“New Fathers”

Shortly after we moved to Dallas in 1988, where I had accepted a position at Akin, Gump, Strauss, Hauer and Feld, my wife and I were invited by friends to attend a presentation by a prominent Marriage and Family Therapist entitled “New Fathers” at a local church. Turns out the speaker had coined the phrase as a means of describing what social scientists and researchers had only recently identified as an emerging group of mostly Baby Boomer men, who, in contrast to their fathers and their fathers’ fathers, had begun to appreciate the fact that being a complete dad requires at least as much loving as doing. As I sat fully engaged in that talk, it occurred to me that I desperately wanted to be one of those dads and that this “life coach” was someone who might be able to help me achieve that goal.  I made it a point to talk to the presenter after her talk and, before I knew it, my wife and I were sitting in her office as clients and, once a week, I was separately meeting with a hand-picked group of men in – you guessed it – a “New Fathers” group.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that, while we came from different parts of the country and had chosen to pursue very different careers, we had much in common. All of us were Type A personalities with a strong, some might even suggest, unhealthy work ethic. We also had an almost Pavlovian response to tasks: 1. See (or find!) a task; 2. Evaluate what needed to be done and map out a strategy for doing it;  3. Complete the task thoroughly and efficiently; 4. Wait (long for) some form of recognition (but don’t expect it); 5.  Find another task; and 6. Repeat steps 1 through 5! In addition, with very few exceptions, all of us grew up in “family of origin” homes that were plagued by a lack of true intimacy. Simply put, while our parents tended to stay in their marriages, regardless of how incredibly dysfunctional they may have become,  there was very little in the way of public displays of affection between them and/or between them and their children, let alone among the siblings. Hugs, particularly with dad, were in short supply and, when given, were awkward and devoid of true warmth.

In defense of our dads, they likely didn’t know any other way.  They were very much a by-product of their own Depression era upbringings and, as a result, were taught or, more likely, learned by observation that a man’s love for his family was best communicated by hard work, by being a good provider, both financially and in handling all things “practical.” They lived mostly in fear – fear of losing their jobs, fear of taking risks, fear of being perceived (in the workplace or at home) as weak, vulnerable or, perhaps worst of all, incompetent, fear of making mistakes, fear of being abandoned and fear of failure – to name a few.  At least in our home, those fears often translated into anxiety, which, at times, was almost palpable, and a sense of feeling overwhelmed.  The prospect of adding a shared sense of parenting to that load was unimaginable and foreign to them, which, I suspect, more often than not led to their abdicating those responsibilities to “stay at home moms,” who were assumed (rightly or wrongly) to have the skills required to do all things parenting.

Not surprisingly, it wasn’t long after each of us got married and started having children of our own, that we began seeing the patterns of our own fathers and families of origin re-surfacing – and, at least in my case, I saw them as cause for concern.   Unlike our fathers, however, we not only were aware of our shortcomings, as husbands and as fathers, we were sensitive, as a result of our own experiences, to the impact they would have on our children if we failed or refused to take immediate steps to address.  Most importantly, we were willing to set our considerable pride aside to see if we could break the cycle of a life devoid of intimacy.  We were eager to explore our own weaknesses in the hope that by becoming more vulnerable we could enjoy a deeper, more meaningful relationship with our children and, in turn, cultivate fertile soil which would allow them to  grow confidently into more secure and emotionally healthy young men (and woman).

Today, nearly a quarter of a century later, with my children grown and seeking to find their places and their own way in the world, I am left to hope (and pray) that my commitment to being a “New Father” has made (and will continue to make) a positive difference in their lives and, perhaps, someday in the lives of their own children.  For my part, this Father’s Day, I am eternally grateful to that young therapist in Dallas for convincing me that their was a healthier way to parent and for all that she did to challenge and encourage me to embrace it.

