Hope is a journey, not a destination

The most remarkable thing about me has everything to do with my two children – The Dude and The Daughter.

The rest of who I am puts me in below average company with the other 7 billion occupants of the Planet Earth.

My greatest distinguishing feature is my dogged determination.  In pretty much everything.

That’s a learned trait from the knowledge that my C minus intellect was likely never going to propel me to the top of any heap in America.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t enjoyed my personal version of the American Dream.  I have.

I have had amazing professional and personal journeys.

Along the way there have been abject failures and disappointments.  But, I wouldn’t trade any of them for any of the success I have had along the way.

I am roughly two weeks out from my 52^nd birthday.  In a few days I will compete (overstatement) in my first Triathlon.  To be honest it is something called a “Sprint” so it’s not as though I am doing an Ironman.

A couple weeks later The Dude and I are doing something called “The Warrior Dash” and in July I am doing something more frightening called “The Tough Mudder”.

I have also signed up to a “gravel grinder” bike race with the moniker of “The Filthy Fifty” and look forward to the annual “Fall 50” relay race in Door County that has become a part of family tradition.

Sprinkled in all of this will be the Birkie Trial Marathon Relay, the Fat Tire Bike Race and the culmination of my middle-aged insanity – The Birkie ski race in February.

A couple of weeks ago I decided to take guitar lessons.  While I have had some minor ability to plunk the guitar I felt that I was mature enough to perhaps have enough discipline to learn a more formal method of playing guitar.

Like actually learning notes and the proper finger placement for chords.

For the better part of two weeks I have been obsessed with achieving the proper finger placement and sound of the B7 chord on the guitar.  With raw tipped fingers I keep thinking I am closing in on adequacy only to find myself silently cursing my inability to replicate any modicum of success with the chord.

Three out of four of the strings sound like music.  The final one sounds like a wounded parrot.

Not that I have ever heard the sound of a wounded parrot.  But, if there was a common sound of one I have well achieved it.

I am determined to get that chord right.  I have tried to cheat my fingers into position to get the sound right.  But that only results in greater frustration and a sense that I am violating some guitarists code that I will come to regret later in my guitar playing education.

I dream about that chord.  I can see my fingers in their almost arthritic posture trying to force the tips into order.  As I drive to the office I imagine a flawless interpretation of the B7 chord resulting in a chorus of cheers from the neighbors who have listened to my tortured efforts on the front stoop of my house.

It’s a puzzle to me.  It is also the kind of challenge that is dangerous to me.

I know that I am not going to rest until I get that chord down right.

The victims of my dogged determination will not just be the occupants of my house but my neighbors who will hear me start.

Stop.

Start.

Stop.

And, repeat about three dozen times until I take a break and start all over again.

I gave up the dream of being a professional musician long, long ago.

The stark realization that I am tone deaf and that my vocal chord range is only slightly below that of a wounded parrot came to me at an early age.

While my voice soars in the comfort of my truck it does so at decibels that can’t compete with the speaker system in my Suburban.  So in my truck I can be Sting, Michael Jackson, Neil Diamond, Cher, Lady Gaga and Bon Jovi – often during the same song!

I find myself anxious to get back on the guitar and attack that B7 chord.  Convinced that watching the YouTube videos and reading chat forums on the proper way to combat B7 dysfunction without a little blue pill are the key to success.

It has always been this way with me.  I don’t know any other way.

Someday I hope to fulfill my dream of a perfect sounding B7 chord – followed by an E7 – and every other chord that requires the use of more than two fingers.

Until then, please excuse the sound.

It’s not a wounded parrot.

It’s just my ego.

As I write this, the Minnesota Twins stand tied for first place in the AL Central Division.

Let me repeat that for those of you clutching your chest, gasping for breath and shaking your head in disbelief:  The Minnesota Twins stand tied for first place in the AL Central Division.

Few in Minnesota may have believed at the beginning of this season that the Twins were destined for anything other than the cellar.

