Could Be The Poet

Giorgio de Chirico, The Uncertainty of the Poet, 1913

Location: The Kuhne house on Cobb Road in Shoreview, Minnesota.

Exchange: Joshua and I left Yvonne and Dave's yesterday and drove to the Kuhne's. It wasn't until we were half a mile from home that I realized that we were driving behind the Kuhne van. It will please everyone involved to know that the identifying characteristic of the van in question is a bumper sticker that says, "We Run." Anyway, I honked the horn obnoxiously, and we waved back forth through rear view mirrors and such until we were home and ready for a round of hugs. Later that night - sitting at the dining room table over a plate of garden fresh greens - I broke out the Arty Calling Cards. I sorted through my unwieldy stack and selected Summer by Arcimboldo and The Uncertainty of the Poet by de Chirico. Dad considered the selections, and although Summer is a very Arty rendition of food consciousness, he's a poet, and well, he has a weakness for Surrealism. (I know you were hoping for Rene Magritte, but dad, Ceci n'est pas une pipe? I mean, really. Next, you'll be asking for some dada.)

Characterization: Michael Kuhne is my dad. As the first to follow my blog and number one commenter, he's also my number one fan. If anyone thinks I should and could write for a living, it's him. He taught me how to write, and he's been reading ever since. While all this sounds very nostalgic and sweet, Mandy can attest to the melodrama and misery that was Ellie learning how to write. Kudos to Dad for finding the patience; my personal search for a thesis, an argument, and some heart was not a voyage for the weak or meek of will and mind. Not to carry the metaphor too far, but he taught me like the fabulous teacher he is: he gave me the sails and the map, but then gave me the wheel. So, if you're reading this and you picture Socrates or maybe Robin Williams in Goodwill Hunting, you've got it about right. My dad's been in the classroom kickin' ass and takin' names since before I was born, and I'm lucky enough to call him my dad.

P.S. The title is Bruce Cockburn. My dad's allegiance to this musician is so undying that I pretty much associate them with one another: Dad, Bruce, Bruce, Dad. Same diff. In another tangential note, the song that my dad and I danced to at my wedding was called Fascist Architecture, and it was by the Bruce. Although that particular title may call to mind pod-like apartments carved out of monolithic blocks of cement, the last stanza says it all:

Gonna tell my old lady
Gonna tell my little girl
There isn't anything in the world
That can lock up my love again