Nathan Bocks

Port Colborne, Ontario was a dream town for an 8 year old boy. It was small, and safe, and surrounded by water. And I moved there from Michigan in the summer of 1975.

It rests on the shores of Lake Erie at the eastern end of the Welland Canal. Ships cannot traverse Niagara Falls, so to travel from Lake Erie to Lake Ontario and on to the Atlantic Ocean, all sorts of boats, from lakers to salties, take the Welland Canal around the Falls. And every one passes through Port Colborne.

I don’t know what industry there is in Port Colborne. Other than the canal and the stores and the schools, I don’t know where anyone worked. To an eight year old boy, that didn’t matter. What did matter was water.

My house was three doors down from the lake. There was a small creek at the end of the road that emptied into Lake Erie’s Gravelly Bay. A few yards away was Lakeview Park with fields and trees and a bandshell. Beyond the park were train tracks that ran alongside the canal and a long pier with enormous piles of tarp covered rock salt and ending in a large grain elevator like a sentinel in the sea.

The canal led away from the lake through the center of town to a lift bridge on Main Street and then out into the country to locks that raised and lowered the freighters on their way to distant ports.

My weekend world was this watery industrial playground. My friends Kent and Phillip and I would spend endless hours trying to dam up the creek at the end of the road. We would wander the park the play in the bandshell and explore the marina, looking for nothing in particular.

On spring days we would venture to the 30 foot high salt piles and crawl high up under their great black tarps until workers would shoo us away. We would wander the train yards and walk the top of the box cars in the warm sunshine.

And in the later afternoon we would venture across the tracks into the thicket where we had constructed a fort of old lumber and the discarded dregs of our neighborhood. Under the leafy canopy we would hatch plans for our grown-up selves.

If we had a few quarters between us we would wander along the canal toward downtown and stop at Tim Horton’s for a donut. Mine was always toasted coconut, always.

On our way home we would pass by Steele Street School where we learned the Provinces, their capitals, and two major cities each.  To this day I know that Nova Scotia is one of the three Maritime Provinces (New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island are the others), its capital is Halifax that the two major cities are Dartmouth and Yarmouth.  My fourth grade teacher, Mr. Richardson had grown up on Nova Scotia’s Bay of Fundy, which boast the largest ocean tide in the world.

I lived in Port Colborne, Ontario for sixteen short months before we moved back to Michigan, back to “the states.”

But those were magical months.  It was a time of transition.  I have only a few flashes of memory of my life before and the memories of the years after are crystal clear. The memories of Port Colborne are detailed  but softened with a bright water colored haze. The sharp edges never formed and they have remained frozen, slightly out of focus for over forty years.

Yesterday I wandered the streets of my childhood, reliving the emotions and memories from decades gone by.

Little has changed in my small Canadian town. My elementary school looks just as it did when Mrs. Baker and Mrs. Summers taught me the metric system and that the alphabet ends in the letter “zed.”

The marina at Lakefront Park is a little larger and the salt piles have disappeared, but the trains still sit silently by the side of the canal watching ships from around the world pass by the grain elevators at the end of the pier and under the lift bridge downtown.

And my bedroom windows still face Lake Erie, and the creek just three doors down.

It started as a lark. It was an off-hand social media comment in response to a bit of good news about the town I call home, the town I love. And then I reposted another favorable story with the same tag line, then a pretty picture, then another story and another and another.  ...And another. All with the same tag line:

“...And I get to live here!”

Now I have repeated those six short words so often that last night, in response to another glowing post of pretty pictures of my home town, my friend Chuck commented: “You should copyright that phrase.  I’m not kidding.”

It started me thinking. Chuck was right. It is a magic little phrase. It’s only six words but it says so much.

And I get to live here!

It is a complement. On many levels and in many ways, it is a compliment to the people who live here. They care. They try. They work hard to do the right things in the right ways. They don’t always get it right. They are far from perfect. But they do their best to make this place special.

And I get to live here!

It is a statement of pride. I GET to live here. It is a privilege to live here. Every time I type those words I remind myself that I am lucky to be where I am. That frequent mental reframing refocuses my attitude. It makes me smile. It helps me see this place with fresh eyes. This truly is a special place.

And I get to live here!

I don’t just get to be here, I get to LIVE here. There is quality in this life. There is so much beauty. There is so much to do. There are so many wonderful people to work alongside and befriend. Each time I type those words, I look up, look around, take in a long, deep breath and think to myself, “I’m not just living, I’m LIVING!” (Yes, in all caps. Every. Single. Day.)

And I get to live here!

It’s a statement of place, of identity. I get to live HERE!  I love telling people that I am from Holland. For the tourism promoter in me it is a great brand. It’s easy to promote. (Have you seen my Tulip Time pictures?)  But it is so much more than a brand.  It's more than tulips. This place is home. This place is a community. It is a family. Like every family, it is a constant work in progress. Continuous progress toward a better home for all of us.  Every day more welcoming, more inclusive, more ready to embrace the legacy of the future as much as the heritage of the past.

And I get to live here!

For grammatical purposes, the “I” is always capitalized. But I think I would do it anyway. It is a deeply personal statement about how I feel. I love this place. This is my town. This is my home. I think it’s cool. I think it’s great.

And I get to live here!

And in an unspoken way, those six words are an invitation. They are an invitation to the world to come and smell the sweet, pickle-scented air. To gaze on the beauty of our tulips, our windmill, our beaches, and feel the warmth of our heated streets and sidewalks beneath their feet.

But more so, the words are an invitation to my neighbors to open their own eyes to this wonderful place they call home. They are an invitation to see what our guests see. It is often too easy to miss the wonder that lies just beyond your morning coffee.

And WE get to live here!

Chuck suggested that I copyright the phase so I could own it. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that would be wrong. (Sorry Chuck.)

The phrase itself is about sharing. It’s about lauding the beauty, the achievement, the success, the goodness of the people and the place that surrounds me each day.  I want to spread that feeling. I want others to have that feeling too. I want each of you to take a moment each day, stop, look around, and think...

And I get to live here!

My dad would have been 88 today. 

I ran into an old friend of his last week. He said I reminded him of a my dad when dad was my age. That’s the best compliment I’ve received in a long time. 

My dad was great. But it wasn’t always easy to be his son; especially the winter of my freshman year in high school, the year he was the age I am now, the year he decided to build a cottage on the shores of Lake Michigan, near Hart.

There are a lot of stories from that winter, but there is one I retell more than most. I’ve told it so often that my family expects me to mention it each time we pass a certain lonely stretch of road. 

Dad hired a contractor to frame-in the cottage, and it was dried-in by late October. It was basically an empty shell and he had renters scheduled for early June. Dad was under pressure. The cottage was an investment property, a summer rental. Mortgage interest rates were at an all time high of just over 18%. If he was going to make this investment work, we had seven months of weekends to finish everything else. A mere 56 days to complete the interior framing, electrical, plumbing, insulation, drywall, painting, tiling, kitchen, bathroom, deck, and steps to the beach.

It was a lot of work and every day counted. He couldn’t afford to take any days off. 

So early each Saturday morning (usually leaving by 5:00 am) we would drive two hours west to work all weekend, arriving back home just in time to go to bed Sunday night. I was the only kid in high school that looked forward to Mondays. 

