benjamin

Dear Benjamin,

I wrote something about your brother, Samuel, the day he was born, so I figure I owe you the same.

Today is August 30th. You were born August 7th. You're the 3rd born in the family, which is another way of saying nobody gives a shit. Get used to it. At least you're the youngest, which means your mother is going to spoil you rotten, and everyone will know that she loves you best. Not too mention I'll be too tired to whip your ass into shape, so by the time you're 15 you'll get to do whatever you want. I know these things. It happened to me. I'm the oldest and my parents drove themselves bananas trying to raise a morally upstanding republican Christian suburban educated father leader-of-the-household God-fearing church-going NBC News watching hardworking Ford driving man. They failed and gave up. My youngest brother does whatever he wants, and my other brother and I both know my mother loves him best. These are just the facts of life.

When your sister, Ana, was born the entire goddam family came to the hospital: Uncles, Aunts, 3rd cousins, not to mention the grandparents. They were at the hospital before Ana even arrived. It was one big gigantic party, although my wife, your mother, thinks otherwise. Our room was filled with flowers. I slept at the hospital. My heart skipped a beat everytime she made a noise.

When your brother, Samuel, was born the grandparents and some of your uncles and aunts came to the hospital for a quick visit, the others sent flowers.

The grandparents still came to the hospital for your birth. And my brother also came, but he's got a girlfriend who's trying to make a good impression on the family because she's hoping to marry in...so they don't really count. You didn't get any flowers. Get over it. Like I said, you're the youngest. It's old news. Mommy loves you best.

But you've got something going for you: you've got the best damn family I've ever met. Your father's a bit of a bum, but you're brother and sister sure do love you.


Personally, I'm glad you're here. You couldn't have come soon enough. Sam plays with way too many princess dolls for my tastes. He needs a brother to do brother stuff with: wrestle, talk about baseball, steal daddy's whiskey, and take ballet.

Welcome to the world, my son. I promise to be the best father I can, although I'm certainly not perfect. I promise to say I'm sorry when I'm wrong, and I'll do my best to get to know you for who you are. I will not put any preconceived notions of what I believe to be success into your life as a beacon to follow. I'm proud to be your father no matter what you choose for your life. I promise to go to your baseball games, or god forbid...soccer games.

Never lie to your mother. Never go to bed without saying a prayer, even if you think it's bullshit...especially when you think it's bullshit. Always be thankful for small things, like fresh air, your sister's smile, your brother's laugh, the sound of wind through the trees.

Read as much as possible. Don't take your parents political views as gospel. Give your mother a hug everyday. Punch your brother in the face when he pisses you off. Don't steal your dad's whiskey. Just ask him for some and if he's in a good mood he'll let you have a sip.

And I'm counting on you and Sam to protect Ana. Someday boys are going to like her as "more than a friend." Your job is now officially quite simple: kick the shit out of these boys. Every one of them.

Godspeed, Benjamin.

goodbye

Remember Mighty Mouse? I do. I always will. Before you read more, read about the mighty Mighty Mouse here.

I recently found out my horse died. Matthew sent me this:

I'm not sure if animals go to heaven. If they do, and if heaven has green pastures with endless supplies of grass, shade, and cool water, that's where the mighty mighty is at.

Thought you may want to know, there's something about a cowboy's horse...

I just re-read my writings about Might Mouse. Quite honestly, I don't say much about him. I suppose now is the time.

Mighty Mouse is the horse who saved my life. No shit. Mighty Mouse was there when I stole two days from heaven, in the midst of the Rocky Mountains, camping and fishing with friends. These friends brought their horses. One of the horses was Mighty Mouse.


I'm certain my friends were keen on me riding Mighty Mouse because he was shorter than the other horses, which means he needed to trot while the other horses walked gently. For the readers who don't know the difference between sitting on a trotting horse and sitting on a walking horse....go to hell.

My ass bounced up and down in a saddle for 3 hours while my bastard friends sat comfortably on the slow back and forth rocking of a walking horse: no bouncing = no ass bruises. I had ass bruises. And I wanted a couple (colloquialism for thirteen) drinks. Stupid short Mighty Mouse legs.

