These kids of yours, they turned out just great. I give you full credit. They are kind, tough, trustworthy, warm.

As adults, they are an absolute joy to be around. Well, mostly. They are, after all, our kids.

There are so many things I’m sorry about. We could’ve had a better marriage. As many parents do, we rolled all our love and energy into our kids and jobs and forgot to leave a bit of kindness for each other.

Not to be dramatic, but that was tragic.

I will say this: I was lucky to have you. I was lucky for every moment.

It’s been almost eight years since you died. I joked the other day that your ghost still lives here on the cul-de-sac. In many ways, that’s true. Your memory hovers over this house like some sunny high-pressure system.

You will be, now and forever, the most influential figure in our children’s lives.

Here’s an update: The lovely and patient older daughter pretty much runs the family. No one asked her to. It’s just her way.

You’d be so proud. She is funny, tenacious, devoted…

“Oh, tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide…”

Your daughter is never happier than when she is surrounded by her kids at dinner or splashing with them in the bath.

The other daughter, Rapunzel, has your easy charm. People feel very comfortable around her. She’s taken to motherhood the way geese take to shimmering lakes.

Smartacus? He was only 15 when you died. You were so worried about him — we all were. But he has really stepped up. He’s a rascal, no question, but he knows when to bear down and grind out tough tasks.

Tell me, is there a better life trait?

For a while, we weren’t sure we would get him through the fourth grade. Remember how wiggly he was doing homework?

Well, he’s graduating from college this month, with mostly A’s and B’s. He did it, I’m sure, to make you proud.

Funny when our own kids inspire us, isn’t it?

As you know, we hit the jackpot when it came to sons-in-law, we couldn’t have done better if you held a sweepstakes or gave away candy-apple Ferraris.

Not surprisingly, they are world-class dads. It’s really something to behold, the way they love your grandchildren. Imagine all the good feelings you ever had meatballed into single moments.

Speaking of meatballs, the 300-Pound Beagle crossed the Rainbow Bridge about five years ago.

Seen him around? Is it true that all dogs go to Heaven? Has he ruined all the carpets yet?

We still have White Fang, your late son’s husky. She is, like him, very stubborn. And needy. Yet beautiful. In her, Christopher lives and breathes.

Finally, the thing I’m probably angriest about: That you never met these grandchildren of yours. You at least deserved that.

Where was God? What was he thinking? To borrow from a sonnet, “So long as men can breathe or eyes can see” I’ll never understand cancer.

Well, there’s a bit of God — and you — in these grandkids.

The littlest one, Mookie, has your saucer eyes. No one sees the resemblance except me, but I can assure you that she has your eyes. As the person who stared into your eyes more than anyone, I think I am qualified.

Is Mookie you? I think they all are.

The middle punk, Puddles, is a total scamp. He’s got these amber curls — like maple leaves — and Dodger-blue eyes. You’d eat him up.

And, finally, there is Cakes. Like you, she is the oldest child. Like you, she misses nothing.

Cakes would own you. By now, you’d be teaching her to make scrambled eggs or taking her to the zoo. You’d be buying her too many princess gowns.

Basically, you’d be doing all those things grandmas do with their oldest grandchild, the one they’ll know the most.

In an often-rotten world, that may be our most-reliable comfort: grandmas and their oldest grandkids

Final note: These three tiny grandkids represent you, honor you, carry your DNA forward in their curls, their smiles, they mirth.

They are your memoir, the book we can’t put down. I’m so sorry you missed their giggly hugs.

So, we’re sending you their hugs — a big, embarrassing box of them, next-day delivery, wrapped in tissue paper with crooked hand-drawn hearts.

Please open immediately.

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Next week: So long, Rhonda the Honda. Hello, new Ford.

And baseball.

So, maybe it’s no surprise that my son Smartacus is launching a career in sports business, based at a minor-league stadium 90 minutes from home.

His entry-level job: guest services.

Like his dad, Smartacus’ greatest gift is the ability to make small talk with almost anyone — cashiers, cops, bar maids, cabinet ministers, circus folk, musicians, dermatologists, fugitives, priests, con artists, CEOs — the usual retinue of Southern California life.

As you may know, banter is the blues music of the Irish, the soundtrack to our daily lives.

And, at a fetching little stadium, on the warm eastern lip of Los Angeles, Smartacus is making music.

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Not afraid of much anymore: Goths. The curled, uncooked parts of bacon. My late wife’s ghost.

That about covers it.

On my morning walk with White Fang, the birds are singing “Sweetie! Sweetie!” which is ironic since that’s a term of endearment I use with my daughters and girlfriend: sweetie.

As in, “So, sweetie, where do you want to eat tonight?” Or “Sweetie, does this look infected?”

Dating me is like dating Plato, if Plato was more of an unbridled idiot.

