365 days ago Cindy and I made a decision that has since twisted the wind of our lives. I stepped online a tentative writer, but thanks in large part to a bustling comment section I was able to find my voice rather early. Those first few weeks were awkward for sure; I a Freshman trying to find the right table to sit at. I was fortunate enough to make a few friends early - one who has become a permanent fixture of my everyday life.

As filled with reward as this last year has been, it has also been the hardest of my life.

My son was born five years ago. He was then just as he is now; bright, beautiful and beguiling, though he did not yet possess the vocabulary to confirm our suspicions. Despite his amiable nature, he fought for his place with every fiber, handing us a year fraught with complications.

That year lingered, occupied by endless nights of crying as we nursed newborn to boy by forever attending to his bottomless need. Those early months were crowded with just enough struggle to point us toward a path that headed for a different horizon.

And here we are.

This last year lingered, occupied by endless days of writing as we we nursed newborn to name brand by forever attending to its bottomless need. Those early months were crowded with just enough reward to promise we were pointed toward the proper path and our horizon was sure.

In many ways the first year with our son prepared us for this last year of growth. We look at our boy now, a half decade taller, certain every drop of sweat was well spent. Infancy is difficult; attending to the endless needs of someone too little to say “I love you.” The beginnings of Writer Dad have been every bit as hard. I have poured 100% of myself into this site and every satellite project we hold in the hope that I will soon justify my family’s unfailing belief in me.

To celebrate Writer Dad’s first birthday, I would like to share a few of those things currently filling my dreams with the most helium. Please pick one you are not yet familiar with and enjoy. If you already have a favorite, please pass it forward to someone who might enjoy it just as much.

These are our balloons.

Collective Inkwell. The Inkwell is the online space shared between myself and David Wright (Blogger Dad), my online partner and constant collaborator. It is where we each share our ideas on writing and creativity as well as offer our services for copy, web design and branding. We have extraordinary plans for the Inkwell spread across the next several months and I cannot wait to see them to fruition. I am lucky to have a partner as talented, funny and creative as David. If we do even half the things we’ve discussed, it will be difficult to ever stop smiling.

Children Write the Future. In September, this site will soar. Right now the majority of words are passed behind the curtain. There is a thriving community within the email newsletter (monthly tips and writing prompts for children). Cindy and I have read some of the most wonderful pieces of writing from some truly individual voices. As the Inkwell is an online studio for Dave and myself, so is Children Write the Future for me and Cindy. For the teachers inside us, there is nothing on our plate near as rewarding.

Four Seasons. Four Seasons is a collection of twelves short stories, each taking place in a different month.  Each tale’s events are unique to their time, and should each one assemble toward something special. They are written minus an outline and I never know where the tale is going to turn from one month to the next. At the end of December, the twelve tales will be rewritten and joined together into a single book. As of last month, Dave has joined the project because, quite frankly, he makes my writing better.

Cindy Platt dotcom. This one isn’t really mine, but it fills my world with helium anyway. CindyPlatt.com is at a slow burn while my fair lady does the endless duty of taking care of our children seven days a week so I can stay upstairs like Dr. Frankenstein waiting to scream, “It’s ALIVE!” Come September, both our children will be at the same school for five days a week for the first time - all her brainstorms will shower.

Potty Training Power. The potty training system and attached blog are a branding product of the Inkwell. The blog offers tips, tricks and plenty of sound advice for potty training your child. The product is all kinds of awesome that includes a potty training ebook, potty training charts, a potty training quick tips companion ebook, an illustrated picture ebook called Number One and Two it! (written by me, drawn by Dave, and totally adorable) along with a companion video. All in addition to a couple of bonuses and full email support from Cindy and myself so we can help hold your hand through the potty training process. We’ve spent the last month polishing it to a shine, today is its official relaunch.

Available Darkness. I don’t have words for how cool this project is turning out. This debuted over at the Inkwell. Available Darkness is genre bending serialized fiction co-written by Dave and I with a new chapter unveiled each Friday. Behind the curtain, the story is nearing completion. We have big plans for the franchise, including ink later this year.

