Relationships

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How to Write a Letter

Some months ago a young man I know texted me with his thanks for a letter I’d sent. He apologized at length for not writing back because, as he said, “No one ever taught me how to write a letter.” Feeling his plight, I took it upon myself to make an offering and sent him a polished case containing some very nice stationery and an array of colorful postage stamps, all accompanied by the following letter:

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Dear Noah,

A letter is a most remarkable thing. It is very much like a diary that is shared one page at a time. Writing a letter to another person is the most traditional and effective manner of putting yourself out into the world. It is also very personal, which is why I believe so few are willing to risk it.

A Letter need not be a novel. Nor any kind of fiction. A letter will always be your best opportunity to say precisely what you want to say in exactly the way you want to say it. Even if it’s just to say, “Hello. How are you?” Some of the most delightful letters I’ve ever received have been two or three sentences long. But even a letter so brief can be wonderful, and quite revealing of the sender’s personality. Whether offering sympathy for an injury or loss, lending reassurance during a period of turmoil, or simply to share an amusing story, a letter can do many magical things.

As people we are deeply mysterious creatures who rarely catch a glimpse of someone else’s truth. But I encourage you to embrace the act of letter writing. If you keep copies of what you write, they become pieces of your own truth that you can reassemble years from now into a clearer picture—not necessarily of who you were back then, but of the person you were in the process of becoming. We are forever evolving as people. No one ever arrives at being just one person with just one set of values. Good people, inquisitive open minded people, are always in the process of “becoming”. They take in new information all the time and are always absorbing. My father is 102-years-old and is still learning new things every day. He is one of the smartest, most decent, peaceful, and happy people I have ever known.

So please, write letters. When you read them back to yourself many years from now they will give you an amazing perspective of the journey you have taken as a person, a citizen, and as a creature of value. Any letters you receive in return can also be wonderful snapshots of the best people in your life. Most importantly though, the ability to write a good letter is something people will prize in you above all other gentlemanly traits.

HOW TO WRITE A LETTER

STEP ONE: Be Honest

Write your letters in the simplest, cleanest language you can manage. Express your thoughts on any subject that strikes your fancy. But don’t be fancy. And always be honest. My mother told me, “If you can’t say something nice about someone, then don’t say anything at all.” I noticed that when she remarked on someone not particularly pleasant, she found a way of expressing it diplomatically such as, “He wasn’t as social as one might have hoped.” or “We didn’t really get along but I’m sure she was giving it her best effort.”

When people have wronged me and I am describing what they did in a letter, I rely on diplomacy as well. If I’m discussing a third party in a letter (or in face-to-face encounters) I choose my words carefully. I pretend that if the person I’m writing about were ever to see this letter and read how I described them, they would not see me as cruel, but honest. It’s the decent thing to do, keeps me from being a gossip, and inspires me to follow my better angels. If you need to write about someone who has hurt you, by all means tell the truth. But never be mean about it.

And one more thing, if I have made a mistake or behaved badly, I am quick to admit my error and apologize. A letter is good for that too. In this day and age owning your faults is practically unheard of because nobody does that. But if you do it, you will be seen as incredibly mature. I want you to be that very rare exception—the one person people admire, respect and, most important of all, trust. We will always have the highest regard for anyone with the confidence to admit they are human. That brand of courage is in short supply these days. Saying you’re sorry is not a sign of weakness. It is a sign of consideration for others and all the very best people do it.

STEP TWO: Be Brief

Nobody likes people who ramble. Especially when they’ve nothing of substance to relate. Personally, I’ve never been comfortable speaking to people and have become expert at hiding my bashfulness. But at heart I’m still incredibly shy, feeling I hardly have anything worthwhile to say. Another trick of my mother’s was to ask questions: “If you don’t know what to say to someone, ask them about themselves. People always like to talk about themselves.” Of course the secret is to actually listen to what they’re saying. It allows you to engage and even redirect the conversation. Of course when it comes to writing a letter, this logic works by mentioning some event that’s going on and turning your narrative into a query. “I had a rough week. I’m curious what you do to take your mind off your troubles.” Or… “Nobody ever mentions my great grandparents and I sometimes wonder if maybe there’s a criminal in our family tree that no one talks about. Does your family ever discuss your ancestors?”

