The Good Men Project

"Every story is meant to inspire, motivate and center us on the idea of what we're supposed to be as men."

The Exceptional Man

May 14, 2010

Epilogue: What happened next?

Filed under: Good Men, Relationships — Tags: , , , , , , — lhickey @ 3:00 pm

On Monday, I posted this blog about my fears about trying to raise my son to be a good man, and many amazing things happened.

First – there were conversations about it everywhere. People connected with me about it in every conceivable media. I got text messages about it. Phone calls. Blog comments. Emails. I posted it on Scribd as a PDF, where almost 3,000 people read it and pushed it to the top of the “most discussed” list. It was talked about on Facebook, Twitter, and “IRL,” when I bumped into people on the street. For the record, not every comment was good — some people told me it was “too honest, too painful.” There is always that fear.

But, in the end, there was one conversation that mattered.

I picked up my son John from school Wednesday night, two days after I posted the blog. He scrambles into the car and says, “Hey mom, I read that story about our hike. That was great. I would have said a few more funny things you could have included if I had known you were going to write about it!”

And there was that laughter again.

But we then launched into an hour and a half discussion about HIS fears, his problems, what he’s doing about the past and what he wants to do about the future. How he’s learning from his mistakes. What he has learned. Why that matters. John told me things he had been holding in, not telling anyone, for months. He asked for help. He planned for the future in ways that were honest assessments of “looking where he has been before so he could see where he was going.” (good advice for mountain climbing, also.)

And at one point John turned to me and said, “Mom, I’m so glad I can talk to you. Don’t you think that has changed? Don’t you think it’s different now, that we can talk, really talk, about all these things?”

Don’t you think it is different now?

I have been saying to people for the past few weeks: “Being a part of The Good Men Project this past year has fundamentally changed my relationship with my son for the better.” (Heck, it’s fundamentally changed my relationship with *men* for the better, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.)

Why?

Because we talk about the things that matter. There’s a way into the conversation that I never knew existed before. My son and I, together, take actions that we need to take to make both of our lives better.

The conversation about “What does it mean to be a good man?” Yeah, that’s important.

This morning, I woke up and there was a great short post on Seth Godin’s blog that said “All we need to know is that it is possible.” And I realized this: there’s a way into the conversation that I never knew existed before. And all I needed to know was that it was possible.

 

May 10, 2010

Down a path we don’t know where.

Filed under: Guest Blogger, Relationships — Tags: , , , — lhickey @ 5:49 am

A mother’s journey with her son, Mother’s day 2010.

BY LISA HICKEY

My daughters have taken me out to the Armenian diner for breakfast. Scrambled eggs, wheat toast, a white carnation from the waitress. “Happy mother’s day!” My daughters remind me we had gone here last year, received a very similar looking white carnation.

Together we peer at a text message from their brother, John. I am trying to tell them why I am worried that John asked me to go for a hike today. He’s at school in Western Mass, it will be a three-hour drive for me, he’s coming home for the summer in less than a week. “I think he’s sad,” I tell the girls. “I think he wants to talk to me.”

Allie and Shannon look at his text message, a short, “maybe we could go for a hike today or something”. They agree I should go. They want to spend some time with me first so we bicycle down to the park, play a few games. They scatter, I get in my car and head west.

I am filled with dread.

* * *

Twenty-three years ago, Johnny was born not breathing and with no heartbeat. I still am haunted by the thought that “he was dead before he was alive.” That moment remains vivid, the frantic rolling of the hospital bed into the surgery room when the heart monitor flatlined. But by the time John’s heart had stopped, he was too far down the birth canal to do a c-section. He weighed 12 pounds. They hadn’t given me anesthesia.

I had given one last push, with everything I had. My husband leaned over to me and said, “I know you’re not the praying sort, but you might want to start now.”  I hear the doctor say grimly, “Apgar score, zero.” I know that can’t be good.

Suddenly a wail pierces the room. The relief is tangible. Johnny turns bright red, does not stop screaming. After a bit, I say, “I think he’s hungry.” Laughter.

Johnny has arrived.

***

The hike starts out foreboding. We park by a deserted paper mill, the bridge John thinks leads to the trailhead is closed. We soon see why, as we walk across we can see a roiling river below through holes in the concrete. Two boys in camouflage run ahead of us, bb guns on their shoulders. The wind picks up, I hear the sound of thunder. There’s always thunder in my nightmares.

