Two-and-a-Half Baths

This morning, we took our first bath together.

As Mackenzie rested in the cradle formed from my knees to waist by my angled legs, I imagined some poor bastard stuck in traffic, late for work and another day's ego struggle with an ineffectual boss, dreading already the evening's trip home to the old ball-and-chain, the chaotic household, the unpayable bills. I thought of a wonderful person, afflicted with terminal cancer aching for health, alone in her room. I thought of a seemingly successful person, with a heated three-car garage stocked with worthy vehicles, closets full of lovely clothes, membership on important boards and in exclusive clubs, with an orthodontically-perfected smile, pausing in the front yard as she leans to pick up the newspaper on a clear fall day, and feels the recurrent stab of something missing.

It is a pity that those tormented folks could not be taking a bath with an infant. Fifteen minutes of cleansing warm stillness can convey to a spirit all and everything that heals what ails.

Mackenzie arched her back and flailed her arms and legs. She looked around the room for several minutes before settling on my face. I held her in one hand, at her neck only, and eased her into the water. She bobbed gracefully between my legs. When I shampooed her head, she arched back, as if to help me with the rinse. I was thinking that if adults could get over the nudity issue, this would be a wonderful way to have one's hair wetted at the salon.

"Nude Haircuts. Walk-ins Welcome."

A smile came; my eyes closed . . .

I gave an adult friend of mine a bath a couple of years ago. She was able to bathe herself, but she was in considerable distress, and we are close enough that her modesty was not assaulted by my seeing and touching her in "the altogether".

The tub in which she sat was elevated a couple of feet above the floor. There was a step, where I knelt as I soaped the washcloth. I looked into her intelligent lovely eyes, found the extent of trust that she could muster, and spoke with my soft smile that she was safe with me.

Her cheekbones are high, crisp, and clear. I traced them with my index finger through the cloth. Her jawline has caused through the years otherwise reasonable men to threaten one another over who would get the next place in the line to possibly ask her to have dinner. I let it cut between my middle and ring fingers, then smeared her perfect chin with my fingertips.

Each portion of her graceful shapely smooth container I washed with the same care. She rested her head at the neck upon the tub's edge, and accepted my worship as would any perfect high altar.

When I washed her hair, she moved toward the tub's center, flexing her knees, so that I could guide her head down for the rinse. I scratched thoroughly her scalp. Sinatra was "The Voice"; she is "The Neck". I vigorously rubbed its back, and heard a contented moan as she let her head flop backwards.

She gave me her hand, and stood in the tub. I led her down the step to the bathroom's floor. She reminded me of Audrey Hepburn. As I took up a deeply-napped towel, I wanted to put elbow-length gloves on her willowy arms and nurturing hands.

After wrapping her at the waist with one towel, and draping a second over shoulders, I dried her from her feet up. I patted her face gingerly, then placed my lips on hers. We stayed there for ten seconds. As I stepped away, her eyes said some of her doubt had been left in the bath.

She put on a terrycloth robe, and sat in a chair. I combed, then brushed, her hair for fifteen minutes - not to tidy her appearance, but to massage her scalp.

I brought her juice and coffee. She drank and returned to her altar-ed state as I rubbed lotion into her feet and tender calves. When the lotion was absorbed from and by my hands, I rose, and went to the kitchen to make her a sandwich.

Opening my eyes, seeing precious Mackenzie before me, I felt an asthmatic tightness. My poor fragile friend, who I bathed as if she were an infant, is doubtless stuck in traffic somewhere, headed home to a conflict, suffering illness, or standing in her perfect front yard with a twisted expression that no neighbor will notice.

Fall Classics

It appears that the Red Sox are on the threshold of their first World Series championship since 1918. Good for them; great for their fans.

Ike and I watched Pedro pitch against Curt Schilling two summers ago in Fenway, when the Diamondbacks came to play interleague contests. A 2-1 win for the Snakes, although the Sox had second and third when Lou Merloni made the last out in the ninth.

I note that all the pent-up frustrations of the Red Sox fans are being tentatively vented in anticipation of the eventual celebration. Column after column - even a thread at the Sons of Sam Horn website - is devoted to departed loved ones who never got to see the BoSox win it all. Many of these pieces are moving.

The thing about all of them that moves me at least a little is the apparent affection that the writer feels - however well or poorly it is communicated - for the deceased. In that it is baseball, and the writers are of a certain generation, many of the tributes are to fathers.

My father died when I was 12, and I never got over it. It was in December - before Christmas, three days after my brother turned 11, at fall's end. Dad and I went to Indians, Orioles, and Pirates games, and I recall those times fondly still. That said, my wish for myself in this life would be to walk through a fresh-mown fairway in a warm Ohio spring breeze with my father, to arrive at our equal drives.

This evening's thought is not about Dad, or really much about Dadism. (Those who know me would probably expect it to be about Dadaism.) As I read some of the tributes here a few moments ago - especially one by a woman whose father died last fall on the golf course at age 65 - what I am wondering is, "how in the hell could my kids ever miss me like that?" Intellectually, I know that they must have feelings for me not unlike I have for my father and mother - although I am but an electron in an atom in a pimple on either of my parents' butts. Why would they care? When I see them, they take me for granted. Often, what passes for discourse is more about getting something with ease, or tolerating restrictions of their freedom. We still hug and speak fondly to one another. We say "I love you" out loud regularly. We rarely quarrel. But I see nothing that would indicate that they would urinate on me if I were to spontaneously combust.

I miss the times of a few years ago, when they sat in my lap without thinking, when they sought kisses, when they felt less ready for sleep if they were not formally tucked in. I wonder how our relationships would have evolved if our family had not been obliterated. I suppose I feel like a failure as a parent because my children have suffered so much hurt as a result of divorce. Why would they care if I lived or died? What's in it for them when I am "not dead"?

Baseball is my favorite sport. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Fall is my favorite season. The air has a bearing of decay; the days growing shorter remind one of the passing of one's own days; there is a soulfulness in interactions with others that only fall promotes. Winter is withdrawn; summer is sticky; spring explodes: in fall, we get ready for the coldness, and are receptive to needing and need-meeting as winter approaches. We grow reflective, recalling the big ninth-inning rally that turned the season - or the changes since the first of the year that have defined our existence. Like an untimely gopher ball by a closer, our mistakes are often in the forefront of our thoughts, and we are humbled. We recognize that our successes are so often interwoven with the loving participation of others, and we ponder what we have received with wonderment. The ball pops the catcher's mitt, and the season ends. We anticipate being interrupted from our reverie by violent collisions on weekend days and evenings. The meandering, humanistic game gives way to the land war game, and we prepare to rest - to await, God willing, whatever metaphoric spring training may lie before us.