Truth be told, there are equally few that believe the Twins hot streak is going to last throughout the length of a grueling Major League Baseball season.

I have to be honest, outside of Joe Mauer and Tori Hunter, there aren’t really any of the current players on the Twins roster that I could name or place if they walked by me on the street.

My golden era of the Twins players had names like Puckett, Gladden, Hrbek, Viola and Brunansky.

I can remember their faces and their names and their playing days as clearly as I can remember those glorious World Series wins in 1987 and 1991.

I can’t be sure whether the current Twins, under the stalwart leadership of Paul Molitor, can sustain their current winning ways.  I hope they can.  Lord knows the entire Twins organization has endured its share of pain and suffering over the past several years.

The diehard fans of the Minnesota Twins have agonized over their team’s misfortunes as well.

Throughout my years in politics and public policy in Minnesota I have experienced my share of great highs and lows.  There were few endeavors, however, that created more highs and lows in the span of a year between 1998 and 1999 when Mayor Norm Coleman committed to trying to bring the Minnesota Twins to St. Paul.

Someday when I finally write my book I hope to convey the convergence of forces that brought us to a point where we put a question on the ballot for St. Paul voters to decide if they wanted to raise the resources necessary to bring the Twins to St. Paul.

The audacity of Norm Coleman’s decision to take on this effort wasn’t surprising to anyone who knew or knows him.

It was the kind of “let’s get it done” approach to everything he brought with him as job of Mayor of St. Paul.

For those of us who have had the good fortune to work with him throughout our careers it was, and remains, an incredible gift we had to be alongside someone who saw things through the prism of what was possible rather than what was impossible.

I remember many things about that time, but what I remember the most was the incredible spirit and community mindedness of the Minnesota Twins organization – staff – players – and the Pohlad Family that owned, and still owns, the Twins.

I remember the meetings with Carl Pohlad and some of his sons.  Carl was physically growing older but there was nothing about his advanced age that affected the sharp mind and wit he had as he looked at you without revealing anything about what he was thinking.

There were the meetings with Jerry Bell, then the President of the Minnesota Twins, who I am pretty sure didn’t like me very much – and I am pretty sure still doesn’t like me very much.

I will always remember my interactions with Dave St. Peter, the current President of the Minnesota Twins.  David always struck me as the adult kid who knew he had the best job ever in the history of the world.

I watched him interact with the players and the former players of the Twins.  He was respectful but never patronizing.  He found their talents and their standing in the world impressive, but never appeared overly in awe of them.

The Twins entire staff was that way.  Just enormously generous with their time, their talent and found their roles with the organization as important to the Team’s success as the players on the field.

I remember all of this as I enjoy seeing the Twins current success on and off the field.  It reminds me that nothing good happens unless there are good people committed to working together to making it happen.

I cannot imagine all of the hard work, tears, second-guessing and frustration that has taken place within the entire Twins organization over the past several years as they have worked hard to put a winning product on the field.

Through it all, however, they appeared, on the outside, to be firmly committed to putting it together as a family – and as a team.

I also walked away from that experience, despite the disappointment of losing – badly – the vote that would have brought the Twins to St. Paul – having a great appreciation for the role of the Pohlad Family in this community.

Carl Pohlad was vilified for years by politicians and the public alike.  And, despite these attacks on him and his character, he remained committed to our community in public ways – yet in a lot more private ways than most Minnesotans will ever know.

Today as Mike Veeck has successfully brought a resurgent Saint Paul Saints brand and product to Lowertown St. Paul I am happy for him and his entire organization, and the City of St. Paul.  Mike and his entire organization are class acts who have done enormously positive things for our community.

I am pleased with Mayor Chris Coleman’s success in making this opportunity happen for our St. Paul

It is a good thing.

But, I would be lying if I didn’t wistfully wonder what it would have been like to see the opening pitch of the 2015 Minnesota Twins season being thrown somewhere in Downtown St. Paul and the millions of fans streaming in and out of our Capitol City.

