Twelve years of Sunshine

A sweater drying rack sits next to the end of the couch, though it scarcely sees a sweater, and never on the topmost tier.

If you were to visit our house, even in the steamiest most miserable days of Alabama summer, you would likely find the garage door cracked open five or six inches.

The bottom shelf of the bathroom closet contains two small stacks of towels which we've not used for a decade.

And at the foot of our bed stands a five-foot-tall contraption of carpeted platforms, tunnels, and scratching posts, marketed as a "Kitty Condo."

These are signs of Sunshine.  

Sunshine came to us a scared and scrawny mess.  Her tail was bloody, the fur having been sheared off by some accident I supposed, or worse, an act of cruelty.

That first night, I patched it up with some paper towels and Scotch tape; and put a cardboard box with a towel inside on the back patio so she might have a place to sleep.  I hope she doesn't remember those times.

I recall looking out one of those early days and realizing she must have gone over the fence.  Even though pets were not allowed in the apartment, I hoped she would return.  She did.

After a couple of tepid attempts to find her a home, it turns out she had already found one.

Next came a trip to the vet.  She had ear mites, was terribly constipated (originally diagnosed as pregnant), and would need surgery to amputate her tail.  They kept her for a week.

We talked about her lots in those seven days, hoping she would be ok, wondering how we would manage to hide a kitten from a landlord who unlocked the apartment once a month to let in pest control.

The vet said they tried to give her a bowl of food, but Sunshine turned it over to use as a pillow.  She still likes to have some sort of pillow, be it a stuffed animal, folded towel, or one of her people's hands.

Back home, she had to wear a collar of shame for ten days to keep her from picking at her stitches.  She was not a fan, and let us know frequently and vociferously.

Originally, I kept her in the bathroom at night and when we were at work.  I hate thinking about that now, but she never seemed all that affected by it.  She simply cried at the top of her lungs as soon as I came through the door to remind me she was upstairs.

The house was for her.  It may seem a ridiculous thing to say, even more so to do, but it is the God's honest truth.

Nowadays, she meets us at the door every single time we come home.  She has a large fenced-in backyard.  And at night -- every night -- she sleeps on (what used to be) her mommy's pillow.  Mrs. Bone sleeps scooted down a bit in the bed to make room.

No longer scrawny, she is shiny and healthy.  To show her gratitude she has brought into the house, in no particular order: numerous chipmunks, a frog, a snake, and multiple birds, all very much alive.

Not long after I started working thirds at the 911 Center, Mrs. B went out of town for a weekend, leaving Sunshine to spend her first night alone.  We have security cameras inside the house, kitty cams we call them, bought for the specific purpose of checking on her when we're gone.

That night I left her sitting on the back of the love seat looking out the front window.  And there she sat, the entire night, nine solid hours, watching and waiting for me.

She loves her people, and we very much love her. 

One of my favorite photos of Sunshine is from when we were getting Luke's room ready in the weeks before he was born.  She is lying contentedly in the otherwise empty baby bed.  I'm almost certain she thought we had bought the bed and were furnishing an entire room just for her.  

The kids came along and Sunshine has gradually adjusted.  She no longer scampers out of the room if one of them walks in.  She lets them pick her up, pet and brush her, and she has never once clawed either child.  

Last week marked twelve years since Sunshine came into our lives.  The vet said she was between six and nine months old when she found us, but we don't really count that time.

She still hunts.  This past Saturday, she royally pranced through the kitchen with a live chipmunk in her mouth.  Still meets us at the door.  Still sleeps on her mommy's pillow at night, naps on her shelf in the bathroom, and on the sweater rack in the living room next to a pillow that reads, "Reserved for the Cat."

Many a night after we get the kids to bed, she will hop onto my lap in the recliner, almost inevitably putting me to sleep.

It's hard to remember what we did before her.  But I am certain we were a little less happy.

And no matter how many days I come home to that gray, white, and gold calico sitting in the doorway or looking out the front window, they will always be too few.

