Tag Archives: dad

August 2, 2026 · 12:09 pm

August 1, 2026

I was originally going to title this post as “I attended a funeral on my 28th wedding anniversary while reading poetry.”

I also thought about the title, “What is life if all we do is die?”

Instead I dated the post, because it was yesterday, and now it is a memory. I read a book of poetry, had a lovely dinner with my wife, and have a program from the funeral. I am driven to write a blog post about why any of it matters. (Yes, I thought of writing a poem, but the muse is indicating this is a blog post about connecting dots.)

So let me explain the dots.

First, I am doing the Sealy Challenge: reading a book of poetry everyday in August. Yesterday I read Today Means Amen by Sierra DeMulder. Today I am reading Dragging Sand Creek for Minnows by William Kloefkorn. I’ll come back to the poetry later.

Second, yesterday was our 28th anniversary. We had dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, The Odyssey. (The best bread pudding dessert. It was lemon blueberry this time!) Of course we talked about the last 28 years, but the funeral we attended in the morning was the main conversation topic.

Third dot, the funeral of my wife’s aunt, age 83. She was the youngest of seven children. The church was filled with family. She had 10 children of her own, 27 grandchildren and 38 great-grandchildren. I am always amazed at the size of my wife’s side of our family. 

The last page of the program summarized 83 years of her life. There was a table at the luncheon that had photo albums and the wedding album of her aunt’s marriage. Especially at lunch the air was filled with stories, and with tears and hugs.

August 1, 2026, was a day that reinforced the foundation of what this life is really about. Love expressed through living every day.

Here’s what I mean on a deeper level with the three dots. My wife’s aunt’s life was more than the five paragraphs on the back of the program, the family and generations in the church was evidence of what she did, how she lived.

The poems I read, and the ones I’m reading today, gave me a glimpse of the poet’s heart, of their lives. As a poet, I know the vulnerability of writing, of crafting a verse that reflects the heart.

Twenty-eight years of marriage. Our own six children, the ups and downs present in the everyday, the love it takes to build a home, to build a life. It takes time and heart.

There will come a day when someone will try to summarize my years on this earth on the last page of the program for my funeral. There will probably be some photo albums, too. And my children will share stories, and maybe even my best dad jokes or even read some of my poems. But that day will simply be the accumulation of the days I tried my best to live this life with love. Love of the written word. Love of my wife, children, and friends. Love of having ordinary days to show that love.

August 1, 2026, was one of those days…

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July 14, 2026 · 12:13 pm

Home is a Tree

I felt sorry for trees

Stuck in one place

Never exploring the world

Until I noticed that

They are closer to Heaven then I

This poem / observation was jotted down in my note app as I was on my walk. I also took this picture to reinforce the idea.

One of the reasons I like to walk everyday is the mental aspect, the way my mind can drift and be inspired by the world around me. As I continued on my walk I thought about how much a home is like a tree.

On average, most people (6 out of 10) live within 100 miles of their home town. And most of them are only 30 miles away (2022 Census).

Even wind-dispersed seeds of trees travel just over a mile, but can reach 18 miles.

I thought about how my desire to create a stable home for my own family influenced aspects of my personal life, my goals. One of the biggest aspects has been coaching, specifically football. But also my writing goals. This town is not a poetic mecca by any means.

But the thing about trees is that they are beautiful in their strength and characteristics; leaf shape, color, and their bark patterns. Trees withstand the seasons by changing with the weather. 

We have been in this particular house for 15 years. My three oldest children are out in the world, two are over 100 miles away while one is in town. I have three more children at home, one of them will be a senior and ready to make the decision of which college to attend. 

I do not know where the wind will take my children, but they know where home is. It is a strong blue house… sitting pretty close to heaven.

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July 5, 2026 · 7:49 pm

A Thousand Blueberry Muffins

I am only a few months away from turning 55. 

I have 21 years left if I live to the national age of death.

That means I have 1,092 batches of blueberry muffins left.

Time can be measured in so many different ways. Our lives are filled with milestones, beginnings and endings. At times our lives seem so routine, while at other times it feels like chaos rules. We feel anger. We laugh. There is pain and discovery. There is life.

