Spring Break

Turquoise Pencil Blog has been on a Spring hiatus - I will be back writing soon

McElligot's Pool

It was a fall-like Florida afternoon.  In the small pond the waves still held their ultramarine chill - they had not yet been baked into the moss green hues of summer.

On the bank, Matt sat in the scratchy St. Augustine grass, armed with the lure sent from his grandpa from the shelves at Bass Pro Shop.   He watched his line and wondered if the weed killers had finally finished off all the fish.

A neighbor from across the shore called to him, leaning against the curved trunk of the palm tree in his yard, a shovel across his shoulder.

"Young man," he called,
You're sort of a fool!
You'll never catch fish
In McElligot's Pool!"

Mat squinted at him in the brightening sun, tucking his knees up under his chin.

“This pool is too small
And you might as well know it
When people have junk
Here’s where they throw it

You might catch a boot or you might catch a can
Or a even a Christmas tree, thrown in by some man

But if you sat fifty years

With your lures and your wishes
You’d grow a long beard before you’d catch fishes"

The bass have all fled
They came down with the flu
With their stripes falling off
And their scales turning blue

So they fled for the East
They schooled up the whole crew"

It's the mid-winter jicker - the weather’s been crazy!

They had to move out - or start pushing daisies"

"Hmm", Matt rubbed his chin as he thought
That's sounds sorta right
I've been fishing for hours without one single bite
And it seems like forever since a fish has been caught

But this might be a pool like I've read of in books
Connected to one of those underground brooks
An underground river that starts here and flows
Right out to Key West - well, who knows?

It might flow along, under the drive

Down past the highway, I-75
Under the cattle, the palmetto in rows
Past Mrs. Umbroso hanging out clothes

This might be a river
Now mightn't it be, connecting McElligot’s pool with the sea
There could be some fish or sea-skimming skator
Skating upstream to hook up with me later

Some very smart fellow, like a guidefish or scout

Might point out the way
And map out the route
So if I wait long enough; if I'm patient and cool
Who knows what I'll catch in McElligot's pool?

I won't be surprised if a dogfish appears!
Complete with collar and long flappy ears
And if it looks just like Molly I won’t be displeased
With her cousins like tarpons and whales in the seas

Oh the fish that I'll see - I know that they're real!

A seahorse, a cowfish, a two-headed eel!

Or the one with the sunburn, the saw, or the drill

The checkerboard belly, he'll be here - he will

Or a fish that's exotic, from far-off Myakki
Weird and mysterious and really just whacky
Like the fall-jumping fish - well it's really a newt

It floats through the air on its own parachute

But the biggest of all

Is something way bigger

And it's some sort of kind of a thing-a-ma-jigger

A thing that's so big, if you know what I mean

That he makes a whale look like a tiny sardine

And that's what Matt found, casting his line

Into the cold and chill waters with a slight hint of brine

He used that old lure his grandpa had sent

And his pole strained and stretched and it bent and it bent

And out popped this fish, and boy, was it cool

It was something right out of McElligot’s pool

Thank you to the master of the trisyllabic meter, Theodor Seuss Geisel.

Credits: Author Dr. Seuss
Country United States
Language English
Publisher Random House
Publication date
1947 (renewed 1974)
Media type Print
Pages 64 pages
ISBN 978-0-394-80083-7

The little things that are forever

In our garage, somewhere at the bottom of a bin, there's a special book, its pages worn and creased.  It's titled, "Love you Forever," written by Robert Munsch.  

The book was a favorite in our home, and starred in countless appearances before naps and bedtime.  Even looking at its cover here brings back memories of all of the places we read it, and of the bookshelves and closets where we hunted for it at storytime.

This book follows a boy through his life - and his mother's love for him.  Whether he's flushing a watch down the toilet as a toddler or being a terrible teenager, the mother always shows him unconditional love.  Eventually, the boy expresses the same love for her, and holds her tenderly in her days as an old woman.

Yesterday was Valentine's Day.  A study that found that about 15% of women send flowers to themselves at work on that day.  No one should have to pretend that they are loved.  Everyone should know the love that Robert Munsch writes about. 

