I haven’t written much on the blog this summer and tonight, the psych 101 revelation dawned on me as to why that is. I say ‘dawned’ but that sounds like I’m chanting in the lotus position when things just ‘dawn on me.’

No, no.

Let me be clear. I was whining on the phone to Ann, which is how most of my personal revelations begin:  me whining.

Ann was patient, of course.

Tonight’s whine wandered into me not writing anything new lately, barely blogging. While I’m never sure how many friends read this website, once in a while someone will call, worried, and say, ‘What’s up? No blog entries.’ So I do try to update the content every now and then, to say ‘Still trying to figure things out over here. You?’

Ann asked me what I last wrote and then WHAM I experienced this dawning:  my father’s eulogy was the last thing I posted on the Warrior page. I realized that if I wrote something new, his eulogy would get bumped lower. Be less recent.

This is one of those ‘moving on’ moments that seem so obvious when you read about them in grief brochures (doctor’s office waiting room). But then it’s happening to you and it’s like, oh. Right. This is lifelong grief.

If I write something new, it would push his eulogy lower.

Got it.

I miss my dad.

I hate this death situation we all get to share. I would really like to know, how the fucking hell people just smile and nod when one of the most awesomest men you’ve ever met just leaves? Just fucking leaves? Which now means that many of my Minnesota friends reading this will never meet him. Ever.

My goddaughters never met him. Never will.

How can I make them understand that part of the love I have for them is what he shared with me?

Dammit, I need to talk to my dad because I want to ask his advice on this hard life stuff. But I am still very uncomfortable with prayer and I have to get over that, like now, because I think he went into the Catholic heaven and that’s how you reach people up there. You drop on your temporarily-Catholic knees and pray to God Almighty to love your dad and give him a hug that he knows is from me.

It hurts.

It hurts.

On the plus side, I was afraid my relationship with my dad would end when he died, and it didn’t, so that’s a relief. I still talk to him every day, a half-dozen times in my head, telling him to quit giving me his stupid advice and then the next minute saying, “I dunno, Pops. What do you think about this?”

That’s cool.

Every memory is now gently perfect, even the painful ones. We could both be difficult, so some of our memories together just suck. I have a moment from when I was 13 and he would not let me buy a skateboard. I am not trying to be cute – that fight agonizes me to this day. I was a teenage douchebag.

But I can relive memories like these easier now, because I know how this father/son thing ends for us. My father thought I “was a pleasure,” and I loved him on his deathbed. So the painful memories hurt, and suck, but they are softer. We did alright, me and Dad.

Yes, we had our shit. We didn’t resolve it all. But we did alright.

In fact, the only thing that could disrupt our relationship now is new information, like that he had a secret Canadian family.

Oh god, Dad, please don’t let it be revealed that you had a secret family in Canada, who you went to visit all those times when you we thought you were sneaking cigarettes in the garage. I don’t want a half-Canadian sister named “Irene.”

I think we’re okay on that front, though. I think he spent all his ‘secret Canadian family time’ being exhausted off his ass with his three jobs, four kids, football coaching, church involvements, extended family, etc.

Ugh. Irene.

One of my real sisters is named Eileen and since Canadian Irene would be quite a bit younger, that means we were the preferred family and they were all named in loving imitation. How awkward for them. There would be this Canadian 32-year-old named Stedman and I would hate his guts.

(Don’t worry, I’m just giving you shit, Pops.)

But I think I’m supposed to write about some other stuff now.

Might be time.

I recently faced a difficult crossroad about this upcoming weekend. My men’s group, New Warriors, are hosting another incredible New Warrior Training Adventure. I’ve written about this experience many times before; check the archives. I need to breathe in the power of these men and in their presence breathe out some of my own unique giftedness.

Sometimes, staffing is like that one time with my Dad when I chipped off the baby angel’s toe from the church’s nativity scene, in that I get yelled at for something by a guy who loves me enough to be angry and he is unafraid to show it.

But wait.

This same weekend, my father is being honored in Illinois by his high school alma mater. As a student, Dad did crazy shit with football, broke track records and was damn good at basketball, I am told. Decades later, he coached the St. Ed track athletes who broke his same records. What kind of man coaches the next generation to be their best, even if it means surpassing what he has accomplished? He coached them on how to beat his records.

This Saturday night during a home football game, he’s being inducted into their Hall of Fame. There will be a ceremony where my mom and siblings walk out on the field.

I can’t believe I was forced to choose between the NWTA (which happens twice a year and I missed the Spring one) and an out-of-state football ceremony where we all get to love my dad in public, so big, so big.

Though I decided to remain on our NWTA staff, I still agonize over this decision a few times a day. I pray to Almighty God on how to best love my Pops. Will he think I love him less if I do not attend the halftime ceremony? But I think this might be my way to honor you, Dad, to love other men who need to experience what it means to be loved with strength.

I won’t ever stop mourning you and asking for advice, then gritting my teeth and asking you to kindly butt out. Don’t go too far.

Anyway, it’s late. We’ll chat more tomorrow. I know that now.

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This is the eulogy I spoke for my dad a week ago at his church funeral.

***

A few years ago, while at my parents house for the weekend, mom fixed a summer’s dinner feast and served it in the gorgeous sun room my parents built off our childhood home. The setting sun was golden, all the neighbors lawns glowed lush green. We smelled fresh-cut grass and felt the cool breeze through the screens. As we dished up, mom said to my three siblings and I, “Dad wants to talk to you about something.”

She turned to him and said, “Dad?”

It’s never a good sign when mom queues up dad for a talk.

We paused while dad cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, well-recognized signs of a pronouncement.

He said, “The other night when Mom and I were doing this dishes we noticed three pieces of our everyday silverware were missing. Specifically, a fork and two spoons. We we think one of you kids stole them.”

We looked to mom and with the hint of a smile she said, “Actually, two forks and a knife.”

This is how it goes in our family.

I immediately accused my sister Eileen, insisting that she has always had those beady, criminal eyes. Eileen accused our older sister, recounting how Andrea had the perfect opportunity the previous weekend. Mom smiled sweetly to me and said, “It’s hard to trust a Minnesotian.”

While we made more unjust accusations, our younger brother Matt – perhaps the best among us – calculated the price of the missing silverware to be roughly $1.47, so he took two bucks from his wallet and slapped it on the table, saying he would gladly pay for replacements if it would stop our parents baseless accusations. To the rest of us, this looked suspiciously like admission of guilt and we let him know it.

(Later that evening, we discovered the missing silverware between couch cushions, but that’s not the point.)

Our parents never stopped playing with us.

