"It's f***ing cold!"

The following story first appeared as a comment to a story reported in The Ferndale Patch.  I'm repeating here because a) it cracks me up and b) it's easier for me to find here than there because of the swearing.

About four years ago when our youngest was three, my neighbor Mike (and he'll confirm this) and his wife were over for dinner. Mike and I were out tending the grill in the cold with our coats on, drinking beers, and talking out-of-earshot of the spouses.

The youngest comes out on the deck and declares, "It's f***ing cold out here."

??!!??

I don't know what expression Mike had on his face but I felt my ears get HOT.

Not believing what I heard, I asked my son to repeat himself. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'It's f***ing cold out here.'"

I still didn't believe such a word would escape his lips, so I had him come off the deck, onto the driveway, look right into my face, and asked him to repeat himself very s-l-o-w-l-y. He looked at me like I was deaf and declared clearly and slowly for all to hear...

"IT'S F***ING COLD OUT HERE."

"I can hardly wait to see how you handle this," Mike said laughing his a** off.

I put on my meanest, most serious face, used my daddy-is-really-pi**ed-off big-voice and told the little guy, "we NEVER say the words f***, f***er, or f***ing. Got it?"

He ran inside scared, cried, and I haven't heard those words from him since.

Glad it was over, and while Mike was still laughing, he and I both agreed the three-year old used the word properly in a sentence.

Oh, Farmdale is the place to be!

After reading various stories in the Ferndale 115, Ferndale Patch, and The Daily Tribune, I couldn't get this song out of my head.  So the only natural thing to do, was to share it.

(Sing to the tune of Green Acres)


Oh, Farmdale is the street for me
Coops of chickens laying eggs for free
Spreading feces on my garden plot
I'll pretend I'm a farmer and care for my neighbors not

 When I bought my house I felt lucky
Now, I'm living in Ferndale-tucky
I have a chicken coop next door
As if housing values weren't low enough before

.. Group think!
.. The stink!
.. I'll share!
.. Don't care!

 Madison Heights had 'em first
Ferndale couldn't do worse
Oh, Farmdale we are there!

It's time for an American Reformation

I read recently (sorry I can't remember where) that more people are reading The Constitution, the whole thing, in unprecedented numbers than ever before.  The article attributed it to both the Tea Party and the Obamacare.  It seems people are are reading the commerce and necessary and proper clauses to discover for themselves if the founder's idea of limited government could really be stretched into what 235-years' removal has created from it.

And they're discovering stretch marks.

It reminded me of my first foray into Protestant religions, and the ministers' encouragement to their congregations to read the bible for themselves so they couldn't be tricked into thinking the bible says something it doesn't.

The Reformation hasn't died.

Protestants believed Christians didn't need a church to tell them what the bible says.  They didn't need a hierarchy interpreting sacred scriptures for them, or trying to sell them indulgences for their sins that were little more than fund-raisers for "the church."

Certainly, the Roman Catholic Church did a lot of good with that money, but all that money also corrupted parts of the church because in the end the church is operated by humans, and humans are imperfect.

There are a lot of parallels to our government and its sacred document, The Constitution.

More of us need to read The Constitution.  More of us need to read the Bill of Rights and ponder the power and meaning of those words, and consider their inspiration.

When I read sections of The Constitution my faith in the document increases, my faith in the founders increases, but my faith in the institutions and representatives responsible for protecting and guarding the nation is troubled.

When it comes to what our government should and should not be doing, or what our elected representatives should or should not be doing, and I think our nation is ready, perhaps over-due, for a constitutional reformation.

The entire document is only 4609 words, including signatures.  The Bill of Rights is only 714 words.  Together they're only 5323 words.  Both can be read in a couple hours.

If congress would only limit itself to legislation no longer than 5323 words, I suspect it might be a more limited government, have fewer earmarks, less pork, and be more deserving of sharing space in the archives next to the greatest constitution ever written for the greatest nation ever imagined, and ever born.

