Yesterday I ran into my neighbor. She walking up the block with her two little daughters and a man I didn't know. Alyssa was holding the hand of the little one, and the man was holding the hand of the older child.

Alyssa introduced the man as her father, which I'd already guessed, and I felt a rush of emotion on meeting him.  The first thing I felt was a great sense of warmth, seeing that grandfather walking with his baby granddaughters.  The second thing I felt was grief.  Grief, mixed with jealousy.

When I was tiny like those girls, I adored my Grandpa Aro.  I recall follwing him back and forth  as he mowed the large field outside the big barn, black radio swinging by it's leather strap from the handle of the mower.  Grandpa Aro always had a candy in his pocket for a grandchild.  He always had a knee for me to sit on.  He always had a story to tell, and a song to sing.  

I always imagined Dad the same way- sharing his own songs with his own grandchildren, on his own knee.  I have always thought my Dad was made for Grandparenthood.  

The day to day grind of parenthood was maybe a bit much for him-  Donna and I were often out of clean socks and tee-shirts to wear, and don't get me started on his cooking.  He wasn't much on doctor visits or dentist appointments- preferring to treat our occasional bouts of ringworm with antifungal cremes purchased at the farmer's co-op.  He didn't sit down with us to do homework over the kitchen table. Despite all of that, we always knew he loved us.  He was always glad to see us.  Always happy to have our untidy hands helping him with whatever he was doing.

More than that, Dad LIKED us.  He liked kids in general.  

He loved talking to us and telling stories.  He loved taking us fishing or letting us help him work on his car, or fix this or that around the house.  Dad always spoke to children respectfully.  He never assumed that, just because we were young, that we weren't logical, epathetic, humans, qualified to think for themselves.

He assumed we could reason things out, that we had enough sense to handle a hammer or a saw. He also teased us.  He teased quite a lot, actually.  

Dad was the king of silly puns.  Donna and I used bounce in the springy seats of Dad's car while we were driving.  Sometimes, when we saw one of those "Stop Ahead" signs, Dad would reach out his long, tan right arm and press our heads gently back against the seat.  "Stop a Head!" he'd laugh, and we'd laugh too.

When Donna and I were kids, we loved to gather around him with our many cousins to hear him tell stories like  The Pee Little Thrigs, Rindercella, and my personal favorite, Esmerelda Finderfoot and the Bloody Drippy Hand.   He'd pick up his guitar and sing silly songs- songs like That Little Brown Shack Out Back, Kaw-Liga, and even Eskimo Dog.  Donna and I thought those songs were sad.    

He teased us, tickled us, colored with us, and played endless hours of Aggravation with us, even though we were often giggling too hard to roll the dice.  

He gave all the kids nicknames like "Fireplug," "Fussbudget," and "Rock."  

Dad told the most ridiculous jokes.  Jokes we didn't understand at all.  We laughed at them anyway- assuming we'd understand them when we grew up.  Eventually, he explained that he and his friends made up these jokes when he was in the army to entertain one another.  

I think now that the joke was that there's no joke.  Which is actually my kind of joke, now that I think about it.

Question:  What is yellow and goes "click-click, click-click, click-click?"

Answer:  A ballpoint banana

We were both still in high school when Dad moved to Missouri.  After that, we mostly saw him at family reunions, weddings, and graduations.  

Question:  How can you tell if there's been an elephant in your refrigerator?

Answer:  By the footprints in the jello!

At my wedding rehearsal dinner,  I noticed Dad standing alone and a little forlorn near the coffee maker at the back of the room.  I hopped up to drag him to his seat, which was right between two kids.  Just as I'd planned, Dad loved meeting Theo and Rhoya, and talking to them helped him to relax and enjoy the event.

Question:  Why did the elephant paint her toenails red?

Answer: For camoflauge in the cherry tree!

My daughter was just 8 weeks old when my sister got married.  On that wedding trip, Dad spent every possible minute holding his first grandchild.  I felt that I had given him the best gift he could ever get.  