After almost four decades of their kids, they still delighted in us. They never stopped enjoying being our mom and dad. The Easter Bunny still comes every year, as does Santa. Part of our family’s playfulness was dad’s outrageousness.

If you knew my dad for more than 10 minutes, then he may have accused you of something insane or made some absurd comment designed to make your eyes pop open and your jaw drop. Mom frequently would gasp at his inappropriateness and say, “Joe, why on earth would you say that?” But she loved his humor. Although she never knew what he was going to say next, she was still always in on the joke.

Once you got past the shock value, you realized his humor was not unkind.

He did not find racist jokes funny, and he did not enjoy humor that intended to put people down. He refused to gossip and speak ill of others. There was no joy in that and he preferred joyful laughter. If anyone was made the butt of his humor, it was he himself. His humor reflected his personality: gentle, compassionate, humble.

And yes, a little off-kilter.

As my high school English teacher, he introduced The Bridge of San Luis Rey to our junior year World Literature class by cocking his head and saying, “And now, we begin a heartwarming tale about five people who plunge to their deaths when an ancient rope bridge in Peru collapses. Yes, a beautiful, beautiful story.”

I remember some of us giving each other askew glances. Beautiful?

When he retired after 34 years of teaching English and Latin, he reread all the literature he had taught. When he was diagnosed with cancer, he read many of those books again and at last I understood why he taught the same classics year after year: he loved them, and he wanted his students to love them too, to see their off-kilter beauty as he did.

He loved teaching. He gleefully regaled students with tales of the Proto-Indo-European Language theory and would feign deep shock and surprise when we did not share his glee. Despite his sometimes obvious frustration at the inability conjugate Latin verbs (and yes, he got a little growly with us from time to time), despite that,he forgave our shortcomings on a daily basis.

In the reception line last night, I heard from one of his former students, “He was tough and never let me get away with the foolishness I tried to get away with. But he remained one of the best teachers I ever had.” He took great pleasure in hearing in hearing from former students long after they graduated. He sometimes used their update letters as bookmarks.

And there was a special place in his heart for the high school football players whom he coached. Dad’s face would light up when he talked about boys he watched turn into confident young men, and when he would relive their stories, he never talked about their stats or number of games won but about their courage, their endurance. He marveled at their strength to get back up.

When he was a high school student himself, dad broke records at St. Ed’s, and went to Loras college his first two years on a football scholarship, but rarely talked about his glory days. He preferred to reminisce about the men who brought joy to his love of football. He was deeply honored when former players became lifelong friends.

Despite the fact that he loved coaching, reading Shakespeare for fun, and agonizing over each Cubs, Bears, and Bulls game, I honestly believe that he would prefer to be remembered for two things primarily, the first being that he was a Christian.

He loved God.

He loved Jesus Christ.

He and mom prayed the rosary every single day. Dad loved the life they made for themselves in this faith community, and though I live out of state, I’d have to say that I met most of their prayer group and the morning mass crowd through our extended phone calls. Mom and dad would take turns telling me about how these friends had touched their hearts. The Monday coffer countings, the weekend retreats, what Father Steve said, who was at mass on different week days and what new horrible thing dad said to make everyone laugh.

Dad studied in seminary and although he did not take final vows, it sometimes seems like he did. Church was not just a Sunday pre-game show. He was a Catholic who eagerly loved many facets of his faith. When the going got tough, he prayed.

I think the second way he would very much want to be remembered is as Peggy’s husband.

When I was 11, we vacationed to South Dakota to visit Mt. Rushmore and see the legendary corn palace. In the Keystone motel at the base of Mt. Rushmore, Matt and I shared a double-bed in the same room with mom and dad. Andrea and Eileen slept next door with Dad’s great card playing companion, our mom’s mom, Mabel Hemmer. Dad didn’t just like his mother-in-law, they were great friends.

That night, I secretly stayed up late and furtively watched the 10:00 news, the defiant gesture of a soon-to-be teenager. After the news and nightly prayers, they turned out the room lights and after a few moments of stillness I heard mom say softly, “I love you, Joe.”

And he replied, “I love you, Peggy.”

And I remember thinking, “Ewwwww.”

C’mon. I was 11.

But that moment stayed with me, and as I matured, I came to realize what they were really saying. They were well past the blush of newlywed years. Something tells me after traveling across a few states with four young kids hopped up on fast food and manically fixated on getting to the next motel swimming pool, they had probably moved beyond the thrill of early child-rearing years.

No, what mom really said was, “I love my life with you.”

And in his reply, he meant, “I love my life with you.”

Mom was his partner in all things, his confidant, his adviser. She screamed hard at his every home football game and warmed up dinner when he got home late from away games. She helped grade multiple choice papers. For every school event where she provided a dish, he took the credit, and she let him. It was just Joe.

In later years, you might see them power walking around Huntley, picking up trash and saying the rosary. Whenever they found change on the sidewalk, they put it in a special mug at home, and used it as starter money for each Lenten season’s rice bowl or some other charity for children. Only my parents could pull off an environmental, spiritual fundraiser while losing weight.

They’re a tough act to follow.

When dad first learned of his widespread cancer almost 15 months ago, I sat in his hospital room and we wept together. He told me that these retired years with mom were some of the happiest of his life and he just wanted more time with her, their church friends, and our amazing extended family. We got that time, a wonderful year to savor him and our family life.

This last year on Valentines Day, we were back in the hospital again and when he presented with her Valentines Day gift from him, mom said, “Who did this?”

Dad said, “I have people.”

Inside her card, in faltering pen, he had written, ‘My hand is shaky but my love is not.’

I have to believe that all sons and daughters who had a good father, a wonderful father, want a public statue erected in that man’s honor, to show the world a great man walked among us. How will the world know how much we loved him, how much he gave? But sometimes we must be content with the statues we create in our hearts.

The statue I would make has him walking across our steeply-pitched roof on Myrtle street with a storm window in his hands, nails in his mouth, and a hammer swings from his belt loop. He’s wearing the Huntley High School Redskins jacket he sometimes wore when he coached games and on his head is a maroon knit cap holding down his comb-over. Mom waits inside a few feet away, inside the house, ready to hook it into place, partnering with him once again. Dangling from one back pocket is his rosary and in the other, two forks and a knife. The inscription underneath are the last lines from The Bridge of San Luis Rey, which read:

“There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.”

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Last week, as I snorkeled out to a sunken ship in the Caribbean Sea, I had two thoughts:  first, I think this is the bravest thing I have ever done, and second, I can’t wait to get home and write a blog post that begins: ‘Last week, as I snorkeled out to a sunken ship in the Caribbean Sea…’

Ann and vacationed to Mexico, a real beach vacation along a remote spot of the Yucatan peninsula. She is much braver about travel and committing to plans, so in January I took her seriously when she said with excitement, “Mexico, baby!”