So try-on a little reformist thinking, cut-out the middle men, read it for yourself.  Find someone to discuss it with, then consider if we've made of it what we should.  We are all children of The Revolution, and shouldn't squander or take for granted our inheritance.

Troy Daze should return to its roots

Troy Daze's cost to the city isn't the only thing that's inflated. Troy Daze itself has inflated. If the City of Troy turned-back the clock 35 years it might rediscover both what Troy Daze used to be, and how affordable it might be.

If I can claim to have grown up anywhere it is "The City of Tomorrow... Today!" Our family moved to Troy from Livonia in 1973 when I was only eight years old. I went to Martell and Schroeder Elementary Schools, Boulan Park Middle School, and graduated from Troy High in 1983.

Our house near Wattles (17 Mile for you outsiders) and Coolidge was within easy walking distance to Boulan Park where Troy Daze was held. On the way to the park my friends and I could hunt for Garter snakes along the dirt path that has long since been replaced with another subdivision.

Boulan Park already had baseball diamonds, merry-go-rounds, teeter-totters, monkey bars, and grills for picnicking. But during the three-day festival it also had a fire engine, a police car, an ambulance, tug-of-war, pick-up softball games, and an extra few thousand people.

My favorite thing about the fair was the free (as far as I knew) Kentucky-Fried Chicken. It turned out that one of our neighbors owned a KFC franchise and he provided the chicken to promote his business and addict me to its 11 herbs and spices.

Each year the festival seemed to add something. I remember once there were helicopter rides. I couldn't afford them with my paper-route money, but I had a lot of fun watching it take off and land, and wondered how great it would be to afford the $15 ticket for a 10-minute ride.

Later years added carnival rides. I remember my brother's first ride on the salt-and-pepper shaker. I was too young to ride it myself, but watched with amazement as the ride took my brother Charlie into the air, held him upside down with his school buddies, then swung back to the ground like an upside-down metronome.

Looking back, as a kid, I was just as amazed watching the adults play softball and eating my neighbor's chicken. As I got older I looked forward more to having more freedom to go to the festival on my own, and with my friends, stay a little later, and walk home in the dark, than I was to new attractions.

The festival improved each year not because it changed, but because I changed.

Maybe the City of Tomorrow should remember the City of Yesterday, and be reminded that childhood brings its own magic to the park. It's not necessary for the city to spend Disney-sized dollars for a three-day picnic and softball game.

In an effort to out-do itself each year, Troy has finally found that it has out-done itself into suspending the event for lack of money. Perhaps the citizens of Troy could simply pack a mitt and a cooler, and take the family to the park. Would it really cost the city too much money to park a police car and fire truck and give the kids a chance to sound the siren or horn?

Sure, it may only amuse children, but surely they're the most easily and inexpensively amused.

I know I was.

I apologize for not taking your money

There are things we might or might-not do depending on other people's financial situation. It sometimes has to do with whether or not we invite someone to a relatively expensive event based on whether or not we think they can afford it. The problem with these invitations (or lack of them) is no matter how well intended the are they can be offensive. Our assumptions both about others' financial resources or what is or isn't a spending priority is their decision--not ours.

Here are two examples. Tiffani and I invited some friends to a mildly expensive restaurant confident they'd enjoy the evening without worrying about the cost, but this upset other friends that would have eagerly gone because of the opportunity to escape their children and indulge in a unique night-on-the-town without giving the expense a second thought.

It happened again during my mayoral campaign this fall. We held a $50/person fund raiser catered by a neighbor at her home. Most of the guests we invited were people Tiffani and I didn't feel imposing on (if you can call trading appetizers, wine, and beer for $50 imposing) because we knew they either had the money, were politically active, or had previously invited us to their fund raisers.

The fund raiser was successful in that we raised nearly 1/4 of our campaign's $6515 total, but it was unsuccessful in that it we might have raised more and we upset a few of our friends, family, and neighbors by not inviting them.

Michigan's economy has been tougher on some people than others. On the list of people we didn't invite are the unemployed and under-employed. Some are couples I thought (read: decided) needed to keep their $100 more than I needed them to donate it.