Eye of Newt, and Toe of Frog, Redux . . .

What a wonderful day.

Grace and Isaac dropped Mackenzie at 7:30. Instead of returning to Janice's to dress, Grace came here on her way to school. She is driving Janice's van. I do not know if she is waiting to see the outcome of my having confiscated the Toyota. I don't see a reason to care.

I fed the critter for fifteen minutes or so. She nodded off, and I put her on the day bed. I ate the potatoes, bacon, fresh pineapple and grapes, and cran-grape juice that I had made for Gracious.

As Mackenzie slept, I did paperwork, read the paper and an essay about Catcher in the Rye, and checked MLS listings on the website. Then I bathed. I had a wonderful fantasy as I soaked.

After my bath, I prepared for Mackenzie's awakening by getting things ready for our goings-about. By the time she awoke: I had the car seat in place; the diaper bag, too; eight ounces of formula mixed in a bottle; the card from Border's that told me my book had arrived; my grocery coupon wallet; my cell phone; and, the far-flung Isles of Langerham . . ..

We went to Target, to look for one of those bottles with a hole in the center, to help a baby grip it. I am going to train Mackenzie to hold her own bottle as quickly as I can. This will allow me to work at the computer, to read, to move from room-to-room as I do laundry, cook, clean, and accomplish projects, while she takes care of herself. Couldn't find one!!!!!!!!! Have they stopped making them. ARRRRRGGGGGGH!

Next, to Winn-Dixie. Easily the most-over-priced grocery store in the universe. Their prices are so out of whack, I wonder how they survive. I am certain a bunch of smart people have crunched the numbers. Their approach is not one I will routine attempt to confront in the markletplace. Shopping there is an aggravation. I did buy three one-liter Gatorades for Ike, 3/$5. I had a couple of coupon items that made sense.

At BiLo, we hit a few home runs ("taters" in the word of George Scott, late of the Boston Red Sox), and had a fun time. Six chili peppers for .29, salmon spread for $1.50, chicken breasts for $.99/lb, ground beef the same, pork chops at $1.19. I came home, fed the kid - she was awake the entire time we were out! When she went to sleep, I moved laundry along, and started cookin' Enchiladas - which became dinner. Stuffed chili peppers, one stuffed green pepper, pasta salad, "chef's" salad. I trimmed and de-boned the pork and chicken, and individually wrapped portions covered in marinade. Will freeze them after a night in the fridge.

Oh, yeah, back to the fantasy . . .

My tub is five-and-a-half feet long, so I can immerse my whole body as I bathe. I shampooed my hair, vigorously soaped my body, then shaved. I sipped my coffee during the course of my toilette.

After I laid the shaver on the shelf next to the tub, I sank into the water, so that the water line was above my ears. I could hear the steady slow trickle of the hot-only water there at my feet. I thought of a woman I know . . ..

After an indeterminate time of separation, abetted by circumstance and the secret intervention of a friend ( - yes, it was Ross - ) caused there to occur in the home city of the above-mentioned woman a reconnecting.

It was a weekend thing. The Friday meeting was as have been many meetings in the past between us - warm, meandering, unlike any either of us has shared with another. And, mere preamble . . ..

Within the fantasy was a mid-morning Saturday separation. Work - the pursuit of funds to assure food and shelter for Mackenzie, for Grace, for Laura, Sarah, Issac, and self - obviated an agreed-upon endpoint of the Friday sharing.

As I headed to my car, I heard, "When will you be done?"

It was true that I would be done at 3. I was planning to set sail for Augusta - a ten-hour hard drive - thereafter, and to begin to restore my local life as soon as possible Sunday, basically 24 hours after the present moment. I said as much.

"You could come here first."

I explained that it was 30 minutes out of my way, and that would be 30 minutes back, plus the hour-and-a-half that we would talk, yadayadayda . . ..

"Couldn't you just go back tomorrow?"

Well, of course I could. Most of what I have to do, I could do with a cell phone, and take up the balance Monday morning, yadayadayada . . ..

"Well, . . .. So?"

Well, so I have emotional issues about this. I can't start this again. It is easier and makes more sense to just appreciate what we have shared, yadayadayada . . ..

"Oh, . . .. What difference can one more meeting make? We've been through so much. We care about one another. You know that."

True enough, but I am worn out. I have other things tugging at me. It feels like you underestimate the strength of the feelings I am experiencing, yadayadayada . . ..

"Just for tonight . . .."

OK, yadayadayada . . ..

It was agreed that I would fix dinner at her house, from leftovers, and that we would go to a party to which she was invited. (She had only this day had a terrible set-to with a man with whom she had been involved, whose style she found smothering, and wanted to be seen independent of him.)

So, I worked. When I was done, I stopped on the way to her house and bought one bottle of a sprightly Chardonnay, one bottle of Mumm's, one ear of Silver Queen corn, one pint of sour cream, one box of raw sugar, and a half-pint of strawberries. (The rest would be leftovers!)

Around 4:30, I began to clear the leftovers from her refrigerator. We each had a cocktail as I bustled.

"Why don't you lay out what you are going to wear to the party while I do this?"

She went to her bedroom, and I made two salads. Small salads, with roasted peppers, Greek olives, half-inch hard-salami-and-provolone "wheels", a halved gherkin, with a bit of Stilton atop. (A nice garlic-infused olive oil and lemon dressing awaiting.) Saran-wrapped and chilled. I walked to her bedroom, bearing a modest sharp cheddar bruschetta, topped with a super-ripe mango compote smear, and a glass of the Chardonnay.

"Here . . .." She took a bite, and I finished the snack. I tipped the glass toward her tongue until a tablespoon passed her lips. She took the glass, and reciprocated.

Our eyes danced, our mouths' sides rose, and we pecked.

Back in the kitchen, I husked the ear of corn . . ..

Buddha as a Bird

She reminds me of Boo.

Every school day, the beginning of our time together is spent "chatting", getting re-acquainted, learning about the changes we have experienced since our lives took us in different directions. We formalize the event with a nice drink. I usually have coffee; Mackenzie expresses no preference, so I give her formula. She rests in the crook of either of my knees or arms, as I sit in the chair that I have had in my house since 1973. It is the chair with the wide flat maple arms, upon which my roommate Trevor Craig would place three coffees and two milks - to be consumed while he watched a "Hogan's Heroes" rerun - before heading off to the library to study until closing time. (Trevor is now a humanitarian doctor, with a practice in Taylorsville, NC.)

I try to steal a glimpse of whatever I am reading while Mackenzie eats. What I am unable to avoid is what appears to be her expectation that I am going to maintain eye contact with her. There seems to be the expectation that I am going to carry my share of the conversation. (I do not recall my kids having such presence.) So, not much reading gets done in this segment of our morning.

