Tiny circles of light, like insects in amber, were trapped in the highly polished surface of Sir Gareth’s oval mahogany table.  Gemma is right, Arnald thought, they look like faeries, but he didn’t smile the way he might have only three short months ago.  Another child started.  He searched for the joy he’d felt when Elayne, her dark curls tumbling over her breasts, had looked down at him and whispered the news.  “Maybe it’s the boy you always wanted,” she teased.  “I wanted no such thing.”  Another child, though, I wanted that.

Arnald’s eyes swept around Sir Gareth’s sitting room – paper, quills, and filled inkpot on the table in front of the window, wood stacked in the hearth, pitcher and goblets on the oval table.  Arnald snuffed the candles one by one and the faeries disappeared.  He took a small knife from the pouch hanging from his belt and trimmed the wicks.

“Arnald,” Lady Rose said quietly and he turned to her.  Dark circles still ringed her eyes, but they were sparkling.

“My lady.”

“You must be as tired as I am.  There’s no need to fuss with Sir Gareth’s sitting room.  He won’t be strong enough to use it for a while.”

“My lady, today, Sir Gareth conquered the bedroom.  He’ll be out here as soon as he can tomorrow.”

Smiling warmly at him, Rose walked into the room and took his hands.  She held them tightly and then released them.

“I know Sir Culann believes he brought his brother back to life, but I also know we owe his life to you.  I intend to handle as many things as I can until Sir Gareth regains his strength.  Repaying you is the first thing I’d like to do.  Whatever you need or want is yours, Arnald.  Please, don’t argue that you were only doing what Sir Gareth hired you to do.”

Arnald’s blue-gray eyes held hers.  “I won’t, my lady.  I did this for Sir Gareth out of love.  A repayment of my own.”  Though I didn’t think of it at the time, I’m chagrined now at how self-serving that love is.  How self-serving it has to be. The safety in this castle is nothing more than a flimsy structure of twigs that Sir Gareth’s death will topple.

“Very well, Arnald,” Rose replied, but there’s nothing you can do to prevent me from doing things for Elayne, Gemma, and the coming child.  “I wish you a good night.”

“A good night to you, too, Lady Rose.”

Rose’s skirts swished softly as she turned around.  In Gareth’s bedroom, she stopped at his bed and gazed down at him.  Even in the dim light from the candles, Rose could see that Gareth was sleeping peacefully, a genuine sleep, not a sleep hovering on the portal of death.  Sighing deeply, she smoothed the covers slowly and gently to avoid touching and waking him, but Gareth’s hand went out and caught hers.  His eyes opened.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she apologized.

“You didn’t.  I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Have you?”  Rose’s cheek dimpled with her smile.

Inviting her in, Gareth awkwardly moved to make room for her.  “I’ve missed you, Rose, and I do apologize for frightening you.”

“Hmm,” she replied so she wouldn’t admit how terrified she’d been.  Rose reached behind her gown and undid the bow at her waist that held the laces in place.  She slipped one shoulder and arm out of her gown, but reconsidered.  “You’re certain this is what you want, Gareth?”

“I want to make love to you, Rose.  I’ve been so close to death, I’d like to reach out for life.  Unfortunately, I’m far too weak.  I thought holding you, though, might give my body an incentive to heal quickly.”

Rose let her gown slip down to a tangle at her feet.  She lifted the covers and climbed into bed.  “A persuasive argument, Sir Gareth.”

As soon as she moved her body into the nest his made for her, he put his arm around her.  “Gareth?” she said and turned her head to look at him, but he was already asleep.

********

Hugging his knees tightly with both arms and resting his chin on his knees, Culann sat on his window seat and watched the sun, as it set in a burst of color over Tairne’s hills, spill red and gold into the back courtyard.  He watched the sky turn dark purple and then an inky blue that revealed the waxing moon had risen earlier and was halfway in her journey across the sky.  Stars winked into the darkness.  The torches and candles in his room had gone out and it was lit only by the eerie glow from the fire dying in the hearth.

Making one last round before he retired for the night, Daren walked into Culann’s bedroom and found him sitting still and ghostly in the moonlight.

“Are you all right, Culann?”

“No,” he said quietly.

Daren sat on the opposite side of the window seat.  “Is there something I can get you?”

“No.”

“Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“No.”

“This isn’t like you, Culann,” Daren said in the admonitory tone of voice that always annoyed Culann.  Culann raised his head and glared at Daren.

“My mother said that Sir Gareth will mend and quickly because he’s very determined.  I thought you’d be happy.”  As he stared back at Culann, Daren saw clearly that Culann was not happy.  “Or asleep. After all, Culann, you’ve been awake for two days now.  Your bad mood is nothing, but exhaustion.  You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I will not ‘feel better’ in the morning, Daren.  I will never ‘feel better.’”  Culann let the words twist his face.

When Culann turned his head back to the moon, Daren waited for the words to burst from Culann as they always did.  To Daren’s surprise, Culann remained silent and so very still Daren had to keep his eyes staring at his friend to prove that it was Culann sitting there.

“Are you ill?”

The alarm in Daren’s voice roused Culann.  “I’m not ill.  At least, not in the way you think.  Don’t you wonder why that is, Daren?  Why I’m not ill, the Lord’s not ill, no one else is ill, but Gareth?”

“There’s no wonder there, Culann.”

“I know,” Culann whispered.  “Someone guessed what would happen in Tairne if Gareth dies.  Medvane seemed friendly, Daren, when he begged for our help, but Tairne has no friends, does he?”  Culann shuddered at the dark labyrinth with endless twists and turns that he saw before him.  “Godfried was an enemy, everyone’s enemy, but Lord Percivale was supposed to be a friend.  I didn’t know he was an enemy, too.  How the hell was I supposed to know that?”

“You weren’t, Culann.  You’re only fourteen.”

“Brandon’s dead,” Culann growled a little.

“Yes, but –.”  Finally understanding what Culann was saying, Daren stopped speaking.

“Why the hell did he do it, Daren?”  Culann moved for the first time and slammed his fist into his palm.  “Run into Medvane’s castle like that?  Fight, I don’t know how many, Nordicians by himself?  Force me to take his place in Tairne?  Why?”  The word echoed in the stillness of the room.

“The men say he did it to protect Lady Laurel.”

“Laurel?”

Unsure of what to say now, Daren glanced down at his hands resting on his thighs.  “The men say Sir Brandon was in love with her.”

“Shit!” Culann hissed.  “A lot of good he did for Lady Laurel getting himself killed that way.”  Culann’s voice went up, reverberated in the room.

“Ssh,” Daren admonished without thinking.  “Sir Gareth needs to sleep, Culann.”

“I don’t care.”  Culann, though, lowered his voice.  “Brandon had responsibilities to Tairne, Daren, and now they’re mine.  Do you know what, Daren?”  Culann pointed his finger at him.  “Brandon was nineteen-years-old and he was an excellent swordsman. Why kill Sir Gareth if his younger brother’s ready to step into his place?  You don’t have to worry, do you, if a fourteen-year-old is next in line?  And Lord Shoban, Daren?  Why doesn’t anyone care if he’s still alive?”

Clamping both hands over his mouth, Culann leapt off the window seat and dashed for his chamber pot.

********

Rose’s voice, light with laughter, floated in the air around Gareth as he concentrated on bringing the heavy fork to his mouth.  Gradually, he grew aware of the deep worry underneath the buoyant words and he remembered the fear that had flickered in Arnald’s eyes that morning, a fear so total he’d been unable to hide it beneath his calm expression.  Gareth laid the fork beside his plate, placed both palms flat on the table, and leaned back.  He closed his eyes.

“Are you all right, Gareth?”  The alarm that Rose had been keeping underneath her cheerful demeanor sprang into her words.

Gareth opened his eyes.  “I’m feeling weak, Rose.  As annoying as that is, I understand that it will be only a matter of time before I get my strength back.  Your fear and worry and Arnald’s and Culann’s aren’t going to disappear, are they?”

“I didn’t say I was frightened, Gareth,” Rose argued.  “In fact, I’ve been taking care to let only cheerful feelings show.”  Rose lowered her eyes to cut another piece of meat pie with the edge of her fork.

“I can hear it in your voice, Rose.”

“You can’t, Gareth, because it isn’t there.  Of course, I was afraid for you and worried, but not any more.”

“The army will return tomorrow, Rose.  I think it’s best we have this out now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gareth.”  Rose raised her dark eyes and stared steadily and defiantly into his.

“I’m speaking about my mortality, Rose, and what that’s going to mean to you.  I’m not speaking of sadness now, but practical matters.  I’m not feeling up to an argument.”  Gareth smiled.  “With so formidable an adversary.  Will you please ask Arnald to fetch Culann and tell him I want to see him, too?”  Gareth closed his eyes again and leaned his head on the back of his chair.

He must have dozed because when he opened his eyes, the breakfast things had been cleared and Rose, Arnald, and Culann were sitting around the table and glancing nervously at one another and then at him.

“I think you should be back in bed, Sir Gareth,” Arnald said sternly.

Ignoring Arnald, Gareth addressed Culann, “When you were eavesdropping on that conversation among the leaders, Culann, what did they say?”

“I didn’t mean to, Gareth.  Honest.  The mist was thick and I’d been swimming in the river.”

“Answer the question, Culann.”

Culann stared at the tips of his fingers dancing nervously along the top of the table.

“Culann!” Gareth said sharply.

“They thought you were dead, Gareth.”  Culann’s face flushed.  “They didn’t know if I’d be worth waiting for so they discussed a civil war.”

“And?”

“They rejected the idea.  Couldn’t know how strong my support is.”  Culann felt his stomach lurch again and his breakfast rising like fire up his throat.

“Take a deep breath, Culann.  You won’t vomit any more,” Gareth ordered.  “The men have a right to look out for themselves and their families.  That’s what we’re going to do right now.”

“Yes, sir.”  Culann’s face started to look less green.

“From what they said, did you get the impression that one of them poisoned me?”

“What!” Culann gasped.

“Did you?  I think all of us have to face that possibility.”

“I don’t think so, Sir Gareth,” Arnald argued.  “If one of the other leaders wanted you dead, why wait?  Tairne wars every spring; there’s always an opportunity.”

“Brandon wasn’t dead before.”

“When Sir Shoban the Younger died, Sir Brandon was as young as Sir Culann, sir.  None of the men were certain how he’d turn out.  An easy coup that one.  If that’s what your men wanted.”

“They were afraid you were dead, Gareth.  Knew it would change things in Tairne and wanted some control.  They admitted they tried to control you and couldn’t.  Someone – I don’t know whom, the mist distorted the voices – said they didn’t need to control you.  You were fair, honest, and our best sword.”

“Are you saying someone made you ill on purpose, Gareth?”  Rose’s voice shook a little.

“I am.  No one else was ill.  If not one of my men?  Lord Percivale?  Sir Penrod?  What did they have to gain?  The war was over.”  Gareth’s question hung in the air – unanswerable.

Laurel’s husband? Rose thought.  That can’t be.  But, it could.  Not even Laurel liked Sir Penrod.  “It could have been Penrod, Gareth.  We don’t need to know his reasons.”  Rose sighed with relief.  “That means you’re safe here.”  Rose reached out and clasped his hand.

“Perhaps.”  Gareth covered her hand with his.  “The three of you, though, are still vulnerable if something happens to me.”

Gareth’s words, so close to their own thoughts, startled them into silence and they lowered their eyes.

“Arnald?”

“Sir?”

“Your family is less vulnerable if you have a different position in Tairne.  You’re free to choose one.”

“I’ve though of that, Sir Gareth,” Arnald admitted.  “But a dark chaos descends on Tairne with your death until Sir Culann is old enough to take your place.  I think my family’s best served if I watch out for you, sir.  I’ve given this a great deal of thought and that’s my decision.”  Arnald stood up and Gareth’s eyes followed him.

“You have my thanks, Arnald, and a generous pension is set aside for you.”

Arnald acknowledged the gift with a bow and left the room.

“And you, Rose?”

“I know, Gareth,” Rose whispered.  “I’m Lord Shoban’s chattel.  Bought and paid for.”

“What!”  Culann’s cheeks flamed with anger.  “That can’t be true.”  Culann stood up.  “That can’t be true, Gareth.”

“Culann!” Gareth said sharply.  Culann fell back into his chair. “This is wearing me out.  I don’t want arguments.”

“I’ll marry you, Rose.”  Culann placed his hand over his heart.

Glancing at Gareth, Rose shook her head.

“Culann, I don’t think you’ll want that when you’re older,” Gareth said reasonably.

“I gave you my word, Rose.  I said I’ll protect you and I meant it.”

“Lord Shoban might make a match for Rose that she likes, Culann.”

Shocked, Rose and Culann stared at one another and then at Gareth.

“It could happen, Rose.” Gareth smiled.  “You don’t know how you’ll feel when the time comes.”

“Will you marry someone else, Gareth?” she snapped.

“No,” he answered truthfully.

Rose glared at him, but then she smiled until her cheek dimpled.

“We’ve gold enough, Rose, to top anyone else’s brideprice.  In fact, we’ll put it to one side, right now.  Not in the treasury, hidden.  My father’s no thief, no matter what else he might be, but I don’t think I can say the same about my mother or Duncan.  The choice will still be yours, Rose.”

“I understand, Gareth.”

A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Culann watched Rose kiss Gareth’s cheek lightly.  “There isn’t anything you can do for me, is there, Gareth?”

“No, little brother, there isn’t.  Like myself, you were born into this.  If I die, you take my place.  If the Lord dies, you’ll be Lord.”

“But only until your son comes of age, Gareth.”  Smiling with relief, Culann sank back into his chair.

“That’s right, Culann, but only if I have a son.  In the meantime, you have at least part of Tairne’s army on your side, Sir Culann.  That and the fact that I’m still alive.”

“Yes,” Culann agreed eagerly.  “Yes, you are.”

“But tired.  I’d like to go to bed now.”

