I have an opportunity to turn bad memories into good ones.

I was hiking with a friend today and I told her that every romantic relationship I have been in had been disappointing. That’s why I’m single. It wasn’t for lack of trying.

I love myself and I love my kids. I’m not settling when I say that is enough for me. I have deep, meaningful, intimate relationships with my friends. These relationships are profoundly satisfying.

After my divorce, I threw out all of my wedding pictures, and I smashed the wedding video with a hammer. She didn’t want them either.

I recently brought a van and trailer load of stuff from my parent’s house in North Carolina. They put all the pictures of my kids into an envelope for me. At the bottom of the box, I found a VHS tape of my wedding.

I don’t have a VCR.

I also don’t have regrets. My past is my past. It is what it is. Carved in stone. All those years have brought me to this day. They have made me who I am, and I don’t think there is much I would change if I could. I like where it has brought me.

I might have liked to learn certain lessons earlier, but everything has come in its own time.

You can’t erase your past. Not even with a hammer.

In a half hour, it will be my 60th birthday. My only regret about aging is that I have less time to adopt more children, and less time to spend with them.

As a little kid, I remember having a conversation with friends about the year 2000. That was so far away, we could hardly imagine it. I would be FORTY YEARS OLD.

I don’t know what I thought my life would be like, being older than my parents were then.

I have so many dreams and plans. Big dreams. I try to make them into reality. Most of the time, I’m eventually successful. As one friend said, I always land on my feet.

People try to discourage me. When I was younger, my mom didn’t want me to be disappointed. She didn’t want me to fail. She was very nervous the first time I approached an art gallery with my work. She thought they might reject me. One way to keep from failing is to never try anything. To me, that would be the biggest failure of all. Case workers have tried to discourage me from adopting kids. They go on and on about the challenges. I don’t ask anyone to be perfect. I just think kids deserve a family that allows them to become the best “them” that they can be.

My son likes to tell me what won’t work. Over and over I repeat “Don’t tell me what can’t be done.”

It bothers me when my kids see only the obstacles. They give up before they’ve really tried. It’s easier. But when I succeed, things are so much better for all of us.

I’ve been disappointed many times. But I keep trying. I keep dreaming.

I can see my dreams before they are a reality.

A few pieces of advice:

Live within your means. Junk is so expensive, and it doesn’t enhance our lives. It just leaves us with clutter and debt. Live with what you need and what you love.

Be content where you are. Sometimes we need to move. When we are being abused. When someone elsewhere loves and wants us. But at some point, learn to be content. Contentment leads to true happiness. I used to move around all the time. Whenever I got my feelings hurt. I thought I could escape my problems by going somewhere else. It didn’t work. I realized that I kept taking myself with me everywhere I went. I brought all my baggage along.

I love where I live, and I never want to live anywhere else. The first year or two that I was here, I wanted to leave. I stayed, and the seed was planted. I learned a lot about myself and very slowly, I faced the big issues I carried in my suitcase. I put down roots. This is something that I didn’t have as a teenager and young adult. I had moved around the world so much that I called myself a gypsy. I was unhappy.

Now, my house and my yard are like magic to me. I love the details and the history. Trees tower over my yard. Trees that I planted when they were tiny saplings. I planted them when my daughter was born, and more when my grandson was born. They have grown strong and tall like my children and my grandchildren.

Learn to forgive. Forgiveness doesn’t mean excusing or condoning the behavior that causes harm. Your bitterness only hurts you. When we forgive, we free ourselves. We don’t forget. We don’t continue to put ourselves in hurtful, uncomfortable, abusive situations. We learn and we change and we move on. Everyone is flawed. Everyone sees the world from their own perspective. It’s not all about you. So be careful. Learn the lesson and move on smarter than you were before.

Do what you dream. If you want to do something, and someone says you can’t, prove them wrong and do it anyway. If you tell me what I can’t do, I will dig my heels in so deep, and I will pull harder than you. I’m stubborn that way. Not stubborn… determined. It’s not easy. I’m not offering you pie in the sky. I’m saying that if something is important to you, fight for it. Sometimes we have to recognize when the job is too big, but that’s when we try another approach, if it’s important enough.

You have the chance to do something no one has ever done before. You have the unique opportunity to live your life, your way.

