When are we going back?

In a time before we knew of RateBeer and before there was mapquest, there was Coop's, a set of maps that purported to include the addresses of all the breweries in a particular region. And when we embarked on a two-week Northern California brewery tour in the Fall of 2000, there certainly were more than enough breweries to keep us tipsy, or worse. The only trick was figuring out where each one was without a streetmap. At each brewery I took notes on each beer, for the first time in my life, never realizing that someday I'd enter all of them into a giant web database. You had let your driver's license lapse, so I had to do all the driving (grumble grumble).

Was it only six years ago that we waited in a state park outside of Boonville for a brewery tour, and sat in Sierra Nevada's beer garden in Chico? Walked among the redwoods and along the coast, saw El Capitan and the potheads on the town square in Arcata? To pass the time on the long drives in those days before digital jukeboxes, we played word games, sang songs to each other, and argued whether religion had done more good or bad in the world. In the Russian River Valley, famous for its wineries, I offered to take you to them rather than the area's breweries -- you've always loved wine, and this was a golden opportunity. You replied, "No, we're here to drink beer." Always we visited breweries. Some of them are long gone, others have beers I had just the other day.

I saw your grandfather for the only time in my life on that trip, pushing 90 years old and riding his motorized scooter, living by himself because he didn't want to be dependent on others. We stayed with all three of your father's siblings, including the teetotaler and her husband, who were more than a little bemused by one of the functions of our travels. We had bought little gifts along the way, but didn't fully consider the recipients -- she assured herself that the preserves made with beer must have had all the alcohol burned off. We were awed by the simple beauty of your uncle's timber-frame house, where he and his wife had retired just half an hour from Yosemite. He had been to Fresno just before we arrived, and had bought a growler so we could try something from their local brewery.

There was a newness to those adventures. It was our first big vacation after our honeymoon, and we learned as much about each other as we probably had in the six months prior. And from those two weeks, our friendship bloomed ever more colorfully, and our love deepened to a level far beyond where it was at our wedding one-and-a-half years earlier, even if it was but a fraction of where it has gone since.

On Becoming a Man

Twenty-five years ago today, I celebrated my Bar Mitzvah, and so was declared a man in the Jewish religion. Even at age 13, I recognized the absurdity of calling myself an adult in any real way, but that didn't mean that I didn't appreciate the presents. Still, this rite of passage required months of preparation toward the achievement of the goal. Between that effort and the fact that Aaron and "man" were first associated with each other at that event, I recognize that my Bar Mitzvah began my slow journey into adulthood. How slow? Well, consider:

• Twenty-two years ago I got my first job that didn't involve yardwork, babysitting, or a position my Dad got me. Not that it would have paid the bills or anything.
• Twenty-one years ago I went off to college, meaning I was responsible for how I lived my life, but I still didn't need to support myself.
• Twenty years ago, I was allowed to vote.
• Seventeen years ago I went to law school, meaning that in many ways I stayed just as I had been the preceding four years. Except that I was legally able to drink, so maybe you could call this a period of regression.
• Sixteen years ago I got engaged and started the process of learning how to live with someone in a relationship.
• Fourteen years ago I graduated law school and finally started supporting myself financially.
• Twelve years ago I paid off my college loans.
• Seven years ago I got married, and together, we bought a house.
• Six years ago I had to put my dog with cancer to sleep.
• Five years ago I became a manager at work.
• If all goes well, in two months I will be a parent, and for the first time will be responsible for another human life. Perhaps that event will be the first in a thread 25 years from now entitled "On Becoming an Old Man."

The First Happy Birthday

May 5, 1998. She got up early, like she did every morning, like it was just another day, to walk her puppy before getting ready for work. As she made her way to the front door her roommate was coming back in from her morning jog.

"Have you been outside yet?" the roommate inquired.

"No, not yet."

"There's something out there for you."

She went outside their rowhouse and saw that her new boyfriend had chalked the sidewalk out front -- chalk balloons surrounding "Happy Birthday" in large letters. Her heart melted.

Who was this guy who would do such a thing? Their first date was but three days earlier. It seemed a bit early to consider him a boyfriend, but how else could she explain their first date, a Saturday lunch that lasted 12 hours, followed by a quickly scheduled Sunday get together that also lasted 12 hours? Why else would she have invited him after that to her birthday party where he'd be subject to her friends' scrutiny and wouldn't know another soul?

Maybe it was better not to think about it, and just go with the flow.

Roller Coaster

Grandma: You know, when I was nineteen, Grandpa took me on a roller coaster.
Gil: Oh?
Grandma: Up, down, up, down. Oh, what a ride!
Gil: What a great story.
Grandma: I always wanted to go again. You know, it was just so interesting to me that a ride could make me so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited, and so thrilled all together! Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. I like the roller coaster. You get more out of it.
-- Parenthood


Prague, 1996. As I ascend the hill back to the hostel around midnight, at the end of another wonderful day, I look back on this picture postcard of a city, a city that has captured my heart. Tomorrow I must leave, because if I don't I never will. Reluctantly I turn back and continue my hike, until I reach the large garden at the edge of the hostel. The lights are out, with only the moon providing any light at all -- no one else is around. I get a little bit lost, the circular layout confusing me ever so slightly. My heart is pounding and the adrenaline surges as I sense my way through this strange garden in this foreign country.

Today we went in for the next sonogram, and everything looked great, so we're officially past the point where we got to last time. Two weeks is nothing in the adult world, but the fetus looked huge compared with how it did just 14 days earlier. There are no certainties by any stretch, but to get the desired result we needed to get through today. Ballpark due date is Halloween, so we still have a very long way to go.

