Flying

Dad thought it'd be a good idea to bring us along.

            "You boys will like it. Mr. and Mrs. Bailey have three girls about the same age as you."

            Jeff and I looked at each other, silently agreeing between us that it would be fun, but, of course, we couldn't let our parents know that.

            I complained, "Aw, no way. I don't want to go. Jeff and I were going to go to the creek and hunt carp with our bow and arrows."

            Dad's eyes turned steely under thick black eyebrows. He gave us each a look only he was capable of, "I don't care. You're both coming with your mom and me. No arguments." Then he turned to our little brother, Brian, pointed a long index finger at him and said, "You, too."

            So we went.

            Mr. and Mrs. Bailey lived ten miles south of us on a bluff overlooking the Minnesota River. For our parents, the view was spectacular. For me and Jeff, well, all we carried about were the girls. Especially me. I was thirteen that summer with wild hormones running out of control. A lot of times I had no idea what was going on with me, often wondering, "Who's this guy that's taken over my body? What has he done with the mild mannered kid I used to be? Why did he make me do some of the things I did and fill my brain all those crazy thoughts?" I had no clue, but I was doing my best to hang on for the crazy ride. Jeff, two years younger, was not only my brother, but also a pretty good friend. We did a lot of stuff together, so if I wanted to check out the Bailey's daughters he'd be right on board. Younger brother Brian? Well, at seven years old, he was hardly a passing thought. Really, who cared about him, anyway?

            After a half hour on the road, Dad pulled into the driveway of the Bailey's sprawling rambler. I'd never in my life seen a house so big and long and, well, rambling. It went on forever. Mr. Bailey, like Dad, was an airline pilot. But he must have been better at his job than Dad or something because it was obvious the guy was wealthy. He had three cars parked in the huge garage, one of them a shining dark green Jaguar. The huge front yard was shady, lush and green, almost like a jungle, and landscaped with shrubs and trees and gardens outlined with big, smooth, rounded stones. There was even a fountain in the middle of a pool in a rock garden with a beguiling naked lady shooting a ten foot stream of water out of her mouth. It was liking being in another world.

            Mr. Bailey came out to greet us as we were getting out of our old Chevrolet station wagon. "Hey there, Fred," he grinned, shaking hands with my dad. "Mary, nice to see you." He gave my mom a brief hug and peck on the cheek. Then he turned to us, "And you must be Fred's boys," he exclaimed, pasting that fake smile on his face every parent is so good at. "How are you doing, young fellas?"

            We had been raised to be polite, so we all dutifully smiled and shook his proffered hand. He then turned and yelled at the top of his voice, "Girls! Get out here! The boys have arrived!!"

            Jesus, could this be anymore embarrassing? I could feel my face turning beet red. I was at an age where parents drawing attention to me was the last thing I wanted. Just shut up, Mr. Bailey, please, just shut up.

            Right then the girls appeared, strutting out through a door at the back of the garage like they were on a fashion runway. Three of them. Each pretty close to the age of me and Jeff and Brian. That's where any resemblance of similarity ended and ended fast. We were obviously in a different league out here on the Minnesota River than back home in Minneapolis. It was summer time. I was dressed in pressed Bermuda shorts, and a white JCrew short sleeve shirt. On my feet were topsiders with no socks. It was a very preppy look, one encouraged by my dad and one I went along with just to keep peace in the family. Also, and this is more to the point, it was the type of clothes my friends wore, with only the slightest room for any variation (pattern on the Bermudas and color of shirt being the only two worth mentioning.)

            Mr. Bailey said, "Boys, these are my daughters, Sara, Kate and Jackie. Girls, say hello to Mr. Jacobson's boys."

            Oh, my god. I'd never expected anything like his three girls, especially the oldest, Sara. She was probably close to my thirteen years, except that she looked like she was twenty. She wore a dark purple halter top falling off of one shoulder and the shortest, tightest, cutoff blue jeans I'd ever seen. Her auburn hair was tinged with red highlights and it fell in long ringlets over her bare shoulders. Her eyes were big and brown and covered in dark makeup, her lips painted deep lavender. Around her neck she wore a choker necklace on a chain with a peace symbol on it. A musky scent emanated from her that was strangely attractive. (I found out a few years later it was patchouli oil.) She had a henna hummingbird tattooed on one shoulder and a red heart with an arrow through it on the other. I was speechless.

