The Things You Have Never Been Told

 You are 17. You feel you know everything. But there are a lot things you've never been told. 

The bridge is already burning. There is not reason not to say it anymore. 

You have been sold a bill of goods that doesn't check out. 

I am a failure at many things. I am not good at many things. But I have given and I have tried. The voices that tell you what they want you to hear have their own biases. And now I have nothing to lose. I've already lost that which is most important to me. 

In your vitriol and angry texts, you told me I have never thought of anyone but myself. And that is true in many ways. I am self-absorbed. Selfish. Arrogant. 

But perhaps here are a few things from my biased perspective that you never got to hear. 

Yes. I was the one who said that things weren't working. I was the one who said we needed to live apart and figure things out. She was the one who called my parents and said I left her. She didn't call her own parents, she called mine. And they chose you. My parents chose you over me. And you ignore texts from the only one of them that is still alive. For everything he isn't, my father chose you over me and you won't even text him back. 

Once my parents rejected me and chose her and you and Peyton. I was left with a choice. Stay in a job that I dreamed about, be a shit father, or abandon that job as I had been abandoned, because like my parents I felt it was the right thing to do. 

So I did my best to find a job in Minnesota. It took time. But I still paid for everything I could. While she had no income and lived in my parent's home. 

I found a job, and I moved back. I tried to figure out a way through. It was clear from the moment that I got back that reconciliation was not an option. I was hated. I would never be forgiven for saying things weren't working. 

I worked at a job and failed. I couldn't balance being at work and hating myself and being hated by everyone who knew me. I failed at that job. 

I found another job. I failed again. In the meantime while I was failing I said I wanted to have you with me every other day. And we had some good times. I loved our placed in Mac-Grove where you two slept on the bunkbeds in the same room as I on a twin bed. We walked to the park, we watched videos and played games in that space. 

I got laid off in spring of 2010. Daycare was exceptionally expensive. With my failure to have a job, it was not an option to pay the $2000 per month for your day care. The oldest was off to school so that lessened the burden a bit. But I was faced with a choice. Pursue full time work or find a night and weekend job so we could avoid daycare. 

To be honest, if I could find a thing that worked and got to stay home with you when you were not in school, that would be pretty amazing. And it was and we did. Parks and museums, lunch at the Tap with friends and their kids. I will never regret for a moment the chance to have those moments with you. 

It felt like worked. I had a flexible schedule, which allowed your mother to dip out for 2.5 summers to get her PHD in Pennsylvania. If I had chased a 9-5 career in this time it never would have worked. But I loved the summers and the time with you. I had the benefit of my rent being subsidized by my parents who owned the place we lived. I was happy for the time with you and honestly felt it was fair that I support your mother in her pursuit of a PhD. I could never make her happy but it seemed that her academic pursuits did. 

After 4 years of taking jobs that made it easier for me to be with you before you were in school, you were in kindergarten and I had the flexibility to chase something else. I thought it would be in the brewing industry and I had laid groundwork for that. But it didn't work out. As many things don't. 

So I found a steady income and a schedule that I could control. I have fond memories of taking you two to school but first stopping by the store and counting in the register or the inventory. Of being proud of my space, the place that I managed. 

Eventually, I let another person's opinion impact my perception of that job. I have always done things to please myself as it pertains to how others perceive me. I left that job because I felt you could never be proud of me and that as a career. I do think that this was another of my many mistakes. 

So I took a corporate job and a brewery job on the side. I tossed away everything I had created through Blue Plate, the beer training I was so proud of, and the key hourly position. I left Goldy's when it fit our schedule all out of hubris, I wasn't proud of my career and I didn't think either of you would be either. 

It was a mistake. I worked for a year in real estate which wasn't a good fit. I felt like an indentured servant to the overlords. When my boss tasked me with putting together a bookshelf at his home, I finally realized how little I meant to the company. 

So I jumped at the first other option. And it was another mistake, a financial company that didn't really know what they wanted to do or be. I had 7 different supervisors in the 3.3 years there. I was so busy that I started to miss things. Couldn't make it to events. I failed in a whole new way. 

As a result, you both decided not to live with me anymore. That broke a lot of what was left of my fight. I get it, Mom's house is clean and more organized. She's got rules and standards, I have chaos and conflict. 

