A Streaked Window

A child needs a father like a fish needs a bicycle. That’s the conclusion I came to somewhere in my teens. Now, decades later, the notion persists despite the heartening anecdotes I’ve heard. It’s not that I don’t believe the people who tell me their fathers are or were gems; I just can’t envision that Father Knows Best kind of world. Were these men Fred McMurray nice? Did they sit cross-legged on sofas, pipe in hand and gently listen to their children’s gleeful chatter? Did they grin and tousle their hair like Brian Keith in Family Affair? Did they teach hard lessons in a tender fashion, a la Andy Griffith of Mayberry? Or did their good qualities simply edge out the bad? Society holds the bar lower for men than women as if, expecting the worse, all we ask of fathers is decency.

My father, as you may have gathered, was not a nice man. He was a sadist and a tyrant and worse. There are too many similar stories, too many women abused by a father, uncle or grandfather. I know that these men do not represent their gender and that good men are plentiful, but my view remains smudged, a streaked window I cannot wipe clean. Each time I see a father with a young daughter I look for signs of trouble. I want to save whomever I can, now that I have the power.

Two friends of mine, women happily married to each other, are raising a boy and a girl. I have observed their family dynamic for many years, and what strikes me most about these women is their keen awareness of the colossal responsibility they have taken on. These two have made a solemn commitment to motherhood, parsing every detail and possible consequence of their parental decisions in a continual quest to keep their offspring out of harm’s way and reasonably content. The same can be said of another couple I know, married men, who are also raising children. Perhaps this level of dedication comes from hard-won victories: the right to marry, the right to adopt. Perhaps it is borne of suffering, whatever ridicule or injustice these men and women endured growing up in a culture that did not include them. Pain depletes some people, breaks open the hearts of others.

There are communal families, as in the Scandinavian countries, and there are transgendered couples raising children; there are those who, through divorce or tragedy, are compelled to parent without partners, and there are those who deliberately choose that arrangement. Love being fluid and accommodating, families can be cobbled from whatever is there.

I admire these devout parents. I never wanted children—the idea makes me woozy. Motherhood requires resources I must have been born without.

I live in the suburbs, where traditional nuclear families still predominate. The notion that such environments produce the healthiest children is religious propaganda with no supporting evidence. Sometimes I stand at the window and watch the kids across the street playing with their dog while their father washes the car. I have no idea what goes on behind their front door, but the children appear well-adjusted, and I have no reason to believe they’re in danger.

I want this to be true. I want them to grow up as they should, so that the sight of children at play will bring them nothing but joy.


Photo by Creativity+ Timothy K Hamilton on Foter.comCC BY-NC-ND

Blood Thirst


Who can forget Sean Connery as 007? Smiling, square-jawed, never had a scratch on him. James Bond was spring fresh in every scene, ready for a cold martini and a hot babe. And Robert Vaughn, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Wasn’t he a smooth operator? Calculated, restrained, just the right amount of derring-do. And how about Robert Conrad, that gorgeous gunslinger from The Wild Wild West, effortlessly slipping in and out of trouble and relishing every minute of it. And Mission Impossible, the original, with solemn Peter Graves and shrewd Barbara Bain. I loved that self-destructing tape, the quiet gravity with which the missions were accepted and the grace with which they were accomplished.

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One of the features that distinguished these TV shows was how neatly the heroes sidestepped bodily harm. 007 was on the brink of annihilation in every movie but used his wits, and often some thrilling gadget, to elude his torturous predicaments. Robert Conrad availed his gymnastic prowess, along with the futuristic features of his luxury train. The men from U.N.C.L.E employed smarts, hi-tech communication devices and a versatile firearm known simply as “The Gun.” The Mission Impossible agents were endowed with a protective canniness and a spectacular range of disguises. There was violence in these shows, to be sure, but kills were bullet-clean, and the camera did not linger over them. Gore was not the point.

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Fast forward to the Mission Impossible movies starring Tom Cruise in which Ethan Hunt plunges repeatedly into brutal protracted slugfests. The first 30 seconds of these battles would put any mortal in ICU, or worse, but Ethan keeps coming back for more, enduring multiple lacerations and contusions before emerging in the next scene with just a few tidy scars to remind us of his durability.

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Another thing we didn’t see much of in those early TV series were explosions. Now they’re everywhere, one colossal deafening fireball after another, coupled with billowing black smoke and flying chunks of mortar and steel. The challenge, I’ve heard, is to see how enormous these explosions can appear on screen while maintaining relative safety on the set.

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And then there’s hyper-speed, the most overused special effect of our time. From knife fights to space ship battles, overdrive is the numbing norm. That these scenes are too fast to follow and too numerous to sustain interest doesn’t seem to matter.

