The Believers' Guild, Stave I, entitled "Two for One"

The Believers' Guild

By

Michael Nickels

December  2011

Stave I

"Two for One"

            It was 10:30, another Christmas Eve had arrived and was drawing to a close. Beth asked Griffin and I to take out the trash and empty the recycle bin from the kitchen pantry.

            It had been snowing since 3:00 o'clock that afternoon and there was at least three inches blanketing the ground. It was a consistent, but gentle snow.  I'll never understand the hatred some people have for winter.

            "I told you I prayed for a white Christmas, Dad," Griffin reminded me.

            "God must have heard you, buddy," I said as I opened the side door on our garage. It was a preferable path to our alley way than messing with the gate latch on our wooden privacy fence.

            Griffin was walking about 3 to 5 yards ahead of me, but I was lost in thought about Christmas and the fact that school would not resume until January 9th. A teacher is never more in touch with their inner child than when they're on Christmas break. I despise the politically correct euphemism "Winter break."              A reprieve from the daily grind of grading, rude kids, and time demands was both welcome and needed. I think that even on my best day of teaching I will long for the quiet and solitude of a writer's life.

            "Dad!" Griffin called out and shattered my seasonal reverie. "There's a man out here." Griff's voice sounded surprised, but unafraid. Still, I hurried to his side.

            Standing before us was a bulky man wearing a heavy Carhartt  coat that was a very deep hunter's green. His dark brown work pants were tucked into a pair of sturdy high-laced hiking boots topped off with red wool socks folded over his boot tops where you should be able to see the bow of his shoe strings.  He was rotund, but there was a powerful thickness in his upper body and solid legs. I'm around 5'10" and I guessed him to be at least a head taller than myself.

            His most striking feature was his long silky white hair and beard. There was great age in his face, but nothing about him seemed feeble. He reminded me of  Odin, king of  the Norse gods and the father of Thor. Before I could speak Griffin broke the silence.

            "Dad, it's Santa Claus," he gasped. He had given voice to our shared thought. I was just about to rebuff Griff and ask the stranger if he needed some help, but before I could speak the large man began to laugh.

            "Ha-ha-ah-hoah-ha-ha," he laughed and he seemed to put his entire being into the act. It was a deep honest laugh that radiated warmth and wisdom.

            "Oh, Griffin," he began, "I knew you were a true believer. There's something about the eyes."

            He stepped closer and placed his hand on Griffin's shoulder. Griff wore a close-mouthed smile and stared up at the man.

            "How do you know my son's name?" I asked as I stepped in and squared up to the man.

            He laughed again, looked down, and shook his head slightly. When he looked up he turned his arctic blue eyes toward me.

            "Michael," he said to me, "it's time to give in to what you know is true, what you have always known to be true, and speak my name."

            The man then put his bare hand on my shoulder. It was an indefinable moment, but I literally felt his goodness. My eyes began to glisten, my lower lip quivered, and my voice failed me.

            "Dad!" Griffin blurted with emotional urgency. "You know who this is," Griffin accused. "Call him Santa Claus!"

            After letting out a long sigh, I stared at Griffin. He had a pleading look on his face and my need to ease his anxiety gave me the strength to speak.

            "That's just one of his names, Griffin. He has many."

            "Tell him about my names," the old man said softly.

           

            "In America," I continued, "we call him Santa Claus. It's a name that came from the Dutch settlers who called him Sinterklaas. In other parts of Europe he is called Kris Kringle."

            "Does he have more names?" Griffin asked.

            "Yes, he does," I added. "The French call him Pere Noel and the British call him Father Christmas. There are other names all around the world."

            He did not remove his hand from our shoulders and it was as if a goodness continued to radiate from him and I felt even more peaceful.

            "And what name do you call me, Michael?" the old man pressed.

            "We are a Catholic house," I said and I took Griffin's hand in mine. Then, I knelt down before Santa Claus. Griffin followed suit.

            "You are Saint Nicholas," I finally said. "You are the Bishop of Myra and you attended the first Council of Nicaea. It was there you fought and argued with Arius of Egypt."

            "Yes," Santa said with a nod. "Tell us more; teach Griffin more."

            "Santa Claus would never fight someone," Griffin asserted.

            "Your father speaks truly, Griffin," Santa confessed, "but you must understand that nearly 1800 years ago I was not as you see me today. The fight is perhaps a story for another time, but what I fought for matters now."

            "Yes, Santa, you  literally fought to define the Trinity as we now know it and the sovereignty of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Servant King."          

            "You and Griffin have served our Holy King well,"  Santa said and added, "and you must remember that your faith is a journey. We are all travelers on this path and it is seldom a smooth and level one."

            "As an eternal traveler, you would know," I said. "As you are also the patron saint of sailors, travelers, ships and the protector of children."  

            Santa let loose with another powerful laugh and then he spoke to us in a voice that was both commanding and loving.

            "Arise, Griffin Alexander. Arise, Michael Patrick. Stand and join our ancient guild."