I didn't take it well. I took it personally. I felt rejected. I felt like a failure. All things that time have proven that I was. And am. 

I left Kentucky. I gave up a dream job so I could be a decent dad. And I failed at that. It hit really hard. And I didn't deal with it well. Why did I leave if I was just going to fail as a father anyway? 

Then I tried to make it right. I didn't make enough changes. Then covid hit. Suddenly, my parenting time is gone. I am reduced to parking my car outside the house when there is a report of neo-Nazi at the park next door and hoping I don't have to act. But personally hoping I get to, because if they take me out, at least it was me trying. 

That summer sucked. I barely saw you. I barely got to be a dad. Right before covid, we were playing catch, and it meant so much. Not the sporting part but the shared experience. That I will never get again. 

Then we sold the house, the house we lived in for years, neither of you wanted anything to do with it. You were out. 

Everyone moved. Mom and Dad. Andrew. Friends. I moved too. I wanted you to be proud of my new clear and fresh place. But you shrugged. 

As the covid pandemic continued, I fucked up. I lost my ability to drive and my car due to my own selfish, stupid, and thankfully not deadly action. It was my fault but it put another nail in the coffin of communication and connection. 

And I lost you both a bit more as well. 

I have been trying for three years to get some foothold back. To try and support while also acknowledging that I am a failed and broken person. 

It has worked on some level and failed momentously on another. 

Since I made the mistake of questioning my marriage in 2007. Life has not gotten better. I should likely have just never said anything and lived in silence. I spent much of the next 6 years subjugating my career for your mother's anyway. At least if I was a miserable husband, I might have gotten some credit. 

I am not a perfect or good father. But I have done a lot of good things and things that went against my best personal interests over the past 18 years that I do not regret. I regret much of my life after 2007. I regret much of my daily actions. I fret and overthink. I wish I had been better. I never regret the moments with my kids. Those are the only things that make sense. 

But it is unfair to tell me I only ever thought of myself. It is unfair to claim that I don't give a damn. It is disingenuous to look at our shared history and tell me I am nothing. 

You are everything to me. And I don't think you know everything I have done. 

You have every right to hate me. But I have every right to tell you more. 

The Horcruxes Will Don't Know We Have (In a good Way)

Since somewhere in the Harry Potter story I have been entranced with the idea of a part of your soul being tied to a moment or a thing or even a person. I have seen this often in my life. A smell that makes me 16 and wide-eyed. A taste that feels like comfort. A song that makes my eyes well or my anger rise.


I think we all have them and Rowling who has sullied her legacy in multiple ways over the years did give voice to something that feels very real. We pour part of ourselves into a moment, memory or manifestation that holds those feelings as a static thing in space-time.


I do believe that we all have important memories, things that connect with our identification of self that have nothing to do with wizards or fantasy or some book. But they have everything to do with memory and sense and sensation.


After 24 years, I think I finally saw one of mine tonight. It would be epic and brilliant if it was a magical sword or some mystical beast. Or even a diary.


But true to form, for me, it was something much simpler.


Steak and eggs.


I mean not just any steak and eggs, I have enjoyed many that were awesome and most that were meh.


But this particular part of my soul is steak and eggs from a singular place and at a specific time. A time that I clearly long for and cherish. Even if it took 20 years to figure it out.


I'm not particularly quick.


If you've read anything in this space in the period of ever or had the misfortune to read some social media post I made after midnight and deleted shortly after dawn the next day. I have been struggling for a while. 1989? Maybe. 1999? Probably. 2009? Yeah. 2019? Why are you asking send in the clowns?!


Through all of my struggles. I have had angels, both human and probably simply my imagination. I for the most part I have been aware (maybe not as much I thought) to the existence of these forces. Or so I thought .


And then tonight as I was feeling low, even after a day that gave me little reason to feel so, I did a thing.


I ordered a specific food, from a specific place.


A conversation I had with the musician who played tonight at the local establishment was the trigger for my new understanding.


I asked him what the first song he learned to play on the guitar. He said, Horse with No Name by America.


In that instance, I was mentally if not corporally transported to a moment in 1999 or 2000. At the Roseville Perkins. The place that we underaged kids who didn't even know of the idea of a fake ID could to go when we were all up at 2 am.