Ghostwriter Dad. My little spot on the web where I trade words for dollars with a smile on my face. I don’t get the byline, but I do get to play with language. Some of my business is SEO copy, but I also write love letters, wedding vows, fiction, speeches, and have even written a few (surprisingly satisfying) letters of complaint. Sometimes it is a joy to simply fade behind the copy. The homepage offers my services, but I write once or twice a week on the blog about the experience of being a ghostwriter. You can subscribe to the feed here.

One year back my best friend and I bolted our eyes and dared to dream. We no longer wished to live a life spent running around the track, craving a future of limitless sky instead of low ceiling. We have our sky and we have our helium. These are our balloons.

Writer Dad

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Today’s guest post is from Lori Hoeck, author of the awesome Think Like a Black Belt blog. It might be new, but it’s also the best self defense blog around. Lori has also authored the wonderful ebook, Think Like a Black Belt. I’ve read it and would recommend it to anyone with children as it is brimming with practical points of discussion to keep parents mindful and their children safe.

Lori, it’s all yours…

You’ve seen them before in stores, at your kid’s school, in the line for movies:
Spoiled kids who rule the roost with anger and pouting
Manipulative kids playing “I’m so afraid (sick, tired, hungry,) that I can’t do that” game
Passive aggressive kids with the obliging smile who end up dragging their feet
Overly excited or talkative kids who need constant input, attention, or action
Shy kids who won’t look anyone in the eye

I’ve had them all as karate students. And if the parents didn’t give up or interfere, most of these kinds of kids turned out just fine as respectful, confident, and self-disciplined karate students with the help of quality martial arts training.

Here are three reasons why:

Consistency

At the last school I taught (I’m semi-retired now), the top seven, high-level black belt instructors all taught differently in their own classes in regards to style and teaching methods. We were all constant, though, in teaching martial arts discipline, respect, and technical excellence based on the rank of students. Everyone knew the boundaries and expectations.

When the message, rules, and values all match up, children use the calming, reinforcing consistency to create a foundation and safety net from which they can climb to amazing heights.

Respect the big picture

When new students walk into a training floor, they may have a white belt around their waist, but I see a black belt. I see someone who is soon going to be disciplined, confident, determined, street savvy, and skilled in self defense. In many cases, I have far more respect for them than they have for themselves. My job is to make them believe in themselves and the training process enough to push past the physical, mental, and emotional barriers separating them from the black belt rank.

When someone believes in children that much, expects the best from them, and is willing to motivate them when they need a little boost – and do this for years – children naturally want to learn and grow and excel. They do even better if the adults around them model their own life and skills with integrity.

No games

I’ve had an 8 year old boy tried to sweet talk me like a slimier Eddie Haskell in the old TV show Leave it to Beaver.
I’ve watched 5 year old pout and cry and say she just couldn’t handle sweat.
I’ve seen teenagers say they will try their best and then goof off like the class clowns.

How do I handle these kids? I throw their game back in their face, sometimes rather hard. (None of the names used are real.) –

“Mitchell, I’m not one of the drug dealers and partiers your mom says she and you hang out with. You don’t need to play the “cutesy, lone kid trying to get adult attention” game with me. I’m your karate instructor. You just need to get in line, stop talking, and work hard.”

“Mary, you told me your heroes are the older boy and girl in the Chronicles of Narnia. Do you think they would mind a little sweat? Do you want to be like them or not? Then stop playing like you are a weak, little girl. You are a strong young lady and you know it. Act like it.”

“You three yellow belts have been goofing off in class. Perhaps this little game may get you attention from Mommy and Daddy and your teachers, but, trust me, you won’t like the kind of attention it will get you here. Besides, your example to the lower rank students shows you don’t care about the responsibility of your rank. Do you wish to try a white belt on again? I didn’t think so.”

—
To recap:

Consistent boundaries and expectations
Respectful, committed confidence in the child’s potential
Showing effort gets better results in the long run than manipulation

These three work well individually, but it’s when they overlap and combine with other techniques that the martial arts can be so effective in helping children find confidence, maturity, and emotional balance.