            "Uh, Santa," Griffin began and he raised his hand as if he were in school, "what's a guild?"

            Again, his joyous laugh filled our ears. Griffin and I stood up as St. Nicholas placed his hands on each of our hearts. His aura of goodness seemed to warm the wintery air around us. He bowed his head and softly, almost silently, muttered some Latin words. He then raised his head and smiled.

            "The two of you are now members of the Believers' Guild. You have earned this because all of your lives you refused to let me go. Neither of you have ever argued or spoken against my existence. Hundreds of times you have held me in your hearts while you silently and inwardly scoffed at those who doubted. You had inner knowledge that others could not quite grasp  and while you respected their right to disbelieve, you also joyously and righteously  let the mysterious magic of your inner faith warm your hearts. You were right to believe in me. I'm finally here to tell you that."

            "Yes," I said as tears streamed down my face.

            "Uh, excuse me," Griffin said, "but I still don't know what the heck a guild is? Can someone give me a little help here?"

            Saint Nicholas and I both laughed. Griffin began to look a little frustrated.

            "I  hope you're laughing next to me and not at me," Griffin grumbled.

            "Of course that is what we are doing, Griffin," St. Nicholas assured him.

            "It's like a club, Griffin. You know, like when you were in Boy Scouts," I added, "but I have a feeling it's not as well known."

            "That is true," Nicholas told us. "There have been many members. Some of them famous, some of them you know, and there are those that you will come to know in the future."

            "How may we serve you now?" I asked.

            "You may serve in the same way that you have for years," St. Nicholas told us. "Continue to believe and know that you will eventually be contacted by other members of the Guild. For now though, go back into your home, enjoy Christmas day. Live well, laugh often, and love one another."

            He then opened his arms and wrapped them around us. The three of us embraced for what seemed like a long time. Oddly, Griffin and I noticed a musky odor about his jacket. As we parted the old man must have heard us sniff.

            "You smell reindeer," he said with a soft chuckle.

            "Good-bye, Santa," Griffin said.

            It seemed to me that the occasion called for some formality.

            "Farewell, St. Nicholas," I said.

            "Please, call me Nicholas," he said. "You will learn that while the Believers' Guild involves me, it is not totally about me. Good night my sons."

            He turned and walked down the alley. As he passed through a darkened section we lost sight of him. He did not come out the other side.

            Griffin and I went back into our house. As we entered the kitchen, Beth was coming down our back staircase.

            "Have you guys been outside all this time? Aren't you cold?" she asked.

            "No," I said. "We were just enjoying the white Christmas that Griffin had prayed for."

            "Okay," she drawled. "Carson's already asleep and I'm going to bed. Are you coming?"

            "I am, " Griffin said.

            "I'm going to have a drink and look at the tree for a while," I said.

            I kissed Beth good night, opened the fridge and poured myself a cup of Custard Nog. I then sat on the couch and let the lights and music of the season wash over me.

PROLOGUE - Gary's Art

PROLOGUE- Gary's Art

          Writing had always satisfied him. Nick Monroe loved everything about it. The stillness, the solitary silence, the way that his thoughts and words filled a blank page, and the inventive joy that came with creating a story. It eased his spirit. Everyone should be able to do one thing that causes people to say, "You're good at that."

          "Attach and send," he said to himself. Then he smiled.

          He took a long sip of coffee and looked out the window of his apartment. Holiday music came from his radio. Annually, he listened to it from the Friday after Thanksgiving until the evening of December 25th. The early morning snow continued to fall on Boston's Chinatown.  It was the third Saturday in December.

          "Gotta love a Christmas snow," Nick whispered quietly.

          He let his thoughts turn to Charles Dickens, It's a Wonderful Life, and Miracle on 34th Street. His study of the seasonal weather was interrupted by a soft voice. He turned to see his pretty wife standing in the doorway of his writing den. She was holding her own mug of coffee, snugly wrapped in her favorite robe.

          "Is there any thing better than Christmas time?" she asked her husband.

          "Fall is nice," he said, "with the autumn colors and the start of a football season."

          "Don't forget the green of spring," she countered. "New flowers blooming and all that stuff."

          "And the Red Sox take the field," he added.

          "There's also summer," Nick said. "You know, the long days and warm evenings that seem to go on and on."

          "I haven't forgotten," she said.

          "Me neither," Nick said. Waves of recollection ebbed between them.

          "I'm so proud of you, Nick," she said. "My husband, the new columnist for The Boston Globe."

          "Raaaahhh!" Nick joked and waved his hands in the air. "'The crowd goes wild."

          This made his wife laugh and that was another one of his favorite things.

          "And my wife," he replied, "the prettiest art gallery manager in all of 'Bean Town', Massachusetts. Nobody can spot beauty like you can."

          She walked over to his desk. Nick rose to his feet and they hugged each other tightly. He kissed the top of her head.

          She picked up the picture frame from off of his desk and studied it.