We would pack my 1985 Buick Century, nicknamed, Grandpa Toad's Wild Ride with as many people as possible. Bench seats in the front and back meant that 8-9 was easy. I think the record when we got pulled over by a very annoyed cop was 13. Was it safe? No. But we were all sober and awake and didn't have the impulse or the access to fix either thing.


13 people in a Buick and the cop got a call that stopped him from giving the owner of the car a ticket. I might not be blessed by a higher power at that moment but my father may have been.


After 24 years the details blend together. I don't know the date or the moment of the memory. But I do know the song, the feeling and the laughter and smiles.


5 or 6 or 7 of us were crammed into a booth at the Roseville Perkins at least 2 am. I had suggested or convinced everyone who was up to go get food. In my brain, it was always my idea. I have learned in the years in between that many of my people knew how much it was important to me to feel like it was my idea. The details matter less and less as the years go on and I am prone to remembering myself in the best light.


But the most powerful moment sticks with me. We had ordered already, some got pancakes or a muffin, others just water, I being my grandiose self remember ordering steak and eggs. I can not be truthful that in this one moment I did order this or perhaps it was a cumulative memory of ordering the most seemingly audacious thing possible out of ego at 2 am at a suburban Perkins.


That isn't the moment though. Seems like it was because I made you listen to it being about my menu choice but that's author bias. That wasn't the moment.


The moment as I remember it was after we had all ordered. As we sat crammed into a booth probably meant for 4 people. A song came on the radio. Conversation, likely largely and loudly dictated by me slowly faded away as we (in my memory) all one by one started to sing along with the PA/jukebox song. Slowly the lyrics caught us each and we listened, and maybe even started to sing along.


On the first part of the journey
I was looking at all the life
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz
And the sky with no clouds
The heat was hot and the ground was dry
But the air was full of sound
I've been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can't remember your name
'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain
La la la la la la...
It was as the chorus hit that we all seemed to remember something, one at a time and then all together. As a memory of memories goes, I may tend to be more on the dramatic side but I do remember the majority of us ending the chorus in unison.
After two days in the desert sun
My skin began to turn red
And after three days in the desert fun
I was looking at a river bed
And the story it told of a river that flowed
Made me sad to think it was dead
You see I've been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can't remember your name
'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain
La la la la la la...
After nine days I let the horse run free
'Cause the desert had turned to sea
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The ocean is a desert with its life underground
And a perfect disguise above
Under the cities lies a heart made of ground
But the humans will give no love
You see I've been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can't remember your name
'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain
La la la la la la...
Thank you all very much
Take care of yourselves, take care


The song ended and I'm sure I made some attempt to tell everyone who sang it, even though in my soul I had no idea. A discussion ensued and smarter ones prevailed and we came to understand who wrote it and sang it.


We finished our meals and we headed back to the dorms, lucky to avoid any cops wondering how many people actually fit in a Buick Century from 1985.


But that brings us to today's epiphany.


After a mostly good day, a few hiccups emotionally and tactically but nothing worth a full report, I was making my way home. And I wanted to get there and eat and feel safe and happy.


I ordered Steak and Eggs from the Roseville Perkins.


I have done this literally nigh on 100 times before without really understanding what I was trying to order.


The food is fine. It's meh. But that's not why I do it.


I think I realized today that what I want when I order that specific food from that specific location is a taste of that moment from years ago.


Community. Connection. Vulnerability. Jealousy. Machismo. All the good and the bad.


I want my food to transport me back to that singular night when we all sang a bit together.


Since I moved back to MN in 2007 I have ordered steak and eggs from Perkins in Roseville chasing a connection to that night or that moment or that memory of many nights and moments.


I just didn't realize why until tonight. It doesn't make the food taste any better or worse. But it does give it more meaning. And to be fair, that's more than anyone should expect from after midnight steak and eggs delivery.


To all of those who spent time those years late night at Perkins or elsewhere, on a park bench or walking through campus. I don't know that I ever really thanked or appreciated that. Due to a lot of things that have happened since to college and in my own ego.


And I'm not sure it's a great marketing campaign for Perkins. They can't be everyone's horcrux. But I'm glad they are one of mine.

Dormammu I have come to bargain

I understand the appeal of the old gods. I understand the appeal of the old gods. Greek, Roman, Viking. 

