Who do you turn to when all else fails? Who has your back? Who’s got your six?

It occurs to me that I have been blogging here for a little more than three years. We have covered a lot of topics, from politics to my ongoing struggles with a mental illness. I have posted humorous things and somber things. I have posted Pro Tips for aspiring candidates and explored my hometown’s recent economic revival. I have written about solid waste and about the effects of herring on lobsters.

That’s a pretty diverse list of subject matter, don’t you think?

But it also occurs to me that there in one subject that is too often left in the shadows.

Sure, I talk about my wife on these pages, but it’s usually as a passing reference point or to highlight her battle against multiple sclerosis as a fundraising tool for the annual MS Walk in York County.

But today, for a few different reasons, I want to talk more publicly about the woman who changed my life. The woman who is my best friend and my strongest ally.

When I first met Laura, she was running for a seat on the Old Orchard Beach School Board. I was the editor of the local newspaper, and thus I offered my readers endorsements of candidates. I did not endorse Laura. I mistakenly thought she was running for a seat held by an accomplished incumbent.

Laura sent me an e-mail just a couple of days after my endorsements were published. She pointed out the mistake, which I did not take so well.

For whatever reasons, we continued an e-mail exchange that was almost instantly flirtatious. She did not win her election, and we had our first date a few days later  – – on a cold November afternoon that I will never forget.

I was smitten, but I was also impressed by her strength and courage. She was a single mother, raising two boys without any support from their father. She worked long hours in one of the most stressful jobs you can imagine: a social worker for the Maine Department of Health and Human Services in the office of Child and Family Services.

She bought her own modest home about a year before she met me. We dated several weeks before she would let me meet her children.

She is an awesome mother who would take her young boys frog hunting in the spring. She has gone skydiving and has never met a rollercoaster she did not like. Unlike me, she is a risk taker, always ready for the next adventure.

She is spontaneous and her laugh is more like a howl that consumes her entire body. She’s not into nouveaux cuisine or the latest fashion trends. Her favorite band is whatever is playing on the radio at that time.

She is mischievous and endearing. She is a voracious reader who loves animals (and owns too many, in my opinion).

She is down-to-earth and wears her heart on her sleeve. There is no pretense with Laura. What you see is what you get.

She is the consummate professional and has a hard time separating her emotions from the strain of her job. She loves the kids she works with almost as much as she loves her own.

She knows a thing or two about friendships. If you become friends with Laura, it is a life-long affair. She and her best friend have known each other since their freshman year in high school.

Laura is generous to a fault. She always wants to help, to give to others, to make others smile and feel loved.

Her chocolate cheesecake is world-famous (or soon will be).

She volunteers in the community and gets involved with causes left and right. She currently serves on the City Council’s Policy Committee and served two terms on the local school board. In her first election, she got more votes than any other candidate on the ballots, including the mayor and at-large city councilors.

Laura snores and will sometimes leave wet towels on the floor; so I suppose she is not perfect.

But here’s what I do know: she is an amazing wife. She is my primary caregiver, a trusted confidant and someone who will fight tooth and nail on my behalf.

I often wondered why she married me. It wasn’t money. I had none. It was not for my good looks. I am bald and overweight.

I suppose it doesn’t matter why she married me. What does matter, however, is that she married me.

So, when all else fails, I have something pretty special in my corner. And for that – – I am eternally grateful.

A short video montage:

Another Christmas is right around the corner, and this holiday feels different from so many others that have come and gone.

I suspect some of you may be feeling the same way, considering the stress that too often accompanies the holiday season.

I’m not sure why I am having a harder time getting into the spirit of the season this year. The awful part of this is that there is no good reason for my absence of holiday cheer. I am incredibly blessed; more than I should be.

I have a loving, beautiful and supportive wife (Don’t ask me how I pulled this off, because I have no clue).

I have two healthy, wonderful step children, a beautiful home, modern appliances and a good job with benefits, funny co-workers and a flexible boss.

I have two dogs that love me unconditionally and two cats that keep me on my toes.

I have an extended family that is more supportive than dysfunctional. Heck, I even have new tires on my truck, not to mention access to health care and a set of tools that I don’t know how to use.

So, why shouldn’t I feel jolly and bright as this holiday approaches? What has me feeling cynical and ready to scream, “Bah Humbug” at random strangers?