Father’s Day 2003

A Father’s Day Card – to My Son and Daughter

Dear Greg and Ashley, Every year, about this time, you guys ask me “what I want for Father’s Day” and each year I’m pretty sure my answer has been the same: “I don’t really want or need anything.”  It’s not that I’m trying to be difficult or save a little money.  It’s just that, where Father’s Day is concerned, I already have been blessed with my gifts – the two of you – and the neat (and unique) thing about those gifts is that, each day, for the past 17 and 15 years, I get to “re-open” them, I get to see parts of them I’ve never seen before.  Sometimes the gifts change, they grow, they mature, they become more beautiful, more handsome – more complicated. Sometimes it’s my view of the gifts, rather than the gifts themselves, that changes – I see their many facets from a different perspective – and I’m intrigued, at times amazed, at the things I see, things I certainly must have seen before, but never fully appreciated.  I love and admire my gifts.  I am incredibly proud of them and I am eager to share them with everyone I meet.  At the same time, I am (or have tried to be) very protective of those gifts, I only want what’s best for them and I’m careful, within my limits, not to let any harm come to them.  I am eternally grateful for my gifts and for all of the love and the joy they have given me in return.  What do I want or need for Father’s Day?  The answer is easy: I want the two of you to know that this Father’s Day I already will have received the greatest gift a dad could ask for – the privilege and joy of spending another day with you!

With All My Love,

Dad

Embracing My Role As An Imperfect Son – At Age 54!

When I was a boy, I always thought that my dad expected me to be perfect.  Don’t get me wrong; he never actually came out and said that’s what he expected – it was just a sense that I had.  Sometimes the message was subtle. I would come home from school with a B, having worked very hard to get it, only to have my dad question me about what I had missed and why I had missed it, the obvious inference being that I could and should have done better.

Other times, the message was not so subtle. I remember missing shots at a key moment in a bowling tournament and turning around to see my dad with a look of disbelief, what I interpreted as obvious disappointment, or, in some cases, disgust on his face, even though the missed shot may have meant that I finished second or third, instead of first, in a particular tournament.  I have similar memories of striking out (which, as previously discussed, I did quite often!) or of making errors “at the wrong time” in little league baseball games and of missing crucial shots in high school and other golf tournaments.

Though the settings may have been different, however, the feelings they elicited were always the same – no matter how well I did or how hard I tried, if, in the end, I wasn’t perfect, I felt like my dad was disappointed in me, that I somehow not only let myself down, but I had let him down as well, and it hurt.  Often, it hurt a lot because I was no different from most other kids – I hungered for my parents’ approval, particularly my dad’s.  I wanted him to be proud of me.  Over time, the inevitable happened: I insisted on perfection in everything I did, and I never seemed to be satisfied with anything less.  I became intolerant of my own and others’ mistakes and shortcomings.  I developed a really bad temper and a really bad attitude whenever I competed at anything and lost.  I also struggled to acknowledge and congratulate others on their accomplishments and successes, even when they clearly deserved and earned my and others’ praise.  And then I grew to hate that part of me.

As I grew older (much older, in fact), I began to understand that there was no way I could ever live up to my dad’s expectations of me or the expectations I had begun to place on myself, because I never was, am not, and never will be perfect.  I also learned that my dad only wanted me to be the best I could be at the things I chose to do and, more importantly, that he probably never realized that the way he chose (or, more likely, had learned from his own upbringing) to try and accomplish that goal (i.e., by insisting on perfection rather than acknowledging and encouraging my small victories) was hurtful.  Finally, I learned that there is much to be gained from not being perfect, from losing, and from being vulnerable just like even the most accomplished of people, performers and athletes are from time to time.  It’s all part of the journey, and at the end of the day, these are the experiences from which we can grow and become stronger.

