The Kindness of Strangers

Nearly 14 years ago, when I began this blog, I wrote a post (actually the 2nd post I ever did) about trying to find a copy of a book for a friend.  That book, Crawling, by Elisha Cooper, was a memoir of his first year parenting his first-born daughter.  I had read it shortly after I became a stay-at-home dad and found it compelling, and wonderful - a touchstone for me as I wrestled with my anxieties and joys along the way.

In 2016 Mr. Cooper published another memoir, Falling, chronicling his experience when his oldest daughter was diagnosed with cancer at age 7.  Never maudlin, that book laid bare his emotions and helplessness in the face of every parent's worst fear.  It's an extraordinary slice of one family's life. At the time I read it we had been coping with our own medical terrors (though nothing as life-threatening as theirs) and that added even more fuel to my sense of kinship with Mr. Cooper.

Elisha Cooper is normally a celebrated children's author who also does wonderful illustrations.  He is a Caldecott honoree, and his most recent book, River, was on the New York Times' list of the year's best children's books in 2019.  

I'm a collector of children's books.  Having done a lot of reading to my kids over the years I developed a small stable of favorites: Kevin Henkes, Kate DiCamillo, and Eleanor Lattimore (a distant relative). Mr. Cooper is included as well.  His lovely books hold a place of honor on our bookshelves, even if now my kids have long passed the age for them.

Last spring I reread my copy of Crawling.  It was still wonderful, though it carried a whiff of nostalgia for me as it conjured up memories of my first years raising my kids.  Those years feel both distant and very immediate now, and I was so grateful for the breadcrumbs to those memories that Crawling provided.  I was so grateful in fact, that I did something I have never done before:  I wrote Mr. Cooper a fan letter, thanking him for his books and sharing what they had meant to me and to my family.  I had no address for him, but was able to locate his FB page and sent it via message.  I hadn't really expected a response - had only written because I wanted to say thank you.

I sent the message in July, and to be honest, had forgotten about it completely.  Then, last Thursday evening, we returned home from a play that the Boy and the Girl were in and to my surprise there was a message from Mr. Cooper.

In it he apologized profusely for the delay - he rarely gets on FB and had not seen it until that day.  He said he was touched by my appreciation of his work and our family's love of his books. He told me his oldest daughter (who is cancer-free now) had started college this year - he had spoken to her just that day.  He added a request for my mailing address to send us a book to apologize for his lack of response, even if unintentional, and wished us his best.

I wrote back to tell him that even though a book would be highly prized in our home, it was entirely unnecessary - I had written him originally only to offer my gratitude for his works.

Yesterday a package arrived in the mail.  It contained two books: Yes & No, and Big Cat, Little Cat, each with lovely inscriptions and doodles.

We are awed by his kind act.  

Thank you, Elisha.

Sentimental? Yes.

It Beats

15 years ago we found out we were expecting our son.
This is for him.

Memorial Day

Today marks 28 years since I lost my little brother.  So I offer this memory of him (I’ve posted this before).

When we were kids Lee could be conned into anything. Regardless of how dumb or dangerous it was, he could be convinced that he could do it.

Near our home was a huge empty field.  We often rode our various bikes up there and used abandoned construction materials to build ramps that we then would jump our bikes over.

On one particular day, when I was 13 and Lee was 11, he and I, along with two friends, built just such a ramp.  It was enormous.  We took trash cans and laid them down in a line at the end of the ramp and proceeded to ride with great fury up the ramp and leap the trash cans.  The first couple of cans we took turns, each of us making our approach and flying over the obstacles.  As more cans were added the difficulty increased and the threat to life and limb became more daunting.  Eventually all of us but Lee bowed out.  He was not dissuaded.

On his attempt at five cans he barely cleared the last one.  As we cheered his landing he rode back to us and said that was it - he was done.  But we wanted one more can.  We coaxed and cajoled him - “You can do one more, c’mon, try it.”  Finally, he was convinced.

We laid the sixth can out at the end of the line.  He walked up and down those cans, mentally measuring the distance.  He climbed on his bike, a beater of a thing made of equal parts heavy beach cruiser and chopper handlebars, and rode half a block away.  He turned the bike and stared at the ramp.  As we yelled, “let’s go, let’s go,” he began to pedal madly.  It seemed to take forever for him to get to us, but once he did he was flying.  He hit the ramp and launched at the top like a rocket.  We gasped.  As he cleared the obstacles his rear wheel clipped the end of the last can.  That shortage was his disaster.  He became Knievel at Caesar’s Palace - he and the bike tumbling as one, head over heels, like a ragdoll. He came to a stop in a cloud of dust.

We raced over to him and pulled him from the wreckage - the bike frame had split in two.  Blood dripped from his nose and knees and elbows.  Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with dirt and blood.  He stood there crying, looking at the broken bike, and the ramp, and that last evil can.  And then he looked at me.  Without saying a word he began limping away, toward home.

Panic set in for me.  He would walk in the house, explain to our parents what had happened and I would be dead (my only thought at that moment was how much trouble I would be in.)  I yelled after him, “Lee! Lee!’  He ignored my calls.  “Lee,” I screamed, “Where are you going?!”

He stopped and turned.  He wiped the bloody snot from his nose, and through his tears he said with a fierce determination, “To get the other bike.”

And he did.

And he jumped that last can.

And that was my little brother.

November 13

There are milestones - landmarks - in children's growth and then there are milestones.   Stupid as it seems today is the anniversary of one of them.  On, November 13, 2006, eleven years ago today, the Boy was permitted to watch television.  See, I told you - stupid.

He had been kept from the tube throughout infancy.  He wasn't plopped down in front of it, his numb gaze transfixed.  We didn't even watch it when he was in the room.  I'm not pounding my chest with superiority; it's just a choice we made.  We just thought the world should give him a taste of its wonders before he got lost in the flat void.

However the day arrived when we felt he was ready for limited and controlled viewing.  I sampled loads of children's programming before settling on, what at the time was, PBS Kids Sprout, a relatively new cable channel with limited advertising (aimed not at kids but at caregivers) and relatively quiet shows that for the most part were reruns of PBS shows. Sesame Street, Sagwa and their kin made up the programming.

So on that day I let him have that hour and I observed him carefully.  Intrigued, but not overwhelmed, he watched... and enjoyed.  The timing of its introduction into his development was pretty good.  His own imagination and play was supplemented, but not replaced, by what he watched.

Sprout as it existed then was a regular part of our home for a number of years after.  Its sounds echoed through the house in the late afternoons and evenings and those familiar theme songs and shows can draw up memories for all of us.  It continued playing long after all three kids had passed its target age.

This last September Sprout changed to Universal Kids.  It had been coming.  Comcast bought out PBS and other partners a few years back, upped the ad content, increased the programming of merchandise-oriented shows, and basically abandoned that which had made Sprout uniquely suited to younger viewers.  That's life, I guess.  We had it good for a while.

It's been a sad farewell to yet another bit of magic from that part of their lives.

So, here's a clip from that very day 11 years ago (he actually watched this that day.)