Here's to dad

The history of holidays is sort of fascinating to me. I mean, it's pretty clear who came up with some of the most popular ones. For instance, Christmas was invented by Christians, Thanksgiving was the brainchild of the pilgrims (or maybe the Indians,) Valentine's Day is meant for lovers, and Groundhog's Day is all about hope. And so on.
Even the faux-holidays, the ones that were, apparently, invented by greeting card companies and chocolate manufacturers, have some basis. But the one special day that continues to puzzle me is coming up this month.
It's called Father's Day.
Father's Day is kind of an interesting holiday in that nobody ever seemed too shook up about making it official. After it was first suggested back in 1910, the day was generally ignored until the manufacturers of neckties and pipes glommed onto it in the 30s. After two attempts to formally recognize the holiday were defeated by Congress, President Lyndon B. Johnson issued the first presidential proclamation honoring fathers, designating the third Sunday in June as Father's Day. Six years later, the day was made a permanent national holiday when President Richard Nixon signed it into law in 1972
So, why the delay? Why did it take so darn long to make dad's day an official U.S. holiday?
The answer is simple.
How do you celebrate a holiday with a person whose only real desire on that special day is to be left alone?  Even my own dad, who was usually a pretty good sport about things, seemed kind of lukewarm about an event that required him to gratefully accept a truly hideous necktie, then give up his only day off so he could fete, feed and otherwise entertain us in a celebration of his own fatherhood and the bright, wonderful children he had sired.
Or at least that's how we saw it.
"Don't take the chicken," he'd mutter while watching us gleefully cherrypick our way through an overpriced restaurant buffet. "Eat the roast beef," he'd add, while comparing the price of poultry and prime beef.  He would then, I imagine, mentally calculate the number of starving children that could be fed with what we left on our plates, and wait for it all to be over.
But we weren't done with him yet. Not by a long shot.
Besides working long hours in the pharmacy he owned and dozing in front of the tv, my dad's favorite things were gardening and fishing. Now, normally, we'd allow him to pursue those pastimes without too much interference on our parts.
But not on Father's Day.
Instead, we would hasten to join him in the large plot where he grew vegetables and flowers. Anxious to "help" him,  we would step all over the rows of young growing stuff, pull plants and leave weeds behind, bat peony buds into the air with badminton racquets, and otherwise bring chaos to an otherwise peaceful, well-ordered section of yard.  If fishing was the game, we would lose his bait, tangle his lines, tip over his tackle box, and make so much noise that the fish would literally laugh out loud before diving for deeper, safer waters and fish-father celebrations of their own.
Finally, my dad would do something I still admire for both its wisdom and sense of restraint. He would disappear.
Instead of doing what most sensible guys would do, and burying us in a hole in the garden or drowning us in the lake, he would simply go somewhere else for awhile.  Usually, it was an "emergency" of some sort down at his drugstore.  By the time he returned, my siblings I and would have, thankfully, all but forgotten him and the need to force-feed a celebration in his honor. Finally, he would be free to enjoy the rest of the day in relative peace and normalcy, puttering around in the yard and the garage, and hanging out with my mom, who had done her best to shield him from the worst of our over-attentive efforts.  She would pull together the kind of meal they both liked, consisting, mainly, of vegetables from his garden.  We would eat and talk and laugh and just enjoy being a family for awhile. The late afternoon would gently ease into nighttime. The house would finally be quiet.
I hope it was a pretty good day in spite of us all.
Years and years later, I look back at those those days and remember.
I remember those ugly ties. And the pricy Father's Day meals that he paid for.  I remember the summer days and nights, the garden, the lake, the family store, and all the other places and things that made him happy, and made us happy, too.
I remember my father, who was modest and quiet and hard-working, and who loved us all. And I realize now that it doesn't really matter what you do on Father's Day, just as long as you love him right back.
Here's to dads.
Here's to my dad.
Happy Father's Day.