Some of the people who wished they were invited told us we shouldn't have concerned ourselves with their finances--their finances are their own problem as are their priorities. To them my campaign for mayor was a priority. We found out of others' disappointment indirectly through family and shared friends.

Again, I apologize. I promise we won't make that mistake again.

When next one of us runs everyone is on the list. We'll have more fund raisers with higher minimums and you'll be invited to all of them until you've contributed the maximum allowed by law.

Be careful what you wish for!

Did Greenspan just agree with me?

In December 2005 I wrote an articled called "We're in Iraq because you want us there." In it I wrote:

So now we've invaded Iraq and many American's don't understand why. In reality they know perfectly well why but prefer denial. We're there because we're dependent on foreign oil. We're dependent on it because our lifestyles require it. We live further and further from work, enjoy the luxury and autonomy of one-car-one-person, and drive increasingly larger vehicles. Our "right" to live where we want and commute how we want is not without costs beyond $2.25/gallon. As ignorant as pretending the consequences may be it is disingenuous to drive to a No Drilling in ANWR demonstration in anything less than a bus filled with like-minded protesters or display a "No War" lawn sign with the same SUV parked in the driveway you drive 20 miles to work.

Now Alan Greenspan has a new book coming out that has already re-agitated this controversy. The Washington Post reported Greenspan blamed the invasion of Iraq on oil. Secretary of Defense Robert Gates took issue with Greenspan's comments on this past weekends television news programs.

In a Washington Post interview, Greenspan has explained his out-of-context comment in a way that makes me sound like a Washington insider:

His main support for Hussein's ouster, though, was economically motivated. "If Saddam Hussein had been head of Iraq and there was no oil under those sands," Greenspan said, "our response to him would not have been as strong as it was in the first gulf war. And the second gulf war is an extension of the first. My view is that Saddam, looking over his 30-year history, very clearly was giving evidence of moving towards controlling the Straits of Hormuz, where there are 17, 18, 19 million barrels a day" passing through.

Greenspan said disruption of even 3 to 4 million barrels a day could translate into oil prices as high as $120 a barrel -- far above even the recent highs of $80 set last week -- and the loss of anything more would mean "chaos" to the global economy.

Well, since my blog is locally-focused I didn't rush into any "global economy" claims. But I must admit some satisfaction knowing Mr. Greenspan and I have something in common--even if he doesn't call me to discuss national and international issues.

New Link -- Sayet Right

Pete Peltier recently introduced me to a video on YouTube. It was Evan Sayet speaking at the National Heritage Foundation. I'll take more time discussing his lecture later, but encourage everyone to watch Regurgitating the Apple: How Modern Liberals 'Think', and visit his blog.

Of course, remember to come back here for the really important stuff.

CBS' "Rules of Engagement" is both bad comedy and bad commentary

CBS previewed their new comedy, Rules of Engagement, and based on the Superbowl previews I thought it might be funny. Lots of humorous material can be found in the relationships between singles, engaged and married couples. Numerous other comedies on being single and being married have entertained TV audiences for years. NBC successes like Friends and Mad About You prove there's plenty that's humorous in both those situations--enough for 396 episodes over 10 years.

Perhaps Rules isn't meant to be a comedy, but a horror serial. Showing first how insensitive and impossible domesticate men are and second how stupid women are to consider relationships with them in the first place.

The only thing scarier than the show might be its success. Sure, people are supposed to understand sitcoms are fictional, but how can the same adults that think Wiley E. Coyote encourages violence in youngsters not believe Rules might sour the appeal of civilized societies' greatest building block--marriage? They can't have it both ways.

For Rules, its pilot episode was one too many. CBS should keep looking for something to follow Two and a Half Men.

New Link -- Stone Soup Musings

I've added a link to my blog to another titled, "Stone Soup Musings." It first attracted my attention because it covered Michigan politics, but it's kept my interest because the author, Kathy, strikes me as intelligent and willing to entertain opposite points of view--or at least isn't hostile or unwelcoming to them.

Of course, don't spend too much time there cause I'd rather have you here. Come back soon!

Somewhere in America...

