flare into existence time and time again. Like the Lamed Vavnik, they don’t have to be the same people all the time and, when one person can’t perform the role, another just picks it up; exchanging places like a heavenly game of musical chairs. Something tells me, however, that there are far more than thirty-six righteous people in the world, and that God’s wrath will be forever stayed. 

Closing the binder, I brought it to my lips and kissed it as it were The Gospels which, in a sense, it was. 

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The Dude Abides

Last Friday morning, I took my father to Costco to get hearing aids. Pulling into the crowded parking lot, I said to him, “I bet there won’t be any handicapped spots.” 

“Why do you say that?” he asked. 

“Because there never are at Costco.” 

Whenever I take my mom and dad anywhere, I use their handicapped placard to snag parking spots close to the entrance of whatever place we’re visiting. Oddly enough, whenever I go to the mall or the supermarket by myself there’s always plenty of legally designated spaces available but, when I’m transporting my parents, I can never seem to find one – making me think the universe is conspiring against me. 

“Yep,” I said, looking at the blue lined spots filled with cars, “Not a single one.” 

“Why not?” Dad, said. 

“I guess Jesus hasn’t been healing any cripples lately.” 

“That’s not nice.” 

“Goddammit,” I muttered. 

After parking as far removed from the entrance as you can get, I hauled my father’s wheelchair out of the trunk, unfolded it, and then carefully watched as he slowly climbed out of the passenger’s seat, ready to catch him if he fell. 

“Ready to start hearing again?” I said, after Dad was safely in his chair. 

“Finally.”  

“Okay. Let’s go.” 

After setting up my father with the audio tech, I said, “Annie gave me a list of things to get. I’ll get you when I’m done.” 

“Okay.” 

Turning to the tech I said, “Here’s my cellphone number. Call me if there’s a problem.” Then I plunged into retail hell. 

I don’t know what happened, but it seemed like the entire Tri-State area had decided to descend on this particular Costco. Staring in disbelief, I saw that all the aisles leading to the registers were lined with people waiting to checkout almost to the back of the store – meaning you had to run several gauntlets of carts to go from one side of the warehouse to the other. And every single shopper looked miserable. 

I suffer from a mild form of self-diagnosed of agoraphobia. I wasn’t always this way but, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed crowds tend to make me irritable – although I’ll admit my distress is purely situational. Crowded concert or parade? No sweat. But if throngs of people frustrate my ability to accomplish something, I start praying for a nice little nuclear war to thin out the herd. Taking a deep breath, I told myself to stay calm and plunged into the madding crowd. 

After half an hour of getting my cart clipped by impatient shoppers, I stopped to check the shopping list my wife had texted to my phone. As I was ticking off the items on my screen, an aggravated voice behind me said. “Pal, you just can’t block everybody. Move.” Trying to be considerate, I had pulled off to the side of the coffee aisle but, with everyone jockeying their carts for advantageous position, there was nowhere to stay still. Glancing towards my six, I found a middle aged man glaring at me and couldn’t help but notice that his nose was webbed with busted capillaries from drinking, high blood pressure or both. 

“Do you hear me?’ the man said. “Get out of the way.” As anger detonated in my chest, I thought about telling the guy off but said, “Sorry” instead. 

“Jerk, “the man said, hustling past me. 

As frustrated tears stung my eyes, I realized the source of my agoraphobia wasn’t getting delayed, but how the toxic energy of people competing for resources brings out the worst in me. I try being a laid back dude but, when encountering such impolite, grasping behavior, my inner Lebowski sometimes wants to drop the peace and love shit and cut loose with a flamethower. Maybe I’m more of a Walter Sobchak kind of guy. 

Finally done filling my wife’s orders, I made my way to the checkout line but, to my surprise, the crowds were gone. “What happened?” I asked the shellshocked cashier. “This place was mobbed a few minutes ago.” 

“Happens,” she said, efficiently ringing up my purchases. “We never know when this place will fill up.” 

After checking on my dad, I went into the parking lot to put my purchases in the car. Like the store, the lot was now almost empty; but there was a glut of cars angrily congealed by the exit to the highway, honking their horns as they fought to get one car length ahead of the other guy. 

“Nuts,” I said, watching the vehicular massa damnata as it malignantly pulsed toward the highway. “Fucking nuts.” 

“You got that right,” the employee who collects the carts said, as he pushed his load past me.

“Tough morning?” I asked. 

 “These people will run you right over. They don’t give a shit.” 

“Whatcha gonna do?”

Shrugging, the cart guy said, “I’ve seen worse.” 

