These same men, so pathologically Scandinavian, took daily nourishment from the saved daylight. They were communicative. Their faces could contort into actual human expression. They were productive at work. They changed the air filters at home. On the sunniest of days, they even waved to neighbors.
But starting today, in the Time of Lost Daylight, these men will again become susceptible to mood swings ranging from A to B. In the coming months, it will only get worse. They will develop a bloodthirsty craving for carbs. Their musical tastes will turn violently to the blues. Smiling will require a medical procedure. Family members will bear witness in early February—around the Time of Another @#$% Birthday—when the sun will show itself for three hours a day and when Mr. Cranky Pants needs to move out.
For Mr. Cranky Pants will be felt and heard around the house and hearth (but moreso around the house for one is unsure of what a hearth is). In this Darkest of Time, he might even raise his voice. Yes, we said raise his voice.
And in this Time of the Raised Voice, he will soon thereafter take refuge under his covers for an extended period of sleep not to exceed early-to-mid April—or what our elders referred to as Spring Training.
The season of renewal. The season of light.
The Season of the Orioles.
The book of us
May 25, 2014
I started the first book of us in 1988.
I was going to be a father for the first time and wanted to write my son a letter. So, I wrote him a long letter six months before his arrival. Because I’m a writer by nature, my nature had more ambitious plans. I started a journal.
Here were my rules:
1 Write whatever I want.
2 Write whenever I want.
3 Show no one.
4 Finish when I finish.
5 Give the journal to him on the day of his college graduation.The journal took seven years, then I put it in a safety deposit box—actually, one of those lock box things. Stowed it high on a closet shelf. Several times I peeked to see what I had written. There were major gaps in time. Major world events omitted. Family occasions skipped.What I recorded were the tiny flashes within a young family—first words said, fifth words said, beginning toys, beginning interests, the dog I rescued and then put up for adoption because it was the wrong time to have a dog. Mainly, I wrote about my son, my wonderful boy in all his boyhood. I also wrote about myself—too much so, I know now.Because time stampedes us all, I found myself 22 years later handing him the freed journal at his college graduation dinner. The weight of the journal in my hand, the weight of these specks of memory, buckled me. But if a father can’t cry at a crowded restaurant, then where can he? The privacy of his garage? Did that, too.I forgot Rule No. 6:
6 The day you finish the journal, start the next one.
And I did.
It took me about six years to write the second book of us. If I could do simple math on the spot, I’ll tell you how old my daughter was when I started her journal (around 5, I think). I filled her journal with photos of her playing soccer and dressed for Halloween as a puffy pumpkin, sweet scribbles she wrote me on my birthday, a column I had written about my kids. Again, my writing was sporadic but steady.
Two years ago, at a different restaurant but for the same milestone, I gave my daughter her journal. I again had released it from its fault atop my closet. I again peeked and read snatches of dinner table conversation, a play-by-play of a vacation somewhere, a dog that stayed, some job change of mine, a brother who sometimes teased her, my utter hopes for her. The tears again came over our nice dinner.
Rule No. 6:
1 The day you finish the journal, start the next one.
And I did.
In October 2001, I started the third book of us—to my second daughter and last child. It took me about five years. The journal was a different style than the other two—it had little pocket folders. I tucked an old business card in there, artsy notes she wrote me for no reason, a crazy photo of her catching a bluegill at arm’s-length. Much talk of our two dogs then, Bethany Beach then, our universe then.
Then, this past Monday, my daughter graduated from an art college. We had a celebratory dinner. But I saved the moment until we got back home where I gave her the third book of us.
I read from the first page. This is for my talented girl who is going to be an artist one day, I wrote 13 years ago. And the artist and her father cried, but not at a restaurant this time.
Talking about a dream job at the University of Maryland
October 21, 2017
This past week I was in the company of young people. You know the type.
Young.
People.
And they were all over the place at a career fair for the University of Maryland’s Philip Merrill College of Journalism.
There was an intern recruiting task at hand but like the best of us, my mind wandered to that distant land the brochures call Memory. For not only was I in the company of young people, I was in the company of their youthful eagerness, earnestness, shyness, boldness, handshakes and resumes.
A few words about resumes in 2017.
These artful platters of accomplishments give us older types Freudian levels of resume envy. Although it does warm the heart to know students still stick to one page, their resumes devour the white space leaving a take-no-prisoners transcript. After reading one stellar resume after another, they meld into one skyscraper of heaping accomplishment. At the rate some of them are going, they will have had 56 jobs by retirement. One of which will be your boss.
This is neither the time nor place to discuss my college resume by way of comparison. Today’s college students, however, do not have the hardships I faced (girls, beer, free concerts on the lawn, Burrito Brothers, Frisbee). Like I said, there’s no need to elaborate here.
Now about today’s handshakes.
Some border on acts of violence; you could press charges for the gripping assault you just experienced. We get it: You’re young and strong. Calm down, hand. And because this hasn’t changed either, there still exists what I call the mystery handshake. This requires you to suspend the fact you know you’re shaking a human hand and allow yourself to entertain harrowing possibilities. Why, I must be shaking an athletic sock I found wedged behind the drier. Or, am I shaking a poor limp creature my dog excavated from the backyard?
Mostly I encountered quality handshakes—but there is room for improvement, young people.