Somewhere in America a husband came home from work on time, played with his kids, thanked his wife for a great dinner, and read a bedtime story to his youngest before tucking them in and saying prayers.

Somewhere in America a couple reconciled their differences, recommitted to their marriage, and avoided a divorce that would have torn their family apart and robbed their children of the advantages of having both parents home.

Here's the real surprising news flash; somewhere in America an 11-year old boy collected his dirty clothes and carried them to the laundry room without being reminded.

What started all this? A December 23 Detroit Free Press story about a janitor that found a purse in the airport and returned it to a passenger before she departed for Asia. Why was such a thing reported at all? The purse had $10,000 in it. It's amazing that not committing a crime is newsworthy. When my son was perhaps eight-years old he found a $10 bill outside a friend's house. That's a lot of money for a third grader. He was hoping to keep it but I suggested if he'd lost $10 he'd want whomever found it to attempt to reunite him with his small fortune. The $10, it turns out, belonged to his friend's older sister. No small potatoes to her, either. This little episode has newsworthy written all over it, and here are some of the angles:

• a young boy told his father he found money
• a young boy was actually spending time with his father
• a father listened to his son
  
• a father taught his son an important lesson
• a son listened to his father
• a young babysitter learned how pockets, wallets, and purses are used.

Of course, the local media wasn't alerted so the public missed a chance to celebrate his heroism. Regardless, my son often makes me proud so a single event isn't newsworthy, but by the Free Press' standards not stealing makes the weekend paper. Everywhere in America people are doing the right thing -- and not because the law requires it, but because good people do good things.

Procrastinators Anonymous

The easiest reading to recommend is reading that makes ourselves look like better, warmer, smarter people -- or simply more sympathetic. That is precisely the reason I recommend the essay, Procrastination, by Paul Graham. Paul Graham is one of those essayist that write about subjects important to me and seem to affirm my opinion on most of them. It increases my self confidence knowing that other more famous, better spoken, highly thought of people than myself share my opinions. Or at least Paul does.

My mother will tell you I'm a procrastinator. I was even born a few weeks late. Apparently I had something better to do even then than getting slapped by a doctor and sucking-in my first breath of air. Ultimately it couldn't be put off any longer and what should have been a Halloween birthday had to wait for Thanksgiving.

My wife dispenses with euphemisms altogether and prefers the term lazy. She sees all the stuff I've ignored and is justifiably insulted at the insinuation that I'm too important to do the little stuff and leave it for her. As valuable as procrastinating may be its constant indulgence isn't always good for others.

Sometimes it's my turn

People are idiots, and I mean that affectionately. We all take turns in the idiot line. Sometimes it's my turn. Some people take cuts -- often. I suspect they believe they're in line for something else. Perhaps a buffet or merry-go-round.

I once stood in line to watch undergrads clean and number rat bones at the La Brea Tar Pits. Worse than that, I paid money to watch them from behind protective glass. Do you do something so interesting people would pay $8 to stand in line and watch you work then browse your gift shop? I could have stayed home and watched my grandfather break chicken bones and suck the marrow out for free. I'm confident the students behind the glass thought I was an idiot. I do. Whenever I visit my local party store Art and George ring up my Bud Lite from behind protective glass, but that's a combination tar-pit/gift-shop with a very short line. What's idiotic is paying $11 when I could have bought them at the grocery store for $7. The price of convenience.

It's our duty as friends and family, or simply as citizens of the same planet, to let people know when they're acting silly. And when we find ourselves at the front of the line we must raise our own hands and say, "That was me. I did it. I'm an idiot."

All of us have our own things-idiots-do list. Mine is pretty long. Yours probably is too. You might be adding "people who think so highly of themselves they post to blogs" to your list right now.

Everyone takes turns being an idiot. Sometimes it's my turn. Don't forget to stop by the gift shop and bookmark this page.

Baby James

I want to share with everyone a rather interesting experience that started April, 1997. Note, I've been sitting on this text thinking I would add more to it but now it's been nearly two years and I've decided to post it, even if incomplete. I've made a promise to myself to finish it. There's so much more to write.