But time moves forward. In two years I will have only one child left living at home, and less than a thousand batches of blueberry muffins to make. 

Honestly, as I consider these upcoming milestones, I am sad, reflective, and grateful that I have built a tradition that my life, my children’s life, could anchor to in good and troubled times. No matter what time has in store for me, for my family, we have at least 1,092 batches of blueberry muffins to enjoy.

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June 6, 2026 · 11:42 am

What of a Front Door?

I took my daily walk pretty early this morning. The air still held the smell and coolness of the rain storm last night. The streets in my neighborhood were empty except for a lawn care crew I would pass later in my walk.

As it happens on my walks I started to think about things, I was running through the appointments I needed to make on Monday. I then thought I should see when my dad was free this summer so I could coordinate a visit. That took me to thoughts of my mom (who passed away June 9, 2023). I happened to look at the house on my left. There was a wood door hanger with a summer design. I smiled as I thought my mom would have liked the front door.

In the past, when my parents would visit us, we would always take a walk together. They would comment on the front doors (and the trees, but that is for another post). My parents enjoyed looking at the designs and decorations of front doors.  My mom especially liked front doors that were bold in color. 

So, in her honor I paid attention to the front doors on my walk. There were doors with cool etched glass, front doors with no sidelights, one sidelight, and matching sidelights. There was a house with a lime green front door. My mom would have liked that. Other doors had summer wreaths, or had accent decorations like wooden planks with ‘Welcome’ painted on it leaning against the wall. We have a flower wooden hanger, even.

There were no two doors alike in my neighborhood. Paying attention to the doors was fun, and brought back memories of my parents. Of the walks we would take after Thanksgiving dinners, or the first time they visited a new home when we moved. 

But what of a front door? 

My wife has a wooden hanger for each season that we place on our front door (and take off during storms because it knocks against the door). Our front doors are a small message to the world about who we are. If we are welcoming, if we are simple or grand in our approach. Bold colors, glass etchings, other accent decorations reveal at least a little something about our home, about us to the world outside.

This morning, I paid attention to the front doors of my neighbors, and I think, understood my parents a little more. Of course looking back it is easier to see things, but they were always welcoming to people, and one of them was me. I know I was blessed to have them open their front door to a lost and troubled 16 year-old.

What of a front door? It is the way home.

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August 10, 2025 · 6:58 pm

No Blueberry Muffins

Faithful readers know that on Sunday we make blueberry muffins for breakfast. That almost didn’t happen today.

First a little backstory. Yesterday (Saturday) my wife’s sister hosted a couple’s shower for my oldest son and his fiancee. It was a good day of fellowship with family and friends. And there was a fantastic brunch; two types of breakfast casserole, biscuits and gravy, homemade cinnamon rolls, and a variety of fruit. One of the trays was decorated with pieces of pineapple and watermelon hearts on skewers. 

Of course there were leftovers. We came home with a small pan of breakfast casserole, biscuits and gravy, and a dozen cinnamon rolls. (My wife’s family always makes enough that you take home some leftovers!)

Last night as my wife and I talked about the day and the plan for breakfast on Sunday, the idea of just using the leftovers was a tempting option. But in my head I thought, ‘but it is Sunday, we make muffins and scrambled eggs and sausage.’ Plus, all our children would be at breakfast. That hasn’t happened in a long time.

I said that we should make our traditional blueberry muffin breakfast. My wife agreed. So, we got up early to make the muffins, but we still warmed up the breakfast casserole. A few of the kids added a cinnamon roll to their plates. And the morning was filled with laughter and conversation. We were a full family at the table.

Now, I understand that offering just the leftovers would have been fine. But blueberry muffins are a tradition. And sometimes, you have to work at keeping traditions. It is one of the ironies of life, how easy it is to do the easy thing and break traditions, or good habits you have fostered.

Our daily life is filled with moments that challenge us to choose an easy option, or an option that takes a little more work or energy, but has a better payoff and builds stronger bonds. Or, in our case continue a tradition that is central to our family. Blueberry muffins on Sunday morning.

