What crystal clear thoughts I have of the very first time we met, Emmy and me. We left Dakota Court in the early morning of the 2nd, catapulted by the news that You Were Here. And into the freeze, we went, arriving later that cold Memphis day in the afternoon, racing the Cincinnati crew to the hospital, and then, looking into your dazzling blue eyes, and holding you close, safe, secure. These memories keep me warm at night, dazzled during the daylight, my Emery Solana. My miracle Emery. How she came to us, only God can explain, explained solely by his goodness, his mercy, his timing, his way of surprising us with gifts and miracles beyond our reckoning or possible dreams. An answer to prayer? Many prayers, many petitions, many pleadings.

Emery fulfilled many a prayer, many a dream, through that February 1st arrival. I remember the hat you wore home from the hospital, and that I keep, I remember the knitted white cap that your Meemaw made for you, and how sleepy you were those first few days, nestled among your sock monkeys. I remember so vividly our wonderment at how God had arranged your departure from Tennessee seemingly so effortlessly and we learned that we could take you home that very day, take you to Cincinnati, take you to a waiting throng of loving, joyful, mesmerized, family, your pictures taken again and again, especially by your uncle Michael. And I remember your very first bath at home with your daddy, and that special little voice that cried out, “Home, I am home!” (And our first Super Bowl together, one that the team I cared about actually won!)

How brave, and bold, and beautiful you are, my precious one, and growing up so fast. These are the days of Shamu and Elmo and Roby and Mailboxes and Kitchens! These are the days of visits by cousin Sebo and Aunt Mary, of ice cream sandwiches in Ocean Beach, of Uncle Justin and Aunt Juliette’s wedding, of mornings with Uncle Michael and Aunt Shelby.

These are the once-upon-a-time days of owls and robots and Build-a-Bear LuLu kittens, and of Olivia the pig. These days will pass so soon, so soon, our dear little one. But they will be remembered, and we will remind you of what you did and how you looked and what you said and how you sang the alphabet and the New Year’s Eve you spent with us while mommy and daddy celebrated with the wedding party. And those little, bitty toes and the joy they gave your Bepaw, once upon a time. Once upon a time.

Happy Birthday, sweetie! Thank you for coming to be with us; thank you for bringing unspeakable joy to our hearts. Two years old, and as irrepressibly smart and as uncommonly beautiful as ever. Merci, mon Dieu. Merci.

Happy Birthday, Matt!

That little boy, that gift from heaven that arrived two weeks “late” in January, 1975, has been a joy and inspiration ever since. There a number of things I knew immediately when I saw Matt in the hospital that very first day; one was that he would be a leader, a quiet but confident leader, who would inspire friendship and admiration among all he met. To this day I am astounded by the number of friends Matt & Tracey have, everywhere they go—friends who would do anything for them.

What makes someone attractive to others, powerful to acquire such deep and abiding friendships? Answer: someone genuine, charismatic, reliable, trustworthy, consistent, daring, engaging–and handsome, athletic, and electric. I can sum this all up by saying: people of all kinds simply see Jesus in Matt, see Jesus’s kind eyes, empathy, delight, love.

What I could not have seen that first day in January, 1975, is how His Father in Heaven had prepared Matt for being such a wonderful Dad. It brings tears to my eyes to even think about how tenderly he loves and cares for sweet Emery, his miracle daughter and for his beautiful bride Tracey. His love is deep and high and wide, his talent for fatherhood a gift from heaven.

It makes me rejoice when I see pictures or videos of Matt with ESE or Tracey just enjoying their lives together, but nothing assures me that God loves us and Heaven is real more than seeing this close up and in person. Emery adores her daddy, as she should. And as do I.

Happy is the man whose son exemplifies faith, hope, and love, and, thus, I am the happiest of happy, on this glorious day, that celebrates my wonderful son, husband to Tracey, daddy to Emery. Glory to God.

Here we go. A 2011 Best lists. Maybe I should call this the most haunting list.

Everything since March 15, 2011 must be seen and understood under that shadow. A lot of joy was drained from my life.

But the rest of the news and adventures from the year were restorative and healing.

Joy is abundant if you only let it flow to you.

Note: I have limited this to those movies that I saw in theatres. As for music, anything by my children always tops the list.