To me, love isn't delivered with roses or found in someone else's words pulled from a store shelf.   It's demonstrated in small and personal moments.  These moments are sometimes not fully appreciated until they've long passed.  Then we remember them in the sweetness of their context.  

I have had many.   Here are a few that come to mind:

-  a teenager, holding your hand in the car
-  a 12 year old that smiles as you joke with his friends at a birthday party
-  the car your parents help you buy when you're in high school
-  a present bought for you on your sister's birthday

-  a mother taking you for a milk shake after your doctor's appointment

-  a father who arrives at the hospital to be with you when you're expecting your first child

-  siblings that hug each other when they come home from college

-  a hand-made cowboy blanket for a nephew, with his name embroidered on it

-  a text message that says, "Hey, dad" but I know means, "I love you, dad"

-  a wife who says she misses you

-  a daughter who is still comforted by tiny pieces of her first blanket

This book, "Love you Forever" has sold 15,000,000 copies worldwide.   And the reason so many people have this book on their shelves is because it tells a universal story of simple, unconditional love; unwavering and unchanging throughout a lifetime, illustrated in small ways, each day. 

It's the kind of love I've known - and what I think about on Valentine's Day.

Two Face the Barber

Andrew clung to me, clutching his Batman, as we walked toward the Barber shop.  It was in Deerfield, across from the railroad tracks.  Tommy tried to keep up next to us; a brave sidekick oblivious to the perils that lay ahead. 

It was Andrew's first haircut (from anyone other than me) and he was 6 years old.  He didn't know what to expect, but I said it was going to be fun; that he'd get to sit up high on the red leather chair.  And that it would all be perfectly harmless.

The tiny place was bustling on that first Saturday morning; crowded with old men getting their nose and ear hair clipped; reading magazines and newspapers.  

When we stepped inside it might as well have been a busy cowboy saloon crowded with outlaws, filled with smoke and hats and big leather boots.   Three barbers were lined up in a row, industriously snipping and buzzing away.   Tommy climbed up into one of the metal chairs that stood against the wall for a better view.   Andrew gripped tighter and said "Dad let's go - please."  

The dirty black and grey hair clippings that littered the floor were scary enough by themselves.  I looked at Andrew's silky blonde hair and felt a knot in my stomach. 

One of the barbers, an older man, looked at the three of us and said, "All of you?"  I shook my head and said, "No, just him."  Andrew started to cry.  "I want to go."   Tommy had now climbed up precariously on the chair for a better look at the tool calendars.  Maybe leaving wasn't such a bad idea...

One guy noticed our situation.   As he finished with his customer, he said, "You like Batman?"   Andrew looked up and nodded his head.   The man who had asked was a big guy, wearing a light blue smock, open to a red flannel shirt.  But his face was startling - he had a huge purple birth mark that covered half of it.  

When Andrew saw him, he dug his head into my shoulder.  "Oh no, it's Two Face."   A few people overheard and smiled.

Two Face, Batman's arch enemy, had been found, and he was here waiting to cut Andrew's hair on our very first trip to a barbershop.  Great. 

"Look," the barber said to me, "I understand, that happens a lot.  It's really OK, he can wait for one of the other guys."

"It's just that this is his first time," I apologized, "and he is a little scared."  So he motioned another customer up to the chair.  Andrew waited for someone else.  When it was finally his turn, I settled him up and on to the booster.  His face scrunched and reddened and tears trickled down his cheeks.   In the end, I sat in the chair holding him, and the barber finished a very hurried job.  Blonde hair fluttered to the floor among the other clippings like feathers falling on lava rocks.

Two Face met us at the door with suckers.  He said his name was Russ, and he told Andrew that he looked great and asked us to come back next time.  We hurried out, our suckers coated with hair clippings.  Andrew told me he never wanted to go back.  Except we did.

A few trips later, Russ was the only barber there, so Andrew bravely but reluctantly climbed into his chair.  And we began to know that Two-Face wasn't what he seemed.  Between clippings, he'd reach over and show off a picture of himself catching a muskie or bass on a fishing trip.  Or he'd let Andrew hold models of cars or motorcycles he liked and kept in the shop.  There were many pictures of a carefree Russ riding his motorcycle in Wisconsin. 

