On a cold December morning in 1963, I and the rest of Mrs. Thiele’s morning kindergarten class took our places on what passed for a stage in the front of the classroom to perform our Christmas program.  Amongst the handful of parents in the audience, I spotted my Mom and my almost 21 month old little sister, Jenny.  Soon afterwards, Jenny spotted me, and was so surprised and thrilled at seeing her big brother that she broke free from my Mom, ran up to me, and gave me a big hug.   The festivities were just about to begin, and there was no way she was going to leave my side.  My Mom tried to gently cajole her back to her seat, but Mrs. Thiele, ancient and sweet, told her it was okay if Jenny wanted to join in the fun.

And so she did, sharing the stage with my classmates and me and even getting her own pair of paper antlers for the stirring reindeer scene, where we all held the antlers to our head and did our best reindeer impersonations, running and jumping about in our own un-choreographed interpretive dances.   As Jenny enthusiastically joined in, her hands holding her paper antlers to her head and a determined look  on her little face, I remember feeling a combination of embarrassment and pride, embarrassed by her disruption, and proud of not only her convincing portrait of a young reindeer but also of her devotion to her big brother.

The program continued, with Jenny participating in every part of it, until it was time for the moving conclusion, Mrs. Thiele’s reading to us some Christmas story from some big book.   Those of us in Mrs. Thiele’s class, veterans of the kindergarten experience that we were, understood that story time meant sitting silent and still.  Jenny, the 21 month old rookie, didn’t grasp this, and kept making noise and running about with her antlers, not ready for all the excitement of the morning to end.   She was disruptive enough that my Mom finally had to remove her, despite her loud cries of protest, which got louder and continued from the hallway long after they left the classroom.   As Mrs. Thiele tried to read above the slowly fading echoes of my sister’s crying, I could hear the snickering of some of the other kids, and I found myself feeling defensive and sad for my little sister.    I shot a disapproving look at a couple of the laughing kids, and was surprised when they suddenly stopped.

I think that this was the first time I realized that I, the youngest of three boys, was now an older brother.     It didn’t take me long to appreciate the awesome power that comes with the position.   I realized that not only would my little sister believe whatever I told her, but that I would decide which toys we played with, and that I would make up the rules to whatever games I decided we’d play.  

As I wielded this power over the years, a funny thing happened.  Although always reluctant to admit it, I found that I enjoyed my little sister’s company.   I found that she and I laughed at things that nobody else laughed at.   As time went on, it became clear that she is much more talented (born with an incredible artistic gift that completely missed me) and smarter than me, yet she still played the role of little sister, sharing in my interests and obsessions.  

Flash forward to the 21^st century:   now in our middle ages, Jenny and I remain close.   We still laugh at things nobody else laughs at.  I still enjoy her company.  I am proud of the person she has turned out to be.  Caring and strong, she looked after my Dad in his last few years, and made sure that he had everything he needed.   I have difficulty imagining what his last years would have been like without her.

Despite the fact that she is a very formidable presence who can stand up for herself, I find that my big brother instincts remain intact, and I still feel the need to defend and look out for her.

A couple of months ago (August 8^th) I posted a report on the status of my memoirs project.  To jog your memory, earlier this year, I had a literary agent express interest in the query letter I had sent him and ask to see some sample chapters.  I sent him about five chapters, to which he responded very enthusiastically.  He then asked to see the entire book, and, unfortunately, decided to pass on the project.  I was disappointed but rebounded, and spent most of the summer trying to make the book better, getting rid of some fat, tweaking some parts and adding some new material.  Confident that I had a much better product, I went about searching for an agent anew. 

I created a list of six new agents and submitted my query letter.  The results so far are:  three no responses, two not interested, and one request, from an agent at one of the largest New York agencies, to see the entire book.  On September 13, I cleaned up a copy and nervously attached it to an e-mail.  For almost a month I opened up my in-box with a combination of anticipation and apprehension, looking for the response. 

Finally, last night, while at my cabin up north, I checked my e-mail from my Android and there, waiting in my in-box, was the long-awaited reply to my submission.  I stared at it for a couple of minutes.  The subject line gave no clue; it was merely a response to my submission.  I finally opened it and, as I suspected, it was another rejection notice.

It was very nicely phrased and complimentary, but, she apologized, she didn’t connect with the material as much as she had hoped she would.  She was nice enough to forward on some information about an organization of literary agents, where I might be able to find a better fit.