          "I spotted you, didn't I?" she said as she gave him another squeeze.

          Together, they gazed at the picture of Nick, his three best friends, his younger brother, and a blonde haired blue-eyed boy with an amazing smile. Carson, Nick's little brother, and a grinning Gary were sandwiched between four high school football players dressed in red and white uniforms. From left to right there was a tall handsome quarterback sporting a #12 jersey, Nick was # 85,  a dark haired square-jawed powerful fullback/strong safety  wore #42, and a very speedy younger player  with sharp features was clad in his #22 jersey. The word CRUSADERS was emblazoned across the chest of each young man.

          "Man, will you look at Gary and Kit?" Nick said.

          "Oh, speaking of the boys, your mom called last night. Their plane is supposed to land at 8:30 tonight. I went ahead and made reservations at Turner's for a late dinner."

          "Best 'chowdah' in town," Nick said in an attempt to disguise his persistent Hoosier drawl with a proper Bostonian accent.

          "They aren't really boys any more," he said reflectively.

          "In my mind's eye," she began, "they'll always be boys."

          "You're right," Nick concurred. "I guess I wouldn't call Carson 'Kit' if I thought of him any other way."

          Nick wore a pensive expression. He began to let his mind time-trip back to a cool spring day when he was in the 11th grade.

          "Tell me again, Nick," she said, "about that first time you met Gary. Do you remember the day?"

          "As if it happened an hour ago," he said to her

          "The guys and I were stuck in the 'Dungeon' on a cool spring day…" Nick began.

         

Dark Days & Definition of Self

      My good and late friend, the Dr. Reverend Roger Dean once shared a wise observation with me.

"I've often noticed that some of the funniest people I've met are also the saddest," He said to me. Not only was he speaking rhetorically, but he was speaking directly to me. This was a long time ago and I was shocked to know that he could see into me the way that he had.

     I apologize that this post is not going to be very upbeat and if I sound sad and self-pitying. I hope you  can forgive me. I've been in a real funk lately for various reasons. I won't go into specifics, but the reasons relate to things done to me and even more so the horrible way I've recently treated some loved ones. I seek to forgive, to be forgiven, and to forgive myself.

       It has been one of those periods when I don't feel worthy of the devotion that my dog gives me. I feel like a big question mark. Our choices and our actions define us and lately mine have caused me shame. I've always tried to think that I'm not as bad as my worse day and not quite as good as my best one. In sum, I'm in search of better days.

      I just read about St. Thomas--the famous "Doubting Thomas" of the Bible.  This is an excerpt of what I read:

For some of us, the first and only thing we remember about him is his statement: “Unless I see … I will not believe” (John 20:25). But earlier on, when Jesus told the Twelve that he was going back to a hostile Judea to help his friend Lazarus, Thomas rallied the other disciples to join him. “Let us also go to die with him” (11:16), he said. So maybe there’s more to Thomas than doubt.

      If a saint can be more than what he is most known for then maybe there's hope for me. I also heard a priest compare St. Thomas to Bill Buckner. He was a professional baseball player that had a fantastic 22 year career, but sadly he is most remembered for an error he made in the 1986 World Series. This made me think of Jackie Smith, the Hall of Fame/All-Pro tight-end. He was one of the best ever to play the position, but he's most remembered for dropping a pass against the Pittsburgh Steelers in the Super Bowl.

     These little anecdotes should give me a glimmer of hope, but I still feel pretty hollowed out. Again, I feel the need to apologize if I sound pathetic, but writing has often served as a catharsis for me. I don't mean to seek out drama or any one's pity. Be assured that my family and I are well, but I could probably use any spare prayers or good thoughts you might not be using. Please forgive one last stupidly obvious question.

     

      Have any of you ever felt like this?

     

"Brief Encounters & the Quality of Friendship"

        I went to a funeral the other day. A friend of mine lost his father. This friend is someone that I don't see as often as I would like to, but when I do see him there is this strong sense of fellowship. We had worked together at the Speedway Parks Department--one of the best jobs ever.
      His father was a good man. He was an artist, he had been a marine, he was a good father, a good grandfather, and a good husband. He lived well and I'm quite sure that I'm not the only person that had a deep sense of respect for him. His name was John and I can honestly say that I don't know that I've ever met or will ever meet anyone that I enjoyed talking with more than him. He had the gift of talking to you and making you feel like you were the only person in the world. I think I only had 6 to 10 extended conversations with John, but I will treasure each one and the imprint he left upon me.

     Ask yourself this, "How many people like 'John' have I known?" I'll bet you've known quite a few.  I have also been blessed with a good number of friends, but I want to distinguish between life-long friends and people like John.

      If you think about it, it's very difficult to define the quality of friendship. In the case of many friends the quantity of years and shared history both serve to define that friendship, but in the case of people like John it seems to me that quality is more of a factor.