And then Mighty Mouse saved my life. No shit. I'm sometimes a bit over-dramatic and very often much too sarcastic for others to know when I'm being serious and when I'm bullshitting. I like it that way. But in this instance, I'm not bullshitting. I'm as serious as a sale on good whiskey. Mighty Mouse saved my life.

When about to fall off a cliff, most horses, I'm told, completely lose their fucking minds. They run, jump, or gallup like hell. Not Mighty. Mighty damn near fell off a cliff while I was on his back. Yet he kept his cool, and sat his ass on the edge of the cliff long enough for me to get off, and only then preceded to take actions to save his own life. I was safe, on solid ground. Maybe it's coincidence, but I doubt it. I'm not a big believer in the IQ levels of animals. And yet...

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My first memory of Mighty Mouse comes in Vail, Colorado. Mighty was in the trailer behind our pickup, anxious to get out of his cramped space and run around a bit.
(... by the way...i read these words and still can't believe they are written by me...i don't do pickup trucks, horse trailers, or horses for that matter...life is strange)
Anyway, road construction caused traffic to come to a complete stop. We stopped next to a bus full of college students. By "bus" i mean: quite literally a school bus. Some smart ass (he's my hero) college student bought an old school bus and converted it to a party on wheels.

We (Matthew, Cletus, Joshua, and me) sat in an overheating pickup truck. In the lane next to us sat an old bus full of college students. We should have been admiring the scenery. We were in Vail, afterall. Instead, we were admiring the ingenuity of a college student who removed the seats in a school bus in lieu of couches purchased from Goodwill.

"You want a beer?!!!" Someone screamed from the bus. Hell yes, I did.

I never got one. Cletus did.

Cletus immediately jumped out of our truck and boarded the bus. He disappeared for a few minutes, but to this day he won't describe what he saw. His only hint: he met a bunch of fun-loving college students who were "looking to party."

And the next thing I know, while sitting in the back seat of a rather cramped, overheated, pickup truck, I look to my left and see Cletus sitting on Mighty Mouse, riding between two lanes of stopped cars, whooping and hollering "keep kickin' ass Mighty!" Traffic is at a complete stop on the interstate in Vail, Colorado. Cletus figures he can make better time on the back of a horse. And he's right. And Old Mighty is just happy to be giving someone a lift.

I laughed so hard I damn near peed my pants.

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You know that feeling in your stomach when you just trust someone but you don't know why? In my experience, you trust people who intrigue you, who don't say much, who portray strength, both in their posture and in their few words, yet say little, give little away. Mysteriousness, at least in my way of thinking, isn't negative.

Mighty Mouse personified my preconceived notions of that which is trustworthy: gentle, yet aggressive; quiet, yet anxious to be heard; small, yet strong; abrasive, yet lovable; seemingly indifferent, yet passionate.

Mighty: Thank you for the memories. I suppose you were too calloused and too guarded to let anyone, much less a city slicker son of a bitch, get close enough to your pathos to be considered a friend. I respect that. We might never be friends. But I'll be damned if I won't always remember my short days, those pristine days we stole from heaven, in the Colorado mountains, listening to the sound happiness.

life happens

Ana (my almost 4 year old daughter) and I go to Caribou Coffee together on dates. Do you ever wish you could make time stand still?

Ana is in a precious "why?" phase. Everything I say results in "Why Daddy?" The situation vexes me. When I say "I need a drink," I'm not comfortable with someone hitting me in the shins and saying "Why do you need a drink, Daddy? Is that your special drink?"

There are some memories which will certainly live with me forever. Each day this week, I've gone to Caribou with my daughter. She is especially excited because she gets to go somewhere with just Daddy - there's five of us now....the blog didn't mention it but my wife and I had another kid....back to the story of Ana and Daddy - we go to Caribou, I order the largest goddamn coffee they have (newborn at home) and Ana predictably orders the BlueBerry muffin. Then we sit at a table (and I put away my BlackBerry) - she gets to pick whatever table she wants - and we chit chat. Her legs dangle over the chair, too short to touch the floor, and she starts asking me questions: why do cars have wheels? Why are muffins good? Why are you so big? Why is Sam funny? Why is Caribou better than Starbucks?

And I'm happy. There's no place I'd rather be. Simplistic topics are important to her. I'm important to her. Heaven is here.