You could bargain with them. They accepted a barter society. 

The Christian dogma?  Not so much. Especially Lutherans due to that whole indulgences drama. 

But the other old gods were totally down with negotiating. Or so it felt. Like I tried to fly too high so I died. But flying wasn’t the thing. 

I’ll be a great warrior but I have one very huge weakness. 

I wish that negotiation with gods was a thing. 

I’m historically very bad with interpersonal relationships. After three years you either walk away or just decide to tolerate the fact I’m annoying. 

Maybe gods do that too? I pushed my luck asking for my wife and child to live through a traumatic early birth, and they all did. Twice! 

Yet it is in this context that I wish to know the rules. I have two amazing children. And they have a capable and supportive mother. We all won in that scenario. 

But I don’t get why I can’t find a god that will let me trade my time for someone else. In fact the only thing that makes sense is that my life is not a good enough payment. 

I have been very lucky that in my life I have not dealt with a lot of deaths. 

I was a teenager and so lost when my girlfriend’s infant sister passed. I had no context to grief and played a role. I tried but I don’t know that I did much. Yet she still has a hold on me. I have visited her grave and I hold those moments close but I don’t think at the time I really was able to understand the gravity of the situation. The reality. 

My grandfather died when I was in college. The man I knew after his  series of heart attacks and strokes was a kind and happy man. I don’t know that is how everyone remembered him. 

But that was the first family death I had to process. And it seemed to go ok. I went to the funeral. I shared memories. I appreciated friends and mentors driving through the night to be there. 

And then there was this massive ridiculous gap of death. 

I remember standing in the hospital hallway. In hastily put in scrubs just after my wife had been urgently taken away. Her life and my child’s life in the balance. 

I stood there. Petrified. Eventually someone came to find me because my wife asked where I was. I was just there in the hallway. Terrified. 

I was the absolute last person that any medical professional should have been thinking of. I was healthy and fine. 

My mom showed up hours later.  Because when she asked me what I could do, I said “I just need my mom” 

Two years later it happened again. But this time with two hours of chasing an ambulance to Louisville. 

And mom was there again. Showed up. As she always did. 

You could set your clock by the sun. Or the moon. Or the fact my mom was always there. 

The past however many months have been extra hard. Because due to cancer, my personal clock setting device doesn’t exist anymore. 

My mom can’t just show up and be there. She never fixed it. She just was there. 

And then tonight I went to a choir concert. I am quite poor at interpersonal relationships and recently that means one of my favorite people wants very little to do with me. He’s not wrong. I mean most days I don’t want to deal with me. 

But I wanted to hear him sing. To hear his choir. An incredibly talented group of singers. 

My mom loved them. The kids of course. But also the music. She volunteered as a choir mom. She connected with so many. 

One of the people she connected with is themselves an amazing giving person, who dedicates years to this choir. Always in the background, always supportive.

She donated in my mom’s name to the choir’s tour. I read it in the program and tears fell. I cried the whole concert. Six beautiful songs. I just let them flow. Ugly cry. But I did my best not to sniffle too loud. 

I have asked god or gods to take my years and give them to others more than once. I have encountered death in friends, family and more. And it never gets easier. 

It’s different and more with losing mom. And I’m still trying to figure out how to go forward when she can’t just show up and make me feel like I can make it. 

I also wish that more gods did negotiation. Because I do not think that the good people should have to leave if some of us are willing to take their place. 

But maybe, and I’m just not all the way there yet, but maybe, me still being here means I need to live like those I wish we hadn’t lost. But I’m pretty sure I can’t teach grade school for 40 years and put up with me as an offspring. 

So if any old gods wanna reach out, I’ll gladly give what I have so mom can have more.

She gave so much to so many. She shouldn’t have had to go so soon. 

Greek, Roman, Viking. 

You could bargain with them. They accepted a barter society. 

The Christian dogma?  Not so much. Especially Lutherans due to that whole indulgences drama. 

But the other old gods were totally down with negotiating. Or so it felt. Like I tried to fly too high so I died. But flying wasn’t the bad thing. 

I’ll be a great warrior but I have one very huge weakness. 

I wish that negotiation with gods was a thing. 

I’m historically very bad with interpersonal relationships. After three years you either walk away or just decide to tolerate the fact I’m annoying. 

