#21: Run for the Border

Me on the bridge--a motion shot!

It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and I’m sitting in Paris, KY, in the bay window of my niece’s sunny yellow bedroom. She and O are jumping on the bed, and while I’m motioning them to stop, I’m also chatting on the phone with my brother, SC. He spent the holiday with his sweetheart, so this is the first chance we’ve had to finally catch up.

“So you’re coming home Saturday…what are you doing Sunday?” he asks.

Again, I make eye contact with the bouncing kiddos, adopt a stern face and point firmly at the ground. “I’m going to get up as early as I can, drive to the Ohio/Indiana border and stand on it. Wanna come with me?”

He pauses, then says sheepishly, “I, uh, think I have some stuff to do.”

“I can’t blame you,” I say.

“What’s wrong with standing on the Kentucky/Ohio border you’ll actually be crossing tomorrow?”

“That’s a lovely thought, SC, but the state line is somewhere in the middle of the Ohio River. I thought about standing on the I-71N bridge, but, whoa. I’d rather not be run over for being in the way.”

“…Or,” he says patiently, “You could try one of the pedestrian bridges in Newport.”

I sit up a little straighter. Pedestrian bridges? I pry for details, because I do not want to drive my crazy self all the way to Indiana on Sunday. I just don’t. And now I don’t have to. Leave it to my big brother to turn my latest 36×37 assignment—Stand on the State Line—into something totally viable.

~*~

John A Roebling suspension bridge

We don’t even worry about Newport. The John A Roebling suspension bridge reaches from Covington, KY to Cincinnati, and we only have to wander along the shoreline to find it. At 1,057 feet in length, it’s an impressive structure. When it first opened to pedestrians in 1866, it was the longest suspension bridge in the world. Also? It was designed by the same German-American engineer (John A Roebling) who designed the Brooklyn Bridge.

And now I’m going to walk on it. I’m going to find the border and put one foot in each state for the singular purpose of being in two places at once.

GB parks in an empty lot at the base of the bridge. From where we’re sitting, we can see one other person making his way to the other side. “Looks like it’s just you and that guy,” he says.

“I’ll tell him you said hi.” I blow kisses to my two skeptical children, and sprint up the steps to the south anchorage.

~*~

The air is frigid. I can see my breath as I walk, even under this cheerful, eggshell-blue sky. When I pass the other pedestrian, I say hello, and he smiles warmly. Then, five minutes later, I pass two other guys walking their bikes. When I say hello, they wave and wish me a happy Thanksgiving. It’s like we’re instantly pals because we happen to be walking across the same bridge. And honestly, it’s great. Suddenly, I’m a big fan of these ultra-friendly bridge people.

I make it all the way to the north anchorage without seeing a sign to depict the state line, so I march back to what looks like the center-most point of the bridge. I take a picture of my feet straddling the line, but it doesn’t come out.

So instead, I snap this shot of the Covington side:

Covington from the bridge

And this shot of the Cincinnati side:

Cincinnati from the bridge

I’m happy, and that’s that. This isn’t anything Earth-shattering, and it has no grand significance. It’s just a moment I’ve created for myself that I hope I won’t forget.

On my way back to the car, I pass my last fellow pedestrian. He has a six-pack in one hand and cigarette in the other. When I say “Hi,” he says nothing back. He just looks at me like I’m crazy to walk alone on this bridge at the end of November.

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Other Firsts: The Allergic Kid Shall Eat Pie

 

Courtesy of whatscookingamerica.net

If I could, I would personally thank the guy who invented pumpkin pie. I’d walk right up, pat him on the back, and congratulate him for doing his part to make Thanksgiving—and the world—a little bit better. I’d also golf-clap for the guy who first whipped the cream and dropped a dollop atop said pumpkin pie, because that was a stroke of genius and creativity I can’t even comprehend.