            She confidently walked right up to me and said, "So, like, hi. What was your name again?"

            My mouth was so dry, I could barely get my name out. "John," I squeaked because, I swear to god, my voice broke right then and there. I felt my face turn a deeper shade of red, if that were possible, maybe crimson.

            She stood not more than two feet away and she gave me a long, slow, once over. I'm sure I quit breathing while she scrutinized me. After what seemed like forever but was probably only three seconds, she smirked, took a step back, smacked the gum she was chewing, turned to her father and said, "I can't stay. Randy's picking me up in a few minutes." Then she turned and sauntered back through the garage, her two sisters trailing behind.

            Well, I never.

            I was mesmerized. I couldn't help it, my eyes were glued to her, my heart was running away with me. Perspiration beaded up on my forehead. I think I fell in love for the first time in my life right then and there. Too bad for me. The feeling was definitely not reciprocated. I never saw her again. But maybe seeing Sara and knowing that I was out of my league out there on the Minnesota River at the home of my Dad's rich friend, lead me to do what I did later that day. I don't know. But what I did was sure out of character for me, that was for sure.

            After Sara left with Randy, her sisters took off down the road to play with some of their girl friends. We weren't invited. That left me and Jeff and Brian to our own devices. The parents were inside have drinks. "You boys go outside and play," Mr. Bailey said. "Just watch out for the backyard," he laughed, "It's very steep, and it's a real bitch."

            "Okay, thanks for the warning." I waved at the Baileys and Mom and Dad and led Jeff and Brian out the front door and immediately around to the backyard. Why not? 'It's steep and it's a bitch,' rang in my ear. Sounded like fun to me.

            The Bailey's home had been built at the top of a high ridge that ran a couple of hundred feet above the Minnesota River Valley. It offered spectacular views: the river, forests, swamps, backwaters, the whole nine yards. The back slope was in the process of being landscaped and terraced from the top of the ridge all the way down to the valley floor. The first terrace was in place. The second yet to be completed. We goofed around on the first terrace for about a minute. It was boring. Then we slid down to the top of the second terrace and peered over the edge. It was cut away like a cliff and there was a sloping drop-off of one hundred feet to the bottom, all of it made up of sand and debris from the work done on the house and the rest of the backyard.

            "Cool," Jeff said in awe, standing at the edge.

            "No kidding," I replied, looking out into the tops of the trees in the dense woods below. I picked up a fist sized stone, "Let's throw some rocks."

            So were pitched rocks over the edge, the bigger the better, and watched them roll all the way to the bottom. It was fun, a nice diversion, and helped me to pretty much forget about the dark and dusky Sara.

            After fifteen minutes Jeff and I had worked up a sweat, so we took a break in our rock throwing game and sat down to catch to our breath. Brian wasn't tired. He picked up some small pebbles and began to carefully toss them over. I watched him; my skinny little brother, seven years old, so sweet and innocent. Almost loveable. Then I had an idea.

            "Hey, Brian," I said, "I've got a really good idea. We're up so high. How about if Jeff and I throw you over the edge of the cliff? It'd be fun, almost like flying."

            I couldn't believe that those words had actually come out of my mouth. I knew it'd be dangerous, tossing him off a cliff. What was I thinking? I was the oldest and supposed to be in charge for Pete's sake. I was about to laugh it off and make a joke of it, when Brian said, without hesitation, "Sure. If you think It'll be okay."

            The trust of a younger brother. What an amazing thing, is what I thought to myself. To him I said, "Sure. No sweat. You'll be fine." I had no idea what I was talking about.

            Jeff and I stood up and made ourselves ready. I had Brian lay down on his back next to the edge of the cliff. I grabbed his hands, Jeff grabbed his feet. We lifted him up and swung him back and forth a few times to get the feel of him. He was very light. It was like swinging a teddy bear. We began to swing him over the edge, out into space. I counted off, "One. Two."