Dir. Kenji Misumi, Robert Houston; Pro. Shintaro Katsu, Hisaharu Matsubara, Robert Houston, David Weisman; Scr. Kazuo Koike, Goseki Kojima, Robert Houston, David Weisman; Action Dir. Eiichi Kusumoto; Cast Tomisaburo Wakayama, Kayo Matsuo, Minoru Ohki, Akiji Kobayashi, Shin Kishida.

86 min.

A slice ‘n’ dice treatment on the first two Lone Wolf & Cub movies from the early 1970s, this is a commercially aesthetic international re-edit and, therefore, the most widely viewed instalment. You’ve probably seen this movie without even knowing.

The narrative is messy but as a spectacle it works just fine. The film centres on the iconic cinematic image of Lone Wolf, a lethal Samurai assassin, who roams ninja-infested terrain with Cub, his three year old son who is cased inside a lethal push chair rigged to the hilt with booby traps. The premise is both savage and heartfelt. Lone Wolf’s unbridled affection for his son forms a great contrast with the way he violently dismembers hoards of blade wielding baddies.

Lone Wolf mainly focuses his decapitation skills on a sprightly bunch of deadly lady ninjas and the superbly titled Masters of Death, resulting in blood, gore, and much of the same. The deaths are extravagant but stylish. It’s Kurosawa on a serial rampage, but with a kid in a pram, obviously.

A fairly accurate representation of my state of mind.

Most men first find out they’re going to be fathers when a little plastic stick turns blue.  While the mood swings and crazy demands that often accompany the pregnancies of their partners may give them the vaguest sense of the responsibility and adventure to come, realization doesn’t strike them until they first hold their little wriggling, blanket-swathed miracles in their arms and recognize that they’ve been thrust into an irrevocable new job with absolutely no sense of what to do next.  My journey to paternity has followed a different path; after struggling with fertility and even the question of whether we wanted to be parents at all, my wife and I decided that our family would expand through adoption.  That was well over a year and a half ago; between then and now came extensive training, invasive interviews, traumatic phone calls, a few thousand miles logged on the car, hopes both raised and dashed and a thorough exploration of every single point on the emotional spectrum.  Was it worth it?  Listening to my new son laughing when my wife chases him up the stairs after he’s stolen her slippers should be evidence enough.

Fatherhood was never really on my radar.  In fact, the very concept of the father and the son has been something that  I’ve thought and talked about largely in theoretical terms, relating it to imagery found in literature, cinema and religion.  In a way, that’s all I’ve had to go on.  My father died when I was eleven, and strong, positive and consistent male role models were largely absent from the years that followed.  Like President Barack Obama, I’ve had to rely on dreams of my father, the images growing cloudier as the years slip away.  And it doesn’t feel that long since the days of the smoke-filled dance clubs (back when you could still smoke in them), sharing crude opinions on the hotness of the assorted females with no greater aspirations for myself than a night of physical fun with a nameless partner.  Sometimes I wake up in the morning incredulous that I even managed to get married – how in the hell did I suddenly become somebody’s father?  Yet there he is, playing on his laptop and asking if he can watch Star Wars again.  Every time he calls me “Dad,” I have to stop myself from turning to see if he’s talking to the guy behind me.  Even after a mere three weeks together I’m humming the lyrics to Harry Chapin’s melancholy anthem about fathers and sons and wondering if we’re losing out on oh-so precious time.

My son was one of the thousands of older children living in foster care waiting for a forever family, because a large swath of potential parents looking to adopt, if not the majority of them, insist on babies.  They want to give their child his or her name, witness the first steps and first words and other milestones they can photograph and post for their Facebook friends.  However, fewer and fewer babies are available.  If you don’t have the financial resources to look privately or overseas, or you’re unable to take on a baby with a lot of special needs (and heaps of praise are due to those who do), you’ll likely see retirement cheques before you find an infant in the public system.  And as the years go by and so many of these kids linger on in foster, it’s almost as though they pass their “use-by” date.  Couples start to think that if no one has adopted them by now, there must be something seriously wrong with them.  But there isn’t.  Of course there will be emotional trauma that needs to be addressed with patience and love, and perhaps even a few minor medical issues, but for the most part these are kids like our son – a good boy who’s had a rough start to his life and just wants a mom and dad to love him.  And not to diminish the hard work of the many giving foster parents out there, but according to the National Center for Mental Health Promotion and Youth Violence Prevention, 40% of kids in foster care don’t graduate high school, and only 3% of them go on to any kind of post-secondary education.  These boys and girls need more than parents; they need relentless, even to the point of being obnoxious at times, bullhorn-wielding advocates who will scrape and claw for every precious inch of progress. They need a family who will never give up on them no matter how rocky the road gets.

Is that me?

There’s an exchange between Peter Facinelli and Kevin Spacey in The Big Kahuna that comes to mind.  Facinelli’s character, a junior salesman about to experience his first convention, says that it’s time to throw me in the water to see if I can swim.  Spacey retorts that no, we’re actually going to throw you off a cliff to see if you can fly.  Adopting an older child, a little person with his own name and with a personality already shaped and molded by total strangers is kind of like the Sanka of fatherhood:  instant and occasionally might not taste that great.  You do have to grieve the loss of a lot of those firsts, including the loss of the not-unsubtle desire to pass on one’s genes and traits, the loss of ever seeing what that indelible combination of you and your spouse would have looked like.  During initial weekend visits as the new family adjusts to each other before final placement, it feels at times like you’re just babysitting someone else’s problem, resulting in massive feelings of guilt when you feel relieved after he’s picked up on Sunday evening.  And you have to try and “deprogram” a bit of the stuff that you likely would not have encouraged had you been raising him from birth and replace it with hobbies and habits that you know will help him grow (i.e. perhaps we can cut back a little on the 10 hours of video games per Saturday and replace it with at least one hour of reading – no, doesn’t have to be Hemingway or Dostoevsky just yet – and put away the Nerf gun before we accidentally shoot the cat?)  But at the same time, there are still lots of firsts to look forward to.  First birthday and Christmas together, first date, first time driving the car. First overnight away from us.  Figuring out how to have “The Talk.”  Graduation day.  Heading off to college.  Watching him grow from this shy, awkward kid into the amazing, confident man you know he has the potential to be, terrified all the while that you’re just making things worse.  I suppose there is a term for all of that:  being a parent.

I didn’t have my father to guide me through my teenage years, so I have no point of reference on which to base how I’m going to do it with my son.  My father was long gone before I could talk to him about my huge crush on the beautiful blonde in the other Grade 6 class, or the boundless depth of my everlasting 13-year-old love for the 18-year-old brunette who used to drive me to band practice, and my utter cowardice in being able to verbalize those feelings to their subjects.  I want my son to be able to seize the moment and not be caught up in his feelings.  I want him to be able to avoid some of the mistakes I made, and yet instinctively I know he has to be free to make them and learn from his failure.  Put simply, I want to be the example I never had, and as I sit here typing this I’m increasingly doubtful of my ability to do it.  I’ve had a lot of friends and colleagues tell me how touched they are about our adoption of our son, and how lucky our son is to have us.  Yet I still feel like a bumbling idiot who’s doing everything wrong.  Chapin’s final words haunt me in my sleep.  I can’t figure out my own life most days.  Do I really want him to grow up to be just like me?

Perhaps the best advice is to draw from the Buddha (or Winnie the Pooh) and to just be.  To let the good times roll with the bad and to take each day as it comes without ruminating endlessly on the shape of the overall to the point that it distracts from the little moments that truly matter.  Without letting the perfect become the enemy of the necessary.  For better or worse, I’m this kid’s father now.  He is part of the legacy that I will leave behind long after everyone’s forgotten about little ‘ole me – a legacy that includes my father as well.  I may not be passing on my genes, but I can pass on my values, my beliefs, the things I consider important to cherish in our ever-so-brief walk across this world.  The same stuff I got from my dad in the times we were able to share.

Maybe one day my son will sit down and write a blog post (or whatever the new equivalent is by the time he’s ready for it) about what he thinks about becoming a father himself, and maybe he’ll praise or damn the example set by his old man.  Maybe he’ll understand some of what I’m feeling right now.  Maybe he’ll finally understand why I don’t want him signing up for that online game that requires a valid credit card number.  Maybe the stern looks and the lectures and the occasionally too-obvious frustration on my face will finally make sense.  Maybe he’ll think it was silly that I worried so much.  Sure hope so.  Harry Chapin tells us that the lives of a father and son are cyclical, repeating themselves in familiar patterns as each succeeding generation emulates the precedent it was shown.  What better advice is there, then, than to work even harder to be a better me?  I told my son last night that if he looks after himself he has a chance to see the dawn of the 22nd Century.  (Wonder if there will be phasers?)  The greatest gift I can give him is to do my best to ensure that he will watch sunrise on January 1, 2101 with a big smile on his face, secure in the knowledge that it was, indeed, all worth it in the end.  That’s what this strange concept of “fatherhood” has come to mean to me, even after just a few weeks.  In the meantime, I know when I’ll be coming home, son, and we’ll get together then.  You know we’ll have a good time then.

Red Stahley, USNR, 1944

As I continue my research on my father’s military service in WWII, I continue to learn what it is like to be the father of a son as he approaches adulthood. These photographs reflect my father, George Joseph and my son, Thomas George, at nearly the same age. Both photographs reflect young men who have their future before them. It amazes me how similiar their smiles are and the quiet confidence that radiates from their faces. That I am the link between them amazes me even more.

These two guys show up and you can tell one is clearly wearing a wig. And, well, I’ve been around the game a long time, long enough to know Horace and Harvey Grant when I see them—even under that corny wig. So the Grant twins are there and they’re already looking sneaky, but looking guilty and nervous, you know? Horace was wearing some goofy-colored goggles, you know those rec-specs he used to wear?  Meanwhile, Harvey’s in the back, peaking out around a corner and this silly wig keep dropping down into his eyes. I’m thinking, what’re these knuckleheads up to? So Eddie Rush is managing the registration and he knows all these guys too. You know he started officiating back in the 60s. He knows the Grants. I swear; I don’t know what these guys thought would happen, but here’s how it goes down:

Ed Rush: Horace, is that you?

Horace, (in a voice that obviously wasn’t his natural voice): Nah, nah, this ain’t Horace.

Rush: Take off those goggles.

Horace: Shit.

Rush: What you trying to do?

Horace: I got me some chumps in this father-son tournament. Let me get by.

Rush: Get the fuck out.

Horace: Alright, look man, you need some twins. There are some crazy fathers and sons in this tournament … lot crazier than me.

Rush: No. Everyone knows there’s no father-son Grants. You think I’m stupid? You think all these people are stupid?

Harvey Grant, walking up from behind a corner where he’d been observing the interaction: Come on, Horace, let’s go.

The Grants, before their failed attempts to enter the Father/Son Tournament

The Grants sauntered off dejectedly with some of the father/son tandems (named the Currys, Mychal Thompson, and Rose/Walker) sparing no expense to clown them on their walk of shame out of the gym. Subsequent calls to the Grants and their representatives have either been ignored or rejected with a curt “No Comment.”

Wendy Lamb Books

Find it at WCPL

Cocooned in the mist, as warm as a lover’s breath, rising from Tairne’s hills, his skin tingling from a swim in the cold river, Culann bent one knee, settled deeper into the reeds along the river’s bank, and thought how happy he was to be back in Tairne.

A soft breeze blew and the reeds whispered like voices.  “I say we speak about this now.”  “Be prepared,” another voice agreed.  Culann’s eyes opened wide and he forced himself to lie still.

“A waste of time.”

“No,” the first voice said. “You didn’t see how ill he was; I did.  Sir Gareth is dying.  It’s been five days already.  He might be dead.”

Culann held his breath.

“And we’ve heard nothing?” Lother sneered.

“Who is there in Tairne, Lother,” Jerret asked quietly, “willing to risk sending that message to Lord Shoban or foolhardy enough to deliver it?  I say we make some plans now.”

“I agree,” Rikulf whispered.  “When the Lord finds out his son is dead, he’ll go mad for a while.  You don’t think he will?”

“He took Sir Shoban’s death in stride.  And Sir Gordon’s.  Even Sir Brandon’s.”

Jerret shook his head.  “You’ve seen how he leans on Sir Gareth.”

“Maybe,” Lother reluctantly admitted.  “Doesn’t mean Lord Shoban will go mad.”

“And if he does?” Jerret snapped back.

“Stop it, you two.”  Jonas’s calm voice interrupted the argument.  “Whatever happens with the Lord, Sir Gareth’s death will change things.  We all agree on that.  Agree we need some control over those changes.”

“We thought we could control Sir Gareth,” Rikulf countered.

“We didn’t need to, Rikulf.  The man was fair, honest, our best swordsman and a brilliant strategist.  We couldn’t have asked for more.  But, Sir Culann –.  You know him best, Jonas.  Is he worth waiting for?”

“Lacks discipline.  Needs a firm hand.  But his bow is excellent.”

“And his sword,” Lother added.  “Sir Gareth trained him well.  He’s flexible and fast.  Remember how Sir Shoban couldn’t change his moves even when his life depended on it?” No laughter followed that statement only solemn nods.  “That won’t happen to Sir Culann.”

“My son Chad tells me Sir Culann is well liked,” Jonas added.

“That means nothing,” Rikulf parried.

“It does,” Jonas argued.  “Well-liked means loyalty, Rikulf.  If we plan civil war, we take into account those loyal to Lord Shoban and those loyal to Sir Culann.”

“No one mentioned civil war.”  Lother’s voice rumbled.

“No one did,” Jerret assured him.  “It’s the least desirable option. I know Tairne’s army too well.  Formidable foes all of them. Too many dead already.  Tairne weakened.  Women and children get caught up in these wars.  We wait and see.”

“But we discuss things,” Jonas added, “there’s no treason in that.”

Lother snorted.

“We need to be prepared. We were too easy with Sir Gareth in charge.”

“He’s still in charge,” Lother insisted, “Edgar would have sent word to us if not the Lord.”

“Sir Gareth was dying when he left for Tairne.”