I know I’m not alone in this. People are freaks for the pumpkin pie. Case in point: A few years ago, we met up with some friends to attend the Circleville Pumpkin Festival. We arrived promptly at 8 PM, but by then, not a single slice of pumpkin pie remained. Not a flaky morsel of crust, not a smudge of pumpkin filling—it was as though the whole concept of pumpkin pie had never really existed. We walked from display to display, only to be greeted by empty countertops. The disappointment, it was too much. Shame, shame, Circleville Pumpkin Fest. Shame, shame, I know your name.

And that is how I feel about pumpkin pie.

My five-year-old is allergic to dairy and eggs. This means he has never had a slice of pumpkin pie (!!!), and this wounds my heart in ways I can’t explain. I searched and searched for a good allergen-free recipe, gave up, and then stumbled across one last week. And so, today, at approximately 6PM, my boy will seize his fork and claim the same pie-eating freedom the rest of his fellow countrymen enjoy–all because some other guy, who probably also had food allergies and couldn’t eat the goodness, found a way to make sure he could.

How’s that for American ingenuity?

~*~

Dairy-Free, Egg-Free Pumpkin Pie!

Crust

1 cup ground graham crackers
½ cup dairy-free margarine, melted
2 Tbsp sugar

Pie Filling

2 cups canned pumpkin
¾ cup brown sugar, firmly packed
1 ½ cup water
6 ½ Tbsp cornstarch
1 tsp allspice
½ tsp salt
¼ tsp ground cloves
½ tsp ginger

Process

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
2. Mix crust filling, then press into a pie pan.
3. In a medium saucepan, combine all ingredients for the filling. Cook over medium heat until mixture begins to thicken, stirring constantly
4. Pour filling into pie crust.
5. Bake 30 minutes until firm.
6. Pile on the whipped cream and dig in.

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How I lucked my way into the best sweet potato casserole on the planet

For the past four or so years, I’ve served the absolute best sweet potato casserole at holiday gatherings. It’s not an heirloom recipe like all the others in my rotation. And I didn’t cull it from the pages of a glossy gourmet cookbook. Instead, I kind of lucked into it in a way that almost makes me feel guilty (but not guilty enough to stop using it).

GB and I were enjoying our first evening out sans baby. To celebrate the occasion, we made reservations at a famous, rather upscale local restaurant. We’d visited this particular place once before for our annual Christmas dinner with GB’s boss. I wanted to go back because I remembered the potatoes.

Dear God, the potatoes.

Baked, buttery orange goodness topped with a thick pecan crust. Served so hot the server warned me to not touch the plate. As delectable and candy coated as pecan pie itself.

Not to get all Man Vs. Food on you, but oh my goodness, oh my goodness.

Our server was a young guy. He was very serious, and when people are too serious, I get nervous. I really just wanted him to loosen up, so I struck up a conversation.

“These sweet potatoes, I swear. They’re like candy. I would absolutely kill for this recipe.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed them,” he said gravely, then added, “I’ll see what I can do.”

As he marched back toward the kitchen, I looked at GB. “Did he just say he’d see what he could do?”

“I wonder what that means,” GB answered.

Five minutes later, the server returned with his grim face and a small slip of paper in his hand.

~*~

Sweet Potato Casserole

Sweet Potato Mixture:

3 cups mashed sweet potatoes
½ cup sugar
½ tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla
2 eggs (well beaten)
1 stick of butter

Crust Mixture:

1 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup flour
1 cup chopped pecans
1/3 stick of butter, melted

Process:

1. Combine crust mixture in mixing bowl, then set aside.
2. Combine sweet potato mixture into a mixing bowl in the order listed. Combine thoroughly.
3. Pour mixture into buttered baking dish.
4. Sprinkle the surface of the sweet potato mixture evenly with the crust mixture.
5. Bake for 30 minutes at 350 degrees.

~*~

“Here you go, Miss,” he said. “The recipe you wanted.”

I stumbled through my shock enough to manage a quick, “Oh! Thanks!” I wanted to add, “Is there a charge for this? This isn’t like the Neiman-Marcus chocolate chip cookie recipe story is it?” But really, I didn’t want to be gauche.

