This afternoon, Austin voted for the first time. We went together, because I insisted on having the memory.

Then, we stopped at CVS so HE – with his own money for the first time - could buy Mother’s Day cards to mail to Georgia. “Damn. It’s nuts what they charge for cards.”

Then, we had a conversation about moving this summer or staying put. He made it clear that he does not want to be a factor in my decision. “You need to decide this for yourself and do what you want to do. I’m going to be in Bloomington.”

Then, he left to go to work. (I’m “between projects.”)

Shaky, shaky ground.

My father’s sister had recently moved back home to Little Rock, Arkansas. I received the customary tour on my only visit. In her guest bedroom was a lovely little antique table with a Living Bible-sized, very old, white leather bound photo album resting on a round doily that hung, as it should, off the front of the table forming the perfect semi-circle between the table’s two front legs. It was flanked by a few standing pictures of her parents and siblings I recognized and some candles.

“Ooooo, what is this?”

“It’s a family photo album.”

“Can I look through it?”

“Sure!”

“Who’s this?”

”I don’t know.”

“Who’s that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are they Mahanays?”

“Yes, of course they are.”

“But you don’t know who they are?”

“No.”

“Are their names on the backs of the photos?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve never looked?”

“No.”

“Can I look?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. They could tear.”

“And that matters?”

“Of course that matters.”

“Does anyone in the family know who these people are?”

“I doubt it.”

"Well, where'd you get it?"

"Grandma and Pop's things."

"Who?"

"KAREN. Don't be ugly."

"So, you never saw it while they were alive?"

"No, it was in a box in a closet. It probably had been there for years."

"Perfect."

"Can we just go now? I'm hungry."

“Who could we ask?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really want to open a huge can of worms.”

"Worms?"

"It'd be a lot of work. I don't want to bother anyone."

"So, you're okay with a shrine to people you don’t know?”

“They’re family.”

"I assume you’re going to pass this album of unknown relatives to your kids?”

“Well, certainly. It’ll be nice for them to have.”

"But it's meaningless."

"You just don't understand family, Karen. You never did."

Come to find out, there’s a celebration (or two) every day of the year (April 30th is National Honesty Day, and I'm already planning to have an honest discussion with myself).  

But today is April 25^th and it's World Penguin Day in celebration of the beginning of the annual northward migration of the Antarctic’s Adelie penguins.

I’m a big fan of the penguin. Not just for their obvious cuteness, but for their tenacity, their loyalty and their attention to detail.

Six things you can do to increase awareness of this marvelous penguin journey:

1. Take a friend to the zoo -- or if you can’t muster the penguin perseverance to make it there, watch this video from the lazy comfort of your home: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHJWtLhHoE0
2. Attend a penguin parade -- or if that’s too much trouble, too, watch this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hocght2zfhA
3. Read a book about a penguin to your child. Or better yet, play a penguin game: http://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/antarcticpenguins/quiz.swf
4. Wear black and white (tuxedos are optional).
5. Walk around your block a bazillion times in solidarity.
6. Honk.

So, today, April 25th, take a little time to wish them well.

Happy trails, Penguins!!! Take a sweater.

Looking out over the crowd of enthralled kids….

I’m happy that my son is the Stage Manager of this wonderful production and that his bio made it in the program. I’m so proud.

But I’m so sad.

I’m happy for the many North Central opportunities that Austin has enjoyed. He found his niche and thoroughly enjoyed high school (something I never did). I’m so proud.

But I’m so sad.

I’m happy that I don’t have to come to school events anymore (school kids make me uncomfortable - they did then, they do now). His future is finally here. I’m so proud.

But I’m so sad.

This is a comedy, yet every time I laugh, I cry.

There is something in Indiana I call “The Indiana Man Syndrome”. I don’t know if it’s the accent (or the lack thereof), the formal enunciation, the candid emotion, but there are an extraordinary amount of married men who, frankly, seem gay. My first encounter with it was more behavioral: Two men I worked with ate their lunches (packed in little lunchboxes by their wives) together in an enclave behind closed doors every day. Men where I come from wouldn't do this.

Now, I have nothing against anything any-sexual, be it hetero-, homo-, this-ho-, that-ho-, a-, etc. But I don't enjoy people who can't just pick one and own it. Be honest with yourself and the rest of us, I say. Be proud. Don’t pretend. It’s like lying. And don’t think I don’t know. It’s insulting. And creepy.

I am sitting across from a man who is a grandfather. He gets excited (think full-on-girly-giddiness with flailing hands and bouncy feet) about the most questionable things.

Yesterday, he created a ruckus because someone asked him about his color-coded folders.

“Oh, my, yes! I JUST LO-O-O-O-V-V-V-E my folders. I don’t want to think about having to be without them.

I have blue folders for jobs I must do today. I have red folders for jobs due in a week. I have green folders for jobs that I repeat each month.

I enjoy them so much!”

(See? Now, I ask ya: Is this normal man talk?)

“That’s a great setup. Do you mind if I steal your idea?”

“Oh, my, no!!! You’ll love it! You can buy color-coded folders at Staples. They’re right down the road. And I think you could get your system up and running for less than $20.”

“I’ll go today. Thanks, Dan!”

“Call me when you get it together and I’ll stop by your office. You can show off what you created. I know you'll be soooo happy.”

I want to saw off a toe with my color-coded Bic pen. It would have to be less painful.

Everybody has regrets. And they’re all the same. Things we wish we’d done, things we wish we’d said, opportunities we ran from, offspring we yelled at a little too long, too much alcohol making us think we should fly to NYC to see a boy....

But when I think regrets, the one that always floats to the top is this:

South Haven, Michigan. Downtown. Late spring weekday. Quiet sidewalk shopping. A little indie bookstore. Love those. Must go in. A man, about 80 - maybe a little older - at a tiny postage stamp of a card table set up on the sidewalk right by the door. Arranging his pens and his papers. And the stacks of his book.

He stopped fumbling. Looked up at me. Hope. Anticipation. I smiled. He smiled. I froze in unnecessary fear and walked right by him into the store. Then, we danced the same dance as I left.

Why didn’t I ask? One little question. Did you write a book? Followed by a much easier What’s it about? And thumbing through while he told me his story. And buying. And asking him to sign it.

Regrets? I’ve had a few. But I will always be especially sorry that I didn’t talk to this man.

Now, this is a neat fundraiser: Believe in Books, The Hunt for Literacy

In this annual Spring event, participants drive around the White Mountains Region of New Hampshire with family and friends chasing clues and earning points. Proceeds benefit the Literacy Foundation, which encourages appreciation of reading and literature among people of all ages.

I found this event in my Heart of New England newsletter this week.

Unrelated note: Never ever ever send a senior in high school to the state of Texas for Spring break. No details will be provided. Just heed my warning. Never ever ever.

Keyword for the next post: Escape.