Grandma had it wrong -- the roller coaster appeals to so many people because while it might be scary, they know that they'll be safe at the end of the ride. Life has no such safety net, and I think that's why I don't get the thrill out of roller coasters that I used to.

Somali, East Africa

Fall 1987. I return to campus at the start of my junior year, to share a lovely on-campus apartment with three friends of mine. By junior year, most people have moved into off-campus apartments, but I figure this place not only has good location, it's a great place. It's a penthouse, on what's essentially the 9th floor, with two bedrooms, one large and one small -- veritable luxury compared to other dorms, and as the only holdover from the previous year, I'm able to select my roommates. Given the layout of the apartment, and that I'm the only holdover, I decide to make the small room a single, and leave the large room a triple for the others.

When Ken arrives, he lets me know that one of our roommates has decided to take a leave of absence for the year. Cornell assigns the replacement a few days later, a Somalian named Abdi. I can't be sure that either Ken or I had ever heard of this country, east of and adjacent to Ethiopia, but that changes in a hurry. Abdi isn't awful, but he's no one we would have chosen as a roommate, and we have very little in common. Worse (and there's no way to say this politely), he stinks -- his body odor is simply unpleasant. Ken bears the greater brunt of Abdi's presence, as he's actually sharing a room with him. At some point, someone must have mentioned Abdi's odor to him. One day we come home and are talking in the living room while Abdi is in the bedroom. An aerosal can starts up and keeps going for well over a minute. When Abdi emerges to go out, Ken, my friend Heather and I all have our heads out the window.

As Abdi is situating himself, we learn that our fourth roommate also would not be joining us. When I come home from class one day a couple of weeks later, I discover who our new roommate is. I know Ken will be miserable, and when he comes in with groceries, I shoo him outside so I can tell him the news without it staring him in the face. After I get outside to explain to him the news that the new roommate is Abdi's brother Sa'id, Ken walks away to contemplate suicide.

Perhaps we're xenophobic (even though one of the roommates who bailed is Pakistani), but we're miserable with our Somalian roommates. Abdi was tolerable, but Sa'id is downright obnoxious. The phone bill is in my name, and because they're calling Somalia every day, we switch it so that the phone bill is in Abdi's name. Ken and I would come home and invariably find one of them on the phone with the operator (even now I can hear Abdi saying these words verbatim) --

Somali East Africa.

8-o-2-o-1.

No I don't know that.

No I don't know that e-der.

No I don't know that.

Sometimes this strange exchange would result in a connection, oftentimes it would not. One day I come home to find a message that "Moji" called, and so a nickname is created.

In mid-October, Moj, who is not in school that semester, is up visiting. When the place she was going to crash at falls through, I offer up my place. We move the sofa into my little bedroom, never sure what Abdi and Sa'id might do. When I get up the next morning, I hear Sa'id telling Ken a fabricated account of what he witnessed with Moj last night. Ultimately Sa'id tells me that next time Moj visits she can stay in his bed. Thinking he was merely being chivalrous, I say thanks, but the arrangement would be just as it was last night. "No," Sa'id explains, "Girls like black penis better." Oh my.

Somehow we make it through most of the semester, and then in mid-November, I get the phone bill. Or rather, three months of phone bills. September bill is $1000, October bill is $1500, and after I cut off the long distance that day, November bill is "only" $500. When I go to Cornell phone services to tell them that we had switched the phone bill to Abdi's name, they now say that they couldn't do that, that Cornell doesn't have enough safeguards over an international student. As if I did -- Cornell was who had put them in there with me! Never mind the fact that they hadn't told me that these bills were being racked up in my name for nearly three months. Just the sort of additional anxiety I need as final exams approach.

Ultimately much of the phone bill is dropped -- the bulk of the charges stemmed from calls that were not completed. The Somalians pay a large chunk. That leaves me out ~$100, which I need to pay before I can register for the next semester. It's a bundle for me back in those days, but I pay it -- the university is implacable.

Abdi and Sa'id move out over the winter, and Ken and I get a couple more roommates, Jeremy and another Ken. Later, the other Ken moves out and Antonio moves in. All of them have their quirks, especially the other Ken, but mercifully none of them come close to the Somalians.

Lessons in Silence

Thanksgiving 2005. We're not in the car with the family much, but when we are there is constant talking. It doesn't have to be about anything, so long as someone is saying something. If I didn't know better I'd be able to think that maybe it's because we're together so infrequently, there's so much ground to cover. But not only do I know better, so would anyone who listened to the discourse.

August 1989. J pisses me off with her flirting. I really like her, and she knows this, so when I get rebuffed by acting on it, I spend the next day's 12-hour drive from DC to Jacksonville avoiding saying anything to her, though I don't hesitate to talk to M & D, who are also in the car. Later on, when I ask J about it, she says she didn't even notice.

September 1991. Something I said or did at the Outer Banks has pissed ex off, so during the entire ride back from the Outer Banks, she doesn't initiate conversation or say anything to me except in response to direct questions. Later on, when ex asks me about it, I tell her truthfully that I didn't even notice.

June 1995. N and I are driving around Wisconsin and throughout the various drives she's not speaking. I repeatedly ask what's wrong, and she repeatedly says nothing. I'm not sure I believe her until after we've broken up.

Anydrive with Kathy. Sometimes we talk, and sometimes we're silent. The silence occurs when neither of us has anything to say.

