She had a great affinity for the English language. More than a writer, she was an avid reader, and was a bit shy about her poetry. As a memorial to her, my father self-published a collection of Carol’s poems in 1989 — 28 of them, including five “fragments.” I remember arguing with him about this last point, especially as one of her poems is entitled “”I Must Not Die And Let Them Find Unfinished Poems.” It’s the great irony held within the pages of this little book, called Poems On A Refrigerator Door.*

I think were she alive today she might be a little embarrassed by the collection, but I’m grateful my father thought to have it done. In this age of blogging and the Internet, we’re much less shy about the concept of “self-publishing,” as you’re witnessing with me on a daily basis. Who knows, I might even have convinced her to publish her own poet’s journal blog, like Taylor Mali’s “Definitely Beautiful.”

One of the most charming aspects of the book is that it is illustrated by the author. Hanno included eleven of my mother’s sketches, the majority of which are of my brother, Michael. I realize now that he was her favorite subject, which stings a little, I’ll admit. But I’m heartened by the fact that the one sketch of me included in the book is opposite the poem I’m sharing with you here.

“Time keeps on slippin,’ slippin,’ slippin,’ into the future.”

— Steve Miller Band

One of the things about keeping a daily journal that is maybe a little less “agreeable,” let’s say, is the awareness, with each new dateline, that time is passing. One can become morose about it quite easily, especially in middle age, where I find myself now. Actually, when I stop to think about it, as I’m doing presently, my realization is that “middle-aged” has become a euphemism for me, or optimistic, at best. I’ve really reached the unenviable moment – and you’re lucky enough to share the occasion of my realization with me – of understanding that I’ve got less time ahead of me than I’ve put behind me.

“Over the hill.” I get that expression now.

I noticed recently that my dear old friend and high school sweetheart, Maria Voles Ferguson, had my yearbook quote among her “Favorite Quotations” on her Facebook page:

“The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.”

— James Taylor

I took a lot of crap for that when the yearbook, Reminiscence, came out in the spring of 1981. My English teacher and early mentor, Mary O’Donnell, was disappointed, because she’d wanted me to come up with my own turn of phrase. Pink Floyd’s 1978 album, The Wall was still hugely popular then, so a lot of my friends considered my quote too wimpy and not rebellious enough, in that “We Don’t Need No Education” kind of way. And, hey, come to think of it, I think Maria even teased me about it. Hmmm.

Now, however, as I look at James’s words, I think yes, why not? Our time is so precious, so fleeting and finite. Why not “enjoy” it in whichever fashion represents enjoyment in your mind? Maybe rebellion is your enjoyment. Or maybe it’s rooting out injustice. Enjoy it.

Enjoy life.

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror this morning and thought, “Who is this guy?” Stubbly, bald head, goatee and moustache, big and beefy. I often wonder – if someone were to come up to me, like that “filmmaker” in the Paris Metro back in 1988, (more on him later) and said, “Excuse me, but would you care to see a photograph of yourself, thirty years from now?”

First of all, I wonder if my 25-year-old self would have said yes. And then, if I did get up the courage to agree to see such a thing, and he handed me that particular photo of the man I saw in the mirror today, what would I say? “Yes, that looks like me, I suppose.” Or maybe, “Holy shit, I look like my dad.”

Perhaps I’d say, “Do I become a professional wrestler?” More likely, I’d have said, “Get the fuck outta here!”

So let me tell the story of the guy on the Paris Metro. Susan and I were on the train, trying our best, I’m sure, not to look like tourists but likely looking very touristy, just the same. A man approached us, probably in his 40’s, with long, stringy hair that he wore pulled back in a pony tail. I remember thinking he looked a little like Bono in the “With or Without You” video. “Parlez-vouz anglais?” he asked. When we answered “oui,” he turned his attention to me, speaking English, with some undetermined European accent that drew out his “s” sounds, giving him a snakelike quality.

“Excussse me,” he said, “but are you an actor by any chance-ssss?”

Before I could form a response, Sue’s eyes widened . “Oh yes! He’s been in a bunch of student films, and he’s done some English-language theatre in Madrid where we live.”

“Well,” he went on, “I don’t know how long you’re in Parissss, but I’m shooting a film you’d be jussssst perfect for.”

“Really?” Susan said, nudging me excitedly. “What’s it called?”

“’Angel’ssssss Poissssson’,” he smiled.

The shooting schedule didn’t work out, but I was obviously flattered to have been approached in this way, albeit a little on the, well, creepy side. I’d like to believe I avoided being cast in a really bad porno movie, rather than the possibility that I may have missed out on my Big Break.

I did look it up on IMDB, and there is no such title listed, so I guess I dodged a bullet.

I spent some good “Quality Time” with the boys yesterday. Jeanette left in the late morning, in hopes of making an 11:30 Yoga class – the idea being that Diego, Jackson and I would then join her at the gym later on. She never made the class, but I decided to go on ahead over to Lifetime Fitness anyway, since I’d already sold the boys on the idea.

