The Giving Tree

I always loved the idea of having a garden.  The variety of fresh fruits and vegetables at my fingertips, just a few steps away from the kitchen.  I was told, however, that having a garden is a lot of work. So my love of the idea of having a garden has remained that, an idea.  But I think I found the perfect solution. 

When Tracy and I moved into our current place in November, we were told that there was an apple tree in the backyard.  We thought, how neat, they must be rotten.  I figured it would be similar to the lemon tree in my parent's backyard from childhood: an overgrown monstrosity that no one ever knew how or why it started let alone what was inside one of its fruits.  You'd forget about it until a friend came over and asked, "Dude, you guys have a lemon tree?"  

No.  What?  Oh, that thing?   No, don't touch that.  Dude!  Put it down!  No, not in your mouth!

The lemons were the size of softballs, dried out inside, and tasted nothing like a lemon should taste.  Their best function was for chucking at one of your siblings. 

So when apples started falling from the tree last month we had the same reaction. Whenever our dog Sochi came back in the house with one in her mouth, showing off her new prize, we freaked.  You'll die!  We never thought to try one or inquire any further.  If one fell we quietly tossed it into the trash, like any other of nature's droppings.   

Today, this all changed.  Our neighbor came over for a minute and off-handedly offered us her ladder so we could pick the apples in our backyard.  We gave her a puzzled look.  "They're Gravenstein apples!  Heirloom variety!" she belted. 

Tracy and I had just tried Gravenstein's at the store a couple weeks ago.  We knew they grew primarily in Sebastopol and had serious devotees.  They are tart and have a short season.  A brief internet search shows that they are only in season in July and August.  Luther Burbank said, "It has often been said that if the Gravenstein could be had throughout the year, no other apple need be grown."  Who is Luther Burbank?  I'm not sure either.  But the point remains: we had something special growing in our backyard.  

We pulled out the ladder and got to work. We quickly learned, however, that picking apples is harder than it might seem.  There is an art, science, technique, or tool that we clearly lacked.  Even though Tracy was on the top of the ladder, she could only reach a few of the apples. It wasn't long before we changed course.

With Tracy still up on the ladder and in the thick of the tree, we resorted to shaking the tree with excessive force while the apples dropped. We'd shake and I'd dart out from underneath before being struck in the head.  

When that was no longer fruitful I came up with another ingenious idea.  Using an overripe apple that had already fallen from the tree, I'd launch it up at the choice apple dangling above us.  When contact was made, it worked as planned: the apple would detach from the branch and drop safely onto the lawn.  When I missed, I'd hold my breath, hoping it wouldn't strike my wife, perhaps knocking her from her eight-foot high perch, or an unlucky passerby. 

We must have looked like buffoons. 

Thirty minutes - and several laughs - later, we had a bursting bag of Gravensteins. 

They're delicious.  And now all we can think about is how many we let go to waste.  But I guess when you put in absolutely no effort, you don't deserve the reward of a full season of apples. 

Next year we'll be ready though.  Maybe we'll invest in a ladder and apple-picking tools.  Maybe we'll do some pruning and pay special attention to the water the tree receives.  Maybe we'll grow some vegetables too. 

We'll get to that eventually.  But right now, I can't get past this one thought:  

Is there anything more noble than to give without prompting, and all that's asked for in return is a little water?

This Name Appears On the Pass List

I found out I was an attorney while sitting outside of the Al Tahoe Laundromat.  It’s not exactly how you’d dream it up, but we didn’t mind.  It was over.  Thank God, it was all over.

Starting at 5 o’clock last night I was convinced that I had failed.   After several months of waiting, and now just sixty minutes until I had my bar exam results, I had become a shivering shack of bones.  It didn’t matter that when I had walked out of the Ontario Convention Test Center on that clear evening in February that I had felt ecstatic and assured that I had passed.  It didn’t matter that I had twice the legal knowledge and test-taking skills this time around.  It didn’t matter that I had just made a large glass of wine evaporate in an instant.  None of that mattered.  I had never been so nervous in my life. 

The caffeine probably didn’t help.  After giving up caffeine a year and a half ago, I demonstrated the sound reasoning of a hopeful lawyer and picked up a latte at noon from Starbucks on our way up to Tahoe yesterday.  The caffeine high felt like grabbing a drink with an old friend who is funny and smart and makes you feel really funny and smart, but then after an hour and a half you remember why you don’t hang out with him anymore: his annoying roommate always shows up and makes you feel uncomfortable and jittery. 

