2010 is (about) looking up.

Outside the window, frost sparkles atop frozen grass blades of green. The sun is shining, deliberately teasing those who view it, for there is no warmth; just sun. What once were puddles in the driveway, have become expansive ice rinks for teams of hockey playing ants. I sip from my tea, and realize that not even ants were that dumb. Looking down inside the cup of tea, I almost expect to find traces of mind altering drug residue. Ants? Playing hockey in my driveway? Confident I am merely crazy, and not drugged, I shrug my shoulders, while sipping another drink. Wool lined slippers, with leather bottoms, keep my feet warm, and a cream, cable knit sweater keeps the rest of me cozy. It is Saturday morning, the day after Christmas and six days until the New Year. Six days, before the turning of a yet another page, of yet another chapter, in the chronicles of wet ink, that is a life.

Thinking, in a deliriously glass half full mode, the frost of the morning signifies the year past, while the full, golden glow, of winters' sun hails in hope. Not unlike a lighthouse, the sun doesn't promise warmth, nor can it decide your path, it is a tool of luminance to identify the shoreline. I conclude, those that choose not to see the sun, but focus on the frost, subject themselves to wander at sea; lost, pilot less.

I make my way back to the kitchen; it is humble with its' whites counters, and veneered cabinets. My tea, now cold, and almost empty, is in need of a refill. As I walk between the couch, and the half-wall that separates the living room from the kitchen, a nightstand displays my Bible. The black leather cover is dusty, its' pages still crisp and new. It has been months, maybe even years, since it had caught my attention. This day, a frosty, sunny metaphor of a day, though, it has thrown itself at me; demanded my attention, not to be ignored.

The cover finds itself in my hands, even though I don't remember picking it up. My cup, now replacing the Bible on the nightstand. The pages flip through my fingers, opening itself, surely not by my command or control. I find myself in Psalms, “The Lord is my light and salvation; whom shall I fear?” Re-reading the passage, admittedly more than once, I find it to be true; not only spiritually, but succinctly to the morning. Sun from above, frost below, suddenly, miraculously, it became clear.

This year, the New Year, will not smell of forgotten resolutions, lost promises, or searching faith. A simple 'look up, not down' principle will dawn 2010, because I know what frost looks like, and what it feels like, and where it doesn't lead. This is the year, I ask to bask in the glow of the light, seeking it, using it to search my shoreline; wherever it may lead.

.

Army vs. Navy vs. Politics

I stood in the middle of the living room, my eyes transfixed upon a Saturday morning football game. Not unusual. Today's game though, is everything but usual. Not every game finds me choking back emotions of pride, hope, and those of prayer, during the pre-game monologue. It is a game like no other. One, in which, epitomizes the times, the world, and the very heartbeat of our country. Today is Army vs. Navy.

The pageantry embedded in this game is enough to raise every last hair on your neck. For the Seniors of, both, West Point and the Naval Academy, today will be the last time they face one another as adversaries. Soon, they will be deployed, as brothers in arms, defending their country, their beliefs, and one another. Some won't return home; a fact we all know, but one in which they embrace. The perils of our greatness as a human kind, is the burden in which they live and die.

Today, isn't about being Republican, Democrat, or Independent; it's about Patriotism. Ideology doesn't ease the worry for loved ones, it has never cauterized a wound, nor can it revive the lost. The men and women of our Armed Forces believe in something greater than themselves. A belief based upon honor, duty, and love of country. They volunteer their sacrifice, the blood and breath of their soul, for that belief. A belief they have in America. A belief they have in us.

To believe, in them, isn't a departure from the values that guide us, as individuals, it is what makes us a united coalition of Americans. May God guide them down a path of peace, with a beacon of light to show them home, whether it be of this Earth or otherwise.

Guns in Heaven

Before 8:30 am, it was an ideal Sunday. The sun was trying to poke through perpetual gray sky, the rains of the last two weeks catching its breath; it was almost nice. Almost.