Maybe gods do that too? I pushed my luck asking for my wife and child to live through a traumatic early birth, and they all did. Twice! 

Yet it is in this context that I wish to know the rules. I have two amazing children. And they have a capable and supportive mother. We all won in that scenario. 

But I don’t get why I can’t find a god that will let me trade my time for someone else. In fact the only thing that makes sense is that my life is not a good enough payment. You can’t pay for gold with tin. 

I have been very lucky that in my life I have not dealt with a lot of deaths. 

I was a teenager and so lost when my girlfriend’s infant sister passed. I had no context to grief and played a role. I tried but I don’t know that I did much. Yet she still has a hold on me. I have visited her grave and I hold those moments close but I don’t think at the time I really was able to understand the gravity of the situation. The reality. 

My grandfather died when I was in college. The man I knew after his  series of heart attacks and strokes was a kind and happy man. I don’t know that is how everyone remembered him. 

But that was the first family death I had to process. And it seemed to go ok. I went to the funeral. I shared memories. I appreciated friends and mentors driving through the night to be there. 

And then there was this massive ridiculous gap of death. I was so lucky. Then. 

I remember standing in the hospital hallway. In hastily put in scrubs just after my wife had been urgently taken away. Her life and my child’s life in the balance. 

I stood there. Petrified. Eventually someone came to find me because my wife asked where I was. I was just there in the hallway. Terrified. 

I was the absolute last person that any medical professional should have been thinking of. I was healthy and fine. 

My mom showed up hours later.  Because when she asked me what I could do, I said “I just need my mom” 

Two years later it happened again. But this time with two hours of chasing an ambulance to Louisville. 

And mom was there again. Showed up. As she always did. 

You could set your clock by the sun. Or the moon. Or the fact my mom was always there. 

The past however many months have been extra hard. Because due to cancer, my personal clock setting device doesn’t exist anymore. 

My mom can’t just show up and be there. She never fixed it. She just was there. 

And then tonight I went to a choir concert. I am quite poor at interpersonal relationships and recently that means one of my favorite people wants very little to do with me. He’s not wrong. I mean most days I don’t want to deal with me. 

But I wanted to hear him sing. To hear his choir. An incredibly talented group of singers. 

My mom loved them. The kids of course. But also the music. She volunteered as a choir mom. She connected with so many. 

One of the people she connected with is themselves an amazing giving person, who dedicates years to this choir. Always in the background, always supportive.

She donated in my mom’s name to the choir’s tour. I read it in the program and tears fell. I cried the whole concert. Six beautiful songs. I just let them flow. Ugly cry. But I did my best not to sniffle too loud. 

I have asked god or gods to take my years and give them to others more than once. I have encountered death in friends, family and more. And it never gets easier. 

It’s different and more with losing mom. And I’m still trying to figure out how to go forward when she can’t just show up and make me feel like I can make it. 

I also wish that more gods did negotiation. Because I do not think that the good people should have to leave if some of us are willing to take their place. 

But maybe, and I’m just not all the way there yet, but maybe, me still being here means I need to live like those I wish we hadn’t lost. But I’m pretty sure I can’t teach grade school for 40 years and put up with me as an offspring. 

So if any old gods wanna reach out, I’ll gladly give what I have so mom can have more.

She gave so much to so many. She shouldn’t have had to go so soon. 

A New Reality

 I was doing ok. And then on our father and son and son walk. Dad’s phone made a sound. A simple sound. A notification. We were enjoying the brisk air, the walk together. Morris was sniffing and investigating. I was happy and present. Not something I get to be often. 

And then that mechanical device made a mechanical sound and I was pulled from the moment. I lost the plot the point. And for a split second I was back in a familiar safe space. An echo. 

That mechanical sound, while we three walked in seeming contentment. Beneath a clear blue sky. Clean air. Sharing in the moment. It pulled me back. Not to reality but to memory. 

Without a conscious thought, I made an assumption. I thought I knew the moment. And like any one who has false confidence in the future. I was mistaken. 

Because when that mechanical sound happened, my soul thought a thing that was soon to be refuted by my mind and reality. 

My father, my brother and I were on a walk. In the sun, wandering. To my soul the only reason for such a mechanical sound was clear as the beautiful sky above me. 

