pretty good, after all

September 6^th, 2008

6:55 AM

This is only a stopping place. And we've not even stopped. I suppose, it's better to call it a camping spot along the way. At camp, there are things to do. Work to get done. Things that need attention. The basics. Shelter, water, fire, food. And that's what we focus on here. At our little bungalow in the Garden City.

At camp, there's relaxation. Time for reflection. Moments spent with family or friends. Commitments and obligations remain, but there is extra time given to play and share stories. Again, we have that here.

One thing that a campsite doesn't usually have are passenger planes growling through the sky. One after another. All day and all night.

Air traffic has been heavy the past few days. We are less than ten miles from the airport. Just like hundreds of other families. And unless you're very good at tuning things out, you can never really forget the planes. They are always here. Gaining altitude. Tearing apart the sky. I wonder how many other people are up right now. Thinking about, writing about, cursing the planes.

Still, I would not trade our little house and big yard for anything. Not right now. We need this place. Want this place. It's a fine starter home. One that we worked hard to get. One that we aim to keep. Have as our home base. For as long as we need.

Though anything can happen and a person cannot script how life will turn out, I don't believe we'll be here for the rest of our lives. We've moved from a low-income condo development to a not-so-low-income blue collar neighborhood, but there's still room for improvement. Upward mobility is what this country is all about. And little by little, we're doing our best, not only to maintain, but to improve our situation.

I'm not helping much. Sure, I'm saving us thousands of dollars a year in childcare. I'm with Little Man every day, doing what I can to make sure he's healthy, happy, growing toward the sun. Also, I'm doing my best to keep the house in tip-top shape (improving my handyman skills as I go). But I really thought I'd be contributing more to our finances via writing.

I've taken on a few freelance projects, have been sending out my writing, but writing is a fickle business. I've know that for years. And now, writing this at a bit after seven in the morning, I realize I should have known better. Why on earth I've been banking on writing to help me and my family "make it" baffles me.

Sometimes I think I'm like those contestants you see on television. The person trying out for American Idol that certainly has passion and a love for music, but lacks skill and should not be singing at all. Or the really good Karaoke singer you see and hear on a Friday night. They hit most of the notes, they get some of the crowd cheering and singing along, but you just know they'll always be there. Looking for their big break. In some smoky bar. But they'll never get it because talent and passion can only take you so far.

And maybe this is as far as old Stevens will get. Just another guy. Twanging on his acoustic guitar. Covering other artists, doing requests, sharing his best new original work, but always seated in the same places, surrounded by the same faces, signing the same old songs.

That's okay. There are more important things now. Once, writing was my wife. I ate it, drank it, breathed it, sleeped it, dreamed it. Now, I've got a real flesh and blood wife. One that makes me feel happier than I've ever been. Even when it was just me. The single guy living out in the sticks. Owning an old country house, an old church. Living with his dog. Driving his fancy little sports car. Drinking too much. Eating too much. Tipping the scales with extra pounds, selfishness, and building up regret.

And somehow, I thought I was happy. Wanted to believe I was happy. Waking alone. Coming home alone. Sleeping alone. Doing whatever I wanted whenever Iw anted, but always whatever I was doing meant nothing. Was empty. Everything I was doing was aimed at filling the big ache. The hollow spot that was growing inside.

Now, that's changed.

No, I don't have as much time to write. But I have nobody to blame for that besides myself. I could get up earlier, stay up later, weasel in a few more minutes everywhere throughout the day. Simply put, I've been lazy. Living with the notion that someday someone will find me. But the truth is this...Any success I'm not having is because I'm not putting in the effort. There is an agent, editor, publisher, or patron out there that can help me out. Get this writing career off the ground and to the next level. But it's my responsibility to find him. Her. It. That means more time at these keys, searching for places to send my writing. That means more time at these keys, writing through all the crap, so that finally I write something that someone needs.

