Have you ever wanted to talk to a time traveler? What would you ask him? Despite Dr. Brown's repeated warnings, would you risk the space-time continuum? Would you want to visit yourself and see what you've become or give a younger you advice and maybe the winner of the next few sporting events in Vegas? I have and still do, but it wasn't the conversation or the reaction I was expecting.
Twenty years ago, I wrote myself a letter. I had a week to write it, so I woke up at 6AM the morning it was due and typed out the required page, double spaced with the largest allowed font size, on our brand new 486 computer. The dot matrix printer whined as the step feeder clicked a quarter line at a time. Hot off the printer, I tore off the sheet of ready to read dreams, stuffed it in a self addressed stamped envelope, and walked out to the waiting bus. I had done the minimum required. I didn't care or know what the stamp was for.
The letter was a strange mix of what I knew from home, a family that was still together, and the best paying job I could think of (which was the best paying job in the board game LIFE), being a doctor. Three boys seemed to work in my world of two brothers, so that's what I wanted. I liked my hometown, so I would move back after college. My letter-wife was more of an "of course" than a partner, friend, and certainly not a lover. I knew I would have a house, but had no idea what a mortgage was.
Dickens made his living by showing the terrible lives of others and their children. I had the idyllic childhood. My parents still kissed in public, fought behind closed doors, cooked every dinner at home, and we ate together with a fork, knife, and spoon at every meal, including pizza. I had acres of woods to roam in, no idea what 24/7 TV was, and friends I could call to come over any week-end. I lost track of what day of the week it was during summer breaks. Sunday was the only definable day in a whir of frivolity. I could have saved time that morning twenty years ago and simply wrote, "I want what I already have."
But, all dreams must end and mine ended abruptly. Somewhere during my senior year, my parents shifted back from superhuman to being merely human. Their hard worked facade cracked under the weight of a soon to be empty nest and Dad's graduate school. Then it shattered with a quick divorce after my graduation from high-school. I didn't know how to cope. I left the country and started running.
Between Japan, working summer camps, and college, I didn't spend more than a weekend home again for over six months. At college, I joined Campus Crusade to jump around on Thursdays and joined the worship team for a smaller Christian Bible study to feel connected on Tuesdays. On the phone and at home, I devoted almost every waking moment to my high-school girlfriend. She was the glue that kept me coming back to Mansfield, back to home, but even her sweet touch couldn't keep my feet from running from the new reality at home.
When I came home for Christmas break, I had a letter waiting for me. As promised all those years before, a self-addressed stamped envelope from the past was waiting on the living room table, waiting to reminisce, waiting to remind, waiting for an accounting and an answer. Like a gunshot in the night, it stopped me in my tracks.
The paper time traveler wanted to tell me something and all I could do was cry. In three or four small paragraphs in large print, it confirmed for me the loss I had felt and yet couldn't pin down, couldn't remember how to put into words, couldn't recall as the broken ideal I had believed to the point of unspoken and forgotten truth. It allowed me to grieve and know what I was grieving for. I cried tears of remembrance, tears of regret... and, once out, tears of thankfulness, because it also reminded me of what I had had. It gave me a goal
for my children as they grew up, albeit with a different ending.
In all the fog of divorce and broken dreams and ideals, a fifteen year-old boy walked me back into the dream he had come so far through space and time to remind me of. He was a procrastinator and a bit of a rule stretcher, but he could articulate his life with passion and conviction even if it was a bit naive. As a thirty-four year old, I have just begun to appreciate how significant that moment was and how you truly can meet wandering time travelers who will change your life and of the teacher's promise that made it possible.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Friday, October 26, 2012
This Job Will Never Come Again
7:05am
Another morning. The alarm clock has done its thankless job again, but the girls have beat it to the punch. They've run into the room, run me over, and pulled the warm and snugly fitted sheets off of me and onto themselves with a giggle and a contented sigh. They squabble over who gets mom's long abandoned feather pillow. The loser yanks on mine, places her feet on my back, pushing hard, and demands a light breakfast of whatever sugary cereal we have in the cupboard that morning. She always seems to ask for the one that ran out the morning before.
Coffee in the Keurig. The iPod comes off the charger on the kitchen stereo and I check the schedule. If it isn't on there, it probably won't get done. The youngest has dance. Pick up the girls from school. Deposit a check. The watch should be done at the jewelers. Nothing special today. The schedule and my wife kept me moving (and passing) during nursing school. It became a habit of necessity along with checking my email as I rolled out of bed to see the clinical assignments sent out at 4AM. My days are a bit easier in the morning; I check email at seven-thirty now.
