“It’s 7 a.m., you said I could open a present,” Bryson said. And so I did. Christmas had started.

He opened his stocking and, with Hannah, Ryan and Paula soon joining us, the presents, and the time, flew by. Books, gift cards, clothes. Sometimes even a few thank-yous. Until there was not a gift left under the tree.

I’d asked Bryson this year is he would want a big, rather expensive present, and only get a few more things in addition; or would he rather get the customary number and forego something truly special. I knew what his answer would be the moment I asked.

“Did you get everything you wanted?” I asked, knowing the gift at the top of his list was not to be found.

“Pretty much,” he said. “Well, except for the Havoc Heli, but that’s OK.”

He spoke of a small indoor remote control helicopter he’d been wanting for months.

“So was my big present one of these?” he said, looking at the small pile of books and video games surrounding him.

“Well, I’m not sure, I hope your Christmas isn’t in ruins,” I said.

“What? No.”

“Because that would be a shame if your Christmas were in ruins. Or should I say if your Christmas were in the ruins.”

“What are you saying?”

“I said it wouldn’t be nice if your Christmas were in … the … ruins.”

Bryson stood and looked around, knowing a clue when he heard it. He just had no clue what the clue was supposed to mean.

“Should we play the hot-cold game?” I said. It was the clue of the last resort. “Because right now” – as he looked through the wreckage of wrapping paper on the floor – “you’re cold.”

Within a minute he was standing next to the bookcase near the Christmas tree, his hand darting out to The Ruins, from the top of which protruded a white envelope. He pulled the envelope from the book, opened it and began to read.

Hi Bryson, remember us, it’s the elves and we’re back.

2007 was such a great year and that’s a fact, Jack.

You’re getting so old, next year you’ll be teening,

Though your dad says you’re already primping and preening.

But enough of this small talk, you know the drill.

We give the clues and you follow them still.

Of course now that you are so much more older,

These clues will be so much more bolder.

You’ll look to your dad when you must confess

That you need help, but he will be clueless.

This time, Bryson, the hunt is on you,

And the fact is, if you don’t rather than do

Find the present that we have hidden so true

The lights outside won’t be the only thing blue.

Because this is the search to end all the searches.

And should you fail, your IQ it besmirches.

This is a present worth much diligence,

For it cost so many dollars and cents.

Thus for you we are surely not making it easy,

Our clues will be tough and our clues will be tease-y.

What do you say, is it time to get started?
Is your attitude one that is fun and good-hearted?

Because you need to go to the place where you find,

A stick you use to find joy all of the time.

“A stick?” Bryson said. “What kind of stick?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “Ask the elves.”

Each year since Bryson was 3, the North Pole elves visited our home and sprinkled rhyming clues around the house, leading him to his big present. One year it was a bike, another time a scooter, once a giant-sized Lego set. Even when his belief in elves dropped to an all-time low when he was 9, he asked that they still visit. I imagine they’ll come to our house as long as he is here.

“Read the clue one more time,” I said.

“A stick you use to find joy all the time.”

“The answer is right there.”

An idea popped into Ryan’s mind and, because he is 10, an age where thinking things through doesn’t apply, he blurted, “Your bike!”

And Bryson, being 12 and not having a clue, bought it.

The two of them traipsed into the very-cold garage. Bryson looked at his bike. His scooter. He picked up and examined his Air Soft rifle.

“This is a stick that gives me joy,” he said. No argument from me.”

“It’s not in here,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Think of two words in that clue. Look at it again.”

“Stick?” Bryson said, back in the family room.

“Yes.”

“And, uh, find? Stick find? Find the stick?”

“No.”

“Joy? Stick joy.”

“Close. Turn them around.”

“Joy stick?”

“Bingo.”

Bryson headed to the Xbox 360 cabinet and, after a little more guidance, found the next clue hidden in the battery compartment of the controller. He unfurled the scrap of paper and read.

You found it, that’s great, did you need some assistance?

Now outside you must seek where warm air sometimes vents.

(Apparently elves knew a short clue was needed given lack of space inside the joystick. Clever, those elves. )

Bryson threw open the back door, stepped into the pair of tired old sneakers kept on the patio for such occasions, and was on the hunt.

“I know where this is,” he said, heading toward the AC unit on the side of the house. “Too easy.”