And then God blessed me with children of my own, and I promised myself that things would be different for them, that I would always strive to be encouraging, that wherever possible, I would avoid unwarranted spoken or unspoken criticism, that I would steadfastly avoid setting standards for them that were unrealistic or unattainable, that I would teach them the importance of always being prepared and striving to do their best without making them feel that I (or anyone else) expected them to be perfect or that anything less than victory or complete success meant that they had failed, or worse yet, would result in my thinking any less of them. I tried to stay true to that promise as they were growing up, but knowing how much I still tended to expect of myself and others, often in their presence, leaves me wondering whether sometimes they felt the same way I did as a child.  I’m sure that they did and that scares me – more than a little.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m a firm believer in wanting (and encouraging) children, including my own, to strive to do well and make the most of their gifts.  But I also believe it’s imperative that they understand and experience the sense of joy, satisfaction, pride, and accomplishment that comes from knowing they’ve tried their best, even though, on a given day, their best may not be good enough to achieve the result they had hoped for or thought they deserved.   Moreover, I think it’s critical that they understand that they are not perfect and, as importantly, that perfection is not a parental expectation.  In fact, it’s imperative to let them know that, contrary to allure of Madison Avenue’s marketing efforts, perfection is not attainable.  That message and understanding necessarily begins with us and our willingness, as the “grown-ups” in the mix, to readily acknowledge our own weaknesses and shortcomings and to properly and lovingly address theirs.

Torn Between Two Titles – “Take It From A Lawyer: It’s Genetic!” or “Warning: Misuse Of The ‘I Can Fix This’ Gene Can Be Injurious To Your Child’s Health”

Here is the full extent of my knowledge of science as it relates to genetics and genes courtesy of, you guessed it, the Internet:  A gene is “a linear sequence of nucleotides along a segment of DNA that provides the coded instructions for synthesis of RNA, which, when translated into protein, leads to the expression of hereditary character.”  That being said, I’m reasonably certain that, while they likely will call it something more scientific-sounding, geneticists will one day discover an “I can fix this” gene attached to the DNA segment responsible for “men being men.”  Seriously, of all the non-anatomical characteristics that differentiate men from women the “I can fix this” mentality has to be very close to the top of the list.

Don’t get me wrong, the trait can prove quite useful if properly trained and applied.  In fact, many men actually rely on it as a cornerstone of their life’s work (e.g., doctors fix broken bones and body parts that are torn, mechanics fix all things mechanical (e.g., cars, aircraft engines, heavy equipment, small and large appliances, etc.), lawyers “fix” other peoples’ problems, plumbers fix plumbing problems, auto body shop owners fix dented metal – to name just a few examples (and w/o any intention of suggesting that there aren’t plenty of equally-proficient members of the opposite sex expertly doing the same kinds of work).  Others, who are far less competent, but no less motivated, restrict the use of their “I can fix this” gene to smaller household projects and chores, which, more often than not, end up with them calling a specialist in mid-project to come in and try and “fix” what now is a “more broken” situation than when they started.

The problem arises when even the most accomplished carriers of the gene bring it home with them and attempt to use it to “fix” those around them, including their children. Trust me on this one: I fancy myself as one of the best “fixers” currently on the planet (not of things mechanical mind you, but of “problems” big and small, legal and non-legal) – and I had to learn this lesson the hard way. You see, it’s one thing for a doctor to set a broken arm or a mechanic to fix an engine problem or a body shop owner to fix an accident-damaged car. They know what the object is suppose to look like when it’s “new” and they’re specially trained to restore it to that condition.  When it comes to our children, however, we may know how we’d ultimately like them to look and act – usually as much like our egocentric selves as possible – but we have no way of knowing who they will actually become as individuals and we come to the process of parenting with little, if any, formal training.

Fortunately, I have some good news (and, believe me, I was dragged kicking and screaming to this realization): If we are to take to heart the assurance that we are created in the image and likeness of God, it seems highly unlikely that there is really much for us to “fix.”  Indeed, the more likely reality is that, in our efforts to fix things or, worse yet, “fix” each other, we are almost certain to do more harm than good. Instead, my sense is that our role, as individuals and as dads, is to embrace and fully rejoice in the uniqueness that is every aspect of our children, to respect and nurture them with unconditional love and support, and, in the process, to learn to accept the reality that there are many things about others, including our children, that we simply cannot and never were intended to control, let alone fix, even things that, at times, may subject them and us to profound challenges and suffering.