Say what you will about professional sports – debate about the economic impact of the games – or the value of the public investment in stadiums and arenas.

There’s something special about a community in America that possess the treasure of a professional sports team and the history that comes with it.

For this moment in time I hope Minnesotans will appreciate that – and appreciate everything the Twins organization has done to build a new tradition of excellence for its fans – and, a new generation of Pucketts, Hrbeks, Gaettis and Berenguers for our memories.

I have found this data in nearly every search I have done regarding the current number of Americans behind bars:

“There are 2.3 million Americans in prison or jail. The U.S. has 5 percent of the world’s population but 25 percent of its prisoners. One in three black men can expect to spend time in prison. There are 2.7 million minors with an incarcerated parent. The imprisonment rate has grown by more than 400 percent since 1970.”

Contained within that one paragraph ought to be enough outrage and angst for the future of America for just one American.

Yet, for any number of reasons, the political left and the right say little and do little to address this topic and its current and future implications for America’s future.

The notion that “One in three black men can expect to spend time in prison.” is as chilling a statistic as anything I’ve ever seen in my life.

How does a parent of an African-American child in America believe their son has any chance to achieve the American Dream if his odds of being in prison is higher than the batting average of Major League Baseball players?

It demands answers.  Not simple slogans or rhetoric that’s easy to post in this day of faux internet umbrage and knee-jerk condemnation. 

To be sure there must be an element of racism in our criminal justice system that results in this statistic.  Of this I have no doubt.

But, it can’t explain it all.

What other socio-economic and cultural phenomena results in this reality?  Who are these one in three black men?  What are their crimes?  Where do they live? 

Was and is their imprisonment the only or best option for whatever crime they may have committed?

Beyond this sickening statistic is the fact that America has the largest population of Americans incarcerated at any time than any other nation in the world.

The cost to the U.S. taxpayer for the incarceration of a single American is roughly $31,000.  In places like California that cost is closer to $50,000 as a result of unions and higher health care costs.

And, there are more jails and prisons in the United States than there are degree-granting colleges and universities.

According to the Atlantic, in many places in America there are more people living in prisons than living on college campuses.

Now, the 2.3 million people in America’s prisons and jails represent different populations at any given time.

The ability to determine who is in prison or jail, and why, and for how long is difficult and complex.

I found a fascinating graphic that attempts to describe the demographic profile of America’s incarcerated population.

http://www.prisonpolicy.org/reports/pie.html

It alone makes clear two points.

One, there are too many Americans behind bars.

Two, we need a better strategy for America’s future.

There are people who deserve and need to be behind bars.

It is without argument that there are men and women whose crimes are either so horrific or so unforgiveable they should be behind bars, and in many cases, should never come out from behind them.

It is with argument whether or not beyond that the use of incarceration is accomplishing much more than abject punishment.

I have never personally believed that prison or jail serves much value in terms of rehabilitation.

But I will also say that I don’t know if that is true or not.  It is my personal opinion.

I believe in the death penalty for certain crimes.  I do believe that there are those who commit crimes so heinous they have forfeited their right to remain alive as any kind of member of the human race.

I also believe there are those who have been unfairly convicted on the facts – in other words, they didn’t commit the crimes that resulted in their imprisonment or sentence.

I also believe there are many Americans in prison and jail today whose crimes cost us more in lost opportunity for the future of our country than we gain from their time behind bars.

As the U.S. Presidential election begins to ramp up, and elections throughout America start to form, the nature of our world’s single largest incarcerated population should be something more than a talking point in a candidate’s literature.

When there are nearly 3 million American children who have a parent that is behind bars we have an obligation to have a conversation about the future.

Perhaps it is too late for a significant share of those incarcerated parents.  But, it cannot be too late – it simply must not be too late – for the future of those 3 million children.

There is evil lurking in St. Paul and the Teardown Shamers of Facebook have their long knives out, ready to pounce on it, as soon as it rears its head.