     For me, the diversity of my brief encounters is far-ranging and eclectic. This is one of those topics that I could ramble on about for days, but for the sake of this blog I have chosen to focus on three areas:

   Mentors & Teachers/Coaches

      These are people that occupy our lives for just a brief amount of time. Teachers alone can have a huge influence. It's funny to me that at one time a school year, a semester or a grading period seemed to go on forever. After about 20 years of teaching and as I close in on the age of 50 it's clear that my youthful perception of time was slightly askew. Every thing is relative.

       Teachers and mentors are people that took the time to care and to see qualities in us that we either could not see or didnt' care about at the time. The ones that pushed us and challenged us. They dared us not to quit on ourselves and taught us to ignore our limitations. Their efforts taught us that the majority of challenges and barriers we would face were psychological.

         Sadly, some of them are no longer with us, but that is what characterizes a true mentor or teacher. Their impact resonates long after they step out of our lives and into somebody else's. If there is any immortality on Earth, it lies there.

    Kitchen Table Conversations

         There is a little overlap here as far as mentors go. The people I'm thinking of here are mostly parents of friends and relatives of friends. Honesty is what I remember most about the conversations I've had while sitting at someone's kitchen table or counter top.

          I can remember talks in which I was praised and chastised by people who cared enough to go beyond telling me not just what I wanted to hear, but they caringly and courageously  told me what I needed to hear. These were conversations that taught me about life and character. I learned ideas and concepts that have been so valuable that saying thanks is so woefully inadequate that I will have to settle for doing my best to "pay it forward."

   The Trappings of Youth & Nostalgia

       I think we have a tendency to maintain some friendly acquaintances because we forged  them when life was (or at least seemed) fairly simple. This is part of the benefit and the danger of facebook and other forms of social media. There are studies that suggest that 1 in 5 divorces can be attributed to some form of social media. I'm sorry to say that while I don't doubt that, I also think that a friendship or acquaintance from our younger days can still be treasured for whatever joy it gave us at that time. We should be grateful for those happy and romantic snapshots from our angst-ridden adolescence.

        It's okay to look back on those awkward days and remember the way that person could make you smile. We can think of those times, sans any pain or drama, and be grateful for the bittersweet experiences that we thought would bring our lives to a crashing halt. Another valuable life lesson I learned from my teen years was that, "life goes on."

       Teammates, classmates, and first dates all made my youth worthwhile. I still have many friends from those aspects of my life. People that I played sports with that were younger than me and older than me, the people that I met in my classes that I didn't know very well previously, and the girls that were nice enough to go to movies with me can all be numbered among my "brief encounters." I'm grateful for all of them.

          The following is an excerpt from a poem by W.H. Auden:

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

     I would like to dedicate this blog to John Hodgin and all the other wonderful brief encounters of my life.



     In Memory of John

    

"14 Years in a Moment"

     Nearly all of my adult life I have been an Indianapolis Colts fan. For me and for many, today was a day for wistful reflection. Five For Fighting's song "100 Yeas" seems very applicable. I kept thinking of it as I watched Peyton Manning's press conference covering his tearful departure from the Colts. "All good things..," they say.

    In 1984, the Colts came to Indianapolis. It was thrilling. The NFL had come to my town. I was 20 in that moment and brimming with optimism.The then Hoosier Dome resembled a big Jiffy Pop and the bright green astro turf glowed with the promise of a bright future--it's hard for me not to be cliche' about this. 

     It didn't take long for reality to rear its ugly head. The Colts struggled for what seemed like a long time. Three years later, in 1987 they actually made it to the playoffs, just as they did in 1995, 1996--the year they made it to the AFC Championship and one play away from the Super Bowl. I saw the best of times and the worst of times.
    The thing that I remember most about those early years were the games the Colts played in during their time in the AFC East Division. I remember watching games with the Dolphins and the Bills. It seemed like there were a number of games that the Colts could have won, but unfortunately Dan Marino or Jim Kelly would trot onto the field and crush my hopes of a victory.
    Then in 1998, we drafted one of those guys that trots onto a field and breaks the hearts of opposing teams and their fans. Not only does Peyton rank up there with Kelly and Marino, but he has  surpassed them. He will be in the Hall of Fame just like they are, but they won't have four MVP awards and a Super Bowl ring. That's how I will remember Peyton. He was like some Greek hero that could snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. I will think of the 2003 Monday Night game in Tampa Bay-a harbinger of things to come, the 2006 AFC Championship victory over the despised Patriots, and the decisive Super Bowl victory over the Bears.
    I feel that I owe Peyton and his teammates for that Super Bowl win. I waited 23 years for it. It was worth the wait. There aren't too many things in life that can make you feel that way. In fact, I can't think of a single thing in life outside of the birth of my children that comes close.That feeling actually helped me through the Colts Super Bowl loss to the Saints. I thought to myself, "Drew Brees has the heart of a lion and he played like...well, Peyton Manning."