I had felt nothing but confidence since walking out of the test center in February.  I hadn’t lost a night’s sleep over it.  May 17^th was marked on my calendar purely as a day to look forward to, not dread.  And I woke up yesterday feeling well rested and excited.  I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, with the gift opening to take place at 6pm.  But once we began our ascent up the hill to South Lake, we lost our radio signal and, in turn, I lost my comforting pacifier of distraction and instead stared blankly at the winding road ahead of me, plowing forward.  It was 4 o’clock and my stomach was in knots.  Two hours.

We arrived at Tracy’s parent’s cabin around five.  Immediately, I ran to the television where I tried desperately to track down the Giants pre-game discussion.  Anything!  Give me anything to distract myself!  Yes, you’re right.  We need a big start tonight from Bumgardner.  We can’t continue to rely on our offense to come from behind and HOLY SHIT 30 MINUTES!

The Giants jumped out to an early lead and for a moment I was lost in the game.  Then it was 6 o’clock and I was no longer lost in the game but instead had vanished to the bathroom.  A few moments later, I returned to the living room where Tracy and my iPad were sitting with anticipation.  Let’s do this.  But I don’t want to!

With trembling hands I typed in the California bar website and waited… and waited… and continued to wait.  Refresh.  Nothing.  Refresh.  The main page came up, but two more pages were left to navigate.  I clicked on the “future lawyers” tab and the page continued to stall.  Refresh.  Nothing.  My network signal was too weak.  After twenty minutes of agony, I demanded that we go to the one place in town with free Wi-Fi.  “Are you sure, Doug?” “Yes, T.  I just want to get this over with.  I don’t care where we do it.”   I was out of breath.

Tracy started my truck and I hopped in the passenger seat, clutching to my lifeless iPad.  We took the back road and navigated through poorly designed parking lots.  “Where is this place?  Did we already pass it?” I asked nervously.  “No, it’s just another block.” “Okay.”  I tried to take a deep breath. 

“See, here.  It’s right there, across the street.  I’ll just park here.  See if you can get the Wi-Fi.” I opened up my iPad and there it was, with four precious bars gleaming: Al Tahoe Laundromat Wi-Fi Access.  A few clicks later, I was staring face-to-face with my fate.  Ten numbers and a click of a button and I would know.  But I don’t want to know.  But you have to know!  It all seemed so cruel.  After several months—years, if you include law school—of studying and the months of waiting after the exam, we have to find out this way?  Green words or red words.  Thumbs up or thumbs down.  No human face to tell you “congratulations” or “we’re sorry.”  Seeing red words the first time traumatized me.  Even just opening a letter saying such words would seem like a cuddly blanket in comparison.  But entering my ten numbers and rolling the dice seemed so cold.

I soon learned, however, how warm and swaddling seeing green can feel.  Everything just washed over me.  The failure was erased.  The hours of lecture and endless practice problems; the long nights and lack of weekends; the feeling that no matter how many hours I studied, that I couldn’t do enough because there was just so much to know.  That’s all gone, in an instant.  I never have to do that again.  Ever.  The joy is almost too overwhelming to appropriately feel right now, let alone describe. 

However, the one feeling that I do feel like I can speak of right now is one of connectedness. In what can be characterized as such an individual pursuit—passing the bar exam—what has struck me since finding out I passed the exam is how that’s really not true at all.  I know it is a cliché in moments like this to thank everyone who has helped you along the way.  But cliché’s become cliché’s because they are true.

The stress wasn’t just mine and mine alone.  My wife felt my stress and lived it with me.  She kept me balanced and made it possible for me to myopically pursue this goal—all I had to do was the dishes.  My family and friends lived my stress.  They all encouraged me to re-test and supported me throughout the process, some even financially. 

My parents lived my stress.  Not only did they experience me taking that test once while staying in their home, but twice.  I think I slept better than my dad did during those exams.  And because it took me 30 minutes past 6 o’clock to let anyone know that I had passed, at 6:25 my parents assumed I didn’t pass and were tearfully hugging in the kitchen.  The second I sent out the good news to friends and family, my phone exploded. 

When Tracy passed the July exam and I didn’t, I said it felt like half of me had passed and half of her didn’t. 

This time it feels like we all passed. 