If these three souls are on a walk. If this trio is out and about, there can be only one reason for any mechanism to make a sound. 

Half way through any adventure, any moment, any shared experience…Mom would check in. 

All ok? What’s the eta? When will you be home? When can we all be safe in the walls of home? 

That damn mechanical sound happened and for a moment I just knew it was mom checking in, giving us space but also keeping tabs. 

In reality it was a spam call on my father’s phone, quickly sent to voicemail. 

And the harsh reality set in, she wasn’t waiting for us at home, patient but anxious. Supportive but worried. 

It was a hard moment. And in that moment I failed a bit. I should have said something to my father and my brother, maybe they had the same impulse or reaction to the sound. 

But no, I went full white middle aged man and swallowed my emotions, my connection. I stopped to take a picture and tears fell.

I did  not share that moment with the only two people who could have maybe understood. I held it and locked it away. 

Selfishly I didn’t want to ruin the moment, to share the steps and the sunshine with my brother and father. I wanted to keep walking. 

I should have had the strength to share my pain. How can I expect them to share with me when they feel if I don’t when I do? 

Mom, we are still figuring out this world without the most knowledgeable person about emotions and connection. 

We will keep trying. 

Wise Like Watson

 The patio at work has been open for a week. 7 days. It has provided innumerable moments and stories. But the only one that has made me want to write is the story of Watson. 

Watson came in with his owner tonight, a friend had gotten there first and secured a place on the patio. Watson and his lady were running behind. To my confusion, the friend did not mention there would be a dog joining them. We are the patio and dogs are allowed but they can't enter through the regular ways. They must go around and knock on a door that is an emergency exit only. 

The knocks. Loud and insistent. They confused me at first. I doubted that someone was actually trying to use that door. I assumed it was an angry neighbor or some such thing. I did not expect Watson and his lady to be the source of the insistent and impatient knocking. 

I opened the door, immediately felt silly for wondering, and escorted them to their friend's gotten table. Watson was not eager or bored, he seemed content to follow his lady's lead and that was that. I didn't know much of Watson at this point and what I knew was but a veil. 

Watson's lady and her friend spent nearly 3 hours at their table. It was not a bother to me, I checked in occasionally, they had drinks and an appetizer and then later each ordered a meal. On a beautiful night with the patio in full swing, I didn't give Watson or his ladies much thought as they seemed content. 

Then like a lightning bolt, there was a tap on my arm as I finished another table's order. It was Watson's lady's friend. 

"Please don't go out of your way, but my friend's dog, Watson, has wandered off, so if you could, keep an eye out. And let us know."

The patio is completely enclosed. There isn't a hole big enough for Watson to escape. 

But in the middle of 12 tables and pure chaos, my mind now only has one goal, find Watson. 

To my relief, Watson was not far. He had his leash still attached to his collar but he made it at least 12-15 feet away. I'm sure gobbling up dropped fries and snacks along the way. Several tables further north, he had found a comfortable perch, curled up on some random person's purse and snoozing away. 

So comfortable he was not easily removed to his lady's table again. The folks at the table he found refuge in didn't know he was there. Were annoyed at first, but their annoyance from a random interruption faded fast when they discovered the sleeping contented pup. 

Watson returned to his lady's table and sat diligently at her feet for the rest of their conversation. But he didn't look as content or as happy as he had snoozing on that stranger's purse. Watson had tasted adventure, and he liked the taste. He felt the surge of being off-leash. And he had learned its value. 

I want to be wise like Watson and take the adventures that may come. Thank you, Watson. 

I hope you Sing.

 Recently I missed an event at my former school. It's not surprising since I have given that land to Spain if you will. And I have contributed more to the University of Tennessee Chattanooga than my own alma mater over the last 17 years. I mean I didn't go there but I moved and suddenly started getting emails and mailings asking for money and I can't ruin my own good name that way. I mean their own my name. I clearly can ruin my own. 

But this week, a thing happened and it brought up a lot of other things. And like any domino, those things needed to be dealt with. Hopefully in a logical, healthy, and non-destructive way. 

