December 30th, 1995

She ascended the staircase, slowly, and with not a little trepidation. When she reached the top she paused. On the threshold…she looked up.

In a small side room he paced. Back and forth, back and forth; an anxious child awaiting the arrival of a best friend. Nervous, tired...but truly happy. It had, in fact, been the best week of his young life.

It did not begin that way. A fierce battle with a hearty bowl of mushroom soup left him briefly shaken in constitution - if not stronger in character. Fortunately, the arrival of family and a healthy dose of new fallen snow proved a soothing balm for both his body and his soul.

The memories born that week were numerous as the falling snowflakes - and piled just as high. The countless carefree romps down the steep snow-covered hill…and the slightly slower trek back to the top. The well-intentioned, though ultimately ill-advised, off road excursion through the mounting snow that ended in a deep drift…and a long cold hike back home. The nurturing warmth of family, friends…and hot chocolate.

The fleeting moments with her.

His youthful crush on that joyous season grew only deeper with every inch of snow that fell, every breath of laughter shared, every thoughtful embrace engaged, and every tender word spoken.

And now the preacher, his own beloved father, gave him a knowing nod; a simple gesture that said more than could possibly have been spoken. He strode cautiously, but confidently the final few steps and took his place at the foot of the platform. Then he turned and looked back.

There she stood; a vision of snow white and autumn red. A countenance more fair never graced so humble a doorway. He caught her gaze and was overcome with…well…he was simply overcome.

She approached his presence with graceful confidence; a sense of divine assurance uprooting any stem of doubt, assuaging any twinge of fear, and snuffing out any trace of regret. Released hesitantly, but in love, by her own adoring father to the security of noble aspirations, they finally drew close.

She clutched his cold, trembling hand as his brittle heart likewise grasped for hers.

Fourteen years has only strengthened that grasp.

Fourteen years ago - December 30th, 1995.

Water Under the Bridge

The ground I tread feels like home.

The path I walk winds down a long hill. The snow crunches under my feet, packed firm by the occasional snowmobile, or brave explorer in a warm four-wheel drive. The sign at the top reads, “No Winter Maintenance”. I like it that way. So do the kids – it’s perfect for sledding.

The road leads down to a small stream spanned by a single-lane bridge. It’s not a large bridge – it needn’t be; it is not heavily traveled. But it has endured for generations; its sturdy elegant arch formed with the same field stone unearthed from the soil of the surrounding farmland…and by the same hands.

When I’m alone I often pause on that bridge. I like to stand silent, watching the water surge steadily towards me, tumbling carelessly over the rocks, plunging fearlessly under the ice, cutting sharply around, over or through fallen branches and downed trees, seemingly impervious to any and all obstacles in its path.

My blood turned the fertile soil of this ground I now tread. My blood woke before dawn in the icy grasp of winter, stoking the fires with wood hewn from trees whose roots grew deep into the ground I now tread. My blood hunted game in the rich forests of the ground I now tread. My blood walked the icy banks of this little stream, checking traps for mink, muskrat, fox and other furs, dependent on the life sustaining power of the ground I now tread.

My blood built a home on this ground I now tread.

My blood spilled their blood on this ground I now tread.

How thick now runs my blood! How deep grow my roots into the ground I now tread!

I watch the waters disappear under the bridge, quietly emerging on the other side, and silently, yet steadfastly slipping into the distance.

Endless yet undaunted; ever moving forward. Pressing on. Pressing on.

Clifford: The Big Red Dog No More

I know…technically its Clifton, not Clifford. I beg your forgiveness – if you’ll pardon the pun – for taking this small grammatical liberty. After all, for three glorious months and one breathtaking World Series hunt, Clifton Phifer Lee WAS the big dog in red Phillies pinstripes.

His adoption into the pack was the catalyst that fueled one blissful autumn drive, and we hung our happy heads out the window right along with him, tongues flapping in the breeze, sucking in the wonderful air, wanting the ride to never end.

He captured our fluttering hearts with his larger than life performance over the final months of an otherwise uneven regular season. Larger still in a rapturous postseason run that would never have happened were it not for the no bark, just bite style that baffled hitters, energized teammates and enthralled a city.

He gave us his best. We gave him our hope.

He gave us his heart. We gave him ours.

And then…he was gone; his joyous romp around Citizens Bank Park…over. Kicked to the curb. A new dog on the porch.
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The headline said, Phils deal Lee for Halladay…, or words to that effect. It might as well have read, Faithful dog sent to pound. Child mourns. As Lee was the faithful dog, I am the mournful child – or grown man acting as a child.

They say a dog is a man’s best friend. That dog was certainly this fan’s best friend.

They say all dogs go to heaven.

I wonder if that dog feels the same way about Seattle.

Come and Pliè

I thought my daughter said “play”. More willing I could not possibly be. Turns out “pliè” is something COMPLETELY different. More entertained I have never been.