And at camp, while at this stopping place along the way, we dedicate ourselves to needs. Getting what we can from this earth so that we are warm. Dry. Have just enough of everything. Not only to survive, but to get by on. And from the looks of our cupboards, the refrigerator, the overall state of this little bungalow, I'd say we're doing all right for a teacher, a two-year old, and a stay-at-home-Dad.

Must be pretty good, afterall, if I can wake up at first light, as airplanes growl and rumble through the sky, and put my tired fingers to these keys.

Keep on keepin' on.

~ Stevens

(copyright © 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

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our best efforts

September 4^th, 2008

7:40 AM

S.B. dressed up for work. Looking beautiful as ever. Coffee mug in hand. Up into the big, old pickup truck. Exhaust rumbling as she eases down the road. Takes a right. Makes her way to school. An Art Teacher, but because of poor planning and inept leadership, she is teaching third grade. She was all prepared to teach art. Has been working hard on lesson plans, fresh ideas, discovering ways to help these kids learn, not only about life, but about the bigger picture. That they are worthy. That they can reach incredible heights.

Her planning and thinking have not gone to waste. She's been doing her best to make sure that these third graders are starting out on the right foot. Someone has to. The school is not only lacking a third grade teacher (S.B. was told that someone was hired and that they start next week), but it's lacking supplies. Not enough toilet paper. Copy paper. Not enough paper towels for kids to dry their hands.

But the greatest country on earth has spent 872 billion dollars on war efforts. That's in Iraq and Afghanistan. Ever since we decided to go after the axis of evil, we've been doling out money to destroy evildoers and neglecting important matters at home.

Don't get me wrong. National security is important. Without men and women fighting for our freedoms, we wouldn't even get an education. We wouldn't have to worry about if we had enough toilet paper, paper towels, or school supplies. And I wouldn't be able to sit here and write about things without fear of being thrown into prison, taken into a field and shot, or strung up for a public beating.

But what about our internal struggles?

Neighborhoods falling apart. Jobs disappearing. Children wanting and needing guidance, education, and love so that they don't end up lost in this big wide world.

Everyone can be something. Everyone can reach up and chase dreams. But nobody has gone it alone. All of us were born. Cared for. Protected. Provided with the basic necessities for survival. And most of us were fortunate enough to have continued care, an education, opportunities to rise up and make the most out of ourselves. And some of us, even now, are striving. Doing what we can every day to make this world a better place. By caring for our children. Loving our wives. Sealing cracks around the windows. Planting trees. Reaching out and making a positive impact. Most of the time, without even knowing.

Opening doors for others.

Saying THANK YOU and PLEASE.

Giving kudos and making improvements instead of complaining and being complacent. Reading and thinking and participating in whatever ways we're able instead of sitting back and letting others make decisions for us.

Yes, I believe that there's more good in this world than bad. That it's never too late. That even the simplest act of kindness and being considerate of others helps to keep this old rock turning.

But we, as a nation, as human beings with more in common than we want to admit, need to buck up. Be aware. Take responsibility for our actions. Take care of each other. Identify what's truly important in our lives, prioritize, and move ahead in life being humble and aware.

But maybe that's too much to ask.

S.B.'s at school by now. So are the other teachers. Ready and waiting. Another day of patience. Effort. Trying to reach children. Help them learn. Grow. Seize opportunity.

And the parents are rolling into the parking lot.

8:00 am.

Bass pounding.

Rims shiny and spinning.

Bling sparkling in the morning light, as they posture themselves.

Gangsta lean.

Cell phone on the ear.

Dumping off another generation. Unaware that we are losing them. One by one. Despite the best efforts of people waking early, fueling up with coffee, and getting into old pickup trucks, so that maybe, just maybe, we'll lose one less kid. To apathy. Greed. This internal war that keeps on festering.

~ K.J.

