Day: June 18, 2017

For thousands of years, fathers were the family caretakers, they raised children and showed them how to live in the world. Women were a kind of domestic slave, they cooked, did the wash, hauled water, cleaned. The Industrial Revolution pulled men away from their homes – they rebelled in some places, but were mostly happy to go. Women began going to work.

Women are still evolving, still searching for their own  ideas of freedom and choice and family, still struggling with the innate arrogance of men and their suffocating ways. Men in my mind have never fully recovered from the sweeping economic forces that pulled them away from their children.

Fatherhood is no longer a common truth that all men understand, and women accept.

And men will never have a true men’ s movement, I think,  because they don’t yet know how to talk openly with one another.

My own ideas of fatherhood are shattered and confused. I was never close to my father, we did not love one another.

I barely spoke to him from the time I was eleven years old. When we did speak for the last time, he was 88 and dying, and we agreed that he was not the father I wanted and I was not the son he hoped for.

It was the best and most honest talk we ever had.

I was devoted to being the father of my daughter Emma, but it was a confusing time, for me, my mental illness pulled me down and farther away from her. As I deteriorated, she and her mother grew close, and that was a boon to both of them. When my daughter was in high school, I began drifting away towards another life and when she was in college, I was, for all purposes gone.

When the divorce came, she was hurt and angry. We struggled through it.

It was a hard time for both of us but we hung in there together and Robin has brought us closer still. This week, my daughter and her husband and their daughter Robin and my ex-wife are all on vacation together on a New England beach, the place we all went every summer as a family for almost every year of Emma’s life, and some years before that.

I appreciate her Father’s Day call, but it is difficult for me to think of them all up there, it is almost as if I never existed. And in a sense, I never did.

I remember feeling isolated on those vacations, as if I didn’t belong and when Emma called to wish me a happy Father’s Day – she is diligent about things like that – It brought back some sadness and nostalgia. While they were on the beach, I was wandering around Provincetown, looking for my art. When they played Scrabble, I was off readiing a book. I never seemed to fit in there. I never knew how to be there.

I know exactly what they are doing now, what they will be doing in the morning and afternoon tomorrow. Robin has entered this place, where I can no longer go, she sits on the beach and glows just like Emma. It is almost disorienting for me.

I would like to think I was blameless in the destruction of my family, but the truth is, but I can’t off that easy.  I think fathers are supposed to fight to help keep families together, not break them apart.

I know well that blame and guilt are pointless in divorce, my marriage had not been working for a long time, when I moved upstate to my farm, I was alone most of the time for five or six years. And still, I didn’t realize what was coming, I didn’t see what was happening.

Father’s Day is a time for humility for me, a reminder to do the hard work of being well. People got hurt. The truth is, I am not sure what the role of a father is in our world. I am always here for Emma, and she knows that, I think. Beyond that, I am still feeling my way, and so, I think, is she. Our relationship is not simple and will not ever be simple.

Our love for each other has survived many tests, and continues to deepen. We are good. Robin is a completely new chapter.

I comfort myself by seeing how competent and loving and happy and successful my daughter is, and I think I must have done something right for that to have happened.  Fathers matter, even if they are troubled.

She has put a rich and bountiful life together, crowned by work she loves and a child she adores and a husband she loves and trust. How many people can say that?

Father’s Day is a painful day for me, I admit, I just don’t really know how to feel about it, and it brings up sadness and regret. And guilt, my mother’s tonic. Guilt at the richness and purpose and love of my new life, my new family, my love for Maria. There are no New England beaches in this life, no playing for hours in the sand, no annual summer visits to the shore.

It is a tragedy when family fails, a failure, a wounding thing that scars everyone in one way or another. I will feel it my whole life, even as I am in awe of the life I now have, one my daughter accepts but cannot, for many good reasons, fully be a part of.

I think – hope – that the biggest lesson I taught my daughter was to get help if you need it. Help helps.

The worst tragedy would have been for me to end my life in that way, and accept the life I was living. An awful choice, really.

Those days, marked by so many years of my life are gone, and it  only on days like this that I even think of them. Today, I think of all the men struggling to understand how to love and what being a father really means. I am just learning about it, I think, and I better hurry, I’m getting older.

It is hard living with men, but it is also hard being a man, for all their power and hubris.

For me, being a father means to show up and be there. I will do the best that I can for as long as I can.

I think that will have to do.

Will my new dog Gus need a sweater? I think he won’t.

Several Boston Terrier owners have e-mailed me photos of their dogs wearing sweaters, and I have to be honest, the one thing that held me back from getting Gus was the dread thought that I might have to buy him a sweater.

Robin Gibbons, the very conscientious breeder of Gus, showed me a sweater she got for her dog Jeeter. Perhaps it is the dormant alpha male in me – much of this has died in me or been beaten out –  but I just don’t like the idea of dogs in sweaters unless it is absolutely essential for their survival.

