From sunrise to sunset, today is the shortest day of the year. We’re having torrential rains today so the day will seem even shorter. Despite the gloominess, it always brings to my mind a question my father would ask each year of my uncle. My father was and remains a man of very dry humor. He rarely laughed when a small smile or slight chuckle would suffice, but that was not to say he didn’t find many things funny. His blue eyes twinkled with mirth, even as he suppressed all other outward signs.

My Uncle Bob, on the other hand, found almost everything funny. He grinned and smiled and laughed out loud. He was wonderfully bald like a medieval monk and had a thick mustache beneath his wide nose, which curled up at the ends when he smiled. Now my Uncle Bob was not really my uncle; him and his wife were just very dear friends of my parents and I grew up calling them aunt and uncle. Their children were like cousins to me, at least until I realized I was terribly attracted to one of the daughters (a story for another time perhaps). Their house in my hometown was the neighborhood clubhouse. Everyone was welcome there.

My father and Uncle Bob were work partners in construction. Each day for decades, Bob would drive to my house and they would alternately drive into Manhattan, where they would work all day together on various construction sites. They spent more conscious time with each other than they ever did with their wives. They did this for decades. For their last several years, I joined them. They listened to the oldies station day after day. They discussed the Mets or the football Giants, depending on the season.

Bob was a fully functional alcoholic. I suspect he’d take a few heavy pulls of vodka before leaving his house each morning. My father and I ignored the smell of it, as he got into the car. One day he had a case of the delirium tremens as he was parking the car and hit the gas pedal when he was trying for the brake and vice versa. He had to go to rehab once or twice in those years. He’d come out 30 days later as cheerful as ever and start drinking again soon after. My Aunt Peggy, his wife, had an uncanny ability to find out whatever bar he spent his after work hours in. All in the days before cell phones and laptop computers. I was there once when the bartender -in a city saloon we just happened to choose- picked up the phone, listened briefly, and asked out loud, Is there a Bobby **** here? Bob took his turn listening, hung up, and said like a chastened child, I have to go home now.

Every year, on the day after the Winter solstice, my father and I (me in the back seat of the car) would wait patiently for Bob to arrive and settle himself in the front passenger seat. We’d drive a bit and my father would inevitably turn towards Bob and ask him in all seriousness, Is it me or are the days getting longer? Bob would just smile, having heard it dozens of times before, and its vernal equinox equivalent (Is it me or are the days getting shorter?)

#middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #aging

#wintersolstice #vernalequinox

#autobiography #memories #writing

I saw a mother and her two young sons, each riding a scooter, on their way to school on Amsterdam Ave in Manhattan this morning. The mother was young and athletic, her sons maybe in first and second grade, neatly dressed in a casual fashion. The mother had a stegosaurus backpack strapped to her shoulders, presumably her younger son’s. The elder boy carried his own spiked version, both quirky and cool. They were gliding up the sidewalk in v-formation, the mother in the front. She glanced side to side as they zipped through the intersection, alert for errant cars. All three dipped simultaneously every ten feet or so to kick off the sidewalk and pick up their speed. I watched them for a block or two, growing smaller, slowing, dipping, kicking off, darting ahead again with the mother looking side to side every so often. I hoped the boys would always remember their mom just so.

#middleaged #manspov #motherhood

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #aging

If each year is a page in my book of life, I turned another leaf over today. I think that way. My life is a book. I am it’s protagonist. Sometimes I’m the hero, often I’m the villain.

Each year is a page. The first few are blank, of course. I didn’t have a thought in my head besides, I’m hungry, I’m tired, I shat myself. The last few, I suspect, will be much the same. Maybe the next few pages after my first are rudimentary drawings. Caveman-like renderings of stick figure me and family members by an A-frame home and a bright yellow sun. What next? A noun followed by a verb. A few pages later, I’m beginning school now. I’m conscious of a world beyond my family, my neighborhood. I know Vietnam is a thing. I’ve heard the Beatles.

Paragraphs next. What is important to me? Actually, what is beyond important? What are my obsessions? I think about girls. Perhaps there are pages, whole years, when I think about little else but a single girl. When I was 11 years old, the girl was named Angela. At 14, I couldn’t get Linda off my mind.

The pages are filled. Time passes. Here’s page 27: I’ve been dating a young lady for some time. I propose and we marry. The sentences show thought. The paragraphs are complicated. The page stands out. It’s important. Seven pages on, a son is introduced. 4 years later, Pleased to meet you, my daughter. The next dozen pages barely involve me at all. I write about my children. Then, two years of divorce.

Here I am at page 56. The book is more than half filled. Way more, if I’m honest. I think back. I’m not happy with this book. I wonder if there’s still time to write better pages. Will my last page be a simple drawing of a man and a woman beside an A-frame house with a bright yellow sun behind it?

#middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #aging