She travels the world because she’s interested in other cultures, other cities, other people. I’m interested too, but it’s easier to look things up on wikipedia. I find traveling requires a certain type of bravery, a confidence that details will simply work themselves out. Almost 15 years ago as I fussed over what to take with me to Italy, Ann told me, “The only things you need are good walking shoes and a Visa card. Everything else you can buy.”

She was right.

Last Sunday, when we didn’t find each other at the meeting spot in the Cancun airport, I panicked. When I finally got ahold of Ann, she answered her phone cheerfully, saying, “Hey, how ya doing?” She wasn’t flustered in the slightest. Everything would work out.

Four days later, we found ourselves taking our resort owner’s recommendation to drive deep into a Mexican jungle, find a certain unmarked road to a deserted beach, park our rental semi-legally, and then walk down the beach far enough to snorkel our way out to a sunken ship.

Marsha, our resort host, promised that no people would be around. She said this as if it were a good thing, whereas I could only picture me being dragged into the ocean by a giant squid and Ann yelling, “Shark! Shark!” but nobody would be around to help.

(The point may have been moot, but I was hoping Ann would have the common sense to yell “Shark! Shark!” because, really, who’s going to come running for “Squid! Squid!”)

Despite Marsha’s description, we decided to be brave, to have this adventure.

As we drove deeper and deeper through Mexican jungle, we laughed ourselves silly about how if we got lost, nobody would ever – could ever – find us. After all, our hotel location was located 18 kilometers down a gravel road in an already-sparsely populated part of Mexico. No cell coverage, no nearby convenience stores, no neighboring towns. The hotel enjoyed electricity for only six hours a day and we showered with collected rainwater. So when Marsha described the sunken ship spot as “remote,” Ann and I glanced at each other nervously.

On our drive, Jurassic Park did not seem like a far-fetched concept, so much as a logical extension of the landscape. Several times, as the car bounced along a road that can only be described as “tire ruts” trees and brush pressed against the car and we grew quiet.

We kept our eyes peeled for crocodiles, iguanas, small foxes, car-eating snakes, and other creatures. Aloud, we wondered what would happen if we actually saw something. I kept promising that I would most likely hop out of the car and punch said crocodile in the head repeatedly, just to show him who was boss. Ann would listen politely, point out the drivers’ side window, and exclaim, “Croc!” just to make me swerve the car in terror.

Studying Marsha’s homemade map, we counted kilometers until we found the unmarked turn off, and parked the car near an assembled collection of assorted wood and aluminum that is best described as a ‘murder shack.’ Two growling, snarling dogs greeted us, and we looked at each other dubiously. Although I do not speak Mexican dog, I caught the gist of the message: drive away now or we will rip your fucking calves off.

We could see half the ship sticking out of the water, a good quarter mile away from us.

“Still want to do this?” I said.

“Sure!” she said.

Of course she did.

Reasonable people would agree to lie to all their friends back home. Take pictures from the shore, swear we swam out there, talk about how great it was, so many fish, etc. But reasonable people wouldn’t make each other, you know, actually do it.

But Ann is brave.

That’s not to say she doesn’t get scared – she does. We talk on the phone when she’s afraid and she tells me about these fears. And yet, whatever it is that’s scaring her, she often does it anyway. After 15 years of marriage, she started life over in Iowa to pursue a PhD. Upon completion, she started over in North Carolina. Professionally, she keeps extending herself, risking, challenging, pushing. In her personal life, she examines her own motives and actions with an unflinching flashlight, and when she finds answers she does not like, she says, “Well, shit.”

Some days, when she is tired of pushing the world to be a better place, or tired of pushing herself, she can’t see it. When we talk on those days, she feels broken. But I am not fooled. I recognize bravery when I see it.

When we refused to back down, the snarling dogs relented. Like so many of us in life, they used their bark to mask that they wanted love and were afraid we would not give it. One trotted closer, head bowed, asking for forgiveness. Instantly, we loved Scooter. (And if you saw this adorable beach mutt, you would know right off his name had to be Scooter.) He had happy eyes and a deep scar across his schnoz that made me feel sad for his past fights. When we invited him to accompany us on our walk down the beach, he wagged his tail eagerly, zipping between our legs and running ahead of us, looking back as if to say, ‘C’mon! This way!’

I fantasized smuggling him back to Minnesota.

Soon, it was time.

We attached our flippers with typical comical results, falling over in the surf, more sand in our butt cracks while gurgling salt water and laughter out the breathing tubes. Scooter raced around our belongings on the beach, as if promising to protect them. In return, we promised him pretzels and water upon our return to the car.

As we dunked into the water I wondered if Ann felt this was brave or was this no big deal. I kinda thought she might call this brave because right before we started swimming, I removed my breathing tube and said, “Marsha said that it was unlikely sharks come into water this shallow.”

Ann said, “Let’s hope the sharks remember that.”

Yes, we were a little scared, but fear quickly met beauty. In the clear water, we swam near fish with neon blue ridges, shimmering spectacles that darted away easily, tiny silver sprinters, and big fatties that looked at us with surprise. What the hell are you doing here? We pointed out favorite fish to each other, and as Ann swam steadily toward the ship, I remember thinking, ‘This isn’t even phasing her in the slightest.’

The further we swam out, the waves pushed harder and the water got deeper. But we kept going. Beautiful coral met us, delicate purple fans of exquisite underwater lace perched on orange reefs. We met orange fish, fish with green stripes that blend into the grass nearby, blue and yellow-stripers, and really, where the hell was Sebastian from The Little Mermaid?

I forget there is a payoff for bravery.

As we swam out further, I thought of when I was brave: quitting a job, saying “No,” to a boss, telling a friend, “I think you’re messed up.” I have been brave with cancer, brave in the grocery store, brave with strangers, and even with lovers, brave enough to say,”I’m not happy.” I remember having a huge fight with Ann many years ago, and we had to be brave as we negotiated our reconciliation, both of us reeling in hurt and surprise.

We reached the ship.

I faced my disappointment in not finding a skull and bones chest spilling over with golden treasure. An enormous pelican – big enough to sit on my chest and make me gasp for air – perched on the stern, eyeing us with suspicion. Though we splashed around pretty close, it refused to surrender its position. I swear I could see its feathers trembling and I thought, “It’s brave, too.”

With the surf pushing us harder toward shore and simultaneously trying to seduce us deeper, it did not take long for Ann and I to say, ‘Okay, we’ve seen it.’

We snorkeled back, stopping to swim around coral reefs and admire our swim mates.