I suppose because she is away from me for a long period every day, I notice the changes in her more than I was able to with my kids. They were there all the time, and simply meeting needs took all available time and energy. Her awareness of what is going on around her grows exponentially, and it is exciting to watch.

It may be simple vanity, or some deep-seated love need, but I think she is beginning to be aware of me as an individual. It is as if she looks to me for direction. Could this be possible?

A special aspect of Mackenzie that sometimes causes a drift in my reality is her lips. They are pursed and perfect - a rosebud, and express a sort of calm waiting and watching. Boo became Boo because of this characteristic. ("Boo" is actually a corruption of "Buddha", a tip-of-the-hat to both her ample midsection, shapely head, and - most-significantly - serene bearing.) It was difficult to know if Sarah was pleased by one's behavior, or damning of it. She reserved judgment. There is still a lot of that in the young woman. (She's 19 now.)

I look and look into Mackenzie's face. It changes every day. It reflects "Sarah" to me. There is no reason to believe that Sarah might be the actual mother of this little girl. I saw her regularly during the past year, and at no time did Boo appear to be pregnant. Certainly, there seems little dispute that it was Grace there at Doctor's Hospital on September 11. It was then and there that this wild, beautiful bird flew into my Twin Towers of bitterness and despair. It was there that she began to encourage me by her Giuliani-esque grace and energy to start to clean up the mess. It was there she awakened in me some recollection of the man I once was. It was there that it became clear that I have a responsibility to re-dedicate my positive efforts in the fight against sociopathic terrorism.

But right now, she looks like Boo.

Read Off the Rude-Nosed Dane Rear

Unlike the batteries for many Christmas-present toys, structure comes included with the addition of an infant to the household. Sitting around the tree with games that don't work makes for unhappy celebrants. When a baby shows up, what-to-do is manifest.

As children began to stack up in Janice's and my life, starting in the mid-80s, no amount of fatigue or otherwise desire allowed us to not do what had to be done in the rearing of the kids. I always slept as much as I could, and tried to let go of any expectation that was "optional" in my life during this time. I could not produce enough stolen "winks", and released "shoulds" to feel rested. I was exhausted for eight years. And I was content beyond description.

The mundanity of dropping toothpaste on each brush in a row at the sink, the routine of breakfasts and lunch-preparation, the inevitable rush to part hair, tie shoes, find bookbags, all filled my days' beginnings. The daytime hours flew by, too, with childcare, husbanding, housework, landlording, errands, cooking, laundry. Then, the bus door sighed shut out front, and the casual scatter was begun again. Bedtime was welcome. And I went to bed happy.

It's the structure, stupid.

In our family, it was not the eventual maturation of the children that broke this structure, but divorce. I was deprived the experience of being an "empty nester" - although my suspicion is that I would have filled that portion of my life with celebrations with my adult children, wife, family, and friends. Our children - and by association, I - were deprived of the structure to which they had been accustomed. All they had to do was to go to the place where their short-term, short-sighted, adolescent desires were least-thwarted. And they did. (This makes them normal and healthy kids, who lived in a normal, unhealthy family.)

I did not take well to this change in discipline. I was placed on the bench by a "dimwit coach", to watch my beautiful team disintegrate before my eyes. Old Elizabeth Kubler-Ross talked about the five stages of grieving. I existed for years in a stew of denial, anger, depression, bargaining, and eventual intermittent acceptance.

At the nadir of this experience, I was pretty much reduced to lying in bed, eating cheap pot pies from their microwaveable "pans", drinking cheap vodka from plastic half gallon bottles. I stayed up and watched Conan and Kilborn. When the alarm went off at 6:30, I started my bath. Sometime between 6:45 and noon, I got up. I traded stock, and managed a couple of business supply chain software projects from the house, but mostly I numbly moved from room to room.

There was interface with the bambini, but the structure was gone, and with it many of the sensations of caring.

All experienced people have heard that it "takes two to tango" - that divorce is a two-party endeavor, that both parties are right and wrong. Let's accept that without further comment, shall we?

I missed the kids. I missed my role in the family. I accepted that Janice had a life to live that was no longer to include me in my former role. What I could not accept was that in her leaving, Janice took all semblance of structure, attached to other things which were deeply important to her.

To fill my time, while I waited for the tub to fill, I had imaginary conversations. These conversations were meant to help me not have conversations with problematic personalities. Pre-eminent among these personalities is the narcissistic type. Doug helped me understand that this personality has three modes.

The dominant one is self-aggrandizing. When the personality is in this mode, it can often be highly charming and cooperative. The personality is at work, seeking affirmation for its persona - for the way it wishes to be perceived in the world. There is nothing to be done with this personality beyond watching. A front row seat for a narcissistic personality in mode one is a stunningly awesome place to be. To attempt to modify this personality's work toward a more-consensus-version of reality is to invite destruction of one's own personality.

Mode two is self-soothing. Needing to balm the pain that is at the root of the narcissistic personality, the personality may invite one to gamble, to drink to excess, to view pornography, to engage in sexual activity. There is no sharing of emotion in this mode, only the killing of time and deadening of feelings.

Mode three is the trusting child. It is only here that the core of the personality is accessible. This mode might be thought of as the basic personality that has been suppressed. Regrettably, in the rare moments when the trusting child is present in the personality, the other two modes are nearby, ready to aggrandize or soothe it back into non-presence. It is in this third mode that the personality might - with the help of a trained and talented counselor - begin to make connections with the reality that does not require the participation of the persona(e) that the aggrandizing mode has created, and the soothing mode has sheltered. Ewing says that even when the personality is willing to attempt therapy, the process will normally take seven-to-ten years. This is clearly no place for an amateur like Old Holden.

The object of these exercises was to not participate in conversations in which I might become involved in defending my right to my own feelings. It was my primary form of discipline during the years of the twisting contraction of my family's capacity to love. I did not know it as I struggled through the days, but I was preparing to begin a new phase of parenting, and to receive a richer appreciation of the value of my former efforts on behalf of innocents.

Yesterday, Mackenzie and I were at Sam's, doing a little bulk buying. As we stood in the checkout line, an elderly couple in the line beside ours struck up a conversation about Mackenzie.

"Are you the grandfather?"

"Yep. Her mother is in school, so we decided to do a little shopping."

The woman mentioned that Mackenzie is beautiful and calm. I told her a little about my kids, and how I thought calm was acquired by both disposition and training.

"I think too many parents like the glory, but don't want to do the work to raise kids."

The older gentleman said, "It seems like no one wants to raise kids anymore."

"Well, I am happy to help. I love the structure it provides."