Hats

"I collect hats.  That's what you do when you're bald." ~ James Taylor

For anyone afforded a decent number of years, I suppose, we come to wear many different hats.  Literal hats and figurative ones.

Considering my literal headgear history, the first place my mind goes is the misshapen black felt cowboy hat I wore to some conspicuity during my tight Wranglers and western boots stage of the early-to-mid nineties.  (If ever there was a photo which perfectly encapsulated the phrase, “all hat, no cattle…”)

Thankfully, there are no digital images of this atrocity in cyberspace as the internets were still on dial-up then and it would have taken two to four hours to upload.  Of all the blessings the Lord hath bestowed upon me, surely this one shall never go unappreciated.

I've worn bandanas, beanies, and baseball caps.  A fisherman hat, scally cap, hard hat, Santa hat, party hat, toboggan, even a fedora.

On the figurative side, I've worn the hat of the aggravating brother, favorite/only son, grandson, nephew, uncle, and a dad.  I've been a trainer and a trainee, boyfriend and ex-boyfriend, radio DJ and furnace helper, bag boy and 911 dispatcher.  A reader, and, hopefully, a writer.

And this month, still in the springtime of this, my sixth-decade of breaths and heartbeats, at the ever so gentle behest of Mrs. Bone, I have added to my hat collection.

In this role, I may be spotted wearing a whistle around my neck, carrying a clipboard, and possibly having mostly civilized conversations with men of a certain age who are adorned in zebra-striped shirts.  Some of whom appear to have serious vision deficiencies.  

All the while trying to corral nine 7-and-8-year-olds.  One of whom, even after three practices, I keep calling another kid's name.

Yes, this fall and continuing into the early winter, I will don the hat of basketball coach for Luke’s 8-and-under youth basketball team.

How is it going, you ask?  Well, hold onto your hats.

At the first practice, one kid started crying no less than SIX different times.  It was probably more like eight or ten, but I don't like to exaggerate.  (Unless it makes something funnier; or earns me some measure of pity, or glory.)

So much for my mantra of "Make Youth Sports Fun Again."

There has been progress.  At the second practice, the same kid only started to cry once, at least that I saw.  I was mostly trying to avoid eye contact.

Then last night, at our third practice, no one cried.

They seem like good kids though, all with varying degrees of inattention and hyperactivity.  "They keep me young," I like to say, before coming home and Biofreezing my back.

I had no idea there would be so much to do.  You have to draft your team, then contact each parent to let them know whose team their child is on.

I had to (sort of) learn to use GroupMe!  What’s next--TikTok?  Kik?  FriendMaker?  

Then you have to find times to schedule practices when the gym isn't booked.  There are forty teams across all the age groups, and two courts which are only available for practice on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday evenings.  So, the math doesn't really work.

You have to ask what size uniforms each kid needs and what number they want to be.  Then you have to find a place to order the uniforms.

Thankfully, Mrs. Bone did most of this so I could focus on YouTubing “basketball practice drills for kids” and “how to not make a child cry.”

Now I have to message everyone to let them know when and where the next practice is.  That way they can message back their child can't make it because "He already has kickboxing practice that night," or "My mother's in the hospital," or my personal favorite, "We're going trick-or-treating, who would schedule basketball practice for Halloween night?"

Oh, keep your hat on, Betty.

And don't come whining to me when little Billy has three cavities and still hasn't learned what he's supposed to do in the box-and-one defense.

I mean… uh… who's ready to have some fun!  

Yeah!  That's what this team is all about.

(Though I might not hang my hat on that.)

Unspoken lullaby

You cried out for your mama.  I came to check on you since I was still awake on the couch and your mama gets up with you ninety-nine percent of the time.  Lord knows she could use the rest.

You were crying softly as I came into your room.

"What's that on the floor?" you pointed.

It was an AC adapter for the computer, I explained.

"But I want Mama."

"Mama's asleep, buddy."

I knelt on the floor and wrapped my arms around you until I thought you had gotten back to sleep.

Minutes later, you cried out again.  This time you pointed to something in the rocking chair.  It was the laptop.  I assume you must have been having a bad dream.