            In the middle of the third swing, Brian said, "You sure I'll be okay?"

            I said, "Absolutely. No problem." And at the end of that swing I said to Jeff, "Let him go."

            And we did.

            My god, to this day, I'll never forget how he flew out of our hands, Brian's small body framed against the blue sky, hanging suspended in space. For a poetic instant anyway. Then he dropped like a bag of wet cement and fell out of sight. Amazingly, he never screamed, flying through the air like he did. I certainly would have. He did, however, land with a soft thud thirty feet below us. Jeff and I both peered over the edge. The sloop was gentle enough, and the sand soft enough that the landing wasn't too hard. Fortunately, he wasn't injured. He did, however, roll all the way to the bottom of the ravine, a hundred feet below.

            I was aghast at what I'd done. My little brother had trusted me and here I went ahead and threw him off a cliff. What an idiotic thing to do. He could have been killed. I jumped off the edge and scurried down the sandy incline as fast as I could, Jeff following behind. I needed to make sure Brain was all right. Fortunately, he was. In fact, he even laughed a little as we cleaned the sand off of him. But he did make it a point of telling me he didn't want to do it again. Well, no kidding.

            Did me tossing my little brother off that cliff have anything to do with my conflicted feelings about Sara? I don't know. Maybe. I was definitely caught in the world between being a kid and being an adult, with the obvious conclusion that I really didn't fit into each. At least not on that particular day.

            After we dusted Brian off, we three brothers climbed back to the top of the terrace and threw some more rocks over the edge. As we did, I felt that something had changed between Brian and me. The fact that he had trusted me...I don't know. It was touching, really. The fact that I betrayed that trust, well, that was something that made me feel like a jerk. I vowed to try to be a better brother to him. In the years to come, I wasn't always successful, but at least I tried. One thing was for sure, though, on that day I began to feel a little closer to him. He didn't seem like an annoying little kid anymore. We even threw a couple of big rocks together that required both of us to lift them. It was fun.

            We stayed on the back terrace until Dad yelled at us to get ready to go home. We climbed back up to the sprawling house, got in the car and left. We never saw Mr. Bailey's daughters again. That was probably a good thing.

            Jeff and I and Brian stayed close the rest of our lives, we even still laugh about what we'd done to Brian out there on the cliff.

             And Brian, to his credit, has never held a grudge against me and Jeff. At least that's what he says. I admire him for that because if the roles were reversed, I certainly would have. In fact, he's always quick to point out, when we tell the story, that he was only a little scared. Mostly, though, he remembers that it really did feel like flying, falling through space like he did on that summer day so many years ago. He also tells me he was glad that it happened. I don't know if I really believe him or not, but, if it's true, maybe it's one reason way he became a pilot later in life and flew airplanes for a living, just like our Dad had done. Oh, his whole life he's also only lived in houses that have a flat backyard. No terraces for him. Not ever again. I don't blame him at all.

           

Flowers

Flowers. Your daughter loves them, Laura said, setting our one-year old down in the grass next to the patio. Arial immediately grabbed a dandelion and jammed it in her mouth happily gumming it to death. Laughing, my wife, gently pulled the slimy thing out, saying she also liked petunias, as our little girl grabbed for one from a nearby planter. I reached for her and missed as she swallowed it whole.

            Then suddenly she was everywhere, crawling here and there, stuffing flowers in her mouth non-stop, a whirling dervish of floral mastication. It was impossible to try to control her. Frustrated, I was about ready to put a halt to the whole thing and take her inside when suddenly she stopped and looked at me, her eyes twinkling in the sunlight. She smiled a flowery smile as she reached out her little hand and offered me a recently plucked yellow daisy. Then she called me Daddy. My heart melted as I took it from her, while, giggling, she put one in her mouth. I didn't have to think. I popped mine in and ate it. It tasted like a burst of pure joy.

The Wedding Gift

Larry, one of the nicer jailers, rapped on the door to my cell, "Jed." I lazily looked over from my bed. "You got a call," he jerked his thumb, "Downstairs."

