The Rabbit Freezes

This seventy-five word story was posted September 24, 2018 by Richard at Paragraph Planet.

The rabbit freezes. I raise my rifle and sight. Our eyes lock. It stares back, seeming to dare me to blow it away. You asked for it. I start to squeeze the trigger. Next to me my son says, "Go for it Dad, kill the bastard." Just then I catch a lively twinkle of light in the rabbit's eye and it softly blinks. I lower the gun to my side and whisper, "Let's go inside."

What Grandma Said

The last time I saw my Grandmother Sara I'd wheeled her down to the community room of Meridian Way, the retirement home where she'd been living for the last year and a half.

            "Is this okay?" I asked, setting the brake, "Are we close enough to the window?"

            Grandma smiled, sat forward looking out over the skyline of Minneapolis and said, "It's fine, Ethan, just perfect."

            "Would you like something to drink?" I indicated the refreshment area on the far wall, "Some tea, maybe?"

            "A glass of water would be nice, sweetheart. Just a small one."

            It may sound like a simple thing, but I liked that Grandma always told the truth. It was a way of life for her. If you asked her about anything: are you hungry, tired or thirsty, for example, or her opinion on politics or religion, she'd always be honest with you. In my experience, most people weren't as forthcoming. Not Grandma Sara, she always told the truth. It was refreshing.

            "I'll be right back. Don't do go anywhere."

            She laughed at my lame joke, "Don't worry, I'm perfectly happy right here."

            My earliest memory of her was when I was four years old. Mom dropped me off a lot back then when she went out on one of her ever increasingly frequent dates. I loved being with Grandma. We were snuggled on the couch, and I had my sleepy head resting in her lap, wrapped up in a shawl she'd knit. We were watching television, one of the courtroom dramas she loved so much. I remember the guy on the witness stand being approached by a solemn looking man holding a bible and being asked to 'Tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.'

            I roused myself and sat up, "What's that mean, Grandma?"

            "It means to never lie, Ethan. Always tell the truth."

            "Always?"

            "Yes, always."

            It was my first life lesson from Grandma, and one that always has stayed with me.

            She was a seamstress and worked for Lea's Creations, a dress shop just off Nicolett Avenue in downtown Minneapolis. Grandpa Ernie had been killed in World War II on D-Day and she lived in the bungalow they'd purchased in northeast Minneapolis just before he'd enlisted. She didn't drive and took the bus back and forth to work. After mom left for good, Grandma took over the task of raising me and it was probably a good thing, too.

            Once I was caught stealing a pack of gum with my friends Eddie and JK. They took off running and got away. I wasn't so lucky. The store manager, a huge, hairy man with bushy eyebrows, caught me by the collar of my tee-shirt and made me sit in the back room while he called Grandma.

            "You've got yourself a career criminal in the making here, Mrs. Stevenson. Make no doubt about it."

            I was seven years old and terrified. Grandma left work and took the bus to the store. We walked home without saying a word, me becoming more and more frightened with each step.

            We walked in through the back door sat at the kitchen table. She looked me in the eye, her voice full of sadness, "Ethan, why did you do such a terrible thing? You just about broke my heart, stealing somebody else's gum for pity sakes. Haven't I raised you to be better than that?"

            I felt horrible. It was plain that I'd disappointed her and let her down. "It wasn't just me, Grandma. Eddie and JK were there, too, but when Mr. Jensen asked who else was there I told him it was just me."

            "So you lied?"

            "No. Well, yes," I said, tears suddenly flowing. I'd not only nearly broken her heart but also lied, a big "No no" in Grandma's book.

            "So you didn't tell on them?"

            "No."

            Grandma sat back and thought for a minute before saying, "Well, then, good. That's a good thing."

            "What do you mean? I thought I wasn't supposed to lie."

            She surprised me by suddenly reaching over and hugging me. "No, you shouldn't lie, but you need to do right by your friends, too. Sometimes it's okay to lie a little like you did. It's called a white lie."

            I didn't realize that life could be so complicated, but Grandma dedicated herself to helping me navigate my way through it.

            That last day together her heart was worn out, weakened by a series of mini-strokes, but her mind was sill sharp. We'd stayed close our entire lives. I helped her choose Meridian Way, helped her move in, and visited at least every other day. She was the only family I had next to my wife and three kids.

            One of things she told me that last day was how much she loved raising me.

            "You were like a son to me, Ethan. The son I never had."

            What could I say? I gave her a heartfelt hug and she hugged me back, both of us making the most of our time together. I'm glad that we did. She passed away during that night due to a massive stroke. I was told she didn't feel a thing.

            And that thing about lying? Well, just before I left her that last day she asked if I ever regretted not having my birth mom around in my life.

            "Were you okay with this old lady being your mother?" she asked.

            I looked at her, this self-sacrificing woman who was the most wonderful person I'd ever known, and said, "Well, Grandma, I have to be honest here," and I paused for effect, a long, pregnant moment, before grinning and saying, "You were the best thing that ever happened to me."

            "You wouldn't lie," she asked, joking.

            "Never," I said.

            I remember that she smiled, then, and I did too. I couldn't have asked for more from her. And that's the truth.

           

                       

Yellowjackets

It was Field Day, the last day of school for the Long Lake 5th graders. I was looking forward to tomorrow: no kids, no schedules, no rules to enforce. No nothing. I was also looking forward to a summer of alone time - my idea of heaven.