Check out Lori’s self defense book, “Think Like a Black Belt - Take Charge of Your Own Safety” today.

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Cletus was a country bear
who loved fresh and open country air,
and sky that reached so wide and far
he could sit and gaze on every star.

Cletus loved his life.  He praised the pace;
Preferred to stroll instead of race.
Quite content in his cozy town.
Comfort was his favorite noun.

His puppy pal Preston, from long before,
had always longed for something more.
One day he split - no glance behind -
in search of something new to find.

Preston was cheery, living deep in the city,
in a three room pad, both petite but pretty.
But the only glow that lit Preston’s sky
were the helicopters THWAP- THWAPPING by.

They stayed in touch, our dog and bear.
Of each other’s lives they stayed aware.
Cletus smiled and scratched his fleas
as he wrote about his life of ease.

One sunny day, Cletus went to the post.
and found a letter from Preston, who’d left his coast.
He was coming to visit and would be there real soon.
The following Tuesday, at a quarter to noon.

Cletus was beaming.  He loved his old friend
and all of the time that they used to spend,
just talking of nothing, then doing it all day,
until the last of the sun simply faded away.

Cletus cut some fresh flowers, made a big roast.
Then waited for Preston so he could play host.
The next Tuesday arrived and true to his word,
Preston flew in to town like a flurrying bird.

Cletus jumped up and down, then hugged his old friend.
He was super excited about the time they would spend.
Preston started to prattle, but his words flew too fast.
Like they were shoved in a cannon, ready to blast.

“Let’s go to a restaurant or take in a show.
The ball’s in your court, Cletus.  Where should we go?”
“Well, I don’t know, Preston,” Cletus said kind of slow.
“I was not thinking of any place we should go.

I was thinking that maybe we would just watch the sky,
so we could see the next hundred clouds that pass by.
Then when we’re done, we can sit on my stoop
as the sun goes away and the sunflowers droop.”

Preston just frowned.  He didn’t like this at all.
He wanted big and this sounded small.
“You should come to the city,” he told his old friend.
“Where the days go on long and the nights never end.

There’s so much to do and so much to see.
Let’s go to the city, Cletus.  Go there with me.”
An amiable bear, Cletus grinned and agreed,
and they headed for the city with immediate speed.

But Preston kept racing, and racing so fast,
that Cletus saw nothing of all the something they passed.
Preston laughed loudly.  “You’re not missing much.
Just ginormous fields of big blossoms and such.”

Cletus just sighed.  He really loved flowers.
He had been known to start sniffing, and lose track of his hours.
What kind of life must his old buddy lead?
Did he ever slow down; take some time just to read?

Had he ever spent one day preparing one meal,
reminding his taste buds just how they should feel?
Had he gone to bed early and rose before dawn,
so he could watch the first sunlight washing his lawn?

There were too many things you could easily miss
if you gave life a hug instead of a kiss.
Soon the country was gone, the sky shrank in size,
And buildings touched clouds in front of their eyes.

The sounds of the city were seriously splitting
to the ears of an old bear used to just sitting.
Cletus was large, but right then he felt small,
standing in the overshadowing shade of it all.

Preston was thrilled and he started to bark.
Cletus said, “We should get started before it gets dark.”
Preston placed a thrilled paw on his friend and then said,
“Don’t worry old bear, it’s a long time until bed.

About the time of the day, well buddy, you’re right,
but most of these places stay open all night.
We can start with some shopping, then sit down to eat.
I know this place that just opened.  We’ll go there - my treat.”

“Okay,” Cletus said as he followed along.
Everybody wants to feel as though they belong.
The two critters did everything Preston put on their list.
There was not even one thing that either had missed.

“Wasn’t that great!” Preston Pup said.
“Not really,” said Cletus, shaking his head.
“People are different.  No two are alike.
You love your car, but I love my bike.

I go to bed early and you stay out late.
You are impulsive.  I’m willing to wait.
You like excitement and I like things still.
I hike up mountains while you race down hill.

You love loud movies.  I’d rather read.
We are two different flowers from two different seeds.”
“What makes this world special is the difference we find,
in the way in which each of us works our own mind.