He looked around the mechanical box but found nothing. I explained to him the basic working of the AZ unit, that it blows air into the house. “You need to find something that vents to the outside. What blows air from inside?”

“I don’t know. Seriously, I have no idea.”

From a know-it-all to a know-nothing-at-all in a matter of seconds. Such was the nature of these yearly hunts.

Bryson would have no clue about the vent. He’d never done laundry in his life. As far as he was concerned, he put dirty clothes in the magic plastic bin and in a few days or so, those clothes would return to his bed, fresh and clean.

We resorted to the hot-cold game. A few minutes later he was pulling a clue taped carefully to caked-up lint on the lip of the dryer vent.

We’re a little surprised that you were so able,

To find a clue that wasn’t just out on a table.

To get the next one you just might need permission

From two roommates who are probably hopin’ and wishin’

While you’re at their favorite spot doing some fishin’

You’ll do the one thing that will make them quit their bitchin’.

He read it once. Twice. Again. And again. Pausing each time, for emphasis, before the word “bitchin.’”

Stationery: 5 cents. Printer ink: 12 cents. Having an elf-written poem giving you license to say “bitchin’”: priceless.

“Can we just get on with it,” I said.

Bryson went back into the house and, getting past “bitchin’” enough to think about the clue, puzzled over it.

“Two roommates? Roommates … do dogs count?”

“Of course.”

Bryson headed into the laundry room and carefully inspected the bag of dog food, looking inside and out. Right idea, wrong location. After finding nothing, he looked at Dusty’s food dish. Then water dish. Nothing.

“What about where Sandy eats?” I said.

“That’s where I was going next.” He picked up her metal bowl and removed the clue taped there.

You found it, that’s fine, but we’re so not done yet,

With Sandy (claws) eyeing you, that we will bet.

You know how your dad says you must do your chores,

(Hard work in the future will open all doors.)

Your next clue has nothing to do much with that.

It’s more of a pun and it may leave you flat.

Read closely these words to learn of your fate,

And you will be trained to pull your own freight.

“Do you know what a pun is?” I said.

“Not really.”

What the heck are they teaching these kids in school? “It’s a play on words. Read the last sentence again.”

He did. “Oh, oh. I so have this.”

Bryson walked to the electric-train layout in the family room and kneeled down. He peered at the cars, eventually opening the doors to the boxcar where he extracted a piece of paper. “That was way too easy.”

We wondered if you could have figured it out,

As here at the Pole we sure have our doubts.

Did you sit there and wonder or perhaps even pout?

Our puzzle skills are mad which we like to tout.

But now let’s continue upon our Christmas way,

To a gift that surely will make your best day.

(Though that day will not come for many more weeks

thus the gift of patience will make waiting less bleak).

A character you are, we know that it’s true.

And in your fine house is a character of you.

Find what we mean and look on the back.

You’ll find one more clue to put you on track.

“A character of me, like a photo?” Bryson said. “I think I know this one.”

He headed into the computer room and picked up the photo he himself with Pluto, Disney’s vocally challenged dog (in Disney’s world, everything can talk, from chipmunks to ducks. So what the hell is wrong with Pluto. Even his genetic brother Goofy, who clearly is not as intelligent, can talk. Was it an accident? A birth defect?)

Bryson looked to the back of the frame. Nothing.

“I think the clue was a character of you, not you with a character,” I said.

Bryson sat on the couch where the answer was just a few feet away. “Look around,” I said.

As soon as his eyes found the painting, in which he was drawn by a colleague of mine, they lit up. He took the drawing off the wall and removed the clue from the back.

You found the next clue, that is great but not all,

(first please put the picture back up on the wall).

We talked once before about you and your work,

(and while doing it you may think your dad is a jerk).

But a chore you do weekly will lead to a clue,

A chore that done weekly has you seeing blue.

For some reason, Bryson spent the longest time figuring this one out. Not because he has all that many chores. (“I pick up dog poop, but that doesn’t have blue. I vacuum. Mop. Clean my room.” “Is that stuff you do every week?” “No.” “I wish you did them weekly.”)

Back to hot-cold. As the hints led him outside, it finally occurred to him. He raced to the side of the house and threw open the lid of the very blue recycling barrel, the same barrel that every week he took to the curb, The clue was taped to the inside of the lid.