With the echoes of four fatal, senseless blasts, Sunday turned into anything but nice. By 8:31 am, four police officers lay dead in a coffee shop. By 8:32 am, a city, a region, our state, and friends from around the Country watched in horror, unable to comprehend, unaware of tears streaming down our faces, looking for answers where there were none. We mourn, continue that today, and will tomorrow, for a loss to our community, our sense of security, and the humanity for the families of heroes lost. We rage at the system, the hate, and the evil that lurks in the dark. We pray to God. We cry, because it hurts. We seek justice befitting a monster.

Unfortunately, none of it can bring back the fallen four of yesterday, or the loss from three weeks ago in Seattle. Their families forever lost without an anchor.

We can love. We can honor. We can donate. We may never know why it happened, certainly won't understand it, or ever forgive it, but, we can do those 3 things.

The families should know their sacrifice is not forgotten, appreciated, and forever indebted to us all. Though they may have perished, let their memory live within each of us. Let our hearts incorporate their families as ours. Let them know as they protect us from above, love lives on.

A Shamrock Thanksgiving

So here we are, the eve of yet another Thanksgiving. Since this is my blog, and you were curious enough to stop by, here is what I am thankful for in 2009:

I am thankful to my children, Josh, Peyton, and Kenzie, for teaching me far more than I teach you. You are my backbone, and I love you.

I am thankful to have a wonderfully, dysfunctional family. Mom and Dad, thanks for hooking up that night in ’69, and everything since. Stacy, I love you….truce. To the Texas clan (Uncle Rod, Aunt Yo, Tavia, Gary, Rod and Amy)- I love you, miss you, and GO TECH! GUNS UP! PaPa and Gran Gran, I am thankful for your love and support, though sometimes I probably don’t deserve it.

Grandma Katie and Kimbers, I miss you. I am thankful that I still cry thinking of you.

I am thankful for Ed, my brother- The best friend anyone could ask for. And, Yes ladies, he is single.

Fife Posse- You guys rock! I love you all. Thank you for everything, I couldn’t have made it through these months without you.

Becky, thank you for allowing me to come over daily to be with the kids. Thank you for Peyton and Mackenzie, and being a good Mother to them.

To all my AHS and Facebook family, you have filled me with hope, laughter, inspiration, and Applebee’s quesadillas…..thank you. I love you guys.

Sonja, thanks for kicking my ass to the curb…I needed it. Thank you for sharing your family with me.

Thank you George Strait and Dierks Bentley for poetry I actually get.

I am thankful for pepperoni sticks, Coke Zero, Copenhagen, Wrangler’s big enough to fit my ass, and chorizo nachos.

Thank you God, for giving me talents. I will try to put them to better use.

I am thankful to Muscular Dystrophy Association, Dr. Greg Carter and Phyllis….having useable legs because of your compassion and care is pretty damn cool. Oh, and the Green Card prescription works too! Now, if I wasn’t so chicken to use it.


Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I hope it finds you around the ones you love, and ones that love you back.

100 miles to nowhere.

The song on the CD says it far better than I could ever imagine. I replay it like a hundred times, thinking of you with every press of replay. Little White (The name adorned to my truck) is pointed in no particular direction, every mile one step closer to you; another mile past yesterday.

“I can't wait for this long, hard day to be over.
So I can rest my head right here on your shoulder”

Poetic justice, seeing how it is just as I imagine. Friday nights giving way to Saturday mornings without the need for time, or day planners, or email. Dawn brings soft caresses mixed with admiration as I watch you sleep.

“I just want to lay here and hear you breathe,
listen to the rhythm of your heart beat,
and see where it leads.”

The splash of raindrops against Little Whites' windshield, become the only distraction to what has become a surreal dream. Do you exist only within the boundaries of my mind; alive for only me to see? Love has bitten me before, ravaged my soul empty, left it dead, and I fear this is the same. A particular accomplishment considering your existence is that only of a ghost.

“We're wide awake, and baby, I want to make you close your eyes,
and say my name like only you can say it, sit and hold me tight.
All I need is you and me alone tonight.
I wanna make you close your eyes.”