“Sweetie, where do you want me to put this bag of potting soil?”

You can imagine the range of answers I get to that.

So, when the birds were singing “Sweetie! Sweetie!” the other morning, I found that the universe was curling back around on itself, like uncooked bacon.

You know, I have so many doctors, some are even friends: Dr. Steve. Dr. Ridge. Dr. Drew.

And I don’t have the nerve, as we’re chatting, to ask them, “Listen sweetie, about those uncooked parts of bacon…”

But everyone wonders …

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Ugh. Imagine the pads of his paws?

We all make mistakes, usually when we rush stuff. Best not to leave oily fingerprints though.

Later, I told Suzanne that 95% of mistakes happen when we rush, and she responded that 78% of the magic also happens.

Not entirely sure what she means, other than you sometimes have to be spontaneous, to embrace the whimsy of the moment.

I’ll ask her and get back to you soonest.

Meanwhile, I have my hands full with my son Smartacus, who’s back from college a quarter early.

“Keep him!” I begged university administrators, yet they released him on parole once he’d completed his degree.

Go figure. I’d have paid them another $50k just to house him another year or two. Like a reverse ransom. Like a prison bribe.

Here’s the latest on Smartacus: College seems to have had no effect on him whatsoever. The way the Irish repel attempts at psychoanalysis, Smartacus resists adulthood.

My son still only half-listens when I talk to him, as children often do … I don’t care what age. He especially doesn’t listen when he’s eating.

Actually, when he’s eating, his hearing completely shuts down. Aliens could crash land on the roof, and he’d just go on eating … chomp-chomp-chomp-chomp-chomp.

I still make him grand-slam breakfasts, a tradition of ours since he lost his dear mama, an excellent cook. Posh was Italian, so the kitchen came easily. Me, I’m Southern Irish, so my cooking tastes like hand tools.

“Did you notice I used two kinds of cheese?” I tell him as he pythons a sandwich.

No answer.

“Eat those orange slices,” I tell him, “they’re good for your skin, your heart, your ding-a-ling…”

No answer.

FYI, I mention his ding-a-ling because he is barely listening, as mentioned above, and I thought that by mentioning something so personal, he might react.

If you’re a parent, maybe you’ll understand. On a daily basis, desperation pervades almost every molecule of this old house.

You’ll be pleased to hear that Smartacus remains a work in progress — my Sistine Chapel, my Hoover Dam, an unfinished symphony.

Post college, he’s still a Zits cartoon. Some days he seems fresh from the womb, a 160-pound baby boy.

But we’re not done with him — not ever. As my colleague Stan once noted, “Parenthood is a life sentence.”

Good to know, Stanley.

My ultimate mission: To get Smartacus to always go the extra mile — in life and in love. And not to rush dogs across oily asphalt.

In his defense, you should see what Smartacus can do with text chains. Using AI, he sets them to music. It’s actually kind of genius.

Ask your son or daughter about it. If your kid is over 7, he or she can probably turn your family’s latest text string into a rock opera.

Or worse, an insufferable musical, a period piece with wandering barbershop quartets.

If only I could get Smartacus to worry a little more.

The thing about kids — today and always — is that they are the world’s freest spirits. They don’t sweat the small stuff.

I mean, they don’t care that the butter dish is full of toast crumbs, that the car needs servicing … that the checking account is running on fumes.

FYI, my daughter Rapunzel once blew up a very nice E-class sedan, a little aged yet quite functional, because she didn’t know it required oil.

Our children’s point of view: “Why worry, when Mom and Dad worry for us?”

That’s on us, I suppose.

Besides, our kids are too busy futzing with AI. And texting their friends, mocking their parents for worrying “so frickin’ much” (their vernacular, not mine).

Most troubling, Spartacus has started treating me — a period piece — like one of his college roommates. He’s snarky, in elaborate ways that entertain him more than me.

When I sneeze one time, he responds “Bless you,” like, 20 times. When I complain, he hugs me and whispers “bless you” again.

The other day, he comes up to me, flaunting his four-inch height advantage, and suggests I’m shrinking, as older people will.

“I’m not wearing shoes,” I explain.

“Neither am I,” he says.

“Go away,” I say.

With him home, everything smells of his socks, his aura, the garlic fries he had for dessert.

Will I miss this maddening phase — this late, lingering childhood?

Not so much.

Bless you.

Next week: We are what we read.

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Some morning announcements:

A few spots remain for today’s 4 pm hike at Descanso Gardens. Interested? Please email me at letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Want to use your texts to create your own AI song? 1) Download the SUNO app (pretty sure it’s free). 2) Screen-save a series of texts with friends or family. 3) Create your song. Hint: You need to go to the camera icon to import the screen-save with the texts. Only takes a few minutes.