As I knelt beside you again, I only wished I could take it all away.  As most any parent would, I suppose.  I had nightmares as a kid and can't help but assume that's where yours come from.

My head resting on your back, I listened to you breathe and struggle to get back to sleep.  Your stomach made a noise and I smiled.

You were scared.  Of what, I didn't know.  But I had been there.  Heck, I'm scared now.  Every day.  The news is unwatchable.  Guns.  Hate.  Floods.  Fires.  Wars.  Anger.  Disease.  Death.  The world is a scary place.

In that moment, I was thankful none of those things (hopefully) were on your mind.  Your fear was (hopefully) something irrational.  Not that that made it any better for you.  But at least you're still young enough that I could comfort you, make you feel safe, and (again, hopefully) convince you everything is going to be ok.

I awoke this morning to you lying in our bed next to your mama.  I guess she didn't get as much rest as I had hoped.  But I was thankful she was there to comfort you.  

You were asleep.  You were safe.

Damn all the bad we inherit.

In a southern town

Everything closed on Sunday, 'cept the Shell and one drug store
Never thought you'd miss it then, but you kinda miss it now
You can still hear Daddy sayin', "We better be gettin' home
'Cause they'll be rollin' up the streets when the sun goes down..."
In a southern town

Commodity cheese and butter on the third of every month
Long line at the armory, but there's plenty to go around
Piggly Wiggly, Johnson's Hardware, Elmore's five and ten
It's been decades since their walls have heard a sound
In a southern town

One four-inch February snow would close school for a week
That hill out by the state road was good for sleddin' down
Preachers preached, teachers taught, and we prayed for peace and rain
We believed that the things we sought would someday be found
In a southern town

Rode everywhere in truck beds or pedaling our bikes

Every street, field, and creek, a new adventure to be found
Friday nights in fall meant high school lights and marching bands
You learned to kiss, and cuss, and fish, and make a joyful sound
In a southern town

At lunchtime, Miss Leona sliced hoop cheese and stick bologna
Buy a Moon Pie and a cold drink to wash it all down
We walked home from school, played outside all afternoon
Came home at suppertime, the whole family gathered 'round
In a southern town

We ate iron skillet cornbread at least four nights a week
Got tired of it then but you'd love to have a pan right now
And though it hadn't shown a movie since nineteen sixty-nine
It felt like somebody died when they tore the ol' Star down
In a southern town

Two-finger steering wheel wave to every car you'd pass
If they didn't wave back you knew they's from out of town
Go to the county fair, you'd swear half the county was there
Bingo on the loudspeaker, you can almost hear it now
In a southern town

God was great, God was good, we thanked Him for our daily food
Especially when it was dinner on the grounds
Kids wore out the town square and Winn-Dixie parking lot
On Friday and Saturday nights just driving around
In a southern town

They'd pump your gas and check your oil at Harris Sixty-six
Pass their days to the music of that bell hose sound
Mister Albert would cut hair, five dollars, six days a week
You still grin when you see a barber pole spinnin' around
In a southern town

You remember gettin' a Hardees, a Subway and a Sears
And we were all excited when Walmart came to town
But then Mister Sparks' store had to close, Johnson's hardware, too
And it hit real hard when the paper mill shut down
In a southern town

I'd vow there was more kudzu then, fireflies, and kindness, too
Our old tube TV must have weighed two hundred pounds
You's proud to say you voted but you never said for who
Seemed everyone you knew had been lost but now they's found
In a southern town

Everything closed on Sunday, 'cept the Shell and one drug store
Seemed so inconvenient then, but you kinda miss it now

The S-word

"Daddy, do you know the S-word?"

My heart dropped into my stomach.  He's seven!  They can't be cursing already.  What happened to his wide-eyed wonder questions?  What's the deepest river in the world?  What's the world record for holding your breath?  Where do storks come from?

These I was used to.  These I could ask Siri.  (By the way, the answers are (1) the Congo, (2) 24 minutes and 37 seconds, and (3) no one knows.  Though I do have some doubts about the veracity of that second one.)