Two Years Ago Today

My maternal grandfather died two years ago today. He was my last surviving grandparent. At his funeral three days later, I gave the following eulogy:

I'm not sure what I can say about a man that turned 55 six days before I was born. I never knew the man that escaped Nazi Germany, returned in secret to visit his ailing father, and came to the United States where he met my grandmother and parented my mother. The only memory I have that's directly tied to his working years is visiting him at work one day in a giant warehouse or factory of coats -- I must have been no more than 5.

I say what all of you present undoubtedly know, that he was a kind and wonderful person, exceptionally considerate, polite and generous to charity. He liked to see pretty women, and wasn't shy about saying they were pretty.

While my grandmother was alive, he always seemed in the background -- she was the one that fussed over me, and that wanted to hear every little detail of my childhood. He was the driver, only occasionally participating in the conversation, and usually then to try to cap the ridiculous amount of praise my grandmother would give.

She died just as I was becoming an adult, and so it was during my adult years that I got to know my grandfather.

The man I knew was a retiree who lived in Daytona, and who liked to gamble, whether that meant playing poker with friends, or taking one of his countless trips to Las Vegas. Probably my fondest memory of him was when I went to Las Vegas with friends about a decade ago, and he happened to be there at the same time. We got together for a few hours, during which time we went to the casino. His eyesight was gone by then, so mostly we played slots. Still, I never felt closer to him -- there was a gleam in his eye as we played, no doubt because he could share with his grandson one of the joys in his life, though it somehow seemed more that he felt he was showing me the family business.

He also enjoyed travel. Every summer, while he could, he would leave Daytona for a couple of months to escape the Florida heat. I believe the last summer he did this was in 1997, when he fell and broke his hip. I was the first family member able to go up and visit him. Later complications clouded his memory of that time to the point where he couldn't remember I was ever there. But I remember. I remember talking to him when he was awake, reading while he slept, and helping him to the limited extent I could. I learned a bit more of family history, but more than that I learned of the effort necessary to keep going, and the hardships of aging.

He was never the same after that. Heck, that was the first time he almost died. After a while, I think we lost track of how many times we figured he was about to die. So when the call came on Tuesday, I think it surprised all of us that this tough old man was finally gone, and that it had happened so suddenly. He had outlived two wives and just about all the family members of his generation. He had lived a full life, but was ready to die, something he had told us many times. That he died so peacefully is a blessing, and a relief to all of us who loved him.

My grandfather was able to attend virtually all the important events in his grandchildrens' lives. A picture of him sharing the celebration of my law school graduation with me and my father sits even now in my living room. He went to all of his grandchildrens' weddings. He even made it out West in 2001 for Josh's and Kim's wedding, and last year to meet Lauren, his first great granddaughter, when she was one month old. It meant a lot to me that he was able to come to Kathy's and my wedding, and doubtless my siblings feel the same way about him being at theirs. Sadly, he wasn't up for joining the rest of the family for Thanksgiving in Atlanta last month, and so he never got to meet his second great granddaughter.

The last time I saw him was for his 90th birthday party this past July -- it was wonderful that so much of the family was able to be there, and that we got to share one more happy occasion with him. He was beaming the whole weekend, especially during the party. One of my favorite parts of the weekend was watching Lauren's continued fascination with her great-grandfather's nose. She won't have memories of that weekend, but I imagine the rest of us there do -- we remember the youngest person there reaching out to the 90-year-old man, and their connection that spanned generations and included everyone in between.

I don't believe there's a Heaven, but if there is such a place, I have no doubt my grandfather is there.

August 29, 1981, ~9pm

Today my parents' Chanukah card arrived -- it was one of those picture cards, and on the back Dad wrote, "Looking back after 40 years, we have accomplished many things. The greatest accomplishment, however, was to produce and raise 4 wonderful children, pictured here when they were still naive, innocent, and undeniably happy." The picture is my Dad's favorite of the four of us -- it is quite possibly the only picture where all of us are either laughing or genuinely smiling. It was taken during the Saturday night party of my Bar Mitzvah, 1 1/2 months after my 13th birthday.

In it I am surrounded by my three siblings, and we are all laughing and slightly damp (summertime with a pool in the backyard). This is my night, a celebration of becoming a man in Jewish tradition, in recognition that the years of after-school study have paid off. I am poised and posed, fresh from my success that morning, the big brother with a big smile for the camera. Josh is to my right -- he's only 16 months younger than I am, but the height difference suggests a bigger gap. He's not directly facing the camera, and his eyes are slightly slitted, suggesting a crafty expression -- no doubt he's thinking of the mischief he'd undertake in his teenage years. Shari is to my right, three months shy of turning 10, frozen in mid-laugh. Maybe it's her expression in particular that makes my Dad enjoy this picture so much -- I can't ever recall Shari looking as happy as she does in this picture. She possesses an unconditional mirth that disappears as we grow older and learn of the grays between the black and white. To Shari's right is Rebecca, almost seven and in a happy pose with her mouth half open and teeth plainly visible -- she knows what she's supposed to do for a camera.

Now that we live under four separate roofs, it's hard for us to share anything like we could then. My wedding day may have been the happiest day of my life, but there's a picture of Rebecca holding a Chuppah pole, a candid shot of unhappiness, jealousy I imagine, her having been with her boyfriend longer than Kathy and I had been together. I was happy for my brother, and then my sister, on the days that my nieces were born, but I wasn't there, and it didn't touch me the same way. At my folks' anniversary party last month, we were all filled with good cheer, but really there's no comparison to the happiness evident from 1981. Maybe the innocence Dad refers to is a necessary component to the happiness, especially with siblings. Almost a quarter of a century has passed since that night -- was that really our peak of collective joy?