The reeds and grass rustled, swords clanged lightly, and then there was no other sound in the world, but Jerret’s low voice repeating over and over again, “Sir Gareth was dying when he left for Tairne.”

Culann’s heart started to thump wildly in his chest.  That’s why I almost never saw Gareth on the trip back.  That’s why he went back with Edgar – an errand any other man could have done, should have done.  The Lord wasn’t drunk; he was considering Gareth’s replacement.  The Lord knew and he didn’t tell me.  Culann struggled into his damp clothing.

With only one thought in his mind, Culann ran through the mist back to his tent.  Fighting for air, he gasped at Daren, “Pack our things, Daren.  Find someone who’ll take them back to Tairne for me.  Saddle our horses and find two spare ones.  Stallions.  Strong.  Don’t saddle them.  Bridles.”

His breathing finally under control, Culann asked coldly, “Did you know that Gareth was dying?”

“What?”  Daren’s eyes bulged a little.  “What are you blathering about, Culann?  Sir Gareth dying?  He wasn’t even wounded.”

“No, he wasn’t.  But, I heard Jonas and the other leaders talking by the river.  It wasn’t a lie, Daren.  If he’s that sick, he needs me.”

“You?  He needs you?  My mother’s there and Lady Rose, Culann.”

“He needs me.”  Culann made a fist and thumped his heart.  “I know it. I’m going to tell the Lord I’m leaving and then I’m doing it.  If you’re not ready, I’ll go without you.”

Realizing he’d never seen this expression on Culann’s face before, Daren didn’t argue.  While Culann strapped on his sword, Daren started to pack.  When Daren heard the tent flap open, he whirled around.  “What if the Lord forbids you to leave the army?”

“I’m leaving, anyway.”

“That’s what I was afraid you’d say,” Daren muttered under his breath.

The climbing sun was beginning to melt away the mist and the sleeping camp was starting to wake and stretch when Culann ran among the tents toward his father’s.  He pulled open the tent flap and walked inside to see a startled Ferghus and a very groggy Lord.  Before Ferghus had enough time to collect himself and march Culann out of the tent, Culann strode up to his father’s cot.

“My lord.”  Culann bowed stiffly.

Holding his head in his hands, Shoban sat up.

“You should have told me, my lord, that Gareth was ill, near death.  I would have returned to Tairne’s castle with him.  He needs me.”  Culann raised his voice, but then quickly lowered it.  “He feels very responsible for me, my lord.  He won’t die if I’m there.  I’m riding ahead of the army back to Tairne’s castle.  There’s no time to spare.  I’m taking two extra horses with me.”  Culann bowed again, turned sharply on his heel, and marched out of the tent.

Raising the saddle over Weold’s back, Daren stood with the four horses Culann had ordered.

“I’ll finish this.”  Culann stooped to cinch his saddle.  “Do yours,” he ordered.

“What did the Lord say to you, Culann?”

“Say to me?”  Culann put his boot in the stirrup and swung his leg over the horse’s back.  “He didn’t say anything. I didn’t give him the chance.  Anyway.”  Culann waved his hand in the air.  “He wasn’t really awake.”  Gripping the reins of the second horse loosely, Culann dug his knees gently into Weold’s sides. “Come on, boy.”

Before Daren realized it, Culann had ridden to the edge of the camp.  Dodging the other horses and men, Daren yelled, “Sir Culann!  Wait!” before he followed as quickly as he could.

“Ferghus!” Lord Shoban bellowed and Ferghus jumped.  “Don’t stand there like an idiot!  Get me something for this aching head!  My clothes!” The Lord gurgled as he swallowed the physic.  “Ah!”  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  “Then find Sir Culann and bring him back here.  Drag him by the scruff of his neck if you have to.  Damn that whelp!  Why the hell are you still here?  Send Jonas to me!”

“Your boots, my lord.”

“I’ll do that myself, fool.  I gave you orders.”  Shoban wrenched the boots out of Ferghus’s hands and Ferghus backed quickly away.  Feeling for the flap with his hand, Ferghus opened it and disappeared right before the flying boot hit the tent flap.  It fell with a thud.  “Damn!” Shoban roared again.

The Lord of Tairne was still fuming and kicking over campstools when Jonas arrived.  Jonas ducked his head and eased his long body into the tent.  “My lord?”

“Have you seen, Culann?”

“I did, my lord, riding out of camp as if demons chased him.”

A studied calm replaced Shoban’s fury.  “Good.  I just wanted you to know I ordered him to return to the castle to see about Sir Gareth.”

Did you, my lord?  Or did Sir Culann plan that escapade all by himself?  “Thank you for informing me, my lord.”

********

Dawn washed the sky a delicate violet, a paler sister to the deep purple mantel that sunset had draped over the sky.  In the early light, Tairne’s castle loomed, a black form in the distance.

Judging that Weold would take the miles remaining to reach his home much faster than the white stallion from Nordicia, Culann reined in the horse.

“Good!” Daren, his entire body exhausted and bruised from the ride, yelled.  “We’re going to stop.”

“What?” Culann yelled back as he leapt from the Nordician stallion onto Weold’s back.

“We’re going to stop!” Daren repeated.

“Not when we’re so close.”  Turning, Culann saw Daren’s exhausted face in the soft dawn light and Daren saw Culann’s as firm and determined as if rest and sleep did not exist.  Culann slowed Weold’s pace and waited until Daren caught up with him.  “You can rest, Daren, I can’t when we’re so close.”

“If you can do it, Culann, I can, too,” Daren protested, but added petulantly, “I’m not sure the horses can.”

“Weold can, Daren,” Culann, secure in his knowledge of Weold’s stamina, replied.  “But you can take it slower with the others.”  Culann tossed the reins of his spare horse to Daren, and without another word, galloped away.

Grumbling, Daren reined his horse to a stop and dismounted.  His father might tolerate Culann’s wild ride, but after Gavin embraced him in a welcoming hug, Daren knew he’d receive a stern lecture on the proper care of horses.  Daren led the three horses through the trees to one of the meadows hidden deep inside Tairne’s forests.  He unsaddled the horses, let them graze freely, rested his head on one of the saddles, and promptly fell into a deep sleep.

The guards watched a single rider, his hair blazing golden-red in the morning sunlight, tearing toward the gates.  It was impossible to mistake the hair or the determination.

Before they reached the gate, Culann started to rein in Weold.  “Sir Gareth?” Culann demanded.

“Near death,” one of the guards admitted, “but still alive when night fell.”

Refusing to hear the implication in the guard’s words, Culann raised his arm, rode through the gate, and turned Weold’s reins sharply in the direction of his stable.

“Gavin!”  Culann leapt off the horse.  “Weold needs some care.  We’ve been riding hard.”  Culann tossed his reins to Gavin.  “Daren’s not far behind, but I think he’s stopped to rest.”

“Sir Culann!” Gavin said sharply.

The same impatient look in his blue eyes that were often seen in Lord Shoban’s, Culann wheeled around.

“It’s not my place to give you orders, Sir Culann.  Not Maudie’s place, either, but she chooses to ignore that fact.  Maudie will want to see you in the kitchen before you go barging in on Sir Gareth.  Sir,” Gavin added.

“How is he?” Culann asked in a low voice.

“Spent a quiet night so Maudie says.  The first one since he came back to Tairne.”

The expression on his face solemn, Culann walked up to Gavin.  “Roarlin fought bravely and well, Gavin, survived the battle without a wound. And Daren saved many lives.  The men still sing his praises.”

Culann turned sharply on his heel and strode to the far courtyard and the back door to the kitchen.  The smells of breakfast wafted through the wooden door, but didn’t tempt Culann.  He focused on the subdued sounds coming from the kitchen staff and his stomach clenched.

“Sir Culann!” someone said and the staff turned toward the door to embrace him with their warmth though no one moved toward him but Pegeen.  “Mother!” Pegeen called out.  “Sir Culann’s here.”  Then she threw her arms around Culann and held him tightly.  “Thank the gods you’re safe,” she whispered in his ear.  Then she stepped back.  “Where’s Daren?”

“I left him on the road.  He’s resting.”

“Looks to me, Sir Culann.”  Pegeen’s light brown eyes studied his drawn and filthy face.  “As if you should do the same.  When was the last time you ate, sir?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Then sit and eat.”

“I can’t, Pegeen, I have to go to Gareth.  He needs me.”

“Mother won’t let you go up until she’s spoken with you so you might as well eat.”  Pegeen snapped her fingers, but the order wasn’t necessary.  The staff was already preparing Sir Culann’s breakfast.

“Pegeen is right, Culann,” Maudie said.  “Sit down.”

Culann slid onto the bench and Maudie sat beside him.  His eyes fixed on Maudie’s face, Culann brought forkfuls of food to his mouth, but tasted nothing.

“I’ve killed the parasite that was breeding in his entrails, Culann.”  Maudie put her hand gently on Culann’s arm.  “But it takes strong poison to do that.  Your brother is very weak and I’m not certain his body will be able to overcome the poison.  I wish I could tell you Sir Gareth will survive, but I can’t.”

Culann nodded and dropped his fork on the plate of half-eaten food.  “I understand, Maudie.  I’ll see him now.”  Culann stood up.  He leaned over and kissed Maudie’s cheek before he walked purposefully out of the kitchen.

When Arnald heard the door to Sir Gareth’s apartments opening, he stood up and walked quickly, but warily into the entrance room.  “Sir Culann.”

“You should have told me,” Culann accused.

“I agree, Sir Culann, but the orders were Sir Gareth’s.  He wanted no one to know.”

“Everyone in the castle knows, Arnald.  Edgar told the other leaders.  I was the only one who wasn’t told.  I’m going in to see him.”

“You should, sir.  Lady Rose is exhausted.  You might be able to persuade her to get some sleep.”

Culann nodded curtly and then moved silently through Gareth’s sitting room to the doorway of his bedroom.  Every flat surface in Gareth’s room was filled with jars of lilacs, but their rich perfume could not completely cover the scent of decay.  Her head bowed over a book she held in her lap, Rose sat near Gareth’s bed.  The curtains were half-closed to shut out the morning sunlight or to obscure Gareth’s face. As if aware of his presence, Rose raised her head.  Her eyes widening a little with surprise, Rose stood up.

“I came as soon as I heard, Rose.  I should have known, but I didn’t.”  A stab of shame sliced through Culann’s body.

“I’m pleased you’re here, Culann,” Rose dismissed the apology and the shame.  She kissed his cheek lightly.  “You know your brother.  He would have preferred that no one know he was ill.”

“Rose.”  Culann took her hand and pressed it to his heart.  “You’re not to worry, Rose.  No matter what happens.  I swear to you on my life, I’ll take care of you, see no harm, in my power to prevent, comes to you.”

Taken aback by his vehemence, Rose tried to think of some way to lighten the moment, but she couldn’t.  “Thank you, Culann.”  Rose shook her head.  Culann had said the very words she’d meant to say to him.  She stared at his grimy, weary face.  No, he wasn’t a little boy in need of her reassurances.  “I think, Culann, no matter what happens, we’ll look out for one another.”

The corners of Culann’s mouth curved in a sad, weary smile.  “I’ll stay with him for a little while, Rose.  May I?”

“Of course, you may.  I don’t mind leaving him in your care.”  Rose took Culann in her arms, but then realized it was the other way around.  He had her in his arms.

“I love you, Rose.”

“I love you, too.  Gareth slips in and out of consciousness.  Right now, he seems to be asleep, but I don’t know.”

“I’ll be quiet,” Culann promised and he did walk very quietly into the room.  He removed Rose’s book from the chair, glanced at the title, and placed it on the bedside table before he sat down.

Gareth’s face looked ravaged.  Dark circles rimmed his eyes and his cheeks were sunken into deep hollows.  Against Culann’s will, the realization that Gareth might truly be dying began to seep into his soul.  Culann reached out and touched Gareth’s right hand resting limply on the covers.  He felt the touch of that hand lifting him in the air, guiding his own hand on the reins, his bow, his sword, smoothing his hair, drying his tears. Culann took his hand away and placed it on his own knee.

For a while, Culann sat in watchful silence until the expression on the Lord’s face floated into his mind.  The enormity of what he’d done sank like a heavy stone into his consciousness.

“Uh, Gareth,” he said softly, “I would really appreciate it if you wouldn’t die.  Take it as a great personal favor.  I told the Lord I was coming back to be with you, but I didn’t actually get his permission.  To tell you the truth, he was still a little groggy from drinking the night before.

“I overheard Jonas, Jerret, and the other leaders talking. They’re very worried about you.  Thought I’d be all right.  You know, if something happened to you. Jonas said I needed a firm hand.”  Culann licked his lips.

“Before I came in, I promised Rose I’d take care of her if anything happened to you.”  Culann swallowed hard.  “I meant it, Gareth.  I’ll do my best, but I’m only fourteen-years-old.”  Culann’s voice went up a little and Gareth’s eyes opened.

Startled, Culann jumped.  “You’re awake.”

“Water,” Gareth rasped.  While Gareth struggled to get his body to respond to his will, Culann filled a cup with water and held it while Gareth drank thirstily.

“Better,” Gareth said.  His elbow shook and he lowered his head back on the pillows.

Culann was both pleased and chagrined to see that although Gareth’s body was very weak, the awareness in his blue eyes was as sharp as ever.

“I am sorely tempted, little brother, to die so you’ll be forced to deal with the consequences of your words and actions all by yourself.”

“I’m not worth the bother, Gareth,” Culann assured him and then he grinned.

“Probably not.”

His eyes sharper now, Gareth studied Culann’s face for an uncomfortably long time.  Deciding that Culann was old enough and strong enough to handle his elder brother’s weakness, he said, “I need your help, Culann.  I’m tired of women and servants fussing over me.  They mean well, but they’ve been robbing me of my dignity.  I’m very weak and not pleased to let you see me this way.”  Gareth pointed his finger at Culann and then his hand fell back on the bed.  “Just keep in mind, I won’t always be this weak.”

“Yes, sir,” Culann said smartly.

“I want you to help me into the bathing room so I can pee standing up.”