            I was standing on the sidelines, monitoring a soccer game between my class and the other fifth grade class, Mrs. Elbert's, and talking to Edith Silverstein, the oldest teacher at the school. She was a sixty-five year old sprite of a woman who taught first grade; had been for nearly forty years. Lots of people thought she should retire. Not me. She was a witty lady with a great sense of humor who had a firm but kind way children. I liked her a lot.

            "What are you planning on doing with your summer, Ed?" she asked, watching all ten kids on the field run after the soccer ball.

            "Oh, not much. Just hang around. You know."

            She bristled in response like I'd just poked her with a sharp stick, "No I don't know, Ed. You should do something other than 'hang around,' she said using finger quotes to poke fun at me. Then she shook her head to indicate her semi-serious disappointment. "Me, I'm going on a month long cruise to Alaska with my friends, Maggie and Becky. I can't wait." She gave me a look like, 'Get with the program buddy and do something interesting with your life.' A sentiment that made perfect sense, especially after what was about to happen.

            I'm forty-five, a bit of a loner and have been single my entire adult life. I live with my big tabby cat, Toby, in a tiny apartment a mile from the school; close enough to walk or ride my bicycle. Long Lake is small town located on the edge of undeveloped farm fields and woodlands twenty miles west of Minneapolis. I've taught fifth grade Life Science in the local grade school for the last twenty-one years. Though I'm withdrawn by nature, I love teaching, it's just that it takes a lot out of me. I treasure my time to myself, but understood what Edith was getting at. I also valued her opinion. When I really thought about it, at my age, maybe I really did need to get a hobby other than the only one I had, collecting old marbles off eBay.

            Anyway, her analysis of my life notwithstanding, we'd been having a nice, friendly conversation, when, from the far end of the soccer pitch we heard screams from the kids. "Shit," I said to Edith.

            She looked at me and yelled, "Go," and I did. I took off running wondering what the hell had happened.

            It soon became apparent. Both fifth grade classes were standing where the soccer field met the woods. There were yelling as I ran up. Some were even crying.

            Johnny Leibert, one of my prized students met me, "Mr. Mack, Mr. Mack. Jenny's getting attacked by bees. I think they're going to kill her."

            The Jenny he was referring to was Jenny Goldenstein, a ten year old tiny waif of a girl, prone to hives and every other  kind of skin problem you could name. She was also the unluckiest kid I ever knew. Last year she kindly brought her teacher a handpicked bouquet of flowers, including a sprig of poison ivy. She was covered in calamine lotion for nearly a month. If anyone was going to be attacked by bees, it was bound to be her.

            I ran to the edge of the woods watching as Jenny frantically waved the attacking swarm away from her head. I could see in an instant that they weren't your common garden variety of non-dangerous honey bees or anything like that. No. These were yellow jackets, one of nature's most vicious insects. They could do serious damage by stinging you multiple times. And those stingers hurt. I'd read once that they felt like needles pushing deep into your skin. My heart went out the little girl and I didn't stop to think. I ran in to rescue her.

            "Jenny, Jenny," I called, "Don't worry, I'm coming."

            She turned, tears in her eyes, those friggin' yellow jackets all over her. "Help," she called except it wasn't as much a call as it was more of a whisper. She was really frightened. Terrified. Poor little kid.

            I grabbed her and swung her in a circle a few times to try to shake some of the yellow jackets off. As I did, I could see what had happened. A soccer ball lay next to a log rotting on the forest floor. The kids must have kicked the ball into the woods and Jenny had run in after it. The ball had hit the log and by the time she got there, she was met with the wrath of what seemed like hundreds upon hundreds of raging, swarming bees.

            I turned with her and we fought our way to the edge of the woods, me yelling at the rest of the kids, "Get the hell out of here. The bees are coming." They ran and I did, too, all the way back to the school. In a few minutes we were all safe.

            Fast forward to two hours later. It turned out that Jenny was fine, just a little swollen from the bee stings. She had eleven of them, poor kid. Me? I ended in the hospital - the Hennepin County Medical Center. I guess I had developed an allergy to bee stings over the course of my adult years, unbeknownst to me. Who would have thought it? Certainly not yours truly. I was stung twenty-seven times! But it turned out to be a good thing in the long run even though I was told by the doctors and nurses time and time again that I'd almost died from anaphylactic shock. Let me tell you, that was one sobering thought.

            I stayed in the hospital for three days. During my recover I had a chance to think about what Edith had said to me on the soccer field. Specifically, I had time to think about my life. I came to the conclusion that I really did need to get my act together. I need to expand my horizons.

            To that end, I accepted an offer Edith made while I was recovering to join her and her friends on the Alaskan Cruise. It might sound weird, me, a guy in his forties going on a cruise ship with three ladies in their sixties, who, by the way, called themselves, "The Girls," but I don't care. I'm looking forward to it.

            When I accepted the invitation Edith said, "It'll be nice to have you along, just as long as you don't cramp our style."

            "Funny," I told her, playing along, "I'll try not to."

            She just grinned and pulled out a map to show me the route. It looks like it'll be a riot. We're leaving the first week in July.

            You know, when you almost die, like I did, it gets you thinking. I won't bore you with all the details, but I will tell you this: If it wasn't for those damn yellow jackets, I might have ended up spending the summer hunkered down in my tiny apartment with my cat, searching the web for old marbles. When I think of it that way, I shudder. I was on path where I could have easily spent the rest of my life doing just that. What a waste. I've got a lot to learn. It's a big world out there. I'm looking forward to seeing it. Alaska, here I come.

                                   

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.