We walk down the road, hit a dead-end with a multitude of no trespassing signs. We duck into the woods where we think the mountain is. Follow some train tracks. I’m reminded of how when John was 4 or 5, our “family movie” was “Stand By Me”. Johnny loved to re-enact the scene where the boys are walking the railroad bridge and a train comes along. The problem is, John would be standing in a supermarket express line. Get a faraway look in his eyes, yell “traaaaaiiiiinnnn”, hop down flat on the floor, wherever we were. He hates that story. I don’t remind him.

***

We find a path that follows the tracks, and then a smaller path that looks like it goes up the mountain. There are no markers but it looks relatively easy to follow. I remind John to turn around, look at where we’ve been. “You need to see where you’ve been to know where you are going.” I sigh. I am a poet. My life is one big metaphor.

We head up the mountain. There had been a forest fire a couple of weeks before. Blacks skeletons of trees, the smell of burnt wood everywhere. I ask John if he wants to talk, tell him I was worried about the texts. “Oh, sorry mom. I know my texts sounded short. It’s this phone, I had to get a 1992 Sprint phone because my other phone broke. Impossible to text on. I’m fine. Sorry you were worried.” His eyes are a gorgeous shade of blue. His smile lights up the mountain.

***

Sometime when John was in his late teens, I got a call. “Hi, this is the Worcester State Police. Do you have a son named John?” Within a split second of hearing those words, I wonder, “If they call to tell you your son has died, do they say “hi” first?” To this day, I can’t get a call without worrying it’s something wrong with one of my children. Not because of that call, because of all the calls. Because of all that could go wrong. Because of all that does. Because of a responsibility that often feels far too much to handle.

My fears about John are profound. So profound that I didn’t know how to raise him, and so I didn’t. I worried, and I didn’t know what to do about the worry, so I drank instead. I was there, at least physically, until John was sixteen. The age I was when my father died. And when John needed me most, I left. I was an alcoholic at the time. I did not leave nicely. My relationship with my kids, always fragile, was strained to the max. John blamed many of his problems on me. I don’t blame him. Once I got sober, I blamed many of his problems on me. By the time I actually realized I needed to take responsibility for raising him right, he well past eighteen. I was trying to clean up the mess I had made of my life, and I had to do it sober. Ask any recovering alcoholic how hard that is.

***

John and I get to a point where we have to rock-scramble. We both love this part. The way you have to combine physical exertion with logic. “To get to point C, grab on rock A and get a toehold on rock B”. We get to the top of a ledge and look back. The land is a green carpet with the Mass Pike running through it. A quarry is in the distance. We are dizzy and breathless. A hiker on his way down tells us it’s another mile to the top. “You up for it, mom?” “You know I am,” I reply.

***

A year after I had left the family, I realized my relationship with my son was almost non-existent. In an effort to make up for all I hadn’t done, I decide I need a grand gesture. John and I will climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. Alone. Together. We fly to Africa, and mid-way over the Atlantic the captain says, “We have reached our cruising altitude of 19,000 feet.” I tell John, “Tomorrow, all we have to do is wake up and walk up to the height of this plane. Then walk back down.“

It’s the reason I love mountain climbing. It’s the only thing I have done my whole life where I understand exactly what success is. “Walk up to the top of the mountain. Walk back down.” It’s clear. It’s tangible. I’ve climbed hundreds of mountains, and love every ascent. Love every descent. And am always in awe at the summit, a world-view of which I never tire.

* * *

Climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro with John was great, but it didn’t solve everything. There’s rarely a “happily ever after” between an alcoholic parent and their child, even a recovered one. It took me a year after that trip to get sober, and a long time after that to start to figure out what I needed to do to make things right. To understand  that what I need to do is take action. Positive action. All the time. I need to demonstrate love, not just say the words. I need to be there when I say I will, to help my kids when they need me to help. To talk to my children, engage in their lives in a way that is so far beyond what I had ever done before.

* * *

John and I reach the top of today’s mountain, breathe in the view, turn around. As we make our way back down, he holds branches out of the way so they don’t hit into me. Despite all my efforts to pay attention, we lose our way. I panic for a moment, hurry, and I lose my footing. John, a few steps ahead of me, intuitively turns around to catch my arm so I don’t fall.