One Saturday late in December he and I drove to the cottage to work just for the day. It was the last weekend before Christmas break and we had a family party the next day, so we had to be back home that same night. It would be four hours of driving and 10-12 hours of working to make up for the lost Sunday.  That would be followed by a two-day school week before the Christmas dance on Tuesday night and then a break (at least from school.)

My date to the dance was Katie, an adorable sophomore.  I had spent months trying to get her to notice me. Somehow I had convinced her to go to the dance with a shy freshman.  I was nervous and anxious and excited for the magic that was sure to unfold at the Christmas dance in the cafetorium.

It had already been a snowy December. A particularly nasty lake effect system had struck the night before our work day. It was relatively clear in Central Michigan, but the farther west we traveled, the worse the roads became. They were snow covered and slippery, but least they were plowed. 

As we turned off the main road out of Hart and onto Ridge Road, which runs north from Silver Lake to Pentwater, the plowed road ended. There was a good 12 inches of fresh snow covering the road. 

I was in luck. There was no way we could get through those drifts. We would have to turn back.

Dad turned to me and without a hint of sarcasm said: “Great! Looks like the roads are passable.” He had already invested two hours in the drive, there was work to do, and no days to spare. Turning back was not an option. He put our 2-door Chevette in gear and forged full speed ahead into bumper-deep snow.  

Dad was a good driver. He had decades of winter driving under his belt. Only because of his depth of experience and the force of his sheer will did we make it a quarter mile before we were hopelessly stuck. 

We came to rest along a particularly desolate stretch of road. There were no houses anywhere. The only landmarks were a neat row of poplar trees, long ago planted to block the wind. They didn’t. 

I stepped out of the warm car in into the predawn blizzard. I had done a lot of car pushing that year. I was good at it. But the snow was really deep. There was no “out” of this snowdrift. Snow was everywhere. There was no clear road to push the car to. Our best bet, so I thought, was to use our existing tracks and go back the way we came. The cottage was only five miles ahead, but those were deeply snow covered miles; impassable roads. We would have to turn back.

After digging and rocking and pushing and huffing and puffing, we finally broke the car free. I got back in beside my dad. Before I could tell him it was hopeless and we should go back, he barreled ahead, right back into the snow. 

This time we made it about three feet. 

I mumbled, “You bastard!” under my breath as I got back out to push. If dad heard me, he didn’t acknowledge it. 

No amount of pushing, digging, or rocking was going to get us out this time. There we sat, in the middle of a snowstorm, miles from civilization. I didn’t say a word. I just stared ahead, burning a hole in the dashboard with my glare. 

It wasn’t long before headlights illuminated the scene. It was a road grader headed north, plowing the road. (The snow was too deep for regular plows. The only thing that could get through that mess was a massive piece of off-road construction equipment.) The driver kindly hooked a chain to the Chevette’s bumper and dragged us out behind him into the freshly plowed lane. He said we could follow him to our turnoff, leave our car by the side of the road, hike into our cottage, and he would be back in a few hours on his return trip south to plow the side streets. 

Dad and I spent the morning at the cottage doing rough plumbing. The wood stove kept us warm while we worked both inside and in the crawlspace below the cottage.  I figured we would be there until about six or seven o’clock before we headed home to Mt. Pleasant. But Dad had borrowed a specialty tool from Tanner’s Plumbing Supply in Hart.  It needed to be returned to town before they closed at five. I was in luck. It was going to be a short day. 

Just after lunch we heard the road grader clearing our side street and dad sent me out to the main road to check on our car. The only thing showing was the top of the antenna. The accumulated snow and multiple plows had buried it completely. I spent the better part of an hour digging it out. 

We quit working at 4:30, leaving just enough time to drive into Hart to return the tool before our two hour drive back to Mt. Pleasant. I was looking forward to sitting in a warm car and sleeping after a long, hard day. 

We stopped at Tanner’s. I waited in the car while Dad ran in to drop off the tool just minutes before they closed. 

He got back in the car and turned the key. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. The lights worked, so it couldn’t be the battery. We had plenty of gas. Still nothing. 

I watched as the lights went out at Tanner’s. Dad walked down the street to find a pay phone. He called the local gas station. The mechanic was alone at the station and said we would have to wait until Emmit came back with the tow truck. He didn’t know when that would be. It could a few minutes. It could be hours. 

The Winter Solstice sun was already down. The car was dead and it was getting colder in the plumbing supply parking lot. I sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, fuming.

Dad tried to keep our spirits up. He talked enthusiastically about my upcoming Christmas break from school. (I was having none of it.) He jogged in place and in circles around the increasingly frozen car. (I refused to participate. I would rather be cold.)  And he periodically trotted down to the phone booth to see if the tow truck was on it’s way. The mechanic was still alone. No one was coming.  Things were looking hopeless. (I sat in the car and pouted.)

So dad did the only other thing he could think of. He called Mom. But she was two hours away in Mt. Pleasant. She would have to make the drive and rescue us from the cold, dark, snowy parking lot.

I sat sullenly for another two hours in the cold, quiet car. I refused to jog in place. I refused to be chipper. I sat in icy protest of a day that had gone from bad to worse. 

Mom arrived at about 9:00 pm. We left the Chevette in the parking lot and drove downtown to Hart pizza for a very late dinner before heading home.  I was home in my bed by about midnight. In my eyes, a it had been a 19 hour fiasco. I’m dad’s opinion, nine hours of progress. 

I don’t remember Sunday. I hope I was pleasant and well mannered for my relatives at the Christmas party.  I likely barely met the standard.

I awoke Monday morning with laryngitis. I felt fine, but hours sulking in a cold parking lot had left me without a voice. 

I whispered my way through the next two days. I wrote notes assuring my friends and Katie’s friends that I would make the Christmas dance on Tuesday night. I wasn’t going to let the opportunity of a first date with Katie slip away. 

My only memories of that night were dancing with her to "Waiting For A Girl Like You” by Foreigner and her increasing frustration with my inability to speak. That first date didn’t go well. It wasn’t horrible, but we never had a second. 

I often reminded Dad about that day in the snow and the subsequent loss of a promising teenage romance. He just laughed. I now try to tell my wife and kids the story each time we pass the stretch of road where grandpa drove right back into the snowbank. It has become my “I walked five miles to school though waist-deep snow” story. They know the story too well and it is part of the legend of Grandpa. 

Shortly after dad’s death I made a solitary pilgrimage along the coast of Lake Michigan, to visit the beaches he loved. I stood alone, said goodbye and left a bit of him at each stop. He could enjoy the beaches forever and I could feel his presence with every future visit. It was more for me than him. It always was. 

As we turned North onto Ridge Road, together for the last time, I stopped to remember that day and the snowstorm, and the obscenities I muttered while pushing a hopelessly stuck car. 

I got out of my truck and stood for a moment by the side of the road. I decided to leave a little bit of him there as well, to spend eternity beside the lonely row of poplar trees. Again, it was more for me than him. Not in final revenge, but to honor the man who taught me to work hard, have big dreams, face adversity with a smile, and know there is always another way to accomplish a goal. 

I was a Political Science major in college.  As freshmen, we started with the basics of the three branches of government, checks and balances, and how a bill becomes a law.  By the time we were seniors, we were studying and discussing the foundations of political and social theory.  

I know, I know, it sounds riveting.  

