Cranmers At The Park

Our daughter snapped this photo of little d and me at the park, today, playing backgammon. We were under the pavilion where a nice breeze kept us comfortable ... a pleasant break from the ninety degree temps with humidity. I brought two books to read, The Dark Tower and Orwell's Facing Unpleasant Facts, but much more enjoyed gammon with the mrs and going for a walk with the photographer.

Hope you are all having a top weekend.

Duck at the Lake

My daughter Ava's "Duck at the Lake" dedicated to her Grandma Sheila who passed away this past week.

Torn And Frayed

Went to edit my latest and found out my daughter was already working on it.

Little Shutterbug

Ava was playing photographer today, and then her daddy snapped a picture of the little shutterbug.

In Bloom

Photo of Amaryllis taken by my three-year-old daughter Ava.

Hello, Goodbye

Ava waving to the good folks in Tysons Corner, Virginia. At that moment, I was playing Billy Joel's Greatest Hits and the lyrics "Life is a series of hellos and goodbyes" seemed to be timed perfect.

Night and the City

Ava's picture. Any Guesses where?

Family

A painting by Ava of her family. We are in silhouette inside our happy home with Scooter the cat outside. Yeah, this is what I’m grateful for on any given day.

Family and Scooter by Ava.

Border Crossing

Ava took this picture last night at the Texas-Louisiana border.

The Roots of Creativity

After a long day of work, I've come to enjoy painting with my three-year-old daughter. It's a relaxing pastime that we both enjoy and I marvel at her progress over the last year. Quite often she paints houses with her family in them with the sun in the sky. And she always signs her paintings, sometimes with a heart next to her signature.

Meanwhile I usually create a standard-looking tree and grass with the occasional bird flying past. She liked watching me paint my various trees and decided to make this very artistic-looking tree of her own. I love the fact she went in her own inspired direction.

Happy Halloween!

My talented niece and her equally talented boyfriend carved these pumpkins. 

My littlest charmer decided to take a break from scaring her family and watch some Paw Patrol.

Ava's Summer Leaves

My daughter Ava has discovered the creative art of leaf rubbing. She meticulously selects leaves and flowers from the yard, with guidance from her mom and grandma, and then chooses the right color crayon to make a lasting impression.

Here, she wrote her name in code.

This one she dedicated to her daddy.

The long stemmed leaf on the left stood out to me.

She's really developing a knack for this.

For those of us from the pre-Xerox generation, doesn't this remind you of the old ditto paper?
Made me want to pick it up and smell it, like that scene in Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

Scream Coy At Wandering Walls (A Gift That Lasts)

Let us celebrate the occasion with wine and sweet words. --Plautus

It’s Valentine’s Day, and three years ago on this holiday, I got the greatest gift a person can ever get ... a wonderful baby girl. This past week as my wife and I picked out several gifts for our daughter, everything seemed to fall short. Sure when she opened her presents, she was amused by the toy and loved the book and looked adorable in the new outfit, but what’s really memorable about any of it? (I’m being philosophical here because, of course, she’s still too young to remember—or really appreciate—it anyway.) It’s just something that has been on my mind, brought forward by the gift that my nephew Kyle Knapp had sent to Ava on her birthday last year ... a poem. A very special poem.

“For Ava” arrived in an email with a pithy note that offered no glimpse into the lasting lines that followed. In a very humble and almost apologetic tone, he wrote, “Hey David, I'm broke as shit, but I wrote Ava a poem. Tried to call you guys. –Kyle”

For Ava

Holiday!
And of course, hooray!
Held for us in somber halls
With seldom cheer
In horrid weather,
Still, and so, we’re unimaginably happy!

We can break down to dance
We can scream coy at wandering walls
(Like the impression of you I cherish the most)

The tables are kicked out
And the joy is all around,
Smeared with everything in the universe that’s colored in crayons

And we’re all so wrapped in wonder, or bliss
That life ponders,
And wonders why
The asterisk of the bower
Doesn’t spell out your name
In crude italics
Ava!
AVA!

I think we’ll be friends
In fact, I’ve seen it...
If crazy old men can sometimes imagine the future
We’ll go swimming, and share our dreams at breakfast
And reframe the pictures,
That first cast me and your father.

I’m poor!
And strangled and held still!
But I hope that on your birthday,
Since I can’t offer you a real present
You’ll remember my words.

Love you kiddo,
--Kyle

I look back at my response that now seems so … ordinary. I wrote: AWESOME! Denise said "how sweet!" Means a lot, Kyle. Thank you. That was special. ~David

I’m glad I capped “awesome” and added my wife’s heartfelt sentiment but it was written by a tired traveler who was once again on the road for another job assignment. I would probably network on the Internet for an hour after dinner and then go to bed. So the full weight of his gift—in the moment—remained largely unrecognized. His email arrived at 7:14 pm that night and I’m grateful at least I spotted it right away and sent that thank you eleven minutes later. When you have lost someone, sobering experience has taught me, the tiniest of details can bring the largest amount of comfort.