Cheers!

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Settled for a nice spot in the L.A. suburbs, within ear shot of one of the finest freeways ever. Instead of ferry boats, I hear big rigs.

I mean, who doesn’t make the occasional compromise? You? Well, OK then. Congrats.

The rest of us aim high, shoot low, make peace with the results.

The other day, I was telling my pal Schwartzy that I had been brooding a bit over not having a few of the material things a man my age ought to have.

As my son Smartacus points out, life is a 12-layer dip. The layers: Beans, sour cream, disappointment, disgust, grief, longing, envy …

Then I thought to myself: I can read the same great books a billionaire can, I can listen to the same incredible music, appreciate the same harvest moon. Suddenly, my pockets felt fuller.

Sure, I’m a jackass … a glass-is-half-full lush. But it’s a big glass. And it’s still half full.

Cheers!

Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer…

Then there’s these grandkids, three if I’m counting correctly. They are a rebellious bunch, with freckled noses and sticky chins, two of them still in diapers.

Here’s what I worry about: Cakes, Puddles and Mookie glow like light bulbs every time I show up at their homes. Why are they so easily impressed?

Yet, I worship my grandchildren in that hokey way all grandparents do. Apologies. If you have grandchildren, maybe you’ll understand.

In a perfect world, you could skip children and go straight to grandkids. The price is better … the payoffs devine.

FYI, Suzanne has a new granddaughter, Miss Charlie, born on the back of an oak leaf, up there in wine country a few weeks ago.

Charlie is a popular name again, especially for baby girls. My pal Jeff also has a granddaughter named Charlie. In five years, all the kindergartens will be full of Charlies again, mostly little girls.

Isn’t life amazing? Surprise is such a wonderful sensation, as elemental as hydrogen, or phosphorus, or platters of grilled chicken.

Charlie was a bit of a surprise, and now it’s hard to imagine a world without her. She is suddenly this beacon drawing in family and friends from across California.

I hope to meet her soon, while she’s still a gumdrop, a bead of magic, a tincture.

When I do, this is what I’ll tell her:

—Don’t be foolish. The $7 wine at Trader Joe’s is just as good as the $100 vino down the block.

—A Ford is just as fine as a Ferrari, at least till you’re 50 or so, then maybe a Ferrari. Real life moves fast enough.

—Sometimes the world feels like a giant scam — don’t be disheartened.

—When it comes to men, never confuse bravado for confidence, they wear the same brand of jeans.

—When you get the chance, take your lovely grandmas to brunch (I’ll buy).

And never forget — are you listening, Charlie, are you writing all this down?

Family is everything, I mean everything. Friends too. They are your army, your strike-out pitch, the ace that fills a straight-flush with the whole room watching.

Never fret for family, Charlie, because you have a fine one…a gorgeous and loving mom (like sunshine) and a boyishly handsome dad (an ebullient Dodger fan!).

They will be your Ferrari.

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Coming Saturday: Boomer Wisdom and the enormity of kids.

Having trouble finding comments in Substack? Try clicking on the thought-bubble icon at the bottom of the post (see below). Again, thanks for you patience and support.

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Also coming soon: Happy Hour Hiking Club invites.

“If you’re lucky!” I respond, because not everyone makes it to the age where wistfulness can mellow out your mind. To me, better to grow old and melancholy than to never have had the chance.

Our screwy culture glorifies youth and beauty, vitality and verve. The young don’t have a lock on that, though it does come easier to them.

Young people seem to have the quick-twitch impulses — the buzz, the curiosity. Just look at Coachella’s bee hive of quivering flesh.

Me, I am less restless these days, though curious as ever. I don’t know how water pumps work, for instance, or why crowds line up for Trader Joe’s tote bags. Some issues defy understanding. Especially TJ’s tote bags.

I also don’t understand the phases of the moon. I need one of those sun-earth-moon mobiles they used to have in science class. Even then, I’ll never understand moons.

By the way, how do you kick back, how do you unwind? Might I recommend beer — it’s so good on cereal. Also, the more I move, the happier I feel.

In that vein, I trimmed a tree for Suzanne the other day. As we know, life can be a cascading waterfall of crud and obligation. When that’s not enough, you blow out a knee.

But shaping up a crabapple tree is a glorious task. I’m sure the pain in my right shoulder is only temporary, and the pelvic thrusts I do, as a warmup every morning, have been put on hold.

Otherwise, trimming a tree is good and heavenly work.

As you may know, I am a son of the soil. And Mother Nature was my biological mom (picture her in heels and a trippy French skirt while walking a yappy dog).

So I work feverishly in a stiff morning breeze, under April’s latte clouds. I trim with every molecule of my bod, my tendons tight as crossbows. As I work, clumps of crabapples thud to the ground. They sound like children scampering across the floor.Glorious.