Collecting my father, I took him to lunch and then drove him back to the nursing home. Since he was happy that he could hear better, I didn’t want to spoil his good mood by bitching about my Costco experience. Then I ran a few errands, picked up my daughter at camp, and then fought the evening rush hour to my wife’s office where my in-law’s were waiting to take possession of Natalie for a sleepover. Finally, some quality time with my wife. “We have to go to Costco,” my wife said, as she grabbed her purse. ‘I forgot to ask you for a few things.”

“Again?” I said. “I’ve had enough of that place.”

“We’ll go to the one near here.”

“Doesn’t matter, it’ll be the same nightmare. Can I stay in the car?” The answer to that question, of course, was no and, as Annie and I drove to yet another Costco, I remembered – and not for the first time – that flamethrowers are perfectly legal in New Jersey. 

“Take a deep breath,” Annie said, as we walked into the store.

“Did you notice there were tons of open handicapped spots? Never when I need them though.” 

“Stay calm.” 

“I’ll try.” 

My wife is familiar with my “fear of the marketplace” but pays it no heed. That’s because Annie loves Costco. Left to her druthers, she’d spend the whole day there. Once, when we were California, she forced me to go see the very first Costco in San Diego. Judging from the fervent gleam in her eyes we might as well have been on the Hajj to Mecca.  While Annie shopped, I stood off to the side of the cart, trying to medicate my aggravation by playing word games on my phone. Then a pleasant voice said, “Excuse me, sir. May I get by?” Looking up, I found a lovely young woman smiling at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, stepping aside.

“No worries. It’s crowded.” 

As the woman pushed passed me, I looked at the young daughter sitting in her cart. About two years old, curly blond hair framed her angelic face like a halo of burning gold. Remembering when my daughter was that sweet and innocent age, I waved at her, causing her to break into a giggly smile. When that happened, something in my heart melted and all thoughts of incinerating inconsiderate Costco shoppers faded away. Annie and I crossed paths with that little girl several times as we shopped and, every time I saw her, I repeated my merry wave. Each time I was rewarded with an expression of luminous delight. 

Feeling much better, I paid up, helped Annie load our stuff into the car, and then drove towards the exit. As we waited by the traffic light guarding the entrance to the highway, I spied a young couple awkwardly standing next to each other by the bus stop and hesitantly gazing into each other’s eyes. The pull between them was electric and, somehow, I realized I was watching something fragile and important – the beginning of something new. Then the boy reached out with his hand and stroked the girl’s cheek, causing her eyes to close and her lips part with desire. 

“Go for it, kid,” I said. 

Awkwardness falling away, the boy took the girl into his arms and kissed her. Watching their passionate embrace backlit by the last sliver of the setting sun, I felt like I was witnessing the moment of creation. This time, as tears of a kinder, gentler nature stung my eyes, I knew I was catching a glimpse of “The Love that moves the Sun and the other stars.”

“Want to go to the Japanese place for sushi?” my wife asked.

“Huh?” 

“Sushi? It’s just us tonight.” 

“Sure,” I said. “Why not?” 

Driving away from that beautiful spark, I remembered life’s goodness often unveils itself in the most unlikely of places – even at Costco. Smiling, I pushed my car towards home, watching the twilit clouds billowing in the Western sky as they blazed with golden fire.  

Maybe the Dude really does abide.

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Girl Dad

I was at work and about to go into an important meeting when my phone alerted me that I had a voice mail. It was my daughter’s summer day camp, informing me Natalie had a wardrobe malfunction. 

“Your daughter wore white leggings today,” the recording told me. “And she’s embarrassed that that her underwear’s showing through. Could you bring over another pair of pants or shorts? Thank you.” 

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I muttered. I toyed with asking my wife to handle it but, since both my job and the camp are close to my office, why risk a fight?  So, I called the person I was meeting and told him I’d be twenty minutes late. Then I called the camp. 

“What color top is Natalie wearing?” I asked. Color coordination is important. 

“A grey tee-shirt with red hearts on it.” 

“Thanks.” 

After driving home, I walked into my daughter’s room and surveyed the clothing choices available to me. Now that Natalie is nine and still unemployed, my wife and I decided it was high time she started earning her keep and tasked her with putting her laundry away. As you can imagine, the state of her dresser was suboptimal. 

“Are these pants or a pajama bottoms?” I asked, befuddledly holding up a pair of black number with an elastic band. Truth be told, I’ve never bought my daughter a single stitch of clothing in all her time on earth. That’s what grandparents are for, and believe me, they keep her well supplied. Finally, I settled on a camouflage colored pair of shorts and a leopard patterned pair of pants. Then, when I arrived at the camp, I identified myself and asked them to fetch Natalie. “I brought two things,” I said. ‘I hope they’ll do.” 