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What is next? What is the follow-up to bloody beatings, fireballs and warp speed? What is left on that big screen to bowl us over? Not those flimsy “reality shows” with hoarders and naked survivors and duck hunters. And not the next tier, where people dare each other to eat pig eyes or throw themselves onto giant obstacle courses or brawl inside cages. Those games will no longer suffice.

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We will have to have the real thing. Real contestants fighting in real time with real consequences, the same entertainment Roman emperors used to placate the swollen, restless masses before the inevitable fall of the empire. We will sit not in amphitheaters but in our living rooms and sports bars. We will cheer for our brawny idols and watch them attack each other with increasingly frightening weapons, and how far we let these contests go will determine the speed of our own demise.

After a while, even this entertainment will not satisfy us, and we will turn to each other in bewilderment and despair and bottomless need, and slowly we will find our way back. Or not.


Photo by ЯAFIK ♋ BERLIN on Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA

The Common Lacewing


A green lacewing. Isn’t it stunning? The looping cellophane wings, the extravagant antennae, the eyes a pair of shining beads. And that streamlined body–in all the world, could there be a truer green? Imagine taking flight with those diaphanous wings, sailing into darkness with see-through tackle. Maybe, with lives this brief, beauty pre-empts sturdiness.


Adult lacewings are nocturnal and fairly passive; most feed on nectar, pollen and honeydew. At some point during their four-to six-week lives, they find a mate, touch antennae, mingle mouthparts, and finally join abdomens, jerking and vibrating in a vertical position. The female soon lays 100 to 200 eggs on foliage, ideally with plenty of aphids nearby. Each dainty white egg is secured at the end of a filament about a half inch in length. After a few days the eggs hatch, molt, and the emerging larvae climb up the stalks and into the sunshine. Immediately they start feasting on whatever they can find: aphids, mites, caterpillars, other small bugs and eggs. These creatures are so proficient at dispatching aphids that lacewing eggs are shipped to gardeners and farmers for use as biological pest control.


Unlike humans, who are most comely in their youth, lacewing larvae are not what we’d call attractive. Their humpback bodies are swollen in the middle, and tufts of bristles protrude from their sides. These bristles are neither armor nor adornment. They are there to help secure dead victims and other debris to the backs of the larvae. As the gruesome collection grows, it serves as camouflage from birds and other predators, while offering the host cover for hunting.

Green Lacewing Nymph (Chrysopidae)

Lacewing larvae tend to swing their heads from side to side as they search for food, seizing what they find with their strong mandibles and injecting it with paralyzing venom. The hollow jaws then draw out the body’s fluid, after which the corpse is tossed onto the heap of other luckless prey. Occasionally these rapacious predators, also called aphid lions and aphid wolves, will even bite humans. In two or three weeks nature cues them to stop eating and start spinning cocoons, from which adult lacewings appear five days later to repeat the cycle.

Fearsome youth or fragile beauty–makes no difference to the common lacewing, who is always both, forever coming, forever going, a crawler with notions of flight, a flyer with flashbacks of sunshine.

Photo by mbrochh on Foter.com / CC BY-SA
Photo by dreed41 on Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA 
Photo by Pasha Kirillov on Foter.com / CC BY-SA
Photo by Marcello Consolo on Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA

What We Are Given


This is the elegy I wrote for my partner’s mother. Deeply personal, it concerns the challenges involved in living with and caring for an elderly in-law. I hope “What We Are Given” resonates with those who have waded through similar waters and learned their own difficult lessons.


For her last thirteen years, my partner’s mother lived with us. That the end of her life would be the end of this arrangement was a certainty we did not discuss.

Not that May ever really took part in discussions. Shy and withholding, she offered almost nothing in the way of opinions or desires. In as few words as possible, she would answer direct questions; more often she sidled away, moving onto some rescuing task. She would sometimes pose questions herself, but these were usually associated with the household—what time we’d be home, or when we wanted dinner, or how much food the cats should be given—never anything personal. I suppose she assumed that others were as disinclined as she was to divulge information about themselves. It was as if she were trying to erase herself, the way she shrugged off her worth and inched toward the sidelines. As quiet as she was, and as slight, you could sometimes forget she was in the room.

But May had a heart—that much she couldn’t hide. If Cindy or I were grieving over a loss—a pet, a job, a hope crushed—she would cross the room and give us a hug, sometimes she wept with us. Grief she understood, having lost friends as well as her husband. Though Fred died relatively young, at 63, May never sought the companionship of another man, nor did anyone urge her to. Such a thing was impossible; to know May was to know this. I never heard her utter a word against her husband, though she might have. A hard worker, Fred was also a drinker. Like everything else, she kept her chagrin over this to herself. As far as I could tell, there was nothing more important to her than loyalty to family, except perhaps work. May had a fierce sense of duty, giving devout attention to even the smallest chores.