We’ve been back to this restaurant every December since then. And we’re going back next weekend. It makes me wonder what would happen if I publicly doted on the garlic herb cheese-stuffed chicken breast…or the lyonnaise…or the crème brulee…

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Side Story: Take a Deep Breath

courtesy of teddybearsforhope.org

It’s December, 2006, and H is just weeks from his second birthday. Despite the negative swirl around the Little Einstein videos, I’ve picked its familiar Caterpillar logo for his birthday cake and invitations. I have the video’s puppets in the back seat of my car and am plotting the script for a puppet show to entertain our eventual guests.

H is sitting on my lap, and his pediatrician is listening to his lungs through the cold echo of her stethoscope. “You’ve given him the full dose of steroids?” she asks.

“Yes. And breathing treatments every few hours. This is the fifth asthma attack this winter. I just don’t know what we’re doing wrong.”

She rolls back a few inches in her swivel chair and watches me for a moment. Then she takes a deep breath and says, “What do you know about Cystic Fibrosis?”

I blink. “I’m sorry?”

“Please don’t be afraid. I think we need to screen H as quickly as we can.”

Suddenly, everything she says is louder. So much louder. It’s almost like I can’t understand what she’s saying. I bundle my wide-eyed baby in his winter coat, curse her silently, and walk out the door.

~*~

Two weeks later, GB and I have swathed H in three layers of clothing, wrestled him into a hat and gloves and scarf, and coaxed him to run for 30 minutes along the open corridors at Nationwide Children’s Hospital. The purpose is to make him sweat as much as possible so the lab technicians can measure the sodium levels in his perspiration. One other couple is urging their tiny, smiley, tow-headed son through the same screening process. He and H find each other and play heartily as we adults look at one another in desperation.

And then, the technicians take both boys by the hand. We’re left to sit in plastic chairs for 45 minutes, staring at a room filled with distraught but friendly faces. We strike up a conversation with the other couple. They’re good people, but their son’s symptoms are enough to make me excuse myself under the guise of tracking down a water fountain so I can breathe and pull myself together.

When the hospital calls a week later with the screening results, I’m balled up on the couch with H. I clutch the receiver before answering, and exhale shakily when I hear he is in the clear. No Cystic Fibrosis. Just acute asthma. And while I’m dialing GB to give him the joyous news, I’m crying, thinking about the other family. Because what if their news today was different from ours. In my head, I break off a piece of my heart and send it to the boy’s mother, willing it to morph into some semblance of hope.

~*~

We’ve spent a lot of time at Nationwide Children’s Hospital. Two asthmatic kids means lots of late-night runs over icy streets to what has become a bit of a refuge. There, they have a staff of top-notch doctors and nurses who know a hell of a lot more than how to cover a boo boo and send you home. On my last visit with O, when he wailed all night in his hospital room and pulled the plastic breathing fork out of his nose over and over, a male nurse wiped his tears and smoothed his hair while I forced the latest Albuterol treatment. And then later, a hospital volunteer arrived with a bag full of goodies for our family: a stuffed bear O still treasures today, plus snacks, bottled water, and a notebook and pen for taking doctors’ notes. Even if I knew dozens of different languages, I could never have expressed my gratitude for such comforting acts of kindness.

~*~

GB is on the Development Board at Nationwide Children’s Hospital. This year, he’s the chair for the Give a Little, Grow a Lot campaign, a grass-roots online effort to raise money for the admitting gift cart, which doles out care packages (like the one I described above) for every child admitted to the hospital. If you’re looking for charitable opportunities this holiday season, or if you’re looking for a decent tax write-off, this program may be a good one to consider. No obligations, of course. I’m just happy to talk up a program I really believe in. What good is a blog if you can’t shine a light on a good cause every now and then?

For more information about Give a Little, Grow a Lot, visit http://bit.ly/f80ypu.

Have a safe and very happy Thanksgiving.