I confess, it was a gift to me, when I saw him looking down at my daughter with that same teasing look that he always gave me.  To see those large, capable hands cradling her head as she slept in his arms.  

Dad liked to be called Grandpa Aro, like his dad before him. I always assumed that grandchildren would be good for what ails you, as he used to say- that playing with them would bring him joy.  But things don't always work out the way we hope they will.

Dad was happy in Missouri.  Happier than he'd ever been.  Donna and I had jobs.  The kids had school, they had camps, and they had ideas of their own.  Luckily, Dad had kids in Missouri to tease- children of his friends, and the children of my cousin, Trent.  He told me about those girls just about every time we spoke.

In the end, our kids never had the pleasure of lazy summer days fishing with Grandpa Aro, or making hay forts.  They didn't get nicknames.  They heard Grandpa Aro's songs and stories from Donna and I, and not from him.  

My Grandpa Aro- Dad's father-  had a cardboard box of white plastic circles that we used to play with when we were at their house.  The circles were that thing that is left over once you've used up all of the scotch tape.

When we played with them, Dad would inevitably place one in his eye like a monacle and say,

"So I sees the bloke in the ditch, and I takes me gun, and I shoots him!  And he says to me, he says, "I say there, gov'nor, that smarts!"

I learned later that this was another Army thing.  He was quoting another soldier, who had been telling a story about a training exercise in which they were shooting at each other with blanks.

Naturally, I do the same thing whenever I find a circle that will fit in my eye socket. As soon as it was possible, I taught my daughter to do it too.

Though I'm grateful for the happy life he found, all those miles away, I will always miss the memories we didn't get to make together- especially the ones we could have made with these kids.  I know Grandpa Aro adored them even from afar, and I know that they would have enjoyed his antics just as much as I did.

When I'm feeling regretful about these things, I like to remind myself that they've been having a relationship with Grandpa Aro their whole lives already.

Every time I tease them, or sing some silly song that I've made up, I'm being Grandpa Aro.  Every time I make fun of the dogs for not having thumbs, I'm being Grandpa Aro.  

Likewise, every time they make silly puns, and every time they laugh until they cry while playing board games, they're being Grandpa Aro too.

Miss you, Dad.

Daniel “Dan” Philip Aro, aged 77, of Jasper, passed away on Wednesday, May 18, 2022 at Freeman Hospital in Joplin MO.

Dan was born on February 8, 1945 in Baltimore, Maryland, the 6^th of the seven children of John Aro and Mary (Detweiler) Aro.  Dan’s siblings were John Aro, David Aro, Rose Ellen (Aro) Brewer, James Aro, Marjorie (Aro) Carr and Joe Aro.

Dan’s family moved from Ohio to Albany, Oregon when he was a boy.  He attended Albany Union High School before joining the Army.  During his time in the service, Dan saw the world- traveling to Germany, Korea, and Japan.  In 1968, after his discharge from the Army, Dan married Teresa Mae Groff and became a father.  The marriage wasn’t a long one, lasting less than four years, but it left Dan with two treasured daughters, and a lifelong fear of commitment.

A gifted storyteller, Dan loved to entertain his daughters, his nieces and nephews, and any other children or adults in his general vicinity.  Those who loved him knew to be ready for constant teasing when Dan was around, and his daughters grew up fluent in the art of playful banter.

“There are three food groups,” he used to say, “Beef, Salt, and Milk!”

Dan loved a good pot roast, and he loved having livestock.  He was always happiest when he had a few head of cattle to care for, and maybe some pigs and chickens too.  His girls have fond memories of going with him to the auction, where he liked to bid on the smallest, skinniest calves.  He would bring those bony critters home in the back seat of his station wagon and nurse them to full strength.  The girls were bottle feeding calves when they were barely tall enough to look them in the eye.

Dan played the guitar most of his life.  He had a lovely singing voice and an impressive repertoire of songs that were both sad and silly at the same time.  He was a man who loved to laugh, and to make others laugh too. A ferocious tease, Dan once said he believed his mother, Mary, lived to the age of 93 in part because his constant joking kept her sharp.