(copyright 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

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rolling

September 1^st, 2008

8:02 AM

Internal strength. That's what holds it all together. Keeps us from going haywire. Saying stupid things. Doing stupid things. It's what keeps us from knee-jerk, gut reactions. Allows us to reason. To see or hear a thing, digest it, then choose our reaction.

I know of people that have it. It's a short list. And I'm sure if I spent all day of every day with these people, I'd see that they too cave in sometimes. They break down. Pound their fists. Shed tears. Collapse on the bed seeking refuge in sleep. But what's different about these people is that they do it on their own time. They do what they can so they aren't dragging down those around them.

After all, the world break everyone. Hemingway knew it. I know it. Everyone can feel it if they're willing to pay attention. There's no getting around it. Eventually, we'll all be broken down. But what we need to be mindful of as we move around this place is how we carry ourselves. How we treat others. How we treat the world. We need to do our best to build strength in others by building strength in ourselves. But to be able to do this, we need to recognize that with each crack, every time we say or do the wrong thing, it is an opportunity to build strength. To be strong in those broken places, so that we can carry on. Do better next time.

What's also important to remember is that strength is not built with excuses. We must own up. We cannot let the notion of wrongdoings or mistakes as opportunities for growth give us excuses to do wrong or make mistakes again.

I bitch at people in traffic. People running red lights. Cutting other people off. People swerving in and out of traffic, talking .. phones, posturing in their "gansta" lean. People tend to piss me off. And it's not only in traffic. It's in stores. On sidewalks. At festivals. Parks. Wherever people are they tend to piss me off. Maybe it's only the bad ones that stand out. Throwing their trash around, talking like thugs, having total disregard for the world around them because for some reason they believe their entitled. That the world owes them something. Anything. Everything.

"That's the way we roll!"

A man exclaimed this proudly to everyone within earshot as he and his family and friends cut in line at the airport. The line was already filled with hundreds of people. Most of them like me and S.B., about to miss a flight because of the airline being understaffed, inefficient, apathetic. But these folks came rolling in, laughing, bragging about how they were up late and had slept in. They made no bones about the fact that they were late to the airport because of choices they had made. And yet, they cut in line, went to the ticket counter, complained to the customer service agent and were allowed to cut out waiting in line altogether. Indeed, there they went. Walking away. A combination of strut and lazy swagger. Ahead of all of us who'd been there for two hours or more.

Because that's the way they roll.

My gut reaction was to bitch about it. Complain. Follow them and beat them with their own luggage. Let their actions taint mine and turn me into a person not much better.

But then I looked at S.B.

Already, we'd been through enough that morning. That week. Month. The year. And as trite as these "rollers" seemed, there was no use letting more bad stuff into our lives. We were just starting out. A few days married. Waiting to leave for our honeymoon. Already missing Little Man. Unsure of what waited for us once we left the ground.

So, I let it alone.

Sure, we missed our flight. Had to make phone calls. Push around plans. Leave a day later. But there was nothing that could be done but buck up and keep on keepin' on.

What will help me now. Moving around this place. Always threatened with breaking. Is that S.B. is there. If not in sight, usually in earshot. And my knee-jerk, gut reactions are not what she needs. They are not what we need. And today, when we are in traffic and someone cuts us off, I will not cuss or yell, or wish that I had a baseball bat to pound through their windshield. Instead, I will look over at S.B., take a deep breath, then look in the rear view mirror. At Little Man. So small and open and in need of a strong man to help show him the way.

And I will smile. Or ask him how he's doing. Maybe just say "hi, buddy".

Because that's the way we roll.

~ K.J.

(copyright 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

1:15 PM - 1 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

pluggin’

Had fine weekend.

Folks came to visit.

S.B. was as beautiful and fun as ever.

Little man got to go to the zoo. Not only with Mommy and Daddy, but with Pee-Paw and G-Maw.

Good stuff. You can't beat it.

But now I'll ruin it. By talking shop.

Got to, as there are mouths to feed. And for ten bucks THIS BOOK might be considered by some to be a deal.