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January 27, 2025 · 11:26 am

Older Blog Post 4 (Communicate)

Dadlife… it is amazing to look back at these moments knowing how my children have grown. But also how the lessons from these moments still hold true… Original post is from April 2010.

“Communicate”

            It was 1:10 in the morning and my 4-month-old daughter is antsy. I get up and find the pacifier. No go. She spits it out. I try again. She settles down. I creep back to my bed. Pull the blanket over me and feel the quiet darkness of sleep fill my mind.

            “Augghrrr, Augghrrr, whaaaa,” she cries.

            With a sigh only a frustrate parent knows, I head back to the crib. I try the pacifier again, but she is not settling down. OK, diaper? I set her down and get a clean diaper on her.  Lay her down, repeat the bed, cover, darkness of sleep and she repeats her audible noise of discontent.

            My wife groggily suggests a 4-ounce bottle. So, I head upstairs. I am actually waking up by this time. My wife feeds her, I fall back asleep. 

            In a blur of slumber and frustration, my daughter wakes me up. It is now 1:36. I go for the pacifier, again. We fall into a pacifier, spit it out, pacifier; spit it out routine with a few of those frustrated sighs thrown in for fun.

            I pick her up. In the darkness, I can see her looking at me. Then her eyes close.  For the next five minutes, I rock her in my arms. Victory. I lay her down, check the pacifier and head to my pillow.

            1:52. My frustration level is now high. But I squash it. Let out a good 30-second sigh and head to the crib. Next trick is laying her on her belly. This time it works. With a last little sigh, from her, the night continues.

            As a fall asleep, I think about how much easier it would be if she could only tell me what she wants, or what is bugging her. My mind wanders about that idea, about how many of life’s hardships are based on this premise. The ability to communicate. To communicate truthfully. To simply express what is bugging us. To tell the people around us what we need. Many times, we are afraid of what will happen if we do. What will the other person think? Does this make me look weak? Do I have the words to actually express what I am feeling?

            I see the negative consequences of not communicating in the classroom and in life. I see people just continue to be “antsy” and live everyday in a constant agitated state, simply because they will not or cannot communicate what they need. 

            I hear my little girl sleeping soundly, I had figured out what she wanted. But, I cannot wait until she can tell me in her own words.

            4:50 a.m.  It is the alarm clock this time.  I restrain from telling the clock what I feel this morning….

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January 21, 2025 · 8:24 am

Older Blog Post 2 (Happiness)

Looking back on these older posts have been a personal challenge. This post from Feb 4, 2008, is an interesting look back on my teaching career and the challenges of being a father.

“Happiness”

Lately in class, Happiness is a sub-theme of some of the literature I am teaching.  Gretchen Rubin is doing a Happiness project that she will present in a book this year.  Recently, I filled out a 25 Fact Note project on Facebook, one of my posts was that I was not as happy as people think. There is a long story that goes with that post, but this entry is not about my past. It is about Happiness and the destruction of it.

I experienced unadulterated happiness this morning. My littlest girl is about three months old.  She smiles and coos regularly now. She loves to have her feet rubbed. It sends her into a rush of smiles and flaying arms and legs. When I get close to her and start to speak, she searches for me with her eyes. When she finds me, she unleashes a smile and tries to sit up to get closer to me. Happiness rushes through me as a father. I can see the outward expression on her face that she is happy.

            My oldest child is now eight. He is smart as a whip. So much that I have to be careful of what I say because he can argue a point by using my words against me. Lately, he has not been happy. Most of the reason for that is me. My expectations I have for him.  My wife says we are too alike. She is correct. I have been working on my side of the relationship.  However, what hit home was a picture on my desk. 

            A couple of nights ago as I was paying bills, I looked up as I was doing math in my head and glanced up to a picture of me reading to my oldest son when he was about a year old. He is outright laughing, pure happiness. What happen?

What happen to my students? Many days I stand in front of the class and look out to a sea of faces that show no joy. Pure happiness is a rare occasion. Even when they are engaged in the lesson, I hear hollowness to the laughter, a slight downward tint to their smiles. What happen?