And, if its ugly head has already reared, they are committed to countless hours of posting pictures, multiple and repeated social media posts and obsessive demands to stop the monster from spawning elsewhere in our city.

The evil I write of is the upsurge in the number of teardowns of existing homes in St. Paul which are often replaced by new, larger and more expensive homes.

That the homes being sold belong to the people that sell them is lost on the Teardown Shamers of Facebook.

So, too, is the fact that the people selling the homes are entitled to make the choice to sell their home to anyone who might – God Forbid – offer them more money than they wanted and/or more than the other guy who wanted to offer them less money.

In other words, an owner of a home in St. Paul decides to sell their home. They offer it at a price. Someone offers to meet or exceed that price. That owner decides to sell that home to that person.

The house is sold.

Now, the person who bought the home has the same rights that the previous owner of the home possessed. He or she can do about anything they would like with the home, as long as they observe local building codes, zoning laws, etc, etc.

My house may or may not be for sale. If it is, and someone offers me a lot of money, I would sell it tomorrow.

If the person – or company – buying my house decided to renovate it, mow the lawn, and otherwise improve and enhance my former home I applaud them for that choice.

If they choose to tear it down and start all over again – I would be sad to see the house that my children were brought home to no longer exist – but that’s their choice and their right.

In other words, it’s none of my business – and sure the heck is none of anyone else’s business.

Unless, of course, you are a Teardown Shamer of Facebook.

The Teardown Shamers of Facebook have determined to find any house in St. Paul that is for sale and put it on a Facebook page and tell us how lovely the house is – how charming it is – and why it must be preserved at any cost.

This preemptive action is intended to somehow or another stop a homeowner from selling his or her home to a developer who may or may not choose to demolish the home and build another one – likely bigger – more expensive – and in their eyes, a crime against humanity.

Some have even suggested that in the event a developer is issued a permit to demolish the home the City staff that approved the permit should have their names posted publicly for all to see.

Let me be clear. My complaint about the process of teardowns in St. Paul has nothing to do with the business transaction between the owner and the buyer of a home. Nor does it have anything to do with the decision the new owner of the home makes with regard to the home’s existence.

My complaint has, and remains, the need for the City to enforce existing ordinances with respect to how long it takes for a project to be completed – the condition of the worksite – the work hours that the builder is doing the work – and the conduct of the workers on the site.

If the City focuses on enforcing those laws more aggressively then I think much of the angst of many in the neighborhood diminishes significantly.

Frankly, St. Paul is a City where our housing stock is decaying, becoming less attractive for resale and is no longer competitive in the marketplace throughout the Twin Cities marketplace.

If the City really wants to address the teardown housing “crisis” in St. Paul they should avoid the demands of the Teardown Shamers of Facebook and begin with a comprehensive analysis and audit of the city’s current housing stock.

Let’s get a handle on what the city has – and doesn’t have – in terms of its housing stock. Let’s learn what the marketplace wants now – and in the future – with the respect to the type of housing our City has currently available.

There’s a reason people are buying homes and tearing them down in St. Paul and building new ones in their place – and it has nothing to do with some evil intent to destroy the character of our City.

It has to do with the marketplace. People want what people want. If they want a small, charming bungalow then that is what they will buy – and keep.

If they don’t, they will either buy a house somewhere else in another city – or they will buy the one down the street and tear it down and build a new one.

Enforcing our current city ordinances is a proper response to the growth of this practice – not a moratorium on teardowns.

And, certainly not the hysteria that the Teardown Shamers of Facebook have exhibited in recent weeks and months.

This perspective is lost on the people who have taken to driving past people’s homes – taking pictures of their homes – and posting them on Facebook for all the world to see.

And, for those who wish to shame those owners into refusing to sell to a developer if that developer is prepared to demolish the home.

Something tells me that for any number of those people if someone came to their door and offered them a wheelbarrow full of money for their home the moral umbrage they have thrown at others in the community would stop as soon as the money was deposited in their bank account.