Some people like black, for others it’s white.
Neither are wrong and neither are right.
Some drink only coffee while others sip tea.
Life would be boring if we all agreed.

I’ll go back to the country and you can stay here.
But you’re welcome to visit whenever you’re near.”
Preston was quiet, and a little surprised.
What Cletus was saying, he hadn’t realized.

Just because two amigos liked two different songs,
did not mean that one of them had to be wrong.
“I get it, old buddy.  This burg’s not your thing.
You’d rather sit down and count minutes till spring.

I’m sorry we left early.  I was so impolite.
I’m probably wrong.  You’re probably right.”
I can learn too.  Perhaps I can unwind.
And grab a much needed break from this regular grind.”

“But even if later, I prefer things my way,
It is not even close to a cause for dismay.
I love you Cletus, because you are my friend.
If you don’t like what I do, you don’t have to pretend.

People are different and different is great,
But about you and me, buddy, there is no debate.”
They walked into sunset, puppy and bear.
Joyful and Jolly and without despair.

Life is made up of contrast and contrast is key
To living our lives to their fullest degree.

Writer Dad

Click here to get your own free copy of Country Bear, City Pup. Written by Writer Dad and illustrated by Lucy Huang.

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One of these tales was given breath earlier this year by the wonderful work of Lucy Huang, a remarkable freelance illustrator who is particularly interested in children’s books. Lucy wanted to draw something for children and asked if I would care to collaborate. I said sure and sent over one of my stories, “Country Bear, City Pup.”

Lucy took those thousand words and gave them the color that I never could have. The words might have inspired the drawings, but the look and feel of the design were all Lucy . It is a wonderful thing as a writer to see a world of your creation move from pallid black and whites to the beautiful hues that Lucy bestowed.

Thank you Lucy for your wonderful work.

If you would like to see some more samples from a wonderful freelance illustrator, please click on the link and check out some more of Lucy’s work at Lulu’s Design.

Country Bear and City Pup will be available as a free PDF on Thursday, compliments of Writer Dad and Lulu Design. Download it for free, print it out, and read it to your wee one.

Until then, you can enjoy this little teaser for Country Bear, City Pup - also cooked up as a courtesy by Lulu’s Design.

See you Thursday!

Writer Dad

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Has anyone ever considered that the universal hearing loss of the elderly might be entirely by choice? I wonder if there’s a line that could be drawn between hearing loss and children raised. I’ve no idea what kind of capital it would require, but it’s probably worth the fund raising to get a team in Geneva to start working round the clock on the research.

“Dad, it’s my turn to choose. Mia picked last time and it’s not fair.”
“That’s not true! He picked two times in a row and now he’s trying to steal my turn away from me!”
“Nu-uh. Two Fridays ago, when it was cloudy and the man outside was yelling really loud and the phone rang and you said you’d be right back and then you were gone for a bunch of minutes and then when you came back you said that it would be my turn but then it wasn’t my turn because we had to go eat dinner and then we had stories and then we went to bed and I never got my turn and now it’s my turn and it’s not fair.”

Perhaps there are only so many decibels our ears permit before the drums finally swing the door closed. Just maybe, the more annoying the noise, the lower the tolerance.

“Dad, Max is antagonizing me.”
“I was just -”
“He came into my room after I told him that he couldn’t. Then he took my Minty pony and threw it on top of the shelf. Then he laughed. Six times. Then he kissed me two times even though I told him he was in my privacy. Now he’s taking all the books off my shelves and he keeps meowing like a kitty and won’t stop. He also said that someday I’m going to die.”

I haven’t had a day of quiet in almost 8 years. At first it was fine. I was a new dad, eager to slip into my new responsibilities. The scream of an infant is immediate, sends your heart sinking straight to your deepest depths, demanding you do whatever you can to stop it. Change, feed, or comfort your child. I must provide them with all they need, for I am one of the two threads sewing their safety to the world.

“What’s for dinner?”
“Are we almost there?”
“She started it!”
“It wasn’t me.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“I’m tired.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“I’m not tired.”