Frowning, Culann asked, “Are you sure?”

“Culann,” Gareth growled a little.

“I know you’re sure about that, but are you certain you should get out of bed?”

Gareth pushed the covers off and willed his legs to move from the bed.  When they responded too slowly to his will, he helped them down with his hands.  “Lying in bed is making me weaker than the poison,” Gareth said so he’d have a moment to rest before he had to stand.  “Where did you leave the army?”

“At Lysle’s border.  I rode all day and all night.”

“All right.”  Gareth inhaled deeply.  “Tomorrow or the next day.  I want to be sitting up and steady before the Lord arrives.  Bend down a little.”  Gareth reached for Culann’s shoulder, supported himself, and stood on trembling legs.  “Damn!” he hissed.  Then, he abandoned the recriminations and focused all his attention on moving one foot and then the other forward.

Braced for Gareth’s heavy weight, Culann was shocked by how light his brother felt. When they reached the bathing room, Gareth exhaled with relief.  He placed one hand on the wall and ordered in a hoarse whisper, “Hose and an undershirt, Culann.”

“Maybe, I should stay.”

“Now.”

Shaking his head a little, Culann dashed to the chest at the end of Gareth’s bed and took out a pair of dark blue hose and an undershirt of soft, unbleached wool.  When he returned, he saw Gareth had propped himself with two hands on the tiled wall.  Sweat was streaming from his forehead, but his eyes were triumphant.  Resisting the urge to slump to the floor, Gareth leaned on Culann to begin the tortuous journey back to the bed where he collapsed.

His frightened eyes fixed on Gareth’s ashen face, Culann listened to his brother’s labored breathing and thought, I shouldn’t have done this.  I shouldn’t have done this.

“Water.”

Culann offered Gareth another cup of water and wiped his forehead with a damp cloth.  Gareth opened his eyes. “Hard,” he whispered, “But a good feeling.”  Gareth smiled at his brother.  “Now, the hose.  They’ve kept me as naked as a baby and I hated it.”

After several attempts, Culann finally helped Gareth into his hose, put the undershirt over his head, and pulled his arms through the sleeves.  His eyes closed, Gareth leaned back on the pillows, but his right hand smoothing the front of his undershirt expressed his satisfaction.

Culann held another cup of water to Gareth’s lips.  “Good, Culann.  Very good.  Tell Pegeen I want food.  Real food that I can chew.”

“Yes, sir.  She’ll like that.”

“And Culann.”  Culann turned back.  “Get rid of these damn lilacs.  The smell is making me sick.”

When Gareth closed his eyes again, Culann whisked the large jar off the bedside table.  Carrying the flowers in front of him, Culann almost collided with Rose.  Culann’s face and Rose’s face appeared framed by the blossoms.  “Sorry, Rose.”

“What are you doing, Culann?” she demanded.

The tiny blooms tickled Culann’s nose and he sneezed.  Wrinkling his nose to prevent another sneeze, Culann explained, “Gareth asked me to take these away.”

“He did not.”

Half hidden by the flowers, Culann’s eyes glanced at Rose and then back toward Gareth’s bedroom.  Torn, Culann whispered, “I’ll put them back if you want me to.”

“Wait right here, Culann.”  Rose walked to the doorway of Gareth’s room.  When she saw him dressed and propped up against the pillows, she exclaimed, “Gareth!”

Gareth opened triumphant blue eyes that warmed with the sight of her, but he was too tired to smile.  Rose took long strides into the room, sat on the bed, and kissed him.

Uncomfortable, Culann watched them through a wreath of lilacs.

“I don’t think they want an audience, Sir Culann.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll take those.”  Arnald took the jar from Culann’s hands.

Brushing his hands together, Culann crowed, “I knew he needed me.”

Back a few years ago, I played a lazy Saturday afternoon round of golf with my dad.  To amp up the intensity a tad we put a little wager on the outcome: loser buys a tall glass of lemonade at the end of the round.  It wasn’t the type of bet that would make anyone lose his job nor really hurt the pocketbook, except that . . . my wallet was emptier than a Irish pint in a Dublin pub.  I had no bills in my wallet.  Nothing.  Zero cash to pay up if I lost.  I knew this going in, but I kept this key piece of information from my father.

Photo by Peter Taylor, Creative Commons

With two holes left to play I trailed Dad by one shot. This was common territory for me.  In our legendary battles I had lost more often than the Washington Generals (the perpetual opponent of the Harlem Globetrotters).  For some reason though this time, I felt undaunted, undeterred.  If he parred the last two holes, I’d need to have back-to-back birdies to win the match.  If my name was Eldrick, if I had the steely intensity of a guillotine and if my rippling muscles stretched my red Sunday shirt to the point of seams tearing, this feat would be slightly more attainable.  But my name is Blake, I’ve got the natural drive of a hibernating bear and to have my muscles rip a shirt would require the employ of a child’s size small garment.  Nevertheless, I felt confident.

I stuck my tee shot on #17 about five feet away and made the putt.  Dad parred.  We walked to the last hole, a short par four, all tied.  I reached for my driver, usually wilder than an Amish boy on rumspringa, and fired a shotgun blast that trickled onto the edge of the green.  Dad missed his birdie putt, I casually two-putted for my own birdie, and we walked off the course with him reaching for his wallet rather than me.   Only then did I mention the fact that I would not have been able to pay had I lost.  Dad looked at me and said, “You were playing with the confidence of a gambler who had nothing but his shirt to pay with.”

Indeed I was.  I had the one thing in my wallet far more valuable than any Jacksons.  I had hope.

Today is a day that celebrates the fact that no matter the evil that lurks in this world, no matter the despair that wants to swallow us whole, hope lives.  Because of an empty tomb, hope lives.  Because he arose, hope lives.

And hope lives on, buoying us for whatever lies ahead, even when the way goes drear.  Because hope lives, perspective blooms.  Confidence grows.

Because of today, I dare to hope . . .

. . . that my children will mature and become dynamic servants in this world.

. . . that my marriage will continue to thrive.

. . . that the kids I teach will become responsible disciples.

. . . that the church will lead.

. . . that hearts will mend.

. . . that families will bond.

. . . that wrongs will be righted.

. . . that the lost will be found.

. . . that the blind will see.

. . . that the lame will walk.

. . . that the hurt will lessen.

. . . and that love will win.

That’s my Easter reflection and it comes with the hope that your day is blessed with peace and confidence in the days to come.

What does Easter mean to you?  Why is it a day above all other days to celebrate and rejoice in?

P.S. The Write Project sincerely thanks all the new followers who joined the party in the last couple of days.  Now I need to figure out a way of writing the Freshly Pressed folks into my will.

As to my favorite memories – Though many of them revolve around my father’s life as a permanent deacon in the Roman Catholic Church, I am completely taken with the recollection of the fact that the Easter Bunny would always leave my sisters and I one, Christmas-like gift in our baskets – a toy or a book (I have, for some reason, great affinity for the illustrated Lord of the Rings story book which went along with the Ralph Bakshi’s arresting (to me) animated film – see my favorite song from it HERE) – along with amazing jelly beans, chocolate rabbits and cream filled candy eggs from Russell Stouffer’s candy.  Funny, the Easter Bunny now leaves my kids almost exactly the same thing – amazing how that works.

Holy Thursday often brought with it a Seder Supper. This was the early to mid 1980s and our parish, built in the mid 1970s, did not have pews. It had plastic chairs which made configurations of the worship space relatively easy. The Seder reconfiguration made the place look like a dining hall with plastic chairs pushed up to folding tables. During the Seder, the clerics of the parish – including my dad – sat at a “head table” on the raised dais where the altar of the church was situated normally. We would read the parts of the Seder Supper aloud, eating the food – the lamb and hard-boiled eggs and bitter herbs (parsley dipped in salt water) – as the tables all around the church followed suit.

The Seder Supper I most remember was the one wherein I decided I really, really liked the bitter herbs and took a massive portion of them onto my plate. I think I did it just to make my older sister laugh. For some reason, I felt pressure to eat all that I had taken, be it the star power of sitting at the head table or an admonition of my parents I don’t remember, and I knew that I would never be able to choke down all the parsley I’d piled, Roy Neary-like, into a mountain in front of me. Subtly and oh, so cooly, I shifted the Mount Bitter Herbs into the pockets of my brand new sports coat.

They weren’t discovered until the next time I wore the thing. Months later. I recall my mother being thrilled.

My mother, sisters and I spent many a Holy Saturday night at Easter Vigil’s, listening to the readings – the many, many readings – while waiting to hear my father read the Gospel. As he was an Associate Pastor at our parish, he seemed – at least to me, his hero-worshiping son – to out rank the other deacons at the parish and to get to be the “main” deacon (if there is such a thing) at major celebrations. But, after Dad was done with the Gospel, the long service seemed only to get longer and, by its conclusion, my sisters and I had usually drawn the ire of my mother for conducting miniature sword fights with the tapers we’d normally be given before the start of mass.

And that was when we were kids. When we were adults and attended an Easter Vigil or two, I clearly remember one of my brothers-in-law, Looks Like Dean Cain, craving his taper into a giant tooth and pretending to spit it out of his mouth repeatedly at the most inappropriate times of the liturgy.

Without a doubt, my favorite Easter Vigil was the one when The Cinnamon Girl came into the Roman Catholic Church and I got to serve as her sponsor. Beautiful, radiant and stunning, she looked like an angel to me and to the congregation as she was confirmed and had her First Communion. My parents, her mother and brother, our children, my sisters and their families, The Magister and his wife and kids were all on hand as The Cinnamon Girl made these sacraments.

Whether or not The Cinnamon Girl and I have always made it to church every Sunday since (spoiler alert – we haven’t) and whether I’ve always felt as close to Christ as I did in that moment, I can say that, this Easter, as I think about the resurrection and the mystery, I know I don’t have all the answers. I don’t even have all the questions.

I do have these memories – many of them involving my father – and I remember what The Mater has been telling me since my dad died. She’s said, time-and-again, Dad’s not worried about anything now. He has all the answers.

I shouldn’t be surprised. On this Easter, I remember that my Dad always had all the answers.

Even if many of those answers were not quite right… That was part of his charm.

As Arnald held his daughter’s small, warm body tightly against his, he tried not to think how closely his family’s fortunes were tied to Sir Gareth’s, but he couldn’t prevent those thoughts from clouding his mind.

“You’re home, father!”  Gemma smiled and her small, even teeth sparkled in the candlelight.

Awakened by Gemma’s voice, Elayne, with her shawl thrown hastily over her nightdress, hurried into the child’s room.  When she saw the man seated on the bed, she strangled a cry.  Arnald turned around.

“Arnald!” she gasped.  “You frightened me,” she accused sternly.  “Creeping around in the middle of the night!  Waking Gemma.”

“Father didn’t wake me, mother.  The faeries did.”

“Lord, Arnald,” Elayne’s voice dropped to a whisper the moment she realized Arnald was not supposed to be back in Tairne.  Something terrible must have happened.  “What’s wrong?  Your father?”

“My father?”  The calm expression Arnald had been trying to keep on his face disappeared.  “What’s wrong with my father?”

For a while, Elayne and Arnald stared without comprehension at one another.  At the same moment, though, understanding came with identical expressions of fear, hidden by the shadows in the room.  Responding to the alarm, Gemma clutched Arnald’s tunic with both hands.

“Sir Gareth?” Elayne exhaled his name.

Deciding that fear and worry would solve nothing, Arnald answered, “Yes.”  Elayne’s hand went up to her throat.

“Doesn’t look like you’ll be sleeping for a little while, Gemma.”  Holding his child in his arms, Arnald stood up.  “I’ve brought a gift for you from Penvale.  Would you like to search my saddlebags?”

The distraction worked.  Gemma smiled.  “How will I know it’s mine, father?”

“I think you will.”  Arnald carried her into their common room, lit some candles, and put her on a chair next to the table with his saddlebags.  “Not the bit of lace, mind you, that’s for your mother.”

Arnald smoothed her tousled dark blonde hair, walked back into the shadows, and said quickly, but quietly, “Sir Gareth is very ill, perhaps, dying.  Maudie says the only cure is poison.  Sir Gareth is a strong man, he might be able to withstand the cure, but this thing, whatever it is, has badly weakened him.”  Arnald turned his head to one side.  “He didn’t admit he was ill or needed help until –.  I don’t want to say it’s too late, but it might be.”  Arnald’s voice had hardened, but he didn’t regret his accusatory tone.  Sir Gareth might owe him nothing, but he owed something to Lady Rose and Sir Culann.  “To make matters worse, Sir Brandon was killed in the battle.”

“Trying to protect Lady Laurel,” Elayne whispered.

His eyes flashing a sharp warning, Arnald said nothing.

“I should go to Lady Rose, Arnald.”

“I need to rest; I’ll stay with Gemma.”

“Ribbons!” Gemma exclaimed.  “Red!  Blue!  And gold!  Oh, mother!  Look at the lace!”

“Arnald,” Elayne scolded, “you are far too indulgent.”  When she felt Arnald stiffen, she said quickly, “I wasn’t thinking.”  She touched his arm.

“This has made me think that we don’t take enough care to indulge those we love.”

Elayne reached up and brought his lips to hers.  For a moment, Arnald wished he could lose himself in that kiss.  “I love you, Elayne.  I probably don’t say it as often as I should.”

“You do, Arnald,” she reassured him.  “Gemma, you and your father are going to bed now.”

Disappointed, Gemma looked up, but when she saw the strange solemn expressions on her parents’ faces, she decided not to complain.  “May I take the ribbons to bed with me?”

“Choose one, Gemma, and I’ll tie it around your hair.”

“Red!” Gemma exclaimed.  “I want the red.”

“Red, it shall be.”  Elayne tied her daughter’s hair back with the scarlet ribbon.

When Gemma held up her arms, Arnald lifted her into his.  “Good night, mother.”

“Good night, Gemma.”