If you can’t think of much to say, questions are usually a safe way to proceed. At the very least, it demonstrates your interest in them. You don’t have to fill up pages and pages. Everybody (and I mean everybody) loves receiving a letter. That you took the time to sit down and lay a few kind paragraphs on paper, place it in an envelope, add a stamp, and mail it will absolutely make them feel truly valued. If they actually write back, even better.

Be prepared for most people not to write back. But don’t think that means they don’t value you too. It’s a just that a lot of folks, like yourself, believe they don’t know how to write a letter. Prove them wrong. Keep writing. We learn by doing.

STEP THREE: Be Hopeful

Finding a letter in the mailbox is almost certain to generate the biggest smile. Imagine that feeling when you receive a letter from someone else. And knowing how rarely people send actual letters, you can appreciate how an envelope with your return address on it will be cause for them to celebrate. Don’t disappoint them.

While it’s not your job to cheer up the world, and there’s no law that says a letter must only be good news, remember that people get enough bad news everywhere else in their lives. So try to remain curious about what’s going on in their life, how it’s affecting them, and if there might be a positive perspective you can offer. If there is bad news to relate, then be gentle. But for the most part, focus on hopeful conversation. And always end on an uplifting note.

So that’s it.

I know I’ve written a lot to you here. But please don’t be intimidated by all these “words”. They’re just words. You told me that no one ever taught you how to write a letter, which I love. Because it’s something you have no experience with and would like to try. We are at our most genuine when asking for help.

So now,… write me a letter.

Take a page and start at the top with the date. Dates are very important. I like to do my dates in the European fashion: Day first / Month second / Year last. It appeals to my sense of continuity with the smallest increment building to the greatest. However most Americans write the date as: Month first / Day second / Year last—perhaps because we are so used to saying it that way aloud. Use whichever feels right for you.

Next write, “Dear Michael,”.

Then write two or three or four sentences about anything at all that comes to mind. Keep it brief and upbeat. But honest. Remember, I’ll be so thrilled to have gotten a letter—which rarely happens for me—that it really won’t matter how long or short the writing is.

Next do a pleasant sign off. (“Sincerely,” or “Regards,”, or “With hopes that you are well,”.)

And finally, sign it.

Fold the letter neatly, place it in an envelope, and seal it gently. When you address the envelope be sure to print very clearly so there’s no chance they will not be able to read it at the post office. Few things are more disappointing than getting your own letter returned because it was “undeliverable” with the wrong address, or that the post office could not decipher your handwriting.

Your name and address go in the upper left corner on the front of the envelope, my name and address half way down and nicely centered, and lastly, a stamp gets securely fastened in the upper right corner.

Most home mailboxes have a red flag on the side. If yours has one you can place your letter in your mailbox and raise the red flag. When this flag is in the “up” position it tells the mail carrier that there is “outgoing” mail in the box and they will collect it, put the red flag back down, and take the letter with them to the post office. If you do not trust this method or you prefer to mail it yourself, you can deposit your letter in a public mailbox, leave it at an authorized postal center, or mail it at an official U.S. Post Office.

On a personal note, if my letter is going to someone for whom I have great affection, after I fold the finished letter, I touch my lips to it before it goes in the envelope. The recipient will never know that I enclosed a kiss. But I’ll know.

If you decide to take up letter writing trust me when I say it will be one of the most rewarding things you will do in your life. I’m proud of you and can’t wait to hear stories of your continued progress.

With very best wishes,

Michael

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It’s been almost a year since I sent this package and I’ve yet to receive a response from him. I don’t know that I will. But then again, I never expect reciprocation for any letter I write. The joy is always in the sending. Though I do wonder if perhaps my parcel to him ought to have included a pen.