            I immediately sat up. I'd been paging through a National Geographic, thinking about my big afternoon plans. Lunch was over and it was snowing outside, so my one hour of exercise would have to be indoors today. I envisioned lifting weights and then playing basketball, getting my ass kicked by Shamal and JJ and some of the other brothers, cellmates with me in long term lockup in the Hennepin County jail. When the ass kicking was completed, I'd come back to my cell (or room, as the Department of Corrections liked to call it) and go back to the article I'd been reading about an archaeological dig in England in someplace called Kent. Sounded like a fun time, right? A perfect way to spend an afternoon in incarceration? Okay, okay, I'm just kidding. But, seriously, the article I was reading reminded me of my son and that was a good thing. I was looking forward to getting back to it.

            I stood up fast. I hadn't been expecting the call.

            "It is Ben?"  

            Larry nodded. "Yeah. He said it was urgent."

            Urgent? Shit. I grabbed a pen and paper and jotted down a quick note, 'Sedgeford,' to remind me I'd been reading about the Sedgeford Archaeological and Historical Research Project. Then I hustled the three steps from my bed to where Larry stood. He unlocked the door and let me out. We hurried to the end of the hall and took the elevator down two flights to the common room where the phone was. He pointed at it but didn't have to say anything. I knew the drill: ten minutes to talk and that was it. I eyed the clock on the wall. 1:06 pm. I hoped it'd be enough time, but doubted it. It never was when it came to talking with my son.

            I wouldn't say Ben and I had been estranged from each other for the last twenty years, but we had certainly lost touch. While my life had spiraled out of control into a blur of an alcoholic haze, my one and only child had gone the exact opposite direction -  he'd kept his head above water and actually accomplish something with his life.

            During those twenty years, I had been a hack mechanic and failed long haul truck driver. (Seven DWI's and multiple DUI's will do that.) Ben had gone to the University of Montana where he'd graduated in four years, majoring in archaeology. He'd obtained a masters degree and had been an instructor at the university for the last fifteen years. I lived in an efficiency apartment twenty miles west of Minneapolis in the small town of Long Lake. Ben and his fiancé owned a home and lived in Missoula. I'd seen pictures. It was a charming white stucco bungalow on a tree lined street located near the Clark Fork River, just a short walk from the  university campus. I lived alone with not even a cat as a companion. Ben and Mya had been together for seventeen years and had two wonderful children, Merry, age eight, and Cole, five. While Ben's life was stable and meaningful, mine was...What? Stable? Well, if you counted the stability that came with the rules associated with living out increasing longer sentences in jail or the workhouse, maybe. Meaningful? Anything but.

            But that was beside the point. While I was serving thirteen months for my third drunk driving violation in twelve months, Ben had found a way to contact me (through the internet somehow) and we'd gotten back in touch.

            "It's been too long, Dad," was the way he'd put it six months ago, when, out of the blue, he'd called me last August, "Life is too short."

            Hearing his voice was beyond wonderful; it was the best thing that had happened to me in...In...Well, I don't know. How about in a long, long time? When I heard his voice that first time I realized how much I missed him. I nodded to his statement about "Life being too short," agreeing whole heartedly before I realized I was on the phone and he couldn't see me. "I know, son," I managed to blurt out, hoping I didn't sound like an idiot. "I really know what you mean," stammered some more, realizing right then how idiotic my words sounded. "I'm glad you called," I blurted out before finally finding the wherewithal to just shut up. I had actually begun sweating. I retrospect, I know I really had sounded like an idiot.   

            Initial surprise and discomfort aside, I was incredibly happy to hear from him. I'll be the first to admit I hadn't been the best father in the world. I'd married Ben's mom when she became pregnant, and the marriage was doomed from the start. She was nineteen and I was twenty. If she was mature enough to want a child, I certainly wasn't ready, willing or able to take on the responsibilities that came along with having both a wife and a son to care for. She divorced me two years later and I'm amazed we lasted that long. We both moved on with our lives, me seeing Ben on the average every other weekend until he graduated from high school. As long as I wasn't in jail, anyway.