Dreaming in Blue and Maize

Today, I turn twenty-seven.  Throughout these twenty-seven years, sports have been an essential part of me, as necessary as a limb.  Memories of sports constantly flood my thoughts.  Even though I haven't competed since high school, often I dream I'm on the mound (either throwing gas or getting blown out).  More often though, I dream that I have one more year of eligibility left for my high school football team.  In this dream, I'm always faster, stronger and smarter, and always just a few minutes before the game starts, I wake up.  But each time I wake up, the initial excitement of the dream and eventual disappointment upon realizing it was a dream is always the same, "That was really fun, but yea, there's no way coach would let me play after missing practice for the last ten years."

So today is my birthday and all I can think about is sports.  Not sports in general, but basketball in particular.  College basketball.  But shouldn't I be reflecting on more important things?  My gratitude for my life?  For my family and friends?  For my wife?  Yes, that's probably true. But this birthday is different.  Here's why.

Like most people, my memories from childhood have mostly blended together to paint a general narrative of my upbringing.  The details get hazy in most places, with the exception of a few distinctly memorable moments. Those memories that we are able to recall shine like a lighthouse because they were either traumatic or ecstatic.

For me, twenty years ago today (give or take) is one of those moments.  I was seven years old and hopelessly addicted to basketball.  My team was playing in the NCAA Championship game against North Carolina.  My hero was Michigan's star power forward Chris Webber.  His number 4 was then and remains my favorite number (dougskelton4@gmail.com).  I can't remember anything about the first 39 minutes of the game.  But I'll never forget rolling on the carpet in heartache after Webber called a (sixth) timeout that they didn't have, resulting in a technical foul that effectively ended their season.  I'll never forget Webber's teammate, Jalen Rose, yelling at him after his colossal mistake.  Feeling his pain, I felt compelled to write Webber a letter.  The letter I wrote and mailed to him that night are still as clear as day.

I told him that I was sorry about what happened and that it wasn't right for Jalen to yell at him like that.  We all make mistakes.  I told him that he was my favorite player and that they would win it all next year.  Keep your chin up.  I told him that the drawing below was created specially for him.  I drew an artistic portrait of him  in colored crayon being awesome on the basketball court.  (I wish I still had it.  No doubt it'd be worth a ton today.)

I can't remember anything after that except for, what must have been two weeks later, my dad coming into my room with a crisp envelope.  It's for you, Doug.  It's for me?  I grabbed the envelope and examined it.  It was addressed to me and it had the blue and maize "M" in the corner!  Wow.  I ripped it open.  I wish I could remember now what exactly the letter said, but my memory of the letter is that Chris Webber personally thanked me for my letter and signed it.  Signed it!

A few days later I was asked by my second-grade teacher to read his letter in front of the school during a school gathering.  I was so proud.  I was no longer sad.  I knew Michigan would be back in the Championship the next year.  This was the second year in a row that they had made it to the finals and lost.  Webber and the rest of the starting five were only sophomores.  They would win it next year.

But then my hero never came back.  Webber left Michigan for the pros after that season, becoming the number 1 draft pick, and later engulfing Michigan in a bizarre financial scandal.  (See ESPN's excellent 30-for-30 documentary on "The Fab Five.")  Since then Michigan never made it back to the Finals.  I stopped following Michigan basketball altogether, instead shifting my interest and allegiance to Michigan football.  A few years later, I gave up basketball altogether and focused on other sports, such as football, baseball and golf.  I didn't look back...until a few weeks ago.

Two and a half weeks ago, I decided on a whim to enter a friend's March Madness pool.  What the hell, I thought.  It'll make it interesting at least, even though I hadn't watched a second of college basketball all season.  So I spent five minutes filling out my bracket and paid twenty dollars to enter the pool.  This was the first pool I'd ever entered for money, so I had no real strategy.

But when I started filling out my bracket I couldn't bring myself to chose against Michigan.  So I didn't.    Not once.  And after I sent in my bracket and looked at the other brackets in the pool, I felt kind of embarrassed.  I was the only person out of 83 people to choose Michigan to win it all.  I shared a lot of the same picks as everyone else, but Michigan is where I differed.  No one else even had Michigan going to the Championship game, let alone winning it.  I kissed my twenty bucks away, I figured.

If you're reading this, or simply just breathing and occupying space, then you probably already know that Michigan is in the Finals tonight against Louisville.  That fact alone is surprising to most.  The fact that I am in first place in this 83-person pool and will win it all if Michigan wins is more surprising.

