But does it ever get DARK here??

It’s been nearly a week since I returned from my visit to Alaska, and my sleep patterns still haven’t returned to normal. For someone who awakens at first light every day of his life, an Alaskan summer can be a dramatic event, because it never gets even as dark as “first light.” One cannot grasp the significance of being in the Land of the Midnight Sun without actually having experienced it. I found myself, on numerous occasions, almost yielding to the temptation to call home and relay the experiences of my day, only to realize that while it looked like late afternoon in Homer, it was 3 AM back home, and that my call would likely startle my lady awake (There is no such thing as a good 3 AM call).

Circadian challenges out of the way, here is a brief recall of my time in Alaska, and – said challenges aside – it was a wondrous trip, only possible because of the prodding and insistence of my precious daughter and son-in-law. When I said, months ago, that I would come, she bought the airline tickets, thus racking up some additional airline miles, while simultaneously ensuring that I would indeed come (and reimburse her). She’s crafty that way.

The flight from Austin to Houston to Anchorage was relatively unremarkable, aside from the first hop, which found me seated next to a guy who weighed somewhere in the vicinity of 300+ pounds, and whose girth left roughly 2/3 of a seat for my comfort. No sweat… It was a short ride. The plane from Houston to Anchorage was delayed, allowing me to soak up an extra hour and a half of Texas heat while parked on the tarmac, and placing me in Anchorage with a mere 3 minutes to get to my connecting flight.

  Here’s a shot of the Yukon Territory, taken from my plane. Phenomenally unspoilt and majestic.

Rapid response on my daughter’s part got me switched to another flight, this one to Kenai rather than Homer. She must have broken every speed limit en route, because she arrived to pick me up only about 20 minutes after I landed. All I could think of when I saw her was that I’d actually forgotten how beautiful she is. And she looked genuinely thrilled to see me, which wasn’t always the case when she was growing up under my Machiavellian thumb.

I won't go into the return flight, except to state that it never reached a level requiring intervention by Air Marshals. I must give credit for the "incident" to a remarkably rude fellow traveler who had made it a priority to crush my snacks, if not my knees, though the situation was diffused by the somewhat late-in-coming good judgment of an equally rude male flight attendant. And that's all I'll say about that.

 

Sharon and me at the airport in Kenai

I had expected to be alone at their house for a few of the days during my visit, as she and Corey both held positions of responsibility at their workplaces, and I didn’t want or expect to compromise their professional well-being. As it turned out, they took off the better part of the time I was there, and had plans for the majority of our time together.

Alaska is very much a study in contrasts. You might see a multi-million dollar cabin that looks like it came straight out of Architectural Digest, and an old school bus turned into a ramshackle cabin, mere yards away. Some of the friendliest and most attractive people you’d ever see, right next to someone who would look wholly familiar alongside Jethro Tull’s Aqualung.

On one day, we took a 2-1/2 hour boat ride across the Kachemak Bay to Seldovia, which has the feel of an artists’ colony that has recently found favor among the travel agents. The plan was for the 3 of us to take a hike on the wilderness trails, but the few miles we walked through the village let me know that I wasn’t up to it, so I suggested they go alone, and I would return to a delightful coffee shop / bookstore we had visited. We parted ways, and I ended up spending the next couple of hours chatting and making music with John, the owner (Well, in truth, he made the music, and I introduced him to John Prine’s genius, albeit with my less-than-remarkable voice.). With a clear stream flowing lazily below us, it was a perfect setting for coffee, cookies, and new friends. I will go back there someday, but in the meantime, I’m sending John a John Prine songbook. If you ever get to Seldovia, do yourself a favor and go visit John. You won't have to ask him twice to get his guitar out and play for you. And don't forget to sample his home-baked cookies. They're wonderful.

View of the Seldovia Slough and the deck of Warehouse  Books & Coffee

On another day, Sharon and I took a mellow raft trip down the Kenai River from Cooper’s Landing, under the capable guidance of Alaska Wildland Adventures. Not a whitewater trip, per se, but remarkably relaxing… except, perhaps, that one moment when the oarsman asked us if we wanted to shoot a small rapid, and we all chimed in with an enthusiastic “Yes!” They weren’t kidding about the water temp being 40 degrees. So much for being lulled by the stream, but it was actually pretty warm outside, and the minor splashing was actually quite refreshing!