In the late 70’s and early 80’s, Dan traveled around the country, often hitchhiking from state to state, dropping in on family who lived far and wide.  Eventually, he found himself in Jasper, Missouri, on a farm owned by his sister, Rose Ellen, and her husband, Jim Brewer.  Dan fell in love with that land.  He claimed his years on that farm, gardening, raising livestock, and looking after his mother, were the happiest of his life.  He’d found his home in Missouri, and his wandering days were over.  Though he eventually moved off that farm, he never lived far from that spot again.

In 2013, after losing his home in Webb City to a tornado, Dan realized a lifelong dream when he purchased a plot of land of his own.  That land is less than 10 minutes’ drive from the Brewer farm.

Dan was never afraid of hard work.  When he wasn’t working on his own land, he was helping others- doing small repairs, helping to build homes or fences, or mowing the grass at the Brewers’ farm.

He claimed that the best job he ever had was building fences, because he worked every day with his good friends, Marvin and Konrad.  It was hard work in hot, humid weather, but the Gatorade kept them alive, and the laughter helped the time fly by.

In addition to raising livestock and teasing his loved ones, Dan enjoyed fishing and hunting for deer.  He had a vast collection of Westerns by Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey, and he enjoyed Clint Eastwood movies. He always had a dog around the house, and he spoiled them outrageously.  Some of his favorites included Mindy, Buddy, Scruffy, Scraggles, and Molly.

Dan is survived by two daughters, Patti Aro of Seattle Washington and Donna Vodopich, of Bellingham Washington, and four grandchildren- Scarlett and Owen Selden and Mia and Mitch Vodopich.  Also, one brother, James Aro, and a passel of nieces and nephews, great-nieces and great-nephews, as well as other children and adults unrelated to him by blood, who still sing the silly songs he once sang to them, and who still tell the stories he once told to them.

No formal services are planned at this time.  The family requests that memorial contributions be made to your local pet shelter.  We encourage those who loved Dan to celebrate him with stories and laughter, and, of course, the singing of silly songs.

I push my cart in slow, measured steps, planning my route carefully to avoid the other shoppers.  The usual seasonal displays are up, towers of brown and confectioner's sugars stand next to cases of evaporated milk and cinnamon.  

I have a long list, which makes me feel panicky.  This store was remodeled a year ago, and because of the pandemic I've never learned where to find things in the new layout.  All of my shopping trips are carefully planned.  My lists is crafted with care. I try to get in and quickly out, like a sloppily dressed shopping ninja.  

I inhale slowly, and exhale gently into my mask.  I've learned to set my glasses atop the mask to prevent them from steaming up, which I think is a win.

I collect whole milk and 2%, plus two containers of whipping cream.  Past the dairy department is the meat.  I see turkeys, and all of them are much too large for our family of four.  I select the most frozen one I can find, because I'm here early.  I am not ashamed to confess- I was concerned they might run out.  

I avoid the toilet paper aisle- I saw already that it is almost empty.  

I encounter Susan near the cheese counter and greet her with surprise.  She greets me back, but I'm pretty sure she has no idea who I am.  I must be hard to recognize with my orange knit cap, my purple mask, and my wild-eyed  no makeup stare.  

I could strike up a conversation, but that seems counter productive.  I've already been in here much longer than I had intended.  Also, the thought of making small talk inside the store makes my chest feel tight.  And anyway, what does anyone have to talk about these days?  We are, all of us, on hold indefinitely.

On my list are Pie Beads and a new baking dish, but those are downstairs.  I wheel my cart behind the elevator to avoid the people standing in the checkout line, only to find that the down escalator, along with the escalator for shopping carts, is closed.  Back at the elevator, I see that it is out of service also.  I park my cart near the pyramid of canned pumpkin.  I could leave it here, just for a few minutes.  I could walk down the stairs.  My heart beats faster at the thought.  Imagine if some earnest employee, assuming my cart was abandoned,  decided to restock all of my hard won items?