Once on shore, we were disappointed to find that Scooter had deserted us. As we collected our flippers and headed back to the car, I asked Ann if she thought this was the bravest thing she had ever done.

“Yes,” she said immediately. “No wait, getting divorced was first. This is second.”

Today, sitting in my comfy chair upstairs in my home with a Diet Coke at my side, I look at the photo of our sunken ship and I think the caption should be: When We Were Brave.

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New Year’s Eve fills me with melancholy.

I don’t like throwing away things I’m not finished with, including notebooks with blank pages at the end, old clothes worn beyond acceptable decency, and of course, years. I’m not done with 2010 even if the year is done with me. I had more to accomplish: more writing, more publishing options explored, more friends visited, more time in the gym. Cheesy as it sounds, I wanted more laughter this past year.

Yikes, that really does sound cheesy. Next, I’ll reminisce on how I wish I had more time for quilting, scrapbooking, and gaining the trust of woodland creatures. Get over here, you deer.

Each year, I’m never ready. Nevertheless, the passing year strolls down the long hallway, frayed briefcase in hand, nods curtly to signify, “I’m done here,” and on his way out, passes the new guy.

Hey, it’s not just the passing year that inspires my gloomy new years’ metaphors.

On Christmas Eve morning last week, while I burrowed through snowy Wisconsin on the way to my family, tragedy struck my beloved Subie, my Babe the Blue Ox. I cruised at 73 mph (acceptable law breakage without getting pulled over) and during the eighth repetition accompanying P!nk in her party tune, Raise Your Glass, my 11-year-old mechanical companion belched out horrible engine sounds and began decelerating. Within a half-hour, I involuntarily coasted to the side of I-94 where my Subie shuddered and stopped.

Today, I listened to a voice mail message from the Lacrosse mechanic who explained in mortician tones the situation and his estimate. As I had expected, my Subaru cardiac’d through timing belt hell, which chewed up the entire engine, and in short, it’s not worth fixing.

I’m sure some people would be thrilled for the forced opportunity to buy a new car. New car! It’s new car time! But I’m in mourning.

That car was my buddy on hundreds of local adventures to grocery stores, friends’ homes, and every conceivable errand beyond a bike’s reach. That car drove with me to California and back, Oregon and back, three dozen trips to Chicago and back. Car enthusiasts (always young men under 24) would stop me to ask, “What have you done to her?” For one glorious second, I was cool, some older, mentory car genius, gifted in the underground world of road rallies and Frankenstein transformations.

As soon as I mumbled, “Nothing, just change the oil,” my cool evaporated. The young man would inevitably recoil, his face unconsciously betraying, ‘How did this dweeb get one of our cool cars?’

But for that split second before I opened my mouth, I was cool. Really cool.

Between the roadside break down and today’s doom, I called Ann a few times to mourn my Subaru’s upcoming prognosis, which I suspected would not be pleasant. She consoled me long distance as I whimpered, and we talked about how much I projected onto this inanimate object.

After all, it is just a car.

I bought it when I was 31. After a decade of sensible, used, Ford Escorts, I researched and fell in love with this luxurious, cobalt batmobile, all wheel drive, tuxedo black interior, and a sunroof. I’d never had a sunroof. I vividly remember the night I drove my Blue Ox home, sliding down the buttery highway, sunroof fully extended, windows down, cold November blackness slapping me hard. I blared my favorite CD as I flew through Minnetonka on cobalt wings. I had just purchased my first home. New job. Awesome boyfriend.

I was young.

I was wealthy (wealthy enough to buy a new freakin’ car).

I was free.

I think that’s what the Blue Ox means to me: my youth. A time when I had more days ahead of me than behind. Granted, I’m not yet ready for a walker, but I never envisioned becoming a man in my 40s. I never envisioned ongoing medical conditions, fiber supplements, a trick knee, and a mortgage obligation so irritatingly familiar that I sometimes forget to pay it at the beginning of the month, and I don’t really care if it’s late. Fuck ‘em. It’s just a mortgage payment.

To me, this attitude sounds like that asshole who lived next to Dennis the Menace. If that old prick couldn’t figure out how to smile at the world once in a while, well karmically, he deserved to have a kid nicknamed ‘The Menace’ living next door. I think we can all agree that Dennis is currently serving hard time for the adult versions of his wacky, mischievous pranks, but for those innocent years, Dennis, for all his irritations, lived. He was alive.

I’m still alive.

On these days when I’m grumbling about time’s unfair passage, I forget that I’m still here. I have today to choose: either bitch and complain, or sing with P!nk at the top of my lungs. Either way, it’s still gonna be today. I guess that’s what helps me crawl out of any New Year funk, the fact that I’m wasting today with unnecessary mourning. I believe in mourning. Though I never want to do it again, I will, because this horrible gift to mourn is part of our humanity. But to mourn over December 31st? A day arbitrarily chosen to mark time’s passage? Fuck that.

My tradition on New Year’s Eve is to walk Lake Harriett just before midnight. I reflect on what the year held for me, for my friends, my birth family, and family of choice. The year’s days of sorrow and those where I shined right back at the sun.

But this year, something different on New year’s Eve: Zombie Ron and I are attending Billy Elliott at the Orpheum Theater. We’re dining in a favorite, elegant Thai restaurant. Ron’s wearing a tux and I’m wearing a new suit purchased in 2010 for two significant days:  one cousin’s devastating funeral, and two weeks later, another cousin’s joyful wedding. A crazy girl in our extended clan grew up into this elegant, lovely woman, and we love who she married.

My mom and dad danced at that wedding, dad’s cancer far enough at bay for one glorious night on the town. On joyful days like those, it’s easier to embrace change.

Tonight is the end of days for 2010.

Goodbye, Blue Ox.

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In 2008, I wrote a story and put it online. I had fun writing the story, so I added a second chapter. Then a third. Soon, I had a novella and a hundred emails from strangers asking me questions, wondering if these were real people whose lives I had transcribed. No one had ever read my fiction prior to this, and I admit it, I was flattered.

By the time I finished, I had published 16 chapters of what became a full-length, integrated novel. I had received over 500 emails from people around the globe.

A 17-year old high gay high school student emailed me and we ended up discussing his fears about transitioning to college. We also traded book recommendations. A shopkeeper in France told me how she tried a gesture of respect and affection (taken from my book) with an older male customer, and he broke down and wept. Several guys wrote me to say they integrated pieces of my fiction into their sex lives.

I also met Theo Bishop.

In emails, he was goofy and confident. He would glibly share how the stories I wrote made him feel. We gradually traded more life stories. He was another young guy – a 20 year-old Canadian at the time we met (I suspect he’s still Canadian) – and as he told me more about his troubled life, he hinted that there were “dark things” he couldn’t tell me. Months later, he did.
Turns out, he was addicted to heroin.