I LOVE listening to my children. I think they are awesomely articulate, wonderfully imaginative and endlessly engaging. One of my favorite things in the world is to discuss the best and worst parts of our days, dig deep into the depths of who they are and who they want to be, and listen to stories both real and invented as they unspool our of their mouths from the bobbin in their brain.

BUT

“Dad, dfaklejk; fdlkdsjfiel;k Dad kdfja;iefj;ajf;dfkd k Dad i;jf;leif;ejf;alseifj;lasdjf;lsaefj Dad faielalmcmiel Dad fjiejaiae;lfij Dad fjie;lajef;j Dad   ajf;iealfjs;fj  ;dfij;a eisjfa;lsijf;lseajf;ajef; asfj;as  fj;afj Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad!!!!!”

Some days I feel as though my mind is mired inside the first twenty minutes of Saving Private Ryan. My eyes are shallow crimson pools, scanning the same paragraph for the 47th time while listening to an endless loop of banter between my offspring that’s been bouncing back and forth for one half of forever and making me question whether time has finally started to fold back upon itself. Suddenly I hear the hint of a nearly silent sizzle, like ice cold water drizzled across a flaming skillet. A single second later and the space between my ears begins to detonate. I feel my sanity take flight, my reasoning collapse upon itself, and the atoms of my body constrict then explode as they fly off and scatter in fifty different directions. I smell the sudden stench of burning flesh and look around the room to see steaming piles of myself littering the hardwood floors. I shake it off and attempt to stand but the iron weight of discomfort from the unrelenting din and discord continues to beat on my battered body like a wayward and angry bolt of lightning.

If I hear Dad one more time, it might be enough to send me sailing straight over the edge.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“You’re my best friend.”

Writer Dad

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It is slightly rewritten to reflect the new year and my new understanding of the comma, but is otherwise mostly in tact.

Enjoy!

Life never unfolds quite as expect, and hoping that it will is more than a little like swatting fog. Days unfold, weeks disappear, and we often find ourselves doing our best when we simply catch up and catch our breath. We keep our eyes fastened forward, accept what we see, remain thankful for all we have that is working, and arrange to change what doesn’t.

We cannot stop life from happening. It goes on every day with or without us. It follows us everywhere, surrounding us at all times no different than the air we breathe.

We never know how one moment will drift into the next, so it is paramount we regard our moments as each a possible precursor to the last; forever fixing our face toward the now, while never forgetting to flick our eyes at the horizon and whatever prize we’ve placed beneath, while understanding there are few things we can simply compel to happen.

When big things happen suddenly, there is often unreasonable cost attached.

Like a tsunami, or avalanche.

Life, at its best, happens bit by tiny bit.

Does the caterpillar know what he will one day be?

Probably not.

One thing Cindy has always said, though only now am I hearing it in the way she’s always meant it: “We mustn’t ever skip our steps.”

I love our modern world, but when I can download nearly anything that caresses my mood, how can I remain humble and look patience in the eye? More important, how can I teach this to my children?

There’s an order to life, and to most things we say we want and are willing to work for. Skipping even a single step, often means misunderstanding or misapplying something in the future. If we consider we are here just once, this seems precarious and unnecessary.

My biggest one to grow on during my twenties was patience. Fortunately, life saw fit to outfit me with the ultimate foe of an impatient man: first a girl and then a boy.

I’m more patient than I used to be, but I still have about a million miles to meander.

Last Friday, I was in the middle of telling Cindy about my brand new idea - the new one; the one that would change everything, allow us to scale our next summit, and plant a flag deep inside all future possibility. A good fifteen minutes had passed since the last idea and, since it was getting late, it was perfectly possible a better idea would not arrive before the dawn.

“Sweetheart,” Cindy said, placing her hand on my forearm to stop me from pacing. She gingerly pulled me on the love seat beside her. “You need to find your Friday.”

These last few months have seen me celebrating my new life as a full time writer by piling more and more onto my ridiculously heaping plate. I tackle each week as though the Romans didn’t get it done in a day by choice. There’s a lot to be said for working hard and using every minute, but it is something else entirely when your minutes are misapplied.