Then again, that photo was only a moment. It suggests a togetherness that didn't exist. The four of us didn't spend the evening together -- 13-year-old Aaron would have been playing with his friends, not his 9-year-old and 6-year-old sisters. We were called together to pose, and it's quite possible we weren't in the same room at any other point of the night, much less interacting. A moment was captured, and it's possible the next time we're together, another moment will exist. We might not be standing together so that a picture can be taken, and even if we are, no photo might be taken. But all it takes is a moment.

On a Slow Moving Car

Picture yourself when you were about eight, sitting with your friend on your friend's Mom's car in the garage. It's just a standard 4-door blue-grey Buick or Oldsmobile, and both of you are sitting on the hood with your feet pressed onto the brick wall of the back of the garage. You're chatting about baseball or football, school and classmates, or maybe all of those. Time back then seemed to stretch out forever, until it didn't, like when you suddenly notice that your knees aren't bent quite as much as they were when you first sat down. And after thinking about it, the two of you can't help but wonder if maybe you, two small boys just sitting around, are powerful enough to have moved a car! The next thing the two of you do makes all the sense in the world at the time, as you actively push against the wall, just to see that, yes, you did it. It doesn't take too long before there's no bend in your knees at all, you've been able to move the car that far!

Right about that time, however, the car begins moving on its own. The back tires evidently have been pushed out the garage, and onto the slightly sloping driveway behind the house. The two of you race out the garage to get behind the car, to stop what you've started, but you discover that it's far easier to push a car on a flat surface than it is to stop the same vehicle on a slightly downward slope . You push with your scrawny eight-year-old arms as hard as you can while your friend runs in to get his Mom. You're not worried about getting run over -- even though you can't stop it, it's not moving that fast. Besides, you're eight, which means that as far as you're concerned, you're immortal. No, your only worry is the car, and the neighbor's fence -- the car's heading straight for that fence, and it sure as heck isn't going to make the turn to avoid it with no one steering. You sure hope your friend's Mom gets there pronto.

You have an impossible vision of this scene, as though there were a photograph showing a short and bony curly-haired kid straining against a car while his friend is racing out of the screen porch and his friend's Mom is just starting to appear from out of the shadow caused by the inside room being so much darker than the daylight. But of course there never was a picture, only your memory superimposing an out-of-body experience.

You know what happens next, for all this happened roughly 30 years ago, but there's still a part of you that's there in the past in the non-existent photo, unsure whether your friend's Mom will arrive in time. And time once again stretches out into infinity.

Stefan

Prague, 1996.

A pale young man comes to the open door of my hostel room. He's in his early 20s, tall with short, straight dark hair and brown eyes. His English is fluent, which is a good thing given my monolingualism. He asks about the time, or something equally inane, and before I know it, the silence of my solo travels is broken with a lengthy conversation. Even though I have been enjoying my solitude, I welcome the respite from my journal entries, a chance to converse with someone.

We seem to get along, this German and I, until somehow it comes out that I am Jewish. Fear enters his eyes, and he begins a long apology for the sins his countrymen committed over 50 years earlier. I interrupt before long, explaining that no apology is needed -- he has done no wrong, either to me or my family, even though some family did in fact die in the Holocaust. He relates that once not too long ago, he'd been in an elevator with an Israeli woman and her daughter. The woman harangued him for his heritage and raised her arm as if to strike him, and he felt terrified and ashamed. I do not subscribe to the theory that the sins of the fathers fall upon their children, and do what I can to put him back at ease.

Ironically, the next day I plan to go to the old Jewish Quarter of Prague, so I invite him along. He gladly accepts. When morning comes, we venture forth and learn the story of the Jews who inhabited this small area for centuries, up until the start of the 20th century. While I am soaking in the knowledge, reading of such things as Rabbi Loew and the golem, he is nervous and edgy, unable to concentrate on the placards, focused instead on the possibility of encountering other angry Jews, in a place he feels he does not belong. For all the years that Jews dwelled in this tiny space, they must have felt the same way whenever they left these walls.

Eventually we leave the Jewish Quarter to see other sites/sights. Graffiti-covered Lennon Wall strikes a chord with us both -- joy at the dangerous mischief that inspired all those Czechs to defy the Communist authorities, sadness at its hardly recognizable condition. At day's end we exchange names and addresses, though neither of us ever contacts the other.

My Account of the Events of the Week in Question

And in this moment, I need to be needed
When my self-esteem is sinking, I like to be liked
In this emptiness and fear,
I want to be wanted
'Cause I love to be loved
I love to be loved
I love to be loved
Oh I love to be loved
--Peter Gabriel

A Long Time Ago.
His mother answers the phone. "Hello, may I please speak to L?"

"Certainly -- may I ask who's calling?"

"This is Aaron."

A pause, then L -- "Aaron, what do you want?"

I don't hesitate, saying the words I've long practiced. "I want to tell you I'm sorry for what I did."

"Sorry? After what you did? How could you? M and I are engaged, and that didn't stop you."

He's right, they're engaged, and there's no excuse. In many ways I am appalled at what I did. But. Even though I hurt him, I have no regrets -- how can something so wrong make me feel so much better?