Of course, applewood is quite heavy, dense as marble. As I struggle with this 40-foot tree, I keep imagining the brisket I will smoke with it.

Life tip: Being away from your phone, even for an hour or two, is a gift. I don’t have to deal with push notifications, or alerts that my bank card had been used online. Kaiser can’t bug me, nor the hundreds of L.A. contractors who want to cheat me.

Digitally, don’t you feel as if you are being pecked to death by ducks?

Well, I was away from all that, though I still faced challenges. The telescoping tree saw kept binding, as they always do. I pushed, I pulled, I cursed, I cussed.

“Is cursing worse than cussing?” I wondered. Then I cursed and cussed some more. It’s what men like me use in lieu of logic.

Yet, little by little, the tree takes shape. I recall how we used to taste crabapples as kids, a tart candy. I tried one. Still in my esophagus two days later. Yep, still tart.

So, if you’re ever melancholy, I suggest trimming a tree. At the very least, it will give you an appreciation for the workers who do this all day, the heft of the tree saws, the importance of finding the right angles (which don’t even exist).

In any case, we’re now entering The Season of Yard Work. I think we outsource too much of that, and it can give us a sense of accomplishment to knock out some of this ourselves, whether it’s threading a new vine through a trellis, or replacing a crummy old bird bath.

Meanwhile, a public service announcement: I read recently were mosquitoes prefer blue-eyed victims over brown-eyed folks. Is it the melanin in the skin? The beer in the blood? The purity of our hearts?

In any case, relish your beautiful smoky-brown eyes.

Damn mosquitos. They’ve always been lusty for me. They leave hickeys, made worse by my clawing nails.

For Suzanne, it’s even worse. Skeeters leave 10-inch Whoopee Cushions on her arms and legs.

She’s still dashing, of course. Like Lindy. Or Ted Turner. Or Justin Bieber in a blowing scarf that makes me hate him.

Point is: Dashing people have their challenges too. Don’t we all?

“We beat on,” Fitzgerald said, “boats against the current.

Indeed.

Next week: Another grandchild! Plus, tapping into Boomer Wisdom.

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Save the date: How about a Descanso Gardens hike May 2? Invites to come.

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Whoa, Nellie! Guess what: Almost all the women I’ve ever slept with had troubles worse than my own. Or why would they?

Listen, I was never much for taking my own advice. I just spew these half-baked wisdoms, like a loose garden hose that boogie-woogies around the driveway.

That’s my life as well: a misbehaving garden hose. “Dr. Freud, clean up on Aisle 6. Dr. Freud…”

Hope you laughed. I get very uncomfortable with silence. And garden hose metaphors.

Honestly, I don’t know day from night, hot from cold, a raven from a goose.

I don’t understand Plato’s notion of an ideal plane, or why dogs drag their butts. I still buy artisanal honey in jars, not squirt bottles. So stupid.

I still read at a first-grade level, sounding out syllables as I go. I also struggle with proper nouns and coordinate conjunctions.

Yet, I find that reading slowly is like savoring a lovely slab of lamb. The better the book, the slower I swallow it. Sometimes I just stop, trance like, and let my eyeballs soak in the words. As if admiring Grace Kelly, and wondering: “How did God do that?”

Similarly, Bach embraced beautiful things. He doubled-down on concertos. As did Ted Williams with 3-and-2 counts … as did Einstein with the vagaries of light. They doubled-down.

Me, I do that with great books and zoftig cheeseburgers you can’t quite pick up. Both are newborns. You never know quite where to grab them…under the armpits, behind the head?

FYI, Miss Suzie is an omnivorous reader. She devours three books in the time it takes me to write this sentence.

There is hardly a topic I top her at. Perhaps cribbage. Perhaps the off-sides rule in hockey. Perhaps plumbing, though she recently bought the world’s best book on home renovation and will soon lap me in that realm as well.

For the record, I adore smart women. I detest smart dudes. Dr. Freud? Dr. Freud?

I interviewed a very renowned doctor recently, famed for his treatment of troubled relationships.

“Aren’t all relationships a little troubled?” I wanted to know, just as all families are slightly dysfunctional.

There are many things — families, relationship, ball clubs — that are broken yet still worth our time. The Chicago Cubs for instance.

The Cubs are broken, yet the fans still attend, the beer vendors doing their very best to ensure the fans are drunkenly stupid, so as not to realize the fiasco unfolding before their eyes.

A lot of that goes on with government too. Give the peasants just enough to keep them content.

It works until it doesn’t.

That was always my philosophy on parenting as well. Give them just enough. Too much spoils them. Too much turns them into a Kennedy.

A core belief: Not quite enough is better than way too much.