It's not worth it, I decide.  I can go downstairs another day.  I wheel my cart to the pharmacy.  I have to pass by the shampoo aisle, walk down the makeup aisle, and come through hair care from the other end, because a woman was there, looking at mousse.  I stand far back from her and read labels from afar, but the conditioner I'm looking for isn't in stock.

I have checked off most of the items on my list, so I head for the checkout lines.  I move slowly, carefully.  The anxiety plays tricks with gravity- or maybe it's the mask that makes me feel like I'm walking on the moon.

When I arrive home, I sit in the car in the lit garage for a moment.  At last I pop the trunk and climb out of the car.  I open the door into the kitchen and announce in a chipper voice, "Sorry, kiddo, no pie beads today!" as I make my way to the sink to wash my hands.

"I'll check again next time I'm at the store."

Then I head back to the garage to begin carrying in the groceries.

Home is brightly lit and warm.  My family is safe inside.  I am grateful.

The sky is gray, and the wind is gusty but warm.  It isn’t raining, which makes this an excellent time for a walk.  

Chase’s fur whips this way and that in dancing cowlicks as he prances down the sidewalk ears up, nose to the wind.  A seagull surfs the turbulence above, his lonely call making me nostalgic.  What am I missing the most today?  Such thoughts are not helpful now, when there are still so many darklong months ahead.  

I turn my attention a tiny flock of birds.  They dive and dart in bird formation until they alight on a skeletal tree.  Similar in shape and color to the last leaves still clinging to the branches, the birds appear to vanish the moment they land.  

Chase stops to investigate a patch of earth.  I assume he’s looking at the yellow leaf, which is twitching, threatening to launch into the breeze.  Suddenly, he lunges, and plunges his nose into a dent in the soil and then begins, with sudden fury, to dig.  Surprised, I stop him and we move on.  

A clump of pampas grass reaches out to us as we pass.  Undulating like an enormous, soft paintbrush, the tattered plumes brush my elbow and shoulder.

Even the plants seem lonely this season.

When I gave my icebreaker speech, I knew exactly why I had joined Toastmasters.  "I want to tell stories for The Moth, and I want to be on the radio."

That was in 2012, and The Moth held their first Story Slam in Seattle the following month.  Dan Kennedy was hosting (squee!) and I was in the audience.  Over the next 6 months I gave 10 speeches, earning my Competent Communicator title in record time, and I went to the Moth Story Slam every single month.

It is my policy to put my name into that hat every time I attend.

What a rush it is, to have my name in that hat!

I never know what kind of story I'm going to hear, but I cheer for every storyteller, knowing how scary it is.  Knowing I might be next.  

During the story I'm breathless- enjoying the tale and also practicing my own story in my head.  The story ends, and I feel my heart race as the storyteller reaches into the hat to pull out the name of the next speaker.
Is it me?
Is it me?
Is it me?

My throat constricts, my mouth goes dry.  The name isn't mine.
I flush with relief and disappointment.  My hands tremble a little.
I take a deep breath, calm my heart, and settle for the next story.  Five minutes later, the story ends, and the cycle begins again.

Sometimes I work hard on my story. I write and revise.  I practice aloud, pacing in my bedroom, or driving in the car.  Some months I can use parts of a speech I've told recently.  Some months, the prompt they give just doesn't fit- nothing compelling comes to mind.  The story is slow in coming.

One night, after a busy week, I arrived at The Moth with nothing more than an outline.  A shape- thin, like the curve of the new moon.  It started with an anecdote.  I centered on something scary.  It didn't really have a resolution.

I sat in the audience with my pen and a receipt from my purse, making notes.  I tried different constructions in my mind.  

My name was called.  
The lights were on.  
I looked into the crowd.

One thing I've learned from Toastmasters is the skill of impromptu speaking. If I build some little tidbit that I've told before into my story it warms me up and helps me find my rhythm.