In the first couple years after May moved in with us, other widows in the neighborhood invited her on various excursions, but she wouldn’t even join them for coffee, let alone a bus trip to Reno, and eventually they stopped asking. In the beginning, I think she was simply reluctant to share her history with others; later, as her dementia gained ground, her life became a daily battle to hide this affliction, and she retreated further into herself.

These were the hardest years, when she knew she was losing her mind. Nothing frustrated her more than her inability to access the words she wanted. Gradually, inevitably, her melancholy turned to acrimony. She saw no compensations in growing older, and almost daily she reminded us how painful the experience was, the suffering we had in store. If May could be accused of any cruelty, it was this. Silent on other topics, she managed to find words of discouragement.

I was, am, her daughter’s partner—actually, I’m her legal spouse. The lesbian daughter-in-law, I was likely not May’s first pick for Cindy, and I understand this: May came from a different time, and she was not the sort of person who broke rules of any kind. I recall the way she pursed her lips at the sight of a black man with a white woman. There was no question that she disapproved of my relationship with her daughter, no doubt that had she ever voted, which she didn’t, she would have voted against our right to wed.

You can imagine this uneasy dynamic. An elderly woman forced by her diminishing faculties to live in a situation she inwardly condemned, and two much younger women compelled to accommodate her. It could have been worse, I reminded myself. May was tidy, quiet, respectful of privacy—surely that was enough to ask of her. What more did I want? What could I expect from this damaged woman who was no more pleased with the living arrangement than I was? Cindy had told me that May had not had an easy beginning, that her father was a tyrant who, thwarting the possibility of lice, shaved his daughter’s head, then sent her off to school. Knowing such things about my mother-in-law, couldn’t I make room for the small inconveniences of cohabitation?

Friends used to tell me that my acceptance of the situation was uncommon, even heroic. Let me assure you, I was no hero. Memories of my intolerance, my smallness, shame me to this day. I fumed over her timorous ways, shook my head over her conformist behavior. Most of all, I resented her negativity, which seemed to invade every room of the house. I wanted her to show more gratitude for life itself, to age with a modicum of grace. Sometimes I literally turned my back on her, made no secret of my annoyance. There were days I wanted to move out, when I didn’t think I could stand another minute of her constant presence. There she always was, a witness to the worst of me.

Then there were other days when, appalled by my conduct, I would scramble for another chance. I would carry her toast and coffee up the stairs to her room—she could not manage these things as time went on—and seeing her timid smile, her pale grasping hands, I was gutted with remorse. I would pat her shoulder, ask if she needed anything else, wish her a good day. There were times when, leaving the house, I would suddenly panic at the thought of never seeing her again, and I would rush back up the stairs and give her a hug goodbye. I wanted redemption; I wanted her to see that I was better than she believed. More and more often, I did not believe this myself. She had me pegged me from the start, I thought, and had kept her silence for fear of causing trouble.

Eventually, leaving her alone became too risky, and we hired a senior care helper to oversee things when we were at work. May did not welcome this development, with any of the women we tried, and I know that the job was not easy. She was becoming more than a helper could handle, a challenge even for Cindy and me. One night we tucked her in, and a couple hours later we found her walking through the house, fully dressed, holding a folded blanket on which she had assembled various items—scissors, a pencil, paper clips, her watch—intent on bringing these things to a place she couldn’t name. Not long after that, when she lost her way even in the house, we moved her into an assisted living facility, where she declined more swiftly. At that point, fully eclipsed by dementia, she had become more docile and affectionate. There were moments she even seemed to enjoy the place, the other residents, as well as the songs and various shows provided by the staff. She died four months later, at the age of 84.

Some maintain that people can time their death, that they will often spare loved ones by passing away in their absence. Though this may have been May’s wish, to shield her daughter from the agony of that moment, I find it hard to believe that mine was the company she preferred. Cindy, who had been staying day and night in the room with her mother, had an appointment that morning in a city an hour away. I was alone with May, faced with a task for which I felt neither suited nor worthy. (The nurse, assessing the change in May’s condition, had gone to fetch an administrator.) May was not cognizant then; two days earlier she had slipped into a catatonic state, and we were told that she was likely blind but could still hear. When her breathing grew ragged, I put my hands on her shoulders and I spoke to her. Over and over I told her that I loved her, that Cindy loved her, that soon she would see Fred again, and all her friends, that she was going to a place of peace and unimaginable beauty. The words poured from me without thought or pause, and I came very close to believing in this heaven. I knew she heard me because she tried to answer. Over and over, she mouthed the word “love,” tried to make it audible, to make it known, and I told her that we knew.

In the first few weeks after her death, May came to us in sleep. Cindy and I had the same sort of dreams: short sweet visions of a happy, peaceful woman. Embarrassed by her false teeth, May used to smile with her mouth closed. In our dreams, her smile was unguarded, and I am comforted still by the memory of those images.