One of my real-world friends warned me Theo’s “friendship” might be a scam – a way for him to get money out of me. Perhaps, but I never believed that. He never asked me for anything. He explained that his parents’ had severed their relationship after he repeatedly stole from them, and he didn’t blame them for that. He had burned through all his friends.

We met during one of his ‘clean periods: he had a job, was enrolled in school, and was happily in love with a lad named Sean. Theo was ready to begin his life and become that man he always wanted to be.

In October 2009, I received an email from him which broke my heart. I’m including it below.

Hey man, it’s been so long… I woke up this morning to the mother of all headaches, and I thought “what the fuck”. What the fuck have I been doing, where the fuck have I been going…

I thought about you. Isn’t that weird? How people can just pop into your mind at the most unexpected times. I haven’t thought about anybody in a while, let alone someone I’ve never met. But for some reason this morning I woke up and realized I’m turning 22 in 12 days, and I met you when I was 20. Isn’t that insane? I can’t believe it’s been so long. It was so random, too. I randomly click on a link and read something profound, and for the first time ever (and I haven’t done it since) I e-mail someone I don’t know to thank them for writing. Without knowing it I met someone who I could talk to, and who I really enjoyed listening to.

I just spent about 2 hours reading all our old e-mails (I keep all my e-mails, I’m obsessive that way). It was so weird to be reminded of that short period of time when I was in Banff. I was so fucking ready for the world, I could have handled anything. There was something about the air there that just filled me with energy I never had before. Even with all the struggling and working my ass off, it was the time of my life.

I don’t know what the fuck happened. I came back and everything spiraled right out of control again. I was back in shit so fast and lost all the momentum I’d had when I was away. Sean got here late September, and it was magic for a while, but I dropped out of school and got bored and started doing bad again. He didn’t have the energy to stop me so he just joined in, maybe not as bad as me but he started drinking a lot.

I can’t even keep the details straight in my head. I don’t know how anything happened or when, but I kept fucking up and running out of money and I did fucked up things. Stuff I could have sworn I would never do, and I just used more to forget what I’d done to get it in the first place. In January I was already sick of it. I took my last E and realized I would have to find a way to get more drugs, and just the thought of it was so depressing that I took all the tylenol we had. I was depressed on ecstasy, for chrissakes. How fucked up is that.

I overdosed and Sean called an ambulance. He was asleep when it happened and woke up when he heard me pass out. He didn’t make the call for about 3 hours because he thought I was fucking around. When I woke up I couldn’t see anything but blur. I could hardly talk and I couldn’t walk. That all started fading after a couple days, but at first I thought great, not only did I fuck up but now I’m going to be permanently retarded. Sean was really good, he stuck around while I was there. After about a week I was transferred to the psych wing where I stayed for three weeks. They put me on meds and I started thinking maybe things were going to start looking up again.

I got out and went right back to doing everything wrong. I got a job, but it wasn’t enough. I had another overdose in February or March, I don’t even remember anymore, but it wasn’t as serious so I was released after 2 days.

And since then it hasn’t stopped. I don’t see the days go by, I have no sense of time at all, I don’t even understand how it’s already September. Worst of all, I haven’t done anything. I’ve literally spent the last year wasting myself. I’m in this big fucking mess that I’ve made and I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do. I don’t even enjoy it anymore. I just do it because I can’t stand the way it feels to come down. It just makes me so sick I feel like I’m dying.

This is the clearest my head’s been in a while, and for some reason it felt right to pour it all out to you. You’ve been such a good friend, and I know it’s not your responsability to deal with this so don’t think for a second that I’m trying to ask you for something, I just needed to confess everything to someone who would care to listen. I don’t have friends anymore and my family stopped talking to me. I just needed to get it out to someone sane. I don’t know.

I promised myself I would do my damndest to end this on a somewhat positive note, so… (thinking)… Well, I just recently discovered Corey Hart and the song “Sunglasses at Night” and I think it’s the shit. So there you go.

Theo

That was a year ago.

In his last email to me, a few weeks later, he said, “not syure what to write honestly. Just waiting forthe world to end pretty much. I’ve become the ultimate scum of the earth. I wont be ooffended if you don’t write back. You’ve got  a free pass. I’m sory i disapoointed everyone.”

I send emails into the void every few months, begging Theo to reply, begging him to check in with me and tell me what’s going on, how I just want to know if he’s alive. I don’t even think I know his real name. I’ll probably never hear from him again. But I worry about Theo and all the Theo Bishops of the world who are lost and sinking, whether by their own actions or blows dealt by life.

I keep thinking of a theme from one of my upcoming novels: What happens to lost kings?

This afternoon, I rediscovered his last two messages to me and sent another of my pleading emails. I don’t expect to hear back. I lit a candle for him tonight, my own version of prayer.

It’s the only thing I can think to do.

.

What’s the stupidest thing you could possibly say to a cop? I recently found out.

Those of us who have a little problem driving the posted speed limit dread the sight of those cherry and blueberry flashing lights in the rear view mirror. My first reaction is to be a model citizen and move to the right lane so they can pass and pursue the criminals, but when the cops speed up and add the siren, I am always genuinely surprised to discover that I am the crime.

Despite my attempts (documented in this blog) to live with greater integrity and acceptance of the consequences of my actions, I must admit I have a blind spot when it comes to speeding: it’s never my fault.

It was a speed trap.

They targeted me because of my out of state license plates.

They profiled me because I drive a sporty Subaru with a big spoiler.

There’s a rainbow sticker on my bumper and they hate gays.

My psychic defenses in this situation are amazing (and a little paranoid).

Last Tuesday while driving along the gorgeous Oregon coast, I left a small town behind and resumed dreaming of a greasy patty melt smothered in onions when suddenly: flashing blueberry and cherry.

Dammit.

By the time the officer approached me, I had removed my license from my wallet, but didn’t grab my proof of insurance from the glove box. I’ve created training for police officers, and know enough to keep my hands visible at all times. I kept mine in the 10 and 2 position on the steering wheel.

(Why is it that after I’m busted, I find myself eager to prove I am a safe, law-abiding citizen? Why the hell can’t I be concerned about following the law ten minutes before the cops clock me going 47 in a 30? This time, it totally was not my fault. It was a speed trap.)

He asked me why I was in the area (vacation), if I noticed the posted speed limit (no), if I knew I had been speeding (no). He was polite. I was contrite. And yet I could sense the web closing around me…this wasn’t going to end with a mere warning. I can’t burst into tears on command and I don’t have good excuses, so my strategy is to look gloomy, as if I’m in big trouble at home if I get a ticket. This never works.