But what's most surprising to me is how by randomly entering a pool and by choosing by my childhood team, I have experienced emotions that haven't been tapped into in twenty years.  I want to go shoot hoops.  I want to go set up a screen on that guy walking his dog.  I want to be Trey Burke.  Or Mitch McGary.  I will deeply feel their pain if they lose.  I will write them a letter with a drawing on it if one of them screws up badly.

In other words, I'm twenty years older but I feel like I'm seven all over again.

But if this is all just a dream, please don't wake me.

The Answering Machine, Or, My Fictionally Impressive Debut in Fiction

I noticed the blinking red light when I first walked into the apartment.  It came from the kitchen counter.  Some appliance, I thought.  It was an appliance, but not the typical kitchen appliance that someone leaves in a barren apartment before a new tenant moves in.  A telephone.  Telephone?  Strange luxury.  I'd have preferred a dishwasher or a garbage disposal.  A cordless phone with an answering machine.  People still own these?  I thought they had become redundant.  Well I guess they have, considering that the previous tenant left it for my pleasure.  That and a few complementary fixtures: a paper towel holder and a toilet roll holder, plus a little mold settling in above the shower.

For weeks I let the light blink.  I was busy.  I had just moved to this quiet town from the city.  I didn't have much time to waste.  I had just finished school and needed money.  I had rent to pay and a dog to feed, not including myself.  My degree was in philosophy, so obviously I was qualified for absolutely nothing and everything.  I had no idea what I wanted to do.  But I was driven by the immediacy of money.  I needed to survive.

A few days after I moved here, I went downtown to the local coffee shop.  I had a cup of coffee and sat in front of my laptop searching for jobs.  I wasn't picky.  I fired off resumes to any opening I was remotely qualified.  Server jobs, cook positions, retail, wine jobs, I was in Napa after all.  But to no avail.  Nothing bit.

I kept coming back to the cafe.  I kept searching online.  The perfect job must exist out there.  After a day of hopeless searching, my eyes were continually drawn outside.  I closed my laptop, put it in my bag and stepped outside.  The sun had just broken through the gloom of the morning and it was shaping up to be a perfect June afternoon.  I crossed the street and approached the large patch of grass that nestled up against the river.  I sat down, placing my bag on the grass behind me to be used as a headrest.  I closed my eyes.

I must have drifted off because I twitched aggressively before my eyes opened.  Plus, as further proof of my further, I realized there was some drool dangling on the outside of the left corner of my mouth.  I wiped my mouth and rubbed my eyes.  I looked at my watch.  It was only a few minutes, but it felt like I had been laying there for a day.  I got up and headed back towards the cafe.

I could barely see as I crossed the street.  The sun was blinding and my eyes were sensitive from their recent slumber.  But it was a slow day in a slow town, so I didn't worry about getting hit by a car.  I made it across the street and opened the door to what I thought was the cafe.

It didn't take me long to realize that I had made a mistake.  I could feel eyes on me from all angles.  I slowly regained my vision in the less severe lighting of the room.  I scanned from left to right.  A stuffed deer angrily stared me down.  A man behind the bar gave me a confused, annoyed look.  The woman to my right informed me that they were closed.  I'm sorry, I said, as I noticed several more people frantically cleaning and preparing for what looked like a busy evening ahead.  I was embarrassed.  I turned and started for the door.  When I reached the door, I noticed a sign in the window conveying that they had just opened.

I turned around and asked the man in front of me if they were hiring.  He tapped the shoulder of the woman to his right.  She looked at him and he pointed toward me with raised eyebrows.  I asked her if they were hiring.  She smirked an exhausted smirk and told me to follow her.

We sat down at one of the booths of the bar.  I didn't know what to say, so I was honest.  I told her that I had no experience behind the bar, or in restaurants, but that I could learn quickly.  I had just graduated from a good university.

"What did you study?" the woman asked, giving away her Australian accent.

"Philosophy."

"Philosophy, eh?  Nice.  Practical choice."

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry.  That was rude of me.  My husband actually studied philosophy.  I like to tease him about it.  He actually runs the bar here.  I manage the restaurant upstairs."

"Oh, cool.  Is that him behind the bar?"

