Meet Woofit

There are conflicting stories as to the origin of my brother's name.

The one I grew up hearing goes something like this:

Alden, the oldest, could not - or would not - say the name "Allan" which is his real name. Allan Kent Turner.

Instead, Alden called him "Woofie" and it stuck.

The newest story, which I just heard in the past few years, is that my father gave him the nickname, but we're not sure why.

Either way, Woofie - or Woof or Woofit - is the name he's had since a toddler and it's what we've always called him. In fact, he had it legally changed to Woofit not too long ago.

Invariably, when I write or talk about Woofie, I always have to stop mid-story and explain that my brother is not a pet dog I had as a kid. He's my second-oldest brother, seven years my senior, and after whom we named our own son, Griffin.

Griffin Allan Kent Turner.

Not Griffin Woofit.

Try saying that without giggling.

Sounds like courderoy pants rubbing together when you run.

griffin-woofit, griffin-woofit

Woofie looks like a Woofie, not an Allan. He was a drummer in a rock-n-roll band. A few, actually, when I was growing up. But repeated surgeries on his shoulders fucked up his ability to play. Well, they fucked up his ability to do a lot.

But when I was a kid, everyone knew Woofie Turner. The blond drummer.

"You're Woofie's brother?" they would ask, the implication being that there's no way in hell that was possible. Woofie was cool and had beautiful girlfriends. I was not.

Woofie is stocky and, before the shoulder problems tore him down, was muscular and well-built.

I was not. In fact, I am more like my sister, Alison, whereas Alden and Woofie were closer in physical type. They got the muscular genes. Alison and I were short and skinny.

Today, Woofie is the father of three beautiful girls - seen by many as a cruel twist of fate for a man's man. Many in our tight family have agreed that the girls tempered his earlier wildness.

But really, to be honest, Woof is a poet and always has been, in the romantic sense of the word, not literally. He's always had the rough outer veneer but beneath it he's vanilla and banana pudding. I don't know a man more benevolent, nor anyone with a deeper sense of love and affecting warmth.

It is true, Woofie has always marched to the beat of a different drummer. Or, as my mother would say, "March to the drum of a different beat."

But we love that about him, as much as we love that Alden is the oldest and smartest, Alison is the only sister and by far the prettiest, or that I'm ...

Not sure what I am to them. They'd have to tell you. I have my ideas. Something about youngest and most spoiled, which would be accurate probably.

Anyway, from now on, when I speak of Woof, Woofit, or Woofie, you know.

He's my second-oldest, former drumming, father of three girls, deep-souled, opinionated, sculpting, 48-year-old but still fucking cool, brother.

15 Things I Love About You (Happy Birthday)

One

You were
A scowler, a searcher
Always looking into the meanings of things
A quiet curiosity

Two

Your blond hair
As a child
Had a near-blinding luminescence
Angelic

Three

Everybody wants
You as a friend

Four

Your relentless pursuit
To please me
No matter what

Five

Your bowleggedness
When you were a toddler
Yet you could run like hell away from me

Six

Your imagination is
Contagious and fills me
With hope

Seven

You on a playing field
On a court
Is poetry

Eight

Your vain attempts
To quell tears
Trying to be strong
Your quivering bottom lip was a beautiful thing

Nine

Whenever you said
Dad
Your voice was a cure
For everything that ailed me

Ten

People pay you a compliment
When they don't realize I'm your father
And I get goose bumps

Eleven

You still come to me for answers
Even though "I don't know"
Is a more common reply than it used to be

Twelve

You hug me
In front of your friends
And still tell me you love me
When it's time for bed

Thirteen

You're incapable of
Staying angry at me

Fourteen

You still laugh at my
Stupid
Jokes

Fifteen

You make a father
Feel loved

Random Notes

It snowed 24 inches - or more - last night.

We lost power at about 2 in the morning and didn't get it back until 10:30, which meant no heat and an awful lot of snow to shovel.

That heavy, rain-saturated snow too. Two feet of it.

Our porch leaks at the far end, even after I repaired the roof this past summer. Well, obviously I didn't repair it.

This means a serious roof rehabilitation project for the spring. The kind where you tear up shingles, pop out water-damaged wood, and replace flashing.

Of course, that will happen after we gut and redo our bathroom, the one in which a pipe froze and burst a couple months ago, saturating everything right down into the basement.

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My last entry showed an image of the cover of Purple Holly, my latest not-yet-finished novel. I just wanted to share a moment for you. I think the Germans call it gestalt. It's when all the disparate parts of something click together to make something seamless and therefore greater than its parts.

In writing, the looser definition would be what occurred to me Friday and Saturday. The idea went from being a lot of interesting pieces - characters and their "actions", the setting, etc. - and then click it became a single story. One with meaning. That's one of my favorite early moments in writing.

That click is almost audible. when all the story elements dovetail together and a theme emerges. You look for it. If you set out in the beginning with a theme, you're doomed. When it hits you like this - through the characters - you know you're on the right track.

And no, I'm not telling you what the story is about. Or what happens.

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Watched the Academy Awards last night with Corrine, Harrison, Gabi and Griffin. Loved it, for the most part. It had, these last few years, lost its luster for me, but redeemed itself last night. Hugh Jackman was great as the host, the winners were worthy of their awards - in my opinion - and there were lots of laughs. Can't beat that. Oh, and I didn't see any of the nominated movies last year. Well, except for Wall-E, which won, and deservedly so.

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Harrison turns 15 Wednesday. Not sure what I'll get the kid. I have a couple ideas, including a digital camera.

Or a snow shovel.

Hey, didn't you read the first note?

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My parents' 50th anniversary is this June. We (us four siblings) are beginning the planning. I'm in charge of designing the invitations and have come up with a couple great ideas. 50 years is something to aspire to. I will be 90 when Corrine and I reach that milestone.