Standing very still, Elayne watched them until they disappeared into the bedroom.  She picked up the piece of lace.  It was lovely.  Swirls of tiny flowers.  Exactly what she’d wanted for the collar of her gown.  Different than but as beautiful as the piece of lace she’d sewn on Lady’s Rose’s midnight blue velvet gown.  Her face colored slightly when she remembered how she’d envied Lady Rose that bit of lace.

********

With deep and total concentration, Duncan watched his reflection in the polished metal of the full-length mirror.  He brought his light blonde eyebrows together in a frown and pursed his lips in a pout. He turned his left profile to the mirror and then his right.

Behind him, the tailor cleared his throat to remind Sir Duncan he was supposed to be paying attention to the tunic not his face.  Duncan glanced down at the blue tunic almost the same bright shade as his eyes.  He fingered the embroidery along the neck, the double line that went down the front and then carefully checked the embroidery at the end of each sleeve.

“It’s not quite right, is it?” he complained.

“Sir Duncan?” Selwick gasped.

In order to give more force to his complaint, Duncan appealed to the Lady of Tairne even though he suspected his mother was a hopeless old cow whom nobody respected.  “The embroidery isn’t quite right!” Duncan raised his voice.  “Is it, mother?”

For a moment, Clothilde knitted her brow in concentration and then remembered how such an expression would lead to wrinkles when she was older and smoothed her brow.  “I’m not certain I see what displeases you, Duncan.”

His face bright pink, Duncan raised his arms in exasperation and let them fall with a slap to his sides.  “The shape of the vine leaves!” Duncan whined through his nose.  He stomped over to the table where his mother was seated and rummaged through the papers that bore his designs.  “Where are these sharp points?”  His voice went up again.  When the tailor opened his mouth, Duncan snapped, “There is no excuse for this sloppy work.”

“Sir Duncan,” Selwick tried to explain patiently, “needle and thread cannot reproduce a line drawn on paper.”

“See, dear,” Clothilde fingered the scrap of paper that noted the price for the three tunics with the price of the embroidery added.  Shoban kept a sharp eye on his treasury, it was going to be a very difficult task to pay for these.  Impossible, if all the embroidery needed to be redone.

“And the colors!”  Clothilde listened to the warning in Duncan’s voice.  He was dangerously close to a tantrum.  “I wanted a lighter green.”  Duncan tapped the thread of green glued to his design.  “And not purple grapes, stupid.  Deep blue.  Can’t you tell the difference?”

There is that necklace that Gareth gave me.  The lapis stones are very fine even if they are a little small.  Clothilde smiled at the memory.  Gareth had looked so downtrodden when I criticized the necklace, but it really didn’t pay for him to realize what a splendid gift he’d given me.

Why should I use my own jewels to pay for what Duncan wants?  He is the Lord’s son and has every right to own nice things.  What does Gareth pay for fine swords and shields?  Or the upkeep of his stables?  Here’s poor Duncan who wants nothing, but a few rags to hang on his back.

“Mother!”  Duncan’s voice had the shrill tone that threatened violence.

“Duncan, please.  Calm yourself.  Of course, we’ll have the embroidery re-done if you want it.”

“The rose-colored tunic with the deep purple poppies, at least, is done to my satisfaction, but we’ll have the gold and the blue re-done.”

“Sir Duncan,” Selwick tried to sound placating.  “The embroidery can’t be re-done on the golden tunic.”

Duncan jammed his fists into his hips.  “What do you mean, ‘can’t?’”

“The material, sir, will be ruined.”

“Remake the tunic then, idiot!”

“My lady?”  “Mother?”  The tailor and Duncan appealed to Clothilde.

Clothilde patted her forehead and her upper lip with her handkerchief.

“Mother!”  Clothilde could almost feel Duncan’s boots kicking her shins.

“You’ll have the tunics, Duncan, done the way you want them.”

“Thank you,” Duncan sneered.  He tore off the blue tunic and held it out to the tailor.  Before the man could reach out, Duncan dropped it on the floor.  Carefully, Duncan put on the rose-colored tunic and went to stand in front of the mirror.

“My lady.”  Selwick bowed low.  “Shall I approach the Lord of Tairne for payment?” he threatened though he knew the threat was hollow.  He had no intention of risking his life for silver.

The threat worked, though.  Clothilde’s lips pinched into a thin line.  “No,” she said coldly.  “Come back in two days’ time and I’ll have your fee.”

“Yes, my lady.”  Selwick snatched the blue tunic from the floor and then draped the golden tunic over his arm.  It was a shame about the golden tunic.  Bettina had done such a fine, careful job on the embroidery.  Selwick bowed.  “Good day, my lady.” Selwick backed out of the room and into Clothilde’s maid.

“Watch where you’re going, tailor,” Rilka said haughtily.

“You’re the one who saw me coming,” Selwick muttered under his breath.  “I do beg your pardon.”

Rilka sniffed at him and then stood in a rigid, disapproving posture until the man was gone.

“Sir Duncan!” Rilka exclaimed.  “What a lovely tunic!  The color enhances your complexion.”

Not turning to acknowledge the compliment, Duncan smiled at the mirror.

“What is it, Rilka?” Clothilde snapped her anger and worry at the maid.

Rilka dropped a deep curtsy and then stayed down with her head bowed.  “Sir Gareth arrived back at the castle in the middle of the night.  He’s so ill and weak.”  Rilka wisely decided not to mention Maudie’s name. “It’s feared he’s dying.  And there’s more evil news.  Sir Brandon’s dead.”

“Dying?  Gareth?”  Clothilde’s hand went up to her throat in a graceful pose and Duncan’s smile grew broader.  “Brandon’s dead.  Gareth?  Weak?  Dying?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I should dress.  Go to him,” she said airily.  Nodding her agreement, Rilka rose to prepare her lady’s gown.

Clothilde thought of the wall in the treasury that belonged to Gareth – the shelves groaning under the weight of the caskets of gold and jewels.  She thought of Lady Rose as barren as a tomb.  No son not even a daughter to prove that at some time in the future she could have a son.  As it often happened, Sir Duncan’s thoughts were with his mother’s.

Barely able to contain his excitement, Duncan turned his beaming face to the Lady of Tairne.  “When Gareth dies, mother, who will get his gold?”

“The Lord, I imagine, will divide Gareth’s gold among his lady and his brothers.  You heard what Rilka said.  Brandon is dead.”

“When Culann’s dead, who will have all the gold?”

Clothilde smiled warmly at her precious son.  “It will be yours then, dearest.”

A calculating look clouded Duncan’s blue eyes.  “Ours, mother.”

“Ours.” Clothilde exhaled the words.  “Gareth’s death will strike a blow at Culann.  He might sicken, too.  What tragedy a mother must bear.”

Duncan took Clothilde’s right hand between his own.  “I’ll console you, mother.”

Quickly, Duncan dropped her hand and held his right hand in the air.  He could already picture the silver ring with Tairne’s crest, could feel the weight on his finger.  “I’ll be the next Lord of Tairne then.”  Lord Shoban, he added to himself, is only a year or two from the grave.

From the doorway, Rilka watched the Lady of Tairne and her youngest son and congratulated herself on the wise choice she’d made to join with the Lady and the boy and not with the Lord and his elder sons.

********

Very gently, Rose laid her hand on Gareth’s forehead and then touched his cheek with the back of her hand. The worried frown never left her own brow, but she sighed a little with relief.  “Your fever’s gone, Gareth,” she whispered.

His body lay very still in a sleep so deep it was beyond dreams.  Not too deep, Gareth, she prayed, don’t go too deep.  Deep enough to heal, but not to rest forever.  When she felt tears filling her eyes, she scolded herself.  Mourning him now will bring ill fortune.  He’s asleep and not in pain.

She sat next to the bed and picked up her book, but her attention wandered away from the page to the bright spring morning.  “The sun is shining, Gareth.  I think that’s a good omen.”  Though his face was still, she could see his right eyebrow arch up.  He’d bite his tongue, though, and not reply.  “Well, I believe, Gareth, that spring is hope.  The whole world is blooming and just at the point when we feared winter would last forever.  You should see my garden, Gareth, it’s filled with lilacs.  When Arnald comes, I’ll cut some and bring them in.

“Perhaps, you’ll dream then of the day we first met.  Remember my mother had the table strewn with lilacs and I had lilacs embroidered on the sleeves of my white gown?

“You frightened me a little when you talked about your brothers.  I’d never met a man who spoke lovingly about children.  ‘What is it that you do, Sir Gareth, that does make you feel proud?’  ‘I have two younger brothers, Brandon and Culann, I take care of them.’

“Brandon’s dead now.  Oh, Gareth.”  Tears filled Rose’s eyes and since she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop them, she let them fall.

When there was no answer to her knock, Clothilde pressed down on the latch and walked quietly through Gareth’s entrance hall and sitting room, empty with death.  Good, she thought.  When Clothilde saw Gareth’s inert body on the bed and Rose weeping silently, her heart leapt with joy.  Shoban the Younger, Gordon, even Brandon might have died uselessly, but here was Gareth’s death just when she needed it.

“Oh, dear Rose,” she moaned.

Rose’s head jerked up, and hastily she wiped the tears from her eyes and face.  “It’s not what you fear, mother,” Rose insisted.  Rose stood up quickly and walked to the doorway.  “I was weeping for Brandon, not Gareth.”

“Brandon?”

“Yes, killed in the war.”  Rose’s eyes opened wide.  “I am so sorry, my lady, I should never have blurted it out that way.  My worry about Gareth has made me careless.  I beg your pardon.”

Clothilde dismissed Rose’s apology and Brandon’s death with a wave of her hand.  “To lose a son tears a mother’s heart to shreds, Rose.  If you were a mother, you would have known that.  Because of my position in Tairne, I’m forced to mourn in private.”  Rose lowered her eyes.  “Gareth?”

For Gareth’s mother’s sake, Rose put more hope into the words than she felt.  “Is asleep.  His fever’s broken.”

“You, my dear, look thoroughly exhausted.”  Clothilde stroked Rose’s cheek lightly.  “Where is Arnald?”

“Resting.  They rode with little rest from Lysle to Tairne’s castle.  His worry for Gareth exhausted him more than the ride.”

“What a blessing to have so devoted a servant.”

“Yes,” Rose agreed, “it is.”

“That doesn’t alter your state, Rose.  Since no one bothered me with this hateful news last night, I’m well rested.  You have some breakfast.  You haven’t had any, have you?” Clothilde scolded gently.

“Gareth,” Clothilde continued, “will be angry with the servants when he mends and finds you wan and thin.  He’ll be worried and worried men take longer to heal.”

I know, Clothilde thought bitterly, just look at the Lord.  Never worries about anyone but himself.  No matter how he abuses his body, he’s up and about the next morning feeling fit and pleased.

Rose glanced at Gareth still sleeping so deeply he hadn’t moved.  “Perhaps, you’re right, my lady.”

“Of course I am, dear Rose. Arnald will probably be here very soon.”

“Thank you, mother.”  Rose kissed Clothilde’s cheek.  “I’ll rest and then come back to sit with Gareth.”

Smiling to herself, Clothilde sat in Rose’s chair.  Gareth’s coloring was so poor he looked dead.  Unfortunately, he also looked exactly like Lord Shoban passed out after a night of drinking.  Not the way Shoban looks now – no gray hairs among those thick, black curls – but like Shoban then, when he killed the man who loved me and dragged me back to Tairne with him.

“Why the sour face, Clothilde?  Stung because your father married you to a second son?”  His blue eyes had sparkled with laughter, his teeth so white against his dark red lips.  “Don’t you worry your pretty head, I’ll be Lord in Tairne one day.”

“What about your brother Liam?” Clothilde smirked.

“What about him?”  Shoban’s laughter seemed to fill the room.

Clothilde smoothed the skirt of her gown, raised her head, and looked at her son.  My Gareth had hair so golden it was brighter than the sun.  He’s stopped breathing.  Good.  Clothilde stood up to check.  She laid her hand on Gareth’s chest and held her own breath.  Disappointed at the weak but steady movement of Gareth’s chest, she sat back down again.

He’ll die.  Remember, though, how long Maudie kept your eldest son alive with a wound so bad it would have felled a horse. Maudie will try even harder this time because Shoban’s fond of this son.  So weak he doesn’t seem to be breathing, does he?

“How you fought, Clothilde.  But I sired for myself a fine warrior that night.”  Shoban, how I wish you were here now to see your fine warrior.  You think Gareth is so special you can’t even see that Duncan is your best and most loyal son.  He may be only twelve now, but he’ll grow into a wonderful man.

Shivering a little, Clothilde stood up and took a pillow from behind Gareth’s head.  Holding her breath again, Clothilde, with sharpened eyes, watched Gareth’s face, but Gareth didn’t move.  Clothilde raised the pillow in the air and slowly brought it down to Gareth’s face.

“Put that down, my lady,” Maudie ordered coldly.

Clutching the pillow to her chest, Clothilde whirled around.  “How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice, kitchen wench!”

Maudie folded her hands in front of her apron.  “I use that tone of voice, my lady, because I saw you were going to murder your own son.”

“Murder!”  Clothilde’s voice was loud and shrill.  Gareth’s eyes fluttered open, but closed again.  “I was adjusting the pillows to make myson more comfortable.  If you say otherwise, I’ll expose you for the liar you are!”

Taking great care to make her words sound threatening, Maudie asked, “Which one of us, my lady, will Lord Shoban believe?”  Maudie watched the color drain from the Lady of Tairne’s face and her body tremble with fear and hatred.  If nothing else, the threat had worked.

“If you leave now, Lady Clothilde, and never return, I’ll keep this secret.”

“You will?” Clothilde hissed.  “Why should I believe you?”

“Tairne will not be served by seeing her Lady hung or tortured to death.  Hatred breeds nothing but hatred, my lady, and death nothing but more death.  You’ll leave right now,” Maudie ordered.

“Witch!” Clothilde hissed.  She flung the pillow on the floor and stalked out of Gareth’s bedroom.

“Get out of my way!” she screamed at Arnald.

“Yes, my lady.”  Bowing, Arnald took two steps back.  He waited until Clothilde slammed the door, and then he walked quietly into Gareth’s bedroom.