Of course, I know the S-word, I thought, but how do you???

"Um, I'm not sure, buddy.  Which S-word are you talking about?"

"I'm not supposed to say it."

"Is it.... stupid?" I ask, lowering my voice even though there is no one else around to hear.

"No, Daddy.  That's the S-T-word."

"Oh, well I'm not sure then, buddy."

"Well then Daddy, do you know the C, D, F, and S-H words?"

That's it, George Carlin Junior!  We're home-schooling you!

As we played a fun little father-son game of Seven Words You Can't Say in Reading Circle, I was able to deduce with 73% confidence that the C-word was crap and the D-word was dumb.  I could tangibly feel my systolic pressure drop below 280.

Then one night as Mrs. B and I were eating dinner and the kids were watching TV in another room, I heard Luke remark, "He just said a bad word!"

"What?" I yelled from the kitchen.

"They said a bad word on TV."

"Which one?"

"The S-H-word!"

Mrs. B and I pondered for a moment before agreeing it must be, "Shhh."  Turns out it was "shut up."  In my defense, and as I pointed out to Luke, that's actually two words.

So at this point, I'm ok.  I figure he's hearing words at school, most likely, or with his sports teams.  Possibly his teachers have pointed out that we shouldn't say some of these words.  He is aware of them, but he knows they are rude.

And then...

He hits me with the N-word.

We were playing football in the backyard, as we are wont to do every single day from August to February.  While attempting to catch him -- a task made more difficult by my increasingly flab-ridden torso -- I reached my arm out indiscriminately.  

And that's when he said it:

"Ow, Daddy! You hit me in my nuts."

.

.

.

To say that caught me off guard would be to say that Bruce Willis was slightly taken aback when he realized he had been dead the whole time in "The Sixth Sense."  (Spoiler alert.)

I know he didn't hear that from me!  But I do my best not to act shocked as I try to determine whether or not this is ok for him to say.  I mean, what else would he call them?   Privates?  The B-word (rhymes with falls)?  My danger?

The kid goes through active shooter drills at school.  Is saying nuts really the symbol of innocence lost?

Besides, when I was in second grade we played this stupid game called "national guard day" every Wednesday.  Guys would go around punching each other down there.  I hated it!  Dreaded it with every fiber of my being.  You walked around all day in the halls guarding your privates.  Yet we did it.  Every week.

So maybe nuts aren't so bad?  Are the prisons filled with people whose dads let them say nuts unabashedly when they were seven?  Surely not!  But what if it's a gateway word?  O, who can know, who can know!

As for the S-word, I believe I have managed to unravel that mystery as well.  

I was playing soccer with Luke and a friend of his, them against me.  After one of my kicks missed the goal, his friend yelled out, "You suck!"  Before I could say anything, Luke immediately responded , "Uh, we don't say that word."  I was so proud!

Now in his friend's defense, this kid is a year older.  Third-grade street cred being what it is, he's probably seen and heard some bad things.

After he yelled the insult a second time, Luke sternly admonished, "That is not a nice thing to say to my Dad!"  This time I backed him up. "Yeah, we don't say that word at our house, ok?"

Reflecting on the afternoon later I had my hardly-epiphanic moment:  Ah, suck!  That must be the S-word.

At least, I freakin' hope it is.

Apologies to any who may have been offended by the strong language of this post, most especially my mother.  Mom, if you're reading this, I'm sorry.  And I will fully expect to receive emancipation papers forthwith.

Oh, and happy national guard day to any who still commemorate the occasion and observe its senseless barbaric traditions.

That's what I've got for a eulogy

"Don't make me have to call your momma."

Words that I'm sure have been uttered to many a child partaking in some sort of youthful misbehavior.  Words that were no doubt used on me by more than one teacher.  But the one I specifically remember saying it was Mister B.

Mister B was our middle school phys ed teacher.  His daughter, Amy, was in my class.  He knew my parents.  And somehow he knew I would far rather face a swinging slab of oak than have my parents know I had done anything wrong.  