And we will.

Impetus

So, I get to a point in the creative process where I need to kick my own ass into gear. Give myself a creative incentive. Winter kills me creatively. There's just nothing romantic about banks of snow, cold drifts, ice dams, frozen pipes and empty oil tanks. These things, and many more, kill my creativity.

I get depressed. Clinically. Not "the blues" as Mom would call them. I'm talking about that ugly dark feeling, like you've swallowed a Stephen King novel and it's spreading inside of you. Taking over.

It's the end of February. I get to my birthday, on March 4th, and I always start to see better, emotionally. Winter is not over. I know this. But March 4th has always been that benchmark I always wait for, because it means in a month come the rains and the snow recedes and the temperature rises.

I can stand rainy days. I actually love rainy days. Ask Corrine.

But, today, February 20, I am giving myself a kick. In. The. Ass.

I designed the cover of my new novel, before the novel is finished. This sounds like putting the cart before the horse, but it isn't. And you probably already know where I'm going with this.

By designing it, and publishing it here, I'm throwing down the gauntlet. I'm saying, well, now I HAVE to finish it. I'm shaming myself into doing it.

Am I afraid I won't otherwise? Sort of. I have a love-hate relationship with my writing. I tend to start something and hate it before it's even out of the rough draft. Which is cruel. It's like throwing out a cake when you've just put the batter in the pan. How will you know it's any good unless you wait?

I have not given myself a deadline, but I'm pushing for the end of August, just like two years ago with Surfacing (the cover of which I also printed out before I was done with the book, and pinned it to my office wall).

So now I'm on the clock.

To Do

• A picnic together on Lake Auburn, like that time before
• Another walk through a cemetery where we once kissed
• Revisit the little league dugout where we ate lunch in May
• Sit in a coffee shop together in the middle of a crowded mall, watching the shoppers and talking about nothing important
• Dance slow. Anywhere. My hands on her hips
• Dance fast, watching the light in her eyes
  
• Swim in a heated pool in March
• A drink together at the end of the pier at Old Orchard Beach
• Walk behind her, she's wearing jeans, I don't care if it's only through the house
• Ride horses together on a beach, somewhere tropical
• A movie, holding hands

If It Wasn't For Them ...

On my office wall hangs a framed parchment with a line of hand-drawn hieroglyphics across it. Harrison, now in the middle of his freshman year in high school, gave it to me when he was in sixth grade.

This would have been the spring of 2006. His mother and I were separated and heading for divorce. The upheaval, the constant confusion and turmoil in his life more than likely seemed insurmountable to him.

In a span of weeks he was experiencing the kind of domestic hell I never thought I would allow my children to experience. His notion of Family was turned on its ear. Out the window went security and safety and because of the circumstances surrounding the separation and divorce, his view of me was more than likely altered forever. I was certain it was probably the first time he ever looked at me in a purely negative way.

But if I've learned anything in the last few years, it's this: children may be affected by our actions deeply, they are still more resilient than we adults. Their idea about love of family trumps everything and their measure of forgiveness has no depth. Curiously, many people I've known since childhood - adults - still remain estranged from me to this day.

So back to the hieroglyphics.

I started writing Surfacing when our family was still a family. I used to read parts of it to the kids while camping. I continued to write it through the ensuing mess and came out at the other side with a published book. Harrison, as part of a classroom exercise about the Egyptians, was asked to write something in the language of the people of that time.

He chose the word "Surfacing".

And I framed it and hung on my wall where I see it every day, a reminder of the many ways my children's support of me is a great gift. It humbles and it uplifts. It re-educates me whenever I see it and it says to me:

I believe in you.
No matter.
You're still my father.
Don't forget it.



Harrison Scott, at the book signing, September, 2007. With his old man.

Me! Me! Me!

Pictures of Me. Below. As a kid.
My sister Alison got a new tricycle for Christmas. I needed a ride to the kitchen. I especially love this photo because A) It's a good one of us, B) She's doing all the work, which was always the case C) The tree is hilariously Charlie Brownish. It's like we all just took a handful of ornaments and tinsel and garland and just threw it at the poor tree.


Not sure how old I am. I think maybe fourth grade. That's a professional haircut, by the way. Called the Hedge-Trimmer in 1978 when this was taken.


Me at, like 5? 6? This is kindergarten sign-ups, or maybe Sunday School. I'm displaying my signature nervous habit: shit-eating grin and twiddling my fingers. I still do this even today.


Me and my brother, Woofie. (Yes, yes, for the 100th time, that's his real name) How do like my hair? Stop droolin, ladies. You know you want me. This is 1987, by the way. My senior year in kindergarten. What's remarkable is how much the hairstyles reflect the generation. Woof graduated in 1980, and looks like a member of Styx. I look like a member of New Kids on the Block.


I was left in this tree. The photographer (Dad) hoisted me, took the picture, then ran like hell, shouting "We're free! We're free! Get in the damn car, Alice!" I like the muscle shirt. And the crew cut. And the ... what the hell are those, windpants? On an August hike in New Hampshire. Jesus.

Another professional haircut. This was called the Wing Bowl. A bowl cut, but with a slight wing in the front. See it? On windy days it acted as a spoiler. I could run faster with this haircut. Of course, with this shirt on, I was launched like a kite on the playground. My friends loved that feature, and would shout "Okay, now let's hit him with rocks!"

Me and Alison again. The only time I ever had a decent haircut in my life. But again with the muscle shirt. And it looks like two dogs humping cigars on the front. Is it me, or does Alison's smile look a little apologetic? Like she's saying "He's not really a blood relative. We found him at an orphanage for special kids."