There are things that happen in our lives that occasionally defy space, time, gravity and logic.
While we experience these types of phenomena on a daily basis
we are sometimes too busy to see and embrace it.

There are two areas that require attention in my backyard: the lawn and the flowers.
I generally mow the lawn while Pamela tends to the flowers.
The flowerpots lining the yard and hanging from the shed looked especially good this year
but the garden looked like some fat lady sat on it.
The poor appearance of the garden had something to do with the amount of rainfall we had in June.
It rained 28 days out of 30 and the garden flowers suffered.
Pamela hates weeds and is constantly plucking them from the garden and the mulch that surrounds the outside of the yard. I tell you this so you understand that she has a keen awareness of all things growing in the backyard.

As I said before, all of the Cape Cod goodbyes were difficult but nothing could have prepared me for August 2nd,
the day Maureen and Mark left.
Pamela & Hannah went with me to the airport that afternoon.
The skies were greyslate over Boston and the tone in the truck was a bit somber
compared to the first drive to the Cape two very short weeks ago.

We somehow managed the ‘goodbyes’ and went our separate ways, more difficult than I ever could have imagined.
I was walking and wearing my Akubra, my arm around Pamela.
She took my arm and placed it over Hannah’s shoulder who was hurting more than Pamela.
This would be our hardest and saddest goodbye.
We got home and tried to keep busy straightening up and getting the house back in order for the work week ahead.
I poured a few fingers of Maker’s Mark and made Pamela a Rum Swizzle.
I was in the kitchen on my laptop when I heard Pamela yell from the backyard, “Hey Michael! Come here!”
She was standing by the enormous hostas (so big I call them Jimmy Hostas) staring at the ground.

“Look at those two flowers.”

“Yeah,” I said, in that low to high tone I use when questioning her.

“They weren’t there before. I swear. I’ve never seen them.”

“Then how did they get there,” I asked.

“They’re Impatiens. They need to be planted.”

“And you didn’t plant them?” I asked.

“Nope.”

She got teary and said, “It’s Maureen and Mark. They didn’t want to leave. They didn‘t.”

What do you say to a woman crying over two mysterious flowers
that have grown out of nowhere?
You don’t argue, for one thing.
You shake your head, agree, and give her a huge hug.
As a dear friend of mine once said of wonderful and mysterious things in this life, “Sometimes, it just is.”
I’m also thinking that those plant roots run quite deep.
Now that’s something I can definitely relate to . . .

*I have no clue as to how many chapters are waiting to be written regarding this incredible time in my life.
As sure as the Akubra hat on my head, this will be far from the last.

I’m not entirely sure where to begin because my grey matter is still processing all that’s gone on these past few weeks. If I haven’t stopped by your blog it’s simply because the last month has consumed me both physically and emotionally leaving very little of me left to visit.
As most of you know already my family and I vacationed for a week with Maureen & Mark (M&M), Annie
and Evyl & Joyce down on Cape Cod.
The week after, M&M stayed at our home and rode the train into Boston with me most days.
I worked and they did everything from walking the Freedom Trail to taking a Trolley Tour all over the city. I was blessed on one night with a surprise game at Fenway Park. (saving that for a later post)
M&M also had their own personal city guide, my daughter Hannah,
who has found a new best friend in Morky (Moe, as well)

Cut to Day 1:

The flight carrying M&M, Annie and a very special present for yours truly landed late the Saturday they arrived.
No worries, right?
Planes land late all the time.
Little did I know that this was the proverbial tip of the holiday iceberg of mishaps.
I expected a phone call from Maureen when she touched down in Boston and assumed it would be her when the phone rang.
The phone did ring and I was surprised to hear Annie’s voice. (cue the bah-da-dum-dum)
All I remember from the conversation was Annie saying,
“They lost the didj. Don’t worry they will find it and hand deliver it to the house on the Cape tonight.”
The ‘special’ present was a custom made Australian Didgeridoo just for me. (click the link for a description)
I had already known about it for months because Moe had sent me pictures.
This instrument was special; sacred, actually.
I realized that Annie had made the call because Mark was physically restraining Maureen
from committing her first murder on American soil.
This didj was unique as a constellation in the sky, a one and only; a present that M&M held so dear.
My heart broke knowing how upset they both were.
Thank God Annie was there as the voice of calm and reason.
It seems she quelled the impending riot and got everyone to the van that would bring them to my house.
We made it to the Cape and got settled and began our wait for the didj.
Saturday night, no didj.
Sunday night, still no didj.
Monday, no didj.
496 phone calls later (by Moe and Annie) told us to expect it Tuesday night around 5:30.
Guess what?
No didj.
More phone calls and a promise that said instrument would be delivered by 10:30PM.
Things were getting surreal now.
A firepit was lit, many drinks were poured, cigars were lit and we all sat around the fire playing ‘Celebrity Heads’  laughing and listening for the courier to pull up in front of the house with the long lost precious goods.
It was at 10:30 that a van finally pulled into the driveway.
Like children on Christmas morning, all of us ran out to the front yard of the house totally freaking out the driver. He could tell that we were all very happy to see him
(* a bit pissed as well).
I high fived the guy and took the didj into the house as Mark and I began opening the nuclear war-proofed package.
Mark took the black padded sleeve off, handed it to me and said, “Here’s your didj, mate.”
Holding this incredible instrument was not unlike holding a newborn baby.
I knew how much it meant to Maureen and Mark and the moment overwhelmed me.
I then did what all father’s do when they hold their newborn . . .
I cried.
Like a baby . . .
Still learning to play it and getting close to an actual didj sound.
Stay tuned.
Annie, thank you for your relentless pursuit and urgent phone calls to the courier.
And Maureen?
Thank you for not ripping the head off of an innocent American body. (she’ll be right, mate)
Hooroo!
(below is a pic of the actual didj)

*slightly intoxicated . . .  
** btw- this didj is a low F# drone (sweet spot/fundamental tone)

Maureen and Mark will be here until next Sunday so I don’t expect much to change
here at Smoke and Mirrors.
It’s not everyday that you can show someone from Australia around
the city of Boston.
The week at the Cape seems like a dream now, a very wonderful dream.
With games like ‘Celebrity Heads’, ‘The Redneck Game of Life’ and ‘Three Questions’, I learned more about this
special group of people than I would have learned in a lifetime.
And although I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, I promise there will be much to come.
I’ll be coming ‘home’ very soon.

It’s always a daunting task starting a new journal; all that virgin white space,
the absence of anything resembling a word or thought, and the cackling cynic inside me all trying to sway me towards more menial things like cutting my lawn (which needs to be done, btw) or re-grouting the tile in the bathroom.
This soft leather-covered journal was made in Italy and given to me by my daughter Jenna.
It’s really gorgeous.
I began to wonder what will be written on these pages by the years end.
In 7.23 days, me, Pamela and the girls will be spending a week on Cape Cod with
Annie, Maureen, Mark & Evyl (and Joyce!)
The location will not be disclosed so please don’t ask.
We’re celebrating Christmas in July because my wife thought
December was a silly time for all the folks involved to visit.
This is going to be one of the most amazing weeks of my life while on this spinning blue ball in space.
There will be many things: laughter, tears, music, incredible food, stories, Rum Swizzle,
bourbon, Guinness and enough fine cigars to smoke out an army of stogie veterans.
Oh, and there will be stories.
I know I already wrote that but it needs to be repeated.
Honestly, where would we be without our stories?
If someone had told me 10 years ago that I’d be spending a week of my life with people I’d never met I’d say they really ‘lost the plot’.
All of us talk on the phone and Gmail chat on a fairly regular basis so no one is a complete stranger here.
I’ve known Annie since our writing days at WVU.
And Evyl has been a true bud since I first started this blogging thing back in 2005.
As far as Maureen and Mark, I’ve known them from some previous life, or so it seems.
I could go on and on about my personal expectations regarding this most special of holidays but I prefer to record some actual memories in this very special journal.
Stay tuned for some truly awesome posts starting around the 18th of July (our first day on the Cape)
We have some blogging hijinx planned as well, actually more of a blog hijacking, so to speak.
All will be revealed in time.
We’ve all waited well over a year for this moment.
What’s 7.20 more days?
And it now looks like my new journal isn’t so new anymore.
Stay tuned.
As far as the post title goes . . .  my dear Pamela is pretty damn sure *she may not be ready.
Just watch her ‘Twitter’
for more details!

Ready or not Cape Cod, here we come!