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Sunday Best

When I was a boy presentation of self was entirely
a matter of manners, especially so on Sunday—
hair combed, tie cleanly knotted, suit sharply pressed,
shoes all a-glimmer, posture impeccable.

In a family of ten we’d often worship in shifts and,
shuttled off on my own to early service,
I’d amble the three blocks east
down Mahantongo Street to St. Patrick’s Church.

It was obligation, not imperative, that drove me there
way back when the mass was still in Latin and,
after yet another week of parochial school,
I hadn’t the humor for one more liturgy.

Every so often, though not often enough,
at the very last moment my feet would dodge me away
from that gothic edifice and carry me farther on down
to Centre Street where all the stores were closed.

I’d meander with solitary ease, a figure of leisure,
as though indifferent to this threadbare little town.
The affectation of a grown up stride almost fueled
the impression that the manners were paying off.

And for what—the tiny thrill of a ten-year-old
blatantly blowing off God,
of gawking with guile into unlit storefronts,
of ticking away one interminably gray hour

until I could return home under the guise
of one who’d been suitably sermonized—
despite not a single break in the crease of his trousers,
as though one might have spent any time on his knees.

*(From the book “FAREWELL AND TOODLE-OO” – Mary Luisa Press © 2024)

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Zombies

There is much in the world that horrifies.

Many people consciously seek out those things that frighten them most. It can be cathartic to face down these fears in order to work out the wrinkles in our emotional fabric. Witness the accelerated enthusiasm of late for the horror genre.

Still the most horrifying things are those outside the realm of fiction and film.

I know that in Japan there is a reverence for the elderly. This Asian culture relies on a deep and abiding respect for the mature and the aged.  Not so much here in the west.

I know any number of older people — energetic, vital, personable people — who have told me time and again that when they walk down the street they are invisible. People look right through them as though they didn’t exist. In the busy-ness of my own day, I have been guilty of this as well.

The same is especially true of the homeless and indigent who humbly implore us for help. Or food. Or work. Even a bit of acknowledgement or recognition. We have become quite practiced at avoiding these animated walkers, shufflers and stumblers — the breathing dead.

Many years back, my daughter was being annoyed at school by a boy who simply wouldn’t leave her alone. When she asked for my advice, I told her to ignore him. She said that wouldn’t work because he never stopped. And then I told her something I probably shouldn’t have.

“Sweetheart, there’s something you need to know about boys — and men, for that matter. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is more humiliating and soul-crushing than to be utterly and completely ignored. Trust me, this boy is pestering you to get a reaction. Deny him that reaction, and there’s no payoff. No payoff, he’ll go elsewhere and annoy someone else.”

She took the advice to heart and it worked. She can be a fine actress and she simply behaved as though he truly was completely invisible. She looked right through him. Cut him off mid-sentence to laugh and talk with her friends. Total and complete blackout. The kid ended up feeling so foolish he avoided her for the rest of his school life.

The problem — once we realize we actually have the ability to make people invisible, it opens the door to abuse.

The saddest part is that we all possess the power to deny another human being the precious acknowledgement that they exist. As a socially-dependent culture, this crucial connection to other human beings is a lifeline. This fearsome power we hold over others is abused all too often.

The sluggish, dispirited shuffle of a homeless person reaching out to us on the street can feel zombie-ish and may be one of the reasons zombie films have become so outrageously popular in the last 40 years. Our secret, subliminal wish to do away with this broadly expanding portion of the populace could easily have manifested itself in a fever to erase a similarly unattractive group of creatures in horror stories and film.

Have we really become so disconnected with our fellow beings that our blank stares and dismissive behavior of them has turned us into some of the walking dead as well?

As we navigate our lives in the world each day, there are heartbeats and heartbreaks moving among us. A simple and inexpensive antidote to this epidemic of apathy is a bit of a smile to a face that clearly needs it. Lest we forget that the smile we force for another originates on a face that likely needs it most.