Best,

- Stevens

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deep cleaning

August 29^th, 2008

9:26 AM

Open the blind, but just a little. Enough to let the morning air into this upstairs room. Just a bit so that I can see the outside world but it cannot see me.

Leftover coffee. A blue-jay screeching. Tires through puddles, moving down streets. Carrying people to destinations.

So where should we go, dear Stevens?

Could write about dreams from last night. People gathered round. Old friends. People I've lost touch with. All of them so very happy to see me while I felt disconnected and unhappy with them. And all of them trying to get so close. Touching. Smiling. Whispering in my ear. Offering me an elixir in a brown bottle. Something sure to make me relax, they said. But I shoved it away. Turned from them. Paid attention to the fools driving into the yard. Trying to park their cars. Tearing up the lawn. It didn't bother me that chunks of sod were flying. That cars and trucks were getting stuck. What bothered me was that these people didn't pay attention. If they'd only looked at the ground, watched where they were going, they would have been fine. There was a part of me that was excited by this—all of them being stuck in the mud—because I got to fire up my truck. Put it in four-wheel-drive. Hook up the tow strap and pull them out. One by one.

The night was made up of weird dreams. Restless sleep. Searching for comfort. On my side. Belly. Back. But the only good sleep came when S.B. rolled over, put her head on my shoulder, and wrapped an arm around me.

We're up and at it. S.B. cleaning the house. Giving it a "deep clean", she says. We talked about the difference between my "surface cleaning" and her "deep cleaning" the other day. The surface cleaning is what I do every day as a stay-at-home Daddy. Sweeping, dishes, wiping down counter tops and sinks. Taking out garbage. Cleaning the litter box. That sort of stuff. The deep clean includes these things but is also a once a week ritual that touches the deeper parts of the house. The nooks and crannies and other hiding spots. Deep cleaning includes scrubbing and dusting, bleaching and scouring. It's getting down and dirty, going below the surface. And when it's all said and done the house smells and feels brand new.

Today's cleaning also has a little added significance. My parents are coming tomorrow. Finally. After months of poking and prodding, they've finally made some time to come see our home, our neighborhood, our big backyard and trees. My folks don't travel much. They never have. So for them to make the 250 mile drive south, down freeways, into crazy traffic, and into unknown territory is amazing.

I'm looking forward to it. The older I get, the more I appreciate and understand my parents. Especially now. Being married. Having a son. Doing what we can to make things good more often than they are bad. I see all the work, frustration, sweat and tears that went into raising me and my brothers. It just astounds me. They were not perfect parents. They made mistakes. There were wrongs. Things were not always as they seemed. But the fact of the matter is they did their very best and sacrificed much so that they could raise three boys into three men. And by God, they did it right. Me and my brothers are not perfect. Each of us will tell you that. But we also know that we turned out pretty damned good despite all the efforts we've made in our lives to turn out bad.

And so, having my folks drive from our little old hometown up in the north country to the hustle-bustle of the city, means a great deal. It will be so nice just having them here. Spending time with them. I doubt we'll do much sight-seeing. And I'm pretty sure we won't be hitting up any fancy restaurants. But I'd like to grill burgers for my Dad. Make a big salad for Mom. Do whatever I can so that our home feels like their home. As far as anything else goes, it doesn't really matter. Maybe we'll hit up the mall. Go to the Detroit Zoo. Walk down the street to the park. Show them around the neighborhood.

But that's not until tomorrow. A whole day away.

Today it is S.B. deep cleaning. Little Man playing. And Daddy upstairs. Slinging together words. Hoping to one day make us a living at this. Fingers at the keys. Blinds open. Just a little. Enough to let the morning air into this upstairs room. Just a bit. So that I can see the outside world, but it cannot see me.

~ K.J.