The song plays on as I close my eyes imagining you doing the same. A horn blasts. I decide to drive on my side of the two-lane highway for awhile. Not sure if its the song causing my heart to race, the dream, or the adrenaline of the oncoming headlights, I drive on. Maybe, it's all three.

“You can make me work for it girl if you want to.
Just leave a trail for me to follow you into the bedroom.
And if you need a little bit of help from me,
Babe, there's not a button I can't reach.”
Let's see where it leads.”

The band picks up pace, but nowhere near fast. The singer smooth but determined; perfect. I can feel his passion, as he describes mine. This is my song, the words a translation of the unexplainable. They head into the chorus again as I imagine that bedroom. Would you be seductively clad only in a white dress shirt? Right now, you are. I figure an imaginary woman can be dressed in anything I want. I choose this. While I am at it, you smell like spring.

“We're wide awake, and baby I want to make you close your eyes,
and say my name like only you can say it, sit and hold me tight.
All I need is you an me alone tonight.
I wanna make you close your eyes.
I wanna take you somewhere
out there,
'til the world fades out of sight.”

This is the moment of dreams, inspiration, the culmination of four minutes, as the band dies down. Now it is only the singer and me. He slows his delivery, as the band fades away. He wants me to know, to understand, to feel. For the hundredth time, I am but a captive audience to the sermon he speaks.

“We're wide awake, but girl, I wanna make you close your eyes.
Say my name like only you can say it, and just hold me tight
Just hold me tight.
All I need is you and me alone tonight
I just want to make you close your eyes”

I come to a literal tee in the road. I face two choices, East or West. My friend on the radio, now done crooning, awaits a replay as I mindlessly head East, figuring it is one mile closer to you.

Psycholgical Spanish

Tonight, a million things have entered, and exited, my mind. Some thoughts were, introspective, others used to realize just how good life can be, but for the most part they are incosequentially random. As you read on, I have to remember to drop off my absentee ballot before my trip. Thought number one million and one.

Hard to imagine it is now 2:18 in the morning, but it is. These thoughts, all of them, seem to share a common purpose, culminating in Darwinian, super nova, self-psychotherapy. They have evolved to understanding I don't spend enough time evaluating myself. Honestly.

Let's face it though, honesty is clad in bias, especially regarding oneself. Often times, to our own detriment we over analyze; leads me to believe the answer isn't near as important as the question.

Prevailing answers merely but a product of the process, I ponder love, and parenting; wonder if any of the stewardesses will be hot, but fear they won't. In my experience, two dollar Dr. Pepper mixed with $6 dollar whiskey always seems to taste better served by one fairly easy on the eyes. That same knowledge leads me to believe that Mile High Club fantasies, will surrender to You Would Have To Be High Club reality. Odds are, Barfbag Betty might reciprocate that same thought. One million two.

Crap, now I'm thinking of other people thinking. A million three.

I think of school, my place in the world, friends-new, old, and in some cases both. Reminds me, I need to send an email. One million and 4.

My guess is I will never truly know the answers, even understand them fully. What I have managed to draw from this Naches de No Sleepo, is that reality is but a figment of our imagination. Being ready, willing and able to submit myself to the normalcy of randomness affords me comfort. In the end, knowing that comfort makes me think (number one 1,000,005) that everything is bueno.

'Hallowmean' vs Stephen King

The argument I have isn't with ghouls being replaced by ankle biters in Spongebob costumes. I get that. The gripe isn't even with trick or treaters flocking to the mall in droves, despite my assumption the candy bowl next to my front door will remain full Halloween night. Religion doesn't play a role; in fact Happy Samhain (New Years) to our Pagan friends. No, my beef is with Hollywood. More directly to the directors and producers churning out Halloween inspired “horror” movies.

Scary movies, once a staple of the season, have found themselves the real disappointment of Halloween. Every year what is dubbed as this years 'scariest movie' is nothing more than an over gratuitous blood festival with unrealistic violence. The art of direction, leading one to a suspenseful dramatic conclusion, is gone. No, horror movies aren't about scaring anymore; they are about grossing you out. Perhaps the narrative of arousing fear doesn't pay as well as producing a visual manual for future serial killers.