That realization became evident to me during an evening walk several months ago, when I saw something that will be forever transfixed in my mind – something that I’m sure I’d seen a thousand times before, but which never struck me quite the way it did that night.  It was a young mother standing in a loud and congested parking lot, tenderly holding her nearly newborn infant close against her chest.  That was it!  “It” was the purest, most simplistic, most powerful and most beautiful expression of unconditional love I think I may have ever seen.  “It” didn’t require any words; in fact, mom was incapable of communicating with daughter at all, save for the delicate way she was cradling her and her willingness to allow her chest to serve as a pillow for a moment’s rest.  And yet, there is no doubt in my mind that as their hearts beat together, mom and infant child were fully engaged in unconditionally loving and accepting love from each other.

I smiled as I walked by – and “mom” couldn’t help but smile back. As I passed by a second time, I thought about stopping to share with her how overwhelmed I was by the sight of her and her child, but our social mores really don’t allow for intrusions like that by a stranger, nor did I want to intrude on the moment.  If I could have mustered the courage, however, I would have urged her to dedicate her life to preserving and trying to duplicate that moment, not only with her child, but with everyone she held dear.  As I continued on my way, I remembered once holding my own children like that.  I remembered how very special that felt.  I remembered wondering how it was possible to love someone you barely even knew so completely.  I remembered feeling overwhelmed by a sense of responsibility to provide for them, to protect them from harm and to guide them.  I remembered already beginning to envision what their life and our life together would “look like.”

And yet, in the end, unbeknownst to me at the time, what I was most responsible for was keeping the picture of “what it looked like when it was new” fresh in my mind and looking for ways to “simply” preserve and find new ways to communicate to my son and daughter that same sense of unconditional love that I shared with them in our own “parking lot moments” innumerable times, when they couldn’t say a word or understand a word I said.  The truth is: At one time or another, all of us have experienced the love that I saw in that parking lot that night.  Our challenge, particularly as dads, is to find our way back to it, to restore it, if necessary, and then get out of our own way and allow it to take up permanent residence in our soul.

Take Me Out To The Ballpark

Some of my fondest childhood memories are of lazy summer Saturday afternoons spent at Fenway Park  (http://tinyurl.com/3w68kh8) in the mid-1960’s and the evenings that followed flipping, tossing (http://tinyurl.com/8xfmmcv) and collecting baseball cards with neighbors and friends in the basement of our Framingham home.  It was a magical time to be a Red Sox fan (at least until the post-season began!) with the likes of Jim Lonborg, Rico Petrocelli, Tony Conigliaro and my idol, Carl Yastrzemski, routinely populating the daily line-up card (http://tinyurl.com/7jefvpv). Truth be told it also was an incredible time to be collecting baseball cards (Note To Self: Avoid venturing too far down this road lest you be forced to once again admit, in public, that you ultimately “sold” a gold-plated collection that included multiple Maris, Mantle, Mays and Gehrig rookie cards to a friend for $8.95 so you could get a two Whopper lunch at Burger King!).

As much as I grew to love watching baseball and keeping track of the multitude of stats that are such an integral part of its history, however, I was never very good at playing the game. In fact, if corresponding records were kept of such things at the little league level, which, thank God, they’re not, I’m certain I would still hold the Howard Palmetto Khoury League (http://www.howardpalmetto.com) single season and career records for number of strike-outs.  Likely that was due, in part, to the fact that my stubbornness in refusing to wear glasses was outdone only by the level of blindness in my left eye and, in part, to my insistence on batting left-handed (just like “Yaz”), when I did absolutely everything else in life right-handed, but it was no less embarrassing – I assure you!  Let me make the point this way:  The only multi-hit game I ever had was one in which my dad, the third base coach, managed to “steal” the other team’s signs and relay them to me in the batter’s box, so that I knew the intended location and type of pitch (fastball, curve ball, change-up, etc.) BEFORE IT WAS EVEN THROWN – and I still only went 3-4!