But doing my best doesn’t always mean doing my most.

I found my Friday, and fortunately, my Saturday and Sunday sailed into the sunset right behind.

Writer Dad

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This would be a strain on many a couple, yet after a dozen years and two children together (the youngest starting kindergarten in the fall) we continue to grow stronger each day.

This would not be possible if clear, consistent communication was not at the dead center of our days.

By no means do Cindy and I share a perfect marriage, but it is a thriving, healthy union between two best friends who are still thrilled to spend as much time together as possible, and prefer to head toward the horizon rowing our oars in the same direction. What works for us might not work for everyone, but if I were to jot a list, and I suppose for the sake of this post I have, this is what I’d say:

The six steps to healthy communication and a happy marriage

1) Plan time to talk. Much of our communication is spontaneous, messages flying through the air with abandon and often chased by laughter. Tossed off comments, specific instructions, humorous asides and lists of things to do are all blended in the daily cocktail of conversation. Amid the helter skelter of every day, a healthy marriage deserves specific time dedicated to a couple’s connection. Cindy and I each have an awful lot of work to get done during the day, but we make certain we have uninterrupted time each evening where the two of us can plug back in to the attention of the other. Weak communication paves the road to an unhappy life. Whether in your work or play, communication is essential to success, but nowhere is it more important than with the other person with whom you share your bed. Yes, we discuss our day’s difficulties, but we also share our highs and always make sure to mine a few minutes to dream about days that have not yet happened.

2) Swap shoes. Our individual history defines us; a million minutes of nature and nurture constantly crafting our character. No one will ever see the world exactly as we do, and we can never expect to see the world from the exact vista of another, but slipping into the perspective of our significant other is an essential ingredient to truly understanding them. When a couple disagrees, it isn’t always about one person being right and the other wrong, it is about two individuals with different perspectives finding a healthy way to bridge the space between their thoughts.

3) Clean your ears. Don’t ever pretend to listen if you’re only waiting for your turn to speak. Be an active listener instead. Observe the obvious cues and respond appropriately and with purpose. Notice not just the language being used, but the tone of delivery, facial expressions, and body posture as well. Your spouse deserves to feel safe - they must know their thoughts are important to you and that you will give them all the regard and consideration they deserve.

4) Be consistent. Surprises are fun when they include candles, balloons, and stacks of sugary treats. Not so much when they involve mood swings and terrifying tirades. A couple should be able to rely on a consistent mutual mood. The constant calibration of expectations leads to fear, anxiety, and restlessness. This isn’t to say you aren’t entitled to your bad days. We all have them for sure, but if you can chart your moods on a graph and it looks like the Alps, then you have a problem that needs solving. You are teaching your partner to live with uncertainty; a bridge built with fraying rope.

5) Trust. We all have bad days. There should be no one in your word more willing to hear you vent than the person on the pillow beside you. If after a bad day, you choose to plug a cork into your feelings sin the vain hope your spouse won’t notice, well that’s a bit like cranking the radio so you can’t hear the grinding noise of a failing engine. Your anger will go nowhere, and will likely only manifest itself in an unsettled mood. Have faith that your spouse wants to hear what you have to say. If you have a history of stilted conversation, start slow. Communication improves like anything else - a day at a time.

6) Be Honest. I believe there is nothing more essential to a thriving marriage than honesty. If you think you are slyly hiding things from the sight of your spouse, believe me - you aren’t. Your spouse is knows you are hiding something, even if it is only on a subconscious level that they themselves could never articulate. Humans are often smarter than they give themselves credit for. Be honest with your feelings and honest with your intentions. Say what you mean, mean what you say, and never use honesty as a license to be unkind.

These rules are general; a vague outline for living that can be modified to fit your own set of circumstances. Excellent communication doesn’t mean you always agree, but it must always remain considerate. Never use words as weapons or attempt to guilt, bully, dominate, blame, outwit, or control your partner.

The union we share with our partners is like a wheel. Negativity will only roll around to ruin us.