I think of it as being like a Christmas morning, when the children come down to find all of their toys operational, because someone had the foresight and caring to run down to Sam's for a 24-pack of AAs the day before.

You Can't Tell the Players Without a Scorecard

Saturday afternoon, Boo-dee was watching me hold Mackenzie.

"Have you given her a nickname yet?"

I haven't. Oh, I call her "Pumpkin", "Bright Eyes", and "Little Girl", but generic nicks do not qualify here.

A bit of background.

When Janice and I fell in love, I dropped three or four on her right away. Janswell, Jansmo, Ookie Kabuki, and one or two that have their roots in x-rated mentality and will be mentioned only to acknowledge their existence. No sense re-plowing that field.

Well, as the kids came along, and the nicknames began to pile up on each of them, there came the day when Janice - in all earnestness - complained that I never gave her nicknames anymore. I still called her by her nicknames, but I had not added one in - say - 15 years. (Actually, I added "Dear", but that is a generic.) Even today, I see that as being normal. I have not given Jim Coe a new nickname in over 20, nor Steve Fout, nor Bryan. I do not believe I ever nicknamed Ed. I did give Ross a nickname in the past several months, but our friendship is a newer one, and this is the only one I have bestowed. (One day on the golf course, I had hit a drive of perhaps 310 yards, and Ross said, "Yes, well-struck, Aged One." Marc Tompkins thought that was funny. I guess I did, too. (Understand that Tommy T is 36, Ross 40 - I am a tad advanced in years, comparatively.) Before I knew it, I had replied, "Thank you, My Rotund Companion." Marc ("Tommy Tee") chimed in, "Game. Set. Match.")

I am not one of those people who nicknames everyone. I do nickname my children, and I nicknamed Janice extensively. These are the only people I have ever taken to nicknaming with anything more than casual inspiration.

I was walking the unhallowed halls of Franklin Heights High School in Rick-like fashion one day in 1969, when a weird blinding aura enveloped me. I heard a voice say, "That shallst have a nickname." None of my friends had ever nicknamed me. (Except for Bob Heuter, who - in sixth grade, in Baltimore - walked up to me on the playground at recess and stated with conviction, "From now on, your name is 'The Sheik'." It did not stick.) I decided to assume a secret nickname, "Rainbow". I told no one, of course - if I did, it would not have been a secret nickname.

I met Jansmo, fell madly in love, and nicknames fell out of my mouth routinely. I was consumed by native affection for her, and it showed up in many forms, including rampant nicknaming.

Six years later, Laura came into our lives, and the alternative handles erupted.

In writing these blogs, I have seen that my tendency to switch in mid-story what I am calling a person might be confusing, so this is to provide a glossary of personage.

I am tired, and will write about each person, and his and her nicknames, in upcoming pieces. Although there are more names, Laura is Woo; Sarah, Boo; Grace, Bo; Isaac, Pook. I usually refer to Janice by her given name, or as (One-of-the-kid's-name-here)'s mother. If I am in one of those dark moods, The Queen of Darkness. Fortunately, these primordial moods rarely surface, as no one benefits when actions in this world threaten to awaken forces from mysterious places better left undisturbed.

Grace and Mackenzie arrived at 7. Grace had already had some aggravations in her morning, but she was comedic in description, a responsive tendency which will serve her well as a parent.

After I fed Mackenzie, she fell to sleep. Lucky me. I had much paperwork to do to prepare for my day. I put Mackenzie in the truck at 9:15, and we were on time to show a 5-acre parcel I have listed over by Augusta Mall. I carried her with me as I showed the prospective buyer, and her developer the wooded lot. She took to it well, and even as we were navigating the dense undergrowth, there was no body message (tenseness, whimpering) of concern from the Little Girl. (Van Morrison: "Oh, hand me down my big boots; I believe I'll go walkin' in the woods, oh my darlin'. Where's there's no comin', and there's no goin'.") I hope to get a contract this week.

Next stop was the bank, to get a money order for Sarah. The customer service lady asked about Mackenzie and eventually asked if I were Dad or Granddad. I told her, "Holden". My teller gave me - at my request - four ounces of tepid water, so I could whip up some formula for The Kid. She had bolted eight ounces, and was showing some hunger.

Then to BiLo. Not much happening, but I did get some great soft mozzarella fresca and a semi-soft Bel Paese Italian cheese for half price. Bought some pears - they were so good last week - for half price, and some fresh pineapple cubes for half price. I was "fished in" on one of those Adkins drinks, since it was 1.79 off its 2.39 price. A lady next to me told me that they taste good, and are filling. Oh, yeah, red-tipped romaine at .99/lb.. Beautiful stuff. I bought some Pizzalicious Pringles in a small can for .29. (When Ike and Grace came to get Bright Eyes, they disappeared. Pook said they were very good.)

Post Office - mailed SPB's money order.

Dropped on down to Spears Signs and finalized our commercial sign with Jamie. Afterward, we went to his house to see what I thought we could do to sell his house at Heard and Wrightsboro. He and his wife are deciding if they want to list it with Sand Hills.

Oil change at Jiffy Lube. Mackenzie scarfed another 3 ounces in the waiting room.

Up to Iran Carpets, to visit with Paul Boulous, who has a five-month old of his own. Bryan - his father-in-law - had mentioned to me that Paul might be able to help me with a Conifer Place listing. Paul told me the details of that situation, and offered whatever help he might be able to give, but he made it clear that it is a longlonglong shot. Nothing ventured, . . .. Paul and I had a wonderful talk about non-traditional relationships (my expression, here only, and for the first time). Paul is significantly older than his wife, my former neighbor, Cazenove, and the two of them have now created a blended family, adding a new daughter to Paul's son and daughter - who I believe are 9 and 12. We agreed that not everything may occur in the way one might hope, but that good people will by-and-large do good deeds, and after that, it is politics and posturing. (The theme of "window dressing" from yesterday's piece.)

Up the hill to my house, in time to meet Bit Brittingham, for an estimate for a new water supply line to my house. Bit was over-scheduled, and called to see if he could come later in the day.

Got a call from a client, who wants to accelerate the marketing of her 3-acre parcel on Barton Chapel Road. She agreed that I could contact a prospective buyer, with whom I have been negotiating for three months, and offer the property at a lower price. I did, and he accepted. Now, his board must approve the deal.

Called a mortgage broker, to push along the deal for the Florida couple. It looks like a "go". Called inspector, scheduled an inspection.

More paperwork.