"Daydream Believers & Guilty Pleasures"

     When I was growing up, "Daydream Believer" was just one of my favorite 'guilty pleasures' and I had a lot of them. It always struck me as an upbeat song about hope and happiness. I have to say I was sad to hear about Davy Jones. I always liked "The Monkees" and what Gen X member doesn't remember Davy coming to Marsha's rescue on "The Brady Bunch" ?
     As more of the actors, singers, and various artists from my youth pass on, I do feel a bit of sadness mixed with the realization that I'm getting older. I hear there's a lot of that going around.
     The one upside of getting older is that we really don't have to feel all that guilty about our favorite guilty pleasures. When I was younger I can remember saying, " I don't care what people think." I hear kids say that today. Me thinks I did protest too much. I did care what people thought back in the day just as kids do today. It seems like I can say that with more honesty as I close in on the big FIVE-O--but there are still occasions when I say it and it's just as much a lie now as it was when I was 17.
     The wisdom and shared experience of old age have helped me to see that I wasn't all that weird for liking the movie Grease or comic books or even cartoons. I've learned that many of my friends and peers felt just as I did. Geekness shared is geekness treasured.
       I just found out that my crown jewel of guilty pleasures has been a Broadway musical since 2007. I'm talking about Xanadu. I can't even tell you how many times I've been channel surfing and come across it and watched it. I'm sure I've DVRed it a half dozen times as well.
       It's awful and I usually wonder why Gene Kelly even considered being in it. I almost feel sorry for him as I watch it. It's hard to tell if the writing is worse than the acting or maybe they complement each other in such a horrible way that I have a hard time looking away.
     On the plus side, this film, that is probably considered among the worst of 1980, has 3 things going for it--Olivia Newton John, Olivia Newton John, and Olivia Newton John.
       Farrah did it for other guys, but I liked that blond Australian girl from next door. I liked her so much that I even like Twist of Fate-- another abysmal film, that's not quite as deliciously dreadful as Xanadu, but it's redeemingly revolting in its own right.
       Another reason to love Xanadu is the Electric Light Orchestra. They had a sound that was all their own. I'm honestly not sure if I like the music just because it's ELO or it's just so deliciously cheesy. You've got "Don't Walk Away", "I'm Alive", "Magic", and that dreadful finale number with the roller disco stuff, zoot suits, and God knows what. Could it be more gaudy? I love it.
     So, what are your guilty pleasures? I say we should proudly proclaim them for the execrable enjoyment they give us. I also think they're called pleasures because it's always selfishly pleasing to remember our youthful days. Thanks for stopping by.

"Behold My Son for He Makes All Things New"

      I have been blessed way more than I deserve and the greatest amongst my blessings is family. During a class discussion one of my students asked me, "Do parents love their children equally?"

     He further qualified his question by  (more or less) saying, "I think parents are lying when they say they love their children equally."

      I told him, "I think there's a lot of truth to that. I have three children and I don't love them all the same. They are each different and so is my relationship with them."

     I could easily write several blogs about each of my children and that is what I plan to do in the future. This blog will focus on my oldest son, Griffin.

     Griffin is 15 years old and he has autism. Roughly put, Autism is a neurological disorder that affects the development of a person's ability to communicate, to interact with others, and to socialize.

      A number of sensory integration issues can also accompany autism. For example, Griffin recently told us that the sound of hands on paper or turning pages in a book hurts his teeth. When he was younger, he could not stand the sound of a room full of people singing "Happy Birthday." I've always thought there was a droning quality to that song. One last example, did you know that fluorescent lighting makes a sound? It's a sound that often annoys autistic children.

            As noted above, autism can make life difficult and I want to make sure it's clear that there are thousands of people out there that have it a lot tougher than us. Keep up your efforts. You are in my thoughts and prayers.

      Like them, we've had many challenging days with Griffin. Meltdowns, the cruelty of other kids, and exclusion from Birthday parties have all been sources of sadness  and tears.     

     But this writing is not about the symptoms, challenges, and hardships of dealing with autism on a daily basis. It is about a boy with autism that right now is probably a better human being than his father will ever be. Self-improvement is a constant challenge for me, but an even greater challenge will be keeping this blog brief. It's quite easy for me to talk about Griffin, so feel free to ask any thing about him. The following are just a few of my favorite things about Griffin or Griff as I like to call him.

Mornings

      Griffin wakes up in a good mood every day. How many people do you know like that? He sometimes forgets that he is now 15 and he wants to snuggle with his mom or sit on my lap.
       "I am loveable," Griffin likes to remind us.

       Like most adults, my mornings are hectic and I'm rushing around thinking about all the things I have to to do as well as the things I didn't accomplish the night before. In short, I'm thinking about everything, but where I am, who is around me, and how I can  be a better father. Just when I'm about to go from moderate to meltdown stress level, Griff makes things clear.

      "Come on, Dad, be silly with me," he says.