Writer Dad

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Though I had been writing a few months already, it was a secret known only to the three members of my household and my Papí. During the last year of his life, my grandfather lay in bed quietly eating candy by the handful and impatiently waiting to join his Honey, recently passed after seventy-four years by his side.

Every Saturday during those last two years I would drive to his house to spend some time with him, never knowing for certain if that drive would be the last. Papí was the first person I told I was writing both because I didn’t want to miss the chance to tell him and because my grandfather delighted in keeping a secret.

During his final two months, I would bring my binder of children’s stories to read out loud, turning pages with one hand while holding his in the other. Every week as I entered the room, his wrinkles would part and his eyes would brighten. He would proudly announce that he hadn’t told a soul and then ask if I had found a publisher.

Of course I had not. I was writing simple children’s rhymes and was a wide world away from publishing. Yet on the day before Father’s Day last year, I told him that yes, I had found a publisher and my work would likely see print by the end of the year.

The next day, I met with my dad for breakfast where I handed him a binder with all my stories and shared the rough draft of the novel I’d written. It was my official coming out - a new door was open. Saying the words out loud to someone besides my Papí had rendered them to reality.

I was a writer.

Just as morning fell into afternoon, I got a call from my mother. The doctors were saying Papí probably wouldn’t make it through the night. Less than an hour passed before the phone rang again, and I knew before I answered that at 99 years old, the most remarkable life I had ever known would never draw another breath.

The next week was his funeral. Below you will find a handful of the words I recited, written in the same rhythm as so many of the stories I read to him during his few final weeks. Papí wasn’t sad to go. Every week he told me he was ready and often wondered why it was taking so long. I did not grieve for the passing of a life well lived, but I still miss my Papí every day.

Jose Ramos, Daddy, Papí. A man impossible to copy.
He had a one and only inclination to live his life with such elation,
joy and mischief, mirth, and cheer; too much for one century, minus a year.

Papí was gentle, and impossibly funny. He valued his friendships far above money.
He always looked forward and without regret. He never walked away from a window to bet.
He meant so much to me in his immovable place. I can look in the mirror and stare at his face.

Ever since that time when I was small - a sassy little know it all -
he and my Honey guided me, to the best that I could be.
Every weekend of my youth, with conduct ungrateful and a little uncouth,
they took me in and taught me well. But more than simply to speak and to spell.
They taught me other messages, a lot more essential, like meeting and making my moral potential.

They trained me not to cheat or lie, to never quit and always try,
to speak my mind and wait my turn, to show compassion and concern,
to all my neighbors, lend out a hand or maybe an ear to understand.

The best from all these lessons learned, a powerful example burned
(in my mind like it was branded), they both taught me single handed
how to treat my only other - as though the world could hold no other
soul who could ever compare, no matter who and no matter where.

They loved each other without doubt, without dearth, and without drought.
Even though I was only a kid, I know exactly the good that it did.
It showed me what to want from life, then led me toward my perfect wife.

If I could ever travel back, take the years and flip the stack,
I’d look them in their younger eyes and thank them true for being wise
and providing me a perfect picture to follow like a written scripture.

I grew up, and added years, a bigger nose and longer ears.
By the time I was mature, walking tall and talking sure.
I saw Papí from a different position, with what I’d already seen plus another addition.

It’s not the years in our life but the life in our years, the gray in our hair and the salt in our tears.
The smiles we carry and people we meet, the flavors of life from sour to sweet.
Papi’s a man who met wisdom with age, by living his life like he lived it on stage.
I’ll never forget him if I’m a hundred and five. In my heart I will always keep Papi alive.

Writer Dad

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If there was an adventurer who agreed to enlist
in search of the awesomest father to ever exist,
He’d have to hunt every record throughout every land,
from the countries with mountains to those filled with sand.
When he was all finished, he’d return empty handed,
though I would not be surprised because that’s just how I planned it.
I already knew my father was the best.
I was only putting the world to the test.

Other dads are tiny trikes.
My Daddy is a car.
Other dads are ukuleles.
My Dad is a guitar.

Other dads are just a sprint.
My Daddy is the race.
Other dads are only hairline.
My Dad is the face.