Maybe, just maybe, I have too much. Maybe, just maybe, I have forgotten why we celebrate this holiday.

This realization came to me as I began to reflect on Christmases past; on Christmas celebrations that did not come with so many expectations of the so-called perfect holiday.

As I contemplated these ghosts of Christmases past, it occurred to me that two particular Christmas holidays stood out as my favorites.

1.) Homefries with paprika

It was the Christmas of 1997, and I was 33 years old, virtually unemployed and living with three roommates on the third-floor of a Munjoy Hill apartment in Portland that was much closer to the bottom of the hill. I did not own a car, nor did I have a girlfriend.

I was, in every sense of the word, a loser.  At least, that was my opinion of myself back then.

These aforementioned roommates of mine were unruly slobs who liked to drink, stay up late and delighted in terrorizing my cat. They were lovable guys, actually; but it grew wearisome picking up after them and tolerating their frat-boy behaviors. On the other hand, they were covering my portion of the rent. So, there’s that.

Luckily, my three roommates were all headed to their respective homes for the holidays, and I was not. To me, this was the ultimate Christmas gift: I would have the entire apartment all to myself for a few days. I spent almost an entire day cleaning the place, lit some candles and then planned what I would do on my solitary Christmas.

Only a few weeks before, my sister gave birth to my oldest niece, Kaitlyn.  I had a little more than $20 in my pocket, so my Christmas shopping was going to be limited. So, on December 24, I trudged down Congress Street and stopped at the CVS store. I bought a rather inexpensive frame and some parchment paper; and then trudged down the hill toward the Hannaford store, where I bought a thick ham-steak, half-dozen eggs and some egg nog before heading home.

I loaded my word-processor with the parchment paper and drafted a poem for my niece; a poem to celebrate her first Christmas. Satisfied with the third version, I placed it in the frame and wrapped it.

I opted to attend Midnight Mass at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, and by the time I walked back home, a quiet peace and serenity enveloped me. I was exhausted, but content.

I fell asleep reading Ben Bradlee’s autobiography and awoke on Christmas morning happier than I could recall. I boiled some potatoes, setting them in a skillet with globs of butter, chopped onions and doused with paprika. In a separate skillet, I fried that ham-steak, while working to scramble some eggs and coordinate the timing of my toast.

It was a kick-ass breakfast that I washed down with a quart of egg-nog. I fell asleep again in front of the television, with my cat curled on my chest.

I had not only survived a solitary Christmas; I relished it.

2.) Reindeer tracks

It was the  Christmas of 2001. A few weeks prior, I met Laura Kidman and we began dating on a regular basis. She owned a small home in Old Orchard Beach and had two young sons that I had met just a couple of weeks before Christmas. I was the editor of a small, local newspaper. I drove a 1993 Ford Escort wagon with a really bad exhaust,

Between us, Laura and I did not have two nickels to spare, but I remember how warm and cozy her house felt when she invited me over on Christmas Eve. Looking back, the “cozy” feeling probably had something to do with the house being 550-square-feet.

The boys were still young enough to believe in Santa Claus. Tim was six, and Matt was four. I bought them each several presents, which were wrapped and placed under the Christmas tree after they went to bed. Laura’s sister had helped me pick out a necklace, which I would give to my future wife on Christmas morning. But as midnight, approached, I opted to give Laura a more significant gift.

A few years earlier, my mother had given me the Nativity set that I had grown up with. From that Nativity set, I removed the Joseph figurine and wrapped it carefully. When I gave Laura that gift, I explained that I would do my best to match Joseph’s love for a child that was not his own.

Before driving home, I went out to the front porch and leaned over with a broom to create reindeer tracks in the snow.

I went back to Laura’s home on Christmas morning to watch the kids open their presents and to point out that the reindeer had landed in the front yard. They believed it for a little while, but were relentless in interrogating me about it. It was a magical day, and I felt as if I had truly turned some kind of corner that could never be reversed.

Neither of these stories are intended to diminish the wonderful and magical Christmases of my youth. My parents outdid themselves at Christmas. We decorated the tree as a family, listening to Nat King Cole and Johnny Mathis sing about the magic of the season. There was always, and I mean always, a giant orange tucked in the bottom of our stockings; my sister and I were often given matching pajamas on Christmas eve. We each had our favorite ornaments to hang on the tree. Fond memories, that must adapt to changing realities.