So you might think that I’m devastated, destroyed, de-incentivized, de-motivated, or some other harsh word that begins with “d”.   Although I am a little disappointed, for some reason I am taking it pretty much in stride.  Maybe it hasn’t hit yet, maybe I’m in denial (another “d” word).    But I am definitely not defeated – if anything, I am more determined (yet two more “d” words!)

One thing I don’t feel is any anger or bitterness to the agent.  I have read diatribes on line from many writers cursing out agents who rejected their work, portraying them as mean spirited and vindictive monsters who relish the opportunity to dash the writer’s dreams.   I have also read comments along the line that there is so much crap published they don’t know good work when they see it.   I don’t subscribe to either of these theories.  First, every time they open a submission, I am sure that the agent is hoping for success.  The agent makes his or her living based upon their ability to sell the work, not on how many would-be writers they can destroy.  As for the crap that populates the best seller lists, it may be crap, but hey, it sells – obviously somebody knew what they were doing.  

After I read the rejection notice last night, I went back to my laptop and for the first time in a few weeks I opened up the book, looking for things that could be fixed.   Instead I found myself getting lost in it.  I think enough time had elapsed that I was able to detach myself to some degree and I just read it, and to my surprise, I liked it! (Hey, Mikey!)  There are still a few imperfections and some parts that aren’t as good as others, but overall, I found myself smiling at the funny parts and getting choked up at some of the emotional parts.  I found the changes I had made worked.  About an hour and a half later, I was still reading, and I realized I hadn’t thought about the agent or the rejection for some time.   I found that I am still proud of my work.  This helped my mood considerably.

It could also be that I’ve been through enough other crap lately, from the death of my Father to my daughter beginning her senior year in High School to my  ongoing wrestling with Parkinson’s, that this is just something else to be dealt with, and not that big of a deal.

It also helps that I’ve got a strong support structure in place, starting with my wife, who, I suspect, for some reason I still can’t fathom, really loves me.  I also have a great family and friends who I can always count on.  Finally, I have my fellow Kenosha Writer’s Guild members and you, the few but loyal readers of this site, to give me encouragement and confidence.

Most importantly, I am not taking the rejection personally.  I still have an enormous respect for the agent who rejected me, but I am chalking it up to my work not being her cup of tea rather than any personal failure on my part.  My self confidence is no shakier than normal.

I’d also be remiss, with the Milwaukee Brewers only three wins away from the world series, if I didn’t throw in a baseball analogy:  I may have two strikes against me, but, like Ryan Braun fighting off an 0 and two count, I can stand in the batter’s box and foul off countless pitches before hitting a home run (ok, if not Ryan Braun and a homerun, would you believe Craig Counsell and a balk?).

So here I stand, more determined and defiant than disappointed and depressed (gotta love those “d”s!).   In the next few days, I will follow up with the three agents I haven’t heard from yet, and then I will start sending out to another batch of agents.  I’m going to give this agent thing another round or two before I consider self publishing.  I’m still eager to get my book out there, because I think it is good and may be of some value to somebody somewhere.   I’m more eager to put it behind me and get going on the next thing, whether it is re-immersing myself in my novel or starting something new.

About 10:00 on a sunny Saturday morning in 1995, my wife went outside to do some yard work.  Our next door neighbor at the time, Sam Spitz, was out, and commented to my wife, “Boy, you guys were sure up early this  morning.”

 “What do you mean?”, Deb asked.

“Well, I saw Hannah and the dog outside at 5:30” 

This was a revelation to us, as we slept in until almost 9:00 that morning.  Unbeknownst to us, our daughter, about a year old, had gotten up, unlocked the door, and ventured outside, taking with her our dog, Sid.  When she got tired again, she came back in, bringing Sid in with her, and went back to bed, where we found her contentedly sleeping when we woke up.  How long she had been outside remains a mystery, as does how many other times previously she had woke up and decided to go outside.  Suffice to say additional security measures were put in place after that morning.

Hannah is our third and youngest child, preceded by her two brothers,   Jon and Nick.  When my wife was pregnant with her, and when the ultrasound images indicated we were going to have a girl, we heard from more than one expert that girls are easier to raise than boys.  For the first several months, this seemed to be true.  She was the sweetest and calmest baby you could ever ask for.  But then she learned to walk, and all Hell broke loose.  And talk.   And talk, talk, talk.