My Daddy is a rock star. He’s a regular rambling ranger;
a stupendous super hero, dismissing every drop of danger.
He taught me how to read and then he taught me how to write.
I follow his example. That’s why I am polite.
He’s fantastic and he’s fun. He’s firm but always fair.
I’ve hung with other dads, of course, but they couldn’t compare.
Sometimes we go out fishing.  Sometimes we toss a ball.
My daddy tries to make the time for us to do it all.

Other dads are cute koalas.
My Dad is a Bear.
Other dads are invitations.
My Daddy is a dare.

Other dads are only branches.
My Dad is the trunk.
Other dads are ally oops.
My Daddy’s a slam dunk.

My Dad’s a Sunday breakfast filled with each and every fixing,
spread across the table with all the flavors mixing.
Pancakes next to muffins, bananas butting berries,
bacon next to sausage, across from all the cherries.
Hot chocolate flatters waffles, eggs improve with cheese,
all alongside orange juice - that of course has just been squeezed.

Other dads are only eyes.
My Dad’s a set of shades.
Other dads are two of hearts.
My Dad’s the Ace of Spades.

Other dads have shaky knees.
My Dad is always brave.
Other dads are mushy surf.
My Dad’s the perfect wave.

My Daddy is the greatest and to this I can attest.
Other dads, I’m sure are awesome.  Mine is still the best.
While other dads are slapping fives, my Daddy tosses ten.
He tells me that he loves me.  Then he tells me so again.
If you still don’t believe me, and think your dad’s the chief,
then I’ll just sit right here and shake my head in disbelief.

Writer Dad

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The word movie barely made it out. Max had to draw a breath before adding to his barrage of never ending verbiage. In that single second pause, I managed to both lock eyes with Cindy and glance at our own clock just long enough to note that the story had been unfolding across a long twelve minutes.

“Then we had get up from our seats and the car doctor put the Sienna on one of those big metal poles that makes the car go really really high in the air so you can see underneath. What is it called again?” Max wrinkled his nose and shrugged his shoulders, the final sentence ending in a squeak, just as it always does when capped with a question mark.

Cindy and I glanced at one another again, neither of us with anything close to a clue. “I’m not sure buddy,” I said, a bit embarrassed I didn’t know, but also a little glad. Though I love my son to see me as the Lord of all Vocabulary, my not knowing underlines the simple truth that we are all constant learners. “Why don’t we call it the car doctor pole,” I said.

“That’s a great idea, Dad!” Max agreed. I could swear his smile added 5 watts to the already bright bulb. “Then we had to walk home, but first we had to give the man the key and after we gave the man the key he said thank you and his manners were really great, and then we left the car doctor and we had to walk all the way home.” Max paused, lifting his little hand in front of his quickly growing face. He stared at his palm with all five fingers spread for about a second before lowering his thumb. “It was four blocks,” Max declared with a nod. “We walked four blocks from the car doctor and then we were back home.”

Mia, Cindy and I all waited, allowing the silence to settle, wanting to make certain this wasn’t one of the false finishes we’d already sat through several times before. “I’m done with my story,” Max sang more than said. We all clapped.

For fifteen minutes we’d listened as Max told us a teeny tiny tale elongated toward infinity about the time we had to take our car to the car doctor. The magic of his narrative didn’t lay in the details of his delivery, though they were abundant enough. It was in the fact that our little boy, a few days shy of his fifth birthday, was telling us about something that had happened to him two years earlier, when the scope of his vocabulary lay in three digits rather than five.

Max related the story with the eager enthusiasm I might have expected if we had just returned from the car doctor ten minutes earlier, but two years had done nothing to strip the immediacy. A born storyteller, my son was simply waiting for the right time to release his reams of waiting thoughts.

Memory is a remarkable thing.

Great storytellers deserve an audience and performers must never take their listeners for granted. My son has manners it seems that nothing, at least right now, can ever seem to melt.

“Thank you for being patient and listening to my story,” he said.

Thank you, Max.

Writer Dad

Max is turning 5 this week, next week we’re going to celebrate with you. He’s been dying to talk to the audience again since one second after the last time. I promised him for his birthday he could.

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