“Is?”  Arnald couldn’t bring himself to ask the question.

“There’s been no change in Sir Gareth, but he is not to be left alone again, Arnald,” Maudie said meaningfully.

Arnald glanced over his shoulder and nodded his understanding.  “I thought the Lady Rose –.”

“Is not to know about this, either.  I see no purpose in alarming her or adding weapons so the castle folk can wage war more effectively with one another.  I’ll see you have help.  People I trust.”  For a while, Maudie studied Arnald’s face.  “You are not to feel guilty,” she warned sternly.  “That he’s still alive is due to your care.”

“It’s not just guilt, Maudie, it’s fear and worry.”

“We all share that feeling, Arnald.”

********

“And where is Gavin?” Barth asked the guards who were looking surprisingly grim on such a beautiful spring day.

“With the horses, blacksmith.  Where else would a stable master be?” the guard replied in such a low, menacing growl that Barth decided not to press him or point out the number of stables there were in the courtyards of Tairne’s castle.

“With the horses, of course.”  Barth raised his hand in a salute and then tugged on the reins of his horse.

Inside the courtyard, Barth felt he’d been taken from the balmy spring and plunged back into the dead of winter.  The sour expression on everyone’s face clouded the bright sunlight.  Tairne had won this war.  Barth’s smile dimmed a little.  The losses must have been heavy.  The castle is mourning its dead. His mood subdued now, Barth hailed one of the young ostlers.

“He’s in Sir Gareth’s stables,” the boy said in a voice so filled with sorrow that Barth stared dumbfounded as the boy hurried away.  Shaking his head, Barth tethered his horse and then walked into the stable.  “Gavin?”

His face a stony mask, Gavin turned to the blacksmith.

“Sir Gareth mentioned he wanted shoes for six of his young horses.  Three fillies, three colts.  Do you know which ones they are?  I hear the army’s arrived in Lysle and back here within the week.  I’ll be working hard then.  I thought I’d take care of this now.  Save Sir Gareth the bother of bringing the horses to my smithy.”

Gavin turned his head to one side.

Puzzled, Barth asked, “Sir Gareth changed his mind, did he?”

“Sir Gareth is dying, Barth.”

Barth shook his head.  “I’m sorry, Gavin, I’ve misunderstood you.”

“No, you didn’t.  Sir Gareth is this close to death.”  Gavin held his thumb and index finger so they were almost touching.  “Poisoned in Medvane.  My Maudie doesn’t think she’ll be able to save him.  You should tell the people in your village.  Only the gods know what will happen in Tairne after he dies. No one here to give that order, but I think people need to be warned.”

Barth inhaled sharply.  “How is Sir Culann taking this?”

“Doesn’t know.”

“I think, Gavin, I’ll shoe those horses.  Just in case you’re wrong and Sir Gareth decides to mend.  You know Sir Gareth, he likes a job done well and done on time.”

“Yes, he does,” Gavin agreed.  “But don’t say I was the one who gave you false hope.”

Never, Barth thought and started to stoke the bellows in the small shop he’d set up in the courtyard.

“I’ll send you some help,” Gavin promised and then strode away.

A on a stroll

I used to think baby food would be awful. I imagined it to be like cat food (imagined!).

The variety of food we feed A is really amazing. It’s all home made and it smells really good. Our freezer is full of all kinds of frozen mixed veges cubes. I have so far controlled the urge to taste A’s food while I am making it. Here’s what A had for lunch today. In fact, lets go through his whole lunch routine:

Step 1: Take out 3 cubes of various pre-cooked food items from freezer. Most times I’ve already decided beforehand what to feed him. Sometimes I take risks and decide the food items at the last minute, like when I open the freezer door. The cubes for today’s lunch were:

Cube A: Frozen Tomatoes, Celery, Carrots, Broccoli, Zucchini

Cube B: Frozen Chicken, miscellaneous vegetables

Cube C: Frozen Carrots

Step 2: Put all cubes in a pan and heat. Let them melt with 3 spoons of water.

Step 3: Add the above with two scoops of baby rice cereal or baby oatmeal. We use Gerbers and Happy Bellies. To give A the strength to battle me during diaper changing, I like to add half a scoop of formula. We use Similac.

Lunch today was a challenge. A has started teething again and he seems to be in a great deal of pain. To help him with his pain I like to give him more than his usual amount of water with lunch. My wife gave me the idea to let him chew on the spoon, which I think helps him.

In the afternoon we decided to go out for a stroll. The pic below is of A resting and watching an amateur film crew.

A watching a two person film crew at the park

]]> http://dancingwithnoah.com/2013/03/28/nba-fathers-sons-two-on-two-the-games-have-begun/ Thu, 28 Mar 2013 20:58:59 +0000 fendo http://dancingwithnoah.com/2013/03/28/nba-fathers-sons-two-on-two-the-games-have-begun/ I had this dark moment on an airplane a few days ago where I lost all faith in the Father/Son idea as a blog post. It was some combination of plastic cups with red wine and sleep deprivation that shook me up, but damn it, I said we’d power through this imaginary tournament and power through we will. Today’s post looks at what happened in the first round of father/son play and spells out the rules/parameters of the games:

•          Single-elimination. You lose and you’re out. No running it back, no best out of three, no pissing, no moaning (looking at you Kobe and Rick Barry).
•          Referees will be included. There was some discussion around keeping this more of an informal, park-type game a’la White Men Can’t Jump (part of me wishes the title was in singular form: White Man Can’t Jump; like it’d be this specific guy. Perhaps there’s room in our culture for Black Man Can’t Jump? – sorry for the digression), but the thought of current and former NBA players calling their own fouls was too much to bear. Kobe’d shoot 100% because he’d be calling fouls every time the ball didn’t go through the hoop. So refs are involved.
•          Games are played to 21 points with twos and threes. It’s win by two or first team to 25.
•          There is no make-it-take-it rule. Imagine the Currys, Dell and Steph, bombing away from 25 feet and winning a game 21-3.
•          As for the presentation of the first round; the quadrants have been divvied up amongst the four of us:
  •    Hamilton gets the Bryants quadrant
  •    Bug gets the Thompsons
  •    Jacob gets the Walker/Rose
  •    I/Fenrich get the Barrys

And the Barry bracket is where we’ll begin:

Rick/Brent Barry (1-seed) vs. Eric and Walt Piatkowski (8-seed):

On the one hand, we’ve got one of the top father/son combos in NBA/ABA history in the Barrys. Rick was a first-ballot Hall of Famer, NBA champion, league scoring champ, and all-around antagonistic ass (for more information on this, read Barry’s section in Bill Simmons’s Book of Basketball). He’s paired with his dunk contest-winning son, Brent “Bones” Barry; a lanky wing with his father’s build and athleticism, but not quite the skill. Meanwhile, the Piatkowskis, a couple of tall wings who attempted to make a living on jump shots and grit. It worked for son Eric, but not father Walt who appeared in three seasons of pro ball, but ultimately left to become a paper salesman. In this game, the paper salesman and his son simply can’t compete with the multi-skilled Barry’s who run pick and pops and give and go’s en route to a 21-9 victory. Much of the game is spent cringing at the paper salesman barbs slung from Rick in the direction of Walt. Clearly embarrassed, Brent Barry immediately walked off the court following the victory; despite his dad’s calls for him to “come back” and “celebrate like a winner.”

Stan/Kevin Love (4-seed) vs. Mike/Mike Dunleavy (5-seed):

Stan Love is such a swanky ass name. Can’t you picture a man named “Stan Love” strolling through clubs and lounges in the 70s with huge lapels on his leisure suit, spouting out cornball lines to any woman in earshot while flashing a massive smile and introducing himself as “Dr. Love” or “Stan the Man, but ladies call me the Doctor of Love.” That’s what I picture and then I see what Stan Love used to look like: A 6’9” brute with a Fu Manchu-style furry moustache. And the height matters here. The elder Love only appeared in four seasons, but the Loves are just too big and versatile for the slightly built Dunleavys who go 6’3” (dad) and a lean 6’9” (son). The Loves get the boards and pound the ball inside and out while Stan’s brother, Beach Boy member, Mike Love, strolls along the baseline singing ad-libbed songs about how Love conquers all, especially the Dunleavys. It was a mostly tactless move by Mike Love, but the laid back tunes and 60s throwback lyrics had most fans and even the players in a California state of mind. Loves, 21, Dunleavys 15.

Gerald/Damien Wilkins (3-seed) vs. Henry/Mike Bibby (6-seed):

The Wilkins’s have a clear size and athleticism advantage over the shorter, slower Bibbys, but the pedigree of the Bibbys (one of three father/son combinations to win NCAA championships) had fans and analysts wondering how the Dunleavys received a 5-seed while the Bibbys got a 6. Seeding aside, the little Bibbys (both 6’1”) had to rely on their superior perimeter shooting and point guardish sleight of hand. Wilkins to Wilkins on lobs (straight over the little Bibbys), post-ups and penetrations were flashier than the Bibbys perimeter approach, but in the end, the slower, sleepier combination of Mike and Henry got the upset with a 21-18 win.

Rick/Jon Barry (2-seed) vs. Bob/Danny Ferry (7-seed):  

If Brent Barry acts as a balancing weight against his dad’s irascibility, brother Jon is the lighter fluid on the flame. Jon and Rick go back and forth stirring the pot with one another in a way that makes it hard to understand if they’re secretly motivating each other or intentionally needling one another. It doesn’t matter much in this game against the taller, but overmatched Ferrys who’ve made more of an impact on the game as executives than players. Rick’s on the attack from the opening ball check and proceeds to score 19 of the 21 Barry points. The Ferrys seem confused about whether they should utilize their size or do what comes natural—drift to the perimeter. The confusion and inability to defend Rick are the key reasons they lose: 8-21.

Up next is the Bryant bracket which was closely observed by Hamilton (@rh_asme):

Kobe/Joe Bryant (1-seed) vs. Terry/Ed Davis (8-seed):

Being the #1 overall seed comes with the weight of pressure, expectation. It’s easy to see how a group of amateurs between the ages of 18 and 22 might fall victim to that weight; but not the #1 overall seed in this tournament – the Bryant tandem of Joe and Kobe. Everyone knows Kobe’s bio … Joe (Jellybean) is probably mostly known, even as a player, for being Kobe’s pops. But the dude could play some ball too. The Davis duo is made up of current Memphis Grizzly Ed, and his old man Terry. Ed Davis has his moments, but aside from those, his ceiling is likely a rotation player. Terry and Ed Davis go roughly the same size at 6’9 and 225. Terry played from 89-01 (no shit?), mostly for Dallas and never on a playoff team. Jellybean measures up a lanky 6’9 at 185. Jellybean was a member of the 76-77 Sixers that lost in the Finals to Walton’s Blazers. He and Kobe know how to win, and easily do so here, 21-5. Kobe’s tenacity and Jellybean’s length make the Davises uncomfortable on offense. Kobe scores a breezy 16 of the 21, but Joe’s tip slam over Ed to secure the win is the highlight of the game. Jellybean proudly skips off the court yelling “LaSalle! We up in here!”

Pete/Press Maravich (4-seed) vs. Kiki/Ernie Vandeweghe (5-seed):

Ernest Maurice Vandeweghe Jr and Ernest Maurice Vandeweghe III make up team Vandeweghe. Peter (Press) Maravich and Peter Press Maravich are the 4^th seeded Maravichs. Two names shared amongst 4 men – this could get confusing. The elder Vandeweghe goes by Doc (he is a physician) and the younger shall be Kiki. The Maravich’s answer to Press and Pistol. Doc played for the Knicks during the NBA’s infancy from 1949-56 and averaged 9 ppg over his career. His greater contribution to athletics was as chairman of President Ford’s Council on Physical Fitness and Sports where he was instrumental in the development and passage of Title IX and the Amateur Athletic Act. Kiki was one hell of a player despite a strange career arc. Press only played his only season of pro ball in 1947 for the Pittsburg Ironmen of the Basketball Association of America (side note: The BAA merged with the NBL in 1949 to form the NBA we know and love today). Pistol is the gem of this matchup and Press is content to stand back and watch his son execute all the things he coached him up to do. Even though Kiki has the most size in this game, he fails to use it to his advantage just as he did in during his pro career (6’8 and only 3.4 rpg) and Pete’s wizardry prevails. Final score: 21-18, Maravichs.

Doc/Austin Rivers (3-seed) vs. Tito/Al Horford (6-seed):

Size vs. speed? It’s an age old basketball question, and great points can be made for the supremacy of either one. In a full court game, speed is the stronger trait. But this is half court 2 on 2 and as such, speed is less of an asset. The advantage for the Rivers team is the three-point shot. Austin loves to chuck but doesn’t do it efficiently. Doc coaches like he played: smart, prepared, even tempered. As teammates, he and Austin are a yin and yang of sorts. Austin’s brash scorer’s mentality and Doc, with his steady thinking man’s approach, have evident chemistry. The Horfords on the other hand are lumbering post players – basketball zombies in this setting. Al has had the misfortune of playing center his entire career when he could do much more as PF. Tito is 7’1 and might appear next to the word stiff in certain dictionaries. He played a mere 63 games over three seasons and is the weakest player in this matchup. The Rivers boys are happy to trade 2s for 3s and utilize the defensive cushion the Horfords must yield to get clean looks. The result is a 21-14 win for Doc and Austin.

Patrick/Patrick Ewing Jr (2-seed) Walt/Wally Szczerbiak (7-seed):

Patrick Sr. was a beast around the rim before he fell in love with that baseline jumper. He knew going into this matchup that he’d need to make Wally and Walt pay for showing up in smaller bodies than his. Patrick Jr. is an athlete but doesn’t have a great deal of skill. Wally and Walt are similar players. Both like to shoot A LOT and both are prone to getting real fussy. Walt was notorious in the Long Island pickup circuit for calling phantom fouls on his shots. When he saw that this tournament had real referees, he knew it didn’t bode well for his steez. In the most bizarre game of this quadrant, Wally became enraged over Walt’s excessive shooting and helped Patrick Jr. execute a fundamentally sound double team on his father. The result of that double team was an easy dunk for Patrick Sr. to seal the deal. Spectators could be overheard remarking that they’d never seen Wally give that much effort on a defensive possession. The dysfunction started early, but was over quickly, as Patrick and Patrick moved on with a 21-8 win.      