She is the light of my life, my best friend in the whole, wide world and the mother
of 3 incredible daughters.
She is the heart of our home and the glue that makes everything stick.
I can’t imagine my life without her (the same goes for our daughters, for that matter)
She forever goes above and beyond the call of duty regarding our girls and that’s just one of the
thousands of reasons she’s so damn incredible.
When she reads this she will deny it 100%.
Yes, folks, she is humble as well.
I am fortunate enough in this life to be married to my best friend.
Happy Mother’s Day, Pamela.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for every single thing you do for me and the girls.
I love you like crazy, green eyes.
As do our girls . . .

A Happy Mother’s Day to all!

ps.
Mom, I miss you as I do every year since you’ve been gone.
Last Wednesday afternoon’s visit was my present.
Hope you liked the flowers . . .

love,
Michael

pps. Pamela is Mother of the Year!

It was September of 2006 that I took a week off from work.
I planned on doing some things around the house, smoke some cigars and drink some Guinness.
I had a few extra days to play around with and decided to visit my friend Michael who lives on Cape Cod.
I left early on Tuesday morning and planned to meet Michael for breakfast before deciding what to do for the day.
We met at a place in West Dennis called ‘Grumpy’s’.
It was your basic ‘hole-in-the-wall’ breakfast place but the knotty pine that lined the inside walls seemed to say, “You will eat well, old man.”
The aroma of frying bacon and sautéed onions wafted towards us as we walked in and made my empty stomach stand at attention. (but can a stomach do that?)
Grumpy’s was the farthest thing from grumpy and the coffee was very close to excellent.
I ordered two eggs, over real easy, bacon, home fries and raisin toast.
No surprise there.
Can’t remember what Michael ordered but I do remember we both rolled out of there like the older men that we’re slowly learning to be.
After a Grumpy breakfast we decided to go back and drop off my truck before heading to the beach for the day.
And although it was mid-September, the temperature was @75 – 80° with pure cobalt skies.

“Want me to bring a cooler? We can stop on the way and throw some beer on ice,”  Michael said.

A man after my own heart, I thought.

“Sounds like a plan,” I said, “And we’re covered on cigars.”

We got to Cahoon’s Hollow around 9:45 with 2 beach chairs and a BAC (big ass cooler) in tow.
I couldn’t believe how warm it was; a kiss of Indian Summer.
The beach was totally deserted, save for Michael and I.
With a shoreline as expansive as the Hollow it seemed almost surreal.
Me, Michael and the beach.
We planted our chairs a good distance from the entrance and sat in silence for a bit.
The warm, salty breeze and brilliant sunshine took us both away.
The sunshine was like millions of tiny fires flittering on the surface of the water,
rising and falling methodically with the tide, a natural aquatic pendulum.
The blue raspberry sky told both of us that this was going to be a very special day.

“Want a cigar?” I asked.

“Want a beer?” Michael asked.

We both started laughing like two little boys playing hooky from school.
With cigars lit and beers opened we chatted the morning away, one blessed sip at a time.
I can’t even remember what cigars I brought.
They may have been Cuban, but truth be told rolled up dogshit would have tasted good that day.
Michael and I have always had the ability to talk forever.
Doesn’t matter if I haven’t seen him in 10 years (God forbid), we have some serious history.
(Remember Treasure Valley, Deg?)
And lot’s of it.
We weren’t alone for very long before we began seeing things popping up in the surf.
From my vantage point, the ‘things’ looked like shiny obsidian bowling balls.

“Seals,” Michael said, flatly.

pop.pop.pop.pop.pop.pop.pop.

It seemed like they were popping up everywhere.
And it seemed like we were placed there just to see them.

I wish I could put the day in a bottle and open it whenever I needed it.
My own private and saving grace.
Maybe writing it down is a step in the right direction.
But maybe Laho would vehemently disagree . . .

To look at it, you would think it was just another normal boy’s bicycle but I knew better.
It was an off-brand that my father bought at an old store in town and I so loved it.
Can’t remember the name for the life of me but it was mostly fireball red and the fenders
had a bit of white detailing on the tips that made the overall effect one of ‘daredevil’ proportions.
It had a really cheesy gold sparkle banana seat, nicely padded for overall shock absorption.
The highlight was the handle grips which were a neon orange with black tiger stripes and tiger heads on the ends. Yeah, this was one serious machine, to me anyway.