Lord, we’re weird creatures, aren’t we? We fuss over our appearances more than any animal I know, even influencers. We crave emotional sustenance, feel unworthy of our hard-earned success.

What’s to become of a species like this? Are we our own worst fate?

Oh well. As I always say — philosophically, as sort of a joke — “we live in interesting times.”

So did the Druids. So did witches. Now us. Congratulations. Like the Hindenburg, we’ve become historic.

Don’t you wish current events were a little less frantic though? Don’t you wish bad news took the occasional day off?

Look, we’re still in the game. Like the Cubs.

Bad example. We’re still in the game. Like the Dodgers — rich, magniloquent, feisty, famed.

FYI, Dodger Stadium used to be my man cave. Like me, that old place has mustard in its pores.

Now I can’t even afford to park there.

Yet, as with other royal families, I can still appreciate their shine, their glimmer, their outsized self-regard.

See, mankind is in the eighth inning. They’ve shut down the beer stands. The rookie left-fielder, just up from Oklahoma City, is at the plate, the one who swings like a rusty gate.

Only the whole world is watching.

Swing hard, kid. In case you hit it.

Coming Saturday: How to offset a bout of melancholy: beer, yard work, TJ’s tote bags…

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Please stay tuned for the next Happy Hour Hike, to be held at Dodger Stadium or Descanso Gardens in late April or early May.

Speaking of rich internal lives, I realized the other day that children share their honest thoughts till around age 8, then some mechanism activates — some heart valve, some latch — that makes them overly cautious about their opinions, secrets and observations.

They become guarded. They remember recent hurts caused from being too honest, from being different from the pack, or vulnerable, or even kind.

So they begin to pull the curtains around themselves. And the best part of children starts to disappear.

Wow, right?

New lovers are like that too. At first, we share it all. Then little by little, we pull back, wounded by minor judgments.

Seems that the secret to a lasting relationship is the willingness — the courage — to share it all. Me, I overshare, so I’m probably OK. Or will oversharing be my undoing?

I mean, I don’t overshare all the time. I’d get punched out probably. They’d bundle me like a tent and ship me off to Mars.

But if you can’t confide in another person, what’s the point? Get yourself a dog, you’ll be much happier.

FYI, I wear my dogs like socks. They surround me as I write this. Look at my daughter’s dog, this golden retriever. One brain cell, maybe two. A retriever? She couldn’t retrieve a meatball if you left it in a warm wad of fries.

But she’s good company. The golden retriever inspires me. When she sighs, it’s almost human. It’s as if she is doing my worrying for me.

Dogs, they own me. Grandkids too.

Questions? Let’s move on.

I’m very taken lately by the shimmer in the eyes of my granddaughters. One is almost 5, the other just off the lot (nine months).

Lately, their eyes are Swiss lakes.

The other day, Rapunzel brought little Mookie by the house. When I went to retrieve her from the carseat, she’d just awakened from her nap. Her eyes glistened. Big jewels. The kind kings keep in their pockets to rub during meetings.

“”She just woke up,” Rapunzel explained, yet that doesn’t fully explain these high-beams, this majesty … the beauty of watching your grandchildren bloom.

As they say, God lives in the margins. You see him in the seams of sunsets, and the shimmering eyes of your kids and grandkids.

Another person, this Cakes character, was at dinner with me at the Mexican joint the other night.

The restaurant is overpriced and underseasoned, like many Santa Monica eateries. But the servers are patient, attentive and all-around wonderful. So I throw money to the wind.

It was just Smartacus and me, in a booth with Cakes and her toddler brother, Puddles. Cakes’ big eyes caught the evening light. You could canoe those eyes. You could launch several thousand ships.

Happy Hour!

Now, sometimes Cakes wiggles loose the bolts of the universe. She is as impatient as the wind, to borrow from Wordsworth — a particularly active child, a restless and curious little girl . Often, she is soothed only by the screen of some phone or tablet. “Zootopia” is her escape. Or “Frozen.”

We realize that’s wrong. Just as our parents knew it was wrong to plop us in front of “Hogan’s Heroes” re-runs for hours at a time.

But we turned out all right, didn’t we?

Maybe.

Anyway, we’re in this booth at the Mexican joint — no screens, no parents — and all hell is breaking loose, as it will in a restaurant with young children.

Ever been to a bullfight? Kinda like that.

At one point, Puddles shoves the laminated menu away from himself, nearly dumping all the beer and water glasses in my lap.

Also, Puddles refuses to eat, which is unusual in our family. We breathe to eat, and we eat to breathe. Food and family are our sole reasons for existing. But mostly food…sometimes family.

Honestly, it’s just the food.

Smartacus and I realize that we can’t return Cakes and Puddles to their loving parents without something in their stomachs, it would be irresponsible of us. And it could jeopardize future culinary bullfights such as this.