We read Hobbes and Locke and Mill and Bentham and Mellencamp.  (Yes, you read that right, Mellencamp. John Cougar Mellencamp.) 

One of the things that I clearly remember about the countless hours spent dissecting the inscrutable thoughts of 16th and 17th Century philosophers was our professor quoting the chorus of the John Cougar Mellencamp song, Jack and Diane.

"Oh yeah, life goes on Long after the thrill Of living is gone."

He was comparing the lyric to the philosophy of Hobbes.  Not Calvin and Hobbes, but John Hobbes.  Hobbes a pessimist and famous for saying that life is “…Solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.”  In other words, many of us are destined to merely survive, suffering and toiling our way through each day.  Life goes on… long after the thrill of living is gone.  

Dr. Elder ruined that song for me.

But he peaked my interest and inspired me to dig deeper. I disagreed with Hobbes. I believe we are destined for better things. The world is full of wonderful possibilities and by banding together we can pull ourselves out of the ditch and into a brighter future.

I threw myself into my studies. I had never worked so hard in a class before, or since.  The workload and expectations were greater than even law school.  We met four days a week in the basement study lounge of Vorhees Hall, one of the oldest buildings on campus. We developed study groups to manage the volumes of material.  We read late into the night and discussed the need for and the purpose of government in society, fueled by gallons of caffeine.  We argued about inherent goodness and evil. We debated. We discussed. And our worlds grew.

Each Friday we had either a major exam or major paper due.  The papers were long, complicated reflections on the philosophies of government and every exam consisted of multiple blue-book essay answers.  The exams took so long, Dr. Elder had them catered.  (Really, he would bring in snacks and deliver them to our seats as we toiled over his questions.) 

He encouraged me to have several of my papers published in the college's literary journal.  (Much like today, I had an audience several dozen.) 

Most of my fellow scholars and I had just completed a semester working in Washington, D.C.  Had been an intern on Capitol Hill and in the Executive Branch and was convinced I was a seasoned student of government.  But it was during the many afternoon lectures and late night debates that I moved from thinking just about the mechanics of government to pondering the theory of government.  I knew the how.  That class revealed the why.

Thirty years later, my brain has distilled the whirlwind four credits of the History of Political and Social Theory to one thought:

Societies form governments to provide a mechanism to accomplish good that can be done better by a group than can be done alone.

That’s the first building block of government; the yardstick to which each action of government must be held. 

When looking for easy answers to the “why” of government, the Preamble of the United States Constitution is very helpful:

“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”

Those 52 words are a pretty good place to start and better than anything else you will read today.

I have a worn golden ring on the fourth finger of my left hand for twenty-five years. The inscription on that ring says "Forever."

Last month we simultaneously celebrated our son's marriage and our silver wedding anniversary. 

Words of wisdom are in order. 

I was lucky to grow up with parents that have had a loving marriage since 1952; sixty-four years of wedded bliss. Almost three-quarters of their lives… together.  They were great role models. Dad left this world last year, but he and Mom are still married. His memory, and his love continue to live strongly.  

Once you find your soul mate, everyone else fades away. 

We spent the week of our anniversary in paradise, just the two of us. Some might call it a second honeymoon. We don't. Starting with our tenth anniversary we decided to go away together every year. No kids. No friends. No one but us. 

Because, while we like the rest of the world and we love our children, no one is more important to us, than us. 

Over twenty-five years we have loved, and struggled, and persevered. We saved our oldest from the ravages of cancer and have now seen him start a new, married life. Our younger two continue to grow and mature. Each day we gauge their progress and try to adapt to their ever-changing needs. 

We now have a new daughter-in-law. 

Michelle, our son belongs to you now. We love and support you both. Marriage is, and should be, stronger than a birth right. He first belongs to you. He is yours. As parents, we gave him to you. We will always be here to support the plural you, but he is first yours to love and nurture and cherish.  We love you both more than you yet understand. 

We are confident in your ability to love each other. 

Our hope is that twenty-five years from now you will have spent more than half of your lives together. You will have learned that love is not always exciting, and not always new. But love is the best thing life has to offer. 

As I infamously (and unintentionally) quoted Boston at your rehearsal dinner, love is... "More than a feeling."

Love is a decision. Love is a choice. Love is a commitment. Love takes work, and dedication, and strength, and resolve.  

Love, and  joyous life it can bring, is more wonderful than your wildest dreams. 

When you wonder if it's worth it, (and you will) remember that you made a commitment, a pledge, a vow, to love, to honor, to cherish.  Keep that at the front of your mind, and the rest of your life will be a day at the beach. 

And when you know that your love is secure, you have endless resources to love others. Your children will see your love.  They will grow up secure in the knowledge that their mother and father love each other.  

Security.  Knowledge. Nurturing commitment. They are the soul of life. 

We have lived half of our lives together. You are just beginning a lifetime of love.  Remember the words: love… honor… cherish… forever. And twenty-five years from now you will find yourselves looking back at a life well spent. 

Fathers of the groom don’t have many official responsibilities.  My role consisted walking down the aisle behind my son as he guided his mother to our seat in the second row.  All I had to do was not trip.

We exchanged a quick “I love you” during our too-short hug and I sat.

I sat silently between my wife and my mother, the women that made me who I am, and watched.

That’s what the father of the groom does.  He watches.  There are no speeches to give, no acts to perform.  My job was to keep my mouth shut and stay out of the way.

I had been watching him all day. I could hardly bear to blink.  I didn’t want to miss a moment of everything that was going on around me.  Not only did I watch, but I strained to absorb it all.  I wanted to take it in, savor it, save it.  I want to hold it in an unfading memory bank so I can recall each nuanced moment over and over again.

I watched my best-man son and bridesmaid daughter stand up for their brother.  Each with a gleam of pride and smile of joy in their eyes.

I watched him take the hand of his bride and guide her from her parents’ side, up a small flight of stairs to exchange promises, to make vows, to pledge to live together as one.

As I sat in the pew, the first thing I noticed about my newly married son, was a sparkle from his left hand.  Something about him had physically changed.  A ring, an infinite golden loop, was now around his finger.

In that moment, he was different and it showed. He stood taller.  He had an air of unwavering confidence.  He was instantly a husband.

He wore his new role like a custom tailored suit.  It fit him perfectly.  He was at home, comfortable, and never looked better in his life.

He walked with an air of confidence.  Like a man in complete control of the whirlwind around him.  Cool.  Calm.  Collected. Unshakable.  And fully enjoying every moment.

I want to be able to remember the look he gave his bride in the moments between camera flashes. I want to remember the smiles shared when they forgot they were the center of attention. Their love quietly gushed.

I want to remember the look in their eyes as they stood together, alone in a garden - parents peering from a polite distance - as they shared an intimate encounter, moments after he saw her, in her wedding dress, for the first time.

At the reception, my son proudly showed me his wedding ring. "It has chamfered edges" he said. He knew I understood the reference. Apple Macbooks and iPhones have chamfered edges. We are both Apple nerds. To us it is a symbol of craftsmanship, of quality, of respect for design. It is only fitting that the ring symbolizing his life-long commitment to love, honor, and cherish should have chamfered edges.

I held my ring beside his. Mine is timeworn and thinned by twenty-five years of constant wear.  His bears a newly unboxed gleam.