Bring me a wheelbarrow of money. My home is yours. What you do with it is your business.

And certainly none of the business of the Teardown Shamers of Facebook.

In the midst of the latest violence that has been exacerbated by the 24/7 media in Baltimore there is a striking video image that captured the attention of many Americans.

As young men and women primarily rioted, with some protesting, a Mom by the name of Toya Graham grabbed her son, Michael, and not only pulled him out of the chaos that he had become a part of, but made it clear that she had no intention of him becoming a victim of the violence that had overtaken Baltimore.

I don’t know what her political affiliations are.  I also don’t care.  I don’t know what she thinks about the events that led to the violence in Baltimore.  I don’t care.

But, I do know what her motivations must have been.  Here, in the midst of violence and terror was her child who was participating in an increasingly mob mentality, who could become a victim of violence.

In interviews after she was caught on camera pulling her son out of the riot, and physically pushing and hitting him out of harm’s way, she made it clear what her motivation was:

“I don’t want him to be a Freddie Gray”.

Freddie Gray is the young African American man who died while in police custody in Boston.  Now, six police officers, black and white, have been charged for their role in his death.

While it is time for the criminal justice system to do its job and get to the bottom of this tragedy the story of Toya Graham stands out for me because of everything that is right, and wrong, about how this story has been reported.

On the political right, Republicans have grabbed onto Toya Graham as an example of a Mom doing what every parent in America should be doing — protecting her child.

The unspoken part of this praise, which I am sure even has even more conservative Republicans gnashing their teeth is that Toya is a single Mom of six kids.

On the political left, confused about how to react to the image of a Mom using physical force to, from her perspective, save her son’s life, they are outraged she is being held up as a paragon of parenting virtue because of the violence she used to save her son.

The irony and hypocrisy is rich:  On one hand they will praise the violence that took place that injured cops, destroyed the livelihood of business owners and destroyed the personal property of Baltimore residents as a legitimate means of protest, but on the other hand they cry foul at the physical violence a Mom used to save her son’s life.

In Toya Graham’s case the ends justified the means.

And, she was right to do what she did.

But, what she did as being remarkable rings hollow to me.

That she was caught on camera doing it should remind us, though, the value of a Mom, a Dad, or a Mom and a Dad or some other combination of parenthood.

Most importantly, a parent or parents.

I am in a family circle that includes siblings who raised their children on their own as well as having other members of that broadening circle who are raising children on their own.

Some are doing so as a matter of choice. Others have done so as a matter of circumstances.

Whatever the reason they are executing their obligations as parents with the perspective that their child or children is the principle reason for their existence.

I have long ago realized that the notion of a family requiring two parents – of opposite sex – is less crucial to the requirement that whatever family structure is in place offers a clear path to success for the children in that familial community.

What matters is that a parent or parents is engaged and is responsible. What matters is that they impart upon their children a sense of civic duty and responsibility. What matters is that their children understand they are loved and in the space of that love there are rules and responsibilities and obligations they must follow – and in return, they can expect that a parent or parents will continue to support them with the resources they have at their means.

Toya Graham is not a hero. She is a Mom.

To the extent that Moms are heroes she definitely meets that definition.

But, her pulling her son from a situation that she felt threatened his life doesn’t make her more special than any other Mom.

She just happened to catch her son’s image on camera and then made a beeline to where he was to get him out of their as quickly and efficiently as possible.

She was being a Mom. A parent.

I imagine, perhaps I hope, that any parent – Mom or Dad or Mom and Dad – seeing their son or daughter in a similar situation would have acted exactly as Toya Graham did that day.

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t equivocate.

She had determined she had a specific goal and objective in mind that day when she put into action her plan: Save my son.

Toya Graham reminds us that whether a family is led by a Mom, or a Dad or a Mom and a Dad, or some other version of a parent, the most important job is to protect children from life and prepare them for life.