7:30am
The filters are getting better, only two or three advertizements and none demeaning the size of my m3mber or touting the newest weight loss miracle cure discovered in some protein rich African berry boosted with B-vitamins and crack disguised as caffeine. The paper version rots in my mailbox and only gets checked a few times a week.
Let's see: Church sent a shotgunned prayer request. The Daily Forward is reviewing life in Brooklyn, again. Dad has sent me another 15MB attachment full of pictures. He says that Facebook is too inhuman and, if he wanted strangers to look at his life, he'd post it on the town square telephone pole. He might have a point, but even his considerate zipping of the pictures does little to curb my irritation at the momentary inconvenience as I set the iPod down to let it download his fishing pictures.
Multitask. The coffee's done. The children are out of bed: cereal, spoons, last minute homework for the oldest, twenty minutes of Word Girl for the youngest while she eats.
8:00am
Her hair is a tangled fluffy golden puff. Her eyes are playfully blue and her lips are pursed in defiance. She know this dance. We've tangoed before. It's more than that, it's a dare and she knows who wins. Her latest version of "I don't want socks," or "I hate those pants" has evolved to include kicking me in the jaw. It hurts, but I know it's just the independence talking. She has no idea what her real strength is. It took myself, a large orderly, and the doctor to hold her still long enough to get a bean out of her nose a few years ago. She's stronger now.
The oldest has always dressed herself and knows the school handbook by heart. The school challenged her once and she beat 'em down. Not bad for a ten year old. I only heard about it on the way home when I asked why she was smiling so broadly. She is beginning to realize the power of a confident girl, but she feels others pain acutely. I won't be surprised when she joins the peace core after medical school.
Out the door, still hoping all their shoes are on and the book bags are in the car because I don't see them inside.
8:35am
I sweet-talk the car, half praying to God that the transmission shifts past second gear this time when backing out onto the highway. Truckers don't slow down when you stall and I'm not sure the air bags work, but who does.
I must have upset the tiki-gods last night. The power steering spit up all the fluid last night and my elbows pop in and out as I crank the column around and hit the gas. The youngest is singing to herself about the cereal she spilled. The oldest stares at the clock, knowing we'll be late and trying not to vomit with the realization that she may be the last kid dropped off at the corner of the school and have to walk her sister in alone to the sound of morning announcements.
8:55am
The lights are all green and we slide in just in time. "Love you girls. Have a good day." Out the doors they go, down the side-walk, and into the school. I miss them already, but I can wait. I know they're growing up and I can't see it all.
Seven-thirty to nine o'clock every day. This is an hour an a half I wouldn't miss for the world. I don't know how I ever did or why. Well, I do. The money was nice, but this is better. I know I won't be able to do this for ever, but I know them better than I ever have. I feel like a Dad. I feel reconnected in a way I haven't felt since they fell asleep as babies on my chest while I was watching football in a chair propped back. It counter-balances my current joblessness/ underemployment and it salves the wounds for now. The job that pays cash will come, but this job will never come again.
Another morning. The alarm clock has done its thankless job again, but the girls have beat it to the punch. They've run into the room, run me over, and pulled the warm and snugly fitted sheets off of me and onto themselves with a giggle and a contented sigh. They squabble over who gets mom's long abandoned feather pillow. The loser yanks on mine, places her feet on my back, pushing hard, and demands a light breakfast of whatever sugary cereal we have in the cupboard that morning. She always seems to ask for the one that ran out the morning before.
Coffee in the Keurig. The iPod comes off the charger on the kitchen stereo and I check the schedule. If it isn't on there, it probably won't get done. The youngest has dance. Pick up the girls from school. Deposit a check. The watch should be done at the jewelers. Nothing special today. The schedule and my wife kept me moving (and passing) during nursing school. It became a habit of necessity along with checking my email as I rolled out of bed to see the clinical assignments sent out at 4AM. My days are a bit easier in the morning; I check email at seven-thirty now.
7:30am
The filters are getting better, only two or three advertizements and none demeaning the size of my m3mber or touting the newest weight loss miracle cure discovered in some protein rich African berry boosted with B-vitamins and crack disguised as caffeine. The paper version rots in my mailbox and only gets checked a few times a week.
Let's see: Church sent a shotgunned prayer request. The Daily Forward is reviewing life in Brooklyn, again. Dad has sent me another 15MB attachment full of pictures. He says that Facebook is too inhuman and, if he wanted strangers to look at his life, he'd post it on the town square telephone pole. He might have a point, but even his considerate zipping of the pictures does little to curb my irritation at the momentary inconvenience as I set the iPod down to let it download his fishing pictures.
Multitask. The coffee's done. The children are out of bed: cereal, spoons, last minute homework for the oldest, twenty minutes of Word Girl for the youngest while she eats.