We come out under a huge bridge, the Mass Pike soars and rumbles above us. We spot the railroad tracks, find our car, head back to his school. John thanks me over and over for a great time. “I got away from my worries. I didn’t think. I wasn’t stressed. And it was even nice to get away from technology,” he says. “Except for taking photos with the iPhone” I finish the sentence, laugh. I note that I haven’t checked my email once.

I drop John off at his dorm and head back East. My fears of not being a good enough mother are, for the moment, lifted. I have come to realize that goodness is not an inherent quality, but an endless series of moment-by-moment decisions. And on this Mother’s day, I have done what I could for my son, with love, and for today, that is enough.

***

Lisa Hickey is CEO of Good Men Media Inc., has been a part of the Good Men Project since May of 2009, and will be helping to launch the Good Men Project Magazine June 1st.

 

May 9, 2010

From “Talking Shop”

Filed under: Childhood, Good Men Book, Guest Blogger, Relationships — Tags: , , , , — tmatlack @ 7:00 am

By: REGIE O’HARE GIBSON

I am nine. It’s a typical Chicago summer, hot and urban, with the smell of barbecue and hot sauce spanking the air as though it were a disobedient three-year-old. My younger brother, Ron, and I are in Mother’s beauty shop, Gibson’s House of Styles. Today is Saturday, the day she sculpts the heathen heads of women into shapes God will accept in church tomorrow morning. Today my mother is a conjure woman, hard at work on her customers’ illusions. Her eye of newt and toe of frog? Sulfur 8 and lanolin shampoo. Her wool of bat and tongue of dog? Dark and Lovely and #8 black rinse. We watch as hair, once as unreasonable as a slumlord on the eighth of the month, surrenders to the merciless teeth of the black straightening comb––instrument of torture, agent of beauty.

I can remember every one of these women’s names: Miss Dorthee, Miss Moshell, Miss Dareese… They are every sepia shade imaginable. Some are as wide as a Sunday-morning church hat. Some are as skinny as they swear they will make their men’s wallets come Monday.

You damn right, I’m my own woman! I don’t need no man to take care of me.

I know what you mean girl! I’d do alright by myself too, and believe me my man better know it! And my man know that he better be payin’ for what’s on this head if he wants what’s in these pants…

Their collective laughter is fever-pitched in the blow-dried air. Livening their mouths are momentary glints of gold or silver teeth, giving away the Mississippi they came from.

If a man don’t wanna put clothes on your back then you don’t let him put you on yours!

Girl, you sho’ is right about that! Some say it’s what’s up front that counts, but if a man ain’t got dollars then bein’ with him just don’t make no sense.

I look up at my mother’s hands. They are busy hexing a head of hair. I look at myself, look over at my brother. He is staring at the television, lost in Saturday morning animation. But I am living the cartoon.

Is this what women really think, or are they just saying these things to get a laugh? Is this the way it really is between men and women? Did any of the men know this? Oh no, is my mother like them?

So how have these childhood memories and experiences affected me as a man and, subsequently, my relationship with women?

I can understand if you’ve drawn the conclusion that I don’t have a very high opinion of the women in the beauty shop. But that’s untrue. These women always treated me well. They were both formidable and kind. They handled their homes and children well, and despite their weekly reaming-of-the-man ritual, most of the women took care of the men in their lives in a loving, albeit heavy-handed, fashion. Still, I’ve been distrustful of women, fearing that one day a woman might give kisses on the face and on another day a knife in the back, and that women are materialistic and selfish and are only out for what they can get.

However, my closest friends have been women. Perhaps my confusion over what I call my “beauty-shop moments” has caused me to seek out genuine friendships with women. When I have related some of my fears to my women friends, more than a handful have said that they have sometimes felt the need to reduce a relationship to things monetary to compensate for a relationship’s lack of intimacy, communication, and simple courtesy.

So I have learned to conduct periodic “relationship check-ins” with the women in my life––whether the relationship is familial, romantic, or platonic. I don’t care what a man says; if he is honest, he will admit that a large part of his self-image hinges upon how he is perceived by the women around him.

And I have learned a few things about becoming a better husband, father, and man. I have learned the importance of preparing my home to receive a woman; this shows respect for her and for myself. I have learned to ask questions at least as much as I make statements, to be careful about raising my voice in anger—far too many women have experienced yelling as a prelude to violence—and to show strength and sensitivity. That is, to be respectful of women but not a fool for them. Yes, this might be fortune-cookie stuff, but it’s still good advice.