(copyright © 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

6:36 PM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

tucked away

August 28^th, 2008

8:27 AM

Waited too long to start this. Little Man will be up soon. Breakfast. A changing. A little bit of PBS Kids and then we'll be off to the races. One of the best things about being married and having a child is that you never know what's going to happen next. Our days have routine, but the events within that routine vary greatly from day to day.

It rained last night. Finally. Everything's wet out there. Sun is not around. Sky is threatening more rain. If that's the case, it'll be an inside day. A book and movie and toys day. Maybe some Play-Doh. In any case, with Little Man's imagination taking shape, him wanting to play more on his own, and the weather cooperating, I might be able to get in more writing today. That would be good. It's very much needed.

Feeling cocky and strong lately. Not that I'm walking around causing trouble or anything like that. But inside I feel the old writerly confidence building. I'm ready to pound out some quality words. Write some stories that will make marks. Not only on clean sheets, between the covers, but also in the hearts and minds of those that read them.

I can say that I don't care about being successful all I want. I can say that I'm happy with the success that I currently have. But the reality is that I want to be the best. Better than anyone. Not because I want to be above anyone. Not because I want to be ranked. But because I want my words to stand out. I want for an agent, editor, publisher to say... "Hmmmm, this Stevens character. He can write. Maybe we should sign him up."

But that's what all of us want. Some recognition. To be admired for our work. We don't wear it on our sleeves. At least we shouldn't anyway. And we must walk this earth as humble as we can without letting success muddy our roots.

I have plenty of time left. Don't need to have a best-seller. Don't need to do book tours, TV shows, or readings. Guess I don't need anything.

It all boils down to want. And I want it because I know I can get it. If I keep at it. Working hard. Thinking. Putting together letters to make words the best way I know how. Without much fuss. Without all the fluff. By nailing down the meaning and serving it up without garnish, seasoning, or a side dish.

Yes, I'm hungry. Still hungry after all of these years. Hungry for more.

I am home nearly every day. Being a Daddy. Keeping up the house and yard. Trying to be a fine husband. But always there's the writer. Old K.J. Stevens. Wanting to get to work. Turn the everyday into something more. Not only for myself and my family, but for all of us.

Because there aren't many of us left. Those who've not sold our souls. Or even worse, forgotten that each of us has one.

Tucked away deep. Coursing life through our veins with every step we take.

~ K.J.

(copyright 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

12:47 PM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

even numbered days

August 27^th, 2008

7:09 AM

Missed our day to water the lawn, the garden, the trees. We're an even numbered home. That means on even numbered calendar days we're allowed to use water as we see fit. It's not that we'll be blindfolded and taken to a firing range if we happen to water our dying squash plants today, but we are "encouraged" to follow the city's recommendation. But Mother Nature's been stingy with the rain here. The garden is half dead. Lawn looks like a sandbox. Our birch and poplar trees are sticks poking out of the ground. I think I'll go against the grain today. Unravel that hose and soak things up. Yes, it seems wasteful and unnecessary. After all, the hand that's got this big old world turning round-and-round probably has a reason for our current precipitation level. But it sure would be nice to harvest squash this season. Some more beans. Hopefully a cucumber.

Our neighbor two houses down is growing amazing tomatoes. Me and S.B. were in the garage last week. Getting ready for a camping trip. We were standing there. Talking. When out of nothing but the bright white sunlight comes Marty.

"These here are the finest tomatoes this side of Detroit!"

He handed us a sandwich bag full of cherry-sized tomatoes.

"Wow," I said, a little surprised that he would think of us, since we've only spoke a few times. "Thanks!"

"We love tomatoes," S.B. added.

"Well, then you're going to love these. These ones here," he pointed to the little ones, "they're like candy!"

He handed over two stout, weighty tomatoes that were slightly different shades of red.

"And these," Marty said, "will melt in your mouth. One is Japanese. The other is a Southern type. I can't reveal my sources."

And with that, Marty smiled, waved and headed off into the blazing sunlight.

"That's one happy man," I said.

