Bud

My mom and dad met in a post office. She was mailing a letter to her sister, he was mailing a letter to his brother. He saw her, said "After you ma'am," and they've been together ever since.

Back in the 50's things were a bit different. There was no internet. No cellphones. No online dating. You had to physically go places to get things done. If you needed bread or apple juice, you left your house, and drove (or walked) to the store. And in the evenings, when you strolled around your neighborhood, you could actually hear people talking, on their porches, or under trees, everywhere.

Mom says the world isn't the same because change is something you can't really stop. But if you're passionate, and you join forces with open-minded people, you can steer change in the right direction.

The day I was born, the moon (and the hospital lobby) were full. The doctor who delivered me was named Dr. Samuel Goodyear. As I entered the world - crying like all babies do - through the hallways you could hear the sound of strangers singing Auld Lang Syne. I was born on New Year's Eve, right on the dot.

When my mom held me in her arms for the first time, she looked into my eyes and said that I was destined to do great things. My dad, sitting beside her, nodded silently, and joyously, in agreement.

My parents had a nursery painted a soft pale blue, with a little white crib, and a slew of stuffed toys. When they brought me home, they said the first thing I did was stare at the wooden stars hanging from the mobile above my crib, smiling in sheer delight. That's something I did when I was 3 days old, and something I still do now: 43 years, 11 months, and 28 days later. (Except now the stars are real!)

Dad owned a furniture store on Main St. He worked there 8 hours a day, 7 days a week. It was called 'Bud's Furniture.' Named after him. I was named after him too. Nearly every week of my life until I was 5, my mom would take me to visit my father at work. We would stop at the sandwich shop, and get buttered toast (my favorite.) Sometimes she'd stop at the grocer's to buy some apples, and sometimes we'd walk extra slow past the dollhouse store, so we could look in the window at the little miniature houses full of little miniature furniture.

"See that? That chair and that table?" my mom would say. "Daddy sells those too, but much, MUCH bigger!"

Then we'd come bursting in through the front door of dad's store, and he’d run over and kiss my mom and I (her on the cheek, me on the forehead.) And I'd look around at all the chairs and tables and chests of drawers. It felt like I was in someone else's house! A house with all the rooms mixed up into one big old room. A giant kitchen/dining/library/living room! I still remember the smell of the pine and the cedar they used to make those tables and high chairs and hope chests with. I love that smell. Maybe because it reminds me of my father.

Whenever I looked at my parents, I could see they had love in them. Whenever they looked at each other, it glowed even brighter. It was almost like they had lasers shooting out of their hearts, melting all the winter snow away. And trust me, there was lots of snow. In fact, my first ever real job was shoveling the snow on my neighbors' drives. My dad said to me one day:

"Son, if you want a new bike, you gotta earn the money to buy a new bike." (Not that I actually wanted a bike. He was just using that as an example. But I DID wanna buy the new Elvis Presley album!)

Well, that very day I put on my thickest pair of pants, and my dad's hand-me-down boots, and knocked on every single door on Monroe Avenue. Some of them I had to knock on a bunch of times, especially Mrs. Haw-thorne's (who had bad ears.) That week I made $4.35. Plus a pair of navy blue mittens that the Rummelman's gave me when they saw that the gloves I was wearing were starting to fray.

During the summer, when there was no snow to shovel, I delivered newspapers. Once, I threw a paper over my shoulder, and heard a loud thwack!

"Ouch!"

I hit the brakes on my bike and turned around. There was a girl, about my age, about my height, standing in the middle of her lawn. Her hair was auburn. She was wearing a yellow summer dress, and she had a skipping rope in her hands.

"Watch where you're throwing those things!"

I looked at her for a second . . . not really knowing what to say.

"Sorry, I didn't see you," I finally replied.

"That's alright, just be careful next time!" And she smiled the prettiest smile.

There were many next times. I saw Franny on her lawn every day that summer. And each time we spoke a little longer than the last. Including the day I asked her to the prom. Including the day I asked her to marry me. And now the paper I used to throw on her lawn we read together at the breakfast table.

The day before I graduated college, my dad died. The last thing he told me was to be grateful . . . grateful for the gift of life I'd been given.

At his funeral, Franny held my hand. And in my other hand was my mother's hand. As they filled the hole back up with dirt, I swore I could hear - somewhere in the distance - Auld Lang Syne playing . . . between the tolling of the bells.