It Only Takes a Spark

Stay with me, this is going somewhere specific.

A dear friend sent me Peter Heller's latest novel—Burn. I haven't finished it yet, so I'll save a review for later. But this friend sent me Burn because he knows not only do I like Peter Heller novels, but after having met him in person a coupla times, I like Peter Heller. He carries what I’d call a “poetic masculinity.” That’s who he is. I like that, and hope my life falls somewhere in that ballpark.

My introduction to Heller novels was The Dog Stars. I was on my way to the funeral for a man known as "the ragamuffin," and DIA's bookstore had it featured, front and center. I picked it up, read it on the flight from Denver to New Jersey, and now consider The Dog Stars one of my favorite novels of all time. It's right up there with Jim Harrison's work (funny as Harrison actually gets a mention early in Burn). I've no doubt some of that is "the first" effect, you know, sorta like you never forget your first girlfriend (Lori Tomberlain) or your first plate of authentic carbonara (at Trattoria Il Porcospino in Florence, Italy). There’s that, but it’s also because The Dog Stars is simply a helluva novel.

I met Peter Heller at Covered Treasures Bookstore in Monument, CO. Thinking about that sparks me to think about my daughter, Sarah, who lives in Denver, and while in Arkansas visiting last week told me she’d love to open a bookstore some day. I could totally see her doing this, a Kathleen Kelly with her The Shop Around the Corner in You’ve Got Mail. I can totally see that. That’s her in the picture below, pink ginghamy dress, standing beside her husband, Griffin.

Thinking about Sarah and her bookstore dream sparks me to think about the news she recently shared with us. (drumroll)—She’s expecting, their baby scheduled to arrive in March! Boy howdy! Which means (drumroll)—I’m going to be a grandfather, or a grandpa, or a gramps, or a ganga, or probably whatever this child decides to call me.

So there ya go. Another identity change on the horizon. Just like that.

I momentarily wondered Should I buy an alpaca cardigan, some ortho shoes, stockpile hard candy, you know, “grand” stuff? Thankfully that thought quickly petered. Nah, I’m going to keep wearing my boots (I actually think Boots would be a cool name to be called by this future baby), keep doing CrossFit, keep on working in that poetic masculinity, keep on being me.

I gotta tell you, I’ve found “being yourself” is one of the hardest things to do in this life as there are people standing in line with opinions as to who or what you should be, that plus all it’s cousins—what you should read, who you should vote for, what you should do to earn money, how you should parent, how you should grandparent, what or who you should believe or not believe in. The list goes on, which sparks me to think of Mary Oliver’s “The Journey”

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

God what a poem.

There’s no guarantee I’ll get the chance, but I sure hope I get the chance to share this poem with this baby to be born, to do what I can from a grand distance to help her or him see the stars begin to burn. And hear a new voice. And save their life.

Gosh I’m excited.