Since I can’t offer you a real present

Words meant a great deal to my nephew, bordering on the spiritual. As a writer, I can’t think of a better present to offer. Words. Distinctive. Sharp. Memorable. Of all the Christmas, birthday, and other gifts I have received and given over the years, what really stands out? I can think of a handful: the prayer my dad had handwritten on the occasion of, I believe, my 8th birthday, the entire set of Hardy Boys books for Christmas in 1980 that skyrocketed my interest in reading (and that Kyle would borrow twenty plus years later and contribute to his own tutelage); the home shared from my in-laws after the loss of ours; and this past Christmas, the sweatshirts adorned with Kyle’s verses.

This is not to say gifts purchased with careful affection aren’t or can’t be special. It just seems too easy to forget that often the best gifts are those crafted from the hands and heart of another—the ones that don’t have the sticky remnants of a once-attached price tag. Kyle’s poem—a “rhythmical creation of beauty in words” as defined by Poe—to Ava, well, it will be remembered long past any present he could have bought. A very real present, and I’m sure in time, Ava will come to appreciate his words just as I do.

***

Smeared with everything in the universe that’s colored in crayons

Aside from our contribution in keeping Walt Disney solvent with our purchases for Ava’s birthday this year, I pulled out a piece of construction paper, and with her mom’s help we drew a picture of our house and happy family. Denise sketched the home because she’s pretty good at that, and I took care of the sun with beaming rays and trees, which I’m not so good at, but I can make it resemble the intended. Artists we’re not! The drawing’s not much, but, then again, it’s everything. And Ava loved it, deciding which stick figure is Daddy, which one is Mommy, and which one is her. And knowing her great ability in using childhood imagination, later she will take that drawing, place her little toy people on it, and have them playing with our stick figure family in the yard under the trees.

Kyle would have been endeared by Ava’s imagination. When he had replied to my email, he'd certainly made use of his … I smile at his offbeat sense of humor and give him the last word:

I'm glad that you guys liked the poem, it’s all I could think of to do. It’s definitely a bit rough drafty. I want to discuss this novel I'm writing at some point. I'm on chapter 4 and I'm pretty confident that I can get through a full length piece this time. Maybe you can sell the s--- out of it and we can both retire, dig a moat around the property and fill it with exotic sea-dangers (like an octopus or something).

Best thoughts,
Kyle

Down This Long Road Is A Mailbox

At the bottom of this long and winding hill is a mailbox. I enjoy the walk down and even the difficult trudge back up -- gets the blood pumping, which is a welcomed change after typing all morning, and my Saint Nicholas gut tells me I should make the climb a few more times every day. Yesterday’s delivery (from the postman as he said with a smirk, “Read much?”) was HARDBOILED 3. I ripped open the package on the long climb up and read aloud, huffing and puffing, the glossy cover’s names: a distinguished gathering of greatness -- Josh Stallings, Andrew Nette, Patti Abbott, Sophie Littlefield, Chris F. Holm, Keith Rawson, Fred Blosser, Hilary Davidson, and Kieran Shea. A new co-editor is on board by the name of Elise Wright. I’m still tempting her with a full-time gig at the webzine, but she is holding out for more Jelly Bellies. We’ll see who wins.

So, after, I grab another coffee, I will admire the current paperback and then get moving on the next. Always be closing with quality, and the next book is a time traveler that I’ve left stranded for far too long in the 24th century.

And, more importantly, I plan on making more snow angels with my daughter. I didn’t mention that did I? Well, with the dusting of snow we got late yesterday afternoon, she made a total of thirty before the sun went down over the tree line. And I know with her daddy’s help, we can triple that number today. Here's a shot of one of our earliest efforts.

Sacred

This is my daughter Ava Elyse turning the pages of her cousin Kyle Knapp’s posthumous collection of poetry, Celebrations in the Ossuary. She got first look at the proof copy that arrived this week.

Kyle would play his guitar, and Ava would dance to the music he played. Her fascination with guitars started when she was just months old, watching for a still shot of an acoustic guitar pop up on the screen of the cable TV Jazz channel. We bought a mini acoustic guitar for her, and since neither her mom nor I can carry a tune let alone play a musical instrument, she was transfixed when Kyle played. We left Ava’s guitar there with him the last time that we saw him.

One time, my sister went to move the guitar out of the living room, but Kyle brought it back and placed it next to his. He told his mom it was “sacred” and the instrument needed to stay put—next to where he wrote, played music, and worked on his poetry.