When the officer asked me to show proof of insurance, I said, “I’m going to get it from my glove box.”

He nodded.

My hand moved toward the glove box in slow motion, which looking back, was probably pretty spooky for him.Why was I acting so weird?

“Wait,” he said, “do you have any weapons in your car.”

I turned to him and said firmly, “No.”

Then, I paused, remembered something, and hoped he didn’t notice.

He did.

“Wait, what was that?” he said. “Why did you make that face.”

Before I could stop myself, I said, “I don’t have any weapons in the car, but I have a big axe in the trunk.”

What?

Why the hell would I tell that to a police officer?

Good lord, I am an idiot. I had just finished explaining that I was on vacation from Minnesota. What kind of tourist drives his axe across five states? Clearly, only the murdery kind.

Two weeks ago, I drove to Oregon to work on an organic farm. The week prior, I confirmed that the farmer needed wood chopped for winter. I eagerly suggested I bring my axe and in his reply, he wrote, “Sure, if you want.”

I know it’s odd, but I like chopping wood. I like my axe. Earlier this summer, I had my axe sharpened at my local hardware store and filled a gas can in the same batch of errands. My neighbor witnessed me crossing the lawn wearing my red flannel overshirt, carrying the axe and the gas can and she said, “Boy, that combination looks dangerous.”

She was joking of course, but I can’t help notice that she and her housemates stopped saying, “We should totally get together for drinks sometime.”

Thank god, I didn’t say to the police officer, “No, no, I didn’t kill anyone. I just really like my axe.”

Huh. I guess there is something worse I could have said.

After volunteering news that I vacation with an axe in my trunk, the officer merely laughed.

He laughed!

And then, he wrote me a speeding ticket.

While driving through Montana today, I relayed the incident by phone to my friend John. We howled at why a person would volunteer details on trunk cutlery. We snickered at my getting yet another speeding ticket, and my ongoing refusal to take ownership for my shadowy behavior.

John asked, “Were you wearing your red flannel and camouflage pants?”

“Yes.”

(I find it mildly alarming friends who know me well can predict my wardrobe from three states away.)

“Ah,” John said. “It now makes sense. The flannel, the axe, and Minnesota plates. I assume you were unshaved and unshowered. Plus, you’re driving around in Babe, the Blue Ox. He thought you were Paul Bunyan.”

.

I quit the farm.

I had made a commitment to stay for two full weeks, and at 7:15 a.m., the fourth day, I left.

I loved the farming part:  feeding the animals, collecting eggs, working outside, strolling with purpose around the farm in old jeans and work gloves. In three short days I got pretty good at milking goats. And while this may not be a particularly strong brag, I chased down and outwitted an escaped chicken. Caught it. Re-caged it. On Monday, I scrubbed 74 eggs free of chicken and duck poop and surprised myself by enjoying the task. Jumping from a desk jockey to outdoor laborer for eight hours a day was a shock; my bones and muscles protested a bit, but I could handle it.

I liked it.

Inside the farm house was another matter.

Swarms of flies filled the house. Walking from room to room meant keeping my mouth closed and waving my hand before me to clear a path. The windows and walls were spotted with years of specs of shit and dead flies. And not just flies…the kitchen was filled with rotting food and sticky, uncleaned spills. Fresh veggie nubs lay scattered across the floor. The whole house lay in shambles:  laundry on the dining room table, dusty piles of crumpled clothes, old papers, and empty plastic containers, stacks of glass jars and various half-started projects. A spilled cat litter box sat in front of the fireplace. A dozen wasps roamed the downstairs rooms, lazily looking for outside access.

My first night there, I thought, “I can’t live with this,” and spent two hours scrubbing the kitchen. I scrubbed down the oven, the counters, dared to put away a few things that seemed unnecessary in the kitchen, and threw out some moldy food. Within 24 hours, the kitchen was a disaster again, egg shells, cooked food in pots, and unclean dishes everywhere again. A farm accumulates many dirty items over the course of the day; I get that. But this was excessive.

I spent two more hours on Monday scrubbing the kitchen. My third day, I decided to put a dent in the fly population and killed 50+ in the main downstairs rooms. For a while I just stood in one place and randomly swung the flyswatter through the air, killing several every time. But 50 dead flies later, there was no impact.

I tried to roll with it, tried to tell myself that “it’s just messier in a farm kitchen.” But that’s not true: my Aunt Barbara’s farm house was spotless.

My hostess cooked some good meals, but I could barely eat knowing that most dishes and silverware sat exposed in the kitchen, and who knew how many flies had landed on this particular plate or meal? I couldn’t eat. One evening when we found ourselves alone in the farm house, my fellow WWOOFer, a 27-year-old former engineer now living out of his VW van, looked at me with mournful eyes and said, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

I quit.

Was I justified? Maybe. Maybe not. I made a commitment and did not keep it. Mentally I justified leaving with a dozen loopholes, such as “they didn’t keep their commitment to me to provide a clean place to live.” Still, l made a commitment I did not keep.

Last night, I sat in an Italian restaurant finishing a book called Mindsets. The premise is simple but profound:  whether we identify more with a fixed mindset (I am a collection of certain qualities) or growth mindset (I am someone who grows and evolves my skills, attitudes, self-perceptions) influences how we thrive in tough environments, how we learn, whether we are devastated by setbacks, how we love. The entire book devotes itself to exploring how self-perpetuating stories limit who we can become.

I wrote this first half of this blog early in the day after I left the farm.

When I came back to this piece of writing after finishing Mindsets, I looked at the title, in a new light. Why did I title this piece, ‘Quitter?’ Apparently, my first instinct was to label myself as someone who quits – I am someone who looks at a challenge and says, “I can’t do this.” I give myself no credit for recognizing a physically, disgusting environment and getting the fuck out. I gave myself no credit for taking a risk, driving across the country, and spending three and a half days doing hard work. I even tried to clean the environment several times before giving up.

Now, I choose to view this situation through a new filter, a growth mindset. I learned how to milk a goat. I can clean shit off five dozen eggs and enjoy it. Hell, I can outsmart a chicken. (Again, should I brag about this?)

And I learned a new dimension about myself when it comes to keeping commitments.

I admit it.

When I imagined working on an organic farm, I pictured myself in my wide-brow sun hat, carefully considering our friend, the radish, as I weeded mindfully, feeling the groovy connection of all living things, our oneness with food, circle of life, etc., and possibly a Lion King-inspired sound track accompanying this golden moment.

I did not picture myself being dragged behind a horny 250 lb. sheep named Ramses down a mud-slick hill, hoping that I did not slide under him and become either A) crushed or B) the new object of his affection. If B) were to come true, see A).