Ross called, seeking assistance in re-wiring some early-20th century chandeliers and fixtures (one part actually was stamped "Pat. 1896") in a grand house he is about to put on the market. He has determined that the building is a Henry Wendell design - a fact which has been lost in the murkiness of time. Wendell is one of the two prominent architects (with Willis Irvin) whose designs shaped the appearance of Summerville in the early 1900s. The building Ross has listed has been owned by the same family for 46 years, and lacks the stylized exterior details of Wendell's other designs, so its genesis has not been noted in the tours and lectures on Wendell-designed homes. Al Cheatham - who will likely be regarded as this era's Wendell (or - perhaps more-appropriately - Willis Irvin) when Mackenzie's grandkids are looking to buy their first house on The Hill - gives a wonderful lecture on the Wendell homes, so Ross will contact him to tour the building. I went to help Ross after Grace and Isaac showed up to get Mackenzie, after school. We had fun, and knocked out five repairs in a couple of hours. Tomorrow, we hope to attack the repair of the lighting behind the leaded glass skylight in the home's atrium.

When I got home, I returned Laura's call. She had been at my house when I was working with Ross. She and I went to Surrey Center to try to get her Jeep running. We succeeded - I think! She was able to drive it home, at least.

Made myself a Cajun shrimp and angel hair dinner - with some six-pepper slaw that I made a few days ago. Mm. (Boo had talked me into buying some shrimp (at half price) last week, and I had made the dish for her yesterday just before she headed back to school. I figured if I didn't make some for myself, I'd never get any.) I saw that Grace had vaporized the contents of the last jar of chili when she and Ike showed up, so I moved on to the red sauce (as a side dish for the pasta) that I threw together this weekend. It's a little chocolatey tasting, but not without a bit of charm. Finished with a pear. WOW! If you enjoy a perfect pear (I used to say that Janice had a perfect pair), get thee to the BiLo before Wednesday - when the specials change for the week.

Tommy Tee called - looking for a building upon which to work his renovation magic. I will try to round one up for him. It needs to happen quickly.

Grace called as I typed this. We share a car, and it is going into the shop. She and Kristin were dropping it at C&C Automotive, and Bo wanted to know what to write on the form. Also, she wanted to vent about what I would call "repeated boundary disputes" concerning her mother's husband. In addition to feelings of trespass in her own sphere, Grace is concerned that her mother suffers emotional and verbal mistreatment, and risked openly saying as much. I asked her to listen carefully, to respectfully ask for acknowledgement of her own boundaries, and to ponder the dynamic overnight. Her mother's boundaries are her mother's responsibility. We will discuss it over breakfast tomorrow.

Grace also informed me that she has been given detention, for conduct unbecoming a student in Ethnic Drumming class. We will discuss this, too. I feel that the faculty and administration have bent over backwards to help Grace, and I am intent on helping Grace see these wonderful folks as resources for the betterment of Mackenzie's life. "You don't have to suck butt, Gracious, but I insist that you work to understand their positions, and to start from there with utter respect and appreciation." Grace was not defensive. She said she would talk with me about it tomorrow morning.

Dr. Woo just called. She has read the first four entries. She likes them. "I like 'Historic Children' the best. I have to admit that as I read it, tears came." I wonder: why am I writing these things? Is it to make my children cry?


Apology: I am tired, and this entry sucks. I like the first four entries because each - to me - seems integrated, about something. This is the meandering of a stressed and fatigued mind. I will edit this, or delete it entirely. You have noted that there is less storytelling, and more fact-giving. EXACTLY what I am not going to do!!! (But, Peace, Y'all.)

Sunday Mornin', Comin' Down

Ol' Kris Kristofferson wrote it. I think the album was "Silver-Tongued Devil". It's a drug-abuse song.

Sarah has gone off to Julian Smith Casino, and I am fresh-brained and full of calm reflection this morning. No false stimulants - save two cups of coffee - are coursing through my bloodstream. My comin' down is born only of having concluded that I am OK with the sensibility of the first three blogs. Their directness has been of concern to me all along. When Mackenzie reads these with her adult grandchildren, I want them to carry a reasonable tone to the ears of my great-great-grandchildren. (Since I am writing these things, that is something over which I have some control.) ("Hi, kids! I'm long-dead, but I love you in my own way. Is it 2079 now? If you are reading this, I guess the nice people are still fighting off the totalitarians. Do each of you have parenthetic middle names, like your Grandma (Harmony), and your Great-grandma Grace (Water)?") The traditions and values of my family are at stake. This acceptance has not come easily, and is not to be regarded as permanent. Like the pretty girl that I have become, I reserve the "woman's prerogative" to change my mind.

Somewhere in the album - or maybe another one - in a song called "The Pilgrim (Chapter 33)", there is the lyric, "He's a walkin' contradiction - partly truth and partly fiction", which - while appropriate in describing each of us - must be acknowledged openly by any self-aware blogger. Disclaimer: I am a walking contradiction - partly truth and partly fiction. I encourage you to respond to these blogs as serves your best interests.

As the individual letters erupt in sequence in this window - spit out on the monitor by the seeming whim of my fingers and thumbs - each completed entry leaves me feeling that what has been written is "not the facts; just the truth". I wonder whether conveying intent and content - at the expense of "factual accuracy" - is appropriate where close relatives are concerned. This morning - having re-read the first three entries, I am resolved to slog on, blogging through any dissonant bog in which my self-declared poetic license might land me. The mire covers me. It sucks my energy, as I strain to extract my truth from the saturating "facts" all around me.

As I was divorcing, I was greatly aided by a psychiatrist - Doug Ewing. His name will doubtless appear throughout the coming eight months of this school year, and explanation of his credentials will likely be distilled to "Ewing says" or "Doug says". This is not to suggest that Dr. Ewing has assumed an unhealthy interpersonal position in my reality. It is to affirm that his guidance has alerted me to new keys for centering my life. I was not trained as a child to protect my feelings from manipulators. I have had to learn this in midlife, and I am a clumsy and fledgling practitioner. ("Robotic", in the word of a hostile former dating companion from whom I declined to receive verbal abuse, after I said to her, "Stop, you are hurting me.".)

Perhaps the greatest challenge I experienced while divorcing was knowing how to best convey the goodness of my children's mother to them, while not discounting the importance of my own perceptions and beliefs. Doug says it comes down to Janice and me being "not a good fit", which I now describe as "we have fundamental differences". We were not such an ill fit that we could not live together in wonderful intermittent harmony for nearly 20 years. We became a poor fit when one or the other of us disagreed with the other, and the importance of the need of one took pre-eminence over the well-being of the marriage. The "not a good fit" part actually expresses itself there. When push came to shove, self-indulgence was more important than being married to the other. It was only in fundamental disagreement that the mismatch became apparent.

As Doug listened to my attempts to understand what was happening, as I tried to separate everything I understand from all the things I never will, as our family was being degraded by the moment, I asked what was the best strategy for communicating with the kids why things were as they were.