First, I've always known I was adopted. I knew I was adopted before I knew what the word meant. When I was younger I didn't know there was anything unusual about being adopted. 

I had plenty of company being adopted. My brother and both sisters are adopted, all through Christian oriented adoption agencies in the Detroit area. Several of my friends were adopted, too. It seems all of us thought being adopted was no more significant than being blonde or having brown eyes. 

I never had a nagging urge to track down my birth parents. I thought only wistfully about what it would be like to look like someone. I thought curiously about what it would be like to look at my father and wonder if I was going to look that way in 16-or-so years. Would I bald or gray the same way? Would the lines on my face be similar? Would I follow in his professional footsteps? After the birth of my son I felt no need to find resemblance in an older relative since I had already claimed as my own his most adorable features (and a few of the less adorable ones). 

It wasn't until my mother started classes at St. Catherine's in MN to finish a Sociology degree that adoption seemed to become an issue. The influences there and at conferences she attended convinced her that adoptees are all somehow negatively affected by their 'situation.' The more I read the literature she recommended the more furious I became. The amount of self pitying and victimizing struck me as pathetic. I wasn't going to whine or demand imagined rights as an adoptee to discover my birth parents, or complain I was somehow incomplete without that knowledge. I was perfectly complete. My body and my family were whole, my parents loved me and helped me become a happy and confident young man. What I read in those books was yet-another-segment of society claiming to have been victimized by the system. Their apparent ungratefulness, and selfishness was something I refused to be identified with. 

It was about that time I started visiting an adoption-oriented newsgroup on the internet. I didn't feel particularly welcomed or encouraged there. The most proliferate opinions there smelled strongly of victimization. 

In any case, that's where I first heard of an adoption database, Birthquest, that promoted free registration and the potential for matches. Being both cheap and opportunistic I couldn't pass up a deal like that and without a thought as to the consequences entered as much information as I could as accurately as I could remember. I eventually stopped visiting the news group. Since then that same database has required a $20 donation. As much as I understand it to be nominal, I would never have registered for the inconvenience. 

That April, in what seems like another universe, my birth-mother, Sharon, had been following the AOL newsgroups with one of her sons, David. I'm unsure of the details but he either convinced her to enter her information into another database or he entered it for her. Whichever the case, it was a Wednesday (just two days later) when I got an unexpected phone call. 

A woman named Julie told me that while comparing adoption registries she had found as identical a match as she could expect. The data was similar enough to convince here that Sharon and I were mother and son. She shared with me the information Sharon had posted to AOL. As I listened I'm pretty sure I didn't breath. Time had slowed enough that normal respiration seemed to wrap around entire sentences. I scribbled everything she told me on a white board in my office and as soon as I got off the phone with her I called my dad. He confirmed the information Julie listed was much more accurate (exact, as a matter of fact) than what I had remembered. For instance, I didn't remember knowing my given name but my dad did remember it was James (still one of the disciples so we didn't stray too much there). Now I was convinced.

My wife was not as easily convinced. Being the assistant to a Civil Court Judge in she had seen too many cases of people taking advantage of other people and she thought myself to be of the gullible variety. She thought the timing seemed opportunistic as well--I had a great job, a new son, a new wife, and a down payment for a house from the recent sale of my first. 

Julie had also contacted Sharon, and though she wouldn't give her my current phone number, she did mention my information was publicly posted on the Internet. My half brother David wasted little time tracking it down and I received a phone call that very same evening. 

As well as I know David now, I'm still not sure what possessed him to call me at home. My wife answered the phone and was not pleased with the intrusion. My curiosity helped me ignore her disapproving glare as I listened to David. I quickly discovered there were three more brothers.


Though they didn't have the same father as I (as might be expected with a 16 and 17 year old) all four did share the same paternity. He went on to describe how all four had either been through or were still in the military, had played football and enjoyed camping. Their parents divorced when they were young but Sharon did marry a truly courageous man who raised the boys as his own and was more father to them than they could have hoped for. They had in common with each other a host of characteristics I could not identify with. I had enjoyed music, basketball, and track as a kid, my parents were still together, and I thought camping was a bigger hassle than it was worth. 

