World's Best Dad!

I’m seeing all kinds of wonderful posts about fathers today in preparation for Father’s Day tomorrow and it’s causing a lot of mixed feelings and I thought I’d share those feelings with you.

My father’s kind of an asshole, actually. I mean… my childhood was fine I guess but I don’t recall my dad being a big part of it even though he lived in the same house. He worked hard at keeping a roof over our head and when he got home at five or if it was the weekend, he deserved to have a glass of scotch and be left alone.

Anyway, it’s the night before Father’s Day and I’m sitting here tonight thinking that I should’ve at least sent him a card, but I’m terrible at thinking ahead that way, so I was trying to think of a nice last minute thing I could do…  I could write a poem. I could create a website full of pictures of my kids and me for him to look at since he rarely sees us and I’m not sure he’d recognize us on the street. I could order him an online gift certificate for golf stuff because I’m pretty sure he cares more about golf more than he cares about people….

I don’t have enough time to do the photo website. Once again, that would have required time and energy spent well before the day of paternal celebration. An online gift certificate is cold and impersonal and while he may be cold and impersonal, I’m not. 

So… back to the poem thing. I was trying to think of something nice to say about my dad. It wasn’t easy. The last 30 years have been trying at best. I had to go back farther than that.

I thought it might be helpful if I made a list of things for which I could thank my dad, then I could work those things into a poem. So here’s the list I made:

Dad took me to my first major league baseball game. 

       I don’t remember this as time spent with dad… just that he took me. It didn’t matter. I was in a dream-like trance from the moment I heard the first crack of a bat hitting a ball. I learned to love baseball.

Dad took me to my first guitar lesson.

      He dropped me off at age 7 at the music store and left me alone with an 18 year old boy who looked like Jesus and reeked of marijuana. I ended up majoring in guitar in college.

Dad taught me how to clean a toilet and weed flower-beds.

      This was necessary in order for him to never have to do either of those chores again but I still know how to clean a toilet thoroughly if I should ever have the desire to do so. I learned valuable life skills.

Dad would, once in a while, take my sister and brother and me to the Dairy Queen.

      This was his method of escaping arguments with my mother. When I was old enough, I got my first job at that Dairy Queen and was well on my way to becoming self-sufficient.

Dad once nicked another parked car when he opened his driver's side door. He left a note on the windshield of the other car with his contact information. He showed me the letter the owner of the other car wrote him to thank him for his honesty.
      He didn't miss an opportunity to let me know what a good person he was. I learned to take responsibility for my actions.

Dad taught me the proper way to pour beer in a glass so there was just the right amount of foam.

      He was training me to be a waitress for his parties and to be a good wife. Hmmm… That’s about it on that one.

Dad took the family to Door County, Wisconsin every year for vacation.

      I wandered around Fish Creek with my brother and sister and have no idea where my mom and dad were most of the time. I learned how to ask strangers for directions and find my way home. 

Dad told me I could marry more money in a half an hour than I could make in a lifetime.

      In other words, I should not look for someone who loves me, but someone who could take me off my dad’s hands. I learned that what I should look for in a man is someone who is, in many ways, the polar opposite of my father. I may just have found him…. finally.

So now I’m looking over the list and thinking that my dad is not really going to see things the way I do and if I wrote a poem for him he wouldn’t really appreciate it, so I guess I’ll just call him and tell him Happy Father’s Day and tell him I love him.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

A Saturday Morning Poem

In the spirit of being present...

Saturday morning still in my robe

neighbors obscured by newly leafed out trees across the back border of my lawn

Sun on my face, cool breeze brushing my skin

Instant coffee in my red cup

Quiet dog lying at my feet on the cool cement patio 

Robin red breast hops into the yard 

Pulls a wiggly worm from the earth hidden beneath tall blades of green

Looks at us sideways to make sure we are still

Hop, hop, hop through the grass cut yesterday

He looks again 

We are still

     Hop, hop, hop

         Hop, hop, hop 

               He flies away

We are still

You can follow me on Twitter where I am somewhat less thoughtful:  @CeceliaHalbert

My Love and I

I didn’t expect to love wine this much. 

In college, I spent a lot of time with cheap beer and tequila. A lot of time. That’s what you do in college because money is scarce and fun is a priority and cheap beer and tequila are easily had. 

I liked beer and tequila a lot. I really thought we’d always be together, but eventually my tastes changed. I got tired of the hangovers, the late nights, the loud parties. I wanted more out of life and the cheap beer and tequila weren’t doing anything for me anymore.

I went for years without any sort of spirits. I had kids. A job. I focused on those those parts of my life, but something was missing…

Then one rare night out, someone introduced me to a cabernet. Seductive, rich, complicated… intoxicating. I was infatuated.

Over time, my relationship with wine deepened. Never-ending nuances to discover held my attention and, on occasion, surprised me. I fell in love with wine. 

And now, years later, I still sit down at the end of the day with a glass of wine. Some days, just looking forward to that moment when it touches my lips makes everything else bearable. 

I think you call that love. 

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

Truth

So yesterday was Easter - the holiest day of the year for Christians. 

I haven’t called myself a Christian in decades, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in God. It just means I don’t think that Jesus was the one and only son of a white-bearded robed white guy sitting on a cloud, but maybe I’m wrong. I could be wrong. I’m certainly open to being wrong, because how do you really know? And don’t say “because the Bible tells me so.”