"Indeed," said S.B.

We went back to planning our camping trip. One that ended up being even better than the last. Little Man was relatively cooperative. We roasted hot dogs, marshmallows, went hiking, swimming, and even got in a little fishing. For a treat, S.B. took that bag of cherry-sized tomatoes out of the cooler for dessert. Marty was right. It was like eating candy.

A quarter after seven in the AM.

Marty should be up by now. He seems to be an early riser. A busy guy. His yard is gorgeous. The grass, flowers, trees. I see him out there putting in the time. But I also see him riding his bike. Walking. Rocking on a chair, reading from his place on the front porch. Always, he waves when we pass.

I like it here. In our little house. With a guy living two houses down that is not afraid to share his good fortune and hard work.

I'm going to follow his lead today. Rake leaves. Limb trees. Keep Little Man at my side, helping. So that both of us get exercise, fresh air.

I know of Dads that spend time with their kids by playing video games. Watching TV. I know of Dads that make up for lost time by buying things for their kids. Or letting them get away with whatever they want.

But for some reason, I don't think that's how it's supposed to be. Yes, I'm fortunate. Able to stay home with Little Man. Spend lots of time with him. But still, if I worked a real job all day, I wouldn't come home, plop my ass on the couch and watch TV or play video games. Me and my son would be out and about. Walking, biking, raking the lawn, planting tomatoes. Rocking on chairs from our place on the front porch.

Raising a child, being married, keeping at these words. All of it takes an incredible amount of energy. There is much sacrifice. If you're doing it right anyway. And since I've done plenty wrong in my life, I figure now is the time. To buck up. Fly straight. Do whatever it is I can to make sure Little Man, S.B., and my writing are cared for appropriately. Not only on good days. Even numbered days. Odd days. Or days when I feel good. But on every day that I'm lucky enough to see.

That big ball of light rises and blazes for a reason.

It's giving us another chance.

Another opportunity.

To make good on all of this possibility.

Best,

~ K.J.

(copyright 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

6:20 PM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

vision

August 26^th, 2008

6:41 AM

Woke this morning with visions of a new baby in the family. Me and S.B. and Little Man at a restaurant. The baby swaddled up in a car seat. Crying as we settled into our table. Me trying to console the baby while S.B. worked at getting Little Man down from the table. I don't know how people do it with more than one kid. With several kids. I'm not sure that S.B. and I will ever have to do it with more than one kid, but there is a chance. The possibility. We've no buns in the oven. The stork has not been visiting our home. But it's something that may be on the horizon. And because of that, my brain is already making up scenarios.

I think I need to put more time into the writing. Channel the creativity and energy into the keyboard.

So I was up early. Out of bed at six. Letting the old cat, Cabby, drink from the bathroom sink. It's one of the only things that will quiet her in the morning. She likes to get up early too. Walk the hallway, or sit outside our bedroom door, and meow. And meow. And meow. So she got her dose of water straight from the tap. I got my coffee. Now it's fingers at the keys. Working through words. Clearing the head before we are smack dab in the middle of another morning.

Married and a Daddy. The future wide open. Plenty to experience, encounter, enjoy and yet there's the writing. Always nagging me. Pushing me. Wanting me to do and be so much more. Not only for myself, but for others. And so, when I wake with the morning filled up with lingering cool and hinting at autumn, the urge to write takes over. I'm compelled to come upstairs and get at it. Even if it is nothing.

Which seems to be the case this morning.

Started on new bit. Something I don't usually write. Story about a man that discovers he's a killer once an accident happens. I want the story to be literary and engaging as far as characterization and plot are concerned, but it's hard to create the proper balance. Most of all, it's hard to create something that'll please my harshest critic...Me.

But I can't talk about new projects very much. Talking about them ruins them. Gets them out of the gate and running without me. Once that happens—if they are shared too soon—they lose the zip, that dust-on-the-butterfly's-wings sort of thing, that make me believe they are special. So enough of that.