So we stop for a quick ice cream on the way home.

Yes, they love ice cream — way more than family, far more than life itself.

We could see it in their eyes.

Next week: Never sleep with someone more troubled than you are.

I really want to thank everyone for your patience and generosity regarding the shift to Substack. I’m reading some wonderful notes from old friends who have been with me for decades. It’s quite inspiring.

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We’re still figured out a few things. In the meantime, here are some answers to frequent questions:

Q: Why is the type smaller?

A: If you click on the email, the columns seem to appear smaller than you might be used to.

Q: The solution?

Access the column by opening Substack first. Also, you can go directly to the website: ChrisErskineLA.com. In both cases, the type is larger, as is the entire presentation.

Q: The photos don’t enlarge when I click on them, like before.

A: Again, if you access the column through Substack, you’ll have more options with the photos. You can enlarge them, or click through them. You can also do this by going directly to ChrisErskineLA.com

Q: Can I still “like” or “comment” on a post?

A: Yes. There are little icons under the byline. You can also comment by scrolling to the end of the column. Often, the post-game banter is better than the original story.

Q: When is the next Happy Hour Hike?

A: We will hike Descanso Gardens in a couple of weeks. Please stay tuned for details. “Founding Members” will get first choice.

Q: What’s a “dirty” Bloody Mary, which you mentioned the other day?

A: Add a jigger of olive juice to a typical Bloody Mary.

Cheers! Have a great weekend.

Know about these pup cups? So simple… a Dixie cup brimming with whipped cream.

Free! Boom!

What’s free anymore? Pup cups at Starbucks. At least for now.

Not sure vets would recommend them, but the dogs certainly would. They are voracious about these pup cups. They eat as if it’s their last supper.

Then we swung (or is it swang?) by the park, where we caught the final moments of Sunrise Service. As we listen, young voices finish a song, then someone issues a final “Amen, go forth…” and all that.

That was about as much formal religion as these pagan dogs require. They are forever pulling at their leashes. So we turn and head for home.

Hey, did I ever tell you about the source of Easter eggs? Probably, since I’m nearing that age where all I do is repeat myself.

Anyway, Eostre was the Saxon goddess of this season, a beautiful woman with a Hermes smile and a heart so big you could hear it thump from 40 feet away, ba-DUMP, ba-DUMP, ba-DUMP-DUMP-DUMP. Think Ginger Baker, loud and a little crude.

One day, someone found a bird with frozen wings and took it to Eostre. To save its life, she turned it into a bouncing baby bunny. But because it used to be a bird, the bunny could still lay eggs.

Boom! Free eggs!

See, I know some stuff. It just never reveals itself, since all I ever talk about are baseball, dogs and kids. That’s why I was never very successful at first dates or job interviews. We never got to the really entertaining stuff that I know: Ernie Banks’ lifetime batting average, the secret to a good marinade, how to pour a “dirty” Bloody Mary.

In any case, our Easter was wonderful, as Easter always is with young children and pagan dogs.

Two of my own grandkids were in New York visiting Grandpa Tom, so we celebrated them through photos mostly. It’s quieter that way, though I was never very fond of quiet.

Closer to home, Maggie swang by, Rapunzel’s new nugget. She is a smiley little thing, much like her mom and dad. At 9 months, she makes the same coos and tweets as baby sparrows.

Smartacus contributed to the Eostre feast, handling the deviled eggs. For this special occasion, he made Chicago-style deviled eggs. He also made deviled eggs with capers and Sriracha. In N Out deviled eggs were also on the menu, but I think he ate those himself.

Tell me, does anything ring your chimes like a well-made deviled egg? To this day, I’ve never been able to walk by a platter of them without stopping.

Yet, I find it somewhat interesting that on a day devoted to our Savior, we celebrate with deviled eggs. I mean, show some consistency.

Or is this how God works?

I also find it odd — and pretty wonderful — that my kids are now trusting me to host major holidays: first Christmas, now Easter, the two biggies.

Among my kids, the conventional wisdom is that I don’t respect expiration dates quite enough. Which is true, I don’t. Like birthdays, they’re just a number to me.

Still, these eggs were fresh and creamy good, as was the flank steak I marinated overnight.

Can I give you a major life secret? Flank steak. We grill it maybe twice a year, and each time we decide it’s the most delicious of all the beefs — then we lapse, as Lutherans are known to, into the more-predictable cycle of ribeyes, burgers and kabobs.

I declare this a flank steak summer. The thin slabs grill up easy, in minutes. I promise you’ll think about the succulent slivers of beef for days after, as you would a great book or a major movie.

Here’s my marinade: olive oil, soy, apple cider vinegar, honey, paprika, oregano, garlic, salt and ground peppa.

