Thoughts on growing older

It's been almost six weeks since I posted last, but it has been a busy time.

On the writing front, my son and I have been hammering out a rewrite of our screenplay, Black Rock, which we hope to see filmed next summer (2010) in West Virginia. If all goes well, he will be directing it, too.

We're both excited, the production company that optioned it are saying money is looking good, but we are ready to move on to a new project.

I've been writing on my own, as well (for reports on that, check out my writing blog, A Moving Line). And I am flying to Lawrence, Kansas next Saturday for a two-week-long writers' workshop conducted by a science fiction great, James Gunn. Teaching fiction was his "day job" while he wrote and he still is involved in the operation of The Center for the Study of Science Fiction at the University of Kansas in Lawrence.

I dug around in my book storage boxes last week and found a copy of Future Imperfect, Gunn's collection of short stories published in 1964. I bought it new and it's still in pretty good shape, although the pages have yellowed. The price, printed on the cover for all to see was forty cents.

And that brings me to something I have been mulling upon.

It occurs to me that one of the reasons that it has been six weeks since I have posted is that the days go by so quickly. Does it seem that way to you? That the older you get, the faster times goes by.

My son was thirty-one June 11th.

Rachael and I have been in Seattle for eighteen months now and it seems like just yesterday that we made that non-stop trip here.

She just had another birthday Wednesday and when we went out for pizza to celebrate, she told me that she felt as if the years were picking up speed, as well.

We've been together ten years now.

I can't help but wonder where does the time go?

Shakespeare had MacBeth say:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

I don't want to get all maudlin here, but I'm feeling a bit like that idiot tonight.

The bear facts

I have my daughter’s birthday gift ready to mail. She’s going to be twenty-eight soon and I’m sending her a teddy bear; there’s a story behind that.

When she was born, I bought her a cuddly bear, almost as big as she was, and she slept with it every night. When her first birthday came around, the natal bear was a bit tattered, so I bought her a replacement, and upon her second birthday another. By birthday three, she was talking and made it clear what she expected (she is and always has been a most insistent girl).

Over the years, it’s turned into a tradition. The one year I tried to send her enough extra birthday money to buy a bear, she told me in no uncertain terms what she thought of that idea.

So, every December she gets a teddy bear; some years, she gets more than one. I try to add a touch of whimsy, too.

When she was twenty, I sent Bat Bear and Robear, the Bruin Wonder, in full costume, of course; three years ago, I sent four bears wearing identical bowties. They were the BearBearshop Quartet, and arrived with an autographed fan photo and a CD of their latest hits.

Anyway, that’s the bears’ tale. I hope you have a happy birthday, Baby, and that your life is filled with ursine reveries and bruinish accord.

It’s a special day today

My son, David, big lug that he is now, was born on this day thirty years ago; it seems like it was just last week.

When he was two, I took him to see The Empire Strikes Back. It was late in the film’s run, there were just the two of us in the theatre for the matinee performance, and he stood on the seat beside me, balancing himself on the seat back in the next row, and didn’t make a sound through the entire show.

He was already talking in complete sentences by then, it was easy to forget that you were talking to a two-year-old, and we chattered the whole way home; him, pestering me with a thousand questions about what we had just seen, and me, trying to explain the experience in terms he could understand.

He has always been a thoughtful, stubborn sort, wanting to do things his way; I am like that, too. You can debate those qualities, their pros and cons, for days on end, but I think it has worked out okay for both of us.

It did mean that we bumped heads, often, when he was growing up. Once, when he was six or seven, I lose exact dates more and more these days, he told me that he was not pleased with a decision I had made, that he did not love me anymore and that he wanted to find a new family.

I helped him pack, gave him a sack lunch and twenty dollars, and told him to let us know when he found a new home. And then I watched him from an upstairs window, worried to death, for the better part of an hour, as he sat on the suitcase he had dragged down the sidewalk, thinking. When he knocked at the door, and asked if he could come back in, we both were crying.

When he was twelve, he announced that he wanted to be a comic book artist; surprised me with the quality of a pencil drawing he had done of a super hero. He is one of the lucky ones; not all of us discover so early that what we want to do for the rest of our lives is also something we can do well. Even fewer have the courage so young to pursue the dream. David is a commercial artist now; he is still good with pencils, but most of his work is done on computers and he does it for a film production company in Ohio.

Last year, the two of us wrote a screen play together, working long distance via the internet. We have started another, which we expect to complete by the end of this year. It will be such a kick, for both of us, to see our work upon the screen, but it is the ninety minutes each Wednesday that I treasures; just the two of us kicking ideas around, creating something together. It reminds me, every week, of that ride home, all those years ago, from The Empire Strikes Back.

So, I would like to lift this imaginary glass of wine to David, who is miles and miles away, and offer this birthday toast.

May his own son bring as much joy to him as he has brought to me. He was a good kid, even if he was a handful, and he has become a fine man. I am so proud of him and I love him more than I can ever say.