            In looking back, though, to be perfectly honest, being around Ben was the highlight of my life back then. I made it a point to not drink when I was with him, probably the only time in those years I could ever say I was truly sober. I should have known how detrimental drinking was to me, but I was young and stupid back then, and, later, older and just as stupid. It took a long, long time for me to figure things out.

            My memories of us together when he was growing up are as precious as any I could ever hope to image. Ben's mom lived in Minneapolis, so I would drive in from Long Lake, pick him up and we'd do our thing. We went to the park at Minnehaha Falls a lot. He enjoyed swinging on the swings and playing on the slides and jungle gym; pretty much everything at the playground. I'd take him back to my apartment and fix him stuff to eat like spaghetti or corn or ice cream; food he liked. (Me, too, for that matter.) I taught him to tie his shoes. I worked with him on his reading when he was young and, later, his homework when he got into middle school. I taught him to throw a baseball and shoot a basketball. In short, I did my best.

            Ben was a great kid. His mom remarried and had a son and daughter and Ben was as good a big brother to them as anyone could expect. Probably better. I don't know, there was just something in him. He was a good natured person. He liked people and he had an easy going, take life as it came to him, kind of attitude. One thing was certain, he was way smarter than I ever was. He loved school, he loved learning and, as he got into his teens, he developed an interest in ancient civilizations. After high school, he wanted to move away from Minnesota and, as he told me once, "Try something different." He applied at the University of Montana, got accepted and moved out there to start a new phase of his life.

            When he left, I'm embarrassed to admit that I went on a prolonged downhill slide. I'm not sure why I upped the ante on my drinking, but I did, an unfortunate decision that lead to longer and longer jail terms. Now here I was, stuck in the Hennepin County jail for another two months and nineteen days. But who's counting? Ha, ha. Well, obviously, me.

            I picked up the phone. "Hey, Ben. What's up?"

            "Hi, Dad." My son had a deep, rich voice, the kind I imagined would be the perfect voice for a college professor, which, of course, he was."How's life?" he asked.

            "I'm good," I told him, "It's always good for me to hear your voice." And it was. Ben brightened my day. Since he'd contacted me I looked forward to his calls. Over the last six months we'd caught up and put the years we'd been apart behind us. I know I'm his father, but, I have to say, I was also now starting to look at my son as my best friend. We were that close."So how are Mya and the kids?"

            "They're good, Dad. Great. Every things great." Then he paused, and in that pause I got the feeling everything really wasn't all that great. It may be surprising to hear (well, maybe not), but if you spend enough time in jail, you really start to see through people's bullshit. It must have to do with the closed in environment or something. Nothing gets past any of us here in lock up.

            I got the feeling there was something important Ben wasn't telling me, "Hey, son, what's up? Come on, you can tell me."

            The phone went silent. I watched the second hand tick fifteen seconds off my precious ten minutes. Then Ben said, "Well, there are two things, Dad, two things I wanted to tell you about. One, Mya and I are finally going to get married. We're planning on the middle of April."

            I breathed a sigh of relief. That was good news. Great news, actually, and certainly not the bad news I was expecting . "Well, I guess congratulations are in order, so congratulations," I said. After all the years with Mya, two kids and almost a lifetime together, it was great news. "I'm really glad to hear that. Good for you guys." Then I had a thought. "So, why now, if I might be so bold in asking?" I asked, joking with him a little. "Why the big rush? You've already got your kids, so that can't be the reason. Right?" He was sounding so serious, I wanted to try to lighten the mood a little.

            He paused and then said, "Well, that's the other thing, Dad. There's something important that I need to talk to you about."

            I could hear a different tone in his voice right away. My heart jumped and there was catch in my throat. Something was up. Something big. I barely was able to croak, "What's is it?" Was it good or bad news? Which? Shit. I knew better. The way he was acting, it had to be something bad.

            When he spoke, that rich, mellow voice of his had dropped almost to a whisper. I could barely hear when he said, "There's no easy way to say this so I'll just come right out with it. I've got cancer. A tumor, actually. In my brain. I've got a brain tumor, Dad." The phone went silent. I could hear blood pounding in my ear. Then he said, and I'll never forget the words, the next words he spoke to me when he said, "Dad, I'm scared. I'm really scared."