I can talk about working on an old project. Landscaping. The nonfiction book I started some time ago, that has been in proof copy stage for months, is finally getting some attention. I got back to it yesterday. Reading. Revising. Making the minor edits needed so that I can get the ISBN slapped on it and get it out into the world. What Landscaping turned out to be is a collection of journal-type entries. A very personal book. Writing rooted deeply in the moment. And apparently that moment (July 30, 2005 to September 4^th, 2006) was a dark one. If people thought that my short story collection was dark, then Landscaping is sure to get people tying nooses and swigging whiskey. All I know, is that going through it (reading it) as an outsider (as much as I can be outside myself) I'm able to see the progression. All of this—reconnecting with S.B., moving, being a Daddy, and getting married—was coming. I wasn't in a bad place up north, working the 8-5 cubicle job, drinking away my single days, but I wasn't in a good place either. It's as if I had forced myself into an in-between stage of denial. I knew what I wanted, where I wanted to be, what I wanted to do with my life, but I was denying everything. I was trying, with all my might, to shut myself down from possibility and fall into complacency.

That happens up there. Up north. Sure, it happens everywhere, but there's something about being up there. In that small town. With so many people too close and too disconnected from other areas that it's like living on an island. And while living on this island, I was doing all I could to create even a smaller island.

I wonder what I'll think of this writing. This big project. A Year In This Life. In three years, five years, fifteen years. Will I look back and see the progression? Growth? Destruction? What will I see?

And what, my friend, will you read?

~ K.J.

(copyright 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

9:56 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

happy birthday

 August 23^rd, 2008

8:50 AM

Up to a blue-sky morning. S.B. making eggs and biscuits. Little Man enjoying Tom and Jerry. Old Man Stevens is upstairs. Sitting in his grandfather's hard straight-backed chair. Poking away at keys. Hoping to stir something. Anything that might be considered worthy of your time. Because as much as it's about me. Writing for myself. Keeping balanced. It's also about you.

Mom's birthday today. She is 53. Still a pup, though with the way things have been going for her lately, one would think otherwise. But she perseveres. Always has. Always will. Growing up as one in a family of sixteen children presents enough challenges early on so that it either makes or breaks you. In Mom's case, it made her.

She doesn't believe it sometimes.

That she touches many. Brings positivity and goodness to the world.

But it's hard to believe the impact we make as mere individuals in this wide, wide world.

She was a shy little girl that was made to raise her brothers and sisters when she was only ten years old. Thrown into the role of mother at an early age and witnessing the mistakes her parents made caused rapid maturation. It became clear. There was right. There was wrong. There was an indefinite amount of gray between the two and it was important to make decisions based on safety's sake. Lives counted on it. So, she made the best decisions she could. For her brothers and sisters. Her parents. But never for herself.

It wasn't until years later that she began to recognize her potential. But once that initial spark took hold, a fire came to life. And as far as I can tell, it's been roaring ever since. She's painted hundreds of paintings. Most of them she's given away. Some have been purchased by recording studios, fast food chains, and private individuals. Not long ago, she had her first art show. It was well received by family and friends, but more importantly it was received well by the public. People she didn't know.

Mom's also written and published a book. My Full Circle features pages and pages of full color artwork and also shares her story. How she came to be the Rita that we all know, respect, and love.

But this is not an ad about Mom. It is only a little bit about the woman who helped me get to where I am today. We need to dig up, keep in touch with our roots, I think. And she is one of the strongest roots I've got.

"You need to find a good woman."

That's what Mom's always said. Something, I'm sure that Moms all over have said.

"I don't need a woman, Mom. I have women and I have writing."

"You say that now, but you'll see. Only one woman will last you a lifetime. The right woman, anyway."