Our first stop was shooting hoops, which is a bit of a wild free-for-all with people their age. These guys don’t limit themselves to basketballs; in fact, due to their weight and size, volleyballs and soccer balls seems to suit them better. Their moves to the basket are quick and darting and don’t limit themselves to dribbling, or any of the other rules of basketball, for that matter. I have to be a little careful about yelling “heads up!” when I shoot, as they are a little oblivious to what else is happening around them.

We then made our way over to the rock climbing room, which I described in yesterday’s post. As I said there, both boys are now adept at most of the courses – there are about six available to the general public and a few that appear to be restricted to only the most advanced climbers. Yesterday I had the boys battling each other in races up the wall, and Jackson won 2 out of 3. To his credit, Diego was able to put what we taught him about congratulating your opponent to good use, and said, albeit reluctantly, “Good job” when it was all over.

Jackson was, of course, all smiles.

From rock climbing we made our way into the locker room to get dressed for swimming. They still get a little giggly in there, seeing all those hairy strangers out there “in the wind,” as it were.

Diego chose not to swim this time and sat by the pool, contentedly playing a game on my Blackberry, as Jackson enjoyed splashing and swimming with his dad. Lifetime Fitness is a luxury that costs money, so we have cut off our membership in the past and will likely do so again. But it is a beneficial luxury. Its where both our children learned how to swim and where J and I have been able to come, together or separately, to seek out fitness (working out) and relaxation (Jacuzzi, massage), and Lord knows I will miss all that.

One of the best features of the fitness center we belong to – along with many other great features – is that it has a room devoted to rock climbing. I did it once – once – and I’m here to tell you that if you’re someone my size, who has suffered the fate of a slowing metabolism, paralleled by a propensity for beer and an addiction to sugar, it is not easy. There’s a counterweight pulley system that allows you to climb safely, but it really means you are pulling your own weight, quite literally.

That’s why the kids make it look so easy. Their weight and their strength to pull it are much more closely matched than mine. It’s amazing to watch them scale the walls so quickly. There is absolutely no fear of heights, and falling when harnessed into a counterweight pulley system is downright fun, so they certainly don’t fear that.

In one sense, the rock wall is a metaphor for their growth, as they overcome challenges, and go from, “I can’t do this” to “Hey, I did it, and I’m proud.” It is the week-by-week manifestation of their growing confidence and sense of their own ability. On the other hand, however, it occurs to me that it also represents a bit of a set-up.

The rock wall at Lifetime Fitness is not a rock wall at all. In fact, it’s made of some kind of rubberized plastic composite, so that when you whack your knee on it, your knee bounces off the “wall.” You feel your weight only when pulling up from whatever point you are currently at, to the next destination. As soon as you move downward, the counterweight kicks in and lowers you gently to the ground. The ground is not rock either. It is a leaf pile of recycled auto tire flakes. One could argue that children are being given a false sense of what it means to climb a rock. If and when they ever do decide to dig some pitons into an actual rock face, they will learn in the first minute that they are in a completely new, and very real situation.

It’s sort of analogous to the kind of parent I’m trying to move away from being. When you’re the Fun Daddy, and you never discipline your children, you become the rubberized rock wall, and you deprive your children of the knee scrapes that will help them develop real strength of character. By “protecting” my children from pain, I am really putting them at a disadvantage in later life, a disadvantage they may very well resent me for.

The secret I’m learning as I get better at this parenting stuff is that you can do both. You can be rock when they need the rock and recycled tire flakes when they need that softness. The important thing for you to remember is not to let one parent become all rubber and the other to become all rock. That’s the way the whole wall comes tumbling down, and then everybody loses.

My wife and are I incredulous. Are they really doing this already? The strains of that familiar tune are unmistakable:

Jackson and Gabriella, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G,

First comes love, then come marriage,

Then comes Baby in the baby carriage.

When the tune comes around to “Malik” (our next-door neighbor, a first-grader, who I’ve written about in these pages previously) Jeanette and I decide we can stay silent no longer.

“Okay wait,” I say, “who is this girl they have you sitting in a tree with?”

Amidst much giggling, Malik grins his crooked grin and shyly repeats the name from the song.

“And what do you love about her?” J. asks.

“Her clothes.”

More giggling.

We look at each other and shake our heads in disbelief. Jeanette gets up from the dinner table to retrieve something from the kitchen. On her way there she says over her shoulder, “Just don’t worry about that baby carriage part. There’s plenty of time for that.”

I don’t remember how old I was when my friends and I started accusing each other of sitting up in trees and kissing girls. It was more that than anything else – an accusation. The song held you to task for being the guy doing something yucky, while betraying the trust of the all-male club at the same time. Fraternity is important to young boys; it’s all about who’s “in” and who isn’t. Each of these boys needs to be able to say they could, in theory be up in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g someone. And that someone – based on the age-old rules of boyhood – must be named in this song.

