Thoughts on Father's Day, 2013

When does a pond become a lake? A big pond...a small lake...a short river...a long life – this is how we classify things. There is probably a geological definition that defines when a certain acreage or a certain gallon capacity is surpassed to change a body of water from a pond (or a really big pond) to a lake, at least by definition. Does that one gallon extra or that hectare (whatever the hell that means) really create a delineation for which we should be concerned?

It is said that water makes up most of the human body and most of the Earth upon which we stand. It has also been said that the world is 85% hydrogen and 16% stupidity. At what point is a human being smart enough to notice that their own personal problems are becoming unmanageable, in that they are, per se, drowning? If that one drop of water converges upon the pond and it suddenly becomes a lake, then surely one mistake might pull a person under.

But is a pond proud? Does it stand on the farm and boast across the landscape, “Hey, I’m a Lake now!” – to which a grizzled old body of water that has always been massive and has always been a Lake, retorts: “Relax, kid – by the end of summer you’ll dry up and be a pond again.” It must be a humbling experience.

More importantly, when does a parent realize that the responsibility of building a strong peer and steering a steady ship far outweigh the risk/reward equation of a life filled with awesome cruises or thrilling adventures on water skis?

The society we have developed into allows for a myriad of problems to inundate us, but what are we to do? We have rivers of stress, lakes of addiction, seas of denial and an ocean’s worth of excuses. Somewhere along the line of human progress we added too much water and someone forgot that we need to release the valves once in a while. A drop of divorce, a hint of homelessness, a touch of tragedy, the requisite dash of drugs and alcohol, a sprinkle of selfishness, and a full measure of misguided thinking, bottom-line hoping, happiness-in-objects wishing, and driven-for-success-living has lead us to a flood of problems both physical and emotional. Might good, sensible parenting take the helm generation after generation and correct our course? The ancients navigated by the stars. All we need now is common sense responsibility. But we get distracted by modern trappings, and bad parents rear lost children.

These problems (“issues” as they are called by the We Can Accomplish Anything by Positive Thinking Campers) have inundated us to the point of saturation. We find it difficult to breathe under all the pressure, and our lakes overspill their borders and wipe out all that we have built of good cities, abundant crops, strong roadways, excellent communication channels and once-proud schools.

We stand back and survey the damage. “Tsk, tsk, this is sad. Nothing could have prevented this from happening!” The wreckage is abysmal, the destitution profound and the healing is only beginning. Had we just opened the tap a little to let the water drain enough to release some pressure, maybe we wouldn’t be counting damage but rather moving forward. Work less, go to the lake more. Fight less, gaze at the river more. Hold less grudges and stroll hand-in-hand along the shore, and marriage ain’t all that hard. You might cuss (and say ain’t) like a sailor, but working together as Captain and First Mate is easier than...Not so easy, is it? It takes work. The Titanic may have gone down in a day, but it wasn’t built in a day either. Do you want your marriage to be the Titanic? Then plan a wedding. If you want your life to resemble the U.S.S. Arizona, then work together to a plan a strategy for a marriage. If you don’t want kids, be honest with each other and prevent that. If you aren’t sure – please take precaution so you don’t become parents unwillingly! If you do want kids, accept the responsibilities that come with the job, and it is a job! The responsibilities are too numerous to list here, but observe a good local mom or dad and you’ll catch on quickly.

The dangers of a bad marriage are rather obvious, but do we ever consider what might occur in the wake as we glide back into our own lives? We get so distracted by cleaning up the bad marriage wreckage that we lose sight of the goals: true happiness, fulfillment, family pride, a mother and father working together to teach their kids to swim.

A good swimmer, after all, has the skills to navigate the challenges of choppy waters and can pace himself for the long haul. A weak swimmer, a child raised between fighting parents, a selfish (or worse, non-existent/weekend) father and a self-absorbed (or worse, distracted and obsessive) mother, panics in the waters of stress, loses oxygen and is either damaged or goes down with the sharks. There are no sharks in the pool, unless you count those other teenagers who find solution in tinctured spoons or hopps-infested waters as being sharks or piranhas or just plain punks. Not to mention all the other sea life bent on destruction – criminals, creeps and crappy future spouses. There are good swimmers in the pools, too, kids who would be smart enough to realize that this metaphor of swimmers is getting...tired.