“You’re a girl dad!” a female counselor crowed. “You knew to match her top. And bring two choices!”    

“When it comes to fashion,” I said. “Always present a lady with options.” 

“She’ll be right along.” 

While I waited, one the male counselors who knows Natalie very well said to me, “My daughter’s only eight months old. I don’t have to deal with this stuff yet.” 

“Until today,” I said. “Neither did I. But womanhood is a learning curve.” 

Natalie appeared wearing a borrowed sweatshirt covering her backside but, to my mind, her condition wasn’t too bad – more a minor case of panty lines than anything else – but I knew kids are apt to tease. Besides, when my daughter’s older, she’ll know to make clothing choices to avoid these situations in the future. 

“Here you go honey, I said. “Try the shorts on first. It’s hot out.” 

After changing, Natalie, emerged from the bathroom. “These shorts are too big,” she said. 

Shaking my head, I wondered why clothes my daughter will “grow into” were in her dresser. I’ll never understand how my wife thinks. Ever.  

“Try these then,” said, handing her the pants.

“Okay.” 

A few minutes later, Natalie came out wearing her less than opaque pants. “All good?” I asked. 

“Yes. Thanks Daddy.” If she was upset over her wardrobe faux pas, she didn’t show it. Then she handed me her problematic leggings like I was Jeeves, the butler. 

“No,” I said. “Put them in your backpack, dear.” 

“Okay,” Natalie said, happily toddling off without casting a look back. No hug. No kiss. No nothing. 

“Bye sweetheart,” I called after her. “I’ll pick you up at five.” 

Instead of being miffed at Natalie’s lack of affection, I was proud of her. She was firmly in her element, and when you think about it, I was sort of intruding into her space. Day camp is her domain of sun and fun, as well as whispers, secrets, and laughs shared with her girlish peers. Every kid needs a place of their own and away from their parents. Standing in the hallway, I knew I stood out in this place like a cockroach in a Crème Brule.  

There will come a point when Natalie asks me to drop her off three blocks from school lest her chums catch an embarrassing glimpse of her broken down and very uncool father. That’ll probably sting a bit, but I know that’ll be part of her quest to forge her own identity, to differentiate herself from parents who have, for now, been her gatekeepers to the entire world. But I also knew that I’d get phone calls like this in the future and be forced to drop everything to ride to her rescue. Today it was a pair of pants. Tomorrow it’ll be problem in school, a gal pal who dissed her, or a boy who broke her heart. There will always be a role for “Daddy” until, one day, Natalie will be able to stand on her own. Judging from her already formidable personality, that’ll probably be sooner than later. 

Driving back to my office, I thought about my own parents. In a very real sense, the tables have turned, and my brother and I are now the ones riding to their rescue. That’s taken some getting used to but, since we grew up watching my folks take care of their parents, we know it’s part of the package, part of the deal. But then it hit me. My parents had me when they were twenty-five. I had Natalie at forty-five. When she’s fifty-five like me, the odds are good I’ll have already gone down for the dirt nap. Is that good or bad?  

When I’m eighty, Natalie will be a youthful thirty-five. So, if I follow my parent’s trajectory, she’ll be shopping for nursing homes a full twenty-years before I had to. That’ll probably suck, but there’s always an upside to everything. Many middle aged people are part of the “sandwich generation” – caring for children and elderly parents at the same time. But if I’m dead when Natalie’s the age I am now, possibly dealing with in-laws, planning for retirement, or running around to help her own kids, she won’t have to worry about me anymore!  So, instead of being the meat between two slices, she’d be more of an open faced sandwich? Nah. Judging from the longevity gene in my wife’s family, Natalie’s mom will probably live to a hundred. I hope my daughter’s future husband gets along with his mother-in-law. Pass the mustard.

Laughing to myself, I cast my morose musings aside and remembered something Alan Watts once said. “There is no such thing as to tomorrow. There never will be because time is always now. That’s one of the things we discover when we stop talking to ourselves and stop thinking. We find there is only present, only an eternal now.” So why am I worrying about a future I cannot control or foresee?  Even Jesus was on Watt’s trippy wavelength. “Therefore, do not be anxious for tomorrow,” he preached, “Because tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” Man, he wasn’t kidding. So, heading towards my meeting, I just decided to live in the now. 

And right now, I’m a girl dad. 

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