 

 

 On the Kenai River

Interspersed between these day-long adventures were visits to all the touristy shops in town and on the Homer Spit ( A long peninsula that is home to myriad bars, restaurants, charter businesses, and fishing companies. Again, contrasts.). Topped an afternoon on the Spit with Corey with an essential requisite for all tourists, which entailed tossing down beers at a famous local watering hole.

Looking across the bay to the Homer Spit

The scenery and atmosphere of the Kenai Peninsula is compelling, to say the least (though I suspect it would lose a bit of its allure during winter). The most remarkable parts of the trip, however, had little to do with topography or Chamber of Commerce efforts. In my previous experiences, even when spending time with the closest of friends or relatives, there comes a point at which you begin to miss the relaxed comfort of being in your own space, and grow increasingly aware that you are a “guest” in another’s space. In the 8 days I was there, I never had such a feeling, and felt every bit as welcome on my last day as I did upon my arrival. There were no “issues” lingering beneath the surface, awaiting resolution, and no longings for solitude or more familiar environs. Sure, I missed my Connie, as well as our menagerie of animals. But the longing was to have them all brought to me, rather than a desire to escape to my more familiar world. And this comfortable feeling can only be attributed to Sharon and Corey. Whether they were truly enjoying my presence the whole time or are supremely gifted actors, the sense of being welcome was unshakable, and means more to me than I could ever describe. All the conflicts that inevitably arise between parent and child were long gone and all but forgotten (except as fodder for laughter). I know of few people who have experienced such true communion with kin. And aside from a slightly alcohol-infused (but amazingly animus-free) political discussion after a night at the bar, there was little in the way of “debate.” We were all just too busy having fun and enjoying each other. And in the end, I found it awkward to call Corey my son-in-law, which seemed to conjure the stereotypical “in-law” images. He’s my son. And a dear friend. And Sharon, who will always be my little girl, is someone I would definitely seek out as a friend in her own right, had we not already achieved that kind of comfortable relationship. The “kids’” politics, we’ll just have to work on. My adoration of them will remain intact.

Corey & Sharon on the trip to Seldovia

Coming home was bittersweet, with the sadness blunted somewhat by the awareness that Sharon will be here to visit in a few short months. I only hope Corey makes it down soon, as well. Otherwise, I’ll have to wait until they buy their house, which will give me an excuse to come up and help with the remodeling they want to do.

It’s been almost a week now since I got home. My sleep patterns are slowly returning to normal. As are my eating habits, which were drastically modified by Sharon’s incredible repast. From scrumptious, fried fresh-caught halibut to a breakfast devoted to exquisite gluttony (What else would you call a pound of bacon, a pound of sausage, biscuits, pancakes, and potato pancakes for only three people?), to treats from the killer Three Sisters Bakery and the Alaska Wild Berry store, I ate more rich and delicious food in a week than I normally ingest in a couple of months. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but I did notice that the planes had a bit more difficulty taking off on my return trip than they did on my arrival. Just saying…

Can't We All Just Get Along?

I think we all know and admire people who seem to be able to get along with anybody. And I’m the first one to acknowledge how noble such an attitude can be. Sometimes, I’m even envious of their ability to mesh so well with so many different kinds of people. I mean, just look at how many friends these people have, and how diverse those friendships are.

I, on the other hand, am not one of those people. I enjoy being around a lot of different people, and cherish my friends, especially those with whom I can have lively discussions, even disagreements. But there are some types – toxic, petty, deceitful, shallow, self-absorbed, or exploitive people - whom I am more likely to confront than to embrace, at least until I recognize the futility of the confrontation and grow weary of it.

When I encounter someone (with the notable exception of sales people and other business types) whose very persona seems to drastically shift, chameleon-like, to mesh with everyone they encounter, I find myself wondering who they really are, and what they stand for. Since a degree of certainty as to how someone will respond in a given circumstance is the core element of trust, and trust is the core element in any close relationship, I tend to keep such people at arm’s length, at least on an emotional level. I just don’t know who they are going to be in any given situation. I can care deeply about them, but I temper that with the realization that I may well be responding to their positive strokes, despite not knowing whether their support is heart-felt or just another of their many changing colors.