TOP MUSIC 2011

1. Michael Edwards, Genetic Engines
2. Come Back to Me (soundtrack) Mike and Justin
3. Jukebox the Ghost, Everything Under the Sun
4. Adele, 21
5. Explosions in the Sky, Take Care, Take Care, Take Care
6. Megafaun, Megafaun
7. Sara Groves, Invisible Empire
8. M83, Hurry Up We’re Dreaming
9. Mates of State, Mountaintops
10. Glen Campbell, Ghost on the Canvas

TOP MOVIES 2011

1. Source Code
2. MI 4 Ghost Protocol
3. I am Number Four
4. The Illusionist
5. The Artist
6. Midnight in Paris
7. Hugo
8. Tree of Life
9. Green Lantern
10. SH-Game of Shadows

TOP TV SERIES 2011

1. Person of Interest
2. The Mentalist
3. Homeland
4. Game of Thrones
5. Falling Skies
6. The Walking Dead
7. Revenge
8. Grimm
9. Parks and Recreation
10. Once Upon a Time

TOP TRIPS FOR 2011

1. San Diego/LA Wedding

2. Cinque Terre
3. Lille
4. Paris
5. Rome
6. Denver, Willow, San Diego summer tour
7. Houston
8. New Orleans
9. Chicago
   

TOP MEALS FOR 2011 (unranked)

• Tracey’s Shrimp Wraps and Tortilla Soup

• The Station (SD)
• Vine Street Grill (Denver)
• Slater’s 50/50 (SD)
• Steubens (Denver)
• Humpy’s (Anchorage)
• Tony’s (carbonara meal near Vatican)
• Il Pirata delle (brothers who serve fresh pastries in Cinque Terre)
• Le Pain Quotidien (LA)
• Hodad’s (SD)

Once upon a time, in a mythical kingdom called France, a little girl was born to Bernard and Nicole. They called her Juliette. (We call her Juliette, too.)

Her life course was set when her parents found her cuddled up in their home editing bay at the age of two, intent on re-editing Godards’s À bout de souffle because it wasn’t “New Wave enough” for her.

Somehow (there are no accidents), she later found her way to the magical kingdom of Southern California, determined to finish her mission to reset the destiny of all film. And, little did she know, her own life as well.

On the other side of the globe, a young boy who was called Justin (We call him Justin, too) was beginning his career as a hopeful romantic, writing love song after love song, waiting, persevering to find she who would hear in them the call of her true love.

Seeking to find that one-of-a-kind woman who would both understand Pseudobook and love the Astros, he too left for the magical kingdom known only by its mystical alphabetical acronymic appellation, AFI.

Lo and high he searched and prayed, never giving up, not knowing that that very young lady from the magical kingdom of France was on a search of her own. Then, one day, when they least expected it, there she was, and there he was; his Juliette, her Justin. A song echoed from somewhere deep inside him, “Whenever I’m with her, my heart beats faster. . .” Her true love and his had a name, and a voice, and a presence. And thus, happily ever after they will live.

Now some parts of this story may have been made up or some details adjusted, but perhaps not the ones you think.

For God is always at work in our lives, turning fairy tales into dreams come true, and magical kingdoms are close by all the time if we only knew, known by the most mysterious of names. Bowling Green. Austin. Manhattan. Rolla. Willow. Ocean Beach. Memphis. Denver. West Hollywood. Clermont-Ferrand.

But these are the things we know are true and real and sublime: Juliette is beautiful, talented, gentle, kind, and funny, a lovely and gracious young woman, whose presence radiates love and warmth.

She is a unique gift from God, first to her family, then to Justin, and then to all of us who have come to know her through him.

Juliette, this is the first birthday we get to intentionally celebrate with you, but we will rejoice in learning more about all 26 before that we’ve missed, and yearn to be present when your next one comes around.

Happy Birthday, Juliette, Nous vous aimons!

From November to November, our lives shift and turn and brake so much. The last two Thanksgivings are vivid; we spent them in Willow, enjoying Alaskan hospitality and exquisite family time. Before that, my mind turns to Thanksgivings with Grandpa in Akron or at Dakota, or all of us at Lake Arrowhead in the snow, or any of the times at Village Dr. or Stadium View Apts.; ah, my memories are luscious. Together. What a deceptively powerful word. I am grateful for those times, and all the times we’ve gathered to be as one. And all the times that still await.

November is a rich month for other reasons too, as we are rejoicing in Tracey’s birthday, as well as my Mom’s, Betty Lou’s, birthday, and my grandma’s, Mary Ethel Ward Klever’s birthday, and my Mom and Dad’s anniversary (it would be 51 years this November 19). Novembers bring precious memories.

This Thanksgiving I am thinking very specifically about some things I am grateful for, grateful to God, of course, but grateful to all of you, whom God has given me to walk through this world in order to prepare me for the next. So here for you are my late November thoughts for this year.