Here’s the scenario:

• A delightful gathering of energetic pre-schoolers. Delightful to me, of course – I don’t pretend to speak for their instructor.
• An intimate rehearsal room, complete with wall to wall mirrors, shiny hardwood flooring, and of course, dance rail – better known as…the monkey bars.
• The aforementioned fearless leader – whom I now christen, “Braveheart” - a lithe, slightly less than warm, but aptly patient purveyor of poise and grace; at least at the outset.
• Forty five minutes of ballet class – or what the proud parents in attendance might more fittingly describe as a lifetime of comic relief; if not pure, unadulterated joy.

For three-quarters of an hour, these joyous, sprightly, energetic pixies of artistic pose bound, leap, stretch, step, twirl and pirouette themselves into a sugarplum fairy induced frenzy.

Oh…and they pliè.

When executed to perfection - that is to say outside the confines of this particular class – the pliè is to be an elegant exhibit of form, balance and beauty. Arms gracefully extended, heels together, back straight, chin up…and bend at the knees.

It even comes in three flavors: regular – knees slightly bent, demi - as far down as you can go without lifting your heels, and grand – in which it is apparently acceptable for your heels to come off the ground, provided you still have a smile on your face.

This night, however, art and real life suffer a frightening collision – and neither emerge unscathed. Think sumo wrestlers in the start position, or anything else akin to squatting in the woods. I think you’re getting the picture. Function…not form.

We the audience, however, are blissfully ignorant to the reality of the carnage before us. After all, we are the adoring parents, and so choose to witness this spectacle through the rapturous lens of rose colored love goggles. And we are beaming from ear to ear; overjoyed, if not overwhelmed.

Pliè you say? I say simply grand!

Encore! ENCORE!!

Real Women Belch

My wife belches better than me.

Does this say something about me as a man…or about her as a woman?

I suppose the answer could be neither…or either, but that’s hardly the point. The point is this woman, whom I love as life, whom I claim as my very own – can really let it fly!

She has an undeniable – I’ll not say God given - talent. She is absolutely without peer in this area. A genuine prodigy. A true master of her craft. Van Gogh had his paint brush. Babe Ruth had his bat. My wife – I think it’s mostly dairy products.

A glass of milk and a slice or two of pizza and belching the alphabet in one breath becomes child’s play. “Mary had a little lamb”?...No problem. The Declaration of Independence?...Please. War and Peace?...Ok, that might be a stretch.

But seriously, it’s really embarrassing…I mean when I belch. It’s just so weak!! Quite frankly, I’m ashamed of myself. I can’t even begin to compete. I am like Roseanne to her Pavarotti. Like Hanson to her REM. Like Keanu Reeves to her John Malkovich…Whoa! Like Sonny to her Cher…wait…he was the less talented one…right?

You get the idea. Me - bad. Her - good…REALLY good.

The funny thing is, I’m strangely attracted to her more simply BECAUSE of this talent.

What does THAT say about me as a man? Does it make me more shallow? Does it make me deep? After all, it IS an attraction based on her “inner” beauty.

Quite frankly, I think it just makes me blessed.

And us a lot more fun at parties.

The Big Tub

The kids LOVE to take a bath in The Big Tub.

It’s not really that big, just bigger than standard. But to them, it’s like a pool…without a diving board…unless you count the extra-wide edges…which, not surprisingly…they do.

Bath toys dwell in great abundance in The Big Tub. Small boats, large dinghies, rubber ducks, plastic cows, snakes, frogs, dinosaurs, cups, saucers, small appliances…ok…not small appliances…anymore. And I may have embellished a bit on the “large dinghies” as well – but that’s a whole other story.

And let’s not forget the soap. Of all the aforementioned toys readily available for instant bathing pleasure, the soap has emerged as a bath-time favorite. Find-the-soap, catch-the-soap, drop-the-soap, find-the-soap-again, smell-the-soap, throw-the-soap, the soap slide, the soap rocket, the soap splash-down, the soap-is-in-my-eyes…The soap is in my eyes!…Towel!…TOWEL!!!

Lather…rinse…repeat.

They also like the jets. If the water gets high enough, i.e. if Dad lets the water get high enough, i.e. if Dad has foolishly allowed his attention to drift (pun intended) from the task at hand and the water has unbeknownst to him risen beyond the point of minimum safety standards…it’s time to turn on the jets.

Ahhh…the jets. To an adult – loosely defined as one who has crossed the chronological boundary of legal adulthood - the jets transform a stagnant, tepid pool into a soothing, rapturous Jacuzzi. To a child, it’s more like a raging, tumultuous cauldron of churning sea in the throes of a perfect storm.

Not to mention what it does to the bubbles.

Sometimes we add bubbles. Not many, mind you. Let’s say slightly more than enough to attract alpine skiers from all corners of the globe, and just enough to suggest to the untrained eye that Mt. Everest has miraculously changed addresses. Enough to slather on Santa’s beard, Elvis’s sideburns…or perhaps Adam’s loin cloth. Enough in which to disappear completely, and reappear as the Abominable Snowman.

Enough so that when the bath is done, it’s on to the shower to rinse off the bubbles.

Sometimes they even get clean…sometimes.

No matter…They got to have a bath…in The Big Tub.