I am not by nature a runner. Nor, am I by design, a distance runner. My body was built for brief, short bursts of speed. As I have gotten older the bursts of speed have gotten shorter and slower. The same can be said of my distance running. I no longer judge the success of my distance runs by the clock but by the simple joy of having finished the race and feeling as though I can reasonably entertain the idea of doing another.

The toughest part of every race for me, no matter the distance, is its first mile.

It is that first mile where every reason I can muster for ending the race comes flying at me faster than my feet meet the ground.

I have found countless metaphors about running and life. I don’t know that any of the running quotes have inspired me much to be a better, faster or longer runner. It’s probably the realist in me that understands that I should spend less time finding a way to be inspired by someone else’s words to complete the race and simply finish the race.

Or, perhaps it’s the cynic in me. I will get back to myself on that.

Today marks 52 days before my 52^nd birthday. It’s not a milestone birthday in the sense that it marks something fundamentally different or important about my life. It will reflect another trip around the sun and that in and of itself is a pretty remarkable achievement.

But, it does cause me to reflect on the first mile of every race I have run.

If my life path had been determined by the process that goes on in my mind during the first mile of each race I have run I would have given up long ago.

Running is a choice. Life is, too.

In running you can simply stop. You can give up. You can choose multiple options during that first mile.

You can choose to get through the aches and the pains and the self-doubt and the simple realization that nobody is making you do this except yourself.

For most of us, running does not come naturally. It is work. It is grueling. It can seem pointless.

Life can be the same way.

Being born is not an immediate indication that your life is going to be a success. It still requires work. It will be grueling. There are days when it can seem pointless.

I know that I have found those times when I simply wonder why I bother. In my darkest moments I have never entertained ending the race of life. But, I have, more times than I care to admit, found myself wanting to quit making the effort to get to the finish line.

It takes work to keep running that first mile. But I have come to learn that endless possibilities exist if I don’t quit.

I might find myself, as I did yesterday, running a half-marathon at the Minnesota Get in Gear, pleased with my finishing time. At the race’s beginning I had plenty of self-doubt. I hadn’t trained. The weather was cold. I was going to be out there for two hours, running 13 miles, for no other reason than I had decided to do so.

When the first mile became history I began to feel the pattern of my run emerge. The pace was steady, my breathing was controlled and my mind forgot that minutes earlier an ache in my knee and burning in my hamstring had consumed my focus.

Now, I began to explore my options. Could I finish this race in under two hours? Did I want to? What was required for me to be able to do so? Would it be better for me to maintain my pace as practice for my upcoming Fargo Marathon? Should I stop for water or energy drink or should I just continue on past the stop? Did I need to listen to music or should I wait until later in the race where I might need it as an energy booster?

Today, 52 days before my 52^nd birthday, I look around at my life and look forward to exploring its options.

One of those options is to call my time on Facebook complete on my 52^nd birthday. Another is to begin limiting the time I spend on social media, tied to my email, harnessed to my smart phone. I have others, as well. I want to try more marathons. Pedal more bike races. Climb some mountains. Learn a musical instrument. Be in Community Theater. Catch a Muskie. Travel to Europe with my family.

Every single run and every single race begins with that first mile. Every single run and every single race and its first mile has reminded me about who I am, what I am, and what I am capable of doing and being.

Every single day of my life begins with that first mile.

Every single day I have tried to make the choice to run past that first mile.

It has made 51 trips around the sun a race I choose to continue to finish.

It is Mische Urban Myth that our Mom loves all of us equally and that none of us are her favorite child.  The more common understanding among my siblings is that I am, indeed, the favorite child.  It is an uncomfortable burden but one I feel obliged to accept as the chronological middle child of nine children.

But, I digress.  This post isn’t about me, nor is it necessarily about my brother, Fred, the break baker.

It is, however, about the value of one’s labor.

In watching my brother the past few weekends ply his trade for hours and hours on end it struck me that what he does has to be exceptionally difficult and challenging work.  Furthermore, the margins for his labor must be as thin as the tasty dough he creates for his exceptional pastries that he sells at his Fred’s Bread retail arm of his business.