      I'm ashamed to say that many times, I told Griffin that I was too busy or I don't have time to be 'silly' now. The fact is that none of the things I'm stressing over are that important. I mean, I'm not a CEO or a neurosurgeon. I'm a high school English teacher and I know there are a number of ways I could be better at my job. Being a better person is not the least of those. That's where Griff comes in. He helps me to be a better peson.
       There is a profound simplicity to the way he views the world and he has the emotional integrity of a saint. He also has a good heart and he cares about others. If he thinks he has done something wrong, he will apologize repeatedly. There is very little deceit in Griffin. He seldom lies. One night, Griff was in his room and I called out, "Are you asleep, Griffin?"

      "Yes," he said. He wasn't lying. He was just telling me what he thought I wanted to hear. There will always be issues with Griff, but I don't have to worry about his humanity. It is hard-wired into him.

Faith

       If Griff believes in something he takes it all the way. Religion is just one component to his faith. Every time we sit down to dinner Griffin will remind us to say our prayer. He also prays every night before going to sleep. He says pretty much the exact same prayer  every time, but I think God appreciates his consistency. There are a few occasional add-ons. Every December he prays, "Please, God, let there be a white Christmas, not a wet Christmas."
        Any family member or close friend that's troubled in any way or ill, is mentioned in Griffin's evening prayer. His weather petitions are sometimes self-serving, but I figure it's always good to keep that channel open.
        Griff loves Christmas and he thinks people that don't buy into Santa Claus are just about as wrong as they can  be. Beth sometimes worries about kids teasing him and it's a fair point. That being said, he gets my full support on his belief in Santa. I feel that there are things  in this world that can't be proven with 100 percent certainty one way or another. Santa Claus being among the most prominent.
       One of my favorite movies that most people have never heard of is Secondhand Lions. There is a scene that involves the great Robert Duvall giving some life advice to a young man. He says in his best Texas drawl, "Don't matter if it's true or not. If you wanna believe in it, then by God! Believe in it!" I've conveyed this to Griffin on more than one occasion.
Life Lessons and Perspective
       Griffin has obviously taught me a great deal about life--probably even more than the movies. He respects nature and wildlife. He really sees the beauty in animals.
       A couple of summers back I was cutting the grass when I found a dead Cooper's Hawk in our side yard. It was in almost perfect shape, except it was dead missing one of its eyes. I called Griffin out of the house because he was into birds of prey at that time. He came out and recognized it right away. I asked him to go and get a trash bag so we could get rid of it. He looked at me with his blue eyes and I knew what he was thinking. Something along the lines of, "That's messed up, Dad. You don't throw away a hawk."
       Man, was he ever right. I quickly back-pedaled and said, "Or you could get a shovel and we can bury him. That's what we did. Griffin and I buried the hawk then said the Our Father/Lord's Prayer. We closed or impromptu funeral service with a couple verses from "On Eagle's Wings." Talk about time well spent. Every time I see a flying hawk I think of that Hawk and Griffin. Griff reminded me of what I already knew. A hawk is one of those magnificent creatures that we can look at and say to ourselves, "God sure got that one right." The platypus, not so much.
       I could go on, but sometimes a writer reaches a point where he or she should just stop--forgive me if I went way past it. Perhaps, the greatest compliment I ever received came from my old friend and teammate, Jeff Smith. A number of families were spending the weekend at Tim Chaplin's place on Lake Freeman. I made a comment about Griffin, I don't remember what I said, but I will always remember what Jeff said.
      "You're good with him," he said. Words to live by.


P.S. I have attached a link to an article that was in The Indianapolis Star yesterday. It's about a book written by our friend Jane Webb and illustrated by Griffin Nickels. They have a book signing tomorrow (2/25). Forgive us for being a little proud and excited around here. Star article

  

    

    

"My Hound"

     Pet owners are usually categorized as either dog people or cat people. I had thoroughly convinced myself that I was content being neither one. Life is like that, just when you're used to one way of viewing the world a change-up pitch is sure to come at you.

     Six years ago this past October my family and I moved to Noblesville, Indiana. It's about 17 miles northeast of Indianapolis. It has been a good move. One of the first improvements we made on our home was to fence in our backyard. Shortly after we moved here, we decided that our boys were at the right age for a dog. Actually, I have that backwards. We obtained our dog and then we fenced in our yard. This was an early indication of just how much influence this new pet was going to have on our lives; both economically and emotionally.

      My wife and I mulled the idea over for a few days. I had told Beth that when I was little my family had a Basset hound named Mortimer--we called him Mort. Sadly, when I was younger, I suffered from allergies and we were forced to get rid of Mort.

        It's still a mystery to me, but somehow, my choice was honored--this mystery haunts my wife to this day. One February morning, Beth checked out the Indy Star's online classified section. We found a Basset hound at a cost that we thought reasonable. Later that day, we were on our way to Bargersville, Indiana to pick up our new puppy. Even though I think of Beth and myself  as relatively intelligent people, we often tend to be impulse buyers.