1. I am grateful for Sebastian Edward, Emery Solana, and our new Sanford-Edwards Baby Granddaughter; it is thrilling, captivating to be a Grandpa, a PawPaw, a Dad. No greater calling. What they all can teach you about yourself, about what you truly value, about what is truly valuable, is immeasurable and satisfying to the utmost. I wish I could hug them right now.
2. I am grateful for my sons, Matt, Justin, and Michael: three sterling examples of perseverance, faith, dedication, and achievement. Most fathers would love to have even one son or daughter with half as many of their accomplishments; but I glory in the rich treasury of wonder, love, and companionship they bring me, even from a distance.
3. I am grateful for daughter Mary Elizabeth, for her joyful presence and creativity, hope, and determination. Her playfulness and adventuresome spirit enliven and inspire and keep me focused on what’s ahead. Daughters are irreplaceable gifts from God.
4. I am grateful for Joseph Casey, for his handsome manliness, his courage, daring, and love. I am in awe of his care and support for Mary and Sebo, and his embrace of challenge and the fortitude to accomplish what is in his heart.
5. I am grateful for Tracey Colleen and Shelby Elizabeth, for their gifts of grace and humor and speaking the truth in love. What beauty, talent, and tender-heartedness are found deep within them; what honor, what kindness, and what love they bring to their homes and their husbands, and, thereby, to me and Joan.
6. I am grateful for Juliette, and the warmth and beauty and cheer and vitality she brings to and invests in our family; I am glad Justin and she have each found their one and only. C’est si bon!
7. I am grateful for Joan, my faithful, tender, loving, talented wife, who supports me in all I do or have ever tried to do, and is my motivation to keep moving forward with new horizons and plans, finding new ways to bless her and let her know she is treasured; that’s a lifelong joy and privilege.
8. I am grateful for my dad, Bruce Sr., who never knew how great and generous and glorious a dad he was; I now realize that one of his greatest gifts to me was his example of patience and sacrifice, his dreams exchanged for mine.
9. I am grateful for the 30 years of stewardship in my vocation as a teacher/writer/administrator at BGSU; how profoundly God has taken care of us abundantly through these years, spreading out before us a feast of travel, fellowship, income, and safety!
10. I am grateful that I cannot see the future, whose burdens would be too great: “Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” (Matthew 6:34). Selah.

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Other past Thanksgiving themed posts:

http://www.pseudobook.com/bruce/?p=3071 (2010)

http://www.pseudobook.com/bruce/?p=1929 (2009)

http://www.pseudobook.com/bruce/?p=940 (2008)

http://www.pseudobook.com/bruce/?p=751 (2007)

http://www.pseudobook.com/bruce/?p=527 (2006)

http://www.pseudobook.com/bruce/?p=528 (2006)

http://www.pseudobook.com/bruce/?p=375 (2005)

http://www.pseudobook.com/bruce/?p=253 (2004)

Dear beautiful Tracey, you bring such hope and wonder and peace to all you love, the face of Jesus shining from your eyes, enveloping us in His tender care. Your birthday gives us the opportunity to tell you again how much we love you, what it means to us for Matt to have given us such a lovely, committed, supportive daughter, how proud we are to be part of your family, and how privileged we are to witness the daily heavenly glory embodied in our crazy gorgeous, blue-eyed, ridiculously gifted granddaughter Emery Solana.

We can’t wait to celebrate with you in person and to enjoy your kind-hearted hospitality and hugs once more. We love you, Tracey Colleen, now and always.

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I had a dream about him last night. Having sold his car, perhaps it was inevitable that he would show up. I believe he was in most of the dream, but what I was able to remember is that we were in a race. He was considerably ahead of me, and I was huffing and puffing. Suddenly, he pulled a muscle, and he fell down. When I got next to him, and I helped him up, and we finished the race together.

I have hardly been thinking of anything else lately. I wanted to make sure when I upgraded my iPhone that I would not lose his photos or videos, nor any of his voice mails and messages to me. I also captured all of my emails and text messages from the hospital that I sent out over that time.

In the midst of all that, of course, I cried a lot (again), but also discovered a short video I had made when we went with him and Mabel to Uncle Chuck’s 80th birthday on October 16, 2010, just over a year ago (that’s my cousin Greg, Chuck’s son, talking to my dad). We drove to the event, but were early, so we stopped at McDonald’s and got a snack. He was showing off his lost tooth.

In the video included here there are also a few pictures from the birthday event, you will see his ornery smile, emphasizing the lost tooth. That night we all had a chance to pay tribute to Chuck, and my dad and I both said some things. In my dad’s oration, he began, “Well, here we are, Chuck, for the last time. . .” He was sad, sweet, and melancholy. Perhaps he knew then what was just ahead. I am glad I did not.