Zombies are real enough. I see them everywhere. And the best way to end the epidemic is to kill them with kindness.

I have always found genuine humanity to be quite infectious.

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Yet

Up ahead, through the forest, behind the mist, and beyond the darkness… is the future.

It is very much in the province of optimism to believe that whatever comes along, it will come with opportunity. It’s as natural to rely on that certainty as it is to trust that when we draw breath there will be air to fill our lungs.

We count on opportunity, otherwise we would have no reason to live. And yet…

I love the word “yet”. It is utterly aromatic with possibility. It can turn a conversation in any number of directions.

The simple use of it twists the intent of a commonplace remark toward the dark abode of disappointment or the luminous realm of noble intent. There is no tedious middle ground with “yet”. It’s a conversation turner.

Literally taken, it can mean so far, despite, up to now, eventually, or in time. While it has been employed with negative connotations, my favorite use of the word “yet” represents an optimistic outlook:

“He wrecked his car, and yet he walked away without a scratch.” Or “Healing is a matter of time, yet it can also be a matter of opportunity.”

“Yet” is no mere literary device — it is the magical moment when steel meets flint and a single microscopic spark ignites a conflagration. It introduces a turn of fortune or lends a positive spin to any situation. There’s a promise of emotion built into it. Grammatically speaking, I can think of no single syllable brimming with more promise and more hope to fuel the drama of our imaginations, which are always inspired by challenge.

Were it not for our challenges, there would be no opportunity for us to overcome them. Exceptional innovations have sprouted from the nastiest of difficulties. To me the word “yet” will always represent opportunity — the door still unopened, the adventure not quite begun.

In its best usage it can be the sunny signpost on the path to everything hopeful.

The fine Russian novelist Boris Pasternak touched on the subject most eloquently — “When a great moment knocks on the door of your life, it is often no louder than the beating of your heart, yet it is very easy to miss it.”

Too many times have I reacted to that heartbeat of opportunity with trepidation. I try to remind myself that every uplifting consequence in my life blossomed from a decision to go for love instead of fear. Fear is the scoundrel here. Always will be. How much in my life have I missed out on simply because of the fear of missing out?

“Yet” is the briefest of adverbs. A very small word. There is real power, yearning, and magic it its grasp when utilized by a master raconteur or writer.

Without the shining optimism and promise of expectation this little word adds to my work, I think it would be an effortless thing to drift into despair.

And yet, …

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X Marks the Spot

Left center breast, heart thudding in a panic.

However many saddened souls decry its effect, there is no defying the truth of its power when love comes to call.

Whatever I say here is high grade, raw and unretouched experience. And still I know not a damned thing about it. I’ve come close to love a couple of times but not like the advertising promotes.

The negatarians push their crusty philosophy that it’s not a lack of affection, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages. While both are quite necessary for pheromones to play power politics with the heart, they remain two halves of the same whole. To imply that either friendship or affection alone is responsible for a happy outcome is to discount a vast combination of additional variables. It’s like saying carbon and hydrogen alone make up the earth. But there are 102 other elements involved here, guys. And those are just the ones we know about.

In other words, it’s way more complicated than just two emotional elements — I’m talkin’ to you, Mr. Nietzsche.

There is as much charm as foolishness required for love. As much reason as whimsy, stupidity as sex appeal, grandeur as groveling, and as much patience as rage. Every single blessed one of these gestures of insecure pride are mandatory for the fully realized romantic encounter to take flight.

And what a glorious defiance of gravity it can be. The first blush of love is the thunderous and showy confidence of a roman candle responding to a single desperate flare gun sending a stream of sparks through the night.

Love defies reasonability itself. That’s why the term “romantic comedy” is itself the redundancy of the ages.

I personally am nothing special. I am a singular, unattached mass of intuition who bears no more evidence of these beliefs than the tightly clenched knot of scar tissue in my torso.

And yet it beats.

With hope.