      I hate to be cliche', but it was love at first sight. Mort wasn't like most other Basset hounds. He was white with tan markings. Most Bassets tend to have three colors--usually brown, black and white. His ears were, and still are, not as big and floppy as other Bassets. He was not as long as most either. People would often ask us if he was a beagle. Like I said, we all fell in love with him instantly. It was a brief, but blissful honeymoon.

     The first year and a half were a bit rough. Barking, night whining, chewing, and house breaking were trying times, but we survived. Surprisingly, Mort survived it too. His early escapades were not as cinematic or destructive as depicted in Marley and Me; although there is a very funny incident involving three dozen chocolate chip cookies that were intended for my youngest son's classroom party on the last day before Christmas Break. I think I'll save that for another blog.  As I was saying, we all saw Marley and Me. The timing of it definitely worked in Mort's favor.

     Speaking of movies, here comes a plot twist. Mort was intended to be a pet for our sons, but that's no longer the case. He's  all mine. Mort is, as I often call him, "my hound."

        The boys love him and Griffin feeds him his evening meal, but he and I are buddies to the end. People that know me can tell  you that I'm a total geek for movie lines. I use them to greet Mort in the mornings and when I come home in the eveninngs. These are just a few of my favorites along with the movies they come from:

•  "I see you, Mort." -Avatar
• "Did you bark at any body today?" -Rocky II
• "You can say what you like about my wife and kids, but I'm going to have to ask you not to talk about my dog."- a paraphrase from Hidalgo

     Winston Churchill said, "There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man." I think that reflects how I feel about Mort. I'm often the first one up and the last one to go to bed. Mort is usually there to keep me company. He's not much for conversation, but he makes up for it by being a hell of  a listener.

      Occasionally, I feel bad because I sometimes think that  Mort deserves a better owner. I could be  much more attentive. He deserves to go on more walks. I often scold him when he is under foot and nearly causes me to trip. Think about this. Is there any other creature that you can put in a cage for 8 or 10 hours and when you let him out he is thrilled to see you?

     I try to make up for it in other ways. Mort never gets into our bed when we go to sleep, but most mornings he wakes up there. This usually occurs in the wee hours of the night after Mort has woken me so that I can let him out. I know his unconditional love and loyalty deserve more, but I think he knows how I feel about him.

       To be clear, I am not one of those that look upon their pet as a person, but he is a true companion. It's also very hard to deny the strong resemblance. By the way, "Mortimer" is an Old French word for "still water." It seems to fit.

      Thanks for your time and please visit again.

      

Valentine's Day-REALLY?!?

        I'm going to apologize right up front, because I'm quite sure I'm going to offend some of you. Tomorrow is the crown prince of silly-assed holidays. Sure it's fun if you're under the age of 10, but do we really need this special day for romance and chocolate. By the way, I like chocolate. I like it a lot. Why not show a bit more love the other 364 days of the year? I know I sound cynical, grouchy, and jaded, but I refuse to participate in this absurd excuse to pad Hallmark's profit margin.

       Now, before you blast me you should know that my lovely wife, Beth, is fine with this boycott. She will not put my aggressive zeal into it, but she is fine with treating it just like any other day. Let me replay a conversation from Sunday:

      "Hey, Beth."

      "Yeah, Mike."

      "We're not doing any thing for Valentines Day are we?"

      "No."

      "Good."

    

      If I bought one of those "as seen on TV" 6' teddy bears, my pretty wife would take it out of the box and beat me to death for wasting our money. I'm also quite sure a pajama-gram would not suddenly turn a Tuesday evening into Saturday night. 

    Our sons are 11 and 15, but when they were younger we would have something special for them on Valentine's Day and buy the little cards for their classroom exchanges and that was all well and good.

     My problem lies with those that make over it and expect something romantic from their significant other. I've worked with people like this--the majority of them are women. Shame on their husbands for indulging in it. These are the same people that watch The Bachelor & The Bachelorette. I'm sorry, but watching those shows has to be the greatest waste of time ever conceived of. And believe me, I know how to waste time with the best of them.

     People that get wrapped up in The Bachelor/Bachelorette craze and Hallmark's TV commercials should really check themselves. I don't remember where I heard it, but a wise man once said, "These are the people that took their favorite songs in high school way too seriously." The kind of person that uses the word "soulmate" in a sentence and somehow keeps a straight face.

      Now, before you pigeonhole me as one of those selfish moronic husbands that our sit-com culture has created, let me be clear. I do not hate romance. I think romance is fine. I've enjoyed several romantic comedies with my wife. Most recently, we watched a very good one called Midnight in Paris.  It was intelligently written and taylor made for English teachers. It wasn't just a good romantic comedy. It was a very good movie.

      When I proposed to my wife I quoted Robert Browning as follows:

Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made.

       She said, "Yes," by the way.