It's hard to believe the story tellers of Hollywood have gone missing in the foggy cemetery of corporate studios, but the plot of horror movies has. Movies such as the Saw franchise, while incredibly ingenious, do not scare you. Stephen King novels scare you. They raise your blood pressure, and leave an unnerving need to look over your shoulder. Even most of the movies inspired by King's prose have turned out lame, the Shining notwithstanding. Think if you will, a King novel, directed by Gus Van Sant, produced by Steven Spielberg; now that would scare you. Yet, we pay for substandard product, based on overly hyped marketing, directed towards a scare craved audience. Not this year though, not me.

Call it my Halloween stimulus package. When Hollywood decides to make Halloween movies again instead of Hollowmean shockers, then maybe I will return to the box office. Until then, my plan is to eat Spongebob's unclaimed candy, read a Stephen King book, and be far away from the mall.

Little girls, and pink ribbons

Breast cancer, the very term is numbing to most, horrific to those living it. While cardiac disease continues to be the number one killer of women, it is breast cancer that fears the heart. Every woman is at risk, without discrimination; every woman a daughter. I have a daughter myself, she's eleven, far too young to worry about mammograms and self examinations. The same ambivalence isn't true for her worrisome father. A worry perpetuated, rightfully so, by constant reminding. Perhaps more so than any other cause, the drive to cure breast cancer remains at the forefront of a nations conscience. Corporate sponsorships and philanthropic trusts shine light on what has become an American obsession. Even the temporarily pink-clad National Football League has joined the fight, and so to it seems has Tacoma Community College.

The home volleyball match on Monday, October 26th featuring the number one ranked TCC Titans and Pierce College is reason enough to show up. In reality though, it almost serves as a backdrop to the nights main event. To honor National Breast Cancer Awareness month, TCC Volleyball will be hosting a donation driven benefit supporting the Susan G. Komen Foundation for a Cure. Laura Reichert, Vice President of Legislation ASTCC, Jennifer Manley, Coordinator of Student Life, and Student Leadership members will set up shop in the gymnasium accepting donations, passing out candy, and distributing a breast self-awareness handout.

Expectations are high, despite normally low attendance at volleyball games. “We would like to make this an annual event. With the support of faculty and the students, we could make this a blowout event,” Reichert said. “We will be in pink. We want a pink out [referring to all in attendance wearing the color],” Reichert said, describing her end vision for the night, “We want it packed.” Game time is scheduled for 7:00pm in the TCC gymnasium. Students displaying TCC identification, as well as Faculty members will be admitted free. Donations are being accepted prior to game day as well, coordinated by Reichert, and Manley upstairs in building eleven.

Throughout the day, TCC's campus will be colored pink. A breast cancer awareness march, the Pink Parade, will emanate from the Child Care Center and weave its way around campus to the Student Center, where a fashion show will follow. Anyone wishing to join the walk, are asked to meet outside Early Learning, building 2, at noon. The most creative, pink adorned outfit will win a very special prize. While Reichert wouldn't elaborate as to what the prize was, she did say that by purchasing the prize from a breast cancer sponsor, it afforded the donation of one free mammogram. Imagine that; one purchase possibly saving a life.

The simple math of October 26th is this, if every student and faculty member donated one dollar, 75 women could get a mammogram. Seventy-five. One dollar. A life saved, for less than the price of a Coke. Some will donate more, some less, but every penny counts in the end. Think of it as a really important, one day piggy bank.

My daughter understands that the more money she puts in her piggy bank the more money she has: What my daughter doesn't know is that breast cancer runs in her family history, possibly even her DNA. She doesn't remember her Aunt in Texas who survived, or met the great-Grandmother who didn't; she was only six as she watched the ravishes of the disease work its horror on a step-Mother. All she knows is the innocence of immortality in the eyes of a middle school student. By the age of 12, she will find out yet another family member will undergo chemotherapy. I want her to understand, to be weary of the dangers, and foresee the implications of what may lie ahead. My hope is she will never have to know. Most of all, I don't want to see her strung up with tubes of radioactive life support probing her veins. For that reason, I will march at noon, and be there at 7:00 pm on Monday. I will be grateful for survivors, remember loved ones, feel anger, and seek hope, sitting with my daughter, explaining the unimaginable, while she watches a volleyball game.

