As I sit on Gurl's front porch and contemplate my situation...

I look up at the sky and notice stars & clouds, which so recently could/would have scuttled an afternoon visit to the waterpark...

Did I arrive here a few hours ago, after an extraordinarily satisfying ride on the motorcycle, to find three girls more than mildly content to see me? I did.
Of the three, one with whom I will not be having sex with tonight, and I, seem to have a special bond, and a bond I enjoy. What if... she really were mine? What if I'd had the chance to raise this one from birth, and instill into her my own virtues? As it stands, I have a son who is enamored with her, mostly for her irreverent sense of humour. They will become a piar to cause me no end of grief - as different as night & day in age & social standing, yet one and the same... partners in crime.
One is at home in a crowd... "He's funny", according to all the girls in his class at school (no shit, bitches).
Too young to be a paramour...
And his counterpart... too old for him, even at twelve... Does she yearn to be invisible? From where does the sense of humour, of a particular sort with which I identify so closely, come? What difference between the six foot tall stingbean lad and the fifty pound overweight girl, at that age? Fat girl & skinny boy both wish invisibility, one no more than the other. I covet their engagement with each other, unaware of... What are they unaware of? My son need not settle. Do I covet their comfort with each other? I do. Do I covet his disregard of his fat girl friend, for whom he will likely be teased in later years? I do. Will he let himself be bloodied in her defense? I certainly hope so, and fully expect. As remarkable is she, he is also. He'll need no help from me tending to his wounds.
... Or is he just an excuse to bake a cake?
So what do I see of them in the sky above Teacher-Lady's house? Clouds and stars. My future and theirs in the same atmosphere. The dark storm, coming or going cannot overcome the scent of cakes baked, not at my suggestion, to celebrate my son's birthday, by young girls who will not be present to celebrate the true date... but insist on recognizing it nonetheless. My ideas regarding the theme by which they will decorate his cake will be soundly rebuffed, and I will cooperate with whatever scheme they choose... I possess the cake decorating equipment, after all.
And I will enjoy the thrill of all of them when they share his birthday, a day early. He won't remember the cake I baked him, but he'll die with these girls' cake in his mind.
As to whom I would have sex with... Although looking forward to she with whom I will share the bed tonight... would I trade places with a nine year old to have a relationship with a girl of an entirely different sort? I'd like to think I can, and do, have it both ways.
Am I blessed by the stars, or cursed by the clouds?

On the Matter of Bread...

Henryʼs father has recently become both unemployed and divorced. Among the reasons for Henryʼs unfortunate circumstance is his motherʼs inability to effectively manage the family budget, especially the food budget. The family ate out far more often than they could afford to. Consequently, Henry has developed a fondness for the “Dancing Sandwich” at Zingermanʼs Delicatessen in Ann Arbor. At a cost of more than $6.00 per sandwich, Henryʼs father can no longer afford to feed him in the manner to which he has become accustomed. Additionally, the divorce has forced Henryʼs father to move to a much rougher, less affluent neighborhood, and he is not thrilled about the children Henry is likely to meet in these new surroundings. Itʼs a sad new state of poverty in which they find themselves. Both Henryʼs life and that of his father are rife with new challenges which must be met. What Henryʼs father needs is a solution to both the problem of feeding his son and keeping him off dangerous streets, away from neighborhood hooligans.

His father would like to provide Henry with a favorite sandwich at a price he can afford. The solution to the dilemma must also take longer than the five minutes normally required to assemble a typical sandwich. This is a father who needs to keep his son occupied. Furthermore, Henryʼs father is concerned about what his son is eating. He has to feed his child good tasting, healthy foods. After all, Henry is a growing boy. Therefore, these two men (young and old) must find a reasonably entertaining solution to their problem that is also time consuming, healthy and delicious.