It's a brave new world, I think

I was sitting around with some friends the other day when, as it inevitably happens, one of us had a question no one else could answer. We were doing our best to come up with a solution that made some kind of sense when one person in the group stopped the rest of us in our tracks.
"Wait," she said. "I'll look it up."
She grabbed her smartphone and as quickly as you can say "Alexander Graham Bell," she was able to provide the rest of us with the gross national product of Togo or whatever it was we were trying to figure out.
Just like that.
Now, I realize that the concept of phones, tablets, pads, pods and other itty-bitty handheld devices with more brainpower than the NASA computers that sent men to the moon and back is nothing new. In fact, the rocket scientists at the National Aeronautics and Space Administration recently announced that they had, indeed, used smartphones as the computing power in three new nanosatellites, a kind of small-sized spacecraft that are often launched to work together in a so-called "satellite swarm," which is a bit of terminology, by the way, that sends absolute shivers down my spine.
Another recent newsflash said that more than half of the adults in the United States now own a smartphone.
Not me, though.
As a result of my own special combination of cheapness and stubbornness, I continue to wield a vintage flipphone that actually receives an occasional admiring glance from teenagers and other folks who are supposedly in the know, because they assume it is some kind of hip, retro uber-phone that is merely posing as something you might find in the bottom of a Cracker Jacks box. Ergo, while others are determining important stuff like the population of Sri Lanka in 1947 or the names of each and every one of the Seven Dwarves, I am engaged in more mundane, yet equally important tasks, like calling home to see if we're going to fix dinner or not.
Believe it or not, though, I was one of the first kids on the block to own a cell phone. Thinking that it might save me from being stranded and eaten by raccoons if my car broke down on my daily commute to and from Peoria, I purchased a bulky, bag-like affair that only worked occasionally along the rural routes that connect my hometown with the big city by the Illinois River.
But I liked it. And here's the thing.
I admit It made me feel safer. And cooler. And more in touch. And smarter, even.
And before I begin to make you think I'm some kind of rugged individualist who only learns those things that can be found by pouring through dusty tomes in the catacombs of the local library, let me hasten to admit that I am often more than happy to let Google do the research via my handy laptop Mac.  I guess what worries me a little is, that as computing devises grow smaller and smaller and more incredibly interactive, there will come a time in the not-too-distant future when everybody will have the ability to know, well, everything.
I worry that people will no longer be curious. That they will no longer ask questions or hazard wild guesses or even just admit they don't every little thing there is to know.  Sometimes, it almost seems to me like the ability to get instantaneous information on nearly every subject is almost like thinking without a brain!
These are the things that keep me up at night, along with wondering if I remembered to feed the cat and pay the power bill, or if anyone has eaten the last of the chocolate chip ice cream.
But here's the good news.
I'm pretty sure I'm wrong.
While there are going to be some folks who mistake sheer data for knowledge, there will always be those who know that information is only a part of the process; those who understand that what we really know is a unique combination of facts, opinions, fears, dreams, desires and all the other things that drive the wonderful process of thinking.  Like the great old UCLA basketball coach, John Wooden, once said,
"It’s what you learn after you know it all that counts."
But hey, I know I'll have a  new phone or some kind of fancy smart-gadget someday. My old friend is bound to die of old age eventually, even if I don't manage to drop it in a toilet or forget it on a bus. And who knows, if I wait long enough, I might even be able to get a microchip imbedded into the back of my head and hit the game show circuit in this brave new world.
Or maybe, just maybe, I'll keep trying to using a devise that's been around even longer than the first computer.
It's called a brain.