I know that my friends will have my back, no matter how grave the situation. They will also challenge me if they disagree with me, and get right up in my face if they think I’m being unfair or cruel or putting my or someone else’s well-being at risk (all of which, I have been known to do). And they know the same about me. When all is said and done, I know that my friends love me as deeply as I love them, and will alternately have my back or hand me my ass as necessary, both from an attitude of love. And these are the essential elements of a trust that can never exist in the company of a chameleon.

That's why I don't like to step lightly into a relationship, even one that I envision as a casual acquaintance. I'd much rather that both of us learn what the other is about early on than spend a significant amount of whatever time we might have left changing colors.

(Note: The symbol at the top is the Chinese symbol for trust)

Time to come in off the playground and get to work!

The election is over. It's time to set aside the whining, gloating, and threatening, and get on with the business of actually governing. And we need to do so in the real world, rather than within the dream world of ideological purity. Realistically, there is little chance that a third party will rise above the status of a political Wailing Wall anytime in the foreseeable future. The only way we will ever get anything done in this country is through genuine compromise between the two major political parties. And the only way that can come about is if BOTH parties abandon their predilection for making the other party a feared bogeyman. To recognize the FACT that liberals don't want socialism and conservatives don't want fascism.

As long as the parties base their platform upon the bloviation of extremist "entertainers," the only ones who will prosper will be the entertainers themselves, as well as the media outlets that provide them with their platforms. The rest of us will continue to grow frustrated with the toxic rhetoric and political stagnation, and both political parties will grow increasingly marginalized. Faced with promises of draconian austerity measures, heralded as the holy Grail of "true conservatism," the liberal reaction will inevitably be to call for increased entitlement programs, to which the "true conservatives" will respond with even more draconian measures. The cycle will spiral eternally upward. Who will benefit? First of all, the media that sees such discord as a golden cash cow. Secondly, the wealthiest and most powerful, who will see their profits rise as the rules that govern their businesses are eroded. And finally, the unions will see their membership rolls swell, with fear of worker exploitation being their war cry.

What both "sides" fail to recognize is that such tension is not sustainable over the long term, and that a swing to the extreme on either side can only crush consumer confidence, which will eventually result in diminished profits for companies, dwindling dividends for stockholders, and the alienation of the populace. This country desperately NEEDS a strong conservative element, to ensure that our economy remains strong. It also NEEDS a strong liberal element, to ensure that the dividends, the Dow, and the S&P aren't the ONLY benchmarks of that economy, much less, of the overall well-being of the country.

It's time to quit acting like frightened children and neighborhood gangs. The "other guys" aren't your enemies, they are - or could be - your partners in making this country as great as our founders knew it could be. And the first step toward that partnership must be the turning aside from the wailing of entertainers whose sole motivation is to maintain their audience and the revenue that a large audience provides.

Steps down from soap box and wanders off, in search of breakfast...

We Live in a Nanny State… Deal With It!

The title of this post must seem strange, coming from an admittedly left-leaning centrist like myself. But it is the truth. We might as well get used to it, because it is the nature of government – any form of government – to protect, coddle, and ultimately, control the populace. The real question we need to ask ourselves is two-fold: whom do we want to coddle, protect, and control, and how much?

In the current political dialog, you have the right, which despite angrily decrying our ruinous descent into nanny-stateism, constantly strives to expand upon the very coddling and protectionism they so publicly revile. At the same time they scream to get the government out of our lives, they demand that women be denied the information required to make intelligent choices about their lives. They demand that women be subjected to physically invasive and emotionally wrenching procedures designed to convince them not to terminate a pregnancy, and at the same time, push to allow physicians to withhold pertinent information that might lead the women to choose abortion.

And what about the whole Defense of Marriage brouhaha? Marriage is, at its core, a religious ceremony, deemed necessary by ideological dogma. That the state has also conferred legal ramifications is above and beyond the actual dictates of the ritual. Therefore, making a legislative decision about who may or may not be allowed to marry is as clear-cut an intrusion of church upon state – and vice versa – as anyone is likely to see. Perhaps the most logical answer would be to legislate guidelines for civil unions, completely separate from the dictates and dogma of the church, yet conferring the same legal benefits and constraints. Frankly, the church has no business establishing the framework of a legal contract, just as the state has no business establishing the framework of religious practice. This is certainly not a war on religion; it merely addresses, defines, and honors the rightful respective roles that religion and government play in our lives.