His chamfered edges don’t yet bear the nicks and scratches that will inevitably come. Over time the sharp lines will smooth. They will round over until one day they will wear into one smooth, seamless edge.

As the honeymoon blends into everyday life, I hope he takes a moment and runs his finger over those chamfered edges to remind himself of the joy of his wedding day, the love he and his bride have for each other and the vows they have made.

As time goes by, as the edges and the days begin to blend together, he will find they will be less likely to get caught on obstructions.  There will be more dents but fewer snags. One day the beauty of the ring will no longer be in the finely crafted chamfered edges, but in the nicks, and the scratches. Not in the precision of the circle, but in the softened oval that has perfectly formed to the shape of his finger.

Over time, love molds us and shapes us. It softens our edges.

Faced with life, the most precious of all metals is not capable of holding a chamfered edge. It is soft and malleable.  But it does not tarnish. Faced with the harshest elements, it continues to shine. It is the same with love.

Fathers of the groom watch. We soak in the joy of the wedding day, confident in the lessons we have taught our sons. Confident we have instilled the value of a finely chamfered edge and the understanding that flexibility is a virtue.

I'm on vacation this week. I haven't turned on the tv or radio. I have ignored my email and voicemail and only periodically looked at social media.

My son was married on Friday night and almost immediately thereafter we flew to Hawaii to celebrate our own 25th wedding anniversary.  I've spent the last seven days trying to stay out of the loop.

Apparently something happened while I've been gone. Despite my attempts to ignore the world, I can't get away from the angry, defiant posts of my friends. Over 90% won't let hate win. Less than 10% are trying desperately to find blame on both sides. All are furious with each other.

I'm in Hawaii, a middle class white guy sitting on the beach.

I've had many amazing experiences this week. Based on what happened in Charlottesville, two stick out.

The first was trip to swim with dolphins. (Not the giant swimming pool, ride-on-their-back, animal-cruelty swim, but an open-water, don't-you-dare-touch-them, this-is-their-space swim.) It was amazing.

Before we tourists boarded the small Zodiac, our nineteen year-old guide Ali, gave us instructions. She first gave long, detailed instructions in Japanese. Then a much shorter version in English. Only four of the nineteen snorkelers were American. On this boat I was a minority. It wasn't the first time I've had this experience, but as a middle class white guy in America, it's unusual. I'm used to pressing #1 for English. I'm used to being first in line. I'm used to getting preferential treatment, deference.

I'm spoiled.

It was a good, innocuous reminder of what being a minority feels like.

The second experience was more stark.

We took a day to drive around the island. We saw volcanoes. We saw lava. We saw black sand and green sand beaches, carried in our white Jeep chariot. Obviously, we were tourists wherever we went.

As dinner time approached we found ourselves on the far southern end of the island. Other than the green sand beach, this was not tourist territory. It was very remote, very rural. But it was also home to the southernmost point in the United States. Six months ago we had our picture taken at the Southernmost point in the continental US in Key West. We had to go and take a selfie.

On our way we passed through a small town and came upon passed roadside bar whose sign bragged that it was the most Southern bar in the U.S., how could we not stop?

It was a small dive bar. Only one car in the parking lot.  A middle school-aged Hawaiian boy was behind the bar. We asked about the dinner specials and his recommendation.  We sat at the bar and ordered a local draft beer. We took the boy's advice on dinner, two Ahi poke bowls.

While his father poured the beers, we took turns using the dirty, not-up-up-to--gas-station-standards bathrooms out back.

His mother brought our plates of food. Other than the answer to our direct question about the specials, no one said a word to us.

There was a local couple at the bar, and man sitting on the porch, but otherwise the bar was empty at 5:00 pm. Another local came in to pick up a take out order. All of the other patrons were treated with smiles and friendly conversation. We were definitely intruders in their world.

I have an old friend who recently moved to that part of the island and I told her about our experience at the bar. Her response.

"That area I guess is rough. That is where my kids were supposed to go to high school and everyone says how bad it is there because of the racism against whites."

Those words were so unfamiliar: "...racism against whites."

But I think it's true. We experienced just a small, minute, almost insignificant taste of what minorities in America face every day.

They didn't like us. We weren't welcome. They weren't openly hostile, but it was clear we weren't wanted in that bar.

I can't imagine living in that environment. We weren't expecting it. We were surprised by it. How must it feel to go through life knowing you will receive, at best, a cold reception to your mere presence, much less an openly hostile one?

The food sucked. I think on purpose. But I was hungry so I loaded mine with hot sauce and ate it anyway. My wife picked at hers. We paid the check and left. No thank you for coming in. No words at all. They just watched us leave.

For a moment, I was an outsider in my own country. No open hostility. No name calling. No marching in the street. No torches. But it still felt horrible.

They didn't know us. They didn't know who we were, what we believed, who we supported, why we were there.  We were treated poorly because we were outsiders -at best. Or because we were white -at worst.

In the long run this won't hurt my wife and me. It will likely help us, teach us, give us perspective.

In the long run they will be hurt. They will live their days unhappy and go to bed angry and will ultimately lose business. I'm not going to give them a bad Yelp review, but I'm not going to recommend them either.

Racism and hate don't just hurt the object, it hurts the subject too.

There is no benefit, no good that can come from hate and anger and division based upon preconceived notions of each other. This week I've struggled with some of the angrier posts I've read. Some of you don't get it.

We were no threat to the owners of that bar. To the contrary, we were a couple celebrating twenty-five happy years of marriage, wanting to give them our money.

We were rebuffed because we were white.

Every morning I watch Morning Joe on MSNBC.  It is the most middle of the road, real, political news source I can find.  Plus, I like the people on it.

I'm Liberal.  I'm Progressive. But I choose to watch a morning political news show hosted by a former Conservative Republican Congressman.  No, he's not a former Conservative.  No, he's not a former Republican.  Joe Scarborough is still both of those things. He's a former Congressman. He has moved from being an elected official to a political pundit, but in my opinion, he is still an insider. And often gets it right. .

It is not a show by the Right for the Right.  Nor is it is show by the Left for the Left.  It is a show for both, by both.  They have a fair mix of high ranking officials, columnists and political thinkers from both sides.

I've seen Chuck Schumer and Mitch McConnell interviewed on the same day.  If I knew anything about sports, I would probably say it is the political equivalent of Sports Center.  But I have never willingly watched Sports Center, so I can't say for sure.  (If all you watch is Sports Center, Chuck Schumer is the Senate Minority Leader and Mitch MConnell is the Senate Majority Leader.)

If you are formulating a comment about how MSNBC is left wing propaganda and the main stream media is all "fake news," save your breath.  I do my best to sample media from across the spectrum on a regular basis.  I go to Breitbart as often as I read Daily Kos.

I want to know what is being said on the fringes so I can find the middle.

I also like to find out what the President is thinking by watching his speeches and reading his words. As a lawyer, I am trained to treat primary sources with more respect than secondary sources.

This has been a complaint of the right and Trump supporters for some time. They believe the mainstream media mischaracterizes Trump and the right. The media can't be trusted, so don't pay attention to them. The media has a liberal bias, so view whatever comes from the media as tainted.

So I watched Thursday's press conference. One hour and seventeen minutes of unfiltered, unbiased, unadulterated Donald Trump. His words, his views, his beliefs, without the taint of the mainstream media. And I was enlightened.

