February grace

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone, and Happy Birthday, Mom! We're enjoying 'Masopust' here in Roztoky, the tolerably pagan launch to Lent, but more than that we're making ornate lego castles and reading and playing games and instruments. It's ski holiday for Katerina, Em and me; the boys get that the first week of March. While I organize the 6th annual IBICUS workshop for visiting teachers--this year a record 180), I'll still enjoy days off on Monday and Tuesday. And tomorrow's Sabbath, now that Masopust has run its glut!

On the eve of your 76th, Mom, and countless years your progeny will enjoy, here's a birthday poem for you:

            Birthdays and Baptisms

That summer of ninety-two we went to plays:

Faust in Addison Trail, Mid-Summer’s Night

at Northwestern, The Grand Inquisitor within

a Frank Lloyd Wright; Jon and I travelled north

to Stratford—The Tempest and As You Like It,

as I recall—a venue you and Don drove us to

a decade earlier, while exploring the continent.

We added Ireland and England (Les Misérables),

relatives in Germany, the ghosts of Helsingør,

the mermaid Anne embraced. Family more

in Norway, and winding roads from Smom to

Trondheim; sunny skies for Førde’s folkdance,

romantic rains in Bergen, moose medallions

on Oslo’s wharf satisfied a long-lost hunger.

We had become young again. The tumult all

our friends had prayed us through had found

this season of grace, a promise of married life

for all of us anew. We walked and ran with

Bruiser, dear pup that Josh picked out (or up),

the patron saint for novels incomplete: maybe

someday he’ll still narrate End of My Leash.

More than twenty years had passed, Mother,

since you had taught English class, yet always

you evoked a need in us to rest and recreate

faith, hope, charity: these three. They neatly

fit the palm of any baby’s hand and guide the

going forth, eternally. We’ve been baptized—

even twice!—in the divinity you’ve raised.