'Tis the gift to be simple

I  miss my wife.
No, she hasn't run off with some rich Italian playboy, though I wouldn't really blame her if she did. Instead, she has rediscovered an old favorite from years ago.
Knitting.
It all started when she was looking for something to entertain her bachelor brother when he stays with us at our part-time place on the Carolina shore.  Uncle Matt's not really up for surfing, beach-biking or kayaking, so she felt like she had to look a little further afield to find something he'd like to do when he's not sitting in the sun, watching TV or talking to the neighbors who walk by on their way to and from the beach.
Finally, she found it.
Pool.
Not the kind that's filled with water, but the game you play with a felt-covered table, a long stick and a bunch of balls with numbers on them. Turns out, the local senior citizens center has a couple of tables, along with a group of guys who play on a regular basis. It's a game he's always enjoyed, so she coaxed him into giving it a try. Once they got to the center and he found the poolroom, she wandered around until she walked past a room filled with ladies of a certain age, who were sitting around a long table.
Talking.
Laughing.
Knitting.
"Hmmm," she thought. "That looks like fun."
Well, actually, I have no idea what she thought at the time, but I do know that she signed up for the class right then and there, then set about trying to remember how to turn colorful balls of yarn into items that are both pretty and useful. Her grandmother taught her the art years ago, but marriage, motherhood and a busy career as an elementary school teacher meant she seldom had time to even catch her breath, much less sit in one spot and knit a jolly Christmas sweater or a pair of warm socks for her deserving husband. But I guess knitting is kind of like swimming or riding a bicycle, because, before you know it, she was churning out a steady stream of simple stuff, like knitted dishrags and colorful scarves. With the help, encouragement and sometimes firm ministrations of her instructor, who is, like many of the local retirees, an ex-Marine from nearby Camp Lejuene, she began to move into a few more advanced projects, including a blanket for a niece's new baby and a warm shawl for a disabled friend.
I began to notice a subtle change in our relationship. Instead of keeping up a steady stream of chatter and gazing admiringly at my dashing good looks and fashionable wardrobe, she was often totally engrossed in the task at hand, with little to say except certain short words and phrases.
"Wait a minute, I have to finish this row."
"Whew!"
"Ooops."
"Rats!"
Most of the time, she knits in the car or those other times when she finds herself sitting still for awhile.  Most of the time, I don't really mind that she's distracted, except when we're in the car and I'm counting on her to glance at a map or help me spot the next turn I'm suppose to take.
Me: Hey, weren't you going to tell me when we got to the exit for Des Moines?
She: Of course I will, I was just finishing a row. What did that last sign say?
Me: "Welcome to Ohio."
But there's something I really, truly do like about her new hobby:
The people.
I think that's what she likes, too, because there is an unmistakable sense of community that exists among the folks I like to call "those knitwits." And along with that connection comes what seems to be a universal spirit of caring, kindness and giving.
"You don't see people knitting for themselves very often," she said one day.
And she's right.
We know several groups that knit prayer shawls for folks in need of a little extra spiritual and material comfort. Another group makes and sells fancy scarves for the benefit of their Relay for Life Group.
And then there was the lady in the doctor's office.
We had taken a friend to an appointment and were waiting in the lobby when a woman a few chairs down reached into a familiar-looking bag and pulled out a half-finished shawl.
The whole community thing kicked in, and soon they were discussing their latest projects.
"It's beautiful," said my spouse as she looked at her new friend's work in progress.
"It's going to look like this when it's done," replied the lady, as she pulled out a beautifully finished prayer shawl.
"You've inspired me," said my wife. "We have a friend who is battling cancer. She could really use a shawl like that. I need to get started."
"Here," said the lady after a pause. "Give her this one."
"But, you can't... " protested my spouse.
"It's what I do," was the reply. "I pray for the person I'm knitting it for, and if I don't know who's going to get it, I just pray while I'm knitting."
As I think I've mentioned in other columns and essays, the events in my life are often accompanied by a sort of internal soundtrack that steadily whirls through my head, whether I'm happy, sad, thoughtful, confused, excited or all of the above. In this case, the tune that kept repeating in my brain was an old Shaker song called, "Simple Gifts."
"Tis the gift to be simple
'Tis the gift to be free
'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be
And when we find ourselves in the place just right
It will be in the garden of love and delight."
It seems we were in just the right place that day. And while the gift was simple, it was also freely given, made with love, and packed with good thoughts and prayers.
And that's gotta be the best kind of gift there is.