She laughed.  "No, thank god.  He will be here tomorrow. Listen, you seem like a smart kid.  We're in need some of help behind the bar.  Why don't you come back tomorrow.  Five o'clock.  White dress shirt, black tie, blue jeans.  We'll see if you fit."

"Really?  That would be great!  Thank you so much!  Tomorrow, five o'clock!"

I started that next day and worked the next day, and the day after that.  Before I knew it, I was working four to five nights a week.  It was stressful at first.  I had to study the cocktails in my spare time.  But I caught on quickly.  And the money was good.  I was able to cover rent, food and other expenses.   But even though I interacted with dozens of customers each night, I still hadn't made any meaningful connections.

Each night I'd come home around three a.m. to my dog, Gus, anxiously awaiting my arrival.  He was always made me feel at home.  Each night, however, it took a solid two hours before I could unwind after work.  Two to three glasses of whiskey, preferably Scotch, typically did the trick, although not always.  Some nights the sun would approach before I could drift off.  The noises of people starting their daily grind would creep up into my studio apartment, keeping me awake.  Despite my dog's companionship, I still felt alone.

As I laid on my back staring at the ceiling, exhausted but unable to sleep, I thought of that blinking red light.  I rolled over and noticed it coming from the kitchen.  It had been a month since I'd even noticed it.  That fucking phone.  I was still puzzled.  It finally occurred to me that there must be a reason why it was blinking.  Is there a message?

I clicked the play message button.

Virginia, if this is your number, this is your old friend Vic.  I'm returning your call.  My telephone number you have, but Ill give it to you again, 944-1037.  I'm uh very happy to hear from you.  I was wondering, er, looking for you.  Of course, I'm visually impaired like you, I can't see - haha - too good if you're errmental er not, but I've asked a few people aboutcha.  

Anyway, uh, if you wanna come up here this afternoon, I'll be here this afternoon, and I'll be here Saturday and Sunday afternooon, and right after lunch, so you're welcome to come up, you and your girlfriend, all ya gotta do is come in the front entrance of the Vet's Home, and right in the front of Section B there's a ramp, come up that ramp, and go into the lobby and take a left, or once you get into the lobby just ask anyone there and they'll tell you where we are.  Thank you so much for calling. It was very sweet of you to call. 

The answering machine let out a beep and then proclaimed, "end of messages."  I looked at Gus with a sad puzzled look.  He was looking back at me with a similarly sad and puzzled expression.

The sun was already up.  There was no way I was getting any sleep.  Especially not now.  My mind was racing after listening to the voicemail.  Who was this man?  Who was Virginia?  She must have been the previous tenant.  Or maybe he had the wrong number.  The man sounded very old and very sweet.  His voice sounded weak and he sounded lonely.  How long ago was this message left here?  Maybe I could still reconnect them.

I picked up the phone.  There was no dial tone.  This made sense.  I hadn't paid a phone bill in my month living here.  I picked up my cell phone and dialed the number.  I wasn't exactly sure why, but I felt compelled to do this.

"Hello," answered a tired, small voice.

"Hi, is this Vic?"

"Yea, it's me," he answered, following a few throat clearing coughs.

"I'm sorry to wake you."

"You didn't wake me.  I've been up since 3 am.  My voice always sounds like this.  I'm old."

There was an extended silence.  I let out a nervous chuckle.

"Who is this anyway?  Jimmy?"

"No, I apologize again.  You don't know me, but I'm returning your call of sorts.  You see, you left a voicemail on my answering machine, well, it's not my answering machine, it was left here when I moved in and..."

"Son," Vic interrupted, "you're gonna have to speak up.  I can't hear a damn thing."

I wished I would have given this some thought before I picked up the phone.  How do I explain this?  I shouldn't have called.  But I continued, I had to.  "I'm sorry," I spoke up.  "I'm not sure how to explain this, but I think you were trying to reach someone else but instead you called and left a message with me.  Virginia?  I think you were trying to reach..."

"Virginia Moon?  Oh, sweet Virginia Moon.  Bless her heart," he let out a big sigh.

"Yes...  Um, I'm sorry to say that your message never reached her."

"Son, I know."

More silence. I didn't know what to say.  "You do?"

"Virginia died three years ago."

Suddenly, I somehow felt responsible for this, for his pain and for Virginia's death.  Obviously, I didn't know Virginia, or this man who I was now speaking with, but somehow I felt responsible for the sadness he was now reliving.  I had disturbed his peace to dig up old wounds.  I wanted to do something to fix it.  He sounded so fragile yet feisty.