Step outside of your comfort zone. I used to have horrible stage fright. Crazy. Now I love public speaking. 25 years ago or so, I auditioned for a play. I’m not sure why. I had a small part. A couple of lines. It terrified me. I hated it. I was so relieved when the run of the play was over. Then I auditioned for another play, and got a lead role. WHY? I don’t know. But I had enlarged my circle of comfort. It wasn’t terrifying anymore. I had done this before, and survived it. I went on to act in many more plays, and people said I was a good actor. I started performing weddings. I was nervous the first time. Now I perform weddings often, and I am able to be a calming presence for those nervous about the event.

Math. I grew up believing I could not do math. I’ve written about this before. Turns out I’m pretty good at math. I aced a math aptitude test. I took math in college and graduated with honors. Math doesn’t scare me anymore. I think it is beautiful.

I was never much of a reader. The words jumped around on the page, and I was discouraged by the number of pages yet to read. It was not fun. What changed? I think it was writing that made me a reader. Now I get caught up in novels the way I used to watch tv, only better. I read five or six novels in February alone this year. Now I’m reading mostly short stories, but a couple of novels, too. When I finish a book now, I feel exhilarated, and sad that it is over, and my comfort zone grows bigger.

Why am I giving you advice? I’m no different than you.

All I know is, I used to be unhappy, and now I’m content. I’m not happy every minute. I’m often sad, frustrated, afraid. All of these emotions are important. If you didn’t know what darkness was, you couldn’t know light. It would have no meaning. Every day is made up of equal parts of darkness and light. The darkness has a lot to teach us, and then the light is that much brighter.

I adopted a newborn almost 24 years ago, and when she grew up and moved away, I was devastated. I had two kids before her, they were 13 and 14 when she was born.

I found myself as an empty nester, but all I really ever wanted to be was a parent. So about 2 1/2 years ago, I started on the path to adopting from foster care. I have a large house, so I adopted a sibling group with special needs. My friends were skeptical, but this has been one of the greatest experiences of my life. I told my 23 year old that I was not trying to replace her, but it is a testament to her that I wanted to adopt again.

It is not always easy, but it is always worth it. I have a very supportive network of family and friends, and I live in a small town that has been supportive all along the way.

This is what I tell my kids: There is nothing wrong with you. Everyone has their own strengths and challenges in life. Because we are all different, we can all be each other’s teacher.

People say I am an angel, or a saint. No. I am doing exactly what I want to do. I think I am getting more out of this than the kids are. It gives me a purpose.

Dad of 5, Grampa of 9.

I brought a trailer full of furniture and boxes of stuff up to Minnesota from my parents’ house in North Carolina. There is a beautiful writing desk that my dad bought in Gloucester, Mass. I’ve paired it with a vintage medical stool. The kids have antique bedroom sets that mom and dad bought at an auction in South Carolina. There are pieces from the farm, from Africa, from North Carolina, and pieces collected by my family from all over the world. I have a table made by my Grandfather. I have Grammy and Grampa’s dresser. I especially love the pieces with a story. The box my uncle Bob made when he was a boy. The bowl my grandparents got as a wedding present in 1925. Little items I remember seeing on shelves in my childhood.

But my favorite piece is a modest wooden stool. I think they got it when my dad was in medical school. Long before I was born. I have a photo of me sitting on it when I was five years old. The seat has been cracked the whole time I have known it. At one point, someone stabilized the crack and painted the legs. The seat was padded and upholstered.

When we started talking about items I might want to bring north, I mentioned that stool, and it was put aside for me. I have stripped it and will varnish it to make it look like it did 60 years ago.

People talk about the holy grail, and imagine a golden or ivory goblet, encrusted with gemstones. The real thing was probably a modest wooden or clay cup. Ordinary things become extraordinary because of the stories attached to them. This stool is one of my most prized possessions. It’s not the kind of thing a person would gush over as they walk through my house. They might not even notice it. It’s just the right height for haircuts. It’s friendly. Simple, not precious. Sturdy and honest, it’s always there. You can sit on it. I remember a hamster named Hammy eating a saltine on it back in Ferndale, before I started kindergarten.

It gives me a connection to another time. I think of the childhood me as a different person from who I am now.

This stool tells me that it’s still me.

The best part of any trip is getting home again.