I have had working dogs, and most recently farm working dogs for some years and I would never have put a sweater on a dog like Rose or Red or Fate. I understand that some people want to do it, and I checked with some vet friends about it.

“In extreme weather,” one vet told me, ” you might want to consider a sweater for a small dog, but as a rule, no, there is no need for it in this breed. It’s a choice, not an obligation. These dogs shiver often, sometimes when they meet people, sometimes when they go outside. A sweater wouldn’t do much to keep most dogs warm anyway, the cold passes into their body through the feet as a rule, not their back or shoulders.  If it’s really cold, let them out briefly, and bring them in.”

I talked to three different vets and all three said pretty much the same thing. The people need for the dogs to have sweaters, the dogs not so much. Boston Terriers have short snouts, and they can’t  warm up the air they breathe, as some dogs do, so sweaters might help them hold their body heat.

Some BT owners insist their dogs they need sweaters.

As with everything else in the animal world, there are many different opinions about this. It sometimes depends on the dog, and of course, the owner and the environment. I know that people love to dress up small dogs, and I find the idea uncomfortable for me.

I ran into my friend Jamie Snyder recently, he is a much respected organic farmer from Eagle Bridge, N.Y., he comes to our farmer’s market every weekend. He got a Boston Terrier puppy last year, and he is long-time border collie owner and lover, just like me.

He is one of those big and strong men I write about who love dogs, and Jamie just lights up when he talks about his Boston Terrier, “you will love him, they are the most loving and wonderful dogs.”

I asked him if his dog wears a sweater in the cold upstate winters: “sweater, no? He loves to run around in the cold,  and if he does get cold, we just bring him in.  He shivers a bit, then he often shivers when he’s excited. I won’t want him to wear a sweater.”

I’ve gotten a lot of e-mail lately from farmers who have Boston Terriers – they kill rats and mice in barns – and they all love these dogs, but like Jamie, said they never put sweaters on them and they are fine.  “If it’s really cold I don’t leave them out for too long,” said Ed, a long-time dairy farmer. “If they are cold, they’ll let me know and I’ll let them inside.”

Some use dog doors so that the BT’s can come in and when they wish and others keep dry and sheltered rooms in the barn ready.

But none of them have ever used sweaters. I can’t imagine farmers putting sweaters on their dogs and I am not a farmer, but a writer with a farm, and I don’t like the idea either. I was relieved to hear Jamie say he just didn’t think his dog need it.

Jamie is much like me in our view of dogs that work, and my instinct after considering all of this, is to not use sweaters unless it becomes absolutely necessary or some vet tells me to.

Long before the movie, we were fans of Wonder Woman, we even have a small Wonder Woman doll on the kitchen windowsill. She stands for strength and compassion in hour house.

We are due to bring Gus home this coming Friday (we changed his name from Leroy).  Saturday, we went shopping and loaded up on training treats, small beds and toys and chews for puppies. Maria hates to shop, but I liked this trip, it signaled the imminent arrival of the next chapter in our remarkable lives with dogs and other animals.

We bought two small collars, three bags of training treats, three small stuffed squeaky toys and some balls (thanks in advance for not warning me about any of them.)

Many people were surprised when I wrote I was thinking of a small dog.

I have always been drawn to Labs and border collies.

I first thought about a small dog when I got to know some of the big men in trucks who help make our lives possible – Greg Burch, the lumberman (pug). John Hallaron, the ex-NYPD big man (English Bulldog) who fixes our wood stoves and chimneys, there was the gravel man with five Corgi’s in his truck, the trash man with a Pekingese, and somewhere in there, a big man with a feisty and loveable Boston Terrier.

I know Jamie, an organic farmer and border collie lovers, who practically bursts into tears when he talks about how much he loves his Boston Terrier.

Why are these big and powerful men so fond of their small dogs? I think it’s somehow because they are small, an outlet for their emotions and big hearts, so often hidden away. Most of these men cry simply talking about their dogs.

Since dogs are in part how I make my living, I thought it would be worthwhile for me to experience the small dog, a kind of dog I have never lived with and want to learn about. I am excited about writing about this dog and learning how to photograph him.

I started researching small breeds. I was instantly drawn to what I read about this breed. They are smart, loveable, filled with energy and personality. Like all short nosed dogs, they sometimes have respiratory issues or trouble with heat. Their problems, say several vets, are not universal, and are not as severe as the respiratory problems of other small breeds.

The vets I spoke to said they are generally healthy dogs with few chronic problems. They just need to be watched in extreme heat.

They are considered a wonderful urban dog, but they seem able to live anywhere. Lots of people put sweaters and booties on them in the winter, lots don’t. I expect we will be among the latter.

They are not prone to allergies, the ones I know have been healthy and vigorous.