We knew that you’d do it, you would find your own way,

We hope you dressed warmly on such a cold day.

Your present by now we’re sure that you’ve earned,

It’s time that its spot is something you’ve learned.

When you were small, much smaller than now,

(seems so long ago, time flies by and how)

You’d hide from your dad and the dog and us all

You’d hide in a place where you’d duck and you’d crawl.

If you remember that spot, that one and the same.

Go there and end our fun Christmas game.

For the next few minutes, Bryson visited his favorite hiding spaces in a time he was small enough to fit in tiny spaces. Under his bed. Under my bed. The back of his closet. The back of my closet.

And, finally, behind the couch in the computer room, where a package wrapped in a silvery paper dotted with candy canes waited.

He ripped it open to find his Havoc Heli, in all of it’s $29.99 glory.

“Cool, thanks,” he said.

“You are very welcome. Merry Christmas,” I said.

“Yeah, merry Christmas.”

His disappointment was obvious. Was this the big present I had hinted about for months? The one I would not even hint about, though he often would ask if it was bigger than this or more expensive than that.

A stupid Havoc Heli? What’s the big freakin’ deal?

I changed plans slightly. I was going to let him discover it on his own, but a little alteration was necessary.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and play with the Havoc Heli?” I said.

Bryson noticed a certain tone in my voice, as well as the anticipation in my eyes.

“Open it?” he said.

“Sure. That’s up to you.”

The excitement returned. He pulled the Havoc Heli from the box, as well as an envelope. Inside was the elves’ final poem.

We hope that this toy does not disappoint,

We hope that you’re not just a bit out of joint.

Is this the big present your dad said he’d got,

The present he said had cost quite a lot?

Well, we’ll tell you this and know that it’s so

For the answer to that is a yes and a no.

Your prize really isn’t this small Havoc-heli

Though it’s nice and you’ll like it just find and just well-y

But your present does involve a whirling helicopter.

But one much bigger than this little chopper.

Far out in the desert and a few months away,

You and your dad will have the best of best days.

For on March 1, and this is the topper,

You’ll ride for an hour on a big helicopter.

You’ll fly over ghost towns and fly over mines,

And enjoy an adventure of a lifetime.

We hope that this meets all expectations

We expect that we’ll get your adulation.

Merry Christmas young Bryson, we hope that you’ve had,

A wonderful time with Santa (your dad).

An Afternoon With Grandpa

Sam scrunched his eyes but he couldn’t keep all the sunlight out, and it started to hurt. If the light were just coming from the sky it would be OK, but the way it bounced off the water made it hard to look out over the lake.

He put his right hand up next to his eyes and that helped. He kept his left hand on the fishing pole, worried that if he set it on the dock the only fish in the whole lake would suddenly grab it. Even though he and grandpa had been out here for what seemed like a whole day.

Sam knew it really hadn’t been that long. Even at 6, he was pretty good at time and knew that when he was bored, minutes would go by really slow. He turned his head and looked down at his grandpa’s wrist, and then remembered. Grandpa lost his watch. He saw the white stripe on Grandpa’s skin, a perfect watch shape with a bulge in the middle. And a the top of that bulge there was a red mark, a cut but not a cut because Sam couldn’t see any blood.

Sam looked up at his Grandpa, who was wearing his floppy fishing hat as usual. He wore the had even when he wasn’t fishing, and his mom told him it was to keep the sun off Grandpa’s head because he lost his hair a long time ago. But not all of his hair. Puffs of gray sprung from below his hat, and he noticed his grandpa would take off his hat every now and then to run his hand over his head, as if seeing if he still had any hair. “When you’re my age,” his grandpa would say, “you’re lucky to have any hair at all.”

“Grandpa, what time is it?” Sam said.

“Time enough to fish,” Grandpa said. Grandpa said that a lot, even when they weren’t fishing. Sam knew it was his favorite thing to do, and last year on his birthday he and his mom surprised Grandpa with a new pole. Only it was in the basement, Sam knew. He wasn’t sure if Grandpa ever used it, and mom told him it was because Grandpa was “set in his ways.” And one of his ways was fishing.