In blurring the lines between relevant entities in our lives, those on the right side of the political equation aren’t trying to eliminate government coddling and control; they are merely attempting to shift it so that the religious element – which makes up a significant portion of what they consider their “base” – is the one being coddled, and the individual citizen is the element being controlled.

The same logic applies to large corporations. The right screams about efforts to regulate large industries, even to the point of attempting to criminalize efforts to expose potentially unsafe and inhumane practices in which those industries engage. By conferring all the rights of personhood upon corporations, while simultaneously providing privacy protection that is denied individuals, the shift in coddling becomes startlingly transparent. Of course, the same applies to the far left’s apparent efforts to virtually eliminate industries whose products they deem unacceptable, and to give unlimited power to control some industries, while looking the other way on others.

The bottom line, as I see it, is that both “sides” of the political equation have usurped their primary responsibilities in their insatiable quest for power, position, and wealth. Political platforms are now based upon the demands of the most powerful groups in any candidate’s constituencies, whose power lies not in votes, but in influence. And as loudly as we might demand that the officials we elect act in the best interests of the populace, our demands will continue to fall on deaf ears for a number of reasons. First of all, too many of us shape our perspectives (and our demands) based upon information provided by the very entities whose interests are most susceptible to being diminished by any change. Take influence away from the corporations, churches, unions, and lobbies, and their power is diminished, their profits reduced. None of these powerful entities can be expected to go gentle into that good night. Industries will scream at the top of their lungs (and with the full power of their very large budgets), claiming that reducing their profits will cost citizens their jobs, kill innovation, and bring financial ruin. Churches will chime in on the whole “decay of our society” claim, reserving – as always – the threat of eternal damnation as a not-so-last resort. And the union bosses will warn of the re-emergence of the abuses that occurred in the earliest days of the industrial revolution of the 20^th century.

Setting aside all the dire, doom-and-gloom prognostications and looking more objectively at how a government works, how it should work, and how it could work, if allowed, the most reasonable approach seems to be the elimination of all overblown sources of influence; anything that has a greater voice than does the individual voter. Of course, such a utopian revolution is unlikely to take place, since those who would foment such change are also the most deeply beholden to the very influences we would do well to eliminate.

So where do we start? Perhaps a good place would be for more citizens to recognize that compromise is literally the lifeblood of a democracy, and that the failure to compromise can lead only to tyranny or anarchy. Then, we need to accept the fact that a different point of view does not make someone stupid, lazy, or evil. In short, we need to get over the juvenile assumption that victory is defined as the destruction of an opponent. True victory can only be achieved when all concerned feel victorious, because when any one party feels that they have been defeated, their overriding goal will inevitably be to reverse their defeat and wreak the same upon their opponent. That isn’t peace, it is merely a forerunner to further conflict, and a terrible foundation upon which to build governance, much less the well-being of a populace. We need to let our elected – and would-be elected – officials know that so long as they continue to posture and obfuscate rather than truly represent us, they will not have the votes to propel them into the gravy train of power and money. If we can clearly communicate these simple criteria for governance, we won’t need to legislate undue influence out of our government. It will wither and die on its own. And the nanny that was so feared will be recognized for what it truly can be – an assurance that we are all of us allowed to prosper and grow and live as we see fit, without the fear of being crushed by the wheels of a machine that is larger than the dream upon which our nation was built.

A Nation's Forgotten Shame, A Nation's Courage, Reborn

The summer of 1932 is remembered in most history books as just another summer when the nation – and the world at large – was mired in the throes of what was eventually to be called The Great Depression. The schoolchildren of my generation were shown images of decrepit old trucks, heavily laden with the meager possessions of destitute families, crossing from the desolation of Oklahoma and Texas in search of something far short of the affluence toward which subsequent generations would endeavor. The aspirations of those families were more basic; they were hungry, counting themselves fortunate on those sporadic days on which they could taste the exquisite generosity that manifest itself in a bowl of beans and a crust of bread.