Fortunately, I didn’t allow my lack of playing ability to dissuade me from my lifelong desire to coach at the little league level. In fact, I was so eager to coach that I started before I even had children of my own! My eagerness stemmed not from a misguided belief that I was capable of  instilling the technical skills required to turn a young boy into the next baseball prodigy – my career “winning” percentages, first as a player and later as a coach, should be more than sufficient to quickly dispel that notion.  Rather, I coached because I believed it afforded me an opportunity to make a positive difference in the lives of young people, to make friends with other young families, because I loved giving pre- and post-game speeches to the team and, ultimately, to stay connected with a game that I loved and the energy (and joy) that I always derive from being around kids at play.

What I had no way of knowing at the time I started was that, along the way, the young men that I coached would teach me far more about life, about patience and about the true meaning of being a “coach,” than I would ever teach them about baseball.  I also never could have anticipated that my experiences as a coach would serve as the inspiration for my first two published works, The Bunt (http://tinyurl.com/d9xl6wt) and Rounding Third (http://tinyurl.com/cgdt6nb), and a third, Todd’s Story, that I recently completed but have not yet published. Perhaps most importantly, however, my coaching served as a catalyst for the following letter, which might not otherwise have been written.  It was a letter I received when I was 34 years old. While I’d like to think it was not the first time my dad was proud of me, I’m fairly certain it was the first time he ever used words to tell me he was.  I framed it:

May 20, 1992

Dear Don,

I have almost recovered from your sterling “World Series Victory” of Saturday last.  It was as the shouts of your exuberant team declared to the heavens – “AWESOME!”

The thing I need to comment on is how impressed I was with the conduct of the head coach.  I couldn’t help but think how lucky that collection of “All-Stars” was to have a man like you directing them.

No matter the circumstances, your every word to that team and its individual players was one of encouragement.  In the darkest moments (10 runs down, for instance), you were constantly assuring one and all that collectively they had the ability not to just fight back, but to win.

Wherever the circumstances dictated despair, you instilled belief.  What a marvelous gift that is – the absolute keystone in successful adult-child communication (if I sound jealous, it’s because I am).

The real uniqueness of your style, however, stems from your ability to convey your very special talent in such an enthusiastic, patiently positive manner.  And miraculously, you manage to convey it to groups and individuals, as the situation dictates, with equal fervor and with exquisite timeliness.

The result speaks for itself.  How sweet Saturday’s victory was.  I know much sweeter victories lie ahead.

As special as watching the comeback was for your mother and I, I am compelled to say, one more time, how very proud I was of your performance and how fortunate the youngsters are who came under your influence today, as well as those who will touched by it in the years ahead.

On their behalf, I thank you for so generously sharing your time, your talent, your life and your love.

Love,

Dad

That letter still hangs in my office, right above my desk – 20 years later.

Father’s Week

With Father’s Day just around the corner and me already well on my way to laying myself bare for all the world to see, I thought I would offer the first of several posts directed at “dads” and fatherhood – albeit with a bit of trepidation.

My dad died on August 18, 1997 – just shy of his 72nd birthday.  Why then, to this day, nearly 15 years later (has it really been 15 years?!?), do I still find myself working tirelessly, often in arenas well beyond my comfort zone, hoping that he will be pleased with me and my achievements or, better yet, that he will actually be proud of me?

More importantly, why when I fall short of meeting the standards of excellence that I establish for performing and completing those tasks (or, worse yet, what I perceive would have been his expectations of me) do I still find myself grappling with the same feelings of hurt, inadequacy and even, on occasion, shame that I did when I was a young boy?

The answer is simple:  I am convinced that, at the end of the day, irrespective of how often, if ever, they verbalize it or whether they always act in a manner we deem to be consistent with it, a child’s overriding desire in life is to please (and, at all costs, avoid disappointing) their dad – and to make him proud of them.