Expectations are funny. I always want life to work out a certain way, and when it doesn’t, life is always wrong, not me. Life is wrong to send me here, to give me this challenge, to expect too much from me while giving me so little. I could do better with this life, I really could, without all these damn hindrances: illness, aging, deaths of people I love, the housing market, things that keep me awake at night. Should I tear down my garage and build a new one, or hire a contractor to straighten it out? Who even cares? I never wanted to be the guy struggling over goddamn garage decisions.

I am also discovering that it’s dangerous to abstract how roosters work in the real world based on the cartoon equivalent. But in my childhood history (and other more current references validated on Save By the Bell:  the Farm Show), farm roosters do their ‘cock-a-doodle-do’ as the sun pokes up, and everyone wakes up cheerfully, happy to be honest laborers toiling under the sun.

That ain’t how it works.

Roosters start earlier than sunrise – while it’s still damn dark, quite frankly. They don’t do a cute cock-a-doodle, no thank you. They make this extended, “Rrrrk, rrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhh,” that could be mistaken for the sound a hen makes while the rooster is murdering her. On the other side of the farm, some other damn rooster gets the message and says to his buddy across the farm, “Rrrrrk rrrrrrrhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrhhhhhrrrrhhh!”

His buddy answers, as does another buddy, all of them bragging to each other how they totally scored with an egg last night. Really, it’s poultry equivalent of “Wasssszzzzzzzuuuuuuuup?”

“Wassszzzzzzuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup?”

Waszzzzz-wassssszzzzzuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup?”

This continues until about 4:00 p.m.

I’m enjoying/not enjoying having my expectations smashed to bits. Sure, part of me finds it gratifying to know I can be so wrong, so lost on important life details. Another part of me hates being constantly wrong, feeling the fear/anger emotional twang of stupidity and getting so lost on important life details. Do I tear down the garage or straighten it? Am I doing the right thing with my life? Was working on a farm a mistake? (A question contemplated last night as Moon, the farm dog, barked at coyotes outside my bedroom window until roughly an hour before the roosters began their important dialog.)

I listened to Eckhart Tolle on the drive across the United States. He talks about the beauty of this exact moment, the right now. If we truly believe that we are eternal beings comprised of divine love, then we are living brilliance right now, no matter the circumstances. Whether doing laundry, preparing a PowerPoint presentation or getting lectured by a high school girl on how I shouldn’t be afraid to go right ahead and give that teat A GOOD SQUEEZE, the bliss can be right now. I sometimes feel these moments of bliss, and sometimes they are connected to moments in time when I am not paying attention.

Earlier today I lay spread eagle in the back of a flatbed truck, spent from tossing packing pallets from one area of the farm to another (for reasons too complicated to explain. Short version:  involves goats). As the old truck bounced heavily in the mud ruts across the field, my limp body got tossed around in back, and I stared up at the sky, the trees, grinning stupidly at the distant mountains in this pine-soaked landscape. I was physically exhausted from a full morning’s worth of dragging heavy chicken pens, letting out goats, milking goats, feeding animals, spreading coffee grinds over blueberry plants, hauling, tossing, crouching, crawling, and a few other -ing words that really kicked my ass.

Feeling the sweat drying cold against my skin, I wondered if tonight I could sleep through Moon’s howling at coyote, and suddenly felt that connection, the greater love. There was no Lion King soundtrack. I wasn’t dressed the right way, and my arms were way too sore to feel universal love. But maybe I can let my expectations get smashed yet another day and find more connection.

Of course, the moment shriveled away seconds later, when across the farm, I heard nature’s response to my intention to love.

“Whaaassszzzzzzzzzzzzzzup?”

Fucking roosters.

When ordering zombies from a Sky Mall catalog, you have no idea whether the reality will match your expectations. One might politely inquire why an individual might want a life-size representation of a rotting corpse head and arms extracting itself from the earth.

I wouldn’t know.

I don’t want that creepy fucking thing in my yard; I purchased the garden zombie as a gift for my friend Ron.

Over the years, Ron taught me to cook vegetables and appreciate homemade pesto. He’s quiet and thoughtful. Around him, I feel calmer. I take deeper breaths. Despite his mild-mannered banker exterior, he’s goofy and angular, regularly in touch with his inner, mischievous child. For two Halloweens, he transformed his own flesh into the living dead, believable enough that I stand as far away from him as possible. Last year, Ron improved on the original, creating gaping flesh divots on his face and neck that bled whenever he squeezed the flaps, like a zit.

Truly, he turned zombification into an art form.

To this day, when certain friends ask me about other friends, they say, “So, how’s Zombie Ron doing these days?”

I waited until Ron was away for an out-of-state business trip and snuck into his back yard to position his new Garden Zombie tastefully amid the shrubs, trying several positions before finding the exact right spot. I left the undead in view of the kitchen windows.

One gorgeous Saturday night in September, I joined Ron in his luxurious, newly renovated backyard for a fire in the fire pit. He made us fresh pesto, tomatoes and a garlic chev spread, and as twilight fell, we drank a bottle of red wine, poked the fire with our boots, and chatted about old memories, people we love, and all those odd topics that seem completely natural around a blazing fire.

Ron was quite horrified by the Garden Zombie, and within 24 hours had moved the creepy thing into his garage, until he discovered he then feared going to his car. But the night I came over, he pulled the tarp off the zombie’s head and created an artistic placement in a flower bed near the fire pit so that the zombie was front-lit, half in shadows. Ron sprinkled dirt over the sculpture for that ‘fresh from the grave’ authenticity. Ron is a good friend.

We toasted the Garden Zombie, our friendship, and this cool, perfect Minnesota evening. We argued whether the big fat star was the north star or Mars, both of us too busy enjoying the night and our argument to go inside and google the answer. We sipped wine, told stories, complained about various airports, and in the golden light of fire, loved each other as two friends can do.

I told him that when I die, as my consciousness twinkles out of existence, I would not mind if this night is what I experienced in those last moments:  sitting under the stars, chuckling with a friend, the cozy glow of a zombie a safe distance away. That would not be a bad last scene.

Later in the evening, I shared an disquieting experience that had occurred a little over 24 hours earlier. While teaching a class to law enforcement officers in a southern state, one of the students, a man whose presence I had enjoyed in class for several days, made a comment that upset me. On a break, a few officers recounted stories of recruits who did not do well. After discussing three men who got drunk and skinny-dipped, the conversation turned towards ‘gays among us.’ The tenor of the conversation was not particularly welcoming.

Discussing one such suspected gay, this individual said, “We should have shown him a real southern welcome: swinging from a tree at the end of a rope.”