I always dismissed this. These conversations about how I needed a woman. To open myself up, not only to give, but to receive the great gift. But now, I get it. I got it. I feel like the most fortunate man in the world most days. Lucky to have a wife like S.B.. And lucky to have had such a caring, patient, understanding Mom. One that has sacrificed and will continue to do so because she knows no other way.

And so...HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Mom! Sending nothing but the best your way...

~ K.J.

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expectations

August 22^nd, 2008

6:53 AM

Back to work for S.B. and back to work for me. Being a Daddy is not as easy as it seems. Especially now, with Little Man full of piss and vinegar most days. Formulating thought. Exploring imagination. Trying with all his might to communicate everything that's going on inside. But we're trying. All of us. To be patient. To understand. I've heard people say, "Just love the kid. That's all you have to do." And while that's true—love is the most important thing—parental love is made up of much more than feeling.

Love, in this case, is much more. And maybe that's what these "Just love the kid" people mean. Could be that now—finally, after 35 years on this big ball of water, vegetation and dirt—I've learned the truth. That ALL love is much more than feeling.

Love, they say, is a many splendid thing. But it is also a lot of work and you are bound to get dirty. Love, in fact, can be a many un-splendid thing. If you go into it too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, you're sure to get crushed. S.B. warned me of this many times before I quit my job, left my home, and moved to be with her and Little Man.

"It's not going to be easy," she said. "I'm afraid you don't know what you're getting into."

"I have an idea of what I'm getting into."

"That might not be enough," she said.

We were on our nine o' clock phone call. Something we did religiously every night while we were apart. It was the best part of my day. Waiting for nine to roll around. Sitting down in the big red recliner, dog on my lap, calling her.

"If I wasn't sure, if I didn't know that I'm supposed to be there, I wouldn't even consider moving."

"Okay, I believe you. I do. I'm only afraid you're going to get down here and it isn't going to be what you expected."

"I expect nothing. Only to be with you and Little Man."

She thought it was sweet. Or maybe that I was crazy. A writer blinded by the chance of love and new experience. Or just another guy. Saying one thing, but meaning another. But really, I knew that I was to be there. With her. With Little Man.

But I am glad she warned me. Because there were things I could have never expected.

Little Man's strong will. His impressive tantrums. The amount of poop that can come out of a kid.

The day he knocked a lamp off his nightstand and it fell and cut his head. The panic I felt when I heard THE CRY and ran to see blood on his face. Sure he was okay, but not sure enough to let it slide. So I called S.B. and she told me not to worry. That it was only a cut, that it might leave a scar, but that in all of it he would be fine. So I breathed deep. Held him close. Put a cold washcloth to his head and told him it would be okay. And it was. But we have a reminder. That little scar. One that fades with each day.

He points to it sometimes and says, "Owie".

"That was a bad day," I say. "But look at you! You're a big boy! You made it through!"

And he will nod his head. Smile. Then go about his day.

But in addition to the un-splendid there's plenty of splendid. Beauty I never expected as well.

Hearing his little feet pad the floor as he runs from his bedroom in the morning and yells, "Hi, Daddy!"

Watching him take an interest in the smallest things. Like a leaf. A rock. An ant scurrying alongside the top of his swimming pool.

And seeing the way he and S.B. hold each other. Mostly at night. Around book-reading time. Just before we tuck him in for bed. There can be nothing better. At least for me. To see both of them. Together. Hugging and smiling.

Yes, there's plenty I did not expect. That I could not have ever known. But that makes me feel all that more happy. Satisfied. Driven to keep on keepin' on.

And here I am. At it. Upstairs in our family home. Little Man downstairs sleeping. S.B. gone to work. The sun taking it's time at rising enough to break cloud cover. Humidity thickening the air. My white gold ring catching the light as I type. Reminding me that I have lots to do. That there are expectations. Needs and wants. Roles to play. But most of all, I'm reminded that love always has the chance to see the light of day.

Always.

If we are willing to dig deep.

Dedicated to rise above.

Committed to love.

~ K.J.

(copyright 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

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