Chances

“Where is your office again?” Colin texts.  He is in Village Hall, trying to find me.  Not exactly a sprawling municipal complex, it’s easier to just walk out the door to the hall than text him back.  So I do, we go into my office and he tells me some news. 

Offspring visiting me at work is a rare occurrence.  I’ve tried to keep the rodeo that city management can be away from the family as much as possible.  The Davenport rodeo, in particular.  In nearly fourteen years there, Colin and Amanda were part of official proceedings just once, each. 

Amanda for being recognized at a City Council meeting as one of the best students in Davenport, with a couple aldermen giving me grief she was a Bettendorf High student.  Can’t be a real rodeo without clowns, I suppose.   Anyway, she said “hi Dad!” as she passed me in the Council Chambers, and it tied for the best moment in those chambers over the 5,329 meetings I attended there. 

Tied with Colin it turns out, for being recognized at a Council meeting along with his Pony League teammates for knocking the smiles off every baseball team of 13 year-olds in 14 Midwest states on their way to the World Series in California.  The joke I told as I introduced him was, if the meeting goes as long as normal, he’ll be taller than me when I get home.  Seriously, the best teenage hitter I or anyone I’ve ever met has ever seen.  Twenty-somethings across the Midwest still waking up from nightmares about that weak sauce “fastball” they threw in his direction would tell you the same.    

If I had to pick the next favorite moment, it would be Chief Frese’s retirement.  We assembled a video of his life and service to Davenport, setting it to the Five for Fighting song Chances.  Daring and humbling deeds faded on and off the screen, as a sappy and hopeful song played, as he sat there, uncomfortable with all the adulation.  Or maybe just uncomfortable, because those damn seats in the Council Chambers ruined more backs than students who flunked out of the chiropractic “college” in Davenport.  Anyway, as the song faded out and there was an old photo of Chief Frese left on the screen as a five-year old boy wearing a toy plastic fireman’s helmet, there was not a dry eye in the room.  On behalf of a grateful City, I stood up and said some words -- in a file cabinet somewhere round here.  Helluva guy, Chief Frese.  I'd share a dugout, fire call or career with him, anyday.  Should be Mayor. 

Sorry, got distracted there.  Trust me, it’s a segue. 

So, Colin came to my office to tell me some news.  News so good there’s no way to write about it without the words just being a giant sappy jumble of pride.  Pride has little utility, so I typically try to be appreciative rather than proud.  So ... I'll say I'm most appreciative.  Colin's office news was follow-up to some other news last Thursday.  

Last Thursday, Colin texts to ask if I’m free for lunch at Stalzy’s in Madison.  Even if I wasn’t free, it’s my son and Stalzy’s, so I’m free.  Head down, have the brisket hash for lunch and Colin tells me some news.  Big news, which I’ll get to -- I promise.  Leave lunch very happy, heading back to Poynette. 

Heading north on Fair Oaks, a distraction explodes in my head.  I need cake.  Maybe pie.  Definitely cake, and maybe pie.  Who knows, maybe cupcakes.  No, scratch that.  Cupcakes ain’t manly.  The (manly) Jeep spins around.

If you’re new around here, I did six or so years in solitary confinement in California.  My crime was making an unspeakably lousy columnist in Davenport unhappy.  I’d say more, but she worked for a national news corporation, with lawyers.  Anyway, I was alone in California for six years.  Only good news is they have mountains in California, and the City of Seaside was chock full of wonderful people.  Seaside City Hall employees (and the high school baseball team) became my family, while away from family.  I’d frequently stop at a bakery on the way to work to bring cupcakes.  Seaside City Hall was mostly populated with women, so manly wasn’t an issue.  Cupcakes With Craig became a bit of a thing.

Thursdays are training nights at the station.  Figure out tools.  Inventory trucks.  Lift things.  Get smelly and / or wet if it’s a particularly good night.  No kidding, join your local fire department.  It’s a hoot.

Taking a chance they're not yet sold out for the day, the Jeep spins around to go to Madison Sourdough, a swell bakery / lunch and breakfast place on Williamson.  Load up on cakes and pies for Village Hall and the fire station.  Stop at the Pig for the finest plastic cutlery they offer, because you can’t show up with cakes and pie without plates and spoons and whatnot.  You’d be a doofus with a cake and no supplies to eat it.

Doofus me plops the cake and pie down on the muster room table, and stabs a plastic knife into the top of them, so the guys may take the hint.  They don’t exactly, because there’s work to do and a meeting to have but the meeting ends and someone wonders what’s the deal with the unscheduled and visibly high-quality dessert. 

Here’s where I didn’t think it through.    

Honestly, I was just happy about something and wanted to celebrate.    And it was a Thursday, so that meant the celebration would occur at the fire station.  I mumble something to that effect and motion to dig into the cake.  The men of PDFD are nothing if not inquisitive about detail.  Detail is kind of an important thing in firefighting.  So the mumbling and motioning is not going to suffice and they want a reason. 

My son got accepted to law school.  Dig in.

Takes me the typical amount of time to let all the stuff juggling around in my head settle enough for short, declarative sentences.  My son got accepted to law school.  What I didn’t say, and really didn’t have to was, you’re my second family, let’s celebrate.