(That still holds true, by the way.  I can easily see Mom to this day giving me the days-long silent treatment and look of utter that-is-not-how-I-raised-you disappointment.  Though surely she wouldn't still pinch the living daylights out of me if I acted up in church.  Would she?  Nah.  I mean, I'm pretty sure.  And I don't even think Dad wears a belt anymore.)

Anyhow, back to Mister B.  There were good things about having the parent of one of your friends as a teacher.  Like the time I sneakily tripped Cedric King while we were playing football in PE.  

The school bully, he was fifteen in seventh grade and built like a middleweight boxer.  We'd only play tackle when Mister B wasn't watching. (Sometimes I think he knew but was just letting us be boys.) Everyone had always been afraid to tackle Cedric.  

Not me.  I was too dumb to know better.

After I tripped him, he got up and pushed me down in the dirt.  I was in no hurry to spring back up. Mister B quickly darted over and intervened.  He sent Cedric to the principal's office, almost surely saving me from what would have been both an embarrassing and fully expected licking.  

Mister B's wife, I shall refer to her as Mrs. B, was the high school home ec teacher.  And they had a pool table at their house.  This provided for some of the best get-togethers of my youth (and one epic co-ed sleepover my senior year).  

Usually, eight or ten of us would hang out at their house.  Mrs. B would serve all manner of snacks and baked goods while we watched movies, shot pool, or played cards and board games.  Most nights, Mister B would join in.  

He was pretty handy with a cue (I was beyond awful back then).   I remember him always giving us tips to help us improve.  Grip, angles, English, bridges.  

It seemed like such a small thing to do.

As years sped by, I'd still occasionally see Mister B.  Anytime I managed to make it back to my hometown 10K, I would see him and Mrs. B walking the two-mile race.  Side by side.  Every year.

Mr. B also found me on the radio.  He would occasionally call and request a song.  He rarely introduced himself, but I recognized that forever enthusiastic, familiar singsong voice.  He was one of those people who always made you feel they were excited to see or hear from you.  

At the last station I worked, Mr. B never failed to call in and put Mrs. B's and the kids' birthdays on our birthday calendar.  As well as his and Mrs. B's anniversary.  Every year. 

It seemed like such a small thing to do.

I got out of radio in 2015 and they held the hometown 10K run for the last time in 2016.  I probably only saw Mister B a time or two after that.

Waiting in line at the visitation Saturday night, I was able to look at some of the pictures of Mr. B and articles mentioning him that were on display there, telling part of his story.  Things I had never known.

Turns out he was quite dapper in his younger days, and had been inducted into his home county's sports hall of fame.  He had coached his kids' youth sports teams.

There was a certificate acknowledging his election as a deacon at church.  I went back to look up the qualifications of a deacon before writing this.  One stood out: The husband of one wife.

As I read through the small funeral program, it stated one of Mister B's favorite hobbies was writing love letters and poems for his wife of more than fifty years.

That stopped me.

I thought about my marriage.  I couldn't help but think maybe Mister B was giving me one last tip on how I could improve.

There is a song Mister B used to call and request.  This was three radio stations ago for me.  Another century.  I didn't think of it the evening of the visitation.  I didn't think of it on Sunday as I texted back and forth with Amy about memories, how much I loved her parents, and how blessed we were to have had such a good friend group in high school.

But I thought of it today, as I was trying to think of how to write something worthy of Mister B.

Long story slightly less long, the song's hook line says, "It's better to be gone but not forgotten, than to be forgotten but not gone."

Gone.  They say his mind was starting to go.  He was beginning to forget things.  Hospice was called in near the end.

Gone.  From this brief human existence.

But forgotten?

Well, Mister B, that's about as likely as middle-school me continuing to misbehave after one of your "Don't make me have to call your momma" admonitions.

Not happening.

Many people were fortunate enough to know Mister B far better than me.  But I wanted to write something personal; things I remember about him and what he meant to me.  I just wish I had told him some of this when I still could.

It would've been such a small thing to do.

I have peaked

It's official.  I have peaked.

The realization hit me this weekend like an attack of the gout -- suddenly.  And yes, it burned.

