Let Me Tell You About Canadians . . .

Let Me Tell You About Canadians . . .

We all know that most Canadians are polite. I now know why. They sublimate their fury. Canadians drive like enraged Mongols. They walk through public places like they were electrons pinging around in a supercollider. I can only confirm that’s true for the ones in...
Do You Want Fries and Souvlaki With That?

Do You Want Fries and Souvlaki With That?

When I walked into the restaurant last night my feet stuck to the floor. The smell of grease choked me up a little, and I couldn’t hear my wife over the pressure cookers and fans. I assumed the fans were there to keep the sole employee from exploding like a CO2...
Taking the Guilt Train to Little Rock

Taking the Guilt Train to Little Rock

I am objectively a lousy father. Compared to my father, I am a psychotic crack addict trying to raise orchids in a toilet. It started with a rose-colored memory of my family’s driving vacations when I was a boy. Swinging through the western states and the national...
The Problem With Explaining Grief

The Problem With Explaining Grief

I’ve been looking for a way to explain how I feel about my father dying. It’s as if I were born on a continent, and I played there, and I grew up falling, and getting back up, and figuring out how I fell. I went back there when I was proud. I went back...
You May As Well Laugh

You May As Well Laugh

There is a giant hole in the world shaped like my father. I can walk around it, but I can never fill it. He died this morning in his sleep, in his own bed, and without pain. Dying piles indignities on us, but he held on to more dignity than most. At age eighty-six he...