            For a moment, my vision went blank. I felt my knees give way and I swear I almost fainted. Then Ben's words came rushing back and I recovered. "I'm scared," he had said. Ben was afraid. Possibly terrified. I knew right then and there what I had to do. What I wanted to do. My son needed me. He needed his father. Okay, get it together, Jed. Be the man your son needs you to be.

            With no plan in place other than to let him know I cared and would be there for him (at least emotionally, in the short term, until I got out of jail) I said, "Ben, I'm so sorry. Let's talk." I know those words sounded kind of weak and pathetic, but the words weren't the point. The point was to let Ben know he could talk to me and that I'd be there for him. Because I was. Jail time or no jail time.

            So we began talking. Unfortunately, after a few minutes Larry came over and told me to get off the phone. "Come on Jed," he said, poking me on the shoulder, "Time to call it a day."

            At the touch of his hand I swear I almost punched him in the face. Instead, I covered the mouthpiece, looked him in the eye and said, "Listen man..." And I told him what Ben had told me. When I was finished I honest to god pleaded with him, "Please give me a few more minutes with my son. He needs me and I need to keep talking to him." I didn't care how pathetic I sounded.

            Larry stood back, folded his arms and took a long look at me, judging my honestly. I totally understood where he was coming from. Believe me, career criminals, which I guess you could call me, are excellent at lying. He looked at me for few moments and then his gaze softened. He even touched my shoulder in what some might call a comforting manner, "Okay, Jed. That's fine. Take your time. I'll be right over there." He pointed to the wall and moved away. Who knows, maybe somewhere out there he had a son, too.

            Relieved, I went back to my conversation. Ben and I talked for over an hour, which, I'm guessing, is a record for the Hennepin County Correctional System. The upshot was this: Ben and Mya were getting married because of the tumor. They wanted to get as much in health care benefits as they could and getting married would accomplish that. I had to admire my son's desire to do the right thing concerning his family. I couldn't help but compare it the decidedly poor example I'd set all my life. Fortunately, Ben turned out to be a way better family man than his dear old dad.

            Then there was the tumor. An operation was scheduled for the day after the wedding. Ben assured me that his doctor and surgical team were very confident that there was every reason for success. But, still, it was surgery on the brain after all. Anything could happen, at least to my way of thinking.

            After Ben told me about the surgery, my hand holding the receiver began to shake. Badly. Adrenalin was flooding my system, I guess. Plus, there was a lot to take in: marriage, brain tumor and surgery. On top of all that, there was one more thing, and it was huge, as far as I was concerned. It was a request on the part of my son. He wanted me to come to Montana, and not just to visit, either.

            Ben put it this way, "Dad, I've been talking to Mya, telling her about you and how good you were with me when I was a kid and all." He paused, I'm sure he was thinking about what to say next, but his pause left me to fill in the blank space that was the last twenty years or so of me being out of Ben's life; twenty long alcoholic years of me being a drunk and not the kind of father I should have been. I'd call the entire memory overwhelmingly embarrassing except that would be putting the feeling way too mildly.

            I was thankful to have the image erased from my mind when Ben continued, "Dad, I have a huge favor to ask you. Mya and I would like you to come out for the wedding and stay with us afterwards. We were thinking that you could help her out with the kids after my surgery. You know, help out around the house. Stuff like that. We could fix up a room for you in the attic. You'd have your own space. A place all your own." He paused and in that moment I envisioned anything being better than the ten by six foot space I now called home. Then he added, "But more than that, Dad, it'd just be nice to see you. For us to be together again."

            It'd be great to see you, too, is the thought that jumped to the front of my brain. But I didn't say anything. Here's why: Ben's request was a lot to take in. Was I ready for that kind of commitment? Those kinds of responsibilities? Was I ready to give up my life and move to Montana to be with Ben and help out with his family? Was I ready to be a hands on dad? Among other things, it would mean some major league changes in my lifestyle, that was for sure.