Jacob (@jacobjbg) reached deep into the recesses of his imagination to take on the Rose/Walker bracket:

Walker/Rose (1-seed) vs Vaughns (8-seed):

Internet research yielded little information about the David Vaughns, except that David Jr. went from being an NBA champion (he was on the 1997-98 Bulls) to being homeless.  So there’s that.  Instead, we can (and probably should) look at the basics here: the David Vaughns are plodding journeymen power forwards (Senior is 6’11’’, Junior is 6’9’’) who have six years of professional experience combined, and never averaged double figures in anything, while Jimmy Walker and Jalen were both quick, dynamic scoring guards who could penetrate and shoot from the outside. I feel fairly safe giving this game to Jimmy and Jalen (provided they’re on speaking terms; Jimmy played no role in Jalen’s upbringing).  21-10 Walker/Rose. 

N/D Smith (4-seed) vs Brewers (5-seed):

This seems like it would be the most entertaining matchup in the Walker/Rose bracket; a high-flying, quick-paced guard-fest.  Derek would likely have to carry Nolan on offense, who has not found his stroke in the bigs.  Derek, as it turned out, was averaging nearly 24 points per game for the 1985 Kings before he blew out his knee.  Ron and Ronnie Brewer would perhaps be in a similar situation (his dad averaged a little over 10 a game for a few seasons), so it’d be scrappy and fun.  In the end, Ronnie will shut down Nolan, and the Dad-off will produce a 21-17 victory for the Brewers.  Upset city!

Mikans (3-seed) vs Paxsons (6-seed):

I remember playing YMCA ball back in the day.  The coach’s kid was on the team with me, and he wasn’t all that great as a basketball player.  Of course, Coach Dad ran him at the point, and drew up a bunch of plays for him, none of which really ever worked.  You could tell the kid really didn’t like playing basketball; it must’ve been something that his dad forced him to get into, and here he was, 10 years later, still getting shouted at by Coach Dad to care about something that clearly was an incidental – perhaps even forced – interest.  You almost see the same situation in the Mikans in this tournament.  Father George was the Shaq of his era; the first modern pivot whose dominance led to the widening of the lane and the shot clock.  Son Larry played one year of pro ball with the Cavs, averaging 3 points per game in about 10 minutes per game.  There couldn’t be a bigger talent (and motivational) gap possible.  So, you can imagine the ire George would show when the 6^th seeded Paxsons – a renegade family of sharpshooters – step up and beat the Mikans 21-19, with George scoring 18 of their 19 total points.  It’s gonna be a quiet, tense ride home in the Mikan Chevy Windstar.

Waltons (2-seed) vs Mannings (7-seed):

This would probably be the best game in the bracket if soft tissue, ligaments, and bones didn’t exist, and we were all Rubber Men instead.  Both Bill and Luke Walton lost partial or entire seasons due to various ailments in their backs, knees, ankles, shoulders and feet.  And though Ed Manning seems to have been fairly durable, Danny’s disappointing career (considering he was the #1 overall pick out of Kansas) was due to a series of blown out knees.  So we’ll all cringe and look away as Waltons and Mannings smash into each other, joints creaking and bones clattering, all the way to a spirited 22-20 victory for the Waltons on a sneaky little jumper from Luke Walton.  Father Bill will say “this was the greatest two-on-two match in the history of basketblog fantasies” and then go off to find some ganj. 

Bug (@bugfoster515) had the final quadrant and after spending an evening downing beers with him, I walked away convinced he’ll be the first person I know to purchase a Dolph Schayes jersey and spent the evening asking anyone with even a shred of basketball knowledge, “What’s your opinion on Dolph Schayes?” My morning was capped off by his text message referring to Schayes as “Bill Russell minus the defense.” Likely an absurd statement, but it does a great job conveying Bug’s newfound fondness for Dolph.

Mychal/Klay Thompson (1-seed) vs. Wayne/Rex Chapman (8-seed):

The Thompson’s possess one of the most potent inside/outside combos in the tournament, and they come into this matchup as heavy favorites. The 1978 #1 overall draft pick, Mychal, is a physical specimen with an athletic 6-10 frame, while Klay provides a silky shooting touch from downtown. On the other side, Rex is no slouch either. He was a two-time dunk contest entrant and dropped 39 on Jordan and Pippen (and got a W) in the midst of the Bulls 72-10 season. His father, Wayne’s career as a pro was short-lived, but he had great success coach winning two NCAA D-II championships. The Thompson’s gameplan was clear from the opening check, let Mychal do work on Wayne. The 6-10 giant is simply too much for the 6’6” Wayne to handle in the paint. They didn’t even need Klay’s shooting to roll to a 21-7 victory. Never the one to pass up a chance to teach his son to do the right thing, Mychal gave Klay an advance on his weekly allowance to treat the Chapmans to a couple of Gatorades after the game.

Tim/Tim Jr. Hardaway (4-seed) vs. Gerald/Gerald Jr. Henderson (5-seed):

His anti-gay comments aside, Tim Hardaway was one of the best PGs in the NBA during the 90s. The fact that the Hardaways still got a 4-seed despite the fact Tim Jr. hasn’t been drafted yet speaks to the level of his game. Little did the Hardaway’s know, they were in for an all-out war against the fundamentally sound Hendersons.  The Hardaway’s jumped on them early with a barrage of 3s, but Gerald Sr. (a starter on the ‘84 Celtics championship team), and his son would not go down without a fight. They clawed their way back into the game with solid defense, and a slight mismatch in Gerald Jr.’s favor against the leaner Tim Jr.   With the game tied 19-19, Gerald Sr. comes through on the defensive end like he did in the 84 playoffs, strips Tim Sr. on a pull-up attempt, and hits a cutting young Gerald for the 21-19 victory.

Dell/Steph Curry (3-seed) vs. John II/John III Lucas (6-seed):

Insulted by the 3-seed they received, the Currys came out breathing fire to prove a point against their first opponent, the Lucas’. The Currys come equipped with the most lethal outside shooting touch of all the father/son combos, and the smallish (5’11”) Lucas III is just too small to bother either Curry’s stroke. While John Lucas II’s turnaround from drug addict to NBA head coach was a feel-good story in the 90s, there was not a happy ending for the Lucas’ in this one. The Currys put on a fireworks show going 7-10 from deep to roll to a 21-10 victory without attempting a single shot inside the 3-point line. This game was a blowout, but at least we got to check out Dell’s wife, Sonya, on the jumbotron between points.

Currys Produce Magic

Dolph/Danny Schayes (2-seed) vs. Wes/Wesley Matthews (7-seed):

The Matthews’ come into this matchup with a distinct advantage in the speed and quickness department, while the Schayes’ overwhelming size advantage (6’1”/6’5” vs. 6’7”/6’11”) is their biggest weapon. Dolph is one of the best forwards in NBA history as a 12-time all-star and Hall of Fame inductee, and his son Danny was also 18-year NBA vet who went to battle in the  paint against the likes of Olajuwon, Ewing and David Robinson in his day (although nowhere near their skill level). Despite the Schayes’ enormous size advantage in the paint, Dolph caught the Matthews’ off guard with his outside shooting skills by using his patented 50s-style  two-hand set shot that he releases without lifting his feet off the ground (like some shit straight out of Hoosiers). The only way the Matthews’ have a chance in this one is if they use their perimeter skills and quickness, but the Schayes’ know that Wes Sr. has a sketchy outside jumper (career 23% from 3) and dare him to shoot all game. The plan worked to perfection, and the Schayes’ rolled to an easy 21-9 win.

To be completely honest, I’m surprised with the outcome of some of the matchups. I thought for sure the Vandeweghes would advance and the Paxsons over the Mikans was a stunner, but these are the breaks of the father/son two-on-two tournament. The most intriguing matchup of the second round looks like the patented Curry marksmanship vs. the mismatch of the Schayes’.  Vegas doesn’t have odds yet, but it’ll be fascinating to see if the length and versatility of Dolph and Danny can throw off the momentum of Dell and Steph.

Now there may be some folks who think my memorializing moments like this is maudlin, macabre even. I frankly don’t give a damn what those folks  think. To each their own, as they say. My father was and is the greatest gift my life has ever given me. I am positive I would not be alive today were it not for the fact his presence is alive and well in my heart and soul.

He was a remarkable man, and, a remarkable parent. Born to working class parents in Elizabeth, New Jersey, he served in the Army during World War II (his was in one of the three divisions that liberated the Dachau Concentration Camp in 1945, something I would not learn about him until after he died), went to Columbia University where he majored in English Literature and later taught same in Columbian University and, in the last years of his life, a second college, the John Jay College of Criminal Justice.

As a parent, he was skilled at knowing when it is better to let life rather than parent be the teacher. When I was about eight or nine I went into his room and told him I needed to talk to him because I was very, very nervous about something. At the time we lived in the hamlet of Pearl River, New York. Our home was a few miles from the hamlet’s business center, comfortable walking distance for us young folks. He leaned back in his desk chair and asked me what I was nervous about. “I want to buy a pack of rubbers!” I announced. To this day I have no idea why this was. I was certainly not sexually active. My father paused, then asked, “Are you short on money?”  “No, no,” I reassured him, “I’ve got my allowance.” “Okay then, what are you nervous about?” I told confessed: “I’m afraid the man’s gonna ask me what I want’m for!”

My father smiled. What he said next calmed all my fears and nervousness because what he said next made all the sense in the world. After all, I had purchased model airplanes and boats and such and did not think myself a novice when it came to shopping. “Well, Peter, I’ll tell you what you do. If the man at the drugstore asks you what you want them for, you just tell him you’ll read the directions.” Perfect! Why hadn’t I thought of that!

And so it was that I marched out of the house brimming with confidence. I suspect my father called the man at the drugstore and told him he was in for a wee bit of entertainment and could he please be kind as he went about saying no to my request for a pack of rubbers. I’m sure my father told him to ask me what I wanted them for because he knew the man would get quite a kick out my response. Which is exactly what happened. The man did ask me what I wanted them for, I said I’d read the directions, and the man said I should come back in a few years when I probably wouldn’t need directions.

Humor and entertainment aside, my father also knew when – and how -  to protect his son from fear, from feeling in danger. One winter day we were driving towards Pearl River proper on Washington Avenue. It was a snowy day, the plows were out.  Almost immediately after Washington Avenue passes Lincoln Avenue it takes a rather steep downward dip, perhaps a quarter mile or so in length. As we came over the rise and began our decent, we saw about six or seven cars stuck at all different angles at the bottom of the hill. It was still snowing and the hill was very slippery. We began to slide slowly down the hill right towards the stuck cars. “Well,” my father said, in a totally calm and matter of fact voice, “looks like we’re gonna hit.” “It’s like bumper cars,” I replied. “Seems so,” said my father. And so it was that we bumped into a couple of the cars and came to a stop. No one was hurt. Years later I realized that not once was I scared. My father was so calm and serene it didn’t cross my mind to be scared. How different my experience would’ve been if he’d gotten all wound up over the fact we were sliding down a snowy hill.

I share all this with you because I hope you have or have had someone in your life like my father. Someone who loves you completely simply because you are you and need not be anything but you. Life has taught me this is not a common experience. And while I was only 15 when he died, you can be sure I wouldn’t give up those 15 years with him for a thousand years with anyone else. So when the clock reaches 1:43 this afternoon, I will be thinking about my father. I will be grateful for the four years I’ve reached that he didn’t and I will, as I always do, tell him that I am doing the best I can, which is all any of us can do, and is exactly what my father would want me to do.

I love you, Daddy, my whole wide world.

Right off the bat. I have to confess that I am predisposed to the modern Lord’s Prayer. Even better are some of the rewrites I’ve heard in the last year or so. Some really good praying is happening. Tonight, I’m now all in. Here’s why.

Praying with my son.

I used to argue that we can change anything else, just not the Lord’s Prayer. I was convinced, since its the only thing people know by heart, we couldn’t do it to them.

Until I discovered how many actually don’t know it.

And what keeping it is doing to others.

Then I tried it, and found that I preferred it. But the churches I’ve served don’t use it, so I don’t lead it.

How easily those words slip out of my mouth:

Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name they kingdom come thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our tresspasses as we forgive those who tresspass against us and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil for thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever and ever amen.

Words, so foreign, so strange, so opaque. Yet familiar and comforting. Words of childhood. Old, distant words. Words that aren’t mine. It was the only prayer in the whole book my parents required me to memorize.

Something is different tonight. Something in the air. Something in my heart.

I have been praying the other version from the Book of Common Prayer with my kids for the last few weeks. And tonight, it really struck me. I had forgotten to slip it in between the two songs. I started slowly and deliberately.

Our Father in heaven,

hallowed be your name.

Your Kingdom come

your will be done

on earth as in heaven.

Give us today our daily bread

and forgive us our sins

as we forgive those who sin against us.

Save us from the time of trial

and deliver us from evil.

For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours,

now and forever.

Amen.

It doesn’t rattle off the tongue, it sings off it. It pleads off it. It yearns off it. These are not the convictions of the powerful or the expectations of a people that enact blue laws. It isn’t a prayer for memorizing, but for living. These are the hopes and dreams of a people so beat up, so small. The prayer I want my son to know.

Not a prayer of yesterday, or a prayer that is one Jesus taught some people long dead. A prayer that speaks to GOD’s dream for all of humanity in every age and in every moment. And more to the point, a prayer that speaks to my son. A prayer that tells him that Christ is yearning for more than what we have in this world and compels him to see it, to strive for it, to make that dream a reality. A prayer that isn’t my prayer forced upon him, but a prayer known and accepted

because it is his.

Tonight, this prayer is ours.