Shit free, please!

To-do lists are a form of them; so are New Year resolutions. Infomercials depend on their very existence. Goals; having them, setting a path to accomplish a desired new outcome is part of what we do. Whether it is to lose a few pounds, save money, find love or simply to take action, having a goal shouldn't define who we are as a person. It should motivate us. The definition of insanity is repeating actions the same as before expecting a different outcome. Perhaps the adage If at first you don't succeed try, try again is as outdated as the AMC Hornet (I had one. Gold in color at that. Straight pimpin'). One step at a time, however, now that's a formula. One that works well with goal setting. Often times, we bite more than we can chew. I know I do. Taking control isn't about regaining it today, after all, it didn't get lost overnight. Smaller steps, ones in which we can identify, quantify, and feel good about for achieving lead to another, then another. Focus on the end outcome less, the immediate step more. You want to go back to school? Forget the 4 years ahead and take the first step to fill out the application. Follow that step, with enrolling, picking classes, and attending; each process a foot forward, a focused action in a broader vision. Defining the end before it begins doesn't allow for flexibility. The end goal is but a destination, the steps in which become the journey. Knowing that journey doesn't involve self doubt, or being shit on, it relies on the ability to believe in yourself. Believe that you are too valuable to endure the shitters in your life, whatever or whoever they are. Go ahead, pick your destination, travel the many roads which navigate the way. Just remember streets are not always paved in gold, but they should be shit free.

Women of the wooden table.

Outnumbered, vulnerable, and frightened I sat amongst the enemy. One of four, the only man in the group, I was an honorary chick this ladies night. Four bottles of wine, three women and too many laughs led me to finally understand the appeal I have always wondered about; although as men, generally, honestly, we selfishly love ladies night. Yes, nothing spells love like a Monday night football game left alone to watch, scratch our ass, drink beer, and eventually fart. The latter generally requires, by man law, to rate said gas based solely upon the unwritten law of stank. Unbelievably, the night Brett Favre torched the Green Bay Packers, a man of men night, I drank wine and had a wonderful evening. It was therapeutic, if not liberating. An evening, I heartily admit, far better than sharing the evening with an overworked counselor who would rather be any where but in her office listening to the same crap she heard last week- and the week before. It was liberating, but more importantly I was free; free of the unknown, free of stereotypes and denial. In one evening I was educated into the mind of a woman that I had never known before. I hope, with any luck, they left thinking the same as I. Turnabout is fair play after all. On second thought, I don’t care.

In the journey of life we find ourselves in situations we will never forget. This night was indeed was one of these nights. I thank the woman of the rounded table for enlightenment for sharing in ways of honesty I could have not imagined. It isn’t manly, I am not even sure it is legal under man law, but the simple truth is I am a better MAN for being there.

Hope

There is a ritual I endure from time to time. In moments of perfect clarity I say something that resonates on a deeper level. These moments have been affectionately coined as Jeffisms, later renamed Shamrockisms. A majority of these can be classified as lewd and vulgar for which you will find no apologies. As they say, you can take the boy out of Auburn, but you can never take Auburn out of the boy. A legacy, I’m sure, that I share with many from the hamlet of mullets, ’84 Camaros, and the last standing Drive-In movie theater for counties.

In rare cases, however, a lucid concept comes to pass which involve little of the lewd, but more of what it is that we call reality. Something simple. One of those happened last night. The details, which led to this discovery, shall remain dressed in the cloaks of secrecy; in part because they are of little relevance, the other can be defined along the lines of homey don’t kiss and tell.