Hope that one day very soon these throbbing little beats of expectation will be met with a perfectly reflective drumming — the sympathetic pulse of another. Yes, dear ones, unlike love, optimism is a more definable, defendable virtue but I’m not prepared to get into that here. Let us simply agree that hope is a happy, healthy puppy and love is a multi-tentacled mythical creature that would confuse the hell out of Medusa.

As Robert Fulghum asserted, “We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness — and call it love — true love.”

Scripture speaks of love being patient and kind. I believe this is true but also radically truncated. For love is many, many more indefinable things. It is cruelly timid, embraceably wicked, fearless, cunning and vain. Love is the substance of so many contradictions that it is impossible to define it singularly for any two people. But for each of us we know too well its powers over us personally.

As the years accumulate I hear more and more loudly the ticking of my watch. I readily wish for complete vulnerability and the absolute fabrication that is romantic alchemy. I secretly seek the unreasonably impossible, with much the same confidence that a six-year-old child trusts in the truth of buried pirate treasure. Fool that I am, I will always invest myself in the mystical belief that X marks the spot.

Now if only I could find a reliable compass.

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Restraint

In our youth the best of our teachers encourage us to reach for the stars. Still others caution that a man’s reach should not exceed his grasp. Personally I am all for star reaching, otherwise heaven no longer seems possible.

I believe we should be guided by our goals, to be strong and push ourselves into the world with enterprise and audacity.

But all ambition aside, where is the wisdom in relying solely on the forceful thrust of unbridled drive and forward momentum? None of us wants to come across as the proverbial 800 pounds of angry pot roast gracelessly slamming through a china shop. A degree of restraint is wise in every endeavor, professional and personal.

Police actions have much to learn from the tragedy at Kent State. Anyone in a position of power owes as much of their leadership ability to strength as they do to a coolness of temperament. When strength is moderated with restraint, civility invariably prevails.

My daughter has remarked that she is drawn to bad boys, though it hasn’t always worked out to her advantage. I would offer the best kind of bad boy attitude would be one of potential. If the potential were the dominant factor, then perhaps the restraint behind it would carry the sex appeal. There’s something alluring in the awareness of someone’s danger and intensity while trusting they have the self-possession not to act on it.

It breaks my heart that few of her bad boys have possessed that restraint.

I agree that balance is very much the fundamental factor in deciding between discretion and zeal. A charitable organization asks why we do not give in all directions? Might it be for fear of losing ourselves? As Henry Miller noted, “Until we lose ourselves, there is no hope of finding ourselves.”

On the other hand, I have to smile at Mae West’s observation that, “I like restraint — if it doesn’t go too far.”

Of course the old adage still applies — that the secret to being a colossal bore is to tell everything. One of my favorite authors, Orson Scott Card, said, “Among my most prized possessions are words that I have never spoken.”

Though a sparing tongue will serve you well, the human heart has only so much wisdom when it comes to what to say — or more importantly, whether to say it at all.

I hesitate to offer advice to anyone when it comes to matters of the heart. But I did write this poem as a cautionary tale to myself that restraint is a scalpel and a sword with the power to both heal and harm.

UNSAID
(© 2013 Michael J. Cahill)

Benny Beluga
Thought brevity nice
If he queried you once
He would never ask twice

Bonnie Belinda
Was painfully shy
Though she wanted to speak
She would let it go by

When Benny met Bonnie
They both felt the same
That Beluga-Belinda
Would make a nice name

But Bonnie and Benny
Were never to wed
Though they both loved each other
It was always… unsaid

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Magic

The human experience thrives on a convincing act of magic. At least mine does. One of the most emotionally staggering of all magic tricks is the sudden appearance of a fully formed person — a baby being born.

Of course it follows that the greatest disappearing act of all is death. Once the light in a person’s eyes evaporates into eternity, no investigation of hidden wires, trap doors or sleight of hand can account for its secrets. Search and ponder as you may, but in the end we are at the mercy of our ignorance.

To be sure, anyone who employs practical magic must be skilled in the art of misdirection. The element of trickery must be elegantly masked to generate an effective illusion.