Be sure to fingertip it into the meat, as you might a lover. Soak it overnight in that incredible booze you just made, flipping it first thing in the morning.

I’m telling you, as the self-proclaimed pagan God of Barbecues, that flank steak can change your life in unexpected ways. It will make you taller, smarter, wiser, even more charming than you already are. You’ll heal faster, suddenly sing on key, be able to back your car into the tightest spaces.

Or, you can just go with that grilled cauliflower you like so much.

It’s your life. Try to enjoy it a little.

Coming Saturday: The glimmer in the eyes of grandchildren.

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In April, you can either count your blessings or you can curse your tax returns. Both work. Both are real and forgivable.

In either case, we motor right along, our stomachs knotting over some deep eternal fear, something we can’t shake or conquer.

We keep motoring just the same.

Which brings us to today. Easter shimmers on the horizon. Summer awaits the next train.

My mornings start kind of sooty now, black as Bibles. The little lamp near the bed glows like a lighthouse, calling me back under the covers after I feed the dog. I resist, I relent, I resist, I relent … storyboard of my young life.

Honestly, I’m a tug-of-war. You too? All these comforts call out to us.

I was noticing all the vape shops on Lincoln Boulevard the other night, on my way to see Miss Suzie. The smoke shops sizzled in their LED high-beams. They looked like space ships. You could almost hear them hum.

These weed shops are an urban occurrence now, a trend, a blight, lit up like major airports.

My questions: Do you stoners need extra light? And what’s to become of The Great American Liquor Store?

There was an ambience and a dignity to an old liquor store — especially late, when it was just you and the cops and the clerk behind the counter reading the latest Playboy. Liquor stores felt like small favors.

As teenagers, we’d wait outside liquor stores for someone to buy us six-packs of beer in brown paper bags. We’d try to pick a younger customer, someone in his 20s, because the older dudes could be scolds.

Hey, whatever gets you through the night, right? A book, a gummy, a big chocolate bunny … perhaps a sip of Bud Light.

I was swimming the other day, another med, another tonic …an activity that manages to unknot me.

As I left the gym, this Easter Bunny of a girl, jaunty in the way of teenagers, parades past, flaunting her cheesecake glow.

Judging from her looping walk, she might’ve been a baroness, or the heir to a major toy company. Whatever she was, she seemed to have the world’s car keys in her hand.

What awaits a kid like this? What awaits all our sassy kids and grandkids? What awaits this cruel and wobbly world?

Can we fall asleep each night with hope in our hearts? Or is it dread we always seem to feel?

I say spring forward, no matter your spiritual side. Chase some guiding star, some beacon, some hope. Go ahead, eat that Peep. Cave to the candy.

Because to be a parent is to worry two generations ahead. Parenthood spikes the punch. It raises our sense of responsibility (and sometimes shame).

For believers, this is the wildest week — when God took back his baby.

For non-believers, please note that I’ve gotten almost all the way through an Easter column without using the words “rebirth” or “resurrection.” Lord, it wasn’t easy.

Meanwhile…

“Any time not spent on love is wasted,” said an old Italian writer you maybe don’t even know (Torquato Tasso). If old Italians understand anything, it’s probably lust.

Now, you can probably define a person solely by the things they lust over. Work? Fame? Family? Boats? Bix Beiderbecke? The B-52s?

Tell me all that you love and I’ll tell you whether I like you or not.

And if you love April, I’ll probably love you too. There is something explicit about a bed of daffodils in the morning sun … a big bowl of Monet.

And a gushing creek just seems to wind my clock.

A frisky dog splashing through that hilly creek adds to the moment. There is no happiness quite like dog happiness, or the happiness of young children on a warm spring weekend, chasing after colored eggs in the park, stumbling through the lush spring grass, shirts and smiles coming untucked.

Who doesn’t like that?

For every bad thing, there are two good ones. That’s just the ratio I’ve always used — nothing scientific, more of a hunch than a fact, that’s for sure.

Science has its limitations, we all know that.

For this moment, forget moon launches and biotech. Give me dogs and children and other classic beacons — the stuff no one can ever take away.

Give us our blessed April hearts.

Happy Easter.

Next week: These kids’ shimmering eyes. You could canoe in those eyes.

Some thanks on this holiday weekend:

Thanks to all of you have been reading me for years, some for decades. Thanks for following me now on Substack.

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Also, thanks to all those who supported the Erskine Family Compassion Fund, honoring my late wife and son. You pulled together nearly $15,000 to help families across Los Angeles. Still like to help? Please make out checks to LCPC Parent Ed, and send to LCPC Parent Ed, 626 Foothill Boulevard, La Canada, CA 91011. Or click here: LCPCparented.org/give/

If you have problems on the donation site, or with Substack, please email me at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Finally, a poll: What would make you happiest for our next hike? Descanso Gardens? Santa Monica Pier? Dodger Stadium? If you have a preference, please email me at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Happy Easter, and all holidays, from our home to yours.