Hope is something of a fragile nature. We have elected our President predicated on the very promise of it. Hope endures. Or does it? Does hope in fact ambush us allowing us to believe in the unbelievable, worse the unattainable. Webster’s definition can be summated- to wish for something with the expectation of its’ fulfillment. Shamrockismictionary (Yes, that is a real word) defines hope as the dismantler of admiration. I spoke those words last night. Hope is the dismantler of admiration. That moment of clarity allowed myself to let go. I was speaking to someone else, but in fact was convincing myself. It’s funny how life works.

We all hope for this, and wish that. Some of us, myself included, have hoped and been hoped for. Hope will never, nor should it, exit our vocabulary, certainly not our conscience. Human nature and specifically the romantic relationship breed this way of thinking. A majority, if not all of us have been trapped in a relationship full of this hope to the demise of our self-esteem and core belief system. The scientist in me believes that with all outcomes there is an eventual opportunity based on those findings. Where one failure ends, an eventual success breathes life. The realization born from last nights Shamrockism is that hope is not faith; faith in oneself, faith in others.

I will love again, and so will you. When admiration, and faith outweighs hope- you have a winner. At least, that’s what I am hoping for. :)

The Desert Son

This real-to-life story is a biographical paragraph of a chapter in the book that is my life. It was recently published in the annual Spring edition of the magazine Una Voce.


The Desert Son

by Jeffrey Moore

The phone rang. My parents were calling to inform me Leora
phoned trying to find me. “Holy shit,” I thought, “Leora?” Of
course my parents, and my wife Sonja, questioned who Leora was
and why she wanted so desperately to reach me. Mysteriously, she
didn’t leave a message, only her contact number. I assured them all
it was an old friend from my days in Eastern Washington. This was
true, though not totally. It was 16 years since I last heard from her.
She was a beauty college student, 16 or 17 years old, I don’t quite
remember. I was a 20-year-old disc jockey for the local country
radio station, KWIQ, “the kwiqest country on the Columbia
Basin.” However, it wasn’t quick at all, but in Moses Lake there
isn’t much that is quick. The station played slow, lonely music for
a lonely town. Leora was lonely. So was I. We briefly dated; very
briefly, long enough to know the relationship wasn’t going to last,
but long enough for her to tell me she was pregnant. The news of
the pregnancy sent shivers down my spine, and the phone call gave
me that sensation once more from her. The lonely girl was calling
and I knew why. It was seven o’clock in the morning, the spring
sun was lustrous as I stood in the shower, water cascading over my
head, thinking silently, “holy shit.”

The son we gave up for adoption, who was hidden from the
family and had never been heard of or seen, wanted to make
contact. He was tracing and researching, and had found everyone
except me. He was close and I wasn’t ready. My secret was out.
It’s the type of secret you know you shouldn’t keep, but do. What
started as shame became easy to ignore with time, until it was
finally hidden. I was 20 years old, and in my parents’ eyes had
no proven record for making the “right” decisions. Getting a girl
pregnant certainly wouldn’t change their minds. Early during her pregnancy, Leora and I decided to give him up for adoption. We were young; weren’t in love, hell we were barely friends. Armed with that, I made the decision that no one had to know. The truth is, I was avoiding judgment and feeling the pain of being a disappointment, yet again. Joshua was born on a blazingly hot summer day in August, and his birth wasn’t without complications. He was premature and had trouble breathing because his nose hadn’t fully developed. We spent the next month at Children’s Shriner Hospital in Spokane. My shift at the radio station was five o’clock at night ‘til midnight. With a tank full of gas and a bucket of coffee I would arrive in Spokane by three o’clock in the morning. This routine lasted 33 days until he was fit to be released. There would need to be more done, but he was okay.

An adoption agency in Moses Lake found Joshua a family happy to raise him. I signed the adoption papers, said goodbye and sealed my lips. Eventually, I let a few people know: my wife, my best friend, and a cousin who notarized the adoption papers. I never disclosed the adoption to my kids or parents, still not wanting to be judged for my actions, thinking by this time it was too late anyway. But, I couldn’t forget. My secret shadowed me like a heavy cloak. My own thoughts haunted me. The monkey grew stronger day after day, year after year, yet my back held strong. This continued for 16 years—until that telephone call came from my parents.