If you only checked right wing media following the press conference, you would believe it was a triumphant success for truth, justice and the American way. If you only viewed left wing media, you were preparing yourself for the impending nuclear holocaust at the hands of our unhinged, illegitimate leader.  I read both.

Then, at six o'clock the next morning, I turned on Morning Joe. And the primary topic was the number of things that Trump said that were "demonstrably false."  There were several, but I'll start with the easiest to refute: Donald Trump's assertion that he had the largest electoral college victory since Reagan.

When a reporter pointed out that he was incorrect, and that Obama and Clinton won by larger margins, Trump said he was referring to Republican victories. When the reporter reminded him that Bush's margins were much larger, Trump said, "Well, that's what I was told."

I'm not going to get into why the President is still talking about his electoral college margin of victory. The election is over, he won. I wish he would get over it and move on.  He has governing to do. But he brought it up, again.

My problem is that he and members of his administration have repeatedly said things that are demonstrably false; things a simple Google search can debunk. These are not nuanced policy issues on which opinions may differ, these are simple, straightforward, easily verifiable facts.

If Trump was simply mistaken, shame on him. He needs to get his facts straight before he opens his mouth.

Intentionally or unintentionally, Trump and his administration are saying things that are not true. They are getting it wrong.  And we deserve better.

I can already hear some of you saying: "But Hillary lied!"  I'm not going to argue with you about whether she did or didn't. I'm not going to argue with you about what those lies might have been about. I'm simply going to remind you that for many of you, your belief that she lied was a primary reason why she should not be President and why you vehemently opposed her.

I'm with you. Lying is wrong and it is disqualifying. It is disqualifying for a Presidential candidate and disqualifying for a President. Bill Clinton's lie about marital infidelity was enough to get him impeached.  How are Trump's falsehoods any less of a problem?

Oh, right... Bill Clinton lied under oath. Trump just lied on tv, in a tweet, and only to the people, not under oath. My mother taught me that a lie is a lie is a lie. (Unless your wife asks you if you like her outfit, then the answer is always "yes").

I am not ready to let my President, the President of either party, lie to me. I will not lower my standards.

On this Presidents' Day, I want to remind the President, my President, your President, our President that we have high expectations for him and the office he holds. We expect to be told the truth. We deserve to be told the truth.

After being forced to read one of my posts, my son recently asked me: “So now you’re a blogger?”

It’s been about three months and 16 entries.  I find myself thinking about it a lot. I find myself jotting down notes and ideas.  It helps me clear my mind.  It helps me formulate ideas and find my voice.

So, yes.  I guess I am a blogger now.

Last Saturday morning after the inauguration, I decided that I was going to try to think positively about the future.  The election hadn’t gone my way.  My information streams were filled with angst, anger and vitriol and my friends were openly arguing with each other.

I want to be part of the discussion, but I’m not interested in getting angry or losing friends.  Life is too short.

I exited the gym after my morning workout into warm sunshine. It’s January in Western Michigan.  Warm sunshine is rare.  That, together with the endorphins from the workout put me in a particularly good mood.  And I decided to create a blogging website.  I’ve been using Tumblr, which is easy and free, but just okay.  And it’s not mine.  I’m a control freak.  I like to own my words.  So, while still sitting in the parking lot I bought a domain name.  The first thought was “LiberallyPositive.com.”  It was available, so I bought it.

I drove home very proud of myself and made plans for the site.  By the time I got home, I had thought of new name, “PositivelyLiberal.com.” I liked the idea of putting “positive” before “liberal.” That was also available, so I bought it too. In case you are wondering, the answer is yes.  Yes, I own a lot of domain names.  Please don't tell my wife.

I have a shoebox full of cool names.   When a good idea pops in my head, I check and if it is available, I buy it.  I may never do anything with most of them.  But someday the spark may grow and make me a gazillionaire.

It was too warm and sunny on Saturday to stay inside and build a website. 

I spent the day with my family instead.  By the evening, I was so frustrated by Sean Spicer and arguments about crowd sizes I was having trouble thinking positively.  Sunday morning brought “alternative facts.”  That didn’t help.

As the week progressed, my wife had a birthday.  Happy Birthday, Honey!  And yes, I do have a day job.  So it was put off further.  This morning, rather than do my Friday morning chores (There are still eight things on my to do list), I have been sitting here setting up the site, gathering, organizing and categorizing my old posts and writing this. I’m happy to say, thanks to Squarespace, it’s ready to go.

I’m going to try to continue to post frequently and keep them positive. 

There is enough anger and frustration out there already.  And I want to try to prove to all of my right-wing, conservative, Trump supporting friends (you know who you are) that Liberals can and do have good positive ideas.  It is okay to like us.  It is okay to work with us.  And maybe, just maybe, I’ll change someone’s mind along the way.

If you don’t like it.  Don’t read it. 

I’m going to allow comments.  Try not to throw stones.  I enjoy open, honest, polite communication.  You are not going to change anyone’s mind (especially mine) if you are insulting.

My mother told me the most important decision I would ever make is choosing who to marry.  

That decision, more than any other, would determine the amount of joy and pain in my life.  That decision, more than any other, would determine the tenor of each day. I didn’t always listen to my mother’s advice, but that piece sunk in.

I still remember the first time I saw you.   

I was sitting at the front desk of the Dow Physical Education Center, wasting away a cold college afternoon, keeping a housemate company while he checked the IDs of those coming in.  

I saw you, but you didn’t see me.  I can still picture you in your blue swim parka, busy with your day, moving from class to swim practice.  As you whisked by, you caught my attention, and I knew.  In that moment, I knew.  I leaned over to my friend and said, “I’m going to marry her.”

I had never said that about anyone before, or since.  

I discovered that we had a class together.  Sociology 101, 8:00 a.m., MWF, Graves Hall Auditorium.  I was a second semester senior looking to add a few easy credits before graduation.  You sat several rows in front of me, across the aisle, to the right.  Your hair was wet most days.  You always had early morning swim practice.  

My buddies and I assumed you were a freshman.  I wanted to ask you to the upcoming formal, but my friends nixed the idea.  They were in established relationships.  No new girlfriends.  No new drama. No freshmen.

I wasn’t going to give up easily.  I had a friend on the swim team.  She told me you weren’t a freshman; you were a junior.  But to my dismay, you had a boyfriend, a serious boyfriend.  

I was only 21, but I had already developed a code that I lived by.  One tenet: “If a girl was dating someone else, they were out of bounds.”  But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.  

We each went to that formal with someone else.

A few weeks later, still thinking of you, I went to the Florida Keys for Spring Break.  Nine of us camped on the beach.  I got severely sunburned and scratched both of my corneas. I returned to campus blistered, eye-patched and ugly.  But I had made up my mind about you.

Despite my appearance and in defiance of my own moral code, I asked you out.  …You declined.  …You were busy.  

The next morning, I saw you eating breakfast with some guy.  I assumed he was “the boyfriend” and my spirit was crushed.  

I found out later that I was wrong.  He wasn’t the boyfriend; he was your cousin. You had been legitimately busy.  Your relationship was waning and now you were curious about me.  

You asked around.  It was a small campus.  I had a reputation as “a nice guy” and “a safe date” and you thought I was cute.  Apparently, I wasn’t as sun blistered as I thought.