But what about the magic of human interaction?

It occurs to me how easily interchangeable are the stages of a relationship with the categories of traditional magic tricks  — many of the same illusory practices apply:

.                              MAGIC                                                           ROMANCE
• Producing something from nothing              (Two people meet and hit it off)
• Teleportation from one place to another      (A growing together in affection)
• Prediction of an outcome                               (Partners project their dreams on each other)
• Levitation in defiance of gravity                     (Romantic love)
• Transformation from one state to another   (Suspicions and doubts develop)
• Penetration of one object through another  (Sex, or a knife through the heart)
• Restoration of a destroyed object                  (Making up after a fight, or therapy)
• Escape from a restraining device                   (Losing inhibitions, or coming clean on a lie)
• Vanishing                                                         (The breakup, or divorce)

However closely these mechanisms of magic and romance may seem to parallel each other, many would not conceive of romance as being the more unreal of the two.

Consider that, even though traditional illusionism is widely acknowledged to consist of intellectual puzzles and riddles, the audience still wants more than anything to believe the magic is genuine. Why else would they pay good money to experience something they know is fake to begin with?

Sound like any relationships you know?

If secrets behind these tricks were to be revealed, captivation would fall away and, robbed of our amazement, we’d be disappointed that we were so easily taken in.

Stage magic?

Or love?

Our wishes, wants, hopes and dreams are the pilot lights of true prestidigitation. In our finest goals we discover the alchemy of our aspirations.

Where Robert Heinlein remarked coldly that “One man’s magic is another man’s engineering”, an optimist may counter with Danielle Steele’s hopeful notion —  “If you can see the magic in a fairy tale, you can face the future.”

Personally, I’ll go with Erich Fromm who observed, “In love, the paradox occurs that two beings become one — and yet remain two.”

For my money, that’s as good as magic gets.

The end of awe is the beginning of hubris. And with hubris, innocence fades, excitement wanes, and love diminishes.

But the foundational root of all real magic is the wonderment we first experienced as children, wide-eyed to everything new in the world — breathtaking music, a child’s first sneeze, the opening of a tulip, a staggering sunset, the allure of a lover’s eyes, the flush from a first kiss.

With each of these enchantments something in you understands that genuine magic is more the province of the soul than of the mind. Any rational account of one’s life requires the inclusion of the mysterious.

Despite the occasional employment of smoke and mirrors, I still very much believe in magic.

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Fear

All the really ugly emotions are firmly rooted in fear. Fear that we won’t measure up, fear that we’ll look foolish, fear that we’ll lose success or love or respect. Prejudice is a product of fear. Anger too.

Most people, myself included, allow too many important aspects of our lives to be dictated by the anguish of embarrassment or the dread of what may or may not come to pass. So much of our self-esteem is bound up in what other people might perceive. And that is the polar opposite of healthy.

In the recovery group Co-Dependents Anonymous there’s a saying that goes, “What other people think of me is none of my business.” They have a lot of sayings but that one pretty much sums it all up.

I suspect that being the most sentient creatures on the planet, we’re instinctively bent on hubris. Humans have the biggest brain-to-body ratio so naturally we’ve got control issues. It’s that Power-and-Small-People Syndrome. Basically, as a species we think way too much of ourselves. Take for example your typical road rage. Why does it happen? One word…… Control.

You’re the good driver. You take extra pains to stay in your lane. You mostly come to complete stops, usually signal for turns and stick pretty darned close to those speed limits. Rules are there for a reason. Then another driver breaks the rules right in front of you. And why should THEY be allowed to disregard the letter of the law when you so clearly comply? That’s when the control reflex kicks in and you decide to force him to play by the rules. Of course tensions elevate and tragedy ensues.

We humans fear a lot of really stupid things that constantly land us in trouble. It’s a widely held conviction that any really important decision should never be made when one is in an elevated emotional state. Because nine times out of nine it’s not only the wrong decision but also the worst possible one.