One thing was certain—it was time to confess my sins. Repent young man and be free. I knew I had to tell them, but deciding how was difficult. I felt nauseous, my mouth went dry, I felt tingling sensations up and down my arm, and I swear I could feel my balls shrivel. I picked up the phone and dialed. “Hello?” my Mom answered almost asking. “Hi, it’s me. Get Dad on the phone, we have something to talk about,” I said. The phone line made a clicking noise as my father picked up. I assumed he was sitting in his green Lazy-boy in his man room. I spoke without verifying he was on. “The thing is, when I was in Moses Lake, I got a girl pregnant, we gave him up for adoption and he wants to contact me,” I continued at almost a machine gun pace, “Leora is the mother, and how she found you before me beats the hell out of me.” I concluded with, “I know you’re pissed, and I don’t blame you. I am scared; I don’t know what to do, and I’m sorry.” Then I stopped talking. There was nothing left to say. Silence filled the phone line. No breathing sounds, no clicking, just silence. I was afraid I had killed them. Seconds felt like minutes and then astonishingly…. they thanked me. No yelling, no audible judgments, nothing more than a simple heart-felt thank you. My father finally spoke, “I’m pissed, but I’m proud you told me. I know it must have been hard.” He was right. I felt thankful it was over. The secret was no more.

The next few days were a whirlwind; the only thing I was sure of was that I would let Joshua contact me. I was available and willing, but on his terms, when he was ready. Days went by with no contact. A strange curiosity, anticipation, and fear hung over me like an old sweater, albeit an itchy one. I wasn’t completely comfortable with the developments. On some level, I didn’t want to be found; I mean, I did give him up. At the same time I was thankful, excited, scared, even remorseful—all the emotions of a man who left his son in the desert.

We were in J.C. Penney’s purchasing a new work suit for Sonja when my cell phone rang. I knew by the area code . . . it was him. Joshua was calling and I was shopping for a woman’s suit; not exactly the time or place I fantasized the first conversation with a son I didn’t know. Afraid, unsure what to say, I thought of allowing the call go to voice mail, but answered just before it did. Ironically, the call dropped leaving me laughing at myself. I explained the missed call to Sonja then left her to walk outside and call my son. Joshua and I spoke periodically from that day forward. Sometimes the calls were frequent; sometimes a month or more would pass in between. We slowly felt our way through, comfortable for awhile, then protective of our hearts. This continued only by phone or email for a little more than a year. After that year there was silence. Joshua didn’t write, the phone never rang and I obliged. It was heartbreaking to get so close then have him gone. This was my karma; my desert son left me high and dry. As difficult as it was, I made peace with the fact that I would probably never meet him; I would only have the memories of our conversations and emails.

I later learned Joshua was grounded from the computer and phone, in part for locating us. This time in our fledgling relationship was complicated. He was angry, and I was defensive, and we couldn’t see eye to eye. Leora tried to be a mother, best friend, almost a lost lover, which contrasted my analytical fatherly approach. I was Joshua’s public enemy number one. Correspondence continued to be sporadic, but finally he left me a message to call him. I didn’t recognize the phone number. Joshua didn’t seem upset or anxious, so I delayed calling him back for a couple of days. After dialing the number, the phone went to message, “This is Josh’s Dad, he called from this number, and I am returning his call. Have him call me back. I’ll be home. Thanks.” Two weeks later he returned my call, again from an unrecognizable number. He left a voice message again, “Dad, I need you to call me. I am living with a friend; my parents kicked me out.” Concerned and curious, I called the number back, but had to leave a message. After reaching Joshua, I learned how he had come into his nomadic state. Delicately, in a slow, anxious manner he spoke, explaining his parents took him out of school. “What do you mean they took you out of school,” I asked. His voice cracked, he became angry like children do when they can’t quite hold back. “They think my friends are the devil’s influence,” he answered. The devil’s influence? I knew from other calls that his parents were Russian Orthodox Christian zealots, but pulling your kid from his sophomore year of high school because of demonic friends sounded suspect. “Joshua? Why would your parents think that?” I asked. He said, “Because I am gay.”