In our nation’s capital however, there was a movement afoot that would mark an even more desperate panorama; a time of growing hope that was to be ultimately and systematically dashed, and of what should have marked the death of our collective innocence and the acknowledgment of a nation’s shame. Had it only been reported, rather than swept beneath the rug of a culture’s illusion.

In early July of that year, the Depression was in full swing in our nation’s capital, though it was far less apparent in the halls and offices of government. Just beyond the grounds of the Capital Building, a legion of some twenty five thousand of our country’s veterans, along with their wives and children, had set up an encampment – really more of a makeshift city – in the sweltering heat to seek an audience with President Hoover. They represented a cross section of the country’s citizens – farmers, merchants, laborers – what would eventually be labeled the Middle Class. Most had served in the first War to End All Wars, and bore the scars of their time spent in the bloody trenches of Europe. Eight years earlier, a grateful government had passed the Adjusted Compensation Act, which promised each veteran a “bonus” of $500 for having so bravely served their country and the world. According to the terms of the Act, the bonus was to be paid in 1945, but these people were beyond desperate, and wanted to entreat their president, to convince him to accelerate the “bonus” payment and thus prevent their families from starving. They called themselves the Bonus Expeditionary Force, but were to become known – to those willing to search for their story – as the Bonus Army.

President Hoover, however, sent word that he was “too busy” to meet with them and hear their requests, despite the fact that in those days, he often concluded his day’s work by lunchtime. Instead, the president secluded himself in his office, and daily grew more impatient with what he saw as a throng of unwashed ne’er-do-wells and beggars who were impeding movement in the capital and offending the tourists. On July 26^th, Vice President Charles Curtis dispatched two companies of armed marines to the scene, only to have them sent away by General Pelham Glassford, who was more sympathetic to the Bonus Army’s predicament, and who tersely reminded the vice president that he had no authority to command military forces. On the morning of July 28, 1932, however, President Hoover had had enough, and wanted this human eyesore removed. His Attorney General, William D. Mitchell, charged the Bonus Army with, in his words, “begging and other acts,” and Hoover ordered the Army’s highest ranking officer, General Douglas MacArthur, to clear the encampment, by force if necessary. At ten in the morning, a couple of Treasury agents were dispatched to a fringe area of the encampment (far removed from its makeshift “command post”), and these agents ordered the people they encountered to disperse.

As would be expected, the crowd took no notice of the two low-level bureaucrats’ command, and the agents left. And within hours, MacArthur took personal command from General Glassford and his aide, Major Dwight Eisenhower, and sent his heavily armed force to rout the troublesome rabble. Randomly flinging gas grenades into the crowd of men, women and children, the forces, along with city police, charged headlong into the crowd, swinging nightsticks, slashing with bayonets, and at some point, the police opened fire, killing two of the fleeing men. The women and children were not so quick to run, for they were cringing on the ground, blinded by the gas. And then came the tanks…

When all was said and done, the two men who had been shot by police – along with two infants asphyxiated by the teargas – had died. In his subsequent public statements, Hoover tried to assert that the assemblage was composed solely of communists, but the incident further tainted his already diminished image. The generals (and those who would later become generals and one, President) who led and executed the massacre, however, would go on to have long and storied careers. And the story of the Bonus Army would somehow be deleted from the history lessons taught to future children.

Fast forward to present-day cities around the country, and the scene that is emerging is alarmingly similar to that which unfolded in Washington, D.C. in the summer of 1932. The protesters that make up the Occupy movement are described by elected officials and some media sources as hippies, socialists… any dehumanizing label they can come up with in their attempts to cast the protesters as a collective, malevolent “them,” who are bent upon destroying everything that is important to a benevolent, more reasonable “us.” As happened so many years ago, the full strength of our country’s law enforcement agencies are just as bent upon silencing “them.” It’s all for their own safety, of course, just as they are keeping journalists from observing their actions for the journalists’ safety. And banning media helicopters from their observation points far above the melee… for the safety of the helicopters.