I only know what I’ve seen happen in my life and I can’t deny there is a higher power at work. Take this very recent example, for instance: A few weeks ago I was laid off from my teaching job and almost immediately a way to work from home and pay my bills landed in my lap, allowing me to have the flexibility to be available for my special needs children when I need to be. This new gig also might save the life of a micro-managing school administrator bent on following Common Core to the letter of the law. One never knows, but I digress.

You might call these recent events coincidence, but I prefer divine providence. 

You can believe whatever you want to believe and I will respect you for your conviction. I have nothing but admiration for the faithful who live their life according to their convictions, particularly when those convictions involve loving other human beings regardless of perceived differences. I don’t know all of life’s answers, but I’m pretty sure love is one of them.

So yesterday was Easter - and on Easter I saw so much ugliness and intolerance in social media that I had to shut my computer off. Well…  put it to sleep, really. I rarely actually shut it off.

I saw people posting hateful things about Christians and I saw Christians posting hateful things right back and I wondered why. If you’re rejoicing about Christ rising from the dead, then rejoice. Go ahead and rejoice over the interwebs. I can’t fathom that anyone finds the phrase “He is risen” offensive, but like I said, I could be wrong and apparently I am. I don’t understand. Why can't you just let the man rejoice?

If you want to write posts about your lack of belief or your different belief, then by all means, post away. Rejoice in your own truth. 

I just don’t understand why anyone feels the need to attack someone else’s belief. No two people believe the same exact way, even among those of the same denomination. 

These are my truths: 

In my life, I have seen evidence of a higher power. 

I know your truth is different from my truth.

I love you because you are my brother or sister, no matter what your truth is.

In the words of the great prophet Paul McCartney, “Live and let live,” because “in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” 

Go love. 

And have some wine. For God’s sake. Have some wine. He invented it for a reason.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

A Dry Spell

There is nothing to writing.

All you do is sit down at your typewriter and bleed.

                                   Ernest Hemingway

On those rare occasions when I have more then three unscheduled minutes in a day, I think about writing and that I should be doing it. If not working on a novel, then at the very least I should be writing a blog post. 

But I don't know what to write about anymore.

For a couple of years there, every day of my life brought some new level of ridiculous drama and I had what seemed to be a never-ending supply of ideas.

Here's the interesting thing: I still have a never-ending supply of uncertainty in my life, but what I have now is someone who makes me happy in spite of the drama rather than someone who at times made me incredibly happy but was also a perpetual font of drama.

In the last 8 months since the drama-font and I split, I have dealt and will probably always be dealing with my daughter's mental illness. My divorce was final. I lost my job. My childhood home was leveled by an F-5 tornado. 

And I met someone new and wonderful who somehow makes me believe everything will be okay.

It's nauseating, really, the two of us. Two old people, kind of crazy about each other, hanging around in bars, hanging on each other in bars...  I'm sure the patrons are as grossed out by our behavior as they would be if we were their parents.

And we could be their parents. We're that old.

Maybe there's a story in there, but it'd probably induce nausea. 

Hell, what do I care? I'm old. If I want to write nauseating feel-good stories, then I will. 

But, ewww....  the thought of that even kind of makes me want to puke.

We'll see.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

Love in the Off-Season

We met in November, post-World Series. The Cardinals, or rather some team I didn’t recognize disguised in Cardinals uniforms, had already lost the series to the Red Sox. Baseball wasn’t a real topic of conversation between us. He was a teacher. I was a teacher…   we talked about teaching. He played guitar. I play guitar. He writes good songs. I like good songs. 

I knew he was a Cubs fan, but it was easy enough to ignore that small detail without my daily checks of the NL Central standings. We were just kind of casually seeing each other anyway. Given my recent dating record of wins and losses, I figured he’d be gone long before opening day. 

Well… fast forward four months.

Monday is opening day. Lo and behold I find myself rather attached to this north-sider. Actually, I love him, despite his apathy towards wine and despite his predilection for losing baseball teams. 

Him: “What’re you thinking?”

Me: “That I love you.”

Him: “No, you don’t.”

Me:  *shrugs* “Ok.”

Him: “Ok. You can love me. But if you really loved me, you’d wear a Cubs hat.”

Me: “Let me rethink my previous declaration.”

And now, it’s four days until the first pitch of the season is thrown. 

I’ll keep you posted, but I’ll tell you this: we can sit at the bar and he drinks beer and I drink wine.

I’m not wearing his team’s hat nor will he wear mine.

Something about the twinkle in his eye makes me think we’ll be just fine. 

But if the Cubs should win this year….

I might just draw the line.

At least we agree on the ridiculousness of the designated hitter.

Play ball!

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

Perfect Moments

The first drops from a great bottle of wine spun with a wisp of air splashing over my tongue.

A ray of afternoon autumn sun breaking through the clouds shining down on the maple tree leaves that have nearly all turned crimson but not yet fallen.

The drowsy waking realization that the baby slept all night…   and so did I.

The exact moment when Luciano Pavarotti releases his hold on the middle syllable of the final ‘vincero’ in Nessun Dorma and the pitch falls while the orchestra rises.

Stepping outside, inhaling the first breath of warm, moist, springish, hopeful morning air after a long cold winter.

The split second between anticipation and an imminent sneeze.

The last sentence of A Farewell to Arms.

Bare feet in green grass.

and...

My gaze meeting yours.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert