I’m not one for sappy or overly-sentimental moments. Leave them for the maple trees and the sorry movies. But once in a while you have that sensation you just can’t shake. That moment that really gets to you and lights you up inside, as if the universe takes a big, deep breath and sighs with relief. Something had been different this night. Something lighter in the air. Something energized and upbeat in the voices of my mother and my aunt. The two of them were at my grandmother’s house when I called. They sounded upbeat and joked on the phone with my daughter Amelie — listening to her say “hi,” “bye,” and other mangled bits of a language called “Toddlerish.” Something felt good. For the past couple of months, my grandmother’s health has been failing. To be blunt, her body was shutting down. Not slowly and gradually — she was dying fast. Hospice was caring for her at home, and my mother and aunt were with her constantly. I had already gone to Tampa to say my goodbyes. There’s nothing tougher than waiting on death. Every time the phone rings, you answer it with stiff shoulders and ears that don’t want to touch the receiver. When family members talk, they sound tired, monotone and mournful. There is no joy. It’s agonizing and tedious. It hurts and wears you out. But something was different this night, as if we had all let our guard down. Like we allowed, for just a […]

Dear Leona Helmsley’s Dog, First off, let me just send my condolences and tell you how sorry I am for your loss. This must be very tough on you. Maybe as tough as when your mother was sent off to the federal pen for tax evasion. Things got tough then, and we all read about how you had to go off your foie gras diet and switch to boiled lobster. No butter! Is there no humanity in this world? And now she’s gone forever, that wonderful hotel heiress who the cruel media dubbed the “Queen of Mean.” I always liked the woman. Not that we were close or anything. In fact, we had never met. But I walked by the Helmsley Park Lane in Manhattan once, and the hotel actually sneered at me and tried to steal a quarter from my pocket. So I feel like I knew her well. Is it true she could suck a dollar from a billfold three blocks away? But to the point of this letter: I read in the newspapers that you have suddenly come into great wealth thanks to your master’s unfortunate demise. If I’m not mistaken, you were left a total of $12 million. That’s good money for a Maltese. Shoot, that’s good money for a beagle or a shitzu. In fact, in dog dollars, I believe that’s $84 million. Not bad, and I’m sure you have big plans for that money. Jetting out west to party all night with Paris Hilton. […]

Nothing cools the savage heat like visions of icicles past. My cool reminder came from a sheet of newsprint my father handed me. The Thompsons had ventured south to Tampa this past weekend. My grandmother, a little Cuban woman about yay tall, is under Hospice care now and things don’t look too good. We wanted to go down and see her, maybe for one last time. It was a somber occasion, yet joyous at the same time. My family has that way about us. Nothing gets us down too much, and we’ll find a way to see the bright side on the darkest of occasions. Or maybe the heat was too much for our brains to handle. We suffered. Tampa is not a place to visit in August. During Tampa summers, the heat gets so bad that the asphalt on the roads gets soupy like chocolate syrup. Popcorn kernels burst just sitting around in a jar. And in my mother’s house, where there isn’t air conditioning, it’s like being a rotisserie chicken. My mother has believed since the oil crisis of the Jimmy Carter years that air conditioning was just a passing fad, and that one day we’ll have to all give it up.

Suddenly it doesn’t seem like such a good idea anymore. When did it? I’m having trouble thinking back to that time, trying to pin the blame on a moment, when I said to myself, “Sure, dopey, let’s go run 26.2 miles for fun, not because a bear is chasing you. For fun!” Rational people don’t say things like that, and rational people can’t really relate to why a sane human being would run a marathon again. Years after running my first, I’m now training for October’s Marine Corps Marathon in D.C. And I know there was moment, months ago, when this seemed like a good idea. I must have forgotten about all the pain, and just how grueling it can be. Memory is short, and common sense even shorter. So I signed up and stood around a lot in a Superman pose thumping my chest.

The last hold-out is gone. The move into the 21st century is finally complete. We tried to repel that one piece of modern technology trying to push its way into our lives, but just couldn’t fight it anymore. The temptation was too great. Its power too strong. Its ascension inevitable. The Thompsons now own a microwave. Sure, that’s no big deal to you. And you’re probably amazed we’ve never had one in the first place. You’re probably judging us — wondering what’s wrong with us, how we could raise a child in this world without a microwave. Yes, there are people in parts of the world without electricity who still own microwaves. And yes, we know it’s the best way to make popcorn, and that it borders on un-American not to have one. It’s not that we don’t believe in technology. We have a dishwasher, high-speed Internet, XM satellite radio, a chain saw, a digital camera and a very fancy apple peeler that can also do trigonometry. But deep down, we’re simple people. If I wanted to heat up leftovers, I would go outside, build a fire and do it the old fashioned way. Or I would leave it out in the sun or the back seat of the car, which could take the chill off a pasta dish by about sundown. We never needed a microwave, or for that matter, never wanted one.

A week off at home. What to do with the time? So many possibilities. So many projects. So many things that will never — even in the fantasy-land I live in — ever get started. I always take time off to go somewhere, but never to just stay at home, to get things done, and spend time with family. It always seemed such an appealing idea, though. And that the possibilities — the accomplishments — would be so well possible. Why not have fun, and get stuff done? So that was my big plan this week. How’s it going? Well, let’s take a look: Planned activity: Paint the shed. I improved, fixed, re-sided and generally did just enough on my shed to keep it from collapsing into a heap of rubble and termite-eaten dust. The only thing left, my wife has pointed out on numerous occasions, was to paint it. E-gad!

OK, maybe it’s a bit of an exaggeration to say this heralds the end of the world, but you have to admit it comes pretty darn close. I read this story in the paper the other day. It’s about a pricey — $600 a pound — coffee called “kopi luwak.” Kopi luwak apparently is derived from the Indonesian words that mean, “your coffee came from poop” or “I can’t believe they’re actually drinking this.” Sweet, red coffee beans are devoured by a hungry critter called the Asian Palm Civet in Sumatra or Indonesia. It digests what it can, and then reintroduces the hard bean centers to the world after a 3-day, 4-night all-inclusive Caribbean cruise through its intestines. The beans are picked out of the civet dung, hopefully washed, and then roasted to make the coffee. Apparently, as the story tells it, enzymes in the civet’s belly do something to the beans to help smooth out the flavor and cut down on the caffeine jitters. Now, I would actually develop new jitters knowing that I was drinking something a weasel-creature’s intestines couldn’t digest, but people love it.

Well, boy have I been gipped. Ripped off, you might say. My birthright — even my honor! — has been sullied. I don’t know who to take this up with. Is there some federal agency who rights wrongs? That hands out reparations, or at least cookies, to people in my position? Maybe just a laminated card I can carry around that says, “He was robbed, and should be smarter than he is. Forgive him for his stupidity. It’s unnatural.” An injustice has been perpetrated, and I don’t know how I will go on. My wife brought it up: “Did you read the story about how firstborn children are the most intelligent?” she asked. It was on a Norwegian study that found boys who were born first — like me — had higher IQs than their younger siblings. The blood rushed to my head and boiled. “I saw something about it,” I told her, “and I’d like to know JUST WHAT HAPPENED TO ME!”