Fred has always been a hard worker.  He possesses a combination of self-confidence about what he is capable of doing along with a passion for what he does.  It doesn’t surprise me that his bread has a growing following, or that he and his wife, Mandy, have been recognized for their outlandishly delicious bakery products.

It’s worth a trip to his website to learn more about his work and passion for all things bread! http://www.fredsbread.com/

In a day and age of when we can travel down to the grocery store — or the local gas station — and grab a loaf of bread — it is easy for us to forget that there was a time, not so long ago, when bread didn’t come always in a plastic bag you could get without as much as a second thought.

My Mom would make bread from scratch.  I still remember the big plastic bowls of gooey dough, the rolling pins, the flour, the kneading and that remarkable scent of freshly made bread wafting throughout the house!

And, if you want a drug induced stupor without the drugs, a slice of that bread, warm, covered with whatever it was that caught your fancy, was all you needed!

My Mom never got paid for all that hard work — unless you count the tremendous blessing of having 9 children — and the even more amazing gift of her middle child.

Yet, what she did with that bread — and all else that she did for her family — was hard and difficult work.

Today, the value of one’s labor is all too often lost in ideological and partisan battles over what is a “fair” minimum wage — or what is too much money for a CEO to make for running a company.

John D. Rockfeller once said, “I believe in the dignity of labor, whether with head or hand; that the world owes no man a living but that it owes every man an opportunity to make a living.”

I thought about that a lot this morning, watching Fred labor over something that is both his love and his living.  With the heat of his ovens, the dust of his flour and the strength of his hands his labor makes food for living and a living for his family.

It would be good for us to remember the human dignity of one’s labor.  To diminish the value of one’s labor is to diminish the value of human dignity.

Just some food (and Fred’s Bread) for thought!

Last night was one of those moments when a 14 year old boy shows a parent the kind of person he has become.

As any parent of a teenager will attest, trying to bring their child out of their angst filled shell into the light of the world is a difficult and trying proposition.

Despite my well documented control freak personality I have done (I think) a pretty decent job in navigating this phase of child development so far with my son.  How I do when my baby girl officially morphs from pre-teen to full blown teenager remains to be seen!

With Owen I have learned to leave him to his own thoughts and wonder when it is clear the last thing he desires is my presence within 100 yards of his physical, emotional or intellectual being.

There are his moments of sullenness which makes my skin itch and moves my body towards him in an effort to engage in some way.  But, through trial and error, I have learned when to allow it to take its natural path towards him and when I have to seize control and, with great effort, steer my way clear of the man boy.

Throughout the day there are near misses of conversation with him.  He will make eye contact, briefly, and I can’t tell if he wants to talk or wants a toaster waffle or a Little Debbie Nutty Bar.  Almost sensing a sentence from him, I brace myself and then — like the puff of my last cigarette of my life — the moment is gone.

Owen isn’t a mean person.  So, his teen providence isn’t filled with outbursts of emotion of any particular type.  The rare moment he is rude or impatient with either of his parents are met with an immediate reminder that we are his parents and that being a teenager is allowed under the Geneva Convention — being rude to them is not.

Last night was different.  Maybe it was because I had been at The Lodge for several days.  Perhaps it was the endorphins oozing from his body after a track meet.

Or, as I believe, it was Owen taking another step forming himself into the kind of man he will be when he ultimately moves beyond the four walls of his family home.

It began as a simple, “Dad, I have a question.” and it ended with a “Thanks for the conversation.  I really enjoyed it”.

What was soon clear to me that he wasn’t looking for an answer to a question.  He was looking to see if I knew he was there and that he had valuable thoughts, ideas and opinions.

With his deep set blue eyes that are as intense as those he inherited from his Mother my son pulls me into his world as soon as he makes eye contact.  Owen wears the world of who he is on his face.  His joy, his despair, his anger, his resignation — everything he is feeling has always been captured on his face.