I let him rant at me, saying nothing in my defense. Yes it takes two to tango, and yes M's the one who's engaged, not me. She was free to say no at any point. But I say nothing, because I value her friendship too much, and as long as she felt compelled to tell L, I need to apologize, unconditionally, else risk losing her friendship. He will heal, they will heal, and they will even invite me to their wedding in a couple of years.

--
Four years earlier.
I am alone, and I know almost no one in this town. I've been here five days, and my roommate, a fellow law school student, is kicking me out of the condo she owns. I am at the bottom, and I call M. It feels good to talk to her, we could always talk about anything, and she has the ability to make me feel better. I was going to ask her out in college, but I was so shy. After the summer, I told myself, but when I returned to school after the summer, she had already started dating L. And now, in my state of despair, she says what I've always thought.

"If I hadn't gotten together with L, I don't see how we wouldn't have ended up together."

Even as I seethe inside at my earlier inaction, she lifts my spirits. It feels so wonderful to know someone would want me.

--
Shortly before A Long Time Ago.

I am still not over my ex, even though she left me months ago. I feel that I am unwanted, that no one will ever want me again.

When I see my ex again, after I've moved to DC, I still want to try again, even though I know it won't happen. I ask her what she ever saw in me, to want to be with me in the first place. She offers no salve, unable to come up with a single positive trait.

Even then, I can't let go of her presence, and when I foolishly ask if she wants to come to the group beach house, she even more foolishly says yes. She is uncomfortable for the three days she is there. Even though I give her space, and am on my best behavior, she acts like a bitch, a defense mechanism after I'd expressed my continuing interest. She recognizes what she's doing, and is unsurprised when I ask to see her alone outside on a deck.

"What?" she asked, her arms crossed between us in a posture of hostility, defiance, anger, rejection.

"It's M's and Y's birthday this week, and I was wondering if you'd be able to bake a cake for them?"

My unwillingness to confront her threw her for a loop, but still she had won. Her behavior, regrettable as it was, had already worked its magic on me, and I was over her.

--
Ex leaves, M is still there, and when we drive to the bowling alley she muses on the past, asking if I remember what she'd told me four years ago. I assured her that I hadn't forgotten.

Later that night, as the two of us take a walk on the beach, I move to kiss her. She resists at first, but does in fact reciprocate, and the barrier between friends and more is broken. Though we don't have sex, I cannot help but recognize that I am still desirable. Once again M has lifted my spirits, though this time in a way she never has before.

The week at the beach house goes by, and after it ends, M stays at my place for one last night, before going back home in the morning. Cuddling under the blanket watching the movie, we move to fondling and groping. There are no words, both of us knowing that to speak would mean we would think, and if we stopped to think, it would break the moment. I am passive like I have never been before, letting her take complete command, afraid to go any further than she would take us. We go further and further, but before consummation she speaks, "No, I can't do this," and the spell is broken. I make no effort to go any further, slipping back into friend mode, even with clothes absent from where they belong.

Brush with the Past

May 2005 -- Walking into work, I spot a familiar face reading a newspaper as he's walking. I head in his direction and he looks up before I arrive.
"Aaron, how ya' doin'?"
"Hey Charlie."

July 1993 -- Newly arrived in DC, I'm crashing on the sofa of a friend's place, my worldly possessions are in a rental truck out in the apartment complex's parking lot, and the truck's due back in one more day. The room for rent I'd pinned my hopes on has finally fallen through, and I'm desperately trying to find somewhere to live, somewhere that will take me, my stuff, and most importantly, my dog. I can extend the truck rental if I have to (though being unemployed, I certainly don't want to have to), but my brother's bringing Rosie up in a couple of weeks, and I can't keep her at my friend's apartment.
"Hello?"
"Yes, I'm calling about the room for rent?"
"Yeah? When can you come over?"
"Right now if you'd like."
"Yeah, ok."
"My name's Aaron."
"Mine's Charlie."

Now -- We'd last spoken in the Fall, but it'd been several years since we'd gotten together. Strange, considering we work less than half a mile away, and I pass by his building whenever I walk to work. He finally looks older -- the perpetually boyish face showing a bit of what the years have brought, and gray finally settling into his dark hair. I want to know about the boys, which is good, because that's what he wants to talk about.

Then -- I move in on the evening of the same day. It's a 3 bedroom, 1 bathroom rambler in Falls Church, right by Seven Corners. At some point before I decide to take the place, he tells me about his pending divorce, and his three sons, ages 6, 5, and 3. He tells me that they'll be living in the third bedroom about half the time. Somehow I miss such minor details -- I've found a place to live, a place that'll take my dog, sight unseen.

Now -- Conor is finishing up his sophomore year, and is doing great. He's in a magnet school, getting good grades, and doing great in sports. He was featured in the paper for a soccer hat trick he scored, but his favorite sport is football. Alex, finishing up his freshman year at a different high school, is also thriving academically and athletically.

Then -- It's strange, this totally alien environment of small children surrounding me while I'm still a mess from my ex. But strange is not the same as bad. Charlie is great in action with the boys -- that he loves them is never in doubt. He's very patient, hardly ever raising his voice, constantly giving them his unconditional love in a very difficult time for all of them. He never speaks bad of his spouse in front of the kids, even though she doesn't reciprocate. She's fighting for full custody of the children, while Charlie wants joint custody. Charlie ultimately wins the battle, but his ex is never ready to cede the war -- eventually, her determination to fight costs her even joint custody.