In the short end of the pool, there is a day we all must come to realize that we need to either sink or swim. This is our life, and we only get one chance to live it well. Society allows for multiple chances to correct the course, but sometimes you get too lost and other times you right the ship. It is laughable that the phrase “YOLO” has consumed the minds of a young generation. You Only Live Once has become a rally cry for anything from good times to extreme partying to outright debauchery. Let’s not forget that we only die once too. Are we willing to have that conversation with our kids while still teaching them to enjoy life? It’s sort of like walking a plank – there is danger but not all fun is deadly. Smart parents...better kids...just a thought.

As we pool (get it?) our resources together to make society a place worth living, one has to hope that oceans of doubt and streams of confusion can flow in the confluence of good judgment, smart planning and teamwork to pacify the rocky waters of our times. Whether you can afford a built-in heated, indoor super pool or a plastic kiddy pool that will be cracked and curbed for a September pick-up-garbage day, or any variation in between from local pool passes to yearly trips to the beach, just be a good parent. Please, someone is drowning out there. It might be your kid, it might be your neighbor’s kid, it might be you. Life preservers are all around you in the form of friends and family. It doesn’t matter if it is a pond or a lake, but it is our jobs as parents to teach our kids to swim well. Don’t let that kid down, and don’t let that kid drown.

Chatham Nature Writing: Final Place Journal Post

Farewell, Back Yard! I shall see you again in July, when the scalding sun sends me toward cover of the only shade this property owns. The ragged and weathered yet sturdy awning of aluminum will cover me from direct sun and occasional summer storm, but you deserve a break from my peering, watchful eyes.

I have observed this yard from cold to mold and through two seasons have seen it rotate like a carousel. One day it was wet and bogged down with the melt-away snow; on another it was arid in a sneak attack March heatwave. It has been barbed with ice and softened under a downy breeze, and all throughout these four months it has withstood the throes of passion that weather commands.

Perhaps I will return for July and just sit. The cold winter months forced me to stand, mobility my roving eye as I canvassed like a detective week after week. I traipsed the perimeter certain that a clue was left uncovered to reveal the mystery of nature. How did so much change so rapidly? A wind, a sunburst, a rainy night, all mutable. The evidence was abundant – a rusted spring of ivy laced through an aged fence; a clump of mud, smile-tossed by children during October’s fancy days of splendor; a slab of ice picked from a sled in February, reminiscent of snow so fast and sudden as to freeze slush into miniature ice rinks; the first green blade of spring returning. I witnessed the scene yet found no solution. I had no lab other than my mind and my words within which to process data, and really no crime had been committed. Proof pointed toward creeping motion, a prowler at large. While I slept or worked or watched the football play-offs, subtlety slid across this yard from day to day and altered from dawn to dusk and week to week the meaning of surroundings. I wonder if anyone else even noticed.

This yard is not much different than either of my neighbors’ to the east or to the west, and to these backyard sanctuaries we often retreat in singular pods of separate families. One has a statue fountain that no longer flows, the other a bare and thwarted hillside of dry dirt ready to flow for the next downpour. Both yards run flat in quarter-acre plots; without two fences and openly connected to my own yard, they would make a grand play area for kids of all ages. Yet we hardly know them, the neighbors. It is as if backyard has come to mean recluse.

It is possible to imagine that the backyard was the impetus for the denigration of community. Before housing developments and pre-dating the suburbs, families sat “out front” on long summer evenings. Whether to cool off, shoot the shit or watch passersby do their thing, people congregated on the stoops and steps of American homes. Now we isolate ourselves, as if reaching out were inconvenient, as if making friends were a chore. It’s funny that I invite friends from two boroughs over to have a cook-out in the yard behind my house, yet do not really know the people who live right next door to my home.

This yard that I have watched and studied will be a gathering place for dinners and card games and the occasional whiskey and cola, as well as swimming in a few months (it’s a cheap pool that won’t last ten years – don’t be impressed), but the safety of my neighborhood could be undermined as I avoid meeting new friends, getting to know old neighbors and keeping a watchful eye on all who come and go along my street.

You know what, Back Yard, I think I’ll need to take a rain check on that July visit. I’ll return for October instead, when all my neighbors begin to hibernate. Meanwhile, I’ll be in the front yard if you need me.

Chatham Nature Writing: Final Prompt Journal Post

To Blog, or Not to Blog?

No, really, that is the question.

There is an old saying that suggests that if something is worth doing, it is worth doing well. If an endeavor, be it building a house, starting a business or loving someone, has any intrinsic value, then it seems obvious that it is worth the time and effort and focus and concentration to complete the initiative effectively; in other words, to do it well.