I once read, and firmly believe, that we cannot control our emotions. But… we can control how we react to them.

Some people take issue with that and claim they have full command of all their emotions. If they truly have that power then they’re more disciplined folk than I. My experience doesn’t bear that out. My emotions suddenly arrive out of nowhere like a moth at a porch light. Where did that come from? And even though I’ve always possessed the power to choose how I react, it never really occurred to me to exercise that choice.

Once I did, I started leaning toward the path of least resistance, or rather the path of best resistance. Now when a driver cuts me off, I just stay out of his way. It’s not my job to make him obey the law. His family has to live with him, I don’t.

When I gave my daughter her first driving lesson, I told her, “You have no right — no right — to get angry at someone else in traffic. Most drivers are basically self-absorbed brain donors and when they behave badly it HAS to be what you expected. Always count on it. The only genuine surprise should be when someone actually drives courteously. That, my love, is the rarity and should be your only unanticipated event on the road.”

I give her full credit for taking that to heart. She’s a marvelous driver now and I’ve never seen her upset in the car. At least not because of other drivers.

Yes, fear is the culprit for every negative feeling we encounter. As a writer, I cope with creative fears all the time. Over the years many people who didn’t know me, and a few who did, have suggested I let go of this fruitless dream of being a writer. And there are days I actually consider it.

When you’re on your own, there’s only so much self-induced encouragement and back patting you can muster. Now, whenever taunted by self-doubt, I refer to a sign on the wall over my desk. It simply reads:

“FAILURE IS FAR LESS FRIGHTENING THAN REGRET.”

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Entrancement

Some years ago a cynical friend remarked to me, “I thought I fell in love once. But it turns out I only stepped in it.”

I almost laughed. But I could see he meant it.

Eric was a really sweet guy who’d subjugated himself entirely to a willful woman. He bowed to her wants and never challenged her. He had believed that was the best way to get along with a woman. And, truth be told, I thought so too.

I grew up with five sisters and a doting mother and it was made abundantly clear that when a woman says no, she means no. My mother and father cultivated in me the traditional behaviors of opening doors, paying compliments, presenting flowers, and all the courtesies and kindnesses attendant to gentlemanly behavior.

But my dad shared an insight with me the day I left home to strike out on my own.

“Michael”, he said. “There are two things you need to know to understand women…… and nobody knows what they are.”

That time I laughed. It was only years later that I realized he meant it.

Spending a couple of decades in the same house surrounded by that much estrogen meant the man knew from whence he spoke. I still don’t know that much about women. It’s likely they’ll remain mysterious to me and, of course, that will always be part of the attraction. Romance isn’t romance without mystery.

Being a fairly even-tempered fellow, friends have had occasion to confide in me. A lot. And I’ve learned something about men from these late night laments over beer and self doubt. It turns out the same two things you need to know to understand women are the pretty much the same two things you need to know to understand men. The upshot of which is that nobody really knows anything.

I am getting better at picking up signals. I’m listening more. Especially to women. One of them recently shared that, “Yes, a woman wants a partner who isn’t afraid of tenderness. But she also wants a MAN who can stand in the fire of our emotional changes.”

That’s an intimidating way to put it. Still it brings me to a slightly higher level of understanding. But only slightly.

There’ a good deal of bob-and-weave involved in courtship. So much conflicting wisdom. And yet I persevere. I expect the fighting now, but I’m looking for a fair fighter this time. Love may be a battle. But love is also a growing up.

My parents, it turns out, were fair fighters. They enjoyed 62 years of the greatest love story anyone has every been audience to. Now that mom is gone, I recognize one more thing I learned from my father — you don’t get to really know yourself until you know yourself in a relationship. It is revelatory to see yourself in someone else’s eyes.

Victor Hugo once wrote: “The greatest happiness in life is the conviction that we are loved. Loved for our self, or rather loved in spite of ourselves.”