I cannot help but wonder, will the country ultimately hear what so many are saying, screaming, and putting their own safety at risk in order to be heard? Or will streets tremble beneath the tread of the tanks, and the nation strive once again to sweep another moment of shame beneath the rug of its illusion? And I also wonder at the restraint shown by the Bonus Army. I know that, had I found myself among their number and seen children – especially my own – killed as a result of the government's actions, there would have been more blood spilt, even if it were ultimately my own.

Members of the Bonus Army were the forebears of many who are now involved in the Occupy Movement. How fitting it is that the members of one brave movement can look back upon the actions of their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents and realize that even as injustice still thrives in our great nation, so does the spirit that would cast it out. There is worry, yes, but far greater, there is hope.

In tribute to the Occupy Movement, a video by Bill Gibson:

Some Guy Out On the Street 

Dad's Day

My "Dad," Gordon Penny

It's Fathers' Day, but for me, it is and will always be Dad's Day, and there is a difference. A BIG difference. This is a day for the lucky dads to be cherished, and for the good times they've brought into our lives to be remembered and celebrated. And this is the first Dad's Day since my Dad passed in February. He was not my biological father (or anyone else's, for that matter), but he was my Dad, in ways my own father never managed. He and Mrs. Penny (who fit the bill of second mom quite well) worked 6 days a week, but on their Sundays off, I would sit looking out our front window, waiting for their garage door to open and declare that our day had begun. By the time he had his coffee cool enough to drink, I was there in my usual spot on the garage floor, leaning against the garage door frame. Until he had vinyl siding put on some years later, a spot remained where my Lucky Tiger Rose Oil-covered head would touch and dissolve the paint. He teased me about that (and tried painting over it, to no avail) for years, but I didn't care. I was his Buddy when I wasn't anyone else's (especially not grown-ups), and that was all that mattered.

Discipline from him was gentle but effective; his mere suggestion that something I did (or might be thinking of doing) would be less than ideal was all it took, I wanted to please him so much. It would be years before I would perceive the irony in that. My own father resorted to the belt at the drop of the hat, and still, I paid no heed to what he said to me, and often did the exact opposite of anything he told me to do, just to spite him. With my father, my greatest sense of pride, of coming of age, was when he quit calling me a brat, replacing his favorite term of "endearment" with a new one, more consistent with my pubescent stature. I became a "thug," and the spankings ended, replaced by fistfights which I discovered I could win. But with my Dad, I would never have considered doing or saying anything even cross to him. I knew well what it was like not to have a parent's love, and didn't dare do anything that might push him away. In hindsight, I realize that I wouldn't have been able to push him away, even had I wanted to.

I learned at an early age that a father does his duty, while a Dad cherishes it. While fatherhood can be the result of a fleeting moment's desire, and followed by a lifetime of regret and bitterness, being a Dad is an act of heart and spirit, far beyond the biological mechanism of procreation. What was it that my Dad did that my father did not? There are a thousand little things, seemingly inconsequential acts that, when taken in total, make the most important statements a little boy could hear: "You're a good kid, and your feelings matter to me." He told me that in so very many ways. He took me go-kart racing. Kite flying, with the biggest box kite in the known universe. Flying the model airplane that was designed especially for people like us, because it was held together with rubber bands so we could crash it without breaking anything. And we did. Often.

He showed me my first "men's magazine," a pretty sleazy thing called Adam, which showed me my first pair of Caucasian breasts that didn't belong to Mom or Grandma. Sure, I'd seen the ones in National Geographic, but they weren't the same. He gave me my first beer that was all mine (which was so much better than just getting a sip of some grown-up's). And over the years, he gave me things, little and not so little, the significance of which I would only realize many years later. My first pocket knife, which was summarily taken away when I whittled something that would have been better left intact. My first wristwatch, with a magical "hypnotic" bezel, unlike anything I had ever seen. My first transistor radio, when none of my friends had one. My first television; I was the only kid I knew who had his own TV in his room. It was black and white (of course) about 19", with a round picture tube, and it weighed about 100 pounds. I could watch "Have Gun, Will Travel" all by myself. Later on, when I was a bit older and had discovered "underground" music, he gave me my first FM radio, which I hooked up to an old KLH hi-fi speaker to fill my dorm room with The Doors, Spirit, Hendrix, and the like.