            It was a lot to consider, and probably a hundred arguments, pro and con, raced through my mind in an instant. They all came down to this: What should I do? What the heck should I do?

            Then I said to myself, to hell with it. What it really all boiled down to was just this one thing: My son needed me. He needed me right now. Maybe this was my chance. Maybe this was my chance to start over again and make up for all the years I'd missed with him. Maybe this was the chance for me to not only be sober, like I was now, but to stay sober into the future. Maybe this was the chance to do something with my life and help someone else out for a change rather than numb myself with booze, living for days if not weeks in an alcoholic haze. Maybe this was the chance to be a real father, and not just some wasted, poor excuse of one.

            At the end of the fraction of a second it took for all that to go through my mind, I said, "Of course, son. I'd be happy to."

Life works in strange ways, and I'll be the first one to admit it. I got early release (due to good behavior, of all things.) I sold my restored '68 Ford Mustang (and got a lot of money for it), cleared out my bank account and was on the plane to Missoula a few days before Ben and Mya's wedding. It took about ten minutes to get comfortably set up in my attic room, and by the time the ceremony was conducted I had been completely welcomed into the open arms of Ben and Mya and Merry and Cole.

            The day after the wedding, I looked after the kids while Ben had his surgery and Mya was at the hospital awaiting the outcome. Afterwards, I spelled her between being home with the kids and at the hospital with Ben.

            That was then, back in April, and it's now late summer. I'm happy to announce that Ben is recovering nicely, as well if not better than expected. In fact, the doctors think that by October he and Mya will be able to enjoy the wedding gift I'd presented them with the day after their marriage and the morning before his operation. I'd gotten them a vacation. It wasn't just any vacation either, mind you, but one Ben had hinted both he and Mya had always wanted to take but were never able to work into their busy schedules.

            Mya taught high school English outside of Missoula in the small town of Lolo. She had a love of English literature that was both passionate and deep rooted. Her ancestors could be traced back to the eighteenth century in northern Yorkshire. Ben had a love of archaeology and had discovered some digs going on in ancient sites all around England. I did some research and found out that if I booked them into a cottage in the midlands near Yorkshire, they could travel around most of that part of England and visit archaeological sites for Ben, and they could also check out interesting literary places for Mya. So that's what I did. I used up the money from the sale of my car and all the rest of my savings to set up a month long trip for them. When I showed them the itinerary, they both started crying. I'm sure the upcoming surgery had something to do with it, but, hey, at least they had something exciting to look forward to after the operation (along with Ben's recovery, of course.)

            As fate, or luck, or whatever, would have it, it turns out we all have something to look forward to this fall, the kids included. Merry and Cole have the summer to help their dad recover. They also are spending a lot of time learning, among other things, the ins and outs of one on one basketball. From a pro (me). Lucky them! Then next fall, while their mom and dad are enjoying a month in England, I get to take care of them full time. (Even more luck for Merry and Cole.) Seriously, though, they'll be in my good hands, and I'm totally looking forward to. The kids tell me that they are, too. (They call me Grandpa Jed.) They'll be in fourth grade and kindergarten by that time and I honestly can't wait.

            So life is good. Ben's healing and he and Mya are overjoyed with my wedding gift. But it's me who's the big winner in the gift giving and receiving department, here. I'm sober. I have my son back and I've been welcomed with open arms into his family. They've accepted me for who I am, past faults and all, and I have no thoughts of ever leaving. Why would I? I'm part of a loving family now, and they want me to stay living with them. That's what I'm planning to do, because I love them all, my son, Mya, Merry and Cole. It's the love of one man for his son and his family. A love he helped me discover. You know what, when all is said and done, that's the greatest gift of all.

Bio

I live in Long Lake, Minnesota. I enjoy walking, gardening, bird watching, reading, writing, bicycle riding and playing with my fantastic grand kids. I'm retired after working many years as a sales and technical development and training instructor. I collect old marbles, vintage dinky toy race cars and YA books from the 1900's and am a passionate yo-yo player. Life is good. I am a fortunate man.