The Day A Dad Was Born


An honest and funny perspective here.

Originally posted on A Dad Is Born:

Today, we celebrate the birth of our first child. Born on March 21, 2000 at approximately 8:52pm, he is now 13 years old, loves to read, ski, swim and play video games. He is developing an ear for sarcasm, innuendo, double entendre, and profanity which makes me proud as I caution him about where and when he can explore their various applications without alarming adults or getting his father in trouble with his mother. He has also learned how to share the spotlight with his younger brothers, ages 9 and 8, who each have sparkling personalities in their own rights.

But it occurred to me that today marks the 13th anniversary of another birth. At exactly that same moment, A Dad Was Born. Up until then, ‘fatherhood’ was but a vague and far away imagination of what it might be like to start a family of my own. I can…

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Reading Pleases

It pleases us to read

a need which raises

society up and the

propriety of the child.- BJT


May Day Lore

No one cares for May Day,

at least not any more!

It seems that all the May Days

once hailed from the great outdoors

have been clicked and tagged and filed away

in electronic desks and drawers.



The deer in early May in Sandwich, NH.


French Lesson



French is not the easiest class to miss.

I missed almost two weeks straight

after Mom died

and a lot of other days before that

and now I am really behind.

Mom wanted me to take French

because she thought it would help

in ballet class.

Dad lost a couple of bids.

He says people are losing

their jobs,

the economy is bad.

The TV keeps warning

unemployment is up,

gas prices are up,

and people are fed up,

according to Dad.

I don’t know why he

has to watch,

it only makes him

yell at the TV.

Dad says we need to conserve

more than we have been.

Now the house feels cooler

and when I complain

Dad says

to go outside and come back in,

then I’ll feel warmer.

Harriet and I spend our time bundled in

an extra layer of clothes

dragging around our afghans mom made

like giant moths in cocoons.

We are out of butter again.

Dad says

to try using peanut butter.

Well isn’t the word


in it?

Harriett won’t eat her toast

and it just sits on the plate

getting cold

like the floors

in this house

and suddenly one phrase comes to me.

Il fait froid.

Il fait froid dans la maison!



Bishop’s Poem, One Art, Is One I Cherish

One Art

/The art of losing isn’t hard to master/

Click to read the rest of the poem –


April Song on the Vineyard

A robin sings in the thicket on the edge.

Ter-eet! Ter-eet!

The wind whisks through the twisted oaks.

Somewhere off in the distance

someone steps on the gas

and the exhaust ripples the morning air

and the Atlantic yawns beneath the front.

A new day.