            I know that the answer is only visible through each student’s life. But as a father and as a teacher I think I know my role in the destruction of their happiness. Pressure. All kinds of pressure. 

            With my youngest happiness is based on two things. 

One: I see you. 

Two: Interactions.

As I look at my relationship as a father with my oldest, I see two things. 

One: I see you, usually in a critical way. 

Two: Interaction, mostly, do what I say, or hurry up, or some other form of pressure based on my expectations of how I want my children to act. 

You think I would learn. When I am at my best as a dad I interact with my oldest on the simple level of happiness. 

One: I see you and love you. 

Two: Interact by showing that. 

Then we both experience happiness  (not to mention we get weird looks at K-mart because of our laughter).

      As a teacher it is more complicated. I have pressure from all kinds of sources. I know that I pass that on to the class. I don’t mean to, but it happens. Yet, if we look inside the classroom, why do students raise their hands? They want to be seen and interacted with.  Why do they show us their work as we walk around the room? They want to been seen and interacted with. Can I bring real happiness to my classroom, I don’t know. But I will see and try. One student at a time.

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November 3, 2024 · 8:31 pm

Wasting Time

Friday afternoon my youngest daughter and I played “How Close to the Ceiling Can You Throw the Ball?” A childhood classic!

As we dealt with errant throws and bad attempts at catching the ball when it ricocheted off the ceiling, we made up a crazy theory game, “Theory has it…”

“Theory has it you already missed the catch.”

“Theory has it that you are an elephant on another planet.”

“Theory has it you met Taylor Swift in elementary school.” (She’s a Swifty.)

The theory game got super silly, there were a few good throws at the ceiling, but we spent a lot of time getting up from the floor to retrieve the purple Pizza Ranch ball. There were no phones or screens (we would play Minecraft later). We wasted a lot of time that afternoon. Wasted time on us. Wasted time feeling joy.

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May 30, 2024 · 3:19 pm

Meeting Death

This is an essay I wrote. It was not accepted for publication but I still wanted to share it.


“Meeting Death”

I finally met death in June of 2023. 

OK, I didn’t meet death personally, but I knew he was outside my mother’s hospital room. I could feel him standing there, like a cowboy. Leaning against the wall, one leg up, bent with his foot against the wall. Hood draped over his head, hand casually holding his scythe, just waiting.

Over the years, Death has taken some important people from my life. My grandmother when I was in high school. A beloved principal I worked with for almost a decade. Maybe the most gut wrenching was the death of a former student. She was killed by a drunk driver who had a suspended license because of seven DUIs. It was her freshman year in college.

So I knew the heartache death brings to us, but I had never met him. Until my mother was admitted to the hospital, fighting colon cancer that had taken over almost every part of her body. I rushed 500 miles to see her. A trip I knew well because I had traveled that route home since April of 2023 every couple of weeks. Yes, you counted correctly, three months.

When my wife and I arrived at the hospital, I felt the difference in the air. The hallways seemed darker on the edges. As we hugged family members in the waiting room there was a silent moment when we broke the embrace. A lingering hand on the shoulder. A simple nod. Death had removed his name from our mind, but we knew…I knew Death was there.

So did my mom. I am still haunted by the way her eyes turned back time when we said good night. I saw her as a child afraid of the dark. She gripped my sister’s hand like a child crossing the street for the first time. Of course she said she would be fine alone. But her eyes pleaded for us not to go. The hospital was quiet. Visiting hours had ended, but the nurses didn’t rush us off. My wife and I had not checked into our hotel yet. My brother had taken my dad home so he could get some rest. My sister’s family was supposed to arrive soon. The nurses would be there if she needed anything.

I was torn. And to this day I feel like I should have stayed, even though Death did not visit her that night. At the time I didn’t think he would, I didn’t feel him waiting in the hallway, and that influenced my decision to leave and get checked into our hotel.

The next morning the sun was shining bright as I walked into my mom’s room. But it only created dark shadows in the corners. I caught my breath as I thought I saw the blade of Death’s scythe catch a ray of the sun, but it was only the metal part of my mom’s IV. I spent most of the day by mom’s side. Holding her hand, talking to her when she was awake.