Confronting the question honestly has become part of a psychological journey that has been delightful and disturbing, nostalgic and nasty––but also necessary in my ongoing quest to understand this ever-shifting thing called manhood.

—

Regie O’Hare Gibson is one of the thirty-one original author/contributors in The Good Men Project anthology. A poet, songwriter, author, workshop facilitator and educator, Gibson and his work appear in the New Line Cinema film Love Jones, which is based largely on events in his life. His poem “Brother to the Night (A Blues for Nina)” is on the movie’s soundtrack and is performed by the film’s star, Larenz Tate. In the film, Gibson performs “Hey Nappyhead” with world-renowned percussionist and composer Kahil El Zabar, who wrote the score for the musical The Lion King.



 

May 7, 2010

A Mother’s Love

Filed under: Coming of Age, Guest Blogger, Relationships — Tags: , , , — tmatlack @ 4:00 pm

By FRANCIS XAVIER SULLIVAN

It was Mother’s Day, 1979, when mother, asleep at home, next to my dad, received every mother’s nightmare phone call: “You need to come to New England Medical Center immediately. Your son, Francis, has been shot.”

I was 24 years old, strong, personable and gentlemanly, when four attackers, set out to kill me. One shot me twice in the head and once in the arm with a 9 mm semiautomatic handgun. I was left lying on the ground with blood and cerebral fluid oozing onto the sidewalk in Boston’s Chinatown neighborhood.

Doctors believed I might die, a priest heard what was supposed to be my final confession. God had a different plan. I lived and masked the stigmata of pain with humor: “What’s the worst thing about being shot in Chinatown? An hour later you want to get shot again.” Ha, ha. (My gallows humor aside, violent crime is not a laughing matters.)

My mother’s love and support helped me focus not on what I lost, but what remained.
After a court case that took nearly ten years, I was bitter and confused. The shooter was found not guilty. Two of his three accomplices were found guilty. Verdicts aside, there is never closure.
My mother urged me to focus on hope.

The bullets severely and permanently damaged my eyesight, but I relied on insight. I returned to college and obtained a degree in Journalism. I volunteered to tutor and mentor minority youngsters from throughout Boston’s toughest neighborhoods, traveling on foot or by bus because I could no longer drive due to my vision loss.

Why was I able to do handle the post-traumatic stress? How did I keep my head above the vicious, unforgiving vortex of resentment and revenge? Mom, that’s how.
Dad helped, too, as did my brothers and sisters. However, the unconditional love of my mother was, and remains, the elixir for emotional and physical pains.

What about victims who do not have a solid family foundation upon which to build a brighter future? What about victims who don’t have a relentlessly faithful mother who is so compassionate that she would advise me to pray for my attackers?

Watch a mother on Mother’s Day as she visits the grave of her child. Think about the mother’s whose nighttime companion is grief. Homicide statistics vary from city to city, but this number is finite: All mothers of victims of violence feel an indescribably unique pain.
This weekend, despite the many politically expedient promises to stop the mayhem, mothers endure. They rely on their womanhood, their instinct and their sweet souls. They teach us to see the light of a positive prism.

Perhaps, we should listen more to mothers. Theirs are the voices of love and reason during our most trying times. Crime’s nightmarish impact may appear to cripple their resolve, yet mothers remain steadfast in their mission to nurture, as is their beautiful nature.

Thanks, mom! Happy Mother’s Day!

Frank Sullivan, who has an honors degree in Journalism, lives with four blondes – his wife, two teen daughters and Maggie, a Golden Retriever.  A known Toastmaster and Dale Carnegie student, Frank, is the recipient of several awards for his writing, his work on the Boston Fire Department and for his community activism.  He has been everything from a dishwasher, to a prison guard, an advertising writer, a Boston Fire Department dispatcher and a sexual harrassment prevention and diversity awareness instructor.


 

February 14, 2010

To the Moon and Back

Filed under: Daily Man, Fatherhood, Relationships — tmatlack @ 7:00 am

 

By TOM MATLACK

I met Elena on June 3, 2002, on a blind date. I suggested lunch in a safe location, one where either of us could bolt. I looked up and saw a few white wispy clouds and a finger-nail moon hanging in the blue sky. 

She arrived well-dressed, tall and blond. The thought occurred to me as we sat down that in build and coloring, and even facial features, we could actually be brother and sister. I had a lot of questions for her. 