The instrumental soundtrack that begins the video is from Megafaun (“Hope You Know”), but what follows are two of Grandpa’s short, beautiful voice messages; one directed to me on my way home from his apartment on snowy day, and a second as we told him we were leaving Denver after having visited Mike and Shelby. Here is my dad, tender hearted though a bit solemn, telling us to find a “safe way home,” and to “enjoy life.”

I have replayed that last week in March incessantly in my mind; I wish I had not left him on that last Wednesday. But I can’t change that. I have the remembrance that I paid tribute to him in Akron a month or so after Chuck’s party for all to hear when I spoke at a large church telling everyone he is the reason I am a Christian, and the reason that I know how to love my wife and children.

I found this memory making tonight endearing and comforting, and I hope that is the way you experience it; but it is no substitute for having him with us.

He found his safe way home, and I am determined to take his advice.

Enjoy life.

Sebo’s turning 3; he’s already 3; he can’t be 3.

Too much time passes between visits, between face-times, between phone calls. I am missing too much. Whoa. Sebastian Edward Sanford: Slow down.

But of course you can’t slow down; little boys don’t slow down. There’s too much to see and do, every day a new treasure to discover, too much to ponder in the night before you go to sleep. But I’m your Pawpaw; I long to witness and chronicle every thing. I want to know the new things you’ve learned, the new words you’re using, the new adventures you’re having, the places you go, the books you’re reading.

You’re the pioneer, the forerunner, the exemplar. Our grandson. One and only. But I am know I am missing too much. I want to hear you say, “Hey guys,” every day, and to know what you’re learning and enjoying. What’s happening with Tigger (“the only one”) or Green Lantern (“Geen Lantern”) or Scooby Doo (where are you?). Yes, I am missing too much.

How glorious to remember that we were there for the very beginning, the first birthday, the very first moment that October morning when you opened your eyes, that morning oh so long ago but oh so recently, when God said, Let there be Sebo, and away you traveled, from the glory of eternity into the glorious dawn of Alaskan skies and mountain’s majesty, mommy and daddy waiting for you. Pawpaw and Geema waiting for you. The world, waiting for you.

We flew in the night before, on the 19th, and then I whispered to you, “Come out, Sebo,” and you heard me, and made your plans that very evening to come, to come on out that very night, magnanimously joining us in the morning of the 20th, to honor us with your presence, bringing the future with you.

There we were, in that little rental cabin, with us so squeezed together keeping warm and joyful, huddled over you while your daddy and grandpa Sanford worked so hard in the bitter cold at your new house, trying to finish as soon as possible, creating that haven, that shelter of tranquility that is no longer a dream, but your real place, a place prepared for you, and prepared for all of us.

And oh the special times since then—with your great grandpa visiting and fishing and delighting in the Alaskan landscapes he’d seen long before he had even been my dad or your mommy’s grandpa. And your own visits to Ohio and California, and spending times with your bright and beautiful cousin Emery and her great sense of humor. A visit from Uncle Justin writing his screenplays. And our first Thanksgivings spent with you the last two years.

It’s all too wonderful to take in, and there is so much more ahead: a sister on her way, who will be your playmate, a friend, a confidant, someone to shoot baskets with, someone to whom you can explain the mysteries you’ve figured out so far, someone to talk to late into the night, someone to listen to the music you love, and to watch the movies you cherish, someone to share in the love is poured out for you every moment from faraway locations.

So, on your 3rd birthday, Sebo, celebrate with party hats, and blowers, and presents, and cake, and most of all with memories of our times together, looking forward to the ones still ahead. I know you will make your own memories and the ones you have at 3 will gave way to much more vivid ones when you are 6 and 9 and 12 and. . .

But I hope you will always remember these things, even if they are only the memory of a memory, because I do, and I will always:
(1) Our first movie together: Fantastic Mr. Fox
(2) Your first Tigger
(3) Your first Buzzy
(4) Your first dunk I captured on camera
(5) Your March 2011 visit to our house to comfort us in our sorrow
(6) Your dance to Bono’s song, “I’ll Go Crazy”
(7) That look on your face when we descend down steps into the Ted Stevens Anchorage Airport as we arrive
(8) My reading you “On the night you were born”
(9) Those Gorilla Munch Corn Puffs I secretly fed you when no one was looking
(10) And the most wonderful sound, “Hey guys. . . PawPaw, Geema, look at this. . .”