I was surprised to discover my mother, her husband John (Ric) and two of my brothers lived less than 30 minutes from my house. So close in fact our paths probably crossed several times in the intervening 32 years without our knowing it. 

I was less open about sharing too much about myself and my thoughts turned towards ending the phone call. I decided to take sanctuary in procedure, and offered to Dave that before going much further we should follow Julie's advice and send our information to Wayne County for verification. I had enough faith in government that I would have plenty of time to organize my thoughts before the county accomplished anything. 

 

We ended-up faxing our information and driver's licenses to the county the next day. We didn't expect an answer until the next week at the earliest. Though I was confident the match was correct, I didn't feel the same sense of urgency Sharon did. 

When Sharon was 15 her parents had recently separated and she was living with her father to escape a controlling mother, and in a way maybe, to spite her. As Sharon told me later she became a bit of a rebel and her dad let her get away with it. In fact, he tolerated most of Sharon's outrageous behavior because as she puts it, she had him wrapped around her proverbial little finger. Maybe because he was still in love with her mother, maybe because Sharon was a piece of her mother and by indulging her he was in proxy indulging his wife. 

What happened next in the early months of 1964 is the stuff we try to scare our teenagers with.


That school year Sharon met and started dating a boy named Steve who was a junior at their high school. He was tall, handsome, witty, and a heck of a good drummer. They only did it once and it was her first time. It was only a matter of weeks later that Sharon moved from East Detroit with her father to Detroit's far west side. That is when she discovered she was pregnant. 

Steve's father, if not violent, was apparently an intimidating man. When Sharon called to tell Steve the news he did what most 17 year-olds would do and denied it was his, most adamantly to his father whom he suspected would literally beat him to death if he admitted it. His parents decided Sharon must have had other romantic liaisons not as promising as Steve and therefor selected him as the best candidate for fatherhood. They would have no part of it. 

For better or worse, things were different in the 60s than they are today. Sharon was removed from her high school and sent to a Catholic home for unwed mothers-to-be. There she waited-out her pregnancy with other girls in the same predicament. Near the end of nine months, her 72" girth on her 5'4" frame won her special dispensation from the strict dress code usually observed at the home. It seems her dress couldn't be worn modestly enough for Catholic masses so the priest allowed her to wear pants. It was a small compensation for her discomfort and anxiety, but she was thankful. 

My parents had been married a few years when my mother discovered she had a uterine problem and underwent a mastectomy. They still wanted to start a family so my mother left her job at Detroit Edison, even though at the time she was making more money than my father working as an accountant at Ford Tractor, to become a full-time mother to two children adopted from Catholic Social Services in 1961 and 1962, my older brother and sister. 

All the while Sharon was pregnant her parents' plan was to put the baby up for adoption. But after carrying the baby all that time she decided she wanted to keep it. She was sure she could persuade her father and she was prepared to pull-out all the stops a 15 year-old could muster. 

Sharon turned 16 that November 25th. On the 26th, she gave birth to a 10 lb. 6 oz baby boy at the old Providence Hospital in Detroit--nearly four weeks late. Still trying to win-over her father to let her keep the baby boy she named him James Patrick McKenna, after his father. Sharon was convinced she would be able to keep him. She was convinced she could keep him even when the nuns were describing the couple waiting to adopt him. As she was told the father was an engineer and the mother was (now I can't remember) she wasn't worried because she knew she was going to keep that baby. 

She never realized how out of her control keeping James was until she sat with her father to sign the papers releasing him for adoption. 

Like my brother and sister before me, my folks recieved little advance notice from the adoption agency. On December 22nd they got a phone call from Catholic Charities asking if they were ready for a third child. The next day my parents brought home an early Christmas present. 

They named their new son Thomas Gerard. Thomas was for my mother's father who had died when she was young and Gerard was for St. Gerard Majella, the patron Saint of expectant mothers.


