There wasn’t a lot of blood but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.  It hurt a lot, actually.  The small wound was physically painful but I hurt in other ways that I hadn’t hurt before.  My pride was hurt and I wasn’t aware that I had a sense of pride until that moment in my life.  The worst was that I felt betrayed by someone who I had placed a lot of trust in.  My vision was severely clouded with tears that refused to stop falling from my face to the hard surface of ice below. Hank was my grandfather and he had purposely put me in harm’s way by crashing the snowmobile on the top of the frozen lake. 

It was Easter and I was excited about the trip we were taking.  We were headed for my grandparents’ house on Doe Lake, a couple of hours north of Toronto.  Snow was plentiful this season and I was looking forward to Grandpa taking me out on the Ski-Doo.  We didn’t travel to Ontario during the winter months usually . . . it was too dangerous to travel on the icy highways and a six hour drive became a nine or ten hour one.  Winter was a fun season back then and full of outside adventures.  Sledding, tobogganing, & skating were some of my favorites but snowmobiling was something I didn’t get to do at home.  We didn’t have the money for such luxuries and I could not hide my excitement.

I would learn later that Hank was not my blood but he was the only grandfather that I knew.  He took an interest in me from the start of my memory and he took the time to ask me questions about my young life.  He had a wealth of experience in just about everything it seemed and he was willing to share his knowledge with me if I was willing to learn.  He knew stuff and he even seemed to know what I was thinking most of the time.  He told me stories about working in sawmills as a young man in places like Kilworthy and Germania.  He once took me to a working sawmill and introduced me to a man with missing fingers.  He explained later that the man had lost them to a band saw and that there were many others who had lost fingers, hands, and even their lives in those camps.  “You have to pay attention to what you’re doing” he had said.  “Don’t be reckless.” 

After staying the night I woke up to find Grandpa playing solitaire at the kitchen table.  It felt like it was still night but he assured me that it was 4:30 am and time to drink hot tea and get my mind working.  “A wise man is early to bed and early to rise,” he’d say.  He had taught me how to play “Double Solitaire” by the age of eight and there we were, playing and laughing and drinking the queen’s tea.  His hands were calloused and his cards were worn thin from the many hundreds of games he had played over the years.  The plastic tablecloth protected the wood table from the many spills of drink and there were plenty of burn holes in it from the many cigarettes that had fallen out of his ashtray.  He had spent a lot of time at the head of this table and it’s where he did a lot of his thinking.  I was a welcome distraction and I knew it.  “So, how long are you up for this time, Mike?” he asked.  “Just for a week this time,” I answered, as if I was in sole control of all road trips and life decisions.  He treated me like an equal in moments like this and I felt like a general in his army.

Hours later, we were blazing a trail in the bush.  Kermit White and his adult son, Jerry were driving Ski-doos as well and we were following them down a trail that overlooked a winter wonderland.  I was wearing a brand-new pair of gloves that fanned out past my wrists and my snowmobile suit and felt-lined boots kept me plenty warm in the cold weather.  I wore a wool scarf over my mouth and nose and the only exposed area was where my eyes looked out the front of my head.  Life was grand.  I asked Grandpa if I could drive the awesome machine and he said “Maybe later.”  I had heard that response before from him and I knew that it could go either way.  I held on to the hope that “maybe” would become “yes.”

We took a break from the cold when we returned to the house and Gram served us more tea and a warm lunch.  “So, you think you can drive that machine by yourself, do ya?” he asked.  “Yes, Grandpa!” I answered.  He and Gram seemed to have an argument about then but boyhood prevailed and there we went, wearing the same layers that we had peeled off just an hour before.  Gram and Grandpa’s house was just 50 yards from the lake and Grandpa pointed at the snow on ice surface of it.  “We’re going to drive on it!” he exclaimed.  Hank got on the Ski-doo and I sat behind him like we had before.  He drove slowly down the embankment and cautiously onto the ice, which cracked when we first got on.  “What’s that sound?” I asked.  “The ice is melting,” he answered.  “It starts melting about this time every spring, starting along the edge and then on to the middle.  If you had come to visit just a couple of weeks later we wouldn’t be driving out here.”  He drove on to the middle of the lake and commented on how slippery the ice was today.  “Go faster, Grandpa!” I said.  He made a turn and then powered the speed up for the return to solid land.  The feeling was exhilarating and I told him again that I wanted to drive.  He came off the lake in a place down from where we had entered.  He was creating a path to follow and this piece of ice cracked also as we drove over it.  “You have to be careful on this ice when you get out here by yourself,” he said.  I now knew that he had made the decision to let me drive.  We continued the circle until we came up on our starting point and then he started another run.  “Drive it fast again, Grandpa!” I exclaimed.  Hank sped the machine up much faster this time and raced out to the middle of the lake.  Just as we got to the furthest point he turned sharply without slowing down.  The machine fell over on its side and my ankle got pinned underneath it as it continued to slide on the slippery ice.  Grandpa was thrown clear but my body was dragged for what seemed like an eternity and my ankle was hurting badly.  Hank ran to where the snowmobile had stopped and worked quickly to shut the engine off and lift it off of my leg.   My snow boot was torn open and the foot rest was sticking in my boot.  I could tell that the felt was torn also and I thought at first that the foot rest had melded with my foot.  Grandpa quickly removed my boot and the removable felt liner.  There was blood but it was superficial.  No broken bones.  A look of relief swept over his pale face and blood finally found its way to his lips as he asked “Are you okay?”  I was in disbelief and confused beyond words.  He realized that an explanation was necessary and he quickly jumped into his grandfather role.  “This ice is slippery and I wanted you to understand how quickly you can get hurt if you drive recklessly.  Do you understand?”  When I was slow to answer he said “Well, I think you have learned your lesson for today.  Are you ready to drive it by yourself?” 