Justin sent me a surprise gift for “Post Season.” It’s an improbable baseball book by an improbable author whose embrace and love for baseball is even more improbable. Written by Craig Robinson (turns out there are a bunch of them including the actor on The Office), but I am talking about the Englishman, who by trade is a whimsical and talented graphic artist. Who happened to become profoundly enchanted by baseball while residing on the other side of the Atlantic.
You can get a flavor for what’s in his book by visiting his website site.

He is a master of capturing both the odd connections between baseball fact and fancy, and the exaltation of useless information. For instance, in this great book you can finding out exactly what percentage of Cleveland’s population base includes real native Americans (“Indians”), which American city is the furtherest from a major league ballpark (“Turner, Montana”), and what percentage of MLB caps may be sighted in the City of Berlin, Germany, over a period of time (“Yankees,” hands down, but a surprising number of Astros’ hats).

In his entertaining introduction and commentary strung throughout the pages, Robinson explains his late conversion to baseball around 2005, and how he has come to love and chronicle baseball’s hold on his heart. As an outsider to America and to the culture of baseball, his prose is exultant in chronicling his quest to fathom some of the more inscrutable aspects of the game we take for granted, along the way celebrating “the romance of baseball,” as well as exploring its more obscure pleasures. Each page delightfully captures some random experiential or statistical component of baseball.

If you already are in love with baseball, this book can only deepen it; if you don’t, then the book will seem the greatest waste of effort imaginable. If you’re somewhere in between, it will draw you in, mesmerize you, and leave you wanting more, an endless baseball season, perhaps, but not in Toronto. (See the book.) His favorite stadium of all is Coors Fields in Denver, where one can see layers of purple on the edges of the outfield skyline, something I’ve had the melancholy pleasure of indulging myself.

Thanks, Justin. It has a treasured place on my library shelf, but belongs on my coffee table for frequent consultation. Come visit it!

Thirty-eight years ago today at 11:00 CST, Joan and I became husband and wife, in Poteau, Oklahoma. I immediately inherited the status of the most blessed groom in the world, now and forever, marrying the lovely, the winsome and the beautifully long-tressed Joan, the love of my life, the answer to prayer, the woman of my dreams, and my best friend.

It is a thrill to remember the adventuresomeness and auspiciousness of that day, all of us who were gathered in Wilma’s living room, with preacher Judson Woodbridge presiding, Carl, Cheryl, Dennis and Janice, and other Redmonds and LaGrandes, my dad singing, “I Love You Truly,” my mom and grandparents crying, my best man, Jon Quinn, discreetly handing me the ring, but most of all, and most importantly, holding the hand of my precious Joan, slipping on the rings, and mutually saying “I do.”

In the whirr of photos and the presence of presents, we somehow managed to have and share some cake, but, eye on the clock, we also had tickets for a plane out of Ft. Smith, AK, to Denver, and, never wanting to be late to any of our honeymoon trips (for they have all of them been honeymoon trips), we were briskly chauffeured to the airport that afternoon, saying our farewells to family and venturing out to wild and wonderful Colorado to begin our life’s journey. We sampled the Rockies and Wyoming in our brown Duster, serenaded by John Denver, and by the twangs of our own heartstrings. We didn’t know exactly what we were looking for or headed toward, but all that matters is that God did, and He has kept watch over us ever since.

We have seen many ports of call since September 28, 1973, all over the known universe, in fact, but it all started in a sunny grove called the Quiet Place in Oklahoma that day, that hour, where my beloved Joan Christine grew up, after sojourns in Kansas, Texas, and New Mexico, and a “fateful” decision to “go away” to college in far-flung Florida. Which is where we were to first set eyes on each other, part of a work crew in Temple Terrace, FL, at Florida College, she with her springy ponytail, in her white sleeveless blouse, and jeans, and her relentless cheerfulness and effervescent smile. I have that picture fixed in my mind, indelible, irreplaceable, forever.

When I have long forgotten everything I thought I knew about this world, sweetie, I will have that portrait of you locked into my cortex, unforgettable, undislodgeable, the portent of a promise, an image of a dream fulfilled, the gift of an exemplary life and everlasting relationship lived with the most earnest, heaven-sent, talented, kind, tender, loving, beautiful girl I have ever known, or will ever know. Your graceful presence in my life is proof, further proof, in case I needed it, that God loves me, that He intends for me to live forever if only to continue to unfold the mystery of Joan and her love for me. For one lifetime is not enough when you are with your beloved, your true love, your one and only.

Happy Anniversary, darling. Thanks for allowing me the privilege of making you happy and beloved in this world, and assuring you that God is the One who verily brought us together in the first place, by the banks of the Hillsborough River, so long ago.