It came after a Sunday afternoon visit to a lovely pumpkin patch.  After a traipse through the corn maze.  After I had not-so-gracefully plummeted down their 200-foot-long aluminum slide.  And after I had tried to get up.

Whilst attempting to "verticalize my assets" at the bottom of the slide, I experienced an unintentional discharge of rather raucous flatulence.

As luck would have it, there were witnesses nearby who can confirm my story.  Several witnesses, all of whom appeared to be of the female persuasion.  One cackled.  Maybe two.

I looked around for someone to blame.  Bupkus.

Dear Heloise, how do I extract myself from this situation with the least possible embarrassment?

"That ship has sailed, and sank," I imagine her writing back.

On my second attempt, I managed to stand without contributing any further to the auditory or olfactory delights of the Rockwellesque farm.  I told my captive audience they were welcome for the free entertainment, exited stage right, and with an urgency seldom seen in human history looked for somewhere to hide.

But even that was not what brought me to my downhill slide revelation.  That didn't come until the drive home when Mrs. Bone put her hand on my arm, gently squeezed, and smiled, "I'm proud of you."

"For what?" I wondered aloud.

Her smile grew.  

"There was a time when something like what happened at the bottom of that slide would have sent you into a panic.  You wouldn't have been able to enjoy anything for the rest of the day. And that’s if you didn't just leave entirely."

Oh, so what you're saying is I used to have some pride?

Anyhow, that's when it hit me.  That's when I knew.  I have peaked in life.  

I don't know when.  

Maybe it was my 26-point outburst in church league basketball.  (Sorry, "pre-season" church league basketball.)  Perhaps it was finishing second place in the mud volleyball tournament when I was eighteen.  Or maybe it was winning the Presidential Fitness Run in middle school when the two guys in front of me stopped after three laps thinking the race was over.

But probably sports-related.  As you can see, there is a lot to pick from.

Whatever it was, one thing is for certain: Being unable to control bodily functions while simply attempting to stand was definitely not it.

There are no more hills to climb.  I've crested my own personal Everest, though it was probably more like halfway to base camp.  

If I might inspire for a moment...

You will never be younger than you are today.  You will never have more time remaining on this Earth than you do right now.  Lastly, and may I say this one is far too often overlooked, you will never, ever be more continent than you are at this very second.

So hold it in, kings!  Hold it in while you still can.  Hold it as long as humanly possible.  (Actually, now that I’m looking on webMD that could be quite harmful, so maybe don’t try that last one.)

Thank you for allowing me that dalliance.

I remember when Mrs. Bone was proud of me for more momentous feats and occasions.  Things like remembering where I put the scissors, putting a fresh bag in the receptacle after I take out the trash, and finishing one bottle of water before I open three more.  (Just kidding about that last one.  I'm still chasing that elusive three-minute mile of husbanding.)

Now?

She's proud of me for what?  For powering through an unseemly and very public fit of flatulence and coming out the other side.

That's right, people.  My name is Bone.  I've fallen and I CAN get up!

Eventually.

I just make no promises as to what you may see, hear, or smell in the meantime.

Decembers

I hope I've been easier
Since I've been on the pills
Thank you for still being here
Dim valleys and high hills

Nashville in summertime
Face down on Fourth Avenue
Who'd have known that all along
It was me who needed you

I don't believe a lover
Should have to be that strong
Through the worst you stayed and made
My Decembers not so long

I have known your tenderness
And I have seen you fight
You loved me on darkened days
When I could not see a light

I love the girl you were
And the mother you came to be
And I love all the flowers
That you've grown inside of me

I've heard said love is ageless
I hope they're not wrong
Thanks for staying and making
My Decembers not so long

On obfuscation and isolation

Covid visited the Bone home last week.  Mrs. Bone tested positive on Tuesday morning and, Alabama being a community property state, she was legally required to share the virus with me.

I have no idea what variant we are on now -- omicron, epsilon, kappa kappa lambda -- but it felt like we pledged to a bad sorority.  And no, not the one that takes in the unpopular girls who couldn't get into any of the others.  And why did I go with sorority there rather than fraternity?