Out of the closet

I know the title of this column may have you wondering just what it is I plan to announce. But really, it's all about a wedding. And the fact that, as a musician for said joyous nuptials, I am told--by a certain someone--that I am required to wear something absolutely crazy.
Like a suit.
Now, believe it or not, I used to wear them nearly every day. As a copywriter and creative director for a couple of Peoria advertising agencies, I was sometimes asked to explain my often daft ideas to the clients who would ultimately pay for them.  While some of them were willing to accept the appearance of a "creative" individual wearing jeans, t-shirts and worn-out tennis shoes to a business meeting, there were others who were less comfortable with placing their five- and six-figure advertising budgets in the hands of someone who dressed like a nine-year-old. So, while I much preferred the scruffy intellectual look, I was wiling to take one for the team and sometimes wear something more, well, grown up. As a result, I gathered a fair-sized ensemble of suits, sports coats, dress shirts and ties over the years, ultimately almost filling one closet with the proof of my sartorial splendor.
Time passed, and things changed. After a battle with cancer forced me to abandon the long hours and extensive travel my last Peoria job demanded, I ultimately landed on my feet as a part-time sportswriter and columnist for the Star Courier. Now, I'm pretty sure the only time a newspaper guy wears a suit is at a funeral. And that's only if he's the corpse. So the dress-up closet became a place I only visited when there was something really important afoot.
Like a wedding.
"Do you have a suit you can wear?"
As far as I can tell, those are the words that fuel the entire men's clothing industry. Otherwise, I know darn well that most of us guys would happily lounge around in outfits that make us look like someone who has been cleaning the basement all weekend or is just back from a week-long fishing trip. For some guys, those words might necessitate a much-dreaded trip to the mall. In my case, it meant it was time to visit the closet.
As it happens, I've accidently lost a little weight recently. Don't worry, it's nothing serious or permanent, even. It is, I think, the unfortunate byproduct of spending too much one-on-one time with someone who inexplicably does not agree that a quart of chocolate chip ice cream makes for a fine, healthy breakfast. But the temporary decline in my waist size made me hopeful that I'd have a few extra spiffy outfits to choose from. I had looked through the closet just a couple of years ago, culling out what I deemed to be the real bottom feeders in my collection, but I was pretty sure there were still a few natty items awaiting my perusal.
Hah.
That closet was a veritable museum of dress-up clothing, displaying selections from nearly every decade of my so-called adult life. There were double-breasted suits, single-breasted suits, dark suits, light suits and suits that made me wonder if I had driven one of those little clown cars while wearing them.  I saw and remembered suits purchased at Kirley's and Johnson's Hub in Kewanee. I'm even pretty sure one especially antiquated sports coat came from Johnny Girven's store in Galva which, if memory serves, closed for good over 25 years ago.
After a couple of false starts, I slowly began to sort my wardrobe into three piles: "Fits and wearable," "Doesn't fit anymore," and "Are you kidding?" After all was said and done, there were 25 different suits and sports coats in those piles. The "Fits and wearable" stack was, well, rather modest, while the "Doesn't fit" pile was understandably larger. The "Are you kidding?"  choices towered nearly over my head.
Happily, I found a modest grey suit that fit and passed the close scrutiny of my fashion advisor.  A couple of other things will go back into the closet. Maybe I'll even wear them some day.
The rest will be bundled and bagged and transported to Goodwill or the Salvation Army, where they will await their future fate. You might want to take a look someday. Their prices are always great, and I hear double-breasted suits and wide lapels are coming back.
And besides, it's never too soon to get ready for Halloween.
As for me, I'm just glad to be out of the closet at last.

At work in the Gardens of Eden

There are a lot of reasons I look forward to returning to our home in Galva after being gone for an extended period. It's great to see all our friends, fun to hear the news, and nice to get back into a sort of hometown routine. Heck, we even arrived in time for high school graduation season, so I got a couple of pieces of my beloved sheet cake out of the deal. After spending our first midwest weekend at a joyful reunion with college friends in Iowa, we returned to a splendid week-long span of summery spring weather that was just right for the immediate task at hand:
Yard work.
Now, mind you, I like messing around our house and the lawn and flower beds that surround it. If I didn't, I would have probably torched the old place long ago, plowed up the grass, and planted a corn crop.
The problem is, I'm married to a person who approaches a little puttering around the yard with a level of enthusiasm and determination that rivals that of laid-back folks like the Mongol hordes or a colony of army ants. She is, in fact, more than willing to work from dawn until dark until the job is done. I, on the other hand, have noticed a slight dip in my enthusiasm level as the days have passed.
Day one: "Gee, I can't wait to get started."
Day two: "Boy, we sure are getting a lot done."
Day three: "Wow, there's more to do than I thought."
Day four: "Where did you put the aspirin?"
Day five: "Call an ambulance."
Time heals all wounds, though, and by Sunday, I was able to stand erect for periods of time and gamely toddle to a cake table without assistance.
And she's right to want to get things done, I know, especially when the weather can be fickle.  Besides being a tireless go-getter, she is also an equal opportunity gardener who never met a plant she didn't like. So besides raking, hoeing and digging holes for the new plants we place here and there, I often find myself helping to move the old ones to new spots around the yard, even when I'm not sure they're worth the trouble.
She: Let's move this one to the front yard.
Me: I don't think that's going to grow.
She: No, really, all it needs is a little more sun and space.
Me: No, really, that's a rock.
But truth be told, we're having a fine time in this Illinois springtime, because we really do like it around here this time of year.
We like the change in light, in color, and in temperature, as the balmy breezes of a new season softly surround us. We like how things get greener, and the subtle changes in the rolling fields around us as farmers prepare for another year of feeding the world. We ooh and aah as buds and blooms sprout; as flowers awaken from a long winter's sleep and dot yards and garden plots with bits and splashes of vibrant color.
We watch the children in the park across the street and the grandkids next door as they shout and run and play in a warm world of fun and sunshine.
And we like the things we do, because we like doing them together. And especially because we know that the work we do now will bring us great pleasure later as our gardens bloom and grow.
Gee, kind of a good metaphor for life itself.
---------
The news about Max.
Since our return to Illinois, I have been asked about my furry, leg-nipping little fiend, er friend, so many times that I'm thinking about replacing my picture at the top of this column with one of him.  He was, in fact, waiting for us on the front porch, thus continuing with his uncanny ability to know when any member of the Sloan family is about to arrive home. He was glad to see us for a few days, though he continued to visit his alternate universe down the street at his cat-sitter Shannon's house. Now, with the beginning of a season filled with hot days and warm evenings, he has begun a tomcat lifestyle that finds him more than content to sleep all day, stay out all night, and eat everything he can get his paws on.
No sweat. We've dealt with this kind of thing before.
But back then, we called it teenagers.