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The Ingredients of a Perfect Song

 

Famous Sony ad, courtesy of http://www.totalmedia.com

On my way to work last Wednesday, I was listening to my tunes, yo, when this song came on:

There are two reasons I still love this song. First, I’ll never forget my “mind officially blown” reaction to the song when it showed up all unannounced at the end of Cameron Crowe’s Say Anything. Secondly, that phased guitar! You just don’t hear that anymore.

But. Even as I carry this song around in a heart-shaped box in my memory, it’s still a dated little tune. It was released in April 1983 (when I was just a Duran Duran loving third-grader) and it sounds like it.

I started to think about what makes a song timeless. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and here’s what I’ve decided:

The most critical ingredient is the lyrics. They must be smart, poetic and emotionally exposed. Like this:

You have to back up those words with a strong guitar hook (in this clip it comes in at 1:02):

…hammered out by a jaw-dropping lead guitar:

…and the dark grind of a bass line:

Brilliant. I shake my head in awe. (The bass guitar is my favorite.)

Plus, drums. They have to almost knock you out of your chair.

It needs to surprise you (like in this clip, at 1:46):

And leave you devastated at the close. (This song kills me every single time.)

BONUS POINTS:

Strings:

Or a banjo:

Or a piano.

Put all of those elements together, and you have the perfect song. I haven’t found it yet, exactly, but this comes close.

No cowbell necessary.

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#20: Surprise Getaway

courtesy of wikimedia

GB is about 10 seconds from sleeping. When I tap his shoulder he braces himself because he knows how chatty I can be late at night.

“Do you know what we should do tomorrow?” I ask.

He closes his eyes again and mumbles a sleepy, “Hmmmm?”

“We should do all the things I’ve planned…for your surprise.”

He props up on one arm. “What surprise?”

“SC is going to babysit. He’ll hang out here while we have a nice little weekend for ourselves in Cincinnati.”

“Cincinnati?” His stoic face betrays a flash of confusion.

“Just a quick trip. I was trying to think of the kind of things you’d want to do this weekend if you could plan it yourself, so I had to think like a guy. Here’s what I came up with:

1. Sleep in.
2. Watch the Buckeye game from start to finish, in a room with a big-screen TV. No interruptions.
3. Take a nap.
4. Eat a giant lobster/steak combo at the best restaurant in town.
5. Drink Kentucky bourbon.

Everything’s booked. We leave at 1PM.”

He smiles and says, “Ok.” And in 10 seconds, he’s snoozing.

~*~

I’ve always wanted to do this: Plan a weekend trip and just spring it on someone. It’s on my list of 36×37 assignments, and this is the only free weekend we have for a while, so there’s no time like the present.

Our room at The Westin Cincinnati doesn’t exactly say “Welcome. Your romantic getaway awaits you.” It’s more, “You’re here with your boss! Enjoy the mini bar!” But aside from the corporate veneer, there’s a big screen TV for the football. Plus, there’s a bed with lots of fluffy white pillows, and that’s exactly where I plan to take my post half-time nap.

courtesy of starwoodhotels.com

~*~

The Buckeyes win, because of course they would. We celebrate at Jeff Ruby’s Waterfront, a five-star restaurant nestled on the Covington, KY edge of the Ohio River. At night it looks like this:

google image, source unknown

The restaurant has a South Beach, Miami theme. When we walk past the tables to our cozy, C-shaped booth, the peach and gold interior makes me wonder if I should have tracked down some Delta Burke, 80’s era shoulder pads rather than this little black dress.

A beautiful blonde approaches the table. “Hello, and welcome to Jeff Ruby’s Waterfront. Would you like to see our wine list?” GB orders Maker’s Mark and I order a nice Pinot Grigio.

When we’re alone again, GB whispers, “Have you noticed how everyone is sitting side by side in these booths? It’s creepy.”

