June 7, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Home two days and gone only four, I still stare at my son and marvel at how much he's changed. His face is fuller now, his legs chubby from feeding almost hourly. He holds his head up almost completely on his own now, and is starting to make gentle cooing sounds every now and again.

When you were still driving out into West Texas to drill holes in the ground, would you come back and stare at the girls? Would you wash the dust off your hands and hold them in your arms, tired from the long drive but wide awake watching them move? Would you look at their arms, chubbier and pinker than when you left, and wonder if those trips were worth it?

Because, for me, no matter how successful this trip to New York was, I can't get over the feeling that I missed something amazing with my son that I will never get back.

Yours,

Dan

June 6, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

The heat comes early this year and it comes strong--well into the 90s yesterday, today, and for as many days as the forecast allows. Sweat on your brow remains a constant in this kind of heat; you wear three different shirts throughout the day, each one soaked through before it's changed. This kind of heat isn't about summer fun, it's about survival.

Dan

June 5, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I returned home today--to a house full of in-laws, a thermometer touching 90, and splitting headache. And, as I sat next to Janice holding Roosevelt in my arms, nothing else mattered.

Dan

June 4, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I have a secret for surviving Manhattan. When the well-dressed crowds get too much, when the endless glittering shop windows of expensive boutiques overwhelm, when the constant stream of beauty and wealth grows too weary, I remember this: This may be one of the most sophisticated, cosmopolitan cities in the world, but when it comes time to dispose of their garbage, the best answer they've come up with is to pile it up on the street. I find it comforting to realize that the entire concept of some sort of recepticle to dispose of refuse in seems to have eluded the people of New York. It makes paying seven dollars for a plastic cup of cheap beer a little easier when you know that, at the end of the day, that cup is going to simply be put in a garbage bag and piled up on the sidewalk because there's nothing else they can do with it.

Dan

June 3, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Tens of thousands of people will walk past the little table that I stood behind today--most of them just want to walk away with a free book. We don't have any. I have said "I'm sorry, but you can't take that, we need it for the table," more times than seems possible today. I will do it all again tomorrow, disappointing frumpy librarians, slick marketing execs, and goateed hipsters alike. If you're chasing down a wild-eyed clerk from the Book Nook to get back your sole copy of "All The Power," it must be Friday and it must be Book Expo America, the largest book trade show in the States.

Live from New York,

Dan

June 2, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

The hardest thing I've ever done was saying goodbye to Roosevelt and Janice today, as I got into the car that would drive me to the airport, away from our new little family for four days on business. When I booked the tickets it didn't feel like I'd be gone for very long, but now, hundreds of miles away, it feels like an eternity.

To quick returns,

Dan

June 1, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Last weekend I came home from a visit with my parents carrying every childrens' record I had ever listened to as a boy. They had them stored in their basement--an endless treasure trove of childhood memories enveloped in a moist, mildewed scent--and I had been meaning to pick them up for weeks now.

Years ago I picked up a Japanese portable record player, and when we put together Roosevelt's room we included the blue plastic phonograph, as much for the style as for the music, which, up until yesterday, consisted of two records I had bought for 25 cents from a yard sale three weeks ago.

But on Sunday, I lugged home 20 pounds of records, and today he and I danced around the room--him excited to be in his father's arms, me excited to share these corny, simple songs that brought me so much joy.

And, as Bob from Sesame Street and his chorus of children warbled their way through "Muscrat Love" and Roosevelt and I whirled and twirled across his tiny room, everything felt so effortless and simple, like love is supposed to when it's right.

Dan