It is his tell.

More than 20 years ago his Mother’s smile captured my heart.  It is the same smile on the lanky young man who is now towering over his father that captured my heart last night.

I see Owen nearly every day.  I see a boy who is mastering control over his long limbs.  Who is smart beyond anything I could have ever hoped him to be.  He is kind, generous, thoughtful and passionate about everything that captures his attention.

He is a teenager who is navigating his way through these years with dignity despite all of the indignity that comes with being a teenager.

As Owen and I discussed what a horrible time it would have been to be a young person in Nazi Germany in World War II, and the unfathomable horror that human beings did to one another, he did not defer to my point of view, nor did he dismiss it.

He simply listened to me and posited back.

I have often told anyone who cares that I have been called many things in life (some good, some bad) and have had many titles and important (debatable) jobs but none are anywhere as important to me as the title of Dad.

Last night this Dad had a glimpse into the eyes of a man and what I saw makes me think the world is going to be okay, and that my son will be a good man in the world.

My nearly 83 year old mother, Betty (and, SHE is the one that reminds me that she is nearly 83 so don’t blame me for pointing it out) sarcastically corrects my friends when they ask if I am at “The Lodge.”

She says, “It’s not really a Lodge.  It’s a one bedroom cabin.  He makes it sound like its some huge compound when its really a quaint little thing with a  bunk house.”

First, I love my Mom, but she is sarcastic.

Second, she’s wrong, it may be a one bedroom cabin, but it is “The Lodge.”

This year will be the 9th year we have owned this little slice of Heaven near Cable, Wisconsin.  What started out as a little refuge to bring our then 6 and 4 year old kids has became a remarkable place of renewal.

More so for me, I suspect, than the rest of my family.

I always try to get people to use The Lodge when we aren’t there.  I find it a shame that it goes unused at all during the year when so much peace, and quiet and joy could be had with a quick three hour car ride from the Twin Cities — and a bottle of crappy booze left behind as a reminder of one’s stay.

The Hot Tub died a few weeks back — after six years — it was used…a 1998 model, I think.  So we got every last cent out of it.

We just ordered a new, used one that was built in 2006 and has some God awful green interior.  I am sure it is going to be glorious!

We do have a bunk house that can sleep a ton of people with something call an Inciniolet Toilet (sarcastically referred to as “The Burning Crapper” by my children — wonder where they got the sarcasm from!?!?)

We are less than five minutes from trail heads to bike, ski, run and hike along The Birkie Trail and CAMBA Bike Trails.  Fishing is right outside the door in our little spring fed lake, Pacwawong Springs, and we are surrounded by dozens of lakes within 30 minutes or less from our front door.

We have great year round neighbors who watch after The Lodge while we are away and have become a part of our Lodge Family over the years.

For those of my Facebook Friends fortunate enough to have shared The Lodge with us — or by themselves — I am always struck by their appreciation for a simple little building nestled in the woods.

It is a place of reflection.  Renewal. And, celebration.  My favorite memories of all things at The Lodge are those things with my family and friends — and with my children, in particular.

It’s the night I fell asleep with Owen on the deck looking at the stars only to be awakened by the soft snow that had fallen on us as we snoozed.

Or, the moments on my little boat on my little lake with my little girl as she caught her first fish and celebrated as though it was a whale.

There’s the big gaggle of family during The Birkie and The Birkie Trail Run — and my own private moments when I do the Fat Tire — and just the ordinary times that seem so extraordinary.

What it means to be at “The Lodge” is no longer just a physical place for me.  It’s a state of mind, and mine, when I need it.

It’s something that I think everyone needs to have sometime in their life.

As I move onto my 52 year, I look forward to 48 more years of The Lodge and the times with those that mean the most to me in my life.

And, remember, if you need The Lodge in your life, all you gotta do is send me a note–pick up the keys– and when you’re done vacuum the floor and leave behind something that is barely drinkable for adults!