I know several farmers who have Boston Terriers who run all day with border collies. They are tough dogs, bred to be ratters and they are fast and agile. Trained properly and rationally, they can be calm and quiet in the house.

They are high energy dogs, they need stimulation and activity. They are protective – they bark when people approach – but not aggressive. They are known for loving children and the elderly, two find traits for a therapy dog, which I hope Gus will be. They are playful, and like border collies, can quickly become ball or toy addicts if their owners are not careful.

They are family dogs, they adore their families.

These qualities began to add up for me. They make great therapy dogs, they love to love and be loved, they are happy to sit in laps. They are utterly trustworthy with children and people, if bred well and socialized. They are house dogs, they stay close to home.

These dogs are accepting and easygoing around other dogs. I think he will be an engaging companion for Fate, the ultimate high energy dog. Red will pay no more attention to him than he does to Fate. Gus will challenge and sharpen my training skills and hopefully, my understanding of dogs.

Gus looks like the right dog for us. He comes to us when we visit, he is active but not crazy, he already loves to be held. It’s almost eight weeks, and I can see this is the right time. His mother Hannah, is getting tired of mothering and Gus is getting eager to see the world.

Why do I want him? I am open to change and challenge, these dogs seem full of love and connection to me. I need that in my life, I was deprived of both for some time.  I think this dog is an absolutely perfect dog for Maria, who is also all about love. They will spent many cozy evenings together reading.

This chapter begins next Friday..

I apologize on this beautiful Sunday morning for sharing some hard and sad news from the outside world, and putting it into the minds and lives of the good people who read this blog and my books. There are certainly enough cable channels and media and political blogs that can do that better than me.

I just read a report from the United Nations reporting that last year, the United States took in 20,000 refugees, the lowest recorded number in the modern history of the country, at a time when the number of desperate people has never been higher.

The year before, the country accepted 120,000 refugees, a number many considered low then.

There are tens of millions of people seeking refuge in the world today – some estimates say the number are as high as 65 million. Last year, Canada accepted 300,000 immigrants, 40,000 of them refugees. Germany has accepted one million, and the idea of Germany as a country that is morally superior to my country is a strange turn for me, but I am taking it.

For me, this question of the refugees is not about the left or the right, or about whether President Trump is a good President or not. For me, it is about the kind of people we are, the kind of suffering we ignore, the kind of human I want to be, the kind of country I wish to live in. There is no consensus about truth at the moment, but an essential truth to me is empathy, the hallmark of the moral human being.

To me, it is true that we, alone among all the species of the earth, can take responsibility for caring for one another. If we are each so precious we can give nothing of ourselves to anyone else, we are small indeed.

We either have empathy or we don’t. Without it, I do not believe our world cannot survive, literally. Pope Francis has empathy, that is why he touches our hearts so deeply, when so many hearts have turned to stone.

Working with the refugees in Albany, I frequently hear their stories – the death and brutality in their countries, the slaughter and cruelty,  the disease and starvation and deprivation in the refugee camps, the fathers, mothers and parents they left behind, the children they have lost, the brothers and sisters bombed and killed, the long flight, the hatred they have encountered in America, where so many people fear even speaking to them, let alone helping them.

Their voices and stories call out to us ask if we wish to be so greedy and selfish a society, I shudder to think how history will judge us, or, for that matter, our children and grandchildren.

The good news is that we are called by them and their plight to be better, to think about what it means to be a moral person, to ask ourselves what it means to be a human being,  that we care for one another as best as we can for as long as we can. There is some risk to that, there is always some risk to stepping outside of our lives and fears.

I have no issues with people who differ from me politically, I have many good and respected friends who disagree with me, often and deeply. We care for one another.

I am not so arrogant that I assume I am superior to them. I thrive on different ideas.

But there are some things that simply define what is unique about being a human being, and one of them is a conscience, a sense of right and wrong, which no other living thing on the earth possesses.  A shared humanity, when all is said and done, that transcends political party or argument.

When we look away from such suffering out of greed and selfishness, we have lost our souls, and our dreams of a better, freer, safer, kinder world have died.

When I look in the mirror in the morning, I know I could not bear the sight of me if I did not raise my voice on behalf of the many millions of people living in fear, horror, starvation and disease while the richest country in the world gathers more money in a day than millions of people could spend in a lifetime.

Somewhere, over the horizon, there is a person or an idea that may transcend the awful moral and literal paralysis that the idea of a “left” and a “right” has brought to a country so fast becoming a Corporate Nation, not a people’s nation. Our leaders talk incessantly about our economy, but what about our morality? Is the point of our lives really to make more money and abandon the vulnerable and the needy?

That is on my mind this morning as I read the United Nations report, and I did need to write it as I go out to mow the lawn and then prepare to return to my usual and essential agenda – my farm, my life, my wife, my friends, my dogs, the new puppy coming Sunday.

For the many, not the few.