He had won my heart.  Of course I had learned my lesson and now I was driving a snowmobile by myself!  I drove it around that path for a very long time . . . maybe until it ran out of gas.  I don’t remember.  I do remember Grandpa and Gram having an argument when we were back inside again and I remember the patch that remained on my left boot for the next couple of winters.  It was my war wound and I thought about the lesson that I had learned on that cold day every time I wore it.

I have been called a lot of names in my life . . . some of them good and some not so memorable.  The two most common names for me are Mike and Michael, the latter reserved for my mother and wife to use, but the calling of either will usually get my attention.  “Miguel” is a name that I have always been familiar with.  It’s the Spanish word for Michael and I have always preferred it over the French equivalent, Michel (pronounced “Me-Shell”).  It sounds too much like Michelle, the name for a girl, and I just won’t have it.  When Carlos came into my life he called me “Mr. Shoemaker,” even after I had told him not to.  This went on for the first year that he dated my oldest daughter, Stefanie.  “Call me Mike!” I told him.  Finally, he started calling me Miguel.  I never understood it but I went with it and I thought about calling him “Carl.”  I wonder if he would like that?

Stefanie and Carlos married a few years later and were expecting a baby a couple of years after that.  They were having a family get-together at their house for a “Guess the Gender Party.”  They were serving some appetizers and her Aunt Charlotte had prepared some cupcakes.  Inside one of the cupcakes was a plastic blue baby figurine and there would be just one winner to announce the gender of the baby.  It was kind of like Willy Wonka’s “golden ticket” except there really wasn’t anything to win except the opportunity to make the announcement.  Stefanie had been in to have an “ultrasound” that afternoon and she and Carlos were anxious to let the family know the answer to the question and this was a fun way of doing it (and an excuse to have everyone together for food).  Angie and I already knew the answer.  Stefanie had agreed to let us know as soon as she found out.  They were having a boy and I was secretly ecstatic about the news.  Angie and I have two daughters and a granddaughter and this would be the first boy in our little family. 

Things were going good.  They had a good showing and everyone was chatting and catching up after the holidays.  The cupcakes were served and once everyone knew that one of them had the figurine it was just seconds before someone yelled out “Boy!”  We all had a laugh and everyone made congratulatory remarks to Stefanie & Carlos, to Angie & me, and to Carlos’ parents who were also present for the announcement.  I immediately went to the kitchen and got a second helping of whatever I was eating and then started to prepare some coffee.  As it turned out, the announcements weren’t over yet.  “Announcements?”  Carlos and Stefanie stood up in front of the group and said that they would like to announce the baby’s name.  “That’s interesting,” I thought to myself.  Although they hadn’t settled on a name up to now, I had heard most of what names had made the final list.  They had talked about the name Antonio or a variation of it (Anthony, Tony) after Angie’s father.  There were a few others and I knew that they would eventually find one together.  I hadn’t even thought much about it lately, to be honest.

Carlos said “All of the men in my family are named Carlos.  Most of us go by our middle name though I am the exception.  Still, the baby’s first name will be Carlos.”  “That makes sense,” I thought.  “They’ll name him ‘Carlos Antonio’ most likely.”  Then he continued,  “The baby’s middle name will be Miguel.”  Stefanie stepped up and finished “We’ll call him Miguel.”  “Wow!” I thought.  “Are you serious?” I asked them.  “Yes, Dad, we’re serious!” they answered.  I was in hog heaven.  A boy and they’re naming him after me!  Well, almost.  When I got home I opened my Facebook account and changed my name to “Miguel Shoemaker.”  “Now, it’s done” I thought.  “They’re naming him after me.  Ha-ha.”

Stefanie’s due date was fast-approaching.  She was making weekly visits to the doctor’s office and she had an excess amount of Amniotic fluid in her tummy, according to her doctor.  She was having a hard time with daily tasks and Angie and I weren’t sure if she would carry the baby to term.  Spring Break was coming up and Stefanie was looking forward to a week off from teaching so that she could just rest at home.  Angie got the call on March 10th.  Stefanie’s water had “broke” and Carlos was taking her to the hospital.  Stefanie was almost a month away from her due date but Miguel was coming “Come Hell or low water!”  I was out of town and Angie texted me the news.  I agreed to meet her at the hospital before the baby came.

Miguel came shortly after noon.  Overall, the birth went very well.  He was a “Preemie” but his development looked good and his vitals were great.  He weighed in at 6 pounds 15 ounces and he was over 18” long.  The only worry was his breathing and skin color.  The breathing became a minor thing after a day or so but he had to be placed under a light to help his condition . . . he had Jaundice.  Stefanie was checked out on the 13th but Miguel would have to stay over the weekend.  The Neo-natal Intensive Care’s purpose is to look after all babies born prematurely but we all know that Miguel’s stay will be a short one.  I look forward to the many adventures that we will have with this little guy.  Stay tuned :)