A few days later you called my house to ask me out.   My housemate left me a note on a paper plate saying you had called.  But this time I was busy and had to decline.  

Newly confident, I asked you out again.  

The only date I could afford was watching the sunset at Point West.  So we snuck past the guard gate and walked toward the lighthouse. It had been a sunny, warm day in Holland.  But that early April evening the beach was fogged in. There was no way we were going to see the sunset.  But we sat in the sand and talked, and talked, and talked. 

I knew my first impression was right.  You were special.

That was April 3, 1989.

Except for a few months my first year of law school, when the workload and the distance and the pressure and my immaturity caused me to lose my mind and break up with you, we have been inseparable.

Through those years, our life has had its highs and lows.  There have been wonderfully sunny days walking on the beach, in the woods, in the mountains. There have been dark days in hospital rooms fighting for the life of our child. 

There have been the public moments of births and adoptions and birthdays and graduations.  And there have been the private moments, just the two of us, driving in the car or folding laundry, talking about our day, our children, our lives.  

Each of those days has made our bond stronger.

Every day I try to remember to tell you that I love you.  And I love you more every day.  There is no one I would rather spend a day, a week, a year or a lifetime with.  There is no one in the world I have ever loved more.  I am excited to grow old with you.

Out of all the people in the world, you are my favorite.

Mom was right.

It only took a day, One Day. 

How stupid do you think we are? Americans aren't sheep, not all of us. 

 Not enough of us. 

I was ready to give you a chance. I was ready to give you the benefit of the doubt. I wrote that yesterday.  Yesterday!

My mistake. I should have known better. 

Today I watched White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer storm to the podium. He was indignant. He was angry. He was curt. While hundreds of thousands of women, men and children peacefully assembled, marched and protested around the world and outside of his door, he ranted about what apparently were the two biggest concerns of the new administration: A reporter's already retracted and apologized-for erroneous tweet and the size of the crowds at the inauguration. 

His anger was fueled by photographs comparing the event with the 2009 inauguration which clearly showed the 2009 crowds were much larger. 

Spicer: "But.. but.., Trump put down white flooring which emphasized the empty background." 

Yeah, we can see that. The 2009 crowds were clearly much larger. We have eyes. 

Spicer: "But... but... we used magnetometers for security, so people couldn't get in." 

Yeah, we can see the edges of the Mall, outside of the secure area. No people there. We have eyes. 

Spicer: "But... but... the Parks Service doesn't release official numbers, so no one has numbers. And we added up how many people would fit between the Capitol and the Washington Monument and that would be like a million people." 

Yeah, we know, but there weren't any people there. We have eyes. 

Wait... did you really just try to tell us no one has numbers and in the same breath you try to tell us your numbers?! 

How stupid do you think we are? 

"There's an old saying in Tennessee...

I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee... 

That says, fool me once, shame on... shame on you. 

Fool me... you can't get fooled again." -- George W. Bush 

At least that one time, W was right. 

It only took you ONE DAY before you lied to our faces. 

Eight years ago, on a humid summer night, I found myself in rural midwestern bar watching the local classic rock cover band.  The room was packed with locals letting off steam.  It was the end of the Bush era.  Gas prices were high, the unemployment rate was climbing and the stock market was dropping.  The future looked bleak for the patrons of this bar.

As I leaned over the balcony, looking down on blue jeans, blue collars and Bud Lights, I asked my best friend, “How do you get these people to vote?  How do you get them to care enough about the world outside of this room to engage in the system?”

They were more interested in singing along with “Don’t Stop Believin’” than the coming presidential election.

Over the ensuing eight years things got harder for the people in that bar.  Gas prices dropped, the stock market rose and millions of jobs were created nationwide, but those wonderful folks continued to have it rough.  

At least they were told they had it rough.  They were told their values were threatened.  They were told their country had become weak.  They were frustrated.  They got angry.  And they stopped singing.

And a new voice arose.  A colossal voice saying the things they were longing to hear.  He understood them.  He could make things better.  He could fix their problems.  He could bring back the good old days.  He could Make America Great Again.   And they listened and they believed.

My fellow Americans, welcome to a new day.

Today is the dawning of a new era.  It is an ending and a beginning.  A day of either mourning or celebration.  Our country is awash in both fear and excited anticipation.  The energy is palpable.  

And how ever you feel about what happens at Noon today.  At least I received an answer to my eight year old question, “How do you get these people to vote?”  

My answer came in one unlikely word: TRUMP

But that name, that man, conjures thousands of new questions.  Will he Make America Great Again? What does “Great Again” mean?  What will he do?  How will the world, our country, my life… Change.

We eagerly await… Or dread… The answers to those questions.

But today I have no fear.  

Don’t get me wrong.  I am no fan of Mr. Trump.  As I write this he is not the President.  Not yet.  I have many objections to the things he has said and the things he has done leading up to today.  You know my objections. There are so many, there is no point in even trying to list them.  But he is not the President… yet.

To be fair, I am going to reserve judgment on his Presidency until after he has become President.  

I believe the job changes people.  I believe the weight of the Presidency reveals character.  I believe the tremendous obligations of the office temper the emotions of even the most rabid tweeter.  I am going to see how the office molds the man.   I am going to wait.  I am going to watch.  I am not going to sit silently.  But I am going to wait.

More importantly, I believe in Americans.

As a group we Americans tend to do the right thing.  And we are survivors.

As Americans, we have been here before.   We have elected rebels and loose cannons in the past.  And we have survived.

As Americans, we have had our angry disagreements.  We have come to blows over politics, and religion, our beliefs and our values.  And we have survived.

As Americans, we have suffered yellow journalism, corruption, lies, generation gaps, the dawning of new ages.  And we have survived.

We, The People, with all of our differences, because of all of our differences, are Great.   Our strength and our value does not come from one man.  Our strength lies in our diversity.  

This New Colossus is not a new man in a new job.  It is an old idea.  A founding principal.  A bedrock belief.  A poem, cast in bronze, riveted to a statue that embodies our ideals of freedom, liberty, and diversity. 

We, The People, are great and we always have been.  This is our country.  It belongs to ALL OF US.

My faith, my comfort, my hope for the future comes from knowing that we, the tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the wretched refuse, the people, are great.

So put down your beer.  It’s time to engage in the system.

The New Colossus

BY EMMA LAZARUS

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

Today is a “bridge day.”  One of the rare days each year where everything seems to stop for a moment.  We get the chance to breathe.  New Year’s Day is a free day to sit back, reflect on the past and make plans for the future.  Today we take stock.  We weigh.  We measure.  

And we resolve to make our lives better.  

2016 was not the greatest year of my life.  It may be in the bottom ten.  Actually, it’s in the bottom three.  Based on my social media feed and the morning news, it probably wasn’t great for you either.  There were so many lost lives, lost loves, lost hopes and lost dreams.  2016 wasn’t a “feel good” year.  And I am ready to kick it to the curb.  

But on its face, 2017 doesn’t seem to hold much promise.  My fellow Americans voted for change.  And change is coming.  On a national scale, the next 12 months are unpredictable at best and apocalyptic at worst.  It’s going to be a wild ride.  

I would like to resolve to make the world better, but I’m not sure how.  No one in power ever responds to my tweets.