“Where did you go to school?”

“What was your first job?”

 “Why did you quit?”

 “What do your parents do for work?”

 “What’s the closest living relative who’s been locked up in an insane asylum?”

 “Have you or any of your family members committed murder?

I wanted to be sure that I wasn’t dealing with a crazy woman. I had had plenty of that in the past. But she responded to each one of my questions with warmth and the slightest hint of a smile. She cleaned her plate, which struck me as a sure sign of confidence.  And by the end of the forty-five minute encounter Elena had at least partially broken down my serious demeanor.

We stood outside the restaurant navigating that awkward moment at the end of a first date when both parties are looking for a sign. I thanked her for coming and started to shake her hand. She ignored my outstretched palm and grabbed a corner of the fleece vest I had on. That was all the sign I needed. 

I was careful not to call right away, but I did call eventually, and she agreed to meet me for dinner. Elena came to the door wearing black leather pants. She had curves in all the right places, so it was hard for me to concentrate. It was like a test. “Eye-contact!” I told myself over and over again. “Don’t look down! No woman, and this is some woman, wants to be ogled by a guy she barely knows!”

She asked me to wait in the front hall of her home on Boston’s Beacon Hill.  I was very impressed by the massive glass chandelier, the high ceilings, exposed brick, and detailed woodwork on the wide maple staircase leading to the second floor. “This was the original Beacon Hill Firehouse,” she explained after getting her purse. “They used to back the horses in those huge front doors. My late husband bought it out of bankruptcy and gutted it. I finished it just before he passed away.” 

My first impression was far less sincere. At that point I was driving a blue Porsche 911 convertible with plush leather seats and chrome instruments. I had bought it on a whim after making a killing during the Internet bubble and had almost sold it a few weeks later when I saw another guy driving around town in the exact same car and thought to myself, “What a total prick that guy is!” But then a buddy and I went to driving school and learned how to drive my car close to 200 miles per hour. After seeing what an amazing machine it really was, I decided to keep it, even if I looked like an idiot driving around town in a racecar.

I opened the car door for Elena, put the top down, and whisked her out of town.  I had decided to try someplace intimate and out of the way: an Italian spot in a nearby suburb where I knew the cook.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked with a tone that seemed to imply that maybe I was hiding something.

“Not to worry. I am very single. I just wanted to take you somewhere you’ve never been.”

At dinner the conversation flowed naturally and Vittorio Ettore, my friend the chef, made us his famous tomato sauce. I told Elena about my work and my crazy family and even my kids. She told me about working her way through Northeastern University, going to law school, and trying cases every day before getting sick of the adversity of the whole thing. She explained that her family had always fixed up houses. And she had caught the bug, decorating apartments for her friends through college and law school.  When she got sick of the law she decided to become an interior decorator full-time.  In the law, she explained, she was often dealing with life-and-death issues, defending workers who had been maimed and whose livelihoods were at stake. But in decorating, when a client got upset, she liked being able to think, and occasionally remind her clients, “It’s only fabric!”

The conversation continued on the ride home. I was so focused on what Elena was saying that I drove right by her exit. When she realized my mistake she looked me in the eye and asked playfully, “What are we doing now?” I suggested a walk. So we parked my car at my condo on Commonwealth Avenue, in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood, and stopped inside to drop her bag off before heading toward the Charles River. On a whim I grabbed my push scooter, an eighteen-inch graphite board with a handle.

She laughed when she saw it. “What’s that?”

“My vehicle of choice,” I told her.

On the river the moon glimmered off the surface of the water. We kept talking about our families and our lives. Finally, I got sick of the serious chatter and started riding circles around Elena on my scooter.

“Jump on!” I yelled. I loved to ride around with my toddler son, Seamus, tucked in front of me, holding on to the handlebar. He’d smile and then laugh every time we rode down the street together, feeling the freedom of our collective movement and the security of the scooter. After all, I’d spent countless hours perfecting my ride.

With Elena my motivation was not as pure as with my son. She protested that it wasn’t safe and she had on the wrong shoes. But finally she agreed. I told her to position her feet at the very front of the board and asked her not to move—to let me do the work.  I stood behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and held on to the handlebars.  She placed her hands between mine. I put my right foot at the back of the board and pushed off with my left. We glided along the river in the moonlight. Elena giggled.