And he'd talk to Andrew about Batman; his favorite characters and which ones he had at home.  Russ said he thought it was cool that the boys called him "Two Face".   Eventually, Russ became their favorite and only barber.   They'd wait patiently for him, pointing at the pictures and models, discussing Russ's great adventures.  He had won them over.

Mysteriously, we also saw him at church.  He was sometimes hard to recognize in his Sunday clothes.  But he'd turn, and he was undeniably Russ.  "Dad", they'd say, "Two Face is over there, see him?"

One Saturday morning, when Andrew was 11, we made our way over to the barber shop.  We walked in and looked around, not seeing him.  It was very quiet. ""We have an apointment with Russ," I said, as we sat down.

The other two Barbers looked at each other, and then at us, solemnly.  "Sorry," one said to us, "Russ won't be in today.  There was an accident last night and he passed away."   They didn't even asked if the boys still wanted a haircut.  They must have known - there was no one else that could do it. 

And so, Two Face slipped out of our lives.  He felt stolen from us.  He had met his tragic end on his motorcycle, his hair streaming behind his head in the wind.  Perhaps we could have imagined he was fleeing from the Batmobile, one side of his face laughing and the other in a sneer. 

But that wasn't the Two Face we knew.  The man we knew was Russ, a gentle giant.  His seemingly cruel face masked a soft-hearted and benign character.  He was a man whose office held toy models of his favorite bikes and cars, and adorned with pictures of him standing in his bass boat. 

When we saw him in the back of the church at Holy Cross, we understood that he really was more than a scary-looking guy with a purple birthmark.  He may have looked like an evil archenemy, but he was really a superhero. 

Thanks, Two-Face.  We really miss you.

A Cordova Catch

There is something magical about baseball.  It's a canvas of green and blue, painted as a backdrop for many of the extraordinary experiences in our lives.

Some of my best days ever were spent at the local baseball diamond, hitting pop flies to my young sons, Andrew and Tommy.  Those days are indelible memories - illuminated by bright cerulean skies, framed by the park's giant maple trees, and accompanied by the sounds of aluminum pings and distant laughs from across the grass.

I’d toss baseballs into the air and hit them as hard and high and far as I could.  The two brothers would squint into the sun and chase them deep into the outfield.  Most could only be thrown halfway back, so we kept a rag-tag assortment of baseballs in a bucket at home plate.

The fielders wore their Little League tee-shirts - the Pirates, Cardinals, or Cubs.  On special occasions, Andrew would wear a teal Seattle Mariners jersey.  Tommy had a White Sox jersey that, along with his blonde buzz cut, was a classic.  Photographs I wish I had taken.

I'd offer color commentary on the players.  Over the years, our most memorable expression was, “Cordova makes a diving catch!”   A "Cordova catch" was reserved for the most spectacular, game-saving catch.   Marty Cordova had one of the all time greatest ever SportsCenter baseball highlights.  

Tommy’s interest was eventually diverted from baseball, and he lost his love for diving catches and grass stains.   It was sad.  As if he no longer believed in Santa Claus.

But Andrew's passion didn't fade.   He especially liked pitching, and we practiced between games on our long asphalt driveway.   Late in one little league game, he was waved over to the pitcher's mound and things were never the same.   He loved staring the catcher in the eye.

By the time we reached Sarasota, Andrew felt accomplished and confident.  But he was no match for the pitchers in South Florida, who could throw faster than some professional players.   He tried out as a shortstop, only to compete against a future all-state player, eventually drafted by the Milwaukee Brewers.  

He didn’t make the freshman team but he kept playing.  Spring, fall, and summer ball.  Absorbed into a world of dusty batting cages and fenway-green cinderblock dugouts. 

The sports complex they used was shared by the Baltimore Orioles minor league team, and their players, fresh from the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, and Venezuela, would call to each other in Spanish across the field.   Many of their games were played on stormy and steamy nights, with lightning constantly flashing in the distant sky.  One night, the action paused as the Space Shuttle streaked by and created a sonic boom.  

He learned about the mental game of baseball, and fought through periods where we thought he'd give up - but he didn’t.  He made the high school team the next year, and it wasn’t even close.

For the next two seasons, only a few players were allowed to pitch.  Everyone else sat on the bench, including Andrew.  Some never saw the field.  But Andrew was patient.   Before long, the coach was asked to leave and senior year was upon them.