Last night a good friend told me that she was going to start being more active, more vocal, less complacent.  She thinks we find ourselves where we are because we have let the world mold us.  We have not been taking a strong enough role in shaping our world.  She’s right.  It’s easy to be a leaf floating in a stream when the current is taking you where you want to go.

But the tide has shifted.  The current has changed direction.  And if we don’t do something, we may be carried into dangerous, uncharted waters.

It’s time to be a rock.  

In 2017, I am going to do my best to stand fast against the current.  I am going to be a rock.  

I am not going to be swayed by fake news.  I am not going to live in fear.  I am not going to cede civility to anger.  I am going to look forward, not back.    I am going to be a rock.

2016 is gone, forever.  2017 is a blank slate.

So I resolve to love my neighbor; all of my neighbors.  I am going to hold firmly to the self-evident truth that all of us are created equal, endowed with certain inalienable rights.  I am going to do my best to encourage life, and liberty.  

I resolve to pursue happiness.  And I am going to start today.  

One rock bends the current.  A handful create eddies and whirlpools.  Enough rocks piled together create a dam.  It’s time to be a rock.

I don’t know what to say.  And that doesn’t happen often.

I want to celebrate.  I want to share my good feelings.  I want to express good will.  I want to give you good tidings of great joy.  But I feel I have to be careful about the words I choose.

It used to be easy.  I could just say “Merry Christmas” and it didn’t have any political connotations.  

I’m not trying to impose my religious beliefs on anyone. I just want to be nice.

Some of you may say that liberals and non Christians ruined it because they were insulted when someone said “Merry Christmas.”  I’m liberal and I know a lot of non Christians and I haven’t met anyone who has been insulted by a simple “Merry Christmas.”  If you are, I’m sorry.  It's not meant as an insult.  I just want you to have a good holiday season.

So, why not say “Happy Holidays?”  That way, I can be inclusive and non threatening and non judgmental, and universal.  That way I won’t insult anyone. But I can’t do that either.  The other side has declared that there is some sort of “War on Christmas.”  

Apparently saying Happy Holidays is offensive to some people because it is an offense to Christianity.   Really?  If I don’t specifically say “Merry Christmas” I am somehow being anti-Christian?  Really?  As a kid I sang “Jesus loves the little children.  All the children of the world.”  All the children.

I’m a Christian.  Personally, I’m not at all insulted by “Happy Holidays.”  

It think it is a nice sentiment.  Its inclusive.  But I fear that if I say it to the wrong person they might think I am a foot soldier in the “War on Christmas.”  I’m not.  I just want to wish you well.   I don’t think Jesus would have a problem with “Happy Holidays,” but I don’t want to insult anyone.

So I’m stuck.  If I say “Merry Christmas” I could be perceived as a right wing political Christmas warrior and if I say “Happy Holidays” I’m anti-Christian.  I could just say “Have a Nice Day,” but that defeats the purpose.  

This season is special.  

I think there is a reason so many religions celebrate this time of year, and it's the winter solstice; maybe because it's the winter solstice.  I want to celebrate and share my joy with you, regardless of your beliefs.

So I’m going to take a stand.  I’m going to wish you “Merry Christmas.” 

It's not political.  It's not meant to demean your religion or lack thereof.  It's not meant for any purpose other than to say, “Enjoy the season.  Have a great day. Have a great year.”  You may translate it into whatever tiding of comfort and joy fits with your beliefs.  Just have a joyous season.

Today would have been my father’s 87th birthday.  The first since he passed away last June.  I had the honor of eulogizing him at his funeral. This is what I said. 

To Kill a Mockingbird was a big part of our lives growing up.  

Mom would read the book to us on long car trips and if the movie was on TV, we would stop what we were doing and watch.  I still do.

I knew him as his child.  His youngest child at that.  I was born late to a father that in my mind, was already old.  He was 37 when I was born.  He didn’t play sports.  He read books.  He watched the news.  He was interested in documentaries about history.  He wasn’t at all like my friend’s younger dads that hunted and played catch and went to Tiger’s games.  

Like Jem, from To Kill a Mockingbird, I was sometimes frustrated that my dad wasn’t younger, wasn’t “cooler.”   

I saw him as bookish and professorial.  He was smart.  He was concerned about civil rights and social justice, not box scores or the Lions game.  

Like Jem finding out Atticus was the best shot in Macomb county, when I found an old picture of him from college, I was surprised to learn the man in the football uniform had ever existed.  There were so many parts of his life that I didn’t have the chance to experience directly.  There were so many facets of him that I never knew.  

But in the world of “To Kill a Mockingbird,” I identified more with Scout and Dill than I did with Jem.  

I wasn’t very athletic either.  I would rather read a book than play baseball. Reading doesn’t make you the most popular kid in school.  But that was okay with him.  I knew I was welcome to sit by him and read.  If I needed help with math homework, he knew the answers.  He had been a teacher once.  

To me, he was “Dad.”  He defined the term.  In the very best sense of the word, he was “Dad.”  Growing up I heard stories about Dad’s that were angry, or mean, or absent.  To me, those were foreign concepts.  To me a dad was reliable, caring and loving.  Not just to his children, but to everyone he knew and to many he never knew.

He is the only Dad I knew that vacuumed, and made dinner as much as Mom did.  

Not because he was asked to, but because that’s what dads did.  In our house, Mom and Dad were equals.  Both smart, both wise and equally responsible for doing the dishes.

He loved mom.  I don’t think love is a strong enough word.  They were like one person.  I learned only recently that they had their own private way of communicating with each other.  They would lightly squeeze each other’s hands, in Morse Code fashion.  Most of the time to say they loved each other.   

There was never a harsh word between them.  Ever.  If they disagreed, they must have done it in private, because they were an unbreakable team.  As kids, we tried every trick in the book to bend them to our will.  I don’t think we ever succeeded.  

My mother once told me that the most important decision you will ever make in your life is choosing who you will marry.  She was right.  And she knew she had made the right choice.  

They were the ideal role model of a married couple.  Filled with love, respect, and loyalty.  After 64 years of marriage they still marveled that they had been lucky enough to marry each other.

He was nice.  So many people have told me how nice he was.  I’ve never known anyone to not like him.  

He was funny.  He didn’t tell jokes in the traditional sense.  It would be a quick comment, out of the blue, that caught you off guard.  They were sporadic, but if you caught one, it was the funniest thing you heard all day.

As a father and grandfather, he was patient, caring, forgiving and supportive.  I think he knew his children better than we knew ourselves.  He loved each of us as we are.  He knew what each of us needed.  

He encouraged us to be the best versions of ourselves that we could be. But he didn’t coddle us.  

He had high expectations.  He knew what we were capable of and expected us to do our very best. If we didn’t, he let us know.  I was always more afraid of disappointing him than making him mad.  He didn’t yell, his voice just got low. And as my sister Jessica says, “He had that look.”

He was proud of each of us for who we are.  

His eyes would light up when we entered the room.  The mere thought of us made him smile.   And I know he’s smiling right now.  One of the greatest joys of his life was that his children got along.  (We didn’t always.)  But, as adults, we are not just siblings, we are friends.  He loved that.

He never let us forget that we were born into a life of privilege.  