Probably eight officers were directly engaged in the conversation. Another three or four were present in the room, and just before he made that comment, the room got completely silent. After he said it, nobody said a word in response.  A full moment later, a new topic was introduced.

On the plus side, nobody said: “YEAH, we should kill them all!” On the downside, nobody said: “It’s inappropriate to suggest murdering gays.”

These were law enforcement officers, the folks who protect our lives.

I had a hard time reconciling that comment with my Saturday night in Ron’s backyard. We’re monsters? Two middle-aged men talking about camping, childhood pranks, family members we love and miss…arguing over stars in the sky…we’re so dangerous we need to swing from a tree at the end of a rope?

It would be easy to paint that one officer, and those who said nothing, as the enemy. They’re not. I spent a week with these folks. They were goofy and hilarious. We laughed together quite a bit. Even when they were bored with the content they did their best to participate in class. The last day I spent with them, a mere four hours after that comment was made, they presented me with a cake they had purchased and decorated, incorporating several week-long jokes. (One of their peers confessed a fear of clowns, so of course, the cake was decorated with plastic clown heads.) They thanked me for coming and cheerfully clapped for me.

I met some great people that week.

And yet.

As I sliced through the frosting, I couldn’t help but reflect on the swinging from a tree comment. Really? Would you murder me? Or if someone else got a little zealous, would you stand by and let it happen?

Ron and I reflected on the story I shared as we drained the pinot noir and over the fire turned fresh bread into toast for our bruschetta. We discussed the nature of hate and love, how fear grows, and what it takes to change ourselves and the world. We discussed how it feels when strangers, and even family members, consider us to be a monster for being gay.

If you don’t think like me, you’re deluded. If you do think like me and you disagree on a major point, well, you’ve taken a wrong turn. If you’re too conservative politically: evil. If you are too liberal, you’re trying to bring about Armageddon. Those with religion consider those without to be monsters. And it’s not hard for me to look at religious zealots with the same fear I usually reserve for zombies.

I guess we’re all monsters to someone.

Over a week ago, I attended the funeral of an Illinois cousin of mine. He possessed a rare clarity of purpose in the world: he lived to farm. Obviously, farming is not like banking or retail, a job you leave at 5:30 and for which you occasionally work overtime. And yet, despite having grown up in a small farm town, having cousins whose entire existence depended on the right combination of good rain and good luck, I guess I had forgotten.

Attending Kevin’s funeral made me remember.

For years during my childhood, my farming cousins left every holiday party early to go milk cows. Or, they wouldn’t even show up at all, if the weather was fair and they had sun-dependent chores. I sometimes resented this, missing their presence, and wondering why they couldn’t get jobs that demanded less time, less effort on Christmas Day. Carol and Suzanne were close in age to the four of us Manning siblings, and we missed valuable play hours due to their farming responsibilities.

In recent years at family parties, Kevin and I spoke only of topics of interest to him: the weather in Illinois and its impact on crops, the weather in Minnesota, and its potential impact on crops, tractors, snow, cows, and well, that’s about it. Kevin occasionally prodded me once or twice for Minnesota farming news, but sensing I was worthless on that topic, he eventually lost interest.

A photo essay at the wake indicated Kevin’s life revolved around John Deere tractors. Pictures of high school friends hoisting beer near a tractor, Kevin grinning big while sitting on a giant wheel, Kevin kissing his girlfriend and the camera flash bouncing off some piece of farm equipment’s windshield. He spent his whole life on a farm, farming, growing life.

Kevin was 21 when he was killed.

I remember a Thanksgiving at his grandmother’s farm when Kevin was five or six (had to be Thanksgiving because we always gather at Aunt Barbara and Uncle Chuck’s farm for that particular holiday). Very enthusiastically, Kevin explained the world of tractors to me, and despite my being older and more worldly, his grasp of mechanics already left me in the dust. The kid had this fire in him, as if he had just discovered the great secrets of life and clearly, the only reason I did not share his passion for tractors was because nobody had explained it to me.

I remember nothing about the tractors themselves, but the memory stuck because I loved seeing Kevin so exuberant.

As the Thanksgiving accumulated in our lives, Kevin’s excitement morphed into something more sedate, as he grew more stoic and silent in bigger crowds, just like his understated Dad. But you only need ask one of two questions about farming to reignite that wild enthusiasm, just as goofy and strong as when he was five. While I loved listening to his stories the biggest fucking snowdrifts man had ever seen (Kevin ran his own snow plow business in the winter and was perhaps *slightly* prone to exaggeration), he knew I was a spectator to his world, not a confidant.

We were not particularly close.

Extended family is odd that way: you hang out with people who you don’t know well, and probably don’t spend a lot of time getting to know beyond the big gatherings. But for a few holidays each year, you celebrate together, trying to get to reacquaint yourselves. I used to resent the polite, awkward questions and small talk chatter, but I now find it reassuring: I want to see how the kids turn out.

I cannot say I was or am particularly close to Kevin and his siblings, but I like them. I want to see them. I want to see the adults they have become, and I want to study their faces and remember their childhood shyness. I don’t really care if they like me or know me. I love them. I want to see.

But I won’t be seeing Kevin anymore.

One of his high school essays had been copied and put on display at the wake.

“Ever since I can remember I never liked school the only reason I ever want was for my buddies and for the girls, and because I had to. I never really needed it since I have been doing my greatest passion, and doing what I want to do for the rest of my life, which is farming. Many people think I may not be intelligent because of the way I speak, or the way I dress, but that’s because my education is about soil, crops, cows, tractors and trucks. There may be more to life and someday I will find that out but it is my life and always has been.”

A part of me is proud that I am related to a man who possessed such clarity and confidence. Of course, I have no right to any pride about any of his achievements. But Kevin knew who he was, and he lived from that clarity, which made him a warrior. While we may not have connected much at Thanksgiving, I want to believe we are spiritual brothers on our own unique paths.

Kevin’s unique path took a very sharp turn. He was thrown from his truck in a late-night accident which can never be explained. He was not drunk, there were no other vehicles, just swerving tire skids and his upside down truck, discovered the next morning. There will never be a satisfying explanation. There will never be another Kevin.

Sometimes, this world just sucks.

At the wake, I struggled (as everyone does) with finding words say to his survivors, because of course, there were no right words. There never are. His mom, my cousin Carol, stood next to her son’s coffin and held my hands briefly in the horrible reception line. As I choked out my obligatory, “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry,” she waved away a buzzing fly that landed in the coffin on Kevin’s head.

In a tired voice, she said, “Thank you, Teddy.”

I have no insight about the nature of life or death. A man died, a man with clarity and purpose, a man who believed in something and every day of his short life, loved who he was, what he did.

When I grow up, I want to be like Kevin.