The new coach was from the University of Louisville.  He challenged players to prove themselves to him.   Andrew did.  Then he asked the coach to help him find a college where he could pitch.  But it seemed too late.

Just before leaving to attend Florida State, his coach called to see if he'd be interested in playing at Tallahassee Community College.   We drove there together.   After the tryout, the TCC coach said he liked Andrew as an athlete, a student, and a person.   He offered him a chance to compete for a spot on the team.  No promises.

There were 14 other pitchers competing for the roster.   Some were from other colleges, and some were already on the roster.   He rode his bike to practice, often in the daily South Florida rain.   Other players would call him "Lance" as he locked his bike near the field - he didn't have a car.   He ran, lifted weights, and practiced with the team every day.   Through it all, I know what they saw.  Character.

This week, entering the locker room, someone said to him, "Hey Andrew, you got number 24."  

He called his high school coach to thank him.   He said, “Andrew, this just proves that if you're determined, you never know what you can accomplish.”  

You never do know.  Andrew is one of only a handful of students to earn an IB diploma and one of the few players from his high school now playing on a college team. 

Baseball has been the stage for some extraordinary moments in my life, especially in those grassy fields hitting pop-ups to my boys.  And in Andrew's life.   It has inspired him do some amazing things.

So, whether he strikes out 1000 batters or no one at all as a college player, in my mind he has already accomplished something remarkable.  

It was nothing short of a Cordova catch.  One for the ages.

Michael Kirby's and frozen toes

If you want to claim you were part of the real Chicago experience in your childhood, then you had to freeze your toes off at least once at a Michael Kirby skating rink.  It was a badge of honor, frosty and cold, pinned to your parka.

The Simmerlings spent many a frigid day at Michael Kirby's.   The collosal effort to get everyone dressed, transported, re-dressed and ready to skate must have been worth it.   The rink had a magical attraction.  

The ice was opaque and milky-bluish white, filled with sharp cuts and snow cone shavings.  Stepping on to it for the first time, it was as exhilarating as seeing the grass at Wrigley or Comiskey.  But it did have its down sides.

My mother would lace my black skates so tight it was hard to tell if my feet were numb from the cold or from the lack of circulation.  It was probably both.  And the wool socks worn under our skates just made things worse; they were thick, stiff, and scratchy.   Worn right on our bare feet.  We didn't even know you could wear cotton socks under them.   I guess real skaters didn't.

Shivering between blue lips and chattering teeth, we had to watch my older sister pretend she was Peggy Fleming.  In her fluffy sweater and mittens, she would breeze past us, gracefully skating backwards and cutting sharp circles in the ice.   Showing off.   My brother and I knew it was just the skates.  

I seemed to always be sitting on the ice in a heap, hoping no one would skate over my fingers.  My skates were on too tight for me to stand up.

We had a pair of those skates with the double blades, which were usually placed on my poor brother's feet.  His glasses would fog up even before the tears began to flow. 

Great fun or not, it was certainly a lasting memory of the true Chicago experience.  

The only thing we were missing was Elizbeth Freckly Dawn Ron, locked in a great skating competition against Kristy Yamaguci.

Here is an article from the Chicago Tribune today on whatever happened to John Kirby's ice skating rinks in town.

"In the 1950s, Kirby, a Canadian national champion ice skater and member of the touring Ice Follies group, was lured to the Windy City by Sonja Henie, his well-known skating partner, and Arthur Wirtz, who owned the Chicago Stadium, where Henie's ice shows were a local favorite. After working with some of the world's best ice skaters, Kirby decided it was time to give average people a chance.

... He opened his first ice skating studio in River Forest, in a former garage near Lake Street and Harlem Avenue. At the time, there were fewer than 100 artificially refrigerated ice rinks across the country -- but that was about to change..."

See the link here:

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/chi-wht-micheal-kirby-skating-w-jan15,0,4271682.column

The long, distant winter

Lasting love transcends distance and time. 