***

A week later, I found myself buckled into something called the Tower of Terror, suspended a hundred feet in the air. I tried not to look down, only at the tobacco barns and rolling Western Massachusetts hills on the horizon. Then the massive spring, which was holding us in place, let go. We went into freefall. Terrified of heights, I screamed bloody murder. At the bottom, we bounced and headed back up, almost to the top of the ride again. My eyes stayed firmly shut the whole time. Only one thing could have gotten me onto that ride: a beautiful woman.

Elena had suggested going to an amusement park after our dinner date and scooter ride. I had gone to the old Riverside Park while growing up in Amherst, just south of the city of Springfield. Six Flags had long ago bought the place. The oldest roller-coaster, a rickety old timber job painted white, reminded me of childhood trips to the park. Elena and I rode a bunch of coasters, including the new Super Man, and ate some cotton candy before calling it a day. We climbed back into the Porsche and headed home. By the time we arrived back in Boston, Elena was asleep on my shoulder.

A few days later I was walking down Newbury Street in Back Bay, which was packed with tourists, and stopped at Ben & Jerry’s with a friend for ice cream. As I came out with my cone, Elena passed by me within a yard, a very handsome gentleman on her arm.  I could have sworn she looked right through me, as if she had seen and completely ignored me. My heart sank.

Out on the sidewalk, my mind was racing. I was fuming. “This couldn’t be. I really thought she liked me. Things had been going so well. How could she be out with some other guy?” But then the demons were talking to me, “You idiot. She is way too good for you. You have to be kidding yourself that she actually liked you. You are one pathetic motherfucker!” 

I ignored the voices in my head and backtracked down the sidewalk and ran into the ice cream store, looping around the front of the line to try to hide the fact that I had been stalking her. I brushed up against Elena. She looked up innocently, recognizing me with a big “Hello, Tom!” Before she could introduce me to her friend, I leaned in and planted a wet kiss on her lips. Mission accomplished, I briefly shook her date’s hand and left.  

The next time we get together, Elena and I agreed on a trip to see Monsoon Wedding. I had already seen the movie with my sister, but I kept that fact to myself, hoping that the romance of the film would rub off on the woman I wanted to be my girlfriend. After the pageantry of the wedding scene, Elena and I emerged from the theater to face a real live monsoon, Boston-style. We ran for it, arriving back at my condo soaked. I offered her a dry T-shirt and set about seasoning chicken and slicing red peppers and eggplant while she changed. With dinner on the grill, Elena sat on my kitchen counter wearing an old rowing shirt of mine, a grin on her face.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, standing close with my hands on her waist.  

She finally admitted to me that the friend I met at Ben & Jerry’s, who I assumed was some other guy she was dating, was really a gay interior designer from her office.

“But I appreciated the concern,” she said with a giggle before kissing me affectionately. 

After a few weeks together, I began to see that, like me, Elena came to our relationship after some real-life challenges. She had been married before. Her husband, a vigorous young man, learned he had cancer on their honeymoon. Eighteen months later he passed away, leaving Elena a too-young widow. I could tell that along with her outer beauty this woman had inner strength that I could trust, even with my most precious possessions: my daughter, Kerry, and son, Seamus. For years I had kept any woman I’d been involved with completely separate from my kids. I had bled and sweated to make myself into a good father and wasn’t willing to risk that for anything. I yearned to be able to share my whole life with someone, not just the bachelor part, but so far I just hadn’t met the right woman.

That July I invited Elena to meet us in the city of Providence, in Rhode Island, near where Kerry, Seamus and I were staying at a beach house. The kids and I baked cookies and brownies and drove to meet Elena. When she pulled up, the kids greeted her with sweets. We got an early dinner of pizza on Federal Hill and then drove up to the East Side of Providence to play Frisbee and run on the soft grass of the Brown University quadrangle in the early evening light. At one point, while we were playing hide-and-seek, Kerry caught Elena and I kissing.  She laughed and made funny noises of protest, “Ewww, gross!” But she was smiling and seemed pleased to see her dad happy. Kerry was eight and Seamus was six. Before saying goodnight we all got ice cream and sat outside licking our cones and laughing. 

***

Just three months after our first date, I invited Elena to our family house on an island on Maine’s Lake Megunticook. We arrived with Kerry and Seamus, joining my parents, brother and sister.  The second night we were on the island, I arranged to have my sister and parents watch the kids. I put on too much cologne, which my sister in-law ribbed me about as Elena and I left the house. We walked along the waterfront in the town of Rockland. The demons were talking to me: “You don’t deserve this woman…You can’t leave the safety of your apartment…How will the kids take the news?…Are you really capable of being a good husband?” 