Anyhow, in our all-inclusive Greek-letter organization, we wear masks, compare the shades of our throatal mucous, and sleep eighteen hours a day.

I slept much of Wednesday and Thursday.  Felt a lot better Friday.  Then was afflicted with a migraine Saturday morning.  So a couple more hours of sleep.

Fortunately, the kids have been able to avoid it.  Though there's no telling what they may bring home next week from the Petri dish we call an elementary school.

This ordeal has brought to mind the uncertainty of the early days of Covid.  I suppose all times are uncertain but those seemed especially so.

Oh, we were so young and green to the ways of novel viruses and mortiferous pandemics.  It truly was a simpler time, before Moderna, N95, and Dr. Fauci entered the daily vernacular.

I was still working at the 911 Center at the time.  In hindsight, I think that was a good thing.  Getting to maintain some sense of normalcy by going into work every night.  And let me tell you, traffic was a delight.  Best part of the pandemic, by far.

Mrs. Bone and I got vaccinated, then boosted.  It seemed like a no-brainer.  People were dying.  Dad was in the hospital for a week.  My best friend's father died without a funeral.

It was tougher when it came to the kids.  It always is.  You live with the decisions you make for yourself.  It's a whole other world when it comes to making decisions that will affect someone else's life.  Decisions they are unable to make for themselves.

Luke was four and had asthma.  Harper was two.

Fortunately by then, the pandemic had been fully politicized.  Experts seemed to sprout up by the minute so, naturally, 100% complete and accurate information spread like kudzu.

I had thoughts of writing a book.  The title would be "Parenting in the Time of Covid."  I quickly realized the title would likely be, by far, the best part, and just like that, the book idea was off the table.

I think about how my grandparents or great-grandparents might have handled a thing such as Covid.  Probably would have just done whatever the doctor said, if they even went to the doctor.  Or perhaps a good old-fashioned blood-letting.

And I wonder about the things my children will face.  How will they know what to believe, what is real, what is truth?

For while there is a mind-boggling amount of information literally at my fingertips every second of every day, I can only imagine there is exponentially more misinformation.  You can find someone somewhere to agree with any bit of ludicrousness you might come up with.  A website or YouTube channel dedicated to any of a thousand conspiracy theories you might fancy.

Luke recently asked me why people fought wars and I reckon I had no good answer to give.  But I did think of this song.

Maybe it's not all about always knowing or finding the answers.  Maybe part of the answer is to never stop questioning.

Of course, what do I know?  I'm just a bumpkin who believes he lives on a round planet and that this whole climate change thing might not be a hoax after all.

Revisiting Theo

Vinyl was on its last legs when I began my long, mostly obscure radio career in 1990.  You would come in fifteen minutes before shift and "pull" your first hour of music.  This involved flipping through shelves of LPs and 45's which lined three walls of the studio.  

Working with two turntables, you'd have to select and backcue the next song while the current one was playing.  Everything was live.  Dead air was a sin.  So it was imperative to be prepared.

Record companies began sending us compact discs.  Some along with the vinyl album, and then eventually only CDs.  When the FM studio was built, there were two CD players and only one turntable.  Theo ultimately disconnected the turntable (possibly because I was going rogue and getting off format by playing too much old Charley Pride off vinyl late at night).

A few years later, everything began to be computerized and the art of the backcue was never fully appreciated again.

In the years since leaving radio, I've had a recurring dream about not being able to find the song I wanted to play next, panicking and having dead air. Commercials would be missing, or the ones in the racks would be outdated.  More recently, the situations within these dreams had become progressively worse.

At first, some of the discs were not in their usual location, but I was able to find them in another spot, a large filing cabinet in another room.  In subsequent dreams, more and more seemed to be missing, and I was no longer able to find them at all.  It was like someone (Theo?) was hiding them from me.

It got to where there were only a few songs available to play and I had never heard of any of them.

And then...

Two nights after I had written about Theo, I had another in this series of dreams.  Perhaps the finale.  