My challenge: I know nothing of eroticism. But I’m learning, I’m learning. I shop at L.A. boutiques, I watch a lot of Starz.

Honestly, I don’t know a streamer from a channel anymore, or a mood from a vibe, or a server from a waiter.

Beware: Every word eventually gets a cool new sister wife that becomes all the rage, when really that new word is just describing the same old stuff.

That’s the paradigm in which we now live.

FYI, I am best with the same old stuff. I’m built of spare parts and Silly Putty. That’s why a goof like me could one day succeed at eroticism.

Meanwhile, half of what happens on my computer seems to be by magic.

Magic. Miracles. Good fate. We don’t respect them enough, especially when it comes to cheap foreign electronics.

Sometimes I think magic and good luck are actually God’s caress, but that’s probably wishful thinking.

Faith is faith and we’re lucky to have it. Love is love, hope is hope — all those abstractions that go unseen. Yet they are the most-powerful possessions we own, if own is the proper word.

Who owns love? Not me. At best, I get a six-month lease.

Yet, the really good concepts — Hope. Love. Gratitude. —never go out of style. Call them the holy trinity of a really solid life.

Look, who am I to give advice? I sleep on a pillow stuffed with old sports sections.

Is that a tribute? A bribe? A so-called baksheesh?

My latest fascination: The idea that there’s no edge of the universe, just as there is no flat Earth. Every delicious thing in the cosmos seems conical or elliptic: Easter eggs, pizzas, Dolly Parton.

Why not the universe?

So, if you rocket off into the stars one afternoon, heading straight up, wouldn’t you maybe just circle back and end up where you started, like a space-age Magellan?

If you walked the Earth, heading straight north around the poles, you’d eventually end up back in Glendale, right?

Same with the Cosmos. In the end, you get Glendale.

Imagine heading off to map such a universe, brushing the hair from the eyes of angels, smooching them softly on their sun-burned lips? Would that be erotic or spiritual?

You decide.

This concept of an oval universe, gleaned from physicist Carlo Rovelli, blows my mind a little.

Obviously, I hail from a different world from everyone else. Suzanne teases me over all my Tony Bennett references, my fondue jokes, the ascots I wear to workouts.

She is essentially — please keep this between us — dating my father.

Ewwwww … ick.

Two other things that are the same thing: Me. My father.

Early on, I adopted too many of his mid-century tastes. We both loved my mom, for instance. And we both got all pie-eyed over Angie Dickinson (please note that Suzanne has Angie’s car-fender cheekbones. Coincidence? Or a cheekbone miracle?).

Like my dad, I adore rental rowboats and crisp autumn days. Half his face was forehead, just like mine. Dad also had a bunch of Donegal in his Irish grin, every wink a pub.

From my father, I learned what was funny: Ted Baxter, Tim Conway, Don Rickles.

“Know who was really hilarious?” he used to ask. “Rasputin.”

From him, I learned irreverence; I learned the universe.

From him, I also learned to tie a fish hook and knot a tie. I learned how to curse other drivers for not using a turn signal.

Dad hated phonies. He loathed cheats.

Best of all, I learned from my father a love for family.

Dad used to say, “If you have kids, you have everything.”

I’d say, “Cool, Dad. Thanks!”

“Well, I wasn’t talking about you specifically,” he’d say. “Just kids as a concept.”

Man, I miss his laugh, especially on holiday weeks like this. I miss his love for hard-boiled eggs and good sports sections.

That’s where the revolutionary writers of his day lived, on the nation’s sports pages, surviving on jabs and wisecracks.

Maybe that’s why sports sections are still stuffed in my pillow?

On this holy week, here’s to fathers everywhere, the ones who push the strollers on Saturday mornings so Mom can sleep in.

Here’s to the dads who rake the infields, pour the pancakes, set up soccer goals, fix the stuff they didn’t break.

Love all you dads.

As a concept, anyway.

Coming Saturday: Eat a Peep. Cave to the Candy.

Some thanks are in order.

First, thanks to all who are supporting me now on Substack. Note that even if you’re a so-called “free subscriber,” you can get one free post a month. That kicks in April 11. If you prefer the twice-weekly posts, please subscribe.

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Secondly, thanks to all those who supported the Erskine Family Compassion Fund, honoring my late wife and son. You pulled together nearly $15,000 to help families across Los Angeles. Still like to help? Please make checks out to LCPC Parent Ed, and send to LCPC Parent Ed, 626 Foothill Boulevard, La Canada, CA 91011. Or click here: LCPCparented.org/give/

If you have problems on the donation site, or with Substack, please email me at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Thank you. And Happy Easter from our home to yours.