We just spent a whirlwind 6 days driving 3,000 miles.

This was attempt number three at going to see my parents. The first time, we were thwarted by the arrival of covid. The second time, our van died an hour and a half into the trip. This was all for the best. By waiting, I was able to visit and tour my childhood home. This was a dream come true for me, and meaningful to my family when I told them about it and showed them the pictures. Even my mom remembers the house and the good times we had there.

She saw pictures of Lempi and Poika and asked “is that Minnie?”

Minnie was my cat on the farm.

Adding to the farm visit, I came home with many treasures… items that I remember from my parents’ house.

In my sci-fi autobiography, I wrote about the farm, and the longing I had to touch physical objects from my childhood. Now I have them right here with me in Minnesota.

So you see? Dreams can come true. It may be more accurate to say that things are more likely to happen if you ask. They are even more likely if you work really hard at making them happen. I did all three.

My family was grateful that I took the objects and brought them home with me. I am grateful that they are here.

I assured my mom that this furniture is still hers, and I will take care of it for her in case she needs it again.

She still has objects in the drawers, and they will stay right there just in case.

My dad worried about the trailer, and I did my best to assure him too.

“Dad,” I said, “I am a problem solver.”

It all worked out.

What a strange feeling it must be to no longer need the things you’ve spent your life acquiring.

This is a sacred trust.

To someone else it might be just an old dresser or plate.

Mom didn’t want to lose it, so I will hold on to it for her.

That trip is so long. It gives you time to think.

I want my kids to think as fondly about their childhood as I think of mine. What will they remember? What will they long for? What will they dream about?

My dad said that he’s glad I was born because I bring a dimension that would remain a dark corner if I were not there.

That’s what my kids do for me. They light the dark corners of my life. They have made my house into a home, and we have created a family together.

I’m laying in a hotel bathtub in North Carolina, and will head back to the beautiful, cool northland tomorrow.

What a trip this has been! Full of surprises and affirmation. In many ways I think it has been a life changing trip.

I’ve reconnected with my history through spending time with my sweet mother and father, through the house and its hopeful future. I’m bringing pieces of it home.

Raymond has connected with his cousins, met his grandparents and my brother and sister-in-law who welcomed us with such warm hospitality and a surprise birthday party.

It is bittersweet.

My mom told me she doesn’t know how much time she has left. None of us do. All we can do is live this moment the best we can.

Every moment.

I’m bringing furniture back to Minnesota. Much of it is older than I am, and was part of my childhood. There is a table made by my maternal grandfather, and there is his dresser. I have the bowl that my father walked past every time he walked through their dining room when he was a boy. His parents received it as a wedding gift in 1925.

U Haul’s biggest trailer couldn’t contain all the pieces I wanted to bring.

And then there are the photographs my parents took of my early life… photos their parents took of them. My history encrypted in slides and prints.

So many pictures!

And the African things. And my grampa’s printing press.

It’s been a whirlwind trip, and it is half over.

We will have to empty the current stuff out of the house to make room for the new stuff, which is the old stuff.

It will make me think of my parents and my grandparents, and I will say to my kids, “your great grandfather made this table.”

Like the day Luuka asked, and I told him, “Your great great grandfather painted that picture.”

I’m in yet another hotel bathtub. This time, in West Virginia.

We stopped at my childhood home this morning. The house is being renovated, and I was able to go through the whole thing.

Several months ago, I wrote about the Brady Bunch home renovation, and said that I could not connect with the Romeo home. I was wrong about that.

I thought I would just drive by and shoot a picture from the road. I thought I might go down Inwood and hike the old gravel pit fields behind the house. I wanted to see the back of the barn that I wrote about in Flash Meridian.

At first glance, the house looked derelict. It looked like it was in ruins. The whole thing looked like it was falling apart.

I felt very sad. We drove on by, and made a right turn on Inwood, but trees and brush had grown up so high I couldn’t see a thing. In the old days, you could see the whole farm from Skyline Ranch.

I felt I had lost the house again, first physically, and now even the fantasy of it was gone.

I went back to the front of the house and pulled in the driveway. The construction sign looked like a for sale sign.

Someone was in the yard, and Helena encouraged me to talk to him.

“You’re personable,” she said.

And so I did.

“I lived here 50 years ago,” I explained. He introduced me to the new owner.