Writing is no different, but the blog presents some interesting challenges. In the current reality of internet ramblings and social networking, the keeping of a blog doesn’t necessarily mean that something is written well. Anyone with a computer and internet access can put words together to formulate ideas that resemble a blog. The trick is in the credibility. Of course there are writers who possess amazing credibility. Likewise, there are unknown literary hacks who have quite a unique view to share and a lot of good verbal ideas to offer.

So, wherein lies the rub? It’s hidden in the content.

I was hesitant to “blog” at first, not wanting to add my name to a potential list of writers mistaken for social updaters. These are the people who feel it is necessary to tell us what they are doing with their lives as if a blog post is intended to replace a book status that resembles someone else’s face. These include people who spout their political views or religious ideals or music rants or sports opinions, whatever the subject might be, without having any real merit behind their point of view. They share little, express less and offer no insight for a reader to consider. These “writers” scared me away from the blogosphere for a number of years.

Then a trusted friend suggested I might revitalize a column I had written in college under the guise of a blog. The format took some getting used to but now, after a few years into the experiment, I am starting to get it. I understand the blog to be a forum for social commentary or humor, even the occasional rant when necessary. This has brought me no “outrageous fortune,” but it has yielded a few followers who generally like what I have to write.

When I returned to school to study creative writing and enrolled in a Nature Writing class, this blog served as a weekly journal to develop and express issues that are specific to the genre. The experience has been humbling, though hardly baring the whips and scorn of publishing. Nature is all around us, so finding inspiration was not difficult. Gaining a fresh perspective concerning the environment, however, was challenging. And then something happened. As weekly observation and contemplation continued at a concentrated level, perspective slid into focus; aligned with priority, the ability to reflect upon nature and respond accordingly became intensified.

What happened to me can be explained well by a song. I often quote from the rock band Rush because their philosophy has influenced me as an artist. Their lead singer, Geddy Lee, released a solo album with a song that echoes the experience I have had while expanding this blog into a temporary nature journal. The song goes like this:

“Something you said, it made me step outside the moment;
Eyes pan right and left around my world.
Open yourself up to the possibility,
Aware of some reality outside your world.”
(Geddy Lee, 2000)

I don’t think Geddy was talking about nature, yet his perspective expands into an understanding of how I now perceive the natural world. It has always been my world, as much as it is yours, hers, his or that other guy’s, but I now relate to it on a different plain. It is isn’t spiritual or tree-loving; it’s more of a rhythm with the spinning of the so-called third rock from the sun.

Somewhere in the writing prompts, I was able to step outside of myself and receive ideas and meaning from nature herself; as well, I recognized the possibilities that were presented to me. This is not to say that I was against writing within nature before. I had just never taken the time to really absorb the natural world so that it might inform my writing. I have often written poetry while being outside, which made sense on its own. This journal, however, has been more about finding new things to write about, as well as new ways to concentrate on the observational experience.

To comment further about these ideas might give credence to the genre of the blog, or it might just provide a reason to continue writing about nature. There are many columnists who now write blogs – very good writers writing very good material. The question, then, becomes, are readers reading the good stuff or are they trapped in a world of poor writing that is better left for social chatrooms?

Whether I continue to reflect on nature or add my own humorous rant (which I have been known to attempt), the writing of this blog will reflect heightened patience. When I am in nature I have no concept of time other than our Dear Old Sun. When time is all but removed from experience, one tends to see things with greater clarity. From that clarity I have learned to watch, to listen, to experience nature, and not just the places where I live but rather the entire context of our surroundings.

With a portion of integrity, a good self-editing eye, a reason to write and willingness to try new avenues (or in this case, dirt paths), the writing of any genre – whether it is stage plays or nature blogs – is worth doing well.

Chatham Nature Writing Blog: Prompt Entry #6

Time is a bridge between memories. One day you are walking to a store angry that your mother wanted Diet Pepsi and sent you on the errand. The next – though hardly the next because some 10,950 days have elapsed – you are a dad walking to the same store with your son to buy yet another Diet Pepsi so you can play with the silly stocking stuffer he gave you at Christmas. And in a single moment you realize that the passage of time is about letting go and a little bit of healing.