Secondarily, they want/need to know that their dad’s love for them is sufficiently unconditional and non-judgmental that it transcends (i.e., will not be withdrawn because of) an occasional (or more than occasional) misstep or transgression and that it is capable of forgiveness – not unlike the love of their Heavenly Father, which too often seems abstract and far away.

As dads, we fail to recognize, nurture and preserve this fundamental longing of our children’s hearts at considerable peril to our and their spirits.  There are simply too many means of communication at our disposal to suggest that we don’t have the time or the “right” opportunity to let our children (young and old) know that we are proud of them and that they are loved – unconditionally.

Now would be as good a time as any.

23 Years Later, 3 Ladies of the Lake, 3 Reflections

Sunday, May 19, 2002

Graduation Day at the University of Notre Dame

dear kim,

if today is like most commencement services (of course it’s not, since ONE OF MY FAVORITE PEOPLE ON THE PLANET IS GRADUATING SUMMA CUM LAUDE FROM THE HONORS PROGRAM AT ONE OF THE FINEST UNIVERSITIES IN THE WORLD!!!), you are likely to hear “pearls of wisdom” from a number of community and student leaders, all of whom are certain to conclude their remarks by issuing well-intended “pleas” for you and your classmates to use your tremendous interpersonal and intellectual gifts “to change the world.” i know, because not so long ago (okay, maybe it’s a little longer than i care to admit?!?), i sat where you’re sitting, albeit with only a fraction of the gifts, and somewhat naively assumed the mantle of “world changer.”  thus, the purpose of this note . . .

you see, my forty three (43) years as a “world changer,” husband, dad, little league coach, lawyer, author, absentee uncle, poet, friend, teacher, social critic, etc., have given me a slightly different perspective on things, one that i hope you will reflect on as you begin charting a course for the rest of your life . . . aside from an abiding faith in God, which in your case is “a given” and, rightfully, should be paramount to all other goals and desires in your life, i believe that the surest way to “true” happiness is to find SOMEONE and SOMETHING you are PASSIONATE about and then spend the rest of your life pursuing them – PASSIONATELY and SELFLESSLY!  i challenge you to begin that search today (if you haven’t already).  i can assure you the rest will take care of itself!

CONGRATULATIONS!!! on your EXCEPTIONAL accomplishments and best of luck in your quest.

All my love,

Uncle Don

p.s. thought you might benefit from having Og (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Og_Mandino) along on the journey.  i think he was “plugged in!”

The Grotto

(http://www.flickr.com/photos/14643312@N02/2218423446)

I, too, had hoped (and now kneel) to see you again –

robed in the splendor of late winter’s downy flake,

revered by the frost-bitten petals asleep at your feet,

shielded from the wind’s whispered fury by the gray grotto stone.

Oh, how the choirs of candles below sing your glory,

piercing the darkness that steals past the guard at your gate

(golden words faded and woven in smooth silver parchment,

a dying man’s wishes frozen and sealed under glass).

http://archives.nd.edu/research/texts/dooley.htm

Over my shoulder, I see what the letter describes –

the snowflakes disguising the lake that will blossom in Spring,

the well-beaten pathway that students traverse year around,

and off in the distance a park bench in view of the Dome.

What has it done to my life to see it all again –

Our Lady’s statue, the lake and Tom Dooley’s words,

a path too familiar, too long to walk without you

on a winter’s night bathed in memories and dried by the wind.

DAB

May 21, 2002

Dear Beth,

Just a short note to let you know that I returned to South Bend this past weekend for the first time in nearly 23 years – to see my niece, Kim, graduate.  For me, it was a very nostalgic trip.  I wanted it to be 1978 again.  I wanted to stop by your dorm (which I did), see you coming down the steps (which I didn’t) and head out past the Grotto to the lake for an afternoon walk.  I wanted to bring with me an understanding of things that I wish I’d had back then.  I wanted to give Notre Dame more of a chance to take up residence in my soul, the way it has for so many others, the way it did this weekend.  I wondered where those 23 years went.  Anyway, I promised I would keep it short.  Lots more thoughts to share, but I’m having trouble seeing through the tears right now.  Maybe some other time.  I hope you’re well.  Warmest, Don

P.S.  By the way, when is that baby of yours due to arrive?!?