8:00am
Her hair is a tangled fluffy golden puff. Her eyes are playfully blue and her lips are pursed in defiance. She know this dance. We've tangoed before. It's more than that, it's a dare and she knows who wins. Her latest version of "I don't want socks," or "I hate those pants" has evolved to include kicking me in the jaw. It hurts, but I know it's just the independence talking. She has no idea what her real strength is. It took myself, a large orderly, and the doctor to hold her still long enough to get a bean out of her nose a few years ago. She's stronger now.
The oldest has always dressed herself and knows the school handbook by heart. The school challenged her once and she beat 'em down. Not bad for a ten year old. I only heard about it on the way home when I asked why she was smiling so broadly. She is beginning to realize the power of a confident girl, but she feels others pain acutely. I won't be surprised when she joins the peace core after medical school.
Out the door, still hoping all their shoes are on and the book bags are in the car because I don't see them inside.
8:35am
I sweet-talk the car, half praying to God that the transmission shifts past second gear this time when backing out onto the highway. Truckers don't slow down when you stall and I'm not sure the air bags work, but who does.
I must have upset the tiki-gods last night. The power steering spit up all the fluid last night and my elbows pop in and out as I crank the column around and hit the gas. The youngest is singing to herself about the cereal she spilled. The oldest stares at the clock, knowing we'll be late and trying not to vomit with the realization that she may be the last kid dropped off at the corner of the school and have to walk her sister in alone to the sound of morning announcements.
8:55am
The lights are all green and we slide in just in time. "Love you girls. Have a good day." Out the doors they go, down the side-walk, and into the school. I miss them already, but I can wait. I know they're growing up and I can't see it all.
Seven-thirty to nine o'clock every day. This is an hour an a half I wouldn't miss for the world. I don't know how I ever did or why. Well, I do. The money was nice, but this is better. I know I won't be able to do this for ever, but I know them better than I ever have. I feel like a Dad. I feel reconnected in a way I haven't felt since they fell asleep as babies on my chest while I was watching football in a chair propped back. It counter-balances my current joblessness/ underemployment and it salves the wounds for now. The job that pays cash will come, but this job will never come again.
Friday, October 12, 2012
My wife. My love. My joy.
Seeing her in the office with confidence written all over her face impresses me.
She's in her element when she's allowed to talk meaningfully about helping students get a better head start than she had in elementary school. She isn't arguing. She isn't in distress. She's teaching, guiding, team leading and it shows. Her eyes are beautifully bright.
She is a practical woman. She enjoys nothing more then to gather all of the tools around her and plan for the day, the week, the year. Not just to stratagize, but brass-tacks, nuts-and-bolts kind of stuff. Her joy is contagious... and I can only see her through the office window. What a smile.
Even in a pinch, she's there with a grin, but, more than promised prayer on-the-run-out-the-door, she's real help and active practiced advice. She opens up her own resources and shares, without monetary or work-place political gain, anything anyone could need or want... or not even know they wanted until they brainstormed with her is theirs. Book sets on loan: Junie Bee, Deep Fried Worms, Forth Grade Nothing, you name it. Open door during breaks, after school, and in the hall, she's powerful grace in motion.
I trace her beauty in the lines of her dress as she moves toward the door to say hello and see just what I need while excusing the interruption to the others in the room. I love her.
I love the way she loves. I love the way she moves with grace, power, purpose, and an accepting knowledge of her own struggles past and present. Her eyes, her smile, herself. I can't believe she's mine to love in return.
She's in her element when she's allowed to talk meaningfully about helping students get a better head start than she had in elementary school. She isn't arguing. She isn't in distress. She's teaching, guiding, team leading and it shows. Her eyes are beautifully bright.
She is a practical woman. She enjoys nothing more then to gather all of the tools around her and plan for the day, the week, the year. Not just to stratagize, but brass-tacks, nuts-and-bolts kind of stuff. Her joy is contagious... and I can only see her through the office window. What a smile.
Even in a pinch, she's there with a grin, but, more than promised prayer on-the-run-out-the-door, she's real help and active practiced advice. She opens up her own resources and shares, without monetary or work-place political gain, anything anyone could need or want... or not even know they wanted until they brainstormed with her is theirs. Book sets on loan: Junie Bee, Deep Fried Worms, Forth Grade Nothing, you name it. Open door during breaks, after school, and in the hall, she's powerful grace in motion.
I trace her beauty in the lines of her dress as she moves toward the door to say hello and see just what I need while excusing the interruption to the others in the room. I love her.
I love the way she loves. I love the way she moves with grace, power, purpose, and an accepting knowledge of her own struggles past and present. Her eyes, her smile, herself. I can't believe she's mine to love in return.
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