When I think back to my own childhood, I’ll bet there was a big gulf between when I played this “Match Game” and when I first actually did start with the k-i-s-s-i-n-g. If, let’s say, I played the game with my brother Mike and best friend Miki in 1971, which would have made me about the age Diego is now, that’s a good six years before I first kissed a girl.

So, by that math, there’s time to prepare ourselves.

For Diego, anyway. Something tells us (and something has told us this from very early on) that we will have less time to prepare for Jackson. We need to keep a close eye out on his doings up in trees. Because as Jeanette pointed out, we do not want to be thinking about no baby carriages for a long, LONG time around here.

Today I did something I recommend everyone do at least once in their lives. I went swimming in a pool where no one expected me to swim. I’m not speaking literally, of course. I swam in the professional acting pool. I shot a TV spot for an Internet Parental Control Software. That’s right — while none of you were looking, I got inspired (by Liv Ullmann, initially, and then by watching Ken Weinstein living his dream as a music publicist, and finally by the positive way my wife encourages me in life). I went out and found a listing for something, emailed, along with a pretty bad photo of myself, got called in, got called back, and shot the commercial. And guess what: I’m going to get headshots done. And down the road I may even get an agent! So what’s an educator doing swimming in these waters? I’m having fun, that’s what. Find those waters for yourself. And then dive in.

One characteristic that many of my favorite movies have in common is a strong sense of place. It’s almost as though the setting becomes an additional character in the film. Here’s a list of some of my favorites:

• 10. The Ice Storm, 1997, dir. Ang Lee. I was ten years old when this movie was meant to take place, in 1973. I also grew up in Westchester County, in the suburbs just north of New York City. The nuances of both the exteriors — the way the landscape rolls — and interiors, including the ever-present wood panelling brought back vivid childhood memories for me.

• 9. To be fair, The Crooked Corner, (2005) is directed by my good friend, James Savoca. But I’d include it on this list, even if it weren’t. It was filmed entirely on location in Brooklyn, New York, and from the opening credits on, the architecture of that borough, along with the other-worldly Gowanus Canal neighborhood, makes this a film that gets under your skin and into your psyche.

• 8. Hannah and Her Sisters, 1986, dir. Woody Allen. I guess you could pick any number of Woody Allen films and describe New York as a character. Manhattan or Annie Hall, come to mind. But the architecture montage in this one is what made me remember it so well.

• 7. Paris, Texas, 1984, dir. Wim Wenders. The deserts of the north-Texas plains and the silver towers of downtown Houston are unforgettable aspects of this film.

• 6. Breathless, 1960, dir. Jean-Luc Godard. This is the original “guerilla” film. Paris. Nuff said.

• 5. Easy Rider, 1969, dir. Dennis Hopper. The commune. The road. New Orleans. All of it art. Best exterior Americana since John Ford, for my money.

• 4. Wings of Desire, 1987, dir. Wim Wenders. I fell in love with everything about this movie. Including Berlin.

• 3. What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, 1993, dir. Lasse Hallstrom. They shot it in my hometown of Manor, Texas, which I’ve already gone into at some length in a previous post. A number of good actors, including Johnny Depp, John C. Reilly, Mary Steenburgen and Juliette Lewis appear in this film. But Leonardo DiCaprio takes it to another level in one of those performances you just have to see to believe.

• 2. My Life as a Dog, 1983, dir. Lasse Hallstrom. The characters are all unforgettable, as is the small Swedish town they inhabit. Such a beautiful film. If you haven’t seen it, rent it.

• 1. A film I’ve mentioned before in this blog, Bill Forsyth’s Local Hero (1983) is a slice of cinematic perfection in my mind. Like Hallstrom, Forsyth creates a unique world inhabited by quirky characters.

If you’re a writer who’s blocked, or an actor who hasn’t auditioned for anything for a while (I’ve been both), then I highly recommend the book, The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. The last time I read the book, it resulted in an unpublished novel — lost now, unfortunately — which I really loved, called Porchlight’s Travels. My writing career, such as it was, was de-railed by a whole host of realities, most of them happy ones, like marriage and career success and children. Now, years later, I have “picked up” the book again (in quotation marks because I picked it up virtually, by downloading it onto my Kindle). The book is full of great tidbits; I especially like all the inspirational quotations, perfect for tweets and FB status updates. But really the best, most useful aspect of the book is its simplest one, called “the morning pages.” I hope I’m not infringing on any copyrights here; I really just want to sing Ms. Cameron’s praises for putting down on paper something so obvious. If you’re blocked (or even if you’re not, eventually), make sure to sit down first thing in the morning, open up your journal and just write. Three pages, at least. And that’s it. It’s so simple, but I’ll tell you something: It works. Those of you who have been tuning in to this blog have noticed it. I started reading the book at the beginning of this year, and my creative output has been, at the risk of overstating it, explosive. I’m coming up with ideas, writing every day, and going on auditions. (More on that later, as it develops.) Try it out if you don’t believe me. Find the time in the morning, and see what happens. Then let me know.