There is a slight track of land in our neighborhood that reminds me of everything I despised and worried about as a child. The street I walked then and now is called Prospect, a road that fronts the parking lot to a 7-11 convenience store. The lot and the road merge at a sloping angle through a tiny yard. For years it had been common for kids to cut the corner and make our own footpath along a beaten trail up the slope and into the parking lot. We didn't have the patience (or respect) to walk to the concrete and take a right angle as drivers do. The path urged into existence by short-cut teens was no more than fifty feet long and all of three feet wide, but it was trampled down to a dirt path like you might see on a hiking trail. It was a well-trodden path. It is now only a trace of its former self. The ridge is there but grass has grown in; it looks like a scar healed over.

The gift my son gave me is a tube designed to make a geyser from Mentos candy when dropped in diet soda. You attach the tube to a full bottle of pop laced with phenylalanine, drop the chewy treats down the tube, release the safety string so the candies plummet into the soda, and then watch a geyser of foam explode through the opening. It actually works! After a few seconds, the brown froth rises and erupts through the tube to shoot a sprout into the air almost two feet high. It is a complete waste of terrible soda and good candy, but the smile on Brian’s face is worth the three dollars we spent. Cost is nothing compared to a Christmas promise fulfilled. I had told him we would test the toy come spring time.

Years ago, I felt pressure boiling under my tension as I walked to the store, angry and still very confused about why my parents had divorced. I hadn't learned yet how to place blame or come to terms with problems of the adult world. When my mom asked me to walk to 7-11 to buy her a two-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi, I went but I was furious. I huffed and steamed the whole way there, grunting underbreath for the equivalent of four city blocks. The errand, it seemed to me, was no different than fetching my father's beer, the same cans of alcohol I was told had ruined my family.

I eventually moved away and then a decade later returned to that same neighborhood as an adult – long story short, that sort of thing – in order to raise my own family. I live two streets from where I spent my formative years and the 7-11 is still there. It has changed as has the neighborhood, but only in terms of who works there and who lives where, and the absence of busses that used to slide through the streets all day and all night.

I had first moved into the neighborhood as a ten-year-old boy; a striking irony now that Brian is also ten. As Brian and I walked to the store on a recent spring evening warm enough to make me wish I had worn shorts, I remembered that log-ago Diet Pepsi and realized how easy my life has been. I never witnessed a drive-by shooting, nor the atrocities that people from other countries have suffered. The scars of social and political injustice mark my neighbors as much as my emotional wounds have healed. After all, it was just a soft drink my mom wanted. But people have fled Burma and Serbia and Yugoslavia and Bosnia to find a better life, here, in a place I have long called home. The houses remain, though the addresses receive mail of different last names, some I cannot pronounce.

Where my friends and I used to traipse toward the store and stomp the land into a finely packed trail there now grows rejuvenated grass. It is as if scars from our minor disrespect have grown over with the fresh seeds of better-mannered kids. Or, do kids even walk to the store anymore? We ran up that slope in races! We shot our bikes toward the hill with no effort – we were ten, fifteen, and soon we drove there anyway. Maybe today's kids get dropped off to get their moms' Diet Pepsi. "Be back in an hour," a parent waves as they retreat in the family SUV or minivan. This generation is being raised by new absenteeism. Not my kids.

Our walk that evening was simple, the time-honored truth of quality over quantity. Brian asked about pirates of the high seas and whether a stick he had found could defend him against a swashbuckler with a sword. He wondered whether The Hulk could lift that car, that car, that one? “What about that truck?” he asked as we avoided the trail to enter the store. He proposed that maybe I was stronger than Hulk. It depends, but it’s doubtful, I thought. Can the Hulk heal scars as they grow invisible year after year?

Chatham Nature Writing Blog: Place Entry #6

In like a Lion, out like a Lamb. Equinox. April Fool’s Day. Easter. March. April. May. The words remind me of proper nouns, as if Spring holds a clarity unlike any other season. It is a time of Cliché, of Rebirth, of New Beginnings, even of Baseball. The Earth, I have long argued, is the ultimate proper noun. Perhaps in our language we should label it EARTH. Without Earth, where would we be? That type of rhetoric might lead to absurdist humor. We’d be nowhere, out in space, among the abyss. We wouldn’t be of course, but that is a topic for existentialists to consider on other platforms. I can only be in my own existence, and I have a messy yard to drain, grass to cut (if it dries), and the ever-pleasant task of cleaning up after the dogs.

My yard upon this Earth curls under an overcast day as if the clouds were at play with a saucy mixture from a cake recipe. The surface water swill from last night’s storm has flooded the yard again; flood being a relative term. Steps are sloshed and shoes muddied. There will be no playing for children here today. Somewhere, terror floods fields and farms, but that is in another nation whose capitalization I am not concerned with. Today, I only worry about a plot of land on Beryl Drive owned by the Kirks. A slight breeze slings the fresh-top grass blades in pulsating dance steps that swing against the wishes of the sunblock-generation-kids in my yard.