To be so entranced is an honorable conviction and one I deeply aspire to. To be elevated, even levitated, by a swooning rush of delight and filled with wonder and a sense of enchantment — that is the aim of the human heart. It is among our baser instincts to defy loneliness.

I believe and desire all of this. But one must also consider S.J. Perelman’s take on the matter as well:  “Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin; it’s the triumphant twang of a bedspring.”

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by

Dickens

I suffer no small amount of grief from friends and acquaintances that know of my penchant for Christmas music. I’m unapologetic about it and I listen year round.

There truly aren’t enough songs out there with messages of love and peace and joy to the world. Even Mr. Scrooge eventually declared he would keep the holiday spirit all through the year. Yes, we need more unbridled affection, tolerance and generosity.

As a kid with a keen analytical mind that practically never shut down, I bought into this philosophy hook, line and tinsel. That sort of thing makes good sense when you’re seven. But even Ebenezer would testify it’s no easy task. Who wants to be around someone so relentlessly and ruthlessly cheerful every bloody day of the year? I get it.

So yes, I slide in some yuletide tunes every month or so. I’m no longer seven but I still need the fix. And it’s all the doing of that dear Mr. Dickens.

When the real holiday rolls around, I wrap myself up in the tradition of it all and am happy when I stumble upon any previously undiscovered bits of seasonal fare.

For the past several years, holidays have been relatively quiet since my family is widely distributed around the country. One of these recent Christmas mornings alone at home I turned on the television and discovered a 1938 version of “A Christmas Carol” I had never seen. Perfect!

I’m in the best of moods, all settled in for the telling of a good tale. And then it happened. My analytical mind woke up.

About ten minutes into the film I started wondering — what exactly is wrong with Tiny Tim?

Neither Mr. Dickens nor any of the film adaptations I’ve seen have ever been clear on this point.

While this very thought is building up a healthy head of steam on the hamster wheel in my mind, up on the screen Bob Cratchit comes bounding down the hall of his home with little Tiny Tim perched high on his shoulders. Really high.

And they’re headed straight for a very low doorway.

And suddenly it hits me what the kid’s malady is — Bob Cratchit is an idiot. A sweet-natured, bumbling good guy, yes. But still an idiot. Multiple and massive head trauma is surely in store for this kid, but no one else in the family ever seems to notice, especially Bob.

“Poor Tiny Tim,” they cry. “The nose bleeds and dizzy spells are getting worse. His hats no longer fit and the doctors are stumped.”

I’m trying to recapture the feeling of a holly-trimmed, pine scented Christmas of yore and my damned brain won’t turn off. Why can’t I just enjoy this?

As the film progresses, a disturbing pattern continues to develop. Consider when the Ghost of Christmas-Yet-to-Come announces, “If these things remain unchanged, Tiny Tim will not live to see another Christmas.”

Well, yeah. This kid’s not going to make it to New Years if Bob keeps smacking his little noggin into those solid oak door frames.

Later in the graveyard scene, it’s a little off-putting trying to stay with the story when I just can’t help scanning the background to see if maybe there are a few other little “Cratchit” headstones for Tiny Tim’s predecessors. Long-gone tykes like himself who suffered the same unwitting fate.

I made it through the end of the movie and of course it was all smiles and warmth and giddy camaraderie. But I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I’d somehow been robbed of a bit more of the innocence we all hold in reserve to see us through the horrors of adulthood.

I still lament a bit for all my grown friends who heeded the call to “act your age”. In so doing, far too many among us have allowed the lessons of childhood to slip away. It’s important — in fact crucial — as an adult to remember to laugh at ourselves and to play like children. These are mandatory requirements for being a fully functional adult.

As evidence in my argument I call your attention to the main character of “A Christmas Carol”. Charles Dickens did not write this story for children. His target audience was, and is, any and every contemporary of Ebenezer Scrooge.

At any age, and at any time of year, the spirit of this wonderful philosophy supports me in my darkness and my joy.

God bless us every one…? You bet.

You’ll excuse me now while I crank up some Burl Ives and dance in my pajamas.

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