So obviously I made an angry Facebook post. About how the church had failed me. How it's messed up that when my wife and children moved their membership from our church in Kentucky. Instead of the church being like, hey that's odd. Let's check in with this guy. They instead derostered my ass. (For the non-Lutherans, that's like excommunication but Lutheran and way less binding. Bring a check and you'll be fine) 

Crap. I did it again. I made it about me. I do that. I'm a self-hating narcissist. Ironically my therapist says that isn't a real thing but wow, are they wrong. 

A point, not obviously the real point because I am still in active therapy and make everything about me, is that I didn't get to sing at a really awesome person's retirement. I haven't been in that building in years. But I do wish I could have sang. 

Not because I believe every lyric. But because I believe in the person. 

Dr Dave is a talented, passionate and driven man. But I will never forget the day he looked in my eyes and broke a rule because it was the right thing. 

Choir tour junior year. We were barely in Canada. But still in Canada. Outside of Toronto. I had just the bad before done a less than passable job at singing some solos in Handel's Messiah. A piece that you don't fuck with. I felt embarrassed and I didn't think my choir director was all that pleased with me. 

We performed at a church, maybe it was Canada maybe it was Michigan, who can really tell the difference. And my girlfriend at the time collapsed. Maybe the travel. Maybe not having regular meals. Maybe whatever. But she couldn't stand. 

We finished the concert. She had some water but still wasn't feeling right. So it was determined that she would go to the hospital. I don't know that I sang a word after I saw her get light-headed. I might have stood in my spot but by the time it was over I wasn't going to leave her side. 

I was not family. Whether we were in Michigan or Canada or a bit of both, I had to right to go. But as the volunteers were getting her ready to go to get checked out, all it took was one look. One moment of eye contact. The rules said I couldn't go. But Dr. Dave said I could. 

Things turned out fine. Some fluids and some allergy meds and we were back at the host home before too late. The next day we rejoined the rest of the crew and finished the tour. 

I do have a strong recollection that we were in Canada because I leaned against the wrong wall in the er and suddenly Mounties showed up. but all memories are flawed. 

But what I do clearly remember is in the midst of a weird situation. When bylaws and rules would say that I can't go. Dr. Dave looked me in the eyes and let me go. Maybe because you don't argue with a Winegarden in Canada, but more likely because he was given the opportunity to make a choice and he did what he thought was right. 

He's an amazing choir director. Not two years later as my wife at the time was singing with the Boston Pops in their Tanglewood chorus, the living personification of Gilderoy Lockhart who was directing the pops knew his name. 

But I will always remember the moment he let me follow the one I loved even if it wasn't protocol. He cared. I don't know if you can ask for more from a teacher. 

Years Only Change the Details

The irony of a bar that is both in the middle of 4 colleges and some of the highest property values around is that you can find the same people but 20 years apart. 

The privilege that shows in 21 year old college kids only slightly morphs when they are in their 40s and at a youth hockey fundraiser. 

Moms who used the same cutting technique on their boyfriends ts for homecoming parade around with suddenly adapted youth hockey ts. Off the shoulder. Deep v. Same style. Different moments. 

Dads who used to proclaim their future or dream university in their headwear - a local fave or a recent national champ - or even some obscure smaller school who’s mascot can be some sexual or penis inuendo - now proudly wear the hat from their last expensive vacation, Vail, Banf, or their business or preferred golf brand affinity. 

They haven’t forgot the bars of their college years. There is no such thing as a fire code, crowd as close the bar as you can. Then act as if you’re in the pit on Wall Street. Wave money, yell, gesticulate like you’re helping to land a 747. Whatever it takes to get the bartender’s eye. 

And when the drink is ordered, it is no longer both an order and a recipe. While rum and coke or vodka cran may have been enough for them at 21. Now those words are simply the beginning of half negotiation, half status. 

“Oh is that your rail?!” I’ll take *insert brand name* 

Anything to remind the world that they have evolved from 21. They are well pass the rail life. 

Once the drinks are obtained, then the real social battle begins. Pair off in twos and threes. Years ago this was all about flirting and sly smiles. A brush of the arm or giggle. A comment a bit too bold. 

But now the game has changed. No longer is the battle about carnal needs or pursuits. 

Now it is about status. The last trip. The new promotion. What junior did on the ice this week. Why the offspring is primed for a big year. Perhaps it was a skating camp or a new techy tool to improve hand eye coordination. 

A sea of established white people talking. Proclaiming. Posturing. 

And not a single one listening