"I'm so sorry, sir."

"Oh, it's fine.  Three years is a long time."

"I just thought I'd try to connect you with the person you were trying to..."

"So you must be over at the Mount Avenue studio?"  He clearly wanted to move on.

"Yea, I've been here about a month."

"Nice, isn't it?  And what's your name?"

"My name is John."

"Nice to meet you, John.  I'm Vic.  I live over at the Vet's home.  The Veteran's home next to the golf course, ya know.  Just a few blocks from you.  Been here a while now."

In struggling over what to say next, I noticed Gus was getting anxious.  He was staring at the door, pacing and wagging his tail.  He was telling me that he was ready for his walk and that he had some business to take care of.   He barked.

"Well, Vic, it was nice to meet you, but I better run.  My dog is dying to get outside," I said, hurriedly.

"Oh, of course. What kind of dog do you have, by the way?"

"He's a black lab."

"Ahhh, lab's are great dogs.  Well, listen John, old folks like me don't talk to young folks like yourself all too often.  And, I'll tell you what, it wasn't half bad," he let out a good laugh that turned into three deep coughs.  He took a deep breath, "and since you called a stranger to ask a question, I'm wanna ask you one: would you do me a favor?"

"Sure," I responded quickly and unexpectedly trustfully.

"Are you going to take your dog for a walk right now?" he asked in a high-pitched and innocent tone.

"Yea, I was going to take him around the block." I was puzzled.

"Are you a reader?"

"Yea, I love to read."

"And you're young, so I know you watch the movies."

"Yepp."

"Well, John, I've been in this place for twenty some-odd years and I've just about read and watched every damned thing we've got in here.  And I can't go to the bookstore on my own anymore, and the place where I used to rent movies went out of business years ago."

I was beginning to figure out what he was asking for.  "Do you want me to bring you a book or a movie?"

"I hate to ask.  But if you were already going to be out.  You wouldn't mind extending your walk and letting me borrow a book and a movie from you?"

"No, that's not a problem.  Do you have a preference?"

"John, thank you, son.  Just bring the best book and movie you've enjoyed recently.  I'm not picky."

We hung up.  I grabbed a book and a movie off the shelf.  I looked for Gus's leash and upon finding it he absolutely couldn't stand it anymore.  He yipped, whimpered and shook his body uncontrollably.  Calm down, buddy.  We're going.  We're going!

I know that, objectively, I should have probably been a little more cautious and less trusting--I mean, all of the sudden I am personally delivering entertainment to an old man who I have never met before--but, subjectively, I was just as excited as Gus.  There was something about the way Vic spoke that was warm.  I mean, his message to Virginia was sweet.  Plus, there's something about him being a veteran that instilled trust too.  His voice was how I imagined my grandfather's.

After all, I was the one who called him.  Maybe he should be the one who is a little creeped out.  But he seemed unfazed.  The man was just in desperate need for some entertainment.  More than anything, he was probably in need of some company.

Well, I guess that made two of us.

We'll See

Just over a year ago, Tracy and I laid on our backs in Yountville, staring at the ceiling with thoughts swirling.  Tracy had just accepted my proposal.  We were going to get married.  Married.  We were ecstatic.  This changed everything.  We shared a bottle of wine and called family.  The joy was contagious and overwhelming.  

We tried to sleep.  Because the lead up to the proposal left me exhausted, I crashed.  Because of Tracy being blindsided by my proposal, she couldn't sleep.  We knew there was still so much to do in the next year.  Finish school, the bar exam, plan a wedding, find jobs.  But we felt reassured knowing we were going through it together.  

Last night, we laid on our backs in the same place, staring again at the ceiling wondering how it all happened so fast.  Where did the year go?  Did this all really happen?  

All of it did happen.  We finished law school.  We took the bar exam.  We got married.  We found (temporary) jobs.  It was our year.  The wedding was magical.  The honeymoon was perfect.  The Giants won the World Series.  My skeeball team won the brewskeeball championship.  We've started settling in on our own, in a town that we love.  We seemed invincible.  There was only one more hurdle and we felt confident in our vertical.  

But last night, the rug was pulled out from under us.  This time I was the one who was blindsided.  But instead of a marriage proposal, it was a denial that blindsided me.  