He’s right. Each couple sits shoulder to shoulder, watching the skyline on the waterfront. GB is weirded out by what he clearly perceives to be PDA, rather than the logistics of enjoying a beautiful view. I only notice that none of the couples are talking to or even looking at each other. They seem bored. Absent, maybe. Or something even worse. I feel like a spotlight shines on something I don’t really want to notice.

The beautiful blonde server returns. “Hello, and welcome to Jeff Ruby’s Waterfront,” she says. “Can I answer your questions about our house specialties?” I almost choke on my Pinot Grigio because she has just introduced herself again…and then it hits me: she’s a different beautiful blonde, who happens to look exactly like the other one.

~*~

GB and I spend the rest of the evening laughing together and enjoying the spectacular food. He orders the Barrel-cut Filet Mignon and twice-baked potato, and I order the Cider-brined Pork Chop with granny smith apple compote and baked cavatappi. Later, I order the cheesecake and (for the first time in my life) can’t finish it.

But that’s not what I’ll remember about this weekend. Instead, I’ll remember the bored, overstuffed couples and their vacant faces—how they dolled up for a night on the town, then made no effort to take advantage of it.

I don’t know. This does not sit well with me. It makes me cagey. Nervous. Ready to rail against an abstract future. Plus, it makes me think of something an old boss said to me once, just before GB and I tied the knot. He’d married once before, divorced after two children, and then married a much younger woman. “Nah. Marriage isn’t hard. It’s easy. Like football. A smart man will follow his wife’s playbook, work his ass off to get to the next down, and try his damndest not to fumble.”

Whatever that means. Men and their sports analogies.

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Side Story: The Dell Goes Down

Laptop: En fuego. (courtesy of geekology.com)

My laptop is dead.

And when I say “dead,” I don’t mean it in the way my iPhone was dead last week. I really think it’s done this time. For real.

I was working nicely, minding my own business, when I got a black screen, a blue screen, and then nothing at all. With a frenzied, “No. No, no, no, nonononono!” I called my company’s technical support line and described what I was seeing. The guy on the other line didn’t say much. Just this: “It sounds like your Dell went down.”

…like I’d been manning a boat that had capsized, and I’d jumped ship.

I wanted to say to the guy that I’ve been down this road with my laptop before. Every once in a while, it waits until I’m crazy-busy at work, then kicks out and goes on vacation. So I hand it to the tech guys, and they wipe and rebuild it. When it comes back to me, it’s all relaxed and ready to go, like it just spent a few days at some lush resort for aging technology.

But this time? I think it just handed me its resignation and threw itself a retirement party.

So I’m typing on GB’s laptop. And I’m offering you two Roadside Shoes! while I look for a laptop replacement.

~*~

Columbus Roadside Shoe! This first shoe comes to us from my neighbor, Caryn. I like that she’s been tracking the progress of her Roadside Shoe since late summer, and sent me this picture a few days ago.

Courtesy of my friend Caryn

“It’s been fun to track the boot’s status over the past 2+ months,” she wrote. “Someone made the effort to move it off the road and someone cleaned up the political signs trapped under it earlier this month. Why didn’t they go ahead and just take the boot? Actually, I’m glad no one did before I got its picture. Enjoy!”

Caryn is awesome. A fabulous mom, and a truly good person. Not a bad photographer either.

~*~

London Roadside Shoe! My fabulous bloggy friend Sunshine of Sunshine in London is my London Roadside Shoe! correspondent. You may remember that Sunshine submitted the “Tawdry Roadside Shoe!” several weeks ago. And now, she’s gone above and beyond with this most excellent installment.

Courtesy of Sunshine in London

“I almost forgot about this:” she wrote. “On our way home from Ian Shaw’s concert on Saturday night, I spotted this Roadside Shoe! from the top deck of a double-decker bus! We were somewhere around Hoxton or Shoreditch in the east of London, and this was soon after midnight. The shoe is on TOP of a bus stop, along side what looks like a blanket. There was also a little doll on the far side of the bus stop, but I couldn’t focus my camera quickly enough through the bus window.

“So. A genuine, London, Roadside Shoe! Why one? And why on top of the bus stop?”