The Golden Dome Part II – A Brief Look at the Bright Side

Often, in the darkness of a gathering (or raging) storm, we are shown a ray of light that or two that are intended (if we will allow) to remind us of the goodness in/magnificence of life.  The year I spent beneath the Golden Dome certainly was no exception. While there were many “challenges” (e.g., three months of “solitary confinement” in the house on North Lafayette, back surgery over Thanksgiving break that left me shuffling around campus for several weeks like Tim Conway’s character on the Carol Burnett Show http://tinyurl.com/6jq7v86 , the worst winter (172” of snowfall) in South Bend history (believe me that’s saying something!) http://tinyurl.com/cotm4d6, a second semester roommate in Pangborn Hall http://tinyurl.com/cabq883, who, among other things, insisted on leaving the windows open at night – even in the teeth of that winter, academic pressure like none I had ever encountered, etc.), it also was one of the most memorable and growth-filled years of my life. It was a year that allowed me to re-connect or perhaps really connect for the first time with my brother. It also was the realization (albeit not entirely the way I envisioned it unfolding) of a lifelong dream (of attending Notre Dame) and a period that I began to re-discover and strengthen my faith in dorm-based evening masses and in the tranquility of time spent at the Grotto http://www.nd.edu/~wcawley/corson/grotto.htm.  There also were some terribly funny times – clumsily falling backpack first into the snow-filled reflection pool in front of the Notre Dame library and momentarily feeling like they “would find me in the Spring” before emerging like the Snow Creature in Scooby Doo http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LKVj9Crret8 and scaring the begeezus out of an unsuspecting library clerk, who, after recovering from her heart attack, was kind enough to tell me that classes had been cancelled due to the heavy snow, and driving back to Miami for Christmas break in a blizzard that seemingly didn’t let up until we reached Kissimmee with $25 in our pocket and a 1974 Dodge Colt whose heater was broken. Most importantly, however, Notre Dame was where I met Beth and, at 20 years old, discovered, for the first time in my life, what true friendship is meant to look and feel like – and its healing and sustaining power. To this day, I count among my fondest memories the sometimes hours-long daily walks she and I took around St. Joe’s Lake – talking about classes, current events, life, our families, politics, our aspirations, religion and (too often) obsessing about mutual long-distance relationships with others – all the while showering each other with compassion, understanding, honesty, support, acceptance and, ultimately, unconditional (non-judgmental) love. In three months time, we forged a friendship that would last a lifetime, a friendship that had its roots in a little boy’s dream – and a football team.  I ultimately would leave Notre Dame after my sophomore year and return to Spring Hill, in part, because I was convinced I would never fully assimilate into the glorious and dynamic fabric that is campus life for those who begin and live out their college experience in the shadow of the Golden Dome.  However, more than once it has occurred to me that there were lots of college football teams I could have hitched my wagon to as a boy, none of which, save for one, would have required me to get up at 6 o’clock on Sunday mornings.  But I chose Notre Dame.  Simply fortuitous?  I don’t think so.  Ultimately, however, it’s up to you to decide whether you believe it was.  Before you do, I urge you to keep reading!

Switching Gears For A Minute (or Two)