"This applicant was not successful in passing the bar exam," read the screen in bold red letters.  It had to be a mistake.  Maybe I didn't type the numbers in correctly.  I tried again.  ID Number: 5969.  File #: 419897.  "This applicant was not successf...." I couldn't look.  I didn't prepare for this.  Neither did Tracy.  She typed in my numbers just in case.  Same result.  

She then typed in her numbers as I looked over her shoulder.  In bold green letters read, "This applicant was successful in passing the bar exam."  We both cried.  She wanted it to be me.  I wanted it to be her. I felt her success.  She felt my pain. 

The night was equally beautiful and painful. Half of me passed and half of her didn't.  

While I laid awake last night, this fable kept reoccurring in my head:

An old farmer who needs his horse to plow the land and grow crops discovers that his horse has disappeared. His neighbors lament for him, “Oh how terrible. You will have such hardship.” The old farmer looked at them and simply said, “We’ll see.” 

The horse returned with a mare and all the neighbors said, “Oh how lucky you are. You now have two horses.” The farmer contemplated and said, “We’ll see.” 

The farmer’s son rode the feisty, new mare, fell off and broke his leg. “Oh how dreadful,” the neighbors said. “You’ll lose a hand to work the land.” Again the farmer shrugged and said, “We’ll see.” 

Finally some soldiers came to the farmer’s house looking for army recruits. When they saw the son’s broken leg, they let him be.

There's still so much to grapple with.  I'm not sure what it all means.  I'm not sure if this a sign that this is not my calling, that maybe I'm supposed to do something else.  Maybe one attorney in the family is plenty.  Who knows.  Tracy always did better than me in law school.  I had to fight tooth and nail just to stay afloat in law school.  It was never easy.  

Or maybe it means something entirely different. Maybe it means that I am supposed to be a lawyer, but one who's had to take a winding path.  Maybe I just have to dust myself off and keep fighting...

We'll see.  

I don't have to figure that out right now.  For now, I am continually reminded of how much there is to be grateful for.  Health, family, friends, my wife, free legal representation.  In the end, I'm confident that this is something I'll be grateful for.  I'm just not sure when, how, or why that will be.

We'll see.  

It rained all night.  But when I woke up around 10 after a fitful night of sleep, there was a break in the rain.  Tracy and I threw on our running clothes and ran through the vineyards of Yountville.  The clouds were moving quickly and the sun fought to break through.  As we ran, we talked and talked and talked.  When we got to the end of the run before we loop back, we started to feel a sense of peace and acceptance.  We walked and caught our breath.  Tracy grabbed my arm and stopped.  She pointed to the left, above the vineyards and just before the foothills.  We had never seen a more perfect rainbow.  Vibrant colors and a perfect shape.  We could see both the beginning and the end of it.  What does it mean?

We'll see.

Come With Me

This story starts with a question and ends with a question.  One from an inquiring grandmother, the other from a nervous grandson. 

But actually, it starts much earlier than that.

The year is 1913.   The day, June 13.   The day my grandfather entered the world.   His father—my great-grandfather—a Congressman from Illinois, wanted to commemorate the day.   He bought a ring for his wife.  The ring had thirteen diamonds in it. 

I never met my great-grandfather, or my great-grandmother.  And while my grandfather had met me, I don’t recall meeting him.  He died when I was only one.  I wish it were otherwise.  But I know his wife and daughters pretty well.  And because of them, his life, and the ring used to commemorate his life, changed mine.

I remember the phone call vividly.  It was August 2011.  I was just wrapping up the last few weeks of my summer internship.  I called home on a Sunday evening to catch up with my folks.  I don’t remember the first half of the conversation, but my memory of the conversation kicks in upon overhearing my dad ask my mom, “Should we tell him about Grandma?”  Oh, no, I thought.  Gram is sick.  But before my thoughts could spiral any further, I heard my mom chuckle. 

“Is Tracy around?” she asked.  “Yea, she’s in the other room,” I responded quickly.   “Okay,” she said in a hushed voice, “I visited Gram today, and I have a story for you…”

“What are Doug’s intentions?” Gram asked bluntly.

“I don’t know, Mom,” my mom responded, almost annoyed.  “I know that he loves Tracy very much and talks about the future with her.”  She knew this bought her some time, but not much.

My mom was on her weekly Saturday visit with Gram.   They had just come back from lunch and were sitting around watching golf in Gram’s apartment.  My grandma had become relentlessly curious about Tracy and my relationship in the preceding weeks.  There was a family wedding a few weeks prior that started it all.