Somos novios

Pues los dos sentimos mutuo amor profundo

Y con eso ya ganamos lo más grande

De este mundo

Nos amamos, nos besamos

Como novios

Nos deseamos y hasta a veces

Sin motivo, sin razón

Nos enojamos

Somos novios

Mantenemos un cariño limpio y puro

Como todos

Procuramos el momento más oscuro

Para hablarnos

Para darnos el más dulce de los besos

Recordar de qué color son los cerezos

Sin hacer mas comentarios

Somos novios

It's just impossible

Nos amamos, nos besamos

Como novios

Nos deseamos y hasta a veces

Sin motivo, sin razón

Nos enojamos

Mantenemos un cariño

Limpio y puro

Yeah

Como todos

Procuramos

El momento más oscuro

Para hablarnos

Para darnos el más dulce de los besos

Recordar de qué color son los cerezos

Sin hacer mas comentarios

Somos novios

Someday

“Dad”, I said, “Someday I am going to be richer than God and live all by myself."   We were driving back from an errand during his recent visit to Florida.   He just looked straight ahead laughed.  

"No, really dad, I mean it, am going to go off somewhere alone."   He was sitting next to me, tears streaming from his eyes with laughter.  Right, good one. 

I know he remembers.  He'd occasionally escape.  Mysteriously appear in his wool coat and beret at the back door, keys clutched in black leather gloves, looking ready to embark on some important secret mission.  Then he'd speed off in his black LeBaron and head to Moy's all by himself.   There were lots of ready getaways: opera, art, chinese food.

I think he’s gratefully past that now.  Content with memories and cats and work.   And while he admiringly endures the occasional out-of- towner or the evil North Shore lawyer, he's entitled to laugh the knowing laugh.

I remember watching the black ink from his fountain pen dry as he issued checks to Marist or Loyola or to cash.  Long, pale green sheets from his business account; official and important looking documents like a Simmerling family stock certificate.  The original hedge fund. 

There was a time when I knew every single check written from our own blue pastic register.   But that was a long time ago.  Today I have my own complex fund, which tests the laws and limits of the banking system.  The electronic debits fly out of my account like bats streaming from a cave at sunset.

There’s a mortgage payment that begs to be refinanced monthly.  And two rent payments.  While I don’t live in either place, I'm sure they're awesome.  All protected by a homeowner’s policy that jumped so high after Katrina that you’d think our little house took a direct hit and was swallowed into the Gulf.  Even though Chicago was probably closer to being affected than we were.

From time to time, I recall that I actually own three cars and a truck.  Usually that happens when the insurance bill arives.  It's a gagging $4,700, but Julie tells me it's worth it.  I don’t get to drive any of the cars but she tells me they're nice.

On the weekends, I am the treasurer for the Sarasota Philanthropic Committee for the Arts.   I fund movies, sporting events and amusement parks. 

Recently, a friend told me his bank called him about unusual debit card activity.   I was curious, because my bank has never called.  That's odd.   If paying for lunch at McDonald's, Taco Bell, and Chick Filet all at the same time on the same day doesn't constitute "unusual activity", what does?   How about charging items in Chicago, Tallahassee, Tampa and Sarasota on the same day? 

We get Christmas cards from the orthdontist.  Gifts from Sylvan for using a record number of tutoring hours.  Comcast and ADT love us.  And the good people at Home Depot address me by name when I walk in. 

I tell myself that it’s worth it.  That it’s a good investment, like Apple or Google or Berkshire.  Simmerling stock.

I caught a glimpse a few days ago.  Andrew was leaving for college after the holidays, and he leaned down and hugged Julie and closed his eyes.  It was fleeting but I saw it for a brief moment.  I hope my parents see those moments in panorama today.

Maybe I should call my dad and tell him I'm thinking about delaying my move-out date.   I may still feel like escaping now and then, but I think I can hold out a little longer. 

Since I have seven cell phones billed on my Sprint and AT&T accounts, I can probably use one of those.  If they're charged.

The troubled canvas of the mind

"Artistic temperament sometimes seems a battleground, a dark angel of destruction and a bright angel of creativity wrestling" - Madeline D'Engle

On most days, my watercolors are off by themselves on the other side of my office, puddles of dry paint on their plastic palette.  But they're starved for attention, like a loyal old dog; making eyes at me while I work.  Whimpering.  But I can’t.  I really can’t.

The ochres and oxides, cadmiums and crimsons, don’t mix well with Outlook and Excel.  It's one or the other. 