I drove it everywhere: around the neighborhood, into the center of town, to the baseball field, the high school, my multiple girlfriends’ houses, the fruit stand for a classic Coke and a bag of State Line Cheese popcorn -
there wasn’t anyplace this thing wouldn’t go.
We used to build ramps to practice catching a little bit of airtime
and rode ‘sans’ hands whenever there were girls around.
We were daredevils and would try almost anything that gravity would allow.
You were nothing without your bike.
These days, you’re nothing without your FaceBook or MySpace page.
Funny how things change . . .

One day we decided to race down Harvard Street, a road right next to my house.
It had a bit of a downward slope and was an unforgivable gravel with asphalt road, rough as a lizard’s skin.
During the summer days we never had to worry about cars driving down the road because our fathers were all working and our Moms were at home doing whatever it was that Moms did.
We started at the top of Harvard Street and the first one to go all the way down,
around the cul-de-sac and back up to the top was the winner.
40+ years ago, the street seemed to go on for days.
I mean this was one long ass drag strip.
In reality, if I were to drive my truck down and up it today it would take all of about one minute.
At 15 M.P.H.

Someone yelled, “Ready? On your mark! Get set! Go!”

Off I went past the Gilbert’s house, whizzed by the Masterson’s, flew by the Pelletier’s before seeing the cul-de-sac ahead of me.
I was clearly in the lead and didn’t bother to slow down going into the nasty cul-de-sac.
The last thing I remember is hitting a patch off sand as my trusty bike slid out from under me.
My left forearm hit the asphalt as the rough road began chewing off my pieces of my skin.
My bike was wrecked and my left forearm and knee were bleeding profusely.
I left my poor and once awesome bike in the road and ran home in a bloody mess.
Winning would have been nice that day but having the skin back on my forearm would have been much nicer.
This was the day I learned and took to heart the phrase, “Winning isn’t everything.”
I omitted the last half of it for my own psychological benefit.
I did get another bike but it would never be the same.
Maybe that was part of growing up that I hadn’t counted on . . .

Healing Father,
so often my life is marred by anger and resentments.
I thank you today for the people who have stood by me in my pain.
I thank you for those who have heard, challenged, advised and loved me.
Their presence has given me hope and freedom.
I thank you, for you have let them carry me into the calm waters of your grace.
Amen.

Just thinking about the many people in my life that truly matter.
A special reading in church this morning made me understand that as strong as
I think I am, I too, occasionally need to be carried along.
Thanks to all that have cared enough to let me know that.
You know who you are.
Keeping the faith for a bit longer . . .

The above is what Google images gave me with ‘sexy cupcakes’ as a search word.
Jeez . . . I was thinking of something completely different.
With nipples.
Alright, there are two near and dear friends celebrating birthdays over the next few days and
I had to make mention of it here
(and move that hideous picture from my prior post further down the blog so as to prevent nightmares)

My dear friend Deg turns 50 tomorrow (2.18) and I must say he doesn’t look a day over 49.
(insert laugh track here)
Michael, I wish only good things for you on this momentous occasion and pray you will
see at least 50 more birthdays.
Lord knows you deserve even more than that.
You are and will always be one of the closest friends I have.
I am truly blessed.
Peace my brother and all of His blessings in the next year.

Secondly, and definitely not least, my new friend Mark (from Australia) who turns 39
(isn’t that right, Mark?)  
on Thursday (2.19)
I talk with Mark almost every Saturday night when his wife (Moe) lets me.  
Even she doesn’t want to give him up.
He makes me laugh to the point where I forget all the trivial shit happening in my life and for that I am truly grateful. Imagine talking to a bloke that’s alot funnier than Crocodile Dundee.
That’s Mark.
I shit you not.
I wish sunny skies for you buddy and an effortless trip over here to the states.
If you knew how much I’m looking forward to this July, you’d be a bit scared, buddy.
Please visit Moe and leave Mark a birthday comment.
He will undoubtedly reply.

The interesting thing about this post is that these two chaps will meet this July on Cape Cod.
It will probably be at Baxter’s in Hyannis where we’ll watch the sunset, drink some ice cold beer and eat some incredible lobster. (and drink some more beer, maybe smoke a nice Cuban cigar)
Sounds like heaven, right?
It will be just that.
Happy Birthday, Michael and Mark!
Have an awesome birthday, boys . . .

It’s only in the darkest of times
that you ultimately find out who
your real friends are.