“Your grandpa has a certain way of doing things, so it’s just best to let him be,” mom said. “You get into a groove in life and it gets to you just want to keep things the same. Grandpa’s not one to change.”

That was why Grandpa was still up her at the cabin, even though mom wanted him to live with them. They had a room at the house that mom kept calling Grandpa’s room, and there was a bed, even a TV. Sam would to in there sometimes and watch TV. Sam didn’t think of it has Grandpa’s room, though. It was his safe room. He found out that if he shut the door and turned up the TV real high, he couldn’t hear all the other stuff. And if he couldn’t hear the other stuff, he felt better.

That’s why Sam liked it up here so much, even though he really didn’t like to fish. It was quiet. When Sam would wake up, all he would hear is music from the radio in the kitchen. So much better than the other stuff at home.

Sam squirmed because his butt was starting to hurt. Then smiled because he thought of the word “butt.” Butt butt butt. He wasn’t allowed to say that word at home, because there were con-say-kwensees. There were con-say-kwenwees for lots of stuff, like not doing what he was told (and he had to do it “right away”). Or talking back. Or not talking at all. And sometimes there were just con-say-kwensees. Mom would cry. And then she would have con-say-kwensees.

Sam wondered what con-say-kwensees there would be now.

“Butt,” he said. Again. “Butt.” Testing.

“But what?” Grandpa said.

“Nothing,” Sam said. “Only my … only it’s getting hard sitting so long.”

“We’ll just stay out here a little longer, that OK with you? Not too much longer, I promise.”

“OK, Grandpa.”

The sun didn’t hurt as much. Most of it was behind the trees now, and that helped a lot. Sam loved the nights here. Grandpa let him bring in the wood from the stack outside and build a pile in the fireplace. Sometimes Grandpa would even let him use the lighter. Then Grandpa and Mom would tell him stories about growing up. Mom was a “tomboy,” which was a girl who wanted to be a boy, or maybe just did boy stuff. Sam wasn’t sure, but it was fun thinking of his mom playing baseball and climbing trees and swimming faster than anyone else. And he also liked how his mom smiled and laughed, because she didn’t do that a lot.

He wondered why Mom couldn’t have stayed a tomboy. She never played baseball or climbed trees or swam anymore. Sam found it hard to believe his mom did any of those things. Now all she did was make dinner and wash dishes and do what she was told (and it had to be right away, or there were con-say-kwensees).

That’s another thing he liked about Grandpa’s house. There were no con-say-kwensees. He still had to follow all the same rules, do what he was told and not talk back and stuff, but it didn’t hurt if he forgot sometimes.

He felt a tug. In his left hand. The fishing pole. There was a splash.

“Hey there boy, ya got something?” Grandpa said.

There was another pull on the line, and Sam held on with both hands and tugged up like he’d seen his grandpa do. But he forgot what else.

Suddenly there was another hand on the pole, and Sam felt Grandpa at his back.

“That’s good, you want to keep him on the line by pulling toward you,” Grandpa said. “But you have to reel him in too. You remember how to do that?”

“I think so,” Sam said, lifting his right hand off the pole and grasping the reel’s handle between his thumb and middle finger. He tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t come.

“It’s stuck,” he said. “ I can’t, Grandpa, I can’t get it, I’m sor-“

“Sammy, relax, everything’s fine,” Grandpa said. “What we’re gonna do is pull up, right, just like that. Now as we dip back down, you start to wind that reel, OK?”

Sam tried it again, biting his lower lip. Only this time it turned. And it was easy.

“Grandpa, I’m doing it,” he said. “We’re going to get him, Grandpa.”

“That we are, Sammy, you’re doing great.”

They lifted together, pulling the line taut as it danced back and forth. Sam heard a splash and suddenly he was tumbling backward, his arms shooting up over his head and striking something soft.

“Jesus, ow, dammit!”

If they were home, Grandpa would face con-say-kwensees for bad words. But they weren’t home, and Sam was not sure he’d ever seen his grandpa face con-say-kwensees.

Sam leaned forward, still gripping the pole, and sat up. He turned around to look at Grandpa, who was holding his face. There was only a little sunlight now, but just enough to see a splash of red between Grandpa’s fingers.

“Grandpa, you all right?”

Grandpa stood up, one hand pinching his nose together. “Oooh boy, that smarts. And twice in one day.”