Sunshine has a knack for zooming in on the interesting and unusual—it’s one of the things I love most about her always witty, always interesting and well-written blog. That’s why I’m not at all surprised that her eagle eye was keen enough to spot such a Roadside Shoe! in such an excellent location. Nicely done, Sunshine. Top notch! (Do yourself a favor–visit Sunshine in London today.)

Have a Roadside Shoe!? Send it to 36x37blog@gmail.com. I’ll feature your shoe pic here, and if you have a blog, I’ll pimp that, too.

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Side Story: Fun Facts About Robots. No, I’m serious.

It’s not that I don’t have anything to write about, because actually I do. I completed a big 36×37 assignment this weekend, and I’m still working on the angle I want to take with the story.

So. Since I’m mulling things over, I asked the boys to come up with a topic for today’s post, and here’s what they gave me: Weird facts about robots.

Fine.

• In 1939, Westinghouse made Elektro, the world’s first humanoid robot. That seven-foot-tall walking machine had a whopping 700 word vocabulary. Hot, right? It must be, because it was featured in the 1960 B movie Sex Kittens Go to College, featuring Conway Twitty.
• Robots have their own trade union in Japan.
• By the way, here’s what the Japanese are working on:

google image courtesy of jeffkatz.typepad.com

(See other photos and videos of giant robot statues.) 

• A table tennis robot is your fastest way to an improved table tennis game. One week of steady practice with a robot equals about six months of practice against, say, a human. Do you know what this means? It means that robots want to play table tennis with us. Game on, Optimus Prime.
• Speaking of Transformers, Megan Fox is not real. She’s C-3PO in drag, and that explains why she’s so shiny and irritating.
• Robots don’t celebrate their birthdays.
• But they should. Because, wouldn’t you want to go to Plex’s (from Yo Gabba Gabba) birthday party? (DJ Lance Rock would be there.)

google image courtesy of coachhousegifts.com

• “Robot” comes from the Czech word “robota” which means “forced work or labor.” However, the name “Robert” means nothing of the sort.
• Radiohead’s “Paranoid Android” is fantastic.

• Hans Moravec, founder of Carnegie Mellon’s Robotics Institute, believes that robots will emerge as their own species by 2040, complete with feelings and expectations. Unlike those bitchy Fem-bots.

Ta da! Whatever the boys want, the mama delivers. Be sure to stop by tomorrow. Assignment #20 was a good one, and I can’t wait to tell you about it.

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Side Story: The Idiot in the Apple Store

Apple Store, Easton town Center, courtesy of apple.com

I’ve been to the Apple Store twice. I made an ass of myself on both occasions.

The first time was in the Fall of 2001. My girlfriends and I wanted to visit the new Fashion District at Easton Town Center. We talked our husbands into joining us by promising dinner and a trip to the Apple Store, where they could geek out at will, because that’s what boys do in a room full of gleaming technology.

It was the store’s Grand Opening, and it was packed. Everyone was playing with PowerBooks, iPods, Mac OS X and who knows what else. My friends dispersed until every one of them had something in their hands or at their fingertips.

I wandered around a bit until I spotted an empty MacBook. Since my friends were all engrossed in whatever, I picked up the mouse and started clicking.

“I wonder if I can check my e-mail from here,” I thought. “Oh! I can! Hooray!”

12 new messages. I settled in, caught up on a few things, sent a few notes, then stood up and stretched.

That’s when I noticed the Apple Store employee to my left. “Hi!” he said.

“Hello!” I answered. And because I had nothing else to say, I added, “I love this system. It makes me think of my old Mac.” That Mac had been the only good thing about the job I’d just left.

“I’m glad you like it,” the guy said kindly. “Can I use it? It’s our cash register.”

And that, friends, was my first idiot move in the Apple Store.

~*~

courtesy of farm3.static.flicker.com

Now it’s a Friday in November. It’s 2010. And my iPhone is deader than dead.