The Reunion

How fast things happen has a lot to do with perspective. For me, finding out five days after Julie's initial phone call that Sharon was, in fact, my birthmother didn't give me adequate time to consider the implications. For Sharon, on the other hand, those five days came at the end of more than 30 years and if there was anything she could do to hasten it she was willing.

As I understand it, she spent a good deal of the following Monday morning on the phone with a clerk at the court building (ironically named after the Judge that presided over my adoption) waiting for someone to check the records. The clerk tried gently to advised Sharon not to get her hopes up--that many of these requests don't match-up as often as people hope. She had barely finished the sentence when she compared the records to the drivers' licenses, double checked our permission to release the information to the other, and shouted. 

The notes from Julie's phone call were still on my whiteboard and I stared at them as Sharon announced the news. I wasn't surprised but I was suddenly feeling a little awkward talking to her, hoping not to make a bad impression, stutter, or let an accidental curse word slip out. 

Sharon wanted to know when we could get together. "Why waste any time?" I thought. As luck would have it, I was wearing my favorite double-breasted charcoal gray suit with a starched white dress shirt and tie. One of the benefits of working in downtown area is I could stop at both a barber shop and a florists before reaching my car parked across the street without so much as a detour--and I had plenty of time for both before lunch. We agreed to meet at a Friday's located approximately halfway between us. 

It's possible for a mind to be doing both nothing and something at the same time. I know mine was racing while driving to the restaurant and even picked-up speed as I got out of my car and started walking towards the entrance. What, exactly, those thoughts were I could barely keep track of. What do you say to a woman who gave you up for adoption 33 years ago and are about to meet? What kind of salutation is appropriate? A simple, "Hello," seems miserably inadequate. Should I hug her? Should I kiss her? How big should each be? Would that be appropriate? Would it be intimidating? Misleading? Genuine? Obligatory? After that's out of the way what should I say next? Do I have any pictures of my wife and son? Great, there's some here in the door pocket. Did I remember my wallet? Of course! You got your hair cut, didn't you? I didn't leave it at the florists, did I? No, it's in your pocket, stupid. Should I offer to pick-up the tab? What if she offered? Should I accept her offer or insist I get it? Damn it! I'm through the door and standing next to the hostess' stand and haven't figured any of this stuff out yet and how will I recognize someone I've never seen... 

"Sharon?" 

Sitting at the bar directly across from the entrance was Sharon. I didn't need anything to help me recognize her. There's an expression that only a mother could have after not seeing a child for 33 years suddenly walk through a door that is difficult to explain, though unmistakable when you see it. Everything I was worrying about vanished. My mind cleared. I knew exactly what to do. I gave her as great a hug as could. I'm now certain God gave us tears to express what even the greatest of hugs can not. 

When two lives are at once connected, as a mother and infant's are, then separated by so many years, walking through a door seems too easy a thing to do. There's a horrible incongruency to life when such an every-day occurrence as walking through a door can be punctuated by an event like this. 

Growing up, a regular feature of dinner time was updating my father on everything that went on that day, either in school during the winters or just around the neighborhood in the summer. Even with four children this doesn't take too long and there was usually more to eat than to tell, especially after we'd already told mom the really neat stuff right when we got home.. In any case, we just saw dad nine hours ago! 

At dinner now I ask my four year-old how his day was and he can't remember what he had for lunch. Imagine trying to recount 33 years worth of birthday parties, artwork, bullies, homework assignments, science projects, colds and flues, music lessons, band concerts, basketball games, track meets, grades, and girl friends to a woman who was probably interested in what I had for lunch each one of those days.

Sharon brought with her pictures of my father, Steve. His high-school graduation picture could have been mine. I saw so much of myself in him that for a moment I thought it was me and I had forgotten going to high school in the early '60s. 

I also met my brothers Dave (the one that called me at home) and Don. They told me about two more brothers, Kevin and Kraig, at the time, both were in the military (Kevin still is). I remember getting confused and forgetting who was older than whom, and turned to Don and asked, "Now, which one are you?" and he replied, "I'm the oldest... or at least I was the oldest."