For the first five or six years of her life she was Hurricane Hannah.  Strong and independent and smart beyond her years, she wore us out.   Despite our attempts to act as “parents”, there was little doubt about who was really running things around our house.   For example, there was the time when Hannah was in pre-school, and fascinated by the aquarium in her class room.  My wife had prepared a quick and easy supper.  After calling several times for her to come to dinner, Hannah finally came to the table.  Quickly surveying the table and the main course of Van De Kamp’s fish sticks, she indignantly put her hands on her hips and confronted her Mother.

 “You killed it, you cooked it, and you expect me to eat it?”  The four year old was demanding an explanation.

 “I didn’t kill it”, my perplexed wife responded.

 “Well, you cooked it!”, she concluded as she left the table.  My wife and I were dumfounded.

 It was at this time that it became clear that the world we all lived in belonged to Hannah and was defined by her heart and her boundless imagination.  She’d let me join in her imagination from time to time.   Most mornings, I’d assume the role of the tireless servant who would serve her breakfast (“You’re oatmeal” I’d announce as I put it on the table in front of her, “is serrrrrrrved”).  When she was little, she wanted to be a schoolteacher, and as I’d walk past her room, she’d be reading to a classroom of her stuffed animals, holding a picture book high up so they could all see.  From time to time, I’d assume the role of principal, calling her into my office to give her some new curriculum.  Sometimes she’d call me in to her classroom to help discipline kids who were misbehaving.   I’d find myself lecturing invisible kids on the evils of throwing staplers at each other or bringing their pet giraffes into the classroom, at which point she’d sigh, “Dad, you’re getting too silly again.”

 I used to call her “Hannah Banana at the Copacabana” and even created my own lyrics to the Barry Manilow classic (!), “Copacabana”, which I used to sing to her all the time.

 Her name was Hannah / she liked bananas / she liked to sing and dance /and step on ants / at the copa,Copacabana./ Hannah Banana at the Copacabana

One day, as she sat on my lap watching television, I was flipping thru the channels when I came upon Barry Manilow himself sitting at a piano.  As if on cue, he started singing the real “Copacabana”, to which Hannah turned to me and said with amazement, “He’s singing the Hannah Banana song!”

The years passed and there was the endless parade of classic Hannah moments, like the time she was angry at her brother Nick and emptied a container of Chinese sweet and sour sauce under his pillow, or the time she drew in bright red crayon over the bathroom walls my wife had just minutes before finished a long weekend wallpapering, or the time up north when she fell into the river (“I forgot about that”), or the many times we’d be awakened by the crashing sound of her falling out of bed in the middle of the night, followed by the faint cry of her voice saying, “I’m all right”, or the time when we moved the couch in the living room to see, on the wall behind it, in tiny print that was her unmistakable hand writing the words, “Jon did it”.  Although she eventually grew out of her precocious youth into a sweet and smart girl, she has remained a vibrant and prodigious life force.  There has never been a dull moment when Hannah’s been around.

Today (September 27^th) is her 17^th birthday, and she has grown into a lovely young lady who is just starting her senior year.   She is smart and funny and surprisingly mature and level headed. I am very proud of her, and am going to miss her terribly when she goes to college next year.

One night, when she was about three years old, as I tucked her into bed, she said, “good night, froggy!”, to which I replied, “good night, froggy!”   Ever since then, she has been my froggy, and no amount of time and distance will ever change that.

In the photograph, they are in black and white, and they are young and beautiful.    The three are standing in the snow, on what looks like maybe a frozen lake, bundled in their winter coats.  Their smiles convey warmth and love and happiness.  My Dad still has all his hair, and is still thin and muscular, and movie-star handsome.  My Mom, gently leaning on my Dad, is every bit his match, her skin still unwrinkled by time, and thin and mid-twenties young.   My Dad is holding my oldest brother, Mike.  Bundled in his winter coat and hat, he isn’t smiling but looks warm and natural and loved in his Father’s arms.  

They are unaware, standing there in the snow, that the three will eventually become six.  They know nothing about cancer or mental illness or congestive heart disease.   They have no perception of how fast nearly 60 years will pass.  They have no way of knowing that in that time, they will all be gone, and they know nothing of the other three they will leave behind.

They have no way of knowing that nearly 60 years later, on a warm Saturday in September, the photo will be posted on a bulletin board in the dining hall in a senior community in the town of Bruce, Wisconsin.   They can’t conceive the enormity of loss and the depths of emotion that the photo will inspire.

They are just a young family, standing in the snow near their home, having their picture taken.