"You have to work to express whatever you say in age-appropriate fashion." This part I knew backward and forward. I had been living this approach on a daily basis since Laura was born.

"And there are two lines of thinking about what -and when - to tell them. The more-traditional one is to tell them as little as necessary throughout their childhood. The thinking here is that you can help them understand when they have similar experiences as adults.

"The other way is to tell them as much as it is appropriate to tell them. The thinking here is that kids have great 'bullshit detectors', and if they sense that you are not being completely forthcoming with them, they will not trust you, and will not listen to the stuff that is true and important."

If you have read to this point, is it necessary to state which path I have chosen for communicating with my children about their parents' divorce?

We have now come to the point where the consequences of that divorce can be argued to include Mackenzie's birth. I am beginning to feel that - as stressful and difficult as this matter may be - our family is now more able to be like it was from Laura's birth until May, 1997, when our family began to occupy two buildings. The kids are nearly-adult, and there is a new generation in their midst. The way their rearing began can be repeated, in the fundamental beliefs that guide Mackenzie's upbringing.

Her upbringing will be one of partly truth, and partly fiction. The emphasis will not be on facts, but on truth - especially in that nebulous area where the edges of honesty, fair-mindedness, respect for the rights and property of others, and accountability are defined not by words, but behaviors.

Historic Children

Saturday. A beautiful and 58-degree morning, ending a wonderfully-restful night. I slept so soundly, I awakened with my left earlobe "asleep" from lying on it - with the outer part folded over my auditory canal - for such a long period. My left shoulder ached slightly, tight from lack of movement during sleep.

I got Sarah up early, so she would be on time for an appointment at the Julian Smith Casino at 8. While she was bathing, I read the paper and threw together a cool-lookin' breakfast for her: OJ, sauteed boiled redskin potatoes, scrambled egg topped with sharp cheddar, a sausage patty, fresh pineapple chunks, and three tablespoons of Thursday's chili. Mmmm.

"What's with the chili?", Boo asked.

I told her about going downtown to Mother's Restaurant in Oxford when I was in college - usually not long before they started serving lunch - and ordering the manly selection: "steak, eggs, potatoes and toast", knowing that would not be enough, and adding a bowl of chili. I suppose this foreshadowed the salsa-with-eggs sensibility that became rampant in the late 70s. I know it works for me. Boo ate all but one bite of egg, a forkful of taters, two bites of sausage, and a teaspoon of chili. That, and a pot of coffee became my breakfast.

I read and worked around the house until I went to get Sarah at 10:30. She was pleased to be told while there that she will have completed her assignments at the Casino by tomorrow afternoon. I dropped her at Janice's, and picked up Mackenzie for a few hours of sightseeing. I went home with Mackenzie to change her diaper, check my voicemail, get my cell phone, and answer emails. When we were ready to head out, my first stop was going to be Anna's and Ed's, but I decided to see if Pook wanted to hang out with us for awhile. He did, so I picked him up at Janice's first.

Anna made the expected fuss over the baby. She is at one with newborns, and is one of the two most-intuitive people I know. I like to have her respond to people who have seized my interest - children and certain women, especially - because her casual responses often tell much more than my labored analyses. (I recall arriving at a cocktail party in 1992 with Grace's mother, who dispensed with the niceties of greeting Anna and Ed, and left us to talk with some special person across the room. "She needs more attention" was Anna's cogent observation.) It is a bit like going to a shaman. "She's a happy child, isn't she?"; and, "My, she seems as alert as a three-month old."; and - upon first taking Macckenzie in her arms - "She looks a lot like all of your girls - especially Grace! Isn't it strange that little babies can look so much like their parents?"

Ike, Mackenzie, and I had interrupted Anna and Ed at work in their back yard, and Ed suggested, "It's time for a break, Anna." We sat on the front patio, and chatted. Isaac attempted to explain how and why Halo far outstrips any form of video game heretofore created. Ed loves "edged weaponry" and military history. I heard myself say as I noted his wry confusion at Isaac's explanation of Halo, "I know if you were a teenager today Ed, you'd be the ultimate Halo geek." Ed said, "Yeah. Anna, too. She likes those Warthogs and missle launchers. Right, Anna?"

We decided it had been over a year since I had been to their house. I owe it to myself to change this pattern. Ed and Anna have loved me when I was at my most-unloveable, and we have shared many wonderful meals.

After an hour, Isaac and I decided to go to the Boshears Fly-in, to look at vintage and exotic planes. I had mentioned at Anna's and Ed's that Isaac's grandfather had been a ball turret gunner in a B-17 during World War II, and that I had seen one at a Fly-in a couple of years ago. I thought that might bring the Boshears experience more into the real for him. On the way there, when I mentioned that it was going to cost twenty bucks, Isaac suggested we try the Living History Fair at the old North Augusta Water Works instead. (This is the area where the young boy found the ancient arrowhead a few years back. Ed tells me that there is a wonderful spring there, where Indians gathered for hundreds of years.)

The fair is set up to show something of what life in 18th-century America might have been like. Ike bumped into a couple of guys he knew, so Mackenzie and I strolled around while he went his own way. We had completed a loop of the fair, and I was holding her as she negotiated a fall into Nod. A man walked by, saw her, and asked, "Is that a historic baby?" I told him, "not yet", but he countered, "Oh yes she is, even now. I can tell."

Well, his remark got me to thinking. When I answered the question, I was being glib, trying to be positive while keeping a certain social distance. I wasn't much in the mood for being chatted up by a stranger - even though this fellow was quite pleasant. In my mindset, I was answering the question more like, "We hope", or "It's a little too early to tell." I recall that as Grace developed, somewhere around the time she turned 2, I began to get the sense that the universe has something special in store for her. I guess that was my way of encouraging people to look beyond Grace's idiosyncrasies, and into that misty of world of human potential. Grace will be regarded in time as an historic baby, I believe. At the moment at the Living History Fair, though, it was clear that the friendly stranger was correct.

He walked away, and I looked at the baby. I thought, "This is the first great-grandbaby of my family." That reminded me of Laura's birth - and her cousin Kara's. (Kara was born in March, Laura in June, of 1984.) In the circle of acquaintance of Janice and me, Laura's birth marked the start of our generation "getting" the wonder of parenthood. I consider that moment to be the defining one of my life.

Grace has had her life defined, I think. She does not have the life experience to appreciate the significance of this fact. She does not have the loving relationship with Mackenzie's father to go forward as a traditional household. She is without means or prospects in the near future. And yet, there in my arms was a baby very much like the infant Laura, exhibiting similar charm and needs, and oblivious as was Laura to these material facts. This child can be as well-loved as was Laura - and Sarah, Grace, and Isaac as they graced us with their presences. This child can be educated as to what is right and what is wrong. This child can be trained to become self-reliant and caring. Whether it is a consensus perception or not, I regard the other stuff as window dressing. Irrespective of those worldly matters, we can be ethical; we can risk loving; we can learn to respect both ourselves and the other. Because there is a lot of "not-that" out there, the price of seeing to it on Mackenzie's behalf - like that of liberty - is eternal vigilance.