They want so badly to play. My youngest tries cartwheel kicks over by one dry patch as she continues to learn gymnastics. The older two chase and dart after each other in a game of tag, the rules not clear to me. I survey the yard not as an observer today, but rather as a dad who longs for these longer moments. A seasonal dip in the temperature has returned things to normal. The air hovers around forty and light jackets make our play cumbersome, yet we invent a game of almost-tennis over the failed ice rink. At least those borders were good for something! I win the first two matches and then lose three straight. Might that forecast another losing season for my beloved baseball Pirates? I hope not, hope to the point that Hope itself should also be a proper noun. Hope may be a thing, but it is a thing of beauty. So many other things of beauty get the shift key treatment when one is typing: Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, why not Hope?

My yard is not as wide as Arizona’s hole nor as damp as our natural border with Canada, yet it falls on this dad’s shoulders to maintain a certain suburban image and borough ordinance concerning yardwork. I hate yardwork, Hate it with a capital H. And what about Dad? What work and trouble with the yard will I encounter? The kids don’t seem to care that the grass is too high. It is common for people to refer to their own father as Dad, but to the general principle of parenting as the guy known as dad. It is a fair comparison. But what if Dad came to represent a status in our society? What if deadbeat dad deserves lower case and an honorable dude earned his Dad spelling? What if Father meant that this Dad is further removed from the dad who lives farther away and only calls on Father’s Day? Perhaps we could rid the world of fatherless homes if we gave merit to a Dad and a Father whose rank was worthy of such address.

But the yard will soon needed tended to, and I also happen to be lousy at yardwork. In that realm I would earn a D-minus if grades were being handed out; or worse, an F. My landscaping skills look as if a third grader had drawn them up in art class and magically transplanted the slanted and mismatched picture onto my property. I am no Dad of Grass-cutting either. Then again, I prefer less curb appeal and more memories. Yes, I declare that a good back yard ought to be one smudged with dandelions and divots where wrestled-down knees meet their match, spots where Tide earns its keep. I decree a rally cry for Better Dads and Who Cares Yards!

Oh well, tis time to play. My kids want to get out on the yard and really Play. There is so much for them to experience – Mud, Laughter, Dirt, Breath, Smiles – all as they traipse upon this Earth.

Chatham Nature Writing Blog: Prompt Entry #5

Open space and shade are what soothe my soul. Under the open sun of Pennsylvania summer a blistering blaze bothers me the way I used to pester my brother. It is nagging and relentless. One day, my brother grew up and socked me a good punch of retribution; sometimes it still hurts where his first punch landed on my arm. He is older by eleven-and-a-half months but was a small kid. The years he developed passed like a track star lapping me on the one-mile sprint. If he is heat, perhaps I am shade. We lead very different lives but have relied on one another just the same.

The star that bakes the front of my house must consider itself the foreman of a job unfinished. The bricks were fused six decades ago, yet the sun still dumps its warmth as if they needed to be fired today. The sand-water-gravel mixture blocks absorb and hold heat in a most impressive way. They remain warm to the touch hours past dark on a summer night and even during the coldest and clearest of January days.

I have read that in Ireland the temperature rarely goes above seventy or below forty on the Fahrenheit scale. I must be more Irish (and even less German) than American, despite being among the third Kirk generation to hold an American birth certificate. At that very moment when pleasant spring turns to annoying summer I feel my Germanic half disappear and my Irish-kin blood step forward. I long for shade, a massive shield above my house to filter sunlight is all I wish. I think if it could just cool down by six or eight degrees I would feel less sluggish, have longer energy and get more yard work accomplished. All of these might please my wife in various ways.

Shade. Oh for a bit of its gray, translucent gift. Envy creases my thoughts when I visit other homes. They sit down in a valley or just over a small glade. They rest in sliding degrees of shade from one hour to another and offer respite in cool, calm moments. Someone else’s yard holds an oak tree; along the driveway stands a lumbering maple or a proud, hefty pine. Each tree blocks the sun during the most intense hours of afternoon. It is not as if I desire to be an underground dweller. I only want shade. Cool. Comfortable. Direct. Dispersed. Soft. Serene. Shade.