I thought I’d switch gears for a minute, share a little bit more about “me” – and, in the process, begin taking a few risks by simultaneously sharing an early poem of mine.  When I was a young boy, I loved the University of Notre Dame – mainly because of its football team.  I’d always been an early riser and every Sunday morning at 6:00 a.m., when the rest of the house was still asleep, I would watch replays of the preceding day’s Notre Dame football game narrated by the late great Lindsey Nelson.  I loved Sunday mornings!  It wasn’t long before I set my heart on one day attending Notre Dame. In fact, I was so passionate about it that I convinced my brother, Russ, who was a year older, to consider it as an option, when his original plan of attending the Air Force Academy didn’t pan out. Turned out, he not only considered it, he fully embraced it, ended up going there and absolutely loved it – as (since) have 3 of my 5 nieces and nephews.  It seemed only a matter of time before I would follow in his footsteps and, despite some rather mediocre SAT scores, I got the opportunity to do just that in the Fall of 1976. Somewhere along the way, however, a young woman became more important to me (or so my too-eager-for-companionship heart thought) and I decided, much to the amazement and disappointment of my dad (and, ultimately, of myself), to stay a lot closer to home and attend what was then known as Biscayne College (n/k/a St. Thomas University).  Suffice it to say, the relationship didn’t play out quite the way I envisioned/fantasized it would and, at the last minute, I decided to change my college plans.  Regrettably, by then, the window of opportunity to attend Notre Dame had slammed shut and I ended up at Spring Hill College, a small Jesuit liberal arts school in Mobile, Alabama.  I excelled academically my freshman year and decided to try and resuscitate my dream of attending Notre Dame by applying for transfer admission. Remarkably, I was one of only 56 transfer applicants admitted that year and, in the Fall of 1977, I headed out to South Bend. The transition proved to be far more difficult than I imagined, due, in part, to the fact that, unbeknownst to me at the time, there was no on-campus housing available for transfer students until the Spring semester, which meant that we were on our own in finding me a place to live – at least for the Fall.  Looking back, the logical solution would have been to find an apartment near campus that I could share with one or two other students.  But, for reasons that are completely unclear to me, my mom and dad ultimately settled on an upstairs bedroom in an 10 room boarding house near St. Joe’s Hospital – nearly 2 miles from campus.  As if that weren’t bad enough (and it was!), I was the only person in the building under the age of 65 and several were considerably older.  It would be impossible within the confines of this post to adequately describe what those next 3 months were like or the impact they had on me and likely my grades, which took a beating.  I did, however, attempt to paint a portrait of my loneliness and despair in the following poem, which I distinctly remember writing very late one night when I felt particularly alone:

The House on North Lafayette

The air reeks of antiquity up the stairs.

The smell of impending death oozes from beneath the heavy doors

and looms like a cloud, drifting slowly towards me.

These are the tenants of loneliness.

These are the hermits who wander out only to bathe

and occasionally help the landlady shovel the sidewalk of ice.

Hers’ is a chore left unglorified –

the care of those Abandonment has petrified.

Just last week her sister fell and broke her hip.

Now, for days the sidewalk snow has gone untouched

and not a door at night is heard to creak.

I hesitate to venture out lest the cloud engulf me.

DAB

Dispelling the Doubt – One Incredibly Affirming Advance Reader Review At A Time

In the same way that no one jumps into a swimming pool without at least sticking their little toe in the water to gauge its temperature, authors often “leak” copies of their finished manuscript to a group of select “advance readers,” who they trust to provide candid feedback – and then they hold their breath.  If you were to ask, most authors would at least move their lips in an effort to convince you that they treat all the “reviews” they receive in return – good and bad – the same (i.e., that they don’t allow a truly critical one to knock them off their stride, let alone drive them into the fetal position, any more than they assign special significance to one that is particularly affirming).  But, I know better.  Two days ago, when I very much needed to be reminded as to why I’m doing all of this, I received the following e-mail from one of those “advance readers” and it left me speechless – and humbled:

Dear Don,

Got it, saved it, opened it, read it!

WOW! What a story!

I’m overwhelmed by the poignancy of your prose. Your book is heart-breakingly tragic and emotionally powerful without ever being sentimental. It is a brilliant juxtaposition of hope and hopelessness, trust and doubt, faith and despair, fear and courage, and, ultimately: love.

I am awed both by your courage in writing this soul-baring work and your courageous journey of self-discovery as you struggled to help your daughter.

I cannot find the words to express how proud I am of you and how proud I am to be gifted with this incredible experience through your book. I will reread with a more critical and editorial eye in a few days. For now, I just want to soak in the emotional journey you have shared so bravely and eloquently.

Thank you!

R.H.