My grandfather died when he was 61 and my grandmother was 56. When Gram was 59, she lost her 38-year old son, the former bull turret gunner. She was left with one daughter, age 36 - named Laura, after Gram's mother, Laura Seiberling. Gram never remarried, never even dated. She taught elementary school for 1,314 years, and retired at 69. (She started when she was 18, and finished her college degree in 1954, at the age of 49. She never stopped asking me, from time-to-time, "Don't you remember my college graduation? You were there." I was born in 1952. "Gram! I was two!!" I don't remember the happiness I brought her then, but she never stopped being pleased with my very being. In time, I became aware that I made her so very happy.) Because my grandfather was dying from emphysema, his doctor suggested that they live in an arid climate. They chose the Phoenix, Arizona area, in 1958. It was there that Gram taught Navajo children for three years, until Grandpa died. (I remember her coming to Ohio with corn tortillas in a tin lonngggg before anyone ever thought of a Taco Bell, and fixing her grandkids their first "Mexican" meal. Boy, did I love that.)

Her first historic baby was my father. I was the first of her eight grandkids, historic in my own way, I suppose. Kara was the first of her 16 great-grandkids - although Gram only lived to see - or know of - 13. Mackenzie is her first great-great grandchild, born in Gram's 99th year. Grace received her name because she shared a birthday with Gram's mother-in-law, Grace (nee) Prentice Brown. (There is a photo of the infant me with Grace, Gram (Velma Seiberling), and Mom (Norma Feyh). Mackenzie will have photos of 3/4 of her great-grandparents at which to gaze in wonderment.

The friendly man at the fair also asked, "Are you the grandfather?"

I paused, looked him squarely in the eye, and said, "No, I'm Holden."

Of Things Fresh and Stale

Today was a Staff Development day at school, so Grace did not bring Mackenzie to stay with me. I tended to a contract, made and answered calls, and did work in the yard and house. Sarah got home early from Statesboro, so she went with me to a real estate office to drop off an earnest money check. While we were there, Laura called, and asked us to pick her up at the Metro Coffeehouse. Laura and Leela were reading papers and working crosswords when Boo and I got to Metro, so we had a drink and played Ms. Pacman. We each won a game, but Sarah was jumpin'-up-and-down pleased to have whipped the old man by more than 20,000 points in the second game. (After I had won the first by 10 points.) "I'll bet this machine is thirty years old, Boo-dee. When I was your age, we played Pacman - Ms. Pacman was not even available." My reflexes are shot, so even making turns in the maze is iffy.

Leela went to work at Nacho Mama's, and the girls and I walked around downtown, window shopping and talking. Woo applied for a job at Blue Sky. She had even gone to the trouble of wearing a skirt! Wow. It would please me if she could work with Barry, Matt, and Sonia. Good folks who are employers are to be valued.

When I picked up Sarah at her mother's earlier, Ike came out to tell me that his Powder Puff team had lost 21-7 to the sophomores. "They were big and fast! If they could take a hit, they could play in the NFL." I guess it was a bit of a mismatch. Ol' Pook looks so intelligent wearing his glasses.

Grace came out to deliver a manic commentary about the state of things in her mother's household. I suggested that she be as calm as possible, to listen attentively, and to make the very best of every situation that she could. Ray's parents have come from NY to visit. Janice came over to the truck to ask me a question or two, to make a remark or two, to ask a question and make a remark, or to make a remark and ask a question.

Ed Rice called around 11 this morning and invited me to have barbecue for lunch with him. We've not been making our ritualistic sojourns as frequently the past year, so we are re-dedicating ourselves. We went to Freeman's in Beech Island, which we agreed has the best meat - moist and smoky-tasting. Afterward, Ed came into the house, and we sat on the back porch sipping green tea. Fall is here. We reminisced about past times on the porch. In 21 years, there have been many. (I am thinking of one now with Helinka that . . ., oh, nevermind.) Ed has long said that the two best porches in Augusta are side-by-side on Hickman Road. Bryan's is the best open-air, with the great view over downtown. Mine has that wonderful sense of enclosure - while still being al fresco - due to the broad stucco arches, and the array of mature trees in the back yard. I resolved to get it cleaned up, repainted, and even re-screened. Having Mackenzie arriving daily seems to give me some "want-to" that I have lacked since divorce fractured our family. I told Ed on the way back from Freeman's that I am not depressed - I just don't care about anything. My energy never replenishes, as it always did in the past. "Some things get broken, and can never be repaired", Ed suggested correctly. Maybe this new generation will prove to have restorative powers for my battered spirit.

Ed and I talked of growing old, and of having reached the stage where we tend to be repeating ourselves - not stories, but in behaviors. There is little new under the sun. I mentioned to him, too, that those legendary "senior moments" are beginning to appear. "I asked Bryan if they were happening to him, and he said 'no', but the last two times we've gone somewhere, he's misplaced tickets and coupons. Shit, I can tell you the Social Security number of my best friend in third grade, but I can't remember what I had for breakfast. Bryan says our brains are so full of 'stuff', we just throw away most of it at the front end. It matters little, and it just grows and grows in frequency and volume."

I told Edward that I have decided to suspend dating for eight years. "When'd you do that?"

"The start of October. I enjoy sleeping alone. I like working alone. I like to sit and think alone. I have plenty to do, and lots of wonderful friends. Now's the time to start. I love to eat meals with a charming woman, and I'll still do that. Just no romance beyond the pleaures of a shared meal." Several years ago, I was showing the great writer Roy Blount, Jr. around the Lamar Building downtown, in reference to an article he was writing for the American Express travel magazine. I had been admiring his work since graduate school, back in the mid-70s. After he looked around the I.M. Pei-designed penthouse atop the venerable office building, we sat up there for a while and talked. I remember asking him, "How many times you been married?" He told me he was married to his third wife. I asked, "Are being a writer and being a husband incompatible?"

"Well, it seems like they think if you're around, you wanna be talked to."

I have tentatively concluded that Roy was hinting that his answer was "Duh, . . . YES?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Why eight years?" Ed wondered.

I told him that I would be sixty then, and that I hope that by then my more-youthful orientation toward dating might have gone away. "I'm attracted to women who are good-looking, bright, energetic, positive. By the time women get to be our age, they're bitter, and their currency - sexual appeal and reproductive viability - is spent. And they don't like it. They're kind and unattractive, or not-too-shot-out-lookin' but mean as a two-headed crocodile, or - the 'daily double' - mean and unattractive.