“Sorry Grandpa, I was pulling and then I don’t know.”

“He just got away, Sammy, right when I thought we had him. Sometimes that happens. They get away. But if you get the big ones, you can go home happy.”

“Was that a big one, Grandpa?”

“Not so bad, but not the biggest today, that’s for sure.”

“For sure.”

The worst part of fishing, Sam thought, was the end. When you actually saw the fish flopping around. Sometimes Grandpa would being a bucket full of water and toss the fish in, where it would wriggle. But that would only make Sam even more sad because he knew what was coming and the fish didn’t. Once Grandpa showed him how to “clean” a fish, only Sam thought it was everything but “clean.”

Once Sam asked Grandpa why the fish flopped around so much when they were out of the water.

“Well, if you look on where their necks might be, if fish had necks, you’d see little slits,” Grandpa said. “Those’re called gills. I’m not exactly sure how they work on account I never was very good at biology, but somehow gills grab air from water so fish can breathe.”

“Fish breathe? Then why don’t they just breathe regular air like we do?”

“You see, they need the water to bring the air to them,” Grandpa said. “They were built to live underwater, just like we were built to live on land.”

His grandpa sat back down next to him, fingers still pinched around his nose. Grandpa reached with his other hand into a back pocket, taking out a handkerchief. He flapped it a few times and put it up to his nose.

“Body gets too old to put up with this abuse,” Grandpa said. He looked at Sam. “And a body can be too young, huh Sammy?”

Sam kind of knew what Grandpa was talking about. But Grandpa promised things were going to change. Sam knew Grandpa kept his promises.

Sam hadn’t noticed how little sunlight was left until he noticed another light coming from behind him. There was a sound too, an engine, then some doors slamming.

“Well, Sammy, guess it’s that time,” Grandpa said, standing and shoving the handkerchief back in his pocket. Even in the fading light, Sam could see Grandpa wasn’t looking so good. He bad a black eye and a cut right below the brim of his fishing hat. And his nose was bloody again.

Sam stood as well and took one last look out at the lake, where he could still make him out, barely. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just a piece of wood.

“Grandpa, only fish have gills, right?”

“You bet, Sammy. Just fish. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Cause I don’t want con-say-kwensees.”

“Neither do I Sammy, but if one of us has to face consequences, I’d rather it be me.”

Sam reached across, his hand swallowed by Grandpa’s, who gave his a reassuring squeeze as they walked back to the cabin.

I was having a few beers with a friend not too long ago and the subject of religion came up. Usually it happens when Lisa (not her real name, as she may be one of the three people that actually read these meanderings), aware of my heathen ways, asks me if I believe in God yet. I ask her if the Bible’s writers ever thought their tales would be taken seriously (“Dude, love the parting of the Red Sea, but don’t you think that’s just a little over the top?”)

Then we’re done because we know we’re not going to convince the other that we’re right and they’re wrong (a “live and let live” approach that would probably work pretty well globally: Anyone know where the existential suggestion box is?).

But this time, God and religion came up in a more roundabout way, and as such the conversation went on longer than it should. Still, I remember much of it (I was still on my first beer when it started, and had not finished the second when it was done) and I thought it worth recounting. Why? Because this is my blog, not yours. Any more questions?

First, a bit of background. Lisa was diagnosed with breast cancer a few months ago. Thank goodness (or God, depending on your point of view), it was very slow growing and treatment was successful. When the news is that good, I’ll be happy to attribute God, science, cells that fought bravely to slow cancer’s advance, whatever.

Then I asked her about her old high school friend, a guy she had gotten in touch with and found she had some feelings for (her marriage has been rocky for many years and she’s stuck with it, though I am not going into particulars because I don’t want to get all Dr. Phil, even though there are probably many people who consider that pompous, overbearing, holier-than-thou jerk some sort of god).

But, she said, there would no further attempts to contact him. And this is where our conversation began.

Me: “Why not?”

Lisa: “It was a wake-up call.”

“What was a wake-up call.”

“Just … things. Circumstances. My life has changed now. It’s time to go down a different path.”

“Wait, what things? Are you talking about your cancer?”

“Look, I’m … maybe-“

“Cancer is a wake-up call? Are you serious?”

