My grandfather would have been 87 today if he were alive. His essence is still a part of all of us and he still finds his way into topics of conversation, even though he’s been gone several years now. In fact, Rudi was just mentioning Lake Louise the other day and we laughed thinking about how Grampa visited there once. He was impressed by the size of the mosquitos and the stupidity of the man who tried to go swimming despite the signs saying the lake was too cold for that.

Memories that stand out:

• Sitting in his lap with my brother when we were little. He would draw us pictures — cars for Josh, and Indians (Native Americans) for me.
• The smell of wood shavings in his basement workshop.
• Keeping my eyes glued to the spedometer (and my foot off the gas) the one time I drove him anywhere.
• The dollhouse he made me — complete with electricity — and its accompanying furniture (wood block furniture when I was small and delicate pieces — tiny dressers with tiny brass drawer pulls or a four poster-bed).
• His sparkling blue eyes.
• How proud he looked whenever he talked about his family.

It’s not many kids who get the benefit of grandfathers after they’re grown, so I know how lucky I was — and am.

Happy Birthday, Grampa. We miss you.

I met Erik when we were both college — he as a freshman, me as a sophomore. We quickly became friends, united through procrastination, late night bedtimes, a cynical wit, and a love of music and politics and remain friends 11+ years later for many of those same reasons. We don’t see each other much any more, but he is one of the best people I know about sending cards for the important dates and for clipping newspaper articles that he thinks I’ll like. I forget to tell him as often as I should how much I smile whenever his name turns up in my email.

Erik turns 30 today. If I knew how to concoct a vegan birthday cake, I’d send you one, sweetie. But since I don’t, my best wishes may have to suffice.

Happy Birthday.

There’s something vaguely comforting about the Mets dropping their season opener to the Reds — in the bottom of the ninth.

Some people (read, Yankees fans) seem to be under the impression that winning connotes a quality baseball team. But they aren’t right, which is why the rest of us think less of them. They like to believe it’s because we’re jealous of their team’s success. But the truth is we actually like being left on the edge of our seats night after night — will we win the game after all or will we blow it in some spectacularly horrific way? That’s real baseball. The Yankees play scripted, sanitized baseball, custom-made for television.

Sox fans (and most Yankee fans, too — they only seem to suffer this illness as it relates to their own team) will tell you that the Sox-Yankees games of last year’s postseason were much more interesting than the World Series. And they’d be right. Because those games were lacking drama, were lacking the nail-biting angst of “will they or won’t they?”

My Mets may prevail this year or they may not — but they will never be boring or predictable — and I will love ever minute on the edge of my seat.