Now -- Shawn lives with his mother. He got kicked out of school in 8th grade, for smoking pot. At that time his mother swooped in and offered him a chance to start fresh. Charlie didn't say no, but he later came to realize that "fresh start" meant was that Shawn didn't have to face the consequences of his actions. Charlie feels that Shawn has become something of a lost lamb -- his mother indulges his laziness, for fear that he'd go back to Charlie. Shawn's about to graduate, and has found a New England school that'll accept him. He's interested in drama.

Then -- When the kids aren't around, we talk a great deal, about relationships, writing, music, and anything else. We also go to a few concerts -- he delights in taking me to Hot Tuna, in which Jorma Koukanen, from whom Charlie took some lessons, is front and center. Despite these interests, he has but a single devotion, and that's to his children.

Now -- "It was great seeing you Charlie."
"You too man -- I'll tell Shawn you say hello." We start moving past one another in the directions of our respective workplaces.
"Thanks, I'd like that. When do you want to do lunch?"
"Work's pretty busy, I usually work right through lunch."
"What else are you doing outside of work and the boys?"
"Nothing really -- all the activities for Conor and Alex keep me pretty busy. With the two of them at different schools, I'm constantly going all over the place."
"You need your own life too -- what happens when they go off to college?"
"Don't remind me!" More than a trace of annoyance, anger even, slips through in his response, and as we leave the meeting place, I worry that I have hurt him somehow.

We Were Merely Freshmen

On January 28, 1986, the Challenger exploded 73 seconds after takeoff, killing everyone aboard. The country was shocked, as it watched the scene play itself out endlessly on television. The news most focused on Christa McAuliffe, a high school teacher and the first private citizen to fly on a space shuttle. It was a national tragedy.

Very shortly after the accident, my roommate went to the campus store, and bought a giant poster of a space shuttle. With an exacto knife, he cut the shuttle out. We hung the poster with its gaping hole on our door. As for the space shuttle, we ripped it into little pieces, taping some onto the walls, and most onto the ceiling. A few of the pieces we made into a mobile that hung from the light fixture centered in the room.

Six Years Ago

Six years ago, plus a day, I woke up with an upset stomach. A really upset stomach. I vomited pretty much everything I'd eaten the previous day. Sadly, I had a good idea what had happened -- I'd made the mistake of eating red meat (it was the only meat on the buffet a friend took me to, and the buffet was even sparse on veggies), and having given up red meat several years before, my body could no longer handle it. I was in miserable shape. Kathy was more than a bit stressed by my condition. We were supposed to be doing lots of errands, and it fell to her to do them all by herself. We were hosting a party all the next day, and there I was, too weak to do anything. She was not a happy camper. We went out for dinner with some of the people in town for the party, and I had to leave early -- I couldn't even handle broth.

Six years ago today, I was still in bad shape, but fortunately some friends came over and helped Kathy with setup for the party, including doing some of the last-minute errands. Lots of guests came, many from far away, and I lay weakly on the couch, struggling to do much beyond greeting them. Thanks to Kathy and friends, the party was enjoyed by all who attended, despite me, not because of me. Toward the end of the day I started to feel better, so that by that evening, I wanted to go out. Kathy yelled and screamed at me, pointing out that we had stuff going on the next day, and that I needed to be in decent shape for that. I promised her that I would do whatever I needed to do the next day, but that I really wanted to go out then. That wasn't good enough for her, and ultimately I relented -- I knew that nothing was more important than maintaining domestic tranquility, and that even if I won, I'd lose.

Six years ago tomorrow, I was still a bit weak, and didn't eat as much as I might have otherwise, but I was indeed up for the demands the day presented. I remember we both woke up pretty early, and before things got too busy, we took a short walk around our neighborhood -- I specifically recall that a neighbor's poppies had come into bloom, and we stood there admiring them for a while. The fight from the previous night was washed away -- we even laughed about it a bit. She could plainly see that I was doing better, and indeed, later that day, we walked down the aisle, said "I do," and got married.

Excerpt from The Cranium Chronicles

aaron, your last post begs the obvious -- why are you unwilling, afraid even, to move elsewhere without a plan?

I don't know that I can answer that directly, but I think it's somehow related to the year between my 24th and 25th birthdays. Whether my past history is the cause, another symptom, or something else, I don't really know, but what happened then feels relevant now.

That year was probably the most challenging one of my life. When I celebrated my 24th birthday in July 1992, I had stopped my law school jobs one week earlier, so I could devote my days to preparing to take the Bar. I took the Bar at the end of July, followed by a trip to Deep Creek, Maryland with my ex-fiance, still live-in girlfriend. En route to Deep Creek (which was to be spent with her family), ex broke up with me altogether. Sucky vacation was followed by awkward living arrangement, to put it mildly, that lasted seven months. At least we had a second bedroom. And of course, I needed a job, so I got one, as a temp doing data-entry not much above minimum wage. I kept looking around for a law job, but between my pickiness and the slim job pickings, nothing turned up.

In December, I caught a huge break. In my last semester of law school, I had aced a seminar co-taught by my favorite professor and the Chief Justice of the Florida Supreme Court (it was one of my highest scores in my law school career). When a law clerk for the Chief Justice had to leave in the middle of the year, the Chief Justice interviewed me. I didn't have the Moot Court or Law Review credentials, but I guess I made a good enough impression in that class (it didn't hurt that another of her clerks was a classmate of mine, and that she respected the professor's opinion), so she hired me effective in January. It was quite an experience, both good and bad. Mostly bad. I worked like crazy (not just me -- the judge's clerks worked much harder than clerks for any other judge on the court), but the judge wasn't satisfied with my work. I kept at it, but to no avail. I'm sure that it didn't help that I fell apart emotionally when my ex moved out at the end of February. When the judge fired me a couple of months later, she blamed herself more than she blamed me. She told me that her senior clerk had similar difficulties when he started working for her years earlier, but whereas then she had the time to work through them with him, now she felt that her duties as chief justice didn't allow for that time. Her comforting words, regardless of their truth (and I don't know for certain whether and how much they were true) had little effect on me -- I thought the world of the judge, and I was crushed that I couldn't meet her expectations.