I am a poet. And poetry helps me understand the world. As the day turned to night, I had a refrain play in my head, “while death waits.” Which became a poem and the title of my latest collection of poetry. But at the time I was emotionally trying to keep Death in the hallway. He could lean against the wall all he wanted. I was going to be a son for as long as I could.

And Death did wait. He waited until I was back home to take my mom. Death waited until she was home.

My mom was released Sunday afternoon from the hospital. Her body had found a state of being that allowed her to go home. Hospice care was arranged, a new bed was being delivered to the house later in the week. That Wednesday she had a good report from the doctor. The chemo seemed to be working, in the sense of allowing her to have more time. Death does not believe in time.

My dad called Friday morning. I remember the sky was so blue as he shared that mom had passed away earlier that morning as he sat by her bedside. I wanted to ask if he had seen Death in the shadows, but there were too many tears between us. 

In September of 2023, my wife lost her mom. My mother-in-law was at home with her husband by her side. They live in the same town as us. That last month, my wife spent many nights with her mom and dad. I’ve never had the courage to ask my wife if she felt Death waiting in the house. 

Because I know now that Death doesn’t actually wait.

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April 12, 2024 · 11:10 am

Choose Your Reaction

I have had three moments recently that reinforced the power of choosing my reactions to situations. Did I make the right choice? Overall I think so, but let me share these three dots…

First situation was a few days ago. It was time for dinner but our youngest daughter was not home. She is 10 years old. We knew where she was, she had ridden her bike to a friend’s house about eight blocks away. Frustration started to boil in my chest as the food was almost ready to serve and there was no sign of my daughter.

I decided to take the car to go get her. In my head I was mad because she should know to come home around 6 p.m. because we usually eat at that time. But then I thought of the fact that she does not have a phone or even a watch. Also, the weather is getting nice, she is a kid playing with a friend… time has no influence on her, just me.

I saw them on the driveway playing some kind of ball game. I rolled down the window. The moment had come to decide how I was going to handle the moment. Yell at her? Lecture her about being responsible?

“Time for dinner!” I said.

“OK,” she replied, smiling. She hugged her friend then got on her bike. She peddled next to me as I told her how fast she was going.

As we sat down to dinner she told me that she had asked her friend’s dad to let her know when it was 6:15 so that she would come home in time for dinner.

Second moment was yesterday at track practice.

I chose to yell. OK, more like raised my voice and brought out my frustrated energy.

Now, I did not yell at a single athlete or put anyone down. But I stood in the middle of the discus ring while the throwers stood around me. Their attitude and focus was shabby as they did some power throws. No left arm. Not smashing the bug (turning the right foot). Being smooth with their release… discuses were wobbly or 90 degrees. I was frustrated that the fundamentals were lacking, especially since this was the seventh week of the season. I let them know.

I am not a coach that yells. I stay pretty level, even when good things happen. I needed their attention. I got it. Practice afterwards was much better regarding focus and execution of the fundamentals.

The last moment was just this morning. My third daughter (age 14) came to my room before school started. She was obviously in a bad mood. As a dad I asked about it. (I know all you parents are already reacting… wrong move.) She replied that the question was annoying and put her earbuds back in.

My first reaction was to match her energy back at her. But I pushed the frustration down. I told her I was asking because I cared. She didn’t respond back. I continued to get ready for the day. My chest was still a little warm, but reminded myself that she was a teen, it was the morning. (I swear I didn’t say a single word to my second son in the morning all through high school.) 

I went to get a ladder because I had to put up some posters my students made, when I returned my daughter asked if she could help. She wanted to climb the ladder. She took some funny pictures and helped me put up the posters. 

Our emotions rise quickly in any situation, positive or negative. And there is nothing wrong with the emotions, but how we react to the situation and to the emotion dictates the outcome. My relationship with my daughters could have been bruised if I had yelled at them. My athletes needed a wake up call.

We do have a choice on how we react. It makes all the difference in some of the most important moments of our lives.

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