Old friends

A lot can change in 40 years.
Marriage, houses, jobs and kids can do a pretty good job of tying up the first few decades or so. More of the same, plus college bills, grandkids and hopeful retirement plans keep many of us hopping long into the next few phases of life. All that stuff, and the other events that occur as part of the passing of time, have had their effect on the group of guys I hung out with back in my college days.
We're a little older now. A little grayer, too, plus most of our haircuts have changed a bit since we spent time together in the late 60's and early 70s.  And I am, of course, absolutely sure we're wiser, though our wives might not totally agree with that generous bit of self-appraisal.
But one thing doesn't seem to have changed at all.
We're still friends.
Now, that in itself is no big deal, I guess. Lots of folks stay in touch with the people they met in college. Heck, I live in the town where I grew up, so I still regularly run into some of the boys and girls I met on my first day of kindergarten.
But there's something about my relationship with those college friends of mine that seems kind of timeless. I don't know why, really, but I suspect it has to do with the circumstances under which we met, and the times we shared together.  It was, after all, the end of the 60s and the first part of the 70s, both decades that saw great turmoil and conflict in our nation.
Think about it.
1968--the year most of my friends and I entered college--saw both the Tet Offensive and the My Lai massacre in Vietnam. In America, both Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy were assassinated. The next year, four students were killed on the Kent State University campus while protesting the war. And throughout the time we spent in college, young men we all knew went away to that war and never came home.
There was great unrest on the streets and college campuses.  It was a lot to absorb. A lot to process. A lot to understand.
We tried then. We're still trying.
A bunch of us got together recently on a three-day weekend in Mount Pleasant, Iowa, home of the Midwest Old Thresher's Reunion, space scientist James Van Allen, the P.E.O. Sisterhood, and our alma mater, Iowa Wesleyan College. Some of my friends have stayed to pursue careers and raise families in the Mount Pleasant area and, therefore, see each other frequently in local hot spots like the Hy-Vee deli, site of their every-Friday "geezer (as in old geezer) breakfasts." Others, like me, still reside in and near the midwest, and manage to make their way back to the old stomping grounds every few years, while a few live far enough away to make a trip to Iowa tantamount to a journey to the moon. A couple of the old crew made that fantastic voyage last weekend, with one of them visiting the Hawkeye State and the folks he knew there for the first time in 41 years.
We talked and sang and ate and laughed.
And we learned.
We learned that some friends stay that way because that’s the way it’s meant to be. We compared some notes on the phenomenon of growing a little older, while enjoying how young we remain in our hearts and minds.  We learned how little the essential values and beliefs that made us friends in the first place have changed over the years, despite the fact that we all have our own opinions and enjoy unique days and lives of our own.
And we learned, I think, that we like being together and that we’ll do it again.
Because, like one friend said when someone remarked on how nice it is that we've stayed kind of close all these years, "You don't need all that many friends. You just need a few good ones."
Exactly.