There was a message on his twitter account from December 13, 2012, that read “learned to play all of Franz Ferdinand’s ‘Walk Away’ on baby Ava’s guitar this morning. lol couldn’t sleep.”

Thank you, Kyle, for loving my daughter, writing a poem for her we consider sacred. I should have Ossuary out, as promised, by your birthday.

From New York to Chicago

Here are two pictures of Ava and me on an Amtrak train from New York to Chicago. My second trip on the rails, her first, and we’re having a blast. As a bonus for me, there are all kinds of characters on board. Two novels worth in the waiting. 

Tangible

My gypsy clan and I made a stop at the old family homestead in New York. Our last exit before we board the train to visit my mother. Our merry trio arrived late Monday night and didn’t have a chance to see the surroundings in the dark. When I woke up at 6:10 a.m., the clear at first light sunk in extra hard. My parents’ property is in desperate need of repair. Outside, the driveway needs gravel, fallen trees need to be cut and hauled off. Inside, soft spots in the floor boards need to be reinforced, ceiling needs to be patched, etc. I should be clear … this is not a grand estate from long ago that was meant to stand until the second coming. It’s a 1970 mobile home that sits on a basement my father built in the early 80’s. However, the crumbling abode is on a scenic twenty-two acres of land—land that would have inspired Robert Frost, Walt Whitman, and Robinson Jeffers to a blissful nirvana. While my dad was in good health, he—a handyman that I am not— was able to repair the place and keep it glowing.

So I was lying in bed staring out the window, my brow furrowed with thoughts spiraling like a gyroscope. After a while, I turned and looked at my charmer. I hadn’t realized she had been watching me, waiting for me to notice her as to not break my train of thought. She’s like that, which is one of the 782,432 reasons I love her. She quietly asked, “What’s wrong.”

“I know it’s silly, but I wanted this place to stand forever. I wanted to always return and see my mom and dad.” I pulled the curtain farther back to view the entire snow swept lawn. “My dad is always here … in the land, the trees and grass, and the creek that passes by. All him.  But mom … she lived for this home, and I can’t keep it up. The center can’t hold. And all that bullshit.”

She wisely let me stride down the ‘woe is me’ lane and listened intently. I waxed, on and on, about how we live in a disposable society and other mental crap, like, even memories don’t last … just look at my mom and the broken down merry-go-round that passes for a brain of hers. Nothing lasts forever.

I paused and contemplated what I just spat out. When I float back from my wounded spot, I found my charmer’s reassuring, green eyes. She said very simply, “Even the pyramids are crumbling, what do you expect?”

“Yeah. Nothing is tangible,” I replied. A few seconds passed, and we spontaneously laughed at the  direction our gravity-filled conversation lead us.

Our daughter woke up and looked at us. I saw my dad’s eyes and mom’s inquisitive nature. The past collided with the present in a whirlpool of emotions, and a thousand clichés could be inserted here, but I’ll spare you because there’s nothing new that you and an incalculable number of human beings from the dawn of time haven’t felt.  

My little girl asked me to read her a morning story, and so I do. I reach for one of her tiny books from the collection we piled on the nightstand. This dilapidated old trailer lasted long enough for me to read Biscuit Visits the Farm to my little coconut in the same room that my mother and father read Curious George to me. And, hell, that’s all I need to double down on life and keep pressing forward.

And a Rah, Rah, Rah for Rocket

My 2-year-old daughter enjoys the Disney show called Little Einsteins. Four animated friends -- Leo, Annie, Quincy, and June -- take off on all kinds of flights of fancy in their rocket ship, aptly named Rocket. The kids play instruments, make up songs, and dance to classical music by composers like Mozart and Beethoven, while they try to complete a mission that is inspired by folk art and fine art from around the world.

Every episode, the adventurers ask the audience to help Rocket fly. They pat their hands on their laps to rev him up, then they raise their hands above their heads, saying, “Blastoff!”

Of course, that’s when imagination takes over for my daughter and probably millions of other children.

Well, one fine day when Rocket went skyward, Daddy decided to lift the Elmo plane Ava was sitting on. She loved it! We spun around the room, and then I got as close as I could to the screen, and Ava had joined the friends. Now, she expects me to do it every time … and this old man has to deliver.

Here are two pics, one of me flying Ava and one she took herself of her toy Rocket -- a birthday gift from mom and dad.

 

Me And My Girl

This was a candid shot my Charmer took after our little cherub decided she wanted a sip of Daddy's milkshake. Baby Coconut just plopped her straw in my cup and tried it out for herself.

Ava's Pix

My 22-month-old daughter enjoys taking photos and I thought I would start including some of her shots here.