“Yes. It make me see things in a whole new light.”

“A wake-up call from who?”

“You’re not going to like the answer.”

“OK, God. Cancer was a wake-up call from God. That’s what you think.”

“I know you don’t see it that way, but we believe differently. Everything happens for a reason and yes, God is trying to tell me something. It was a wake-up call.”

“See, this is the kind of thing I have a problem with. When I ask for a wake-up call, I expect that at some ungodly hour the phone will ring and I will pick it up and get out of bed. I do not expect someone to come into my room and inflict a potentially mortal wound.”

“Come on, that’s not what I mean at all. It was just a message. God wants me to think differently, to analyze the things in my life. Cancer was the way he deemed the best way. Who am I to question His wisdom?”

“Oh, so then God wanted to send a message to everyone in Bangladesh, so he sent an earthquake and thousands died. And he sent a message to Indonesia via tidal wave. What the hell is wrong with an email?”

“That is so ridiculous. See, you just don’t get it. You’ve never taken the time to think about it yourself. Who knows why those things happen? I don’t know, but I do know there is a reason for them. And I’m not going to pretend I have those answers. But what I do have is faith. What do you have?”

“Here’s the thing. I’m not saying God doesn’t exist. I’m saying I don’t know. There are so many incredible things in this world that I would like to think there is some design, that there is something behind it. God, a force, whatever. What I have a problem with is your God.”

Lisa: “My God?”

Me: “Your God.”

“What is your problem with God?”

“The problem is how you see him. Essentially, I can live an exemplary life, be kind to my fellow man, never be accused of a felony, raise an amazing family and be a pillar of the community. Hundreds of people attend my memorial service to proclaim how loving and generous I am. Meanwhile, a serial killer responsible for 12 deaths is about to be executed and he tells the attending pastor that he has accepted Jesus into his heart, and he sure seems to be sincere, what with the needle about to slip into his vein. Now, which one of us is going to hell?”

“That is not up to me to decide.”

“OK, fair enough. But according to your beliefs, who is going to hell?”

“My beliefs? Because my beliefs don’t really line up with the church.”

“How about your religion then? According to your religion, who is going to hell?”

“You are. But that’s-“

“And there is one of my biggest problems. Not so much with God, but religion. According to Christians, not only am I going to hell despite trying to live a good life. So are Muslims, Buddhists, Hindi, atheists, etc. Hell is like the mall at Christmas, seriously overcrowded. Heaven sounds like an exclusive country club where only certain people get a tee time. I just can’t buy that.”

“I’m not sure I can either. Which is why I don’t think God separates people like that. He’s not so black and white. I believe that when you die, God gives you another chance. He asks, ‘Do you believe that Jesus is my son, whom I sent down from heaven to you?’ Then it’s up to you to make the choice.”

“So when you die, God let’s you have a do-over.”

“Yes, in simple terms.”

“And if you say no?”

“You’re going to hell.”

“So I’m dead, chatting with God, he introduces me to his son, then says if you still don’t believe, I’m going to that place down there with the fires and screaming and eternal damnation. Or I can say, ‘You know, God, I see the light, mind if I join you in the clouds and the fluff and the softness?’ Given those terms, wouldn’t hell be empty?”

“Maybe. Look, you make it sound ridiculous, and it isn’t. Besides, it’s not about heaven and hell. It’s about having faith, knowing that there is so much more than this. It encourages you to live a better life. Look at you, you’ve led an exemplary life, right? Why? What’s it going to do in the long run? You’re just going to die. What’s the point? How can you live with that over your head?”

“I want to live an exemplary life for my son, for the people in my life. And I don’t think I’m different from 99 percent of the people on this planet. I think we all want to do good. Somewhere along the way as we evolved, we got this ‘help fellow man’ thing that keeps us chugging along without killing everyone. Yet.”

“So what’s the payoff? Why do you do it?”

“Simply because it’s the right thing to do.”

“That’s fine, but for you it all comes to an end when you die. That’s so depressing. I know there’s something else. That takes a lot of the fear away. Life is much more enriching. I’d hate to be in a world where there was no faith, where there was no God. That’s a life not worth living.”

“Even though my life is apparently not worth living, it’s still worth a beer, right? Want to get the next round?”

“Of course.”