"I have about 50 percent of the sex drive I had at 40, maybe 25 percent of what I had at 30, and less than 10 of what I had at 20. But it is still a helluva lot of drive.

"And I don't want to be regarded as one of those pitiful old guys attempting to 'recapture his youth' by dating a younger woman. I prefer the viability and emotional flexibility of the younger women, but I am not prepared to slay the 'he's having a midlife crisis' accusation dragon several times every day. My midlife crisis is due to the crises that have arisen in my midlife, not to my fear of death or insecurities about my fucking virility. As my brother has always said, 'Even when I'm too old to cut the mustard, I'll still be able to lick the jar'. I'll just use the energy that might've gone toward being a loving companion and apply it in other important spheres of my life."

Ed smiled his knowing Edsmile. I told him, "Ross always gives me the devil for saying of a woman I find attractive, 'she knows where I am'. He thinks I should pursue. The way I'm looking at it now, I've become the pretty girl. I will meet them as they choose to approach, treat them with kindness, and from time-to-time ask one if she'd like to sit in the parlor with my Mum-and-me. If we like her, maybe we'll invite her to dinner. She can bring me flowers and chocolates, and write me heart-rendingly distraught poems of despair, pondering the emptiness of her life through eternity without my graceful presence in it."

"I better get back and do some more yard work at the studio." I think maybe the weirdness was upsetting Ed. Of course, he has the benefit of a stable 20+-year relationship with a sane woman, Anna, who - at 62 - has traveled past the menopausal pyrotechnics that bedevil all who encounter them. Theirs is a reasonably-tranquil relationship, and Ed has no experience with the moment-to-moment mental storm that is attempting to have pleasant "dating" interactions with a 50-ish woman in today's America.

I tried to hook up with Grace to get Mackenzie, so I could put her in the stroller for a brisk walk through Summerville, but the two of them had gone off to Kristin Pratt's. That gave me an opportunity to blog.

Legitimizing Mackenzie

Grace went back to school today, five weeks to the day that she last attended. Comparing that span with the amount of time that her mother took to recover after Grace's birth, I find that my head is moving to and fro in appreciation of Grace's rate of recovery. I guess logging on to "donehadababy.com" is easier for a 17-year old than for a woman twice that age.

This new addition is pretty cool. She appears to accept what is, without much judgment.

When she was awake, I kept her busy. While she napped, I read and researched, and finalized a contract to buy a fourplex in Augusta for a Florida couple. Then, we started "our time".

I threw her in the truck, and went down to design a commercial property sign for a place I recently listed in Columbia County. No sooner did Jamie see Mackenzie than he started talking about his own 10-month old, which led to his telling me of trying to sell his house "by owner", which led to our discussing the advantages of having Sand Hills Properties sell it. (The exponential exposure of MLS, in particular.)

After agreeing on the prototype for our new sign with Jamie, we buzzed up Wrightsboro to the BiLo. WOW, what fun. There is something about a grown man in a grocery store with a five-week old that brightens most everyone's experience. One woman mistook me for the father. That is as it should be, factoring in my youthful appearance and mien, and my native manifest virility.

Next, Sav-a-Lot. Dude, shop there. Their pricing structure will fracture your expectations about grocery shopping.

As I turned onto Hickman from Central, Mackenzie squeezed my pinkie. A powerful feeling filled the world. It was 1984, the squeezing child was Laura, all the amazing love I experienced that accompanied her birth - vast unanswerable intrusions - pressurized the truck cabin. The joy, the hope, the celebration, the focus, the enpowerment - everything - all conveyed in a tiny grasp. The truck moved up the gentle incline of Hickman; the tears trickled down the grown-less-callow cheeks. A block-and-a-half, and I'm in my driveway. I unfastened the five-point harness of Mackenzie's car seat. "I remember, little girl, when I turned to Janice and said of your Aunt Laura, 'she'll never remember the happiness she's brought us', and she doesn't. Just like you won't." And, as I snuggled her into my manbosom and kissed her fuzzy scalp, I heard myself thinking, "Could my mother have ever felt that about me?" Child is father to the man.

After we got home, while Mackenzie napped, I made some calls, and made a pot of chili. I called Laura to ask her to stop by, if she was hungry between classes. She told me that Boo was on her way home. I called Sarah to let her know "soup's on", but she told me that the plans had been changed, and that she would be here tomorrow.

Grace showed up around 3:30, and wanted to vent about her school's administration not wanting to have her bring Mackenzie to the Powder Puff football game after school. (Isaac helped coach the freshmen!) We talked at some length about the impact of a student having carte blanche to bring her kid to school functions, and I came down in complete support of the administration. Gracious was concerned that I would be tired of tending to the kid, but I was energized by it. (I even mopped the g.d. kitchen floor today! (I have an unnatural aversion to kitchen floors, more than any other of the domestic tasks. When I was young, but the eldest of five, my superb-housekeeper mother would sometimes have me do the kitchen floor. (I am talkin' butter knife to help remove heel marks and the like.) ) I have never tapped into the Zen of floor cleaning.)

Gracelli went to the game, and Mackenzie and I went to Kroger to score some of the specials. When we returned, Laura was here, and Grace was here. They ate chili, talked, and fussed over the baby. Woo opined, "good chili - not as hot as I like it - but good." Private Benjamin Appetito. Butterbean said it was "bangin'".

I told them that I was thinking about starting a Mackenzie blog. "Not to 'oo and ah' over this kid" - gag me to the Stone Age!, but to use her daily presence here as a cover "for the idea I have been kicking around for about 25 years: what ever happened to Holden Caulfield?" He loved his kid sis and her playmates, and wanted to protect them. He came a bit unglued. But I have always felt that the impetus for that "catcher in the rye" would never be excised from Holden. He might end up as the VP of an insurance company, and look like any other guy with a life that was partly pleasing to him, but the tender and attentive lad would abide within the aging man in the grey flannel suit.

"You know . . ., something like this: Holden gets out of the nuthouse, finishes school, goes to work, gets married, raises his kids until their mother decides she will begin to help as she is on her way out the door, watches his family go straight to hell under her watch, then Holden gets to tend to his illegitimate granddaughter while his daughter finishes high school. What do you think?"

"Dad," Woo said, a bit of concern betrayed within her otherwise light tone, "don't call Mackenzie 'illegitimate'. Look how perfect she is! Say 'his perfect granddaughter'."

So, it is up in the air as to how Holden's grandkid will be identified as her mother begins the final phase of her public school education. Meanwhile, Mackenzie "hangs" with a Holden who prefers to be called by his given name - instead of "Grandpa" - by the little pink frog in question.