My sorrow is unspeakable. I did everything I could to save my phone, from holding down the power-off button, to defibrillating by charger, saying prayers and getting angry. I would have tried rescue breaths and compressions if GB hadn’t urged me to walk away.

Alas and alack, it is gone. Nothing short of a miracle will bring it back. Still, I’m back in the Apple Store, because you never know what sort of shaman magic these techies have up their sleeves.

The space is still gleaming and beautiful, even nine years later. There’s more wood grain than plastic now. More demo tables, too. Fewer display racks, but still just as packed. I look around for a customer service counter or a cash wrap, and find nothing of the sort. Just blue-shirted Apple Store employees milling around, and not one of them free to help the helpless.

Eventually, I spot an available employee. Her name tag says “Jen.”

“Hi Jen. My iPhone is dead,” I say in a sad, sad voice.

“Really? What happened?” she asks in honest concern.

“I used it, then I charged it, then it passed away in its sleep.”

She takes my phone from my hands and pats it nicely. Then she holds down a button and it starts back up. “There you go,” she says sweetly. “Back to life!”

Oh, gasp! And gasp again! My iPhone has pulled a Jesus!

“How did you do that?” I ask in rapt, dramatic astonishment.

“I pressed the sleep/wake button at the top right—here—and the home button—here—all at the same time.” (Here are the online instructions.)

“And that’s it?”

“And that’s it.”

She doesn’t tell me I’m an idiot, because she knows I already know.

This time, though, ask me if I care.

I hold up my humming little phone and think, “Oh, look at you! So cute! Let’s buy you a big boy outfit.” We find the wall of iPhone accessories, and buy him this sporty little red number.

google image courtesy of madeipod.co.uk

And now my iPhone is back in business. Life and death and a return to the pocket? It’s all in a day’s work.

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Side Story: Big Day for Gus!

My dad, O, H and my mom

When I was a little girl, my dad’s voice was my alarm clock. I’d hear him belting out a song from the shower just below my childhood bedroom.

Up in the morning out on the job
Work like the devil for my paaaaaay
And that lucky old sun has nothing to do
But roll around heaven all daaaaaay

He has the nicest baritone, and he still uses it to make himself laugh. When I still lived at home, he sang the silliest songs while making coffee. I’d chuckle my way down the steps.

At night, he’d come home, shout a cheerful hello and pull off his tie on the way upstairs. My brother and I would creep into his room and say, “Daddy, make your feet smoke!” He’d raise an eyebrow and rub his stocking feet together until a puff of foot powder snaked into the air. “I worked so hard, my feet are on fire.” he’d deadpan, and we’d laugh all over ourselves.

When I was a teenager, he told me it was time to take a class in music appreciation. (It didn’t matter that I’d studied classical piano and choral music for years.) We spent the evening listening to Ravel’s Bolero, Rossini’s William Tell Overture, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and some Billy Joel for good measure. He’d punctuate the music with “Listen to those horns!” “Here come the drums.” And, “Those speakers sound great!”

In fact, he always did—and still does—have a thing for speakers. He likes to show them off at Christmas parties, and he’s quite protective of them. A few years ago, he searched the house for a few small missing items and found them stuffed in his subwoofers—which had apparently become my older son’s makeshift toy box.  My dad thought that was hilarious, but gently made it clear that speakers do not a toy box make.

My dad loves to garden. When I was little, he let me water his rose bushes while he weeded the other beds. “Just give them a nice, long drink,” he’d say, and when I’d ask him how long, he’d say, “Until they stop looking thirsty.” Now, when my boys ask to water our roses, we have the same conversation.

At Christmas and on his birthday, when I ask him what he wants, he waves me off with a “Nothing!” and launches into George Carlin’s old “Stuff” routine.

We usually buy him grilling utensils, stacks of non-fiction, or a subscription to The New York Times. Today, on his 71^st birthday, I’m writing him a post to say I love you, Big Guy. Have a very happy day.

(P.S. Don’t worry, The New York Times will be there in the morning, too.)

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