I spent long hours going through her faultless possessions, searching for clues, proof of her affection. She had saved nearly all her correspondence and notes, some of which brought me to tears: physical descriptions of people we had introduced her to, along with their names. I had no idea that she was making such earnest efforts to keep her life from flying apart. There was scant evidence of me in her belongings—a couple pictures of me and Cindy, a notice of a cooking contest I’d won. She had not saved any of my cards, and while this saddened me, I was not surprised. In more ways than one, her death was my discharge. I had a little more room in this world; someone who had caught me at my worst was gone.

Maybe she did love me, at the end. When she was trying to mouth that word, maybe she was including me. I can look back over those thirteen years and recall more than a few tender moments between us.

There could have been more. We could have loved each other better. With others, I have begun. That is what death teaches, what it gives us. A place from which to start.

Happy Hour

Happiness is a tenuous state, vanishing under the slightest scrutiny. As soon as we become aware that we’re happy, we break the spell. Most of the time.

I have found a wormhole to happiness, a way to enter and possess this fragile condition, at least for an hour or so.

It starts on my drive home from work, as I reach the neighborhood I live in. Darkness falls early now and I drive with care, watching for evening walkers, a loose dog, a child. I consider how quickly life can cave in, the countless hazards I’ve been spared, through vigilance or luck. The close calls I know nothing about.

I get out of the car and pause on the walkway to admire the silhouette of the giant cedar in my yard, the cold bright stars above it. The air smells of fall leaves and wet tree bark. The porch is lit, waiting for me. I can see the living room through the window, the string of willow lights on the mantle and the mountain sculpture above it. I am smiling already.

The front door is a portal to another realm. I cross the threshold into a place of rescue and reassurance, a habitat my spouse and I created to calm ourselves and honor the natural world. Here is a sconce fashioned of paper birch and manzanita branches; here is a hawk with moonlight on his back; here is a carved wooden owl taking flight from the wall; here is a large photo of a deeply fissured redwood in a forest of ferns.

My wife greets me with a kiss, just like in the old movies, then heads into the kitchen to shake up the martinis—one apiece, never more. Fine gin is strong medicine and should be handled with ritual and respect.

We take our drinks into the living room and sit down to discuss the day. Settled into my recliner, I look over at the electric fire with its obedient orange flames, and the carpet with its undulating lines that remind me of wave-lapped sand, and my wife, whom I have loved every minute of our thirty-eight years together, and my joy is so great I cannot speak, can only wonder how, in this world of microbes and menace and mad men, we have been kept safe, why we were born here and not Somalia. How have we managed to hang onto our vision, our limbs, our minds? How have we survived our blunders, our fathers, the things we will never, ever speak of?

A second thought, the slightest change on any given day, and we would not be sitting here now. Had we been moving toward each other all along? Did our detours bring us together, or did we meet, magnificently, in spite of them? To think that we began our lives no bigger than a grain of sand, then had to swim, crawl, walk, run, bike and drive to reach this precarious moment.

I lift my drink, which never fails to knock the rough edges off my work day, and turn to my wife. I can hardly wait for whatever she might say.

It is this way every night.

Of Burgers and Barrooms

Main Street Rag has just published Of Burgers and Barrooms, an extraordinary collection of poetry and prose featuring bars and fast food restaurants. My story “The Side Bar” is included in this publication, and I am deeply grateful. Provocative, humorous, edifying, delightful, this anthology has something for everyone. A great gift for writers and readers!

From the website: Main Street Rag Publishing Company has been publishing our print magazine, The Main Street Rag, uninterrupted since 1996. Among its features are poetry, short fiction, photography, essays, interviews, reviews, and commentary. Subscription information is available on the Submissions page and can be placed online at: Subscriptions. Current and back issue information–including who appears in each issue–can now be found at The MSR Online Bookstore on the back and current issues page. Our magazine is financed through subscriptions, direct sales and shelf sales. We receive no money in the form of grants or public funds. Reader support is important and necessary.


Lovers and Loners in Snowflakes!

Many thanks to Darrell Laurant, for featuring Lovers and Loners in the latest edition of Snowflakes in a Blizzard. Please visit this book-saving site and take a look at some fine work you might not otherwise encounter. In the meantime, here are a few words from Darrell:

“Given the current technology, virtually anyone who wants to publish a book can now do so.  And that’s a good thing, because I believe everyone has something of value to say and something to teach the rest of us.

But it’s also bad news for individual writers, because the chance that someone will randomly pick up or click on a particular book has decreased exponentially. I chose the name for this blog because getting noticed for a writer in this market — especially a new, unknown writer — is like a snowflake trying to stand out in a blizzard.”