Hey Bill. How're you doing?

My buddy Bill popped up in my memory today. It's a combination of things, I think: the sinful shootings down at Virginia Tech, start of baseball season, gathering my kids to watch Jackie Robinson's widow speak, Kevin's heart valve surgery next week, watching Opening Night of the Daytona Cubs.

Bill loved baseball, just like me. The Bowie BaySox had to play a season at the old Memorial Stadium in Baltimore for a year, and we went up to watch. We argued: He wanted every game to be 16-14, going 14 innings. I always liked the 2-0 pitcher's duel. Nah, you're all wrong, he'd say. I want to be here all day. I got things to do, I'd say. He liked minor league baseball best (he's in the Red Wings Hall of Fame, you know), and I think I like it best now, too.

Bill died about a while ago. Sure, it was a painful funeral, but it was the day he died of the heart attack that haunts me when I dwell on it. I got the call, and called Marlene. She was Bill's second wife, and I was their best man. How can I help, I asked.

I didn't want to go. I didn't want to get too close to that agony. I was afraid of the Grief Abyss. I wanted distance. I wanted a pass.

How can you help, she asked. Bring me back my husband. Bring Bill home. And she screamed and screamed for as loud and as long as she could.

I drove fast down 95 and called a psychologist I knew. This is going to get bad, I told her, and I've got my own grief memories. I don't want to trigger them. Keep her calm, she said, and keep her comfortable. If she gets into a dark space, change the environment. See if she'll go for a walk, even just to get the mail.

The day and the evening went as expected. Made some funeral arrangements. Took turns fielding the phone calls. She wrote the obit. I made more coffee.

Later the neighborhood wives came around, and Marlene's grief was overwhelming everyone. We were all sinking into a dark space. Hey, I said, who wants to go for a walk. I know I do. Too cold, said everyone. It was late December. Just to the mailbox, I said. One of the women took Marlene down the street to the condo mailbox, and the rest of us tried to clean the house in 4-5 minutes.

She looked through the holiday mail. It was something to do. Then she opened a Christmas card Bill had mailed to his wife at his own house. And it arrived the day he died. In it, the told her he loved her, loved her, loved her.

And Marlene wailed, her face melted like a clown. I said nothing, hugged her, left and drove to a very nearby bar.

I feel very guilty for not keeping up with Marlene. Her emotions and my memories are so very overpowering. Bill's tribute page still stands: http://www.harborsights.com/bill.

Holding the kids the other morning, having them watch Jackie Robinson's widow, I kept telling them this is very important. Is he different than us because he has black skin? They watch me, having no idea what's the right answer. No, I said. We're all the same. In baseball, we're all the same.

The kids don't understand why I think baseball is important. I enjoy a minor league game better than the majors. And I like pitcher's duels best, especially when they go into extra innings.

Note: Marlene wrote an incredible eulogy.

there's something about Mary

Back in Baltimore, you never knew who was at the front door but y0u had a pretty good idea what they wanted – something that belonged to you. Cab money, money for steaks, your lawnmower, have a long talk w/ your dog.

We finally moved to what I consider the promised land – Arlington, VA – and it wasn't too long before there was a knock at the door. Hello? There were two extremely old ladies on my doorstep. They had a notebook (w/ my name in it), oohed and aahed over my 3-year-old daughter and would I accept Christ into my life?

huh?

Okay, OK, I said, what church are you from? I brought my baby out on the doorstep and closed the front door behind me. The Catholic church way up on Glebe Road?

huh?

The Catholics are going to door-to-door? Really? They were coming to convert, or bring people back, to the Catholic church. Holy cow, I said. Well, they were very nice and very old. I didn't want to be rude and I didn't want to lead them on so I said, No. I'm not interested. We can't talk until The Church changes two of its main rules: Allow my baby daughters to conduct Mass (including consecrating the Eucharist) and love my (gay) brothers. The ladies asked if they could come back (could they really make changes that fast? I pegged it at 250 years) and gave my baby a medal of the Virgin Mary.

About a month later, another pair of old ladies came by. They were following up on the first call. Had The Church changed those rules like I asked? Nope, but the parish priest wanted to meet me. uh, no, I said. You know the rules. I really appreciate the effort, but you know: No. They left behind a brochure of the top 10 reasons people return to the church. No. 1: They yearn for the Eucharist.

A few weeks later, the mailman brought me a letter from the priest. C'mon Back, it read. Straight to the trash.

Later on, I was enjoying one of Washington, D.C.'s oldest traditions – staying late at work. My wife was playing w/ our girls and the neighborhood kids in the cul-de-sac. A car pulled up in front of our house and a man and woman got out. They had notebooks. My name was in them. Yes, they were ancient.

Can I help you, asked The Wife. We're looking for the man who lives here, pointing at my house. Who are you, said The Wife. We're from The Church and we're trying to get your husband back in the fold, and, which of those kids are his?

Out, said The Wife, go. Move. Now. I'm calling the cops. Calling the cops on the Catholic Church!

The Wife called the parish and asked, who the hell are these people who keep coming to our house? Turns out, they're the Legion of Mary (read all about 'em in Wiki): "The essential aim of the Legion of Mary is the sanctification of its members through prayer, the sacraments and devotion to Mary and the Trinity, and of the whole world through the apostolate of the Legion."