It only took a few days after that to sort things out. I was done with school, had no girlfriend or job, and was living in a city (and state) I wasn't particularly fond of. With nothing to lose, I decided to move to DC. It took a couple of months to put the plan into action, but Fourth of July weekend I drove a Ryder truck that was hauling all my worldly possessions up to the DC suburbs. When I celebrated my 25th birthday a couple of days later, I was still without a job (in fact, it would take another four months), but at least I had moved somewhere I wanted to be.

So over a decade ago, even though I didn't like where I lived, it took losing everything else before I finally left.

It sounds like you don't much like leaping into the unknown, at least when you have a choice. So why don't you start formulating a plan?

End of Excerpt

On This Day in History...

May 2, 1998 -- Kathy and Aaron went on their first date. The date was scheduled around Kathy's offer to show Aaron around the Captiol Hill neighborhood, as Aaron had just moved to the area one month earlier. They met at lunchtime and proceeded to Misha's, a now-closed Russian deli. After lunch, they explored the vendor booths at Eastern Market, before going to the Capitol, which they walked around. On the way back from the Capitol, Aaron asked about an attractive building to the east of the Capitol. Kathy replied, "That's the Library of Congress. I've never been there, but I hear it's beautiful."

"Well, then let's go." Both delighted in its interior, as it truly was (and still is) beautiful.

From there, they went to Aaron's apartment to escape the rain. When Kathy asked if he had any games they could play, Aaron offered Boggle, though he warned her that he was pretty good. They decided instead to play cards, and did so for a while.

Next they took Rosie (Aaron's dog) and stopped by Kathy's place to grab Nora (Kathy's dog). From there they proceeded to the Capitol lawn. When the rain resumed, it was fairly mild, and the four of them were able to escape it by standing under one of the trees on the lawn.

Afterwards, they returned to Aaron's apartment, where this time Kathy decided to try playing Aaron at Boggle. Kathy had thought his earlier bragging to be "puffing," but after one game, she came to realize that this was not the case. So they returned to playing cards. Upon the conclusion of the game, which Aaron won, he offered to shake her hand, saying "Good game." When Kathy took his hand, he shook hers briefly before pulling her to him and kissing her. Kathy soon overcame her initial surprise to this maneuver, and eagerly reciprocated the kiss.

What started as an afternoon event turned into an entire day of activity, as the couple did not leave each other's company until midnight. Dinner undoubtedly took place, but the details of where and what are lost to the passage of time. While both of them thoroughly enjoyed the day's activities, it would be more than a stretch for either to claim that on that day, they knew that they would be together seven years later.

100 Things About Me

Seems like a lot of blogs I've stumbled across have done this, and if I want to be a Real Blogger©, I figure that I need to do one as well.

Last edited 04/15/2006

History
1. I was born at Bethesda Naval Hospital in 1968.
2. I was conceived in October 1967 when my Bostonian parents celebrated the Red Sox winning the American League pennant -- they considered naming me Yastrzemski.
3. At birth on July 7 (7/7), I weighed seven pounds and seven ounces.
4. My parents gave me the middle name Russell, in case I didn't like Aaron.
5. I don't like the name Russell.
6. I am the oldest of four children.
7. When I was three I called my Dad at work (in the days before re-dial or speed dial), and I have no idea how I did it.
8. I grew up in Orange Park, Florida, just outside of Jacksonville.
9. My first job that didn't involve yard work or babysitting was as an operator for a telephone answering service when I was 15 (and yes, I worked at an old-fashioned switchboard).
10. I was valedictorian of my high school class of 39.
11. Being a high school valedictorian means diddly within one year of graduation.
12. I was a math major in college.
13. I once woke up 20 minutes after a final exam started, and still finished the exam in time.
14. Between college and law school, a college friend and I did a two-month cross-country road trip that included Canada.
15. Entering Montana from Canada, we were made to wait inside border patrol for a half hour while they did a complete search of our car -- apparently, two long-haired 21-year olds, one from Florida and one from Tennessee, looked suspicious.
16. I lost my virginity at 21.
17. When my childhood dog Puddle died when I was in law school, I couldn't help but think that I'd known her longer than I had my youngest sister.
18. An ex-girlfriend who didn''t want to have anything to do with me moved in next door to where I was living with my then fiancee.
19. I never pulled an all-nighter in college or law school.
20. I have lived in the suburbs of Jacksonville, Florida, the suburbs of Washington, DC, Ithaca, NY, Tallahassee, FL, and Washington, DC proper.