Icarus

“You never once believe in me,

You only hear the lie,

You never once believe in me,

You never even try,

You never see the good in me,

You only fear I’ll die,

You never hear words I say,

You never tell me why,

You never care how well I plan,

Or why I touch the sky,

You’ll never even lift me up,

You never let me fly,”

That is how it always was,

Between my dad and I,

Until the day I reached the sun,

And burned my hands on high,

And so it is he’ll never know,

How much his son was worth,

Because he couldn’t understand,

The day

I fell

To Earth.http://www.bits-quark.org

My Opinion

TITLE: Ikiru (To Live)
DIRECTOR:  Akira Kurosawa
LANGUAGE: Japanese | COUNTRY: Japan
YEAR: 1952
PROFILE: Drama | 143 minutes | IMDb (8.4)

Viewing Note: Until now, I’ve maintained a rule against repeating directors. But beginning today and through the final two weeks of the project, I’ll be returning to directors whose films I’ve watched over the last three months.

SYNOPSIS (Courtesy of Netflix): When Kanji Watanabe, a stoic government official in post-war Japan, learns he has terminal cancer, he suddenly realizes he’s squandered his life on meaningless red tape and has no close family or friendships to lean on. Resolving to use his remaining time wisely, he sets out to steer a children’s playground project through the bureaucracy he knows so well.

Strengths: The core message — life is short: embrace it — seems taken from a platitude factory. But Kurosawa smacks banality aside and plunges deep into his character’s psyche to capture the terror of mortality and fear of squandering life.

In the first half of the film, as Kanji Watanabe reels from his terminal diagnosis, he lurches in about, trying to find what it means to live life deeply. Along the way, he encounters characters who seem pivotal, only to pass from the story. It’s a mature and subtly powerful tactic. By withholding the pleasures of symmetry and durable connections, the film reinforces Watanabe’s implacable, one-way advance toward death.

We begin with a straight-forward narrative structure that Kurosawa twists at the mid-point — a shrewd move that saves the story from getting too rote and that introduces fascinating angles. Increasingly, the film feels like bookend to Kurosawa’s Rashomon (made two years earlier), with characters battling over different interpretations of the same events. The approach is more radically elemental in Rashomon, but it’s used to stimulating effect here as well.

The refractory interpretations of the final act are set at Watanabe’s funeral, which lends the section great melancholy weight. As Kurosawa’s camera settles on the picture of the Watanabe — abruptly gone after dominating the first half — we’re forced to imagine our own absence from life. How will I be talked about at my funeral? Will I be neglected too? Will I be understood?

By blending discord with affection, Kurosawa delivers emotional encouragement uncontaminated by glib reassurance. Watanabe’s victory over despair is transcendent — and beautifully modest. Your life can have meaning, Kurosawa tells us, and you can touch the world, but your impact will be glancing and your meaning easily missed.

Weaknesses (spoiler alert): My unease with voiceovers surfaces again here. There are some great uses of movie narration (Badlands, Double Indemnity), but the vast majority are either extraneous or a crutch. The narration here is sparse, so little harm is done. But in a story as elegantly direct as this, the insertion of omniscient commentary only occludes the narrative flow.

The film’s secondary theme — that government bureaucrats should be more public-minded and responsive — is handled well but suffers from comparison to the primary theme. It’s a fine point but not especially profound, and it often feels like a mundane distraction from the film’s examination of mortality.

Similarly, there are a few points in the first half when the movie becomes a tad labored — Kurosawa going to more effort than is necessary to drive his points home. His cinematic technique is so vigorous and visually interesting that you often don’t mind, but the themes require less underlining than they get.

Finally, the last scene: It’s nearly perfect. But not quite. Rather than concerning himself with a character of little importance, Kurosawa would have been better off remaining on the image that so well represents Watanabe’s life and death. It’s only a few seconds but still amounts to a tiny anticlimax.

Characters/Performances: I wish I felt better about Takashi Shimura’s performance. He delivers genuine pathos and doesn’t prevent the film from achieving greatness, but there are several moments when he oversells Watanabe’s emotions. Not all over-acting involves scenery chewing; you can also over-act by over-moping and over-hunching, which is what sometimes happens here. The performance is affecting in many respects — a few scenes are wonderful — but this is another place where less would have been more.

Of the film’s many strengths, the foremost might be Kurosawa’s devastatingly unsentimental handling of Watanabe’s son Mitsuo. At the outset of the film, when we see the distance between them, we expect some kind of reckoning — some cathartic moment, good or bad. But Kurosawa leaves their relationship unresolved and Watanabe’s longing for connection unmet. Very few storytellers (in any medium) would have the wisdom and courage to do this, let alone pull it off so beautifully.

File Under: mortality, longing, funerals, bureaucracy, fathers and sons, quiet courage, dignity

May I suggest that anyone looking for a film to get them in the mood to experience a peaceful and reflective Triduum and Holy Week, look no further than Emilio Estevez’s The Way. Estevez directed his father, Martin Sheen, in this small movie that opened in 2010 and remained in theaters far longer than an independent movie such as this one should have.  The Way tells the story of Tom, a widower optometrist played by Martin Sheen, who is estranged from his son Daniel, who appears – via flashback – in a performance by Emilio Estevez.

The reasons for the father and son estrangement are never made fully clear to the audience. Chalk it up to dad wanting son to settle into a traditional career path and son wanting to follow his own, well, way through life. Prior to the beginning of the film, and this is no spoiler, Daniel is killed while walking the Camino de Santiago de Compostela in the Pyrenees. The Camino de Santiago de Compostela is also called the Way of St. James and is a pilgrim route that leads from France through Spain to the reputed burial place of St. James. To walk it requires commitment. It requires one to be in good shape. It requires deep desire.

Sheen’s Tom has none of these when he arrives in St. Jean Pied de Port, France to pick up his son’s remains to bring them home. Deciding, in a moment of spiritual connection with his progeny to take up Daniel’s trek, Tom wraps himself up in his son’s North Face and begins walking.

Clearly the journey itself is a metaphor, and a beautifully drawn one at that. Laden with images of mercy and forgiveness, friendship and fellowship and the struggle and joy found between fathers and son, the movie proceeds with a gentle pace while always heading in a clear direction. Moments of laughter are juxtaposed with soul moving stillness as the audience, along with Tom, picks up and leaves behind companions on his journey, traverses a breathtaking landscape and learns about his own spiritualism, his religion and his soul.

The Way is not heavy handed with its religious symbolism, though the penultimate scene does take place in a beautiful Catholic church, and it doesn’t beat one over the head with the symbolism of “doubting” Thomas, the optimistic, who cannot clearly see the way through the Lion’s Den of life that Daniel did. But there is plenty to think about upon reflection following viewing the film.

For an Easter pilgrimage, one could do worse than spending 2 hours on The Way. 

You can stream it from amazon HERE.   And you should.

And for the first time in nine years I forgot.

Papaw and Me – 1973

He wasn’t my biological father but he was my legal father. He was my grandfather and he adopted me when I was 7 years old.

I never called him dad (that was reserved for my step-dad), I called him papaw. But he was my father. I never knew my biological father but I was blessed with two great dads. My grandfather James and my step-father Glenn Brown. Glenn died in ’06, also in March.

March is a weird month for me, I buried my two dads in March but I also celebrate my daughter’s birthday and my own too during the third month of the year.

I was working two jobs ten years ago today, my daytime ‘real’ job was production director at local radio group, I wrote, produced and assigned radio commercials and in between I prerecorded two, 6-hour air shows on different radio stations. My nighttime gig was spinning CD’s and emceeing shows at a strip club for cash.

Because of that nighttime gig, I was home sick from my day job on March 26th 2003, my voice was shot from overuse and I could barely talk. I was sound asleep when my phone rang with the news. I rushed to the nursing home where James C Sliger spent the last six weeks of his life, the last place I saw my father alive, the first place I saw him dead.

Every year I remembered, the first was the worst and each and every anniversary hurt a little less. But I always remembered, I always took a moment to… I almost said reflect, but that’s just a $10 word. Truth is, I took several minutes to be sad and feel sorry for myself and miss my father.

Every year. Until this year.

It never crossed my mind till 2:55 this afternoon when my mother sent me a text: ‘Did you know daddy has been in Heaven 10 years today?’

I had forgotten but I remember now.

Miss ya Papaw

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A Father’s advice to his sons

Written by a dad to his oldest son two years ago as he went off to college.

35 Things I’ve learned over the years that you should take to heart.

1) You’re likely to meet your future wife in the coming 4 years.  Choose wisely.  If she’s anything like your Mom, don’t let her go.  They simply don’t come any better than that.

2) Call your Mom regularly.  It’s something that will make her very happy.  Make her happy by calling her, even if it’s just to say hello.

3) Email us both – it’s a way of honoring your parents.

4) I don’t know it all… and when I think I do I find out how little I really do know.

5) When things seem to be really bad, they usually aren’t… just wait a little while, it’ll get better.  Trust me.  Better yet, trust God.

6) Christians will let you down.  It’s a fact of life.  Christ won’t.  It may seem so at times, but it’ll get better.

7) You’re likely not going to have the desire to find a decent church.  Remember that you are the church, it’s not necessarily a building.  God is with you at all times.  Talk to Him.  Develop that as a habit.  Prayer doesn’t have to be with eyes closed and hands clasped.  Thinking thoughts directed at Him are prayer.  Pray often.

8) Organized religion is a mess.  This does not however diminish your need for God.

9) You will be tempted like you’ve never been tempted before.  It takes character, lots of it, to not succumb.  You have a very large reservoir of character.  Don’t forget it.  Tap into it at every turn.

10) Following the leader without asking questions is usually followed by trouble.  Be a leader.  It’s harder yes, but it’s more rewarding and much less likely to get you into trouble that you have no control over.

11) You will occasionally (sometimes more than occasionally) have to do things you don’t want to do.  Just don’t let it become a career.

12) You’ll face many decisions in the coming months, even years.  Think through them.  Acting without thinking usually ends badly.

13) I’ve found that doing things just for the money has short-term benefits.  You’ll have more money.  That’s it.  I’ve also found that the contentment is short-lived.  If you’re going to do something for a long period of time, your heart has to be in it.  Or you’re going to be miserable.

14) Working hard sometimes seems futile.  Be persistent in your hard work.  It does pay off in the long haul.

15) Don’t cut corners or take short cuts in your work or in your studies.  Don’t just do that which is easy.  Try hard.  Do that which is hard. It does eventually get noticed and does produce results.

16) Sitting near the front in class is likely to help you pay attention.  Sitting in the back has the opposite effect.  Sit wisely.

17) Read, read, read.  New stuff.  Old stuff. All kinds of stuff.  The more you read, the better prepared you’ll be, the better you’ll be able to communicate, the better you’ll do in school (and in life).

18) True independence is achieved when you’re no longer dependent on anyone else.  Seems logical right?  But remember that we’ll always depend on God.

19) Don’t be afraid to make mistakes.  I was paralyzed for too long because I didn’t want to screw up.  I’ve learned since that I learn best from my mistakes.  This can be painful but usually only in the short term.  No pain, no gain.

20) Alcohol can kill you.  Either quickly (binge drinking) or slowly (alcoholism).  Kirsch’s (your band teacher’s) advice is good.  Moderation is key. And drinking alone is usually an indication of trouble.

21) You come from a conservative family.  Your values are largely conservative.  Those values will be under attack at school, by your professors, by fellow students.  Think with an open mind but not so open that your brain falls out.  Liberalism can be trouble.   It’s good to hear the opposing perspective.  It’s better to read those who can defend the conservative perspective.  They’re out there but you have to look for them. Have liberal friends however.  They keep you sharp.

22) Beware of pop culture.  It’s faddish and shallow.

23) When things aren’t going well in a relationship, ask yourself if you’re really listening to the other person.  I’m a lousy listener…  not just hearing someone but listening…  hearing has to do with noise, listening has to do with understanding.    You can hear without listening.

24) Words are killers.  I’ve ‘killed’ with my words.  Choose them wisely.  Once the toothpaste is out of the tube, you can’t get it back in.  Think before speaking.  I tend to speak before thinking.  And it’s hurt people, it’s hurt me. That’s trouble.

25) Older people aren’t anywhere near as stupid as younger people make them out to be.  Unfortunately, you’re usually an older person before you figure that out.  Figure it out now.  And seek wisdom from older people.  Experience is the best teacher.  Yes, that’s a cliché, but it’s a good one.

26) Life’s too short to stay mad at family and friends.  You never know when your words to someone may be the last one’s you have with them.  That terrifies me sometimes.  And it should.

27) Breaking them down into easily handled pieces best solves big problems.  How do you eat an elephant?  Piece by piece.   Don’t be intimidated by the magnitude.  Think through the problem, break it down, plan an action and implement the plan.  And remember number 19.

28) Keep a journal.  Commit to this task.  It’s amazing to go back and read something you’ve written some time ago.  You’ll learn more about yourself.

29) Eat right.  Lots of fruit and vegetables.  Avoid what happens to many college kids who gain weight big-time their first and second years away from home.

30)  Exercise regularly.  It’s easier now to make it a habit than it will be when you’re older.  Trust me on this.

31) Sometimes, the best thing to do or say in a situation, is absolutely nothing.  I continue to have problems with this yet I do believe it’s true.

32) Experience is enhanced when that experience is shared with someone you care about.  Whether it’s a sunset, a hike, or a good movie.

33) Sending Mom a card or an e-mail on her birthday would warm her heart.  Figure out a way to remind yourself of other people’s birthdays.

34)  Money in hand is money easily spent.  Put yourself on a budget.  Purposely make it inconvenient to get more cash.  You’d be surprised how easily money disappears from your wallet.

35) Budget your time.  Prioritize where it’s spent.  Time can be spent faster than money can.  And it can be wasted just as much as money can.  And in my view, time is more precious than money.  We have precious few days on this earth.

Then I went to Duotrope’s Digest to record the submission. And I learned that I had already submitted that same story to that same magazine about two weeks ago. Oops. I don’t know if that’s going to annoy the editors or not.