Arrangements.  Where would Doug and Tracy stay for the wedding?  Gram had to know.  Where would Tracy sleep?  Would she have her own room? My mom would tell a few fibs to try to buy some time.  But she couldn’t keep it up forever.  She finally broke down and confessed. 

“They’re living together, Mom.  They have been for almost a year.”  A few moments of silence followed.  “Well, it sure is a different time,” Gram said, somewhat sadly.  And that was it.  Or at least that’s what we thought.

“Well, are they going to get married?” Gram asked on that Saturday afternoon, driving her point like a prosecutor on cross-exam.   

My mom squirms in her chair.  “Yes, Mom.  Yes, I think they will get married,” exasperated.  There! There you have it!

Gram takes a moment to consider my mother’s words.  Then she slowly lifts her arms, puts a hand on each arm of her chair, and begins to rise.  “Come with me,” she says. 

I came home two months later for a family-friends’ wedding.  It was early October. This time Tracy stayed up in San Francisco.  Therefore, Gram didn’t have to fuss over arrangements.  Instead, she had other things on her mind. 

“Well, I have the ring,” Gram says in a let’s-not-waste-time-with-formalities tone. 

We had just sat down for lunch.  I hadn’t even put the dressing on my salad.  I smiled and chuckled, unsure of what to say.  She smiled back and then started in on her navy bean soup.   We talked about golf, the books she’s read lately, and the last dumb movie she saw.  She gave me an update on all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins.   Then the food was gone and it was time to walk over to her apartment. 

We walk out of the Garden’s Dining Hall and make for the path toward Gram’s apartment.  Gram waives and says hello to a few senior passerby’s, knowing each by name.  Just before we arrive at Gram’s apartment, she slows and looks over at me. 

“So when are you going to give it to her?”

“Gosh, I’m not sure yet, Gram,” I say, fumbling for the right words.  

Thinking for a moment, she looks ahead and then again at me. “Well, does she have a birthday coming up?”

“Yes, actually.  Her birthday is next week.” 

“Well, that sounds like a perfect time to give it to her,” not wasting a second.   

I laugh as we open the door to her apartment.  We walk in and she sets her walker to the side.  “Come with me…”

I follow her to the back room of her apartment.  She walks over toward her dresser and pulls open the top drawer.   She reaches her hand in and pulls out a small box.  She opens the box.  With the look of a proud parent handing over her baby to be held, she handed the box over to me.  I wasfloored.  The ring was stunning.

Gram proceeded to tell me the story behind the ring.  My great-grandfather bought it for my great-grandmother to celebrate the birth of my grandfather.  The ring had 13 diamonds in it because my grandfather, Bill Gorman, was born on June 13, 1913.  My great-grandmother wore the ring until she died, and then she passed it on to her daughter, who wore the ring for a few years but never felt right about it.  She felt as though the ring should belong to Mary, my grandmother, because the ring was initially given to celebrate Bill’s birth in 1913.  About thirty or forty years ago, she gave the ring to Gram, who has had the ring ever since. 

I had known for quite some time before this moment that I would ask Tracy to marry me.  But I never thought about how or when I would do it, let alone what ring I would propose with.  But all of the sudden, I knew.  Sitting in Gram’s living room, I knew my whole world had completely changed.  My thoughts were spiraling from complete conviction to fear.  I felt like I was simultaneously floating and sinking.  My thoughts spiraled. 

“When did you say Tracy’s birthday was, Doug?” Gram asked, never losing sight of the mission.

“It’s next Thursday, October 13^th.”

“The 13^th?  Well, I think that’s an omen!”

I think so, Gram.  I think so.

This Blog Still Exists

This website has been "under construction" since the end of May while the author attempted to become a lawyer.  This attempt consumed most of the author's time.  But rest assured, this blog still exists. 

At the end of May, the author returned from the Brewskeeball National Championship in New York, licked his wounds from the crushing defeat, and dove straight into Bar exam preparation.  He also moved back in with his parents - another crushing loss of which he is still licking his wounds.  (He is looking for a place.)  He is also getting married in just a few months.  This is all to say that there is much to write and much to share.  So stick around.  

Lastly, we also want you to know that during this period of "construction" we, the editing team, have done absolutely nothing to improve this website.  Thanks for your continued support. 

- Editor's Note