Married and Living in DC
21. I hadn't ever lived in a major city until 1998, when I moved into DC.
22. Within one week of moving into the city, I had met my future wife Kathy at the dog park.
23. I write acrostic poetry to Kathy, where the first letter of each line spells "I love you."
24. I proposed to Kathy reading an acrostic sonnet, in iambic pentameter, where the first letter of each line spelled out "Will You Marry Me," then handing it to her, the question being in enlarged bold.
25. She didn't notice the proposal.
26. Kathy and I got married in 1999.
27. I never want to live in suburbs again.
28. Kathy and I have two dogs, Nora and Junebug.
29. When I met Kathy, my dog was Rosie -- after she died of cancer in 2000, we got Junebug from the pound.
30. For my commute, I either Metro or walk.
31. At our wedding, my cousin Jeff was both the best man and maid of honor.
32. We live on Capitol Hill in a house we bought one month before we got married.
33. Despite living on Capitol Hill, I've never been inside the U.S. Capitol.
34. We would like to have children, but have been unable to conceive.
35. The best present Kathy has ever given me is a digital jukebox.
36. My wife is my best friend.
37. We don't have cable TV.
38. I need more sleep than Kathy does.
39. Together, my wife and I only own one car. We didn't own any car until November 2001, after Kathy had gotten somewhat panicked by 9/11.
40. The thing I most dislike about living in DC is that we have no voting representation in Congress.

Interests
41. I love good beer, and if you give me a chance, I can talk your ear off about it.
42. I have tried over 4000 different beers -- you can see the ones I've rated (and how I've rated them) here.
43. The only beer I've ever given a perfect score to is Three Floyd's Dark Lord Imperial Stout, which is not available where I live.
44. I don't think Sam Adams is a particularly good beer, but I'd still be polite if you said you like it.
45. I'd be polite even if you said you liked Budweiser.
46. For the last nine years I've hosted a holiday beer party, where I ask guests to bring a six-pack of seasonal beer.
47. I have taken many trips for the express purpose of trying beers or meeting up with fellow beer geeks.
48. I'm very good at Boggle, and have played a non-copyrighted version of it regularly on this site for over 10 years.
49. I have hosted a Bogathon and attended a few others.
50. As part of our first date (which started at noon and went until midnight), I played Boggle against Kathy.
51. During the first game, I started laughing because I had found the word "inebriate."
52. Kathy no longer likes playing Boggle with me.
53. I have met over 120 people in person whom I first met through the beer or the boggle site I frequent.
54. My favorite professional sports team is DC United, and I have been a full-season ticket holder since 1998.
55. I have been to five of the ten MLS Cups, including three of DC United's four championships.

Likes and Dislikes, Bests and Worsts, Mosts and Leasts
56. My favorite flavor of ice cream is coffee.
57. I don't drink coffee.
58. I don't drink any other caffeinated beverages, or any type of soda.
59. I don't like asparagus, I don't eat beef, and I'm allergic to shrimp.
60. My favorite ethnic dish is Vietnamese vegetable spring rolls (with peanut sauce).
61. I love sushi.
62. I couldn't possibly pick a favorite band (though I have identified several of my favorites on my profile page), but I do my darnedest to keep up with current music despite not having a decent radio station to listen to in DC.
63. My favorite foreign films are Life is Beautiful and Amelie.
64. While one of my favorite albums of the 1990s is the Magnetic Fields' 69 Love Songs, my favorite love song of theirs comes from a different album ("It's Only Time," on i).
65. The "loneliest" day in my life was my 21st birthday, when I saw only one other person (while hiking in the Canadian Rockies).
66. The most beautiful moment at a wedding (not my own) that I've attended was when my brother exchanged vows with his then-four-year-old stepson.
67. The most regret I've ever experienced was at my grandmother's funeral (when I was 17), when I discovered how much she had cared for me that I had taken for granted.
68. I love getting a massage.
69. The strangest place I've had sex was in the breakdown lane of an interstate.
70. My favorite season is spring, but I find winter the most beautiful.

Travel
71. My favorite place I've never lived is Portland, Oregon.
72. I have been to every state except Arkansas, Hawaii, Oklahoma, Mississippi, Iowa, Nebraska, North Dakota, and Idaho.
73. I have been to Las Vegas four separate times.
74. I never get tired of vacationing at the Outer Banks in North Carolina.
75. I have no particular desire to visit Hawaii.
76. I have been to Canada, Mexico, Costa Rica, France, Italy, the Czech Republic, Germany, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Finland, Estonia, Russia, Belgium, Israel and Jordan.
77. When I visited Prague, I left after four days, afraid that if I didn't leave right then I never would.
78. The country I've not visited that I'd most like to is Turkey.
79. Or maybe it's Thailand.
80. I don't speak any language other than English.

More of What Makes Me Me
81. I am both a cultural Jew and an atheist.
82. I feel that I have lived a very fortunate life.
83. I am very opinionated.
84. I'm only 94.7% as arrogant about my opinions as I used to be.
85. I'm a shade under 6 feet tall, weigh about 165 pounds, and have green eyes.
86. My parents are still married, and live in Clearwater, Florida.
87. My brother Josh and sister Shari live outside of Phoenix, and my sister Rebecca lives outside of Atlanta.
88. I have never smoked tobacco or pot, or done any illicit drugs.
89. I favor legalizing pot.
90. I have way too many things.
91. My best friend from high school lives 25 miles from me and I haven't seen him since my wedding. I was first runner up in a Style Invitational contest for writing a poem that used only the first row of letters on a keyboard.
92. I wouldn't want to live forever.
93. I saw the Grateful Dead three times.
94. I have never been to an NFL game, and I haven't been to a Major League Baseball game since the strike of 1994.
95. I use puns way too much.
96. I cry on occasion.
97. Ive stood naked on my roof before.
98. I cut my own hair.
99. For me, work is a means to an end rather than an end unto itself.
100. I envy people who love their work, but I don't know what I'd love to do.