I knew so much about the house. Not only the physical details, but names and dates. Neighbors. The original owners.

The outbuildings were sagging. The orchard was gone. The merry-go-round and barbecue were no longer there. The kitchen and dad’s office were gutted. The only finish I recognized was grampa’s paint in the breezeway.

We walked through the house and I talked nonstop. I remembered everything. The window seat and bumpy plaster on Jonathan’s wall. The secret hiding place under the bottom shelf in Mark’s closet.

I looked in my own closet to see if any of my notes remained on the wall.

The rooms felt much smaller. Everything was overgrown.

The silo roof was gone, but I knew that from the satellite images.

After we left, I spent the rest of the day driving and muttering “wow”. My emotions ran high.

I could not believe that it had actually happened. I stood in those spaces. I looked out those windows. I even looked in the closet where Ditto nursed her kittens. I stood where I stood that Peach Festival weekend, where, after the parade, Sandy came down from his perch in the garage to greet me. He was snapped up by Pax who crushed him in her jaws, and he and I both screamed in horror until he was dead.

I stood in the room where I refused to put the trombone to my lips during that final lesson. It was the first time I stood up for myself.

I drove and cried and laughed and said “wow” over and over, searching for other words I could use.

The house is loved again and still, and is being renovated with new materials as well as respect for its history.

I’ve regained the reality and the fantasy as well as a new friend.

Now my son and I share an experience on that property. For me, a flood of memories and for him, the black rat snake in the deep end of the pool.

I will have much more to say about this, because if I could have gone anywhere in the world, it would have been exactly there. If I had known how to make it unfold perfectly, it would have been exactly that.

I’m in a hotel bathtub again, this time in central Michigan.

Tomorrow I will see my childhood home, midway through a pilgrimage of sorts.

Three years ago I was trying to reinvent my life. I was shuffling the cards, and hoping for the best.

The best happened, but in a way I could not have foreseen.

Each day, I believe we do the best we know to do. The plan I had made sounded good on paper. The reality was unfulfilling at best. It’s sometimes hard to admit when we’re wrong. But admitting I was wrong was the turning point.

I left my home without selling it. I bought a house in a city that would never be home. I was hoping things would just fall into place.

What’s that saying about hitting rock bottom?

Rock bottom is a beautiful start.

Hitting rock bottom is a beautiful opportunity to reinvent yourself.

That’s what I did.

The first gift was in knowing where I belong.

The second gift was in knowing that I could have what I dreamed of.

Being single. Being male. Being in my late 50’s. These are not reasons to not have more children.

Naysayers. Challenges. Money. These are not reasons to give up.

Listen to the people who believe in you. Don’t listen to the ones who are tired. Narrow minded. Afraid.

If you don’t have a cheering section, cheer for yourself. You are enough. You are enough, exactly as you are.

It won’t always be comfortable. It won’t always be easy. But following your dream will be worth it.

Even when I was a child myself, I dreamed of being a dad.

Today as I traveled, I spoke with four of my children.

One is with me. One is at my house. One had a dead phone so I left a message. One wished she could be here with me.

I wish they were all here with me.

I went into a building today that brought back a lot of bad memories.

My friend pointed out that I now have the opportunity to remake the memories into good ones.

I did the very same thing to my house over the past 18 years. I wanted to make it unrecognizable from the way it was in an earlier period of my life.

I’ve changed almost every detail of my house, but that is not what makes me love it. It’s the people… my children… that make my house my home.

There are good and bad memories everywhere. Some people say we should focus only on the positive.

I think there are lessons to learn from the uncomfortable, painful and disappointing times. I don’t want to dwell on them and I sure don’t want to repeat them. I can, however, celebrate them. I can celebrate that they are over. I can celebrate the gift of empathy they brought.

Abandonment brought me confidence that I never knew I possessed.

Rejection showed me I can be self sufficient.

Loss showed me I can reclaim what was always the most important to me.

Being told lies showed me the importance of being truthful.

Squandering instilled in me the importance of financial responsibility.

These things are valuable. They were worth learning, and they are worth passing on.

I have not yet learned all the lessons I need. That is why the pain still comes.

I wish I could learn the lessons for my kids so that they never have to suffer, but I can’t, and besides, I don’t want to deprive them of the gifts to come.