Diary of a mad housecat

First of all, nothing we could ever do would make him a real housecat. He came to us as a feisty, feral kitten one night, and he never left.
We called him Max. Mad Max.
It took several months before I allowed him into the house, as we were providing a home for an aged dowager cat that a dear departed friend had left in our care. So I put a box for him in a camper we had parked in the backyard, figuring he could tough it out.
She: What are you doing?
Me: Fixing a box for the cat out in the camper.
She: Aren't you afraid he'll freeze?
Me: Nonsense! A little cold weather won't hurt him.
She: Oh, O.K. Uh, what's that extension cord for?
Me: His electric blanket.
Nearly nine years ago, Max moved in full-time. Since then, he has developed a few delightful habits, including my favorite, the way he lets me know he's ready to come inside. If he gets bored, hungry, or gives into his understandable fear of raccoons and owls, he’s figured out that, by shinnying up the support post to the small upstairs porch near our bedroom, then climbing the screen door and shifting his weight, he can create a satisfying (to him) slamming sound that’s sure to inform me of his wishes.
KA-WHAM, KA-WHAM, KA-WHAM, KA-WHAM.
She: I think your cat wants in.
Me: Maybe the coons will get him first.
Max the Cat faced a potential life-changing situation when we made the decision to split time between Illinois and the sunny shores of North Carolina. At first, I considered taking him along. But knowing full well how sternly he objects to any interaction not initiated by him, I asked myself a few essential questions.
Would he travel? Would he willingly stay inside a cat carrier?  And would he bite me when I tried to get him out for meals and other necessities?
The answers? No, no and yes, yes a thousand times yes.
Anytime I think of trying to get Max to do something he doesn't want to do, I think of the time I took him to the vet. Not the Galva vet, mind you. Those folks know enough to treat him with just the right mix of respect, caution, brute force and outright fear. But when our doctor was away, I was referred to an out-of-town veterinary practice. Now, I'm sure they know all about animals and the things that ail them.
But they didn't know beans about Max.
"I've got a pair of heavy gloves and a leather jacket out in the car," I said. "Do you want me to get him out of the cat carrier for you."
"No," they said. They explained that they were more than capable of getting a cat out of a cage. They told me not to worry and to just come back in a couple of hours.
So I did.
You could tell something had happened in my absence. Then I noticed the Band-Aids.
Everyone, including the receptionist, the veterinary assistants, and even the vet, was wearing at least one. Some wore several.
"Hmmm," I thought. "Looks like maybe Max was a little testy about that whole cat carrier thing."
When I took a peek inside, he was calmly licking a paw and looking a little, well, satisfied.
Suffice it to say, they seemed glad to see us go.
Once the decision was made to not transport the mad one across state lines, We had to come up with an alternate plan. Enter our neighbor Shannon, an animal-loving friend with room in her heart for all four-legged creatures.
Even Max.
She offered to provide the kitty equivalent of meals on wheels, trudging over in all kinds of weather to offer him food and ear-scratching company. Eventually, Max did the math and figured out that he could receive the same food and even more companionship if he would simply follow her home. His behavior at her house has startled us all, as he never bites her, is willing to model the crocheted cat-garments she occasionally fashions for him, and has displayed an entirely unheard of willingness to play well with others, including her dog and cats.
But despite the fact that he has all but moved in with his beloved cat whisperer, he always seems to know when we're coming home. We discovered this interesting fact late one night when we arrived in Galva after a three-month absence. Pulling into the driveway after midnight, we sat in the car for a moment, just to catch our breath.
KA-THWAP-O (note: this is my best possible guess for the sound of a large tomcat landing on the hood of a Ford.)
She: It's Max!
Me: I guess he was waiting for us.
It's a pattern that has repeated itself several times now, and I'm not the only Sloan he shows up for.
When son Colin passed through town awhile back, Max was sitting on the porch when he pulled in at two in the morning, despite the fact that the cat had been firmly ensconced down the street for over a month.
Apparently, he is endowed with the same uncanny instincts that have allowed some animals to track down their lost families over countless months and miles.
Or perhaps his undying love for me drives him to secretly wait, night after night, just in case I decide to come home.
Or maybe he just really needs someone to bite.