We sat on a bench, looking quietly at the boats in the late afternoon sun. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a ring, holding it tightly in my hand so Elena couldn’t see it. I used my diaphragm to squeeze the base of my lungs, forcing air up to whisper, “Elena, will you marry me?”

She wept and grabbed me, gently whispering the word “yes” in my ear.  

Back on the island, I ducked my head into my parents’ room to tell Mom I needed to talk to her right away. She came wandering out in her pajamas, toothbrush in hand, looking concerned. Dad was in his usual nighttime spot, reading a pile of newspapers in a corner rocking chair.

“Jim come sit with me,” Mom said motioning to him. Dad sat next to her on the couch.  They both turned expectantly to me, now holding Elena’s hand. 

“We have some important news,” I started. But before I could continue, there was a bright flash of color up the lake. We turned to look at orange and then blue streaks in the sky. Dad was out the back door and on the porch, trying to see what was going on.

“Those are some serious fireworks!” he reported back. We all watched until they were done. Then Dad sat back down beside Mom.

“Where were we?” she prompted.

I cleared my throat, trying to pick up where I had left off. “Elena and I have decided to get married!”

“Oh, Tom!” Mom cried as she jumped up and down with joy. I could see the relief on her face. This had been a long road for her, worrying about her boy. Elena’s eyes were full of excitement too. She and Mom whirled around the room together.

“That’s great!” Dad said rising out of his chair, looking more than ever like a giant teddy bear. He gave me an engulfing hug and then grabbed Elena and gave her one too.

 ***

On December 28, 2002, Elena and I were married in Tuxedo, New York. We exchanged vows by candlelight, as snow fell gently in the dark. A tenor belted out Ave Maria.  Kerry was so excited she kept standing on Elena’s dress. Seamus rang the church bell at the end of the service. On the way out of the church I noticed Elena’s late husband’s father. A gentle man who had always greeted me with a hug, he had tears in his eyes. His wife was comforting him. They both looked happy and broken-hearted at the same time.

At the reception, each table acted out a verse of the twelve days of Christmas, family members standing on chairs, waving napkins wildly in the air and singing with all their might. Dad gave a heartfelt toast, acknowledging the distance Elena and I had traveled to get to that day.

Inside my wedding band Elena has inscribed “TO THE MOON AND BACK.”

***

Valentine’s Day, 2005. The television was showing the finals of the Bean Pot, the annual hockey tournament between Boston’s four major college teams. Northeastern had sent the game into overtime with a late goal. The nurse asked Elena to look up at the screen to get her back in the right position as she pushed and screamed in pain. I snuck a peak at the game as I held Elena’s hand.

“It’s time,” the nurse said. “I’ll go get the doctor.”

Elena and I had been at home on a Sunday night, watching the Grammys. Melissa Ethridge came on stage, head shaved as a result of radiation treatment. It was her first public appearance since recovering from breast cancer.  She belted out Janis Joplin’s Piece of My Heart with so much courage and strength it brought tears to both our eyes. At that very moment, Elena turned to me with concern to report, “Tom, I am leaking!”

We checked in at Boston’s Mass. General Hospital. Progress was slow at first, but there was no turning back. Realizing the baby would likely be born the next morning, Valentine’s Day, I had plenty of time to think of related names. Cupid and Valentino were my favorites. The nurses found me amusing; Elena not so much.

When things eventually became serious Valentine’s Day evening, the doctor on duty was nowhere to be found. We had been told that this particular ob-gyn, whom we had never met, was an expert in “high-risk” deliveries. A midwife came into the room and asked to observe the birth. She discretely stood in the back of the room as Elena labored on. Finally, the nurse went to find the doctor, only to come back empty-handed. He was delivering another baby. The nurse told the midwife, “Scrub in, you’re delivering this baby!”

Moments later Cole Timothy was born. Elena was crying, this time tears of joy. And so was I.

In the years that have followed, Cole has sealed our family together as one unit. Kerry and Seamus adore him almost as much as he worships them.  And every day, I look forward to crawling into bed with Elena and holding her tight.

*****

Tom Matlack is the cofounder of The Good Men Project.

 

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