I move about the exterior world grateful for open air. Winter walks are as fine as a summer stroll, and rain ranks high upon the things I adore. I don’t want to be inside. I want only to be out in open space and under shade. There is a pressure of tight spaces, not claustrophobia nor agoraphobia either. The tightness doesn’t originate from halls or classrooms or malls, but rather from the cramped neighborhoods, narrow city streets, bumper-to-bumper highways, and the confined spaces that impede nature. For as much as shade is desired, it is as if a house or store built in the way doesn’t offer real comfort. They are artificial shields.

That bit o’ me that feels Irish is at a crossroads. To one direction sits the blazing sun from which I turn my morning-blue eyes and squint under brow-salted sweat. The other casts the disappearing gray of day. I check both directions...

Food Writing Observation

She cracks the eggs with the enthusiasm only a child could muster; she is, after all, a child. She flips eggs but is disappointed that pieces stick to the pan. She has a lot to learn about cooking: patience, experimentation, timing. I will regale her with tales of my early days – when sunny-side up became over-easy and then over-medium and finally scrambled eggs because I lacked that virtue known as patience. This may be my finest educational challenge yet, to teach what I once did not know to my daughter. She doesn’t understand why she can’t take the turkey bacon by hand from the skillet and eat it right away. She is precocious; she is seven. Meet Bethany.

He greets an invitation to help in the kitchen the way I have always approached a baseball game – unbridled thrill ricocheting from a boy like scrapple being shuffled inside a hot pan. He willfully does what he can to pitch in; fills measuring cups, brings milk from downstairs. He spreads butter on toast and adds piles of brown-sugar cinnamon, then passes the butter-crisp treat to all who are seated around the table. He is eager to please. This is Brian, he is ten, and he has the knack for becoming a cook. (How cool is that?) He didn’t get it from me.

She whips up French toast batter as her mom taught her and contributes in the way of a mature pre-teen. She will help spread sauces, leaven bread, pre-heat the stove. She will stir the home-fries, check the sausage gravy and recently made her own non-breakfast side-dish. She ignored the box directions that I rely upon yet the bow-tie-garlic-alfredo noodles went well with lunch. How does she do that? Instinct, I suppose. Her best ability seems to be mixing tuna. As it slicks into a gooey, oozy goop of mayonnaise and slivers of pinkish-tanish meat, I cringe. Tuna, yuck. I am glad she likes it but grateful it isn’t for breakfast. She is our oldest at twelve; she is Becca. Neat kid.

I stumble through various ideas, experiment here, repeat an easy favorite there, and often misplace the spatula...somewhere. I am absent-minded in the kitchen. I juggle through preparing breakfast and look left, then right, then back again wondering where I set anything from the flipper to the butter to the salt to the batter. I need the boxes that provide specifics but have recently treated myself and the family to daring new recipes spurred by the teachings of a class and the artist-of-another-trade figuring things out in a whole new medium. My name is Dan, 41, the dad of the house. Nice to meet you.

She makes magic – in the kitchen and in a lot of other ways. She is identified by some tax code as a homemaker, but she is all that a mom should be; or at least all that I expected for the mother of my children. She pulls together meals when I testify that there is nothing in the kitchen, the pantry, nor the freezer-fridge combination. Dishes arise in her mind the way characters are conjured from my creative spirit. She brings two or three generations of gram-to-mom-to-daughter lessons to our kitchen and passes history and heritage along to our kids. She is more like Mickey Mouse in Fantasia than she is Becky Home-echy, but she can cook. The woman can just plain cook. My wife’s name is Michelle. She’d love to meet you and would probably invite you to a dinner party.

We work together on most weekends to break-fast as I teach my kids the origin of the word “breakfast.” It is a secular lesson, not a scriptural one. I try to bring little things that I know to the meals that Michelle provides. But mostly breakfast at our house is a task for family time. We laugh together in chimes and sublime giggles. We look forward each summer to the deep, profound heat of August when we repeat a silly breakfast tradition that started years ago as a dad-in-the-moment prank. As breakfast ends, I slowly kick off my flip-flops or sneakers, pretend to be thinking aloud as I remove my glasses, and make a bee-line for the pool.

I dive head-long into the undersized inflatable pool, and the cool sip of summer refreshment drenches me better than my syrup-drizzled pancakes. Breakfast dishes can wait as Bethany, Brian, Becca and Michelle join me. We cool off, frolic, swim, splash, and laugh and laugh and laugh. We aren’t ignoring clean-up; we’re making memories.

We are the Kirks. It’s nice to meet you. Welcome to breakfast.