So I leaned into that anecdote.  I watched the crowd for their reaction.  I found a path to that ending I had in mind.  The five minutes dragged forever.  They were over in a flash.  

And then the judging.  

One fun feature of a Story Slam is the judging.  In the beginning of the night, the event organizers recruit several teams of judges from the audience. Those judges are given a rubric and some flip charts with numbers.  The judging teams make up silly team names like Pink Fluffy Unicorns, or Really Bad Actors.  After every speech, each team of judges provide a score from 1-10.  At the end of the night, the scores are tallied, and the storyteller with the best score wins, and is invited to speak at the Grand Slam, later in the year.  

I didn't win.  In fact, I've never won a Story Slam, though I dream of winning one someday.  It hadn't been my best story, but I felt I'd made a heartfelt tale.  I'd attacked a scary subject with sincerity and vulnerability, so I thought I had a chance.

Normally, I don't mind not winning.  I hope to win someday, but I'm willing to work for it.  However.   On this particular night, the winning story was about the time the storyteller ate a bag of prunes and pooped his pants at Kindergarten. It was funny and sweet, and the bit about the car ride home with his mom was pretty great.

But I did NOT like being beaten by kindergarten poop.

5 years later, when I received word that my story had been selected to appear in this week's episode of The Moth Radio Hour, I felt vindicated.

That poop guy won the Story Slam, but MY story is going to be on the radio.

This week, The Moth Radio Hour will air their episode, "Fear Factor."  One of the stories, entitled "Stardust and Old Dogs" is my story from that night.  You can listen to it live on your local NPR station, or you can find it here.

I haven't listened yet.  I'm a little bit nervous.

But also- SUPER EXCITED!

Waking up at 6:00 a.m. feeling panicky about getting them to school on time.
Packing lunches.
Sitting in waiting rooms.
That sinking feeling that I’m not going to be able to finish before bedtime.
Putting on makeup.
Unpacking lunch boxes.
Panicking about getting the kids to bed on time because they have to get up early.
Panicking about falling asleep on time so I can wake up at 6:00 a.m.
Waking up at 4:00 a.m. to panic about waking up at 6:00 a.m.
Waking up sleeping children.

List Two:  Things I miss

My friends and family.
Potlucks.
Planning trips.
Swimming.
Getting dressed up.
Live shows.

Now that I look at it, every item on List Two is something I was already missing out on, even in The Before, when things were Normal.  I was missing out on them because of those things on List One.

When this is over, I am not sure I want to go back to Normal.  When this is over, I hope there will be a new normal.  One with less of that stuff on List One, and more room for the things on List Two.

My husband is a busy man.

By day he's a mild-mannered software developer working for a startup. At night, he is a member of the core team on a successful open source project. When he's not travelling for his day job, Kris is working from our home, picking up the kids from school, organizing meetups, or travellling to speak at meetups or conferences.

Sometimes, his open source colleagues come to stay with us so that they can work together late into the nights.

So when my husband told me that he wanted to take down my blog and rebuild it in something called "Ghost", I knew I was in for a wait.

In the early years of our marriage, I was jealous of Kris' computer. I resented the hours he spent working, and I complained loudly to the back of his head every night before I went off to bed alone.

Over time I have come to see that Kris is one of those rare people who has found his place in the world. Found his place, and is satisfied and successful in ways that I can only admire.

Recently, we were discssing his work while hanging out at our favorite coffee shop with the kids. "No developer wants to work on old platforms," he said.

"All the developers at my company are on ancient platforms," I noted absently.

The tone of Kris' voice changed.

"There are no developers like me at your company."

This gave me a little shiver. For a moment, I saw Kris as a person just meeting him might see him. How had I not noticed this matter-of-fact confidence?

Now it's late. The kids are asleep, and I'm sitting beside my husband. Each of us staring into a laptop, working in companionable quiet. I'm writing my first post in my new Ghost-powered blog, and thinking of how lucky I am to have such a man supporting my writing.