We weren’t rich by any means, but he let us know that we had been born into a world where we had a lot of advantages.  He once told me that although I might think my life is a home run, I had to remember that I was born on third base.   And that he and my mother had pushed me half way to home plate, and pointed me the rest of the way there.

No man is perfect.  No man is a saint.  He wasn’t always easy to live with.  

Let me take you back to the winter of 1981-1982.  My freshman year in high school.  I was 14.  It was the year we built the cottage just south of Pentwater. Perhaps the snowiest winter in the history of Western Michigan.  

Here was his plan:  In October, he would have a contractor roughly frame in a three-bedroom cottage on the shores of Lake Michigan.  We (his family) would complete the construction (interior walls, electrical, plumbing, kitchen, bathroom, drywall, finish carpentry, flooring --- everything!) in time for the summer rental season in June.  And, yes… he already had renters reserved.   He was under pressure, we had to get the job done.

All of this would be completed on weekends.

Others may tell you a different story, but I’ll tell you my version… The truth. I lived it.  

By that time Lib and Sam were grown and out of the house.  Not much help there.  Jessica was a junior in high school.  A cheerleader with a VERY active social life.  She helped… sometimes.

That left Dad, Mom and me.

For most of the winter the cottage had no running water, a wood stove for heat and only sporadic electricity.  Every Saturday morning, he would wake me up at 5:00am and we would drive two hours West to work very long days.  I was the only kid in school who looked forward to Mondays.

That year, in addition to valuable construction skills, I learned:

My Dad invented the five-minute lunch break.

It is possible for an otherwise reasonable man to ignore State Police warnings to take shelter from a blizzard.  And that during the darkest part of the storm he may even look out the window and say “I think I see the sun peeking through.”

A 14-year-old boy can single handedly push a hopelessly stuck Chevy Chevette from an enormous snow drift.

If the wind is blowing hard enough, your dad can’t hear you swear at him as he drives the car right back into that snow drift.

During a blizzard, when all roads are closed and there is only one room left at the Hart Motel, your parents get the bed.  You get to sleep in a chair.  And you like it.

But we finished.  He was determined.  He was persistent, and even though I was often a sullen teenager, he made it fun.  He instilled in me a belief that if I set my mind to something, I can do it.

There are a few things most of you probably don’t know about him:

In high school, he and his friends kept a shotgun in the backseat of their car and at lunch time they would go down to Kollen Park and shoot ducks.

Once, while camping in Florida at Christmas, it got so cold, for several nights he heated our tent with an electric frying pan.  I thought it was ingenious. My mom though he was just too cheap to pay for a hotel room.

As a school administrator, he excused students from school so they could attend civil rights marches and rallies.

Someone once called the local talk radio show and called him a “communist” for doing it.  I think that made him proud.

He was almost arrested for peacefully protesting at a Dick Cheney political rally.  I think he was proud of that too.

He was my moral compass. He fought for justice. He walked the walk. He was honest to the core. He wasn’t churchy, but he was the most Christian man I have ever known. He never said it, but he sought to live “The Sermon on the Mount”

His children and grandchildren have grown up with the lessons of Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird.”  Growing up, there were times I felt like Jem, or Scout or Dill.  And sometimes Dad was Atticus.  

We all have parts of the book we can recite from memory.  There are some we can’t say out loud without choking up.  

“I simply want to tell you that there are some men in this world who were born to do our unpleasant jobs for us. Your father’s one of them.”

“We’re the safest folks in the world,” said Miss Maudie. “We’re so rarely called on to be Christians, but when we are, we’ve got men like Atticus to go for us.”

“Neighbors bring food with death, and flowers with sickness, and little things in between. One time Atticus said you never really knew a man until you stood in his shoes and walked around in them. Just standing on the Radley porch was enough.”

“Well, the Summer that had begun so long ago had ended, and another Summer had taken its place, and a Fall. I was to think of these days many times, of Jem, and Dill and Boo Radley and Tom Robinson and the Ewells and Atticus -- his fairness, his stubbornness, his devotion, his courage, his love.”

“And why does he hang out with those retarded gorillas, as you called them? Because any one of them, if he asked them to, would take a fucking bat to your head, okay? It's called loyalty.” -Robin Williams, Good Will Hunting.

I’m a grown up.  But a couple of times a year I take a break from the world to be with a group of guys that would lie down in traffic for me.

We’ve been friends for decades.  Some since elementary school, some since college.  The bond we share is not about time.  It’s about friendship and loyalty and experiences and love.

For the last 16 years we have purposefully taken a break from our lives to spend a weekend apart from the world.  To enjoy each other’s company.  We leave our spouses and our children behind to just hang out together.  

No plans, no schedules, no need for anyone but each other.   We have created our own world.  

The conversation is non stop.  The stories, the running jokes, the jabs, the verbal abuse, the chanting, the yelling, the singing.  We play pool, golf, swim or just sit.  It doesn’t matter what we do or where we are.  It is not about places or things, it is about people.  

We spend our time reliving old stories and making new ones.  We escape the outside world to enjoy the company of people who know our strengths and weaknesses.  We are bonded because of who we are, not what we do.

Others may enter our sphere during that time, but they are merely background noise.  They are fodder for our jokes.  They are bit players in our stories.  Props.

For those few days, while we fuel our friendship, it’s about us and each other. The rest of the world might as well not exist.

We are all very different people.  We may have grown up together but we came from varied backgrounds and have charted different paths for our lives.  But for those few days, we are brothers.  Little boys with the gift of time.

When I come home from these weekends, my wife usually asks about my friends’ spouses and kids and jobs.  My honest response is: “I have absolutely no idea.”  We don’t talk about that stuff. It ain’t Oprah.  

I have a difficult time remembering anything we talked about.  I just know that it was fun.  And I am refreshed.

For the rest of the year we are scattered across the state and across the country, but I am secure in the fact that any one, and likely all, of these gorillas would drop whatever they were doing to come to my aid if I needed them.  No hesitation.  No questions asked.

I’ve spent a lot of time in checkout lines this week.  It’s that time of year.  The lines are long and they move slowly.   Getting in and out of the parking lot is a challenge.  Everyone is hustling to find the gifts we need.

No matter how many packages I carry into the house, the lists don’t seem to get any shorter.   The piles are larger, but don’t seem complete.  It’s time to take stock.  Time to take inventory.  How many more things do I need?

We already have so many little things.  We’ve picked up a lot just this week.   They won’t make it to any of the piles, but they’re the best gifts we will receive. As long as we remember to count them.  Here are three of many from the last 24 hours:

The gift of conversation with a couple at the next table during a hurried dinner out.  She was from Honduras, he from Gibraltar and newly in love. They had never been to the little restaurant near our home.  A simple question about the wifi password turned into a short but wonderful interaction.  They felt welcomed, we witnessed a budding romance.

The gift of a smile on a small boy’s face as he watched the high school play.  He was seeing Mary Poppins come to life; magically flying above the stage.   As he watched Mary and Bert in the spotlight, I watched my own daughter dancing in the background of the scene.  My wonder and joy exceeded his.

The gift of waking up this morning to the sound of a snow plow in my driveway. It snowed six inches and we don’t have plowing service.  A neighbor plowed our driveway for fun.  A gift of giving and receiving.

Little gifts are floating all around us, like radio waves.  They come as a smile, a conversation, a simple good deed.  They are everywhere.