Now and Then

 A trying morning today. 

My daughter has a heart of gold and she stretches herself too thin at times. She is the student stage manager of the theater department and things have become overwhelming for her; specifically the behavior of one kid. 

This morning it boiled over. I sensed something was wrong before she left for school. I stopped her to make sure she was okay. She definitely wasn't. Long story short, I assured her that controlling the behavior of other kids, especially kids with mental illness, is far beyond the scope of her responsibilities and I contacted her instructor. Thankfully, we were able to make things better. A potentially bad day turned into a good day for her. Parenting can be stressful but today's incident was a good catch; things could have become disastrous. Parents have to stay in tune with their kids.

The Beatles last song "Now and Then" was released yesterday; the video was released today. It was directed by Peter Jackson and my God, is it ever powerful. 

The more I listen to the song, the more I like it. But the video takes it to a whole different level. I read an article by Geoff Edgers from the Washington Post say the song was "fine, but that is the problem. It has to be more than fine." I can tell you unequivocally that Edgers is beyond full of shit. This pompous puke could not possibly be more wrong. It is a beautiful closure to a legacy that is immortal.

I have a gig tonight at the Brainerd Eagles Club with my band. I'm looking forward to it. We had a rehearsal last Saturday and I think we are going to rip the place up tonight.

More later.

Caramel Sauce for My Soul

---

A flicker of crimson grabs my attention. I cannot help smiling to myself.

They’re back.

---

When I was a kid, there were two sources of entertainment at my house: the Lawrence Welk Show and the bird feeder.

Mom was a hardcore bird watcher. Our bird feeder was strategically positioned just outside the back window of our tiny house. Mom would sit with her cup of tea, binoculars nearby, Birds of Minnesota Field Guide within arm’s reach.

She even kept a notepad handy, jotting down the presence of a new or unusual visitor at the feeder, including the date and time. This was serious business.

But the most anticipated prize was catching a glimpse of the elusive cardinal, a brilliantly red beauty Mom had seen only a handful of times on our little central Minnesota farm.

That cardinal was shy and he was remarkably good at making himself scarce.

I marveled at Mom’s knowledge of birds and she gave me quite a feathery education at an early age. As a boy, I would sit next to her while she patiently taught me the nuances of nuthatches (“they are little acrobats”) and chickadees (“they are comedians with a little black cap”).

By the age of seven, I could identify a grosbeak’s song a mile away.

Puberty started playing practical jokes on my body in the 1980s and I became too cool for the bird feeder. Yet when I’d pass the back window with my big hair and cuffed jeans, I’d secretly throw a quick glance at the feeder, just in case that slippery cardinal stopped by.

I left home right after graduating high school, but Mom would still faithfully watch her birds. She would even write me letters telling me about the “Adventures at the Feeder,” including a detailed account of a marvelous cedar waxwing that happened to pass through the bird neighborhood one fall morning.

I looked forward to those letters more than she would ever know.

Less than two years later, my mother died unexpectedly. Her birds were soon gone. The trees became a silent shroud. The feeder was empty. So was my heart.

Years have passed and it seems only natural that a bird feeder occupies my own front yard.

The spirit of my mother is present as I teach my own children — grandchildren she never got to meet — everything I’ve ever learned about crows, blue jays and dark-eyed juncos.

It is caramel sauce for my soul.

Now it is my turn to keep a keen eye on the bird feeder. And every evening, I prepare for my nightly visitors.

A scarlet flash in the woods next to my home interrupts my thoughts.

I pause. I breathe. They’re back.

A male cardinal lands at my bird feeder. He cautiously surveys this way and that. Satisfied all is safe, his lifelong partner, her sand-colored body and bright orange beak, flutters down next to him. They look at each other for a moment before turning to enjoy their evening meal together in peace.

As the setting sun slides below the horizon, I look to the sky and grin, “Do you see them?”

Time has a unique way of healing.

Thankful for Another Spin

I sat at the kitchen table, my steaming cup of coffee now lukewarm, repeating the phrase to myself. It was so simple, so honest. And beautifully profound.

Never underestimate the wisdom of your children. Even though they lack life experience, that very innocence can be the key to a certain clarity, something that becomes clouded as we collect the scar tissue of adulthood.

I became a dad for the first time almost 16 years ago. My daughter was a dribbly, snotty-nosed miracle who changed my life forever. Three years later, her burbling, bubbling little brother made me the proudest pop in Minnesota.

Being a parent to youngsters was like traveling back in a time machine. All of life's marvels, long invisible as an adult, became strikingly clear again, especially during winter time. The thrill of learning to ice skate or the giddiness of tumbling ass-over-teakettle in a carpet of white powder brought almost too much happiness to bear. There was nothing like the joy of a winter wonderland.

It was a joy I had long forgotten.

Which brings me to the kitchen table. 

I poured myself a coffee and sat next to my son, who was gulping down a mug of hot chocolate. The afternoon November sky was getting tired as we watched the first snow of the year collect on the backyard lawn: green succumbing to white. 

I had to work early the next morning and I was not looking forward to negotiating slick roads. As I grumbled about the accumulating mess outside, my 12 year old philosopher offered invaluable insight.  

"Well, here we go again," I said with a sigh. Another miserable winter. Skin-numbing cold, wet socks and cars that won't start. 

"I'm kind of glad it's snowing," said my son, wiping off his chocolate moustache.

"Why?" I asked.

He thought for a moment. "Because I haven't seen it in a while."

That simple, poignant phrase froze my thoughts. 

Because I haven't seen it in a while. 

When we become adults, we make a tragic metamorphosis. We become anxiety-ridden worry machines. We worry about money. We worry about bills. We worry about jobs. We worry about things we can't control. We worry about things we can control. Hell, we even worry that we worry too much.