Once in a while, I’ve tried and failed.  And have received confirmation.

I am convinced that there is an uncommon cerebral characteristic an artist must possess to acheive creative greatness.  The ability to separate one's mind.  A mechanism that can switch off the deductive, rational, and proper sorts of controls normally present in the conscious mind. 

Without this functional aberration, those that pick up the brush are mere mortals.  The potent and requisite creative energies are locked, fractured and blurred, as if trapped beneath the artic ice. 

This separation is the secret ingredient of genius.  It melts the ice.

But from where does it emerge?   Perhaps it’s a divine gift of creation.  At times, the gift is evident and applied from a young age.  But it is often muted; instilled in souls who are eventually pulled toward the creative abyss as if by some giant electromagnet; their anxiety only assuaged by the discovery and excerise of their craft.   Often their journey is enhanced by alcohol, opium, or absinthe.

Perhaps one of the best known of these troubled souls is the post-impressionist artist, Vincent Van Gogh.   He had an excessive, emotional, and unstable temperment.  Van Gogh suffered from many psychoses, including depression and bipolar disorder.  He contemplated his own death verbally and in some of his paintings.    He was miserable with his work and only sold one painting during his lifetime, "The Red Vineyard", which he painted in 1888.   It is on display today in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow.

He admired and painted alongside fellow artist Paul Gaugin.  But, after an argument with Gaugin, Van Gogh cut off part of his left ear and gave it to a prostitute.  Finally, at the age of 37, after a particulary intense period of painting, he shot himself in the chest.   He died in his brother Theo's arms.  His last words were said to be, "La tristesse durera toujours", which is French for "The sadness will last forever."

His colors were rich and vibrant.  Some said that they had an almost spiritual quality.  His brush strokes were sometimes short and choppy and at others full of circles and swirls, depending on his moods.  He brilliantly used canvas space and lines in his composition.  His works are among the most admired and appreciated in history.  

Perhaps Van Gogh's colors and brush strokes and composition reflected - or soothed - his tortured mind.   And just maybe, their manifestation on canvas was indeed spritual.  

Van Gogh was moody and unpredictable.  Few could appreciate the genius that his temperment channeled.   But it could well have been delivered from the heavens in the starry night.  It was the secret ingredient; both empowering and weakening.  It enabled his swirling and colorful and vibrant energy to flow from mind to brush to canvas, and it changed him.   It released his many demons. 

And yet it gave us the Cafe Terrace, Sunflowers and other treasures.  These works will last forever. 

The sadness was only fleeting.  

That One Phone Call

At the Dayton (Ohio) Mall, a skinny twenty-something kid with blonde hair and glasses was helping a customer decide which version of Lotus 1-2-3 they needed for their IBM.

Standing next to shelves of magazines and bookmarks, long before Kindle, he was both bookworm and geek - and perfect for the job.

He was there in Dayton because "B Dalton" was testing a startup venture called "Software Etc." And my brother, we had worked at a store in Chicago, was the right guy to run it. Better than anyone could imagine.

He lived in an apartment complex nearby. When I once visited, his was a bachelor's paradise. Mall food for lunch and pizzas for dinner. Cable TV before everyone had it. (Cable, what's cable?)

A grey cat named Beaker who chased crumpled paper balls across the apartment, and a fishtank that could only be managed by a marine biologist. Or my brother Carlos.

Computer parts and accessories filled the place, and he tinkered and toyed and invented with them like a mad scientist, building his own versions like he was in the Cupertino garage in which he belonged. His apartment was an embryonic version of E-Bay, with packages shipping and arriving daily, cocooned in bubble wrap, just like he was, cocooned in his bachelor world.

He taught himself Fortran and Cobol and probably Chinese. When I visited, he put on his Bernie Kosar jersey and we played Nerf football by the lake as the snow fell.

He had a basketball game on his Commodore 64 PC from a new software company - Electronic Arts.  It was called One-on-One, and we faced off as Dr. J and Larry Bird. It was their very first game.

He was no ordinary guy. Inside that lanky and likable frame was a great scientist. But who could really see that? His company loved him, but they were happy to let him work forever, shanghaied next to the Gap. 

Then one day my parents called.