Seems they got some zealots in there, too.

The parish says they have no control over this pack of the Legionnaires, but they'd ask real nice for them to stop coming by the house. We'll see.

Oh, and you'll also see in The Wiki under the Legion of Mary: a 1975 project for Jerry Garcia. Now if that LOM wants to come by, I'll bring out some sippin' Bourbon and the boom box for the front stoop.

A friend of the Devil is a friend of mine. But leave the 20 hounds in the car, please.

Testify, Jerry.

free at last, free at last

Don Imus was fired today. Thank God.

What he did on the radio was reprehensible. Calling the Rutgers basketball team "nappy-headed hos" is being racist. It's not a racist remark, it's not invoking racism -- it is racist. It's stupid.

I've never cared for Imus, and have purposely avoided his show because I think he talks over his guests, and doesn't allow them to make their arguments. And he has interesting guests!

You've all heard re-broadcasts of his comments. He wasn't being flippant. This didn't slip out. He was being mean and nasty. It was an intentional act of racism.

What I don't like in how this played out was how he was fired days after the fact. He's being fired because of the controversy his comments raised. He's not being fired for being racist. He should've been fired 20 minutes after he said it, not days later because people who were upset are getting louder.

Do the right thing.

fare thee well, Miguel

First time I met our neighbor Miguel he was wearing a surgeon's mask to do his summer gardening. He was in his 80s and was worried about getting sick, but more afraid of letting his yard, bushes and trees get out of his control.

I thought he was an odd loner. Then I got to know him.

Because he was incredibly kind to my kids, I gave him another chance. He talked with my 3- and 4-year-old girls at the edge of his lawn, telling them about the dinosaur that lived under his house, and how he came out at midnight to make sure all the children in the neighborhood were safe.

He went home to Colombia to celebrate his mother's 100-year-old birthday, and came back with straw dolls for all the kids in the neighborhood. You didn't have to do that, I told him. I want to, he said.

During the week of my oldest's birthday, he knocked on our door just as the kids were going to bed. He had a birthday poem. From the dinosaur. It was two pages and very sincere. I walked him home, and told him, tell me what I can do for you. I need nothing, he said.

The next morning, I put his newspaper inside his front door. The girls and I have done it every morning since. Before you can get in the car to go to pre-school, someone's got to fetch the newspaper from the end of Miguel's door and put it inside his door.I make the kids do it in the snow -- Imagine how hard it would be for Miguel, I tell them -- and I do it in the rain.

Miguel reminds me of my grandparents, who make me feel like I could never do wrong. Everyone needs a person like that in their lives, but just one. More than that and you've got an entourage. I wanted my girls to know a man like that.

This year, Miguel's decided to sell his house and move near his daughter up north. I have to be realistic, he said. His wife passed away about three years ago, and he doesn't want to take chances with his health. He wants to get closer to his family.

Thanks for the vodka at Christmas, Miguel. Thanks for being so nice to my kids. I'm glad to know you.

spilling milk

The adage says, spilled milk. No use crying over spilled milk. That's fine.

But what about Spilling Milk?

Ever have those days? Nothing goes right? Left an overhead light on in the car last night, looking for the mouse that fell out of your laptop bag? Next morning, car battery's dead? That's OK; you're still negotiating w/ the kids to strap themselves inside the car, and you've just rescued your car keys from inside the locked house, by breaking into the neighbor's house ... because they have an extra house key to your house. That's OK; car won't start anyway. Where are you going?

It's the spilling milk that gets me. My wife/I both work, and it's a little busy a lot. You're not watching anything closely anymore, and things just seem to happen. Like opening the refrigerator door, nearly every time, and the milk .. falls out .. from the bottom shelf of the fridge .. nearly every time. You can see it as you open the door, leaning against the door rail for a moment. Through the plastic, you see the milk flow, washing like a wave against the carton wall. First toward the back of the fridge, then towards the front of the carton. Tilting, rolling, just beyond the tipping point.

Sometimes it's a gallon, sometimes a pint. Always white, tumbling slowly, but faster than I can reach for it. Sometimes I bang my head on the fridge door while reaching for the milk, sometimes I just jam my hand in the door handle. But you know the milk carton always hits the floor. Only once did I see it pouring out, the milk hitting the floor before the carton. Special moments.

Sometimes I get lucky and it bounces. I haven't caught the carton cleanly yet. Sometimes it doesn't spill, and other times I eat my Honey Oats dry. But once that milk spills, it sets off that chain reaction: a howling cat begging to be fed, children climbing on your back while sponging the floor and the wife who doesn't take her coffee black.

I always think I'm trying my best, but I think maybe I'm only trying hard. The more I concentrate on everything, the more I miss. The original of the expense account on the copier, not closing the opening code in HTML. Where is that e-mail I sent detailing everything everyone was supposed to do? Where are my freaking keys?

The milk never spills for my wife, but you know the girls are going to spill their cereal milk on the couch and knock it over on the restaurant tabel. Life isn't going too fast, sometimes there's just too much happening. It's not big stuff; maybe it's constant maintenance that's cluttering my head.

Reading this, I realize now maybe I'm just jerking open the refrigerator door. But I bet the milk wouldn't spill out of the fridge .. leap out, for chrissakes .. if my fridge had one of those icemakers in the door.