The words hung heavy in the air. I fell silent and so did he.

Five…Four…

For a moment, the air, the noise, everything in the room felt sucked into a universal vacuum and I was a space cowboy without gravity or spurs.

Three...Two…

The world fell silent.

One.

My son, whom I’ve never met, was homeless, school-less and gay.

Three weeks later, Sonja and I drove to Moses Lake. We weren’t sure if we could or would bring Joshua home, yet somehow we knew. I saw my son for the first time in a gravel driveway that belonged to a family not his own, a bewildered boy with a life he wished to escape. The family that provided him shelter stood together on the stairs leading to the porch of their farmhouse—mother and father arm in arm. We got out of the car. He stepped closer toward us. The wind and sun enveloped us all. Everyone began to cry as Joshua and I embraced for the first time in the desert where I first left him

Apostrophe T

't
't is such a crime.
how can I can, if I can't?
Surely 't would be nicer,
but maybe it wouldn't.
And I know I should and could,
but 't tells me I shouldn't and couldn't.
Imagine all the things I could accomplish
if do was a do, and wasn't a doesn't.
What if never there was 't?
I could, and would do all the things I should,
I know I could.
even if 't says I can't.

39

So, another season has passed. I find myself staring ahead to forty, not so gracefully seeing 38 come and go. Thirty-nine now. Really? Shit. I hearken back to the time of invincibility and wonder just where the hell it went. Yes, now is the time where I still think about my penis all the time, only now instead of where it will park it shares concerns for prostate and intruding probes. Probes, that’s just a bad word. Perhaps worse is the prober. How do you tell someone, Hi…I probe for a living? That has to be a buzz kill at parties. And what’s the deal with prostate anyway, I always thought enlarging was a good thing.

One thing is for sure, I know little about aging with grace. But, if forty is the new 30, perhaps I get a re-do. Yes, another decade to lose the weight, love sincerely, expect less and give more. Maybe 39 isn't the enemy, maybe it is, but it is what it's made out to be. Preferably, probe free.

Warning: Warning labels make you stupid.

I see them everywhere. From packages on children’s toys to cigarettes, the covering of ones ass(ets) has become an expected part of the new Americana. Yes, the warning label has woven itself from the corporate cotton gin to the tattered illogical masses. I don’t suggest these sirens of public safety aren’t valid in their message, in fact I thank God that McDonald’s took the time to let me know that their cup of hot coffee was in fact, hot. I just wish Ronald could have warned me his new latte tasted just south of sweaty sock. Hot I expected; rank, mildew infested foot flavoring I did not. At the center therein lies the primary negligence of warning labels themselves. Please, I beg of you, do not warn me of the known, and logical; when I yearn for the unrealized and unknown. Here is what I would like to see.

Current warning label on most beer bottles: “…..Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems.”

What warning labels on beer bottles should read: “Consumption of alcoholic beverages could lead to sprained/torn ACL, MCL, or both if dancing on barstool, top of bar, or if you’re Caucasian. This product does not contain chemicals halting babymakers from swimming upstream. Consumption of this product will make hot women hotter, average women hot, and ugly women doable. Handle with care.”

Current warning on a long handled lighter: “Do not use near fire, flames or sparks.”

What it should read: “Warning: This product just cost you $4 and may or may not work, especially in producing fire.”

Current warning in owners manual for jet ski: “Warning: Riders of personal watercraft may suffer injury due to the forceful injection of water into body cavities either by falling into the water or while mounting the craft."

What it should read: “Congratulations: Riders of personal watercraft get free enema with every purchase.”

Current warning on virtually all male enhancement pills: “In the rare event that an erection lasts longer than 4 hours, call a doctor.”

What it should read: “In the rare event that an erection lasts longer than 4 hours, call everyone you know, especially your ex turned lesbian.”

No, I don’t dare dream that the warning label syndicate will vanish any time soon. The industry of warning people will only grow stronger with every frivolous lawsuit booked into our court system.