But these were all "things," and as much as I cherished them at the time, the greatest gift he ever gave me was calling me his buddy, and making me feel like he was glad to see me, every time. I wasn't anyone else's buddy back then, and there was nobody else whose welcome was so unerring and so complete. I had friends, sure, but even those friendships were punctuated by the fights, betrayals, and abandonment so typical of little boys' friendships. "Buddy" was unwavering, more certain than the sunrise. When I was with him, the disapproval of other adults just didn't matter, and wasn't even real. Like the woman down the street who would tattle on me for leading her son astray by showing him Playboy magazines, but who would always preface her judgments with, "That Ronnie... Bless his heart." Or the mother of another friend, who would so often "forget" to include me in plans she made for the neighborhood kids. I got their message, all right. I knew I was the "bad" kid. I even realized that the first girl I ever loved was beyond my reach, because she was a "good girl," too good for me. In all fairness, I can't fault the parents of the girls on our block for their disapproval. Let's leave it at that... although "Dad" always wanted progress reports. Nothing creepy or detailed, and not like the teasing I got from the other boys who hadn't yet found anything particularly interesting about the opposite sex; he just wanted to know that I was doing okay with the girls.

He taught me also about what a real marriage can be. He and Mrs. Penny worked together six days a week, but you'd never see them bicker. Mr. Penny had been quite the ladies' man in his youth, and was still a charmer, even right to the end, but it was so very clear that he was, to his core, devoted to his beloved wife, Helen (she was - and still is - a beautiful woman... reminded me of Judy Garland). That devotion was returned in kind. And it was unlike anything I had ever seen, especially in my own home growing up, or even in my marriage. Some lessons take a long time to sink in, no matter how masterful the teacher.

Despite the fact that his mind became somewhat clouded in the last couple of years, he always knew who I was, and always seemed glad to see his buddy again. There were a few times when he thought I was someone with whom he had grown up, but that didn't bother me at all. The bond was there, tested but unbroken, and its definitions mattered little to me. Perhaps we did grow up together, after all. And right up until the end, I pitied anyone who underestimated the sharpness of his mind. They would quickly learn the same lesson that the Cadillac salesmen had learned when Mr. Penny would wrangle unspeakable deals on his cars, while informing the salesmen that he didn't have any money!

After he passed, Mrs. Penny gave to me several things that were important to him, and have now become cherished tokens to me; his prized shotgun (I do wish we had hunted together, but I was wandering in those years), his dress western hat, the professional butcher knife he had bought, but never really learned to sharpen (probably the one thing I could have taught him), and a few things that he held dear through his life, and which I too will hold dear for the rest of my own life.

I don't know whether he regretted never having children of his own, but I can only feel grateful that he chose me to fill that hole somewhat. I only hope that I was up to the task, knowing full well that I was unaware of my role, and would likely have failed him even if I had known what was needed. I was a bad kid, after all. But for all that, I always knew I was loved, without restriction, without demands of perfection, and without the burden of shame. He never once told me my actions were unforgivable, and would chuckle at my misdeeds. I know that I have never been - and will likely never have the chance to be - the kind of Dad to my own children that Mr. Penny was to me. In one way, that is good, because I would hate to think that they would ever feel the pain of my absence the way I've felt since he passed away; a feeling which is growing ever more acute as Mrs. Penny prepares to return to her childhood home in Alabama.

Godspeed, Mr. Penny. And as empty as the words might sound, and as badly as they fall short of expressing, much less repaying what you have always been to me, they need to be said. Thank you. And I think you knew - and know - that I love you.

**********
I think that perhaps experiencing the birth of a child is God's way of sharing His heart with us humans. For a fleeting moment, we step outside ourselves, and our greatest wish and hope is that the child before us knows only laughter and joy. Our only goal in those precious moments is to protect and nurture something we love more than we love ourselves, and thus to touch the very core of Divinity. I suspect that most people who never experience having children are denied this taste of unbridled benevolence, but have no doubt that for my Dad and Mrs. Penny, that greatest gift was never withheld. And to all the Dads out there - including those who fulfilled the spiritual but never the biological - Happy Dad's Day! And know that you may well be the one thing that saves a "bad" kid from turning out really bad.