Being an adult is serious business.

The longer I sat at my kitchen table, as the snow continued to flutter down, the more I realized my son had unwittingly exposed a wonderful truth. 

There really is something about the change of seasons that is truly welcoming. Transitioning from one season to the next gives us a sense of renewal; we can't embrace the rebirth of spring without first burying the dead, frozen bones of winter. That forward momentum not only gives us hope, it allows us to leave the past where it belongs. 

This ride we are all on--this orbit around the sun--navigates us through life. It is fluid, rotating, ever-changing, yet remains comfortably familiar. This grand ellipse is all we have. Rather than gripe about another winter, we should be thankful for another spin.

As I had that little chat with my son, I, too, became 12 years old again. I vividly remember, as a boy, waking up one morning to a fresh blanket of snow on the ground. And yes, I also remember being euphoric over nature's beautiful transformation. And now I know why. 

Because I hadn't seen it in a while.

My Son Talks Weird

I blew out 52 candles on my birthday cake last month, but that didn’t make me feel old. Yeah, there’s a conspicuous bald spot in center of my scalp and deepening crow’s feet pecking at the corners of my eyes, but those are life’s battle scars. They don’t bother me at all.

Simply put, I don’t feel old. 

I hold fast to the hypothesis that age is just a number, but I must admit I’ve recently encountered subtle signposts in my life that point to the possibility I’m not a spring chicken anymore. This weighty prospect came courtesy of my kid.

My 12 year old son has become something of a "man of the world" in the past year. His knowledge of computers and video games is intimidating, he’s learned to make pancakes, bacon and scrambled eggs with the best of them, and his physical appearance is transforming into that of a handsome, strapping young gentleman. 

But there is a problem: I can’t understand a damn word he says. 

You see, my son talks weird. He speaks a foreign language indecipherable to ears older than 18 years. His swinging gibberish has given me reason to pause and reflect on a frightening prospect: just because I don’t feel old doesn’t mean I’m not. 

It started with lockdown in 2020. Tik-Tok became extremely popular, but my son wasn’t impressed. "It’s nothing but people throwing clout."

"Throwing clout?" I asked.

"Yeah, you know, they’re trying to get popular."

Curious phrases abound when I eavesdrop as he plays Xbox. Wearing a microphone headset and gripping plastic controllers his sweaty hands, periodic grunts of "Bruh!" or "Oh, straight fire!" or "I’m weak!" issue forth from his squeaky, cracking voice as he communicates with his friends online. 

In February 2020 we saw KISS. The show was met with descriptors like "Savage!" and "GOAT!" ...which I guess meant it was pretty good. (photo by author)

One afternoon I was sitting in my La-Z-Boy, revisiting an old Def Leppard album on the hi-fi when my son zipped past me en route to the refrigerator. As the Joe Elliott emphatically exalted rock of ages, my son bobbed his head to the rhythm and professed, "This music slaps."

"Hey, what’s wrong with it?" I asked defensively. In my world, no one disrespects Def Leppard.

"There’s nothing wrong with it, Dad. It’s lit!"

Lit? That’s good, right?

As our music discussion continued, I proudly claimed I could name the members of every ‘80s hair band, recite every album released in chronological order and recall the producer of each one (my close friends will confirm this is, sadly, true).

Rather than being impressed with this heap of useless knowledge, my son shrugged his shoulders matter-of-factly, and mumbled, "Weird flex, but okay."

What?

When I ask him what he’d like for lunch, I’m given a laid back, “Whatevs.”

More than once my son has walked out of the bathroom, "Dad, the toilet’s acting sus again." 

"It’s doing what?"

"It’s acting sus."

What the hell?

During one of his middle school football games, he excitedly told me one of his teammates "threw shade" at an opponent. Thankfully, no flags were thrown.

Speaking of school, his favorite subject is social studies because they discuss current events and it keeps him "woke." The kids are invited to share their insight on the day’s news, but if your "fam" doesn’t agree with your opinion, you might get "ghosted" in the cafeteria during lunch.

Sounds serious.

There are lots of cute girls in his class, but much to my relief he doesn’t have a “bae.” At least not yet.

Me and my rapscallion (photo by the wife)

I’m sure I’m not the only parent who wishes kids came with an owner’s manual (being a man, I probably wouldn’t read it, but still...). Certainly a primary responsibility of parenting is offering guidance to your child through this complicated world. Trying to be a good father, I started rehearsing a heartfelt conversation with my boy ("Son, you can’t keep speaking like a damn fool and expect a civilized human being to understand you. You’ve got to grow up at some point."). 

And then it hit me. 

I was abruptly met with a chilling reality from my own youth: I went through my adolescence navigating the vernacular of Valley Girls.

• "Grody to the max.”
• "Like, whatever."
• "Oh my god, like, gag me with a spoon."

The more I thought about it, the more indiscernible my own generation sounded: 

"Gnarly, dude!"  "Radical!" "Tubular!" "Eat my shorts!" "I’m gonna ralph."  "Take a chill pill." "That’s bogus." "Bite me!"

Yes, I confess I actually spoke that way in the '80s. In fact, some of those phrases still work their way into my daily lingo. After all, I was young once; maybe I never completely grew up? Maybe that teenage angst is still alive and well in my marrow? Maybe a drop of youth deep in my soul still oozes to the surface every time Def Leppard blasts through the living room stereo?

Like, totally. 

On second thought, I’m going to skip that sit down conversation with my boy. He can keep speaking his funky little dialect as long as he wants. I’m going to encourage him to stay young for as long as he can. That’s my fatherly advice.

Age really is just a number. I still feel pretty bodacious, dude.