Much of the cost of the sandwich in question is due to the expensive French bread used to make it. The least expensive loaf of bread available from Zingermanʼs website is currently priced at $4.50 (on sale from the regular $6.25). However, in her article “Cost of Bread Baking - How Much Does Bread Cost? - Bake or Buy Bread?”, on the website about.com, Jennifer McGavin estimates the cost of baking a French baguette to be approximately $1.58, or less if one can bake more than one loaf at a time (para. 13). Not only does Henryʼs father have all the necessary ingredients (flour, yeast, salt, water), he also has an abundance of free time (heʼs unemployed, remember), which is a good thing. Baking a loaf of proper French bread takes almost three hours. Fortunately for Henry, itʼs also terribly simple, since his father has little experience baking. Clearly, Henryʼs father has only one option; He must bake the expensive bread himself with Henryʼs assistance. Henry will be occupied for hours, doing a wholesome activity and learning a valuable skill at the same time. His father will know exactly where Henry is and they will both eat well on their tiny budget. Best of all, they can enjoy other pursuits at the same time, like listening to music, and nothing tastes as good, or makes a house smell better, than fresh bread straight from the oven.

Fetching Isabella

It really was a perfect day for a motorcycle ride. There was not a cloud in the sky, it was warm - mid 70s, and no wind. Smells came to me that people miss enclosed in their cars, windows rolled up, air conditioning on. Smells of freshly cut grass, of trees... smells that make riding the bike a treat. I wheeled into the parking lot, past rows of mini-vans and SUVs, and parked the bike in a small triangle not normally allowed for parking, but I fit perfectly. My daughter had brought the extra helmet today, her very first full day of school ever, so I could give her a ride home on the bike.


Her school is a low, sprawling red brick building. Approaching the front doors, I looked into windows, and classrooms filled with children readying their backpacks to walk home, or board school buses. My girl was the only one preparing to depart by motorbike.
Once inside, I recognized the familiar interior of a typical elementary school. Wide hallways wore a thousand coats of white paint on cinder block walls, and a dozen neatly dressed suburban mothers waited outside the school office to pick up their own children, chatting among themselves. As I walked past them, I looked at myself. I’d come straight from work, in white tee shirt, black jeans and black work boots, all covered in dirt and grime from a ten hour workday, my beard in tiny braids, tattoos showing on both short-sleeved arms. I smelled the stink of myself, sweaty from a physically demanding job. Sweat was running down the back of my neck. A dirty, smelly contrast I was to all those mothers dressed in colorful tops, pressed khaki slacks and clean shoes. Didn’t I look exactly like the unwholesome stranger these mothers told their babies to avoid.
The school day had not quite ended, so I sat myself against a wall with a clear view towards Isabella’s classroom to wait. It couldn’t be more than five minutes until students were let out. Did I feel all those maternal eyes on me, or was it all in my imagination? Regardless, I was none too pleased when a small boy, dressed neatly in shorts and a tiny striped golf shirt approached me and sat right next to me. Was he really going to sit that close? Panic. Owen, he said his name was. Looking at my helmet, he asked if I was on a motorcycle. Yes I was, and I was taking my daughter home on it. All those mothers must certainly be looking now, listening intently to make sure I was not having an inappropriate conversation with somebody’s little angel. Be careful not to ask any personal questions - “Where do you live?”... “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” He spent a couple minutes talking to me about a video game I had never heard of.
The bell finally rang, ending the school day, and Owen and I both arose from the floor as the hallway filled with little children, and the din that accompanied them. How do these mothers find their own kid in this chaotic throng? Their children find them, that’s how. Hollers of “Papa!” were my first comfortable experience since I had arrived, and I saw my six year old girl half-running toward me, toting a helmet she could barely carry. Walking outside hand in hand, I informed her of my new friend Owen, a boy she knew. A crossing guard stopped traffic to let us into the parking lot, and told Isabella what a lucky girl she was to get a motorcycle ride home on such a lovely day.
A few minutes later, helmets on, we were on our way, accompanied by enthusiastic shouts of “Boo-yah!” from the small voice directly behind me. It really was a perfect day for a motorcycle ride.

And so it begins...

As an introduction...

I'm a 43yr old divorced, unemployed crane operator/returning college student with 3 children. I've recently become quite a decent cook/baker. I'm also a fair carpenter & mildly talented artist (pen & ink, crayons, coloured pencil...). Most often these days, my artwork is easiest to find on my children's lunch bags:




I'm also obsessed with motorcycles (I own 9, in various stages of road-worthiness), have more than a passing interest in blacksmithing, and former career goals include piracy. I am currently studying to become a secondary school history teacher - I want the summers off to play with the bikes.

... and I do indeed know how to sail.