       To me the thought above is romantic. Having a partner in your life and being devoted to them is romantic. Canandian geese and wolves that mate for life are romantic--ideally with their respective species, but I have nothing against mixed marriage. Raising decent human beings together is romantic. Women that cry while watching The Bachelor or The Bachelorette ARE NOT romantic. A guy that proposes on the jumbotron at a major sporting event IS NOT romantic, however he does need somebody to take the business end of a baseball bat upside his head.

          Just to show you that I'm not a total hater, let me wish you a happy Valentine's Day. If you want to take your significant other out to dinner or do something special for them, please do so. God bless you and pay your bills. Yes, it's okay to be romantic. Just don't be a sellout or a cliche' about it.

     

Word Choice: To Be Condescending or To Be Eloquent?

      In my previous blog I had mentioned that while writing for professors in college I developed the habit of trying to write and express myself in a way that would impress my instructors--much to the chagrin of my present day students. I sometimes offer the excuse that using "big words" makes my parents happy and that I don't want them to think they wasted their money during the 7 or 8 years I spent in my scholarly pursuits. At the time, I wanted to sound like I knew what I was talking about and it worked most of the time, although it was occasionally pretty high on the BS meter. My wife told me that I should avoid trying to use words that people would have to look up. I agree to a certain extent, but there are times when every day words are ... well, insufficient.

      I'm reminded of  questions I  hear from my senior students when we are reading Hamlet:

• "Why do we have to read this?"
• "Why can't they just talk normally?"
• "When are we going to use this?"
• "Is there going to be a test on this?"

       I think they are just as frustrated with my answers as I am with their questions. Some of my responses are:

• "We study Shakespeare not because it is easy, but because it is hard."
• "You guys do realize they're speaking English, right?"
• "You have been hearing and quoting Shakespeare your entire lives."
• "Yes."

       You can almost hear the stereophonic groans now. I also try to explain to them that Shakespeare is called the father of English literature because he used the English language to explore the human condition and psyche as no one had before. The groans continue, but I usually win a few over by telling them some of the every day words that are often attributed to Shakespeare:

• household words
• eyeball, eye drops, eyesore
• hot-blooded/cold-blooded
• on purpose
• watchdog
• puking

       Eventually most of them concede that "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers..." just sounds better than "us guys."

       Alas, I digress just a little bit, but it suffices to say that the English language and the American lexicon are  rich, alive, and wonderfully complicated. There is always room for both the complex and the common.

      I should stress that while I strive to write as an eloquent intellectual, I also abhor pretentious pedants and their tedious talk, although I am a fan of alliteration.

      When writing, word choice is often determined by audience and conversational context. Believe it or not the discussions I have with my English department colleagues are quite different from those I have with a bunch of guys in McGillvery's Pub that have known me for about thirty years.

      Yes, I'm a little biased toward 'high-falutin' words and with all due respect to my beautiful bride,  sometimes word choice can be just as much about variety and sound as it is about conciseness and clarity. I am just trying to be true to what I perceive as my voice. "To thine own self be true," Polonius (from Hamlet) said--it's worth noting that he was a political buffoon that talked so much he got stabbed to death.

      So if you find my voice and/or word choice condescending or obnoxious please feel free to let me know. I may or may not agree with you, but I'm sure I would enjoy hearing from you in either case. Thanks for indulging me to the end.

A Leap of Faith

       I have decided to join the digital age of creative writing. This is my first blog and I apologize to any one kind enough to take the time to read it. It will be somewhat stream of consciousness.  I am an English teacher by profession and a writer in my dreams. Writing is one of the things I truly enjoy. It is a creative outlet and I made a New Year's resolution to do more of it. Like the cliche goes, "A writer writes."

      It's fair to assume that means every day--we know what happens when we "assume." Perhaps this endeavor will help me develop the good habit of writing daily. I have a lot of mixed feelings and inner questions  about this. Am I being arrogant or narcissistic? Who am I to think I have something worth saying or that whatever it is is worth reading? Is my inferiority complex showing?

     For what it's worth, I'm not a total stranger to writing. In fact, I think I'm much better at writing than I am at teaching people about writing. I was published in college once. I wrote an essay that was published in a school literary magazine. My wife and I were planning our wedding at the time so I wrote an essay from the groom-to-be's perspective. I dig it out once in a while and it seems verbose and sappy to me. I'm still trying to break the habit of trying to impress college professors with my writing and word choice. I know my students find it annoying.

        I've also written some short stories that I've read to my family members during the Christmas season. The story started out as hackneyed version of Dr. Seuss meets "Twas the Night Before Christmas." It  was a way to chronicle the yearly events of every one's lives, but now that people are getting older the format doesn't seem to work as well. Like every other frustrated and lazy writer I have a story/novel I'm working on as well. I almost never refer to it as a "book" because it's not one of those until someone publishes it and Steven Spielberg's people contact me about the movie rights.

      I'm not sure about how to frame or classify my blog. I was told not to have too narrow a theme and that sounds good to me.  Suggestions and a little constructive criticism are welcome. If you read this whole thing, I thank you. Was it too long?