On a land line. Probably on their yellow phone next to the green chalkboard in the kitchen. My mother had her expectations - and she was calling about them. Mom was nothing if not smart, and she sensed that there was a greater scientist to emerge than the one hiding in the bookstore.

She and my father urged him to come home and finish his degree; to give up the pizzas and the paychecks. They offered help, and although I never knew the details, I knew it was something that he could never have done without their help.

He moved into a run-down apartment on Loomis street, near the University of Illinois in Chicago.  A world away from his cozy Ohio apartment. But, once back in school, he soared through his bachelor's, masters, and PhD degrees.  

I visited him in San Francisco, where he was studying at the University of California in a post-doc program. We rode our bikes through Golden Gate Park and ate mexican food in his rented two flat. We flew his radio-controlled plane off of the towering cliffs north of the city.

His next stop was New York, where he is today. A funded department chair and renowned, respected, scientist. A kind and gentle father. A good man.

It reminds me of the profound nature of our choices and actions as parents and human beings. We are teachers and advisors; coaches and critics. We share sadness and happiness. We inject hope and we dry tears.

Most times, the margin of error is insignificant as to be lost in moments of the mundane... But some parenting choices are existentially difficult. And we hope that in the end, looking back, we see with perfect clarity that we got it right - exactly and brilliantly right. 

Like picking up the yellow kitchen phone to call my brother in Dayton. My brother probably answered the phone in his Bernie Kosar jersey, thinking "Now what?"

He could never have imagined that a few short years later he'd be a PhD pilot soaring his geek plane over the deep blue waters of the Bay ... and thinking about how to solve the mysteries of protease inhibitors.

The F1 life is the good life

Our LG washer was the hardest worker in the house, a robotic servant that would have fled the place in tears had it not been connected by copper tubing and hoses. 

The green LED was blinking.   A display that once showed the progress of a million loads of laundry now just showed "E10".  The production line had suddenly come to a screeching halt. 

On a hopeful call to Sears, the telelphone technician asked, "Mam, are you you sure it says, 'E10'? That's not good." 

And so it was off to the garage for my tools.  After an afternoon of trial and error, I discovered a way to bypass the problem and create a Rube Goldberg work-around that included a hose and a bucket and two separate cycles.   The bucket would need to be monitored or the room would flood.  It required slightly less effort than a washboard and a creek.

Sears must have been busy fixing E10's, since it would be seven days until they could be there.  But they had the code and the problem, so we waited for the fix.

After a week of bailing water and numerous conflict-generating floods, the technician finally arrived.   He quickly diagnosed the problem, and stated (as if we already knew and he was reminding us), "You know, we don't carry these parts, they'll need to be ordered."   Evidently they were only available from supply locations in Australia or Antartica or somewhere.   A locker on the space shuttle.   But they weren't in Florida and they definitely weren't on the service truck sitting in our driveway.

I've spent my adult life keeping this production line moving.  Drains, garbage disposals, dishwashers, dryers, lights, toilets, irrigiation systems, windows, furnaces, air conditioners and even washers (if you count the jerry rigging as a fix).   Tommy has handed me tools and held the ladder and learned the basics, even down to the swearing and the trips to Home Depot. 

I am proud of the end result.  So I'll have Julie look under the sink to marvel at the plumbing joints and seals.  Run the water or flush the toilet.  Make Matthew look at the ductwork behind the dryer.  Demonstrate the light switch.  Occassionally, Julie will spread her arms over a folded pile of laundry and say, "Look everyone, isn't this folded nicely?"   And I deserve the teasing.

My sister had a similar problem with her sub-zero refrigerator.  The LED display said "F1".   It was a comical and costly problem to fix.  Since then, my sisters have a code for a complicated and expensive problem.  They call it an "F1".

Our F1's have only been mechanical.  They mark the progress of our family over the years.  They give us points in time to remember other things.   Me up on ladders or with my head under the sink or crouched behind the washer.  Trips to Home Depot with Tommy, always highlighted with "Depot Dogs" and Cokes and the extra flashlight or tool.  A side trip to buy a Batman or a Barbie. 

And we fix the F1 or the E10 and the production line starts again.  Laundry gets folded with silent appreciation.   Life moves on.  And it's a good life.