Chasing Dreams

I joke that when we went dog shopping I took along a carpet sample. We came home with Sally; more than a simple source of hair in our house, she is an adorable Golden Retriever who completes our family.

Her bloodline is that of a hunter, but she's a house pet. It's like keeping a race car in the city, she can rev her engine to red-line but never feels the thrill of open road. I throw balls in the house... they often bounce around a corner and disappear, which is exactly what she does in hot pursuit. Often, she returns not with the ball but with one of her many stuffed ducks.

Before Sally, I had never met a dog that would look you straight in the eyes and not break her gaze. It was a dominance thing, I thought, that dogs would look away rather that maintain extended eye contact with you. But I don't think Sally knows she's a dog, she communicates with those big brown eyes and she can read minds with them too.

I was headed out the front door recently to shovel the walk after a heavy Spring snow and Sally stopped me at the door. "Can I go, can I go? Huh, huh?", her eyes pleaded, and so we went out together. The way she bounced across the yard made me wonder if that white stuff weren't flubber.

With some effort I cleared a path to the street and stopped to rest. It was snowing giant, heavy flakes of frozen Spring in total silence. There was no wind, no traffic, no people, just utter stillness buffered by a thick coat of pillowy white.

Down the hill I caught sight of the neighborhood duck (another story) flying low, up the middle of the un-tracked street, her wing tips clipping snow on the ground with every down-beat. I watched as she flew right past me, not six feet away, in complete silence... it was both beautiful and captivating.

Looking right, I saw Sally standing next to me. Her eyes locked on mine, they were the size of silver dollars, and they said to me "OMG!! Did you see the size of that stuffed duck?!". I smiled and she took off in a cloud of snow. The duck made a left at the corner, which is exactly what Sally did in hot pursuit.

When Sally sleeps in front of the fire she talks in muffled barks and her paws race against the sleep that binds them. She was bred to hunt and I knew right then what she's been chasing in her head. Not everyone finds the thing they were born to do, or comes face to face with their dreams.

Run Sally, run!

Resession Proof

I went grocery shopping early this morning when shelves are stocked and traffic is light. Our budget is tight, we're under a self-imposed "spending freeze" in an attempt to re-balance our personal finances set off-kilter recently by a changing economy. It's not that we're making less money, but we're definitely worth less and are anxious about where things are headed. We're under strict fiscal lock-down (guided by my wife, the bookkeeper) to regain our footing in advance of what might come.

The store's floral department is just inside the front door and greets all customers. Today, I'm guessing, the Tulip truck broke down out back and unloaded its entire cargo. The sea of color and dizzying variety stopped me in my tracks. Tulips are my wife's favorite... and it's not uncommon for me to arrive home with a carload of groceries and a fist full of flowers. A beautiful bouquet of 20 Tulips (did I mention they are Cristy's favorite) was only $9.99.

She was very surprised. When I arrived home I said, "Dear... I did two wonderful things for you today and I want to tell you about them both. The first is that I picked out a gorgeous bouquet of Tulips, the most incredible you've ever seen, at the store for you."

"That's wonderful", she replied! "You're such a thoughtful and loving husband. What's the other thing you did for me?"

"I didn't buy them", I said.

My Reflection

I am going to be 40 in 4 months. Milestones lend themselves well as reason for reflection and this impending giant has me looking both forward and back. Sadly, the margins of my life look pretty equidistant from where I stand. So I guess I'd better start planning my mid-life crisis.

The rhythm of a person's life falls into patterns. Like marbles on a shaking table settle into a uniform plain, or like water molecules arrange into crystals as they freeze, our day-to-day routines trend toward simple structure. You probably shampoo your hair the exact same way every time you wash. The food you eat, and when you eat it, likely falls into some narrow constraints regulated by "what you always eat".

As I take stock of my life I have begun to notice the patterns. Like when I stared too long at the flowered wallpaper in my Grandmother's bathroom, eventually the repeat of pattern became very clear and I could no longer see the walls the same way. With the illusion of variation lifted, suddenly the interesting became mundane and predictable.

So too is life. How long can I continue to mark the days of my life in a steady drum beat of "same-old-s**t" day after day? Today is the day things change! Today I embark in a different direction, on a new journey to break free from the rigid ties of monotony! TODAY!

So today I parted my hair on the other side.

I'm not sure I like it.

Dings and Things

When the kids were born I had to trade in my sporty SUV for a mini-van. A white one. I love my wife... and I love my kids... no problem.

The van (affectionately dubbed the "Brat-mobile") is driven primarily by my wife, Cristy. She had not driven such a large vehicle previously and she's doing a bang up job. Truly... I mean it! The van is really banged up.

She turned right into the side of another car while I was out of town. She backed out of the driveway into her Mother's car. She has hit other things she never noticed or refuses to identify. Each of the van's 4 corners bear evidence of abuse; long black scratches etched on white like war paint streaked on a weathered warrior's face.

Scars give the Brat-mobile character. In seas of white mini-vans at amusement parks, zoos, and little-league games we rarely mistake another for our own. When wandering down isles of van after van after van at the end of an exhausting family adventure, with three wiped-out kids in tow, the sight of our banged up back bumper peeking out past the Caravan next to it is enough to make a grown man cry.

The scratches don't matter. Flawless appearance isn't worth much... it's what's inside [the van] that counts. We try to convey meaningful lessons to our kids; don't judge a book by its cover, be kind whenever possible, leave a note on the other car's window, and don't throw apple sauce at your sister. But most importantly... when your bumpers look like ours do it's a LOT easier to merge in traffic.