And what I realized today is that the more I have; the more comfortable I am, the more the magic and splendor of Christmas escapes me.

Because Christmas is not about stuff, credit-card balances, news headlines or any of the other things that can weigh us down throughout the rest of the year.

Christmas is a reprieve for those who choose to accept it.

No matter where you are, no matter your circumstance or fortune, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas

 

I remember it well.  It was the summer of 1985.

I was 21 years old and working for the Maine Peoples Alliance, a progressive, citizens action organization that was then working to raise public awareness about a proposed Community Right-To-Know law that would require small and large companies to publicly disclose to their neighbors what types of hazardous chemicals they were using.

That didn’t matter much to me. What mattered was that I needed a job, and the gig paid $240 per week.

I was hired as a field canvasser. Basically, my job was to go door-to-door in targeted communities and try to raise at least $90/night (quota)  in order to support the financing of our good deeds.

Each day, around 2:30 in the afternoon, me and roughly nine other young and eager do-gooders convened at the MPA’s Portland office to go over our assignments for the evening. Then, we all piled into a Chevy Suburban and were driven to a selected community, where we would receive our individual “turf” assignments.

It was not a bad job for college kids in the summer. The weather was generally cooperative, and the communities were generally the more affluent type.

Before hitting the bricks, we generally were dropped at a local “house of pizza” to gain some nourishment and play epic games of hacky-sack while the canvass director scouted turfs.

Armed with only clipboards, our award-winning smiles and enthusiasm,  we were each set loose in our respective turf to begin hitting every house on the block for signatures on our petition and a pitch to donate.

Sure, I had a lot of doors slammed in my face, but  I could also tell you more funny stories about canvassing than what you would want to hear.

Know this, however: I hit or exceeded my $90 quota every night.

I also fell madly in love with a co-worker. It was an awesome summer, but she broke my heart on the same weekend that Hurricane Gloria hit Maine. I remember it well.

Hurricane Gloria’s damage could not compare to the damage done to my then bleeding, anti-corporate, progressive heart.

Go ahead, blame her for making me a Republican. She was an art student.

Go figure.

And these children that you spit on . . .

Flash forward almost 30 years to Monday night.

Laura and I just returned home after walking the dogs, and we spotted a canvasser at our neighbor’s house.

Laura ducked in the house quickly. She avoids confrontation.

The canvasser spotted me and sized me up as he began walking toward our driveway.

“Can I help you,” I asked, deadly curious about who he was and who he was working for.

I thought about that art student from three decades before. I thought about all the doors slammed in my face. I thought about all the funny stories I accumulated that long ago summer.

This kid . . . this snot-nosed punk . . .  had no idea what was in store for him.

“I’m looking for Laura or Timothy.” he said, glancing at his smartphone.

We never had smartphones.

“Laura is my wife and Tim is my son,” I told him. “Can I help you with something,” I repeated, wondering why he didn’t want to speak with me.

Maybe it was because we were his last house for the evening, or maybe he was just being polite. “Sure, I can talk to you,” he replied, glancing again at his smartphone and instantly pulling up my real first name. (Hint: It’s not Randy, Randall or Randolph)

He asked who I was planning to vote for in Maine’s upcoming gubernatorial election. I gave my answer, and his response was flat. This kid must be a good poker player.

By now, Laura has emerged from the house, and I told the canvasser to ask her the same question. Unlike me, there was no hesitation in Laura’s voice. Her answer was clear and purposeful: Republican Paul LePage had earned her vote, she said.

Trying to mess with his head, I muttered something about Eliot Cutler.

That remark got Laura fired up. “Are you kidding me?” she asked incredulously. The canvasser seemed to be enjoying himself.

So, the three of us spent the next 15 minutes or so talking politics, including Laura setting him straight on the issue of fraud investigators, right there on my front lawn.

This kid was working for the Maine Democratic Party, but he seemed more interested in genuinely hearing our concerns and frustrations than he did about trying to sway our opinions.

He came across as smart, polite and respectful. He held his ground perfectly. He was a good ambassador for his party.

Eventually, his ride arrived and we bid adieu to our new friend.

As I closed the front door, I began to wonder why we usually can’t debate politics with such civility on social media outlets.

The worlds of communication and political strategy are rapidly changing, but Monday’s experience reminded me that there is still tremendous value in knocking on doors and having face-to-face conversations.