Again, I am at the station.  Except this time, there is no music.  Not a single song.  At least none that I can find.  There are fifteen minutes of dead air.  (Other than someone going off on a curse-filled tirade during the call-in request show, this is a DJ's worst nightmare.)  I just want to lie down in the floor and sob.

Then Theo appears.

He shows me a box full of carts and says the music has been transferred over to these tapes.  They are sort of like 8-tracks.  All the music is there.  Indexed.  Easily accessible.  

There is relief.  At long last, some resolution to this frustrating, anxiety-ridden series of dreams!

When I awoke and recalled the dream, I smiled.  Two nights after I had written about Theo, he had appeared.  But why?

Had Theo come to make peace?  Maybe he just wanted to let me know he was finally at peace.  Or perhaps I was holding onto something -- some conflict, some disharmony, something that just didn't sit right - and telling Theo's story had allowed me to let that go.

Or maybe it was just another dream, dreamt by an idiot, signifying not much of anything.

Either way, I thought it worthy of sharing.

Next, I think I shall write about my unresolved issues with Kristen Wiig.  See if she shows up!

Day is done

Backyard fireflies flicker in dusk light
Sliver of a silver August moon
Through Saharan dust haze
Soft breeze moves birch tree leaves
Traveler, put your cares away
It's end of day

Dog day cicadas sing summer's tune
Shades of blazing sunset hues
Slowly surely melt away
Bury all of your futile regrets
Deep beneath cold Earth clay
At end of day

Darkness anon will settle in
Greet you like a trusted friend
May the sky astound always
Take ye no thought for the morrow
No good comes from trouble borrowed
It's end of day

Tally what's been won and lost
And when you've figured up the cost
Throw the bill away
Nocturne bliss is all around
The grass is cool on stolen ground
At end of day

Ponder on how small we are
Marvel how the nearest star
Is still four lightyears away
What might have beens will never do
Put them to bed, clear the queue
It's end of day

Dad-lympics

As the games of the thirty-third Olympiad wind down in the City of Lights, I am reminded of a quote by the German poet Ludwig Jacobowski: "Do not cry because they are past.  Smile, because they once were."

And while hardly anyone seems to follow this advice during times of sadness -- funerals, endings of Hallmark Christmas movies, etc. -- I still appreciate the sentiment.

But.

Can't we do even better?

Two years will pass before we are treated to another Olympics, the 2026 Winter Games in Italy.  Yea, four Earth orbits will commence before we get another Summer Games.

Instead of simply smiling because they happened and resigning ourselves to a fate of odd years with no Olympiad, how about this?

An Olympics for regular people.  Competition for those who aren't all that athletic, or as I like to refer to us, the other 98%.

Unfortunately since I know remarkably little about women, and child labor laws being what they are, my games will be restricted to men.  Specifically, dads.  Because after moms, the military, philanthropists, firefighters, doctors, nurses, teachers, Captain Sullenberger, Rocky Balboa, and a host of others, aren't dads the real heroes?

Therefore, for your careful consideration, I propose the Dad-lympics (or Games of the Olympi-dad, I haven't decided).  They would be held every odd year to help fill the seismic void in our lives -- particularly, mine -- as we wait for another real Olympics.

Without further adieu (other than the 500-word intro you just powered through) I present my original, soon-to-be-copyrighted ideas of events for the Dad-lympics.

Toddler High Toss ~ We begin with an all-time dad favorite.  Children will be tossed into the air and (ideally) caught.  Scoring will be a complex formula based both on the maximum height reached by the child along with the highest blood pressure measurement recorded by each anxious mother.

Single-Trip Grocery Carry ~ Winner will be the Dad who can carry the most bags of groceries in from the car in one trip while avoiding children repeatedly asking, “Can I carry that?”  Dads will also have to manage to unlock the front door because even though she knew you were going to the grocery store, your wife is mysteriously unable or unwilling to come to the door.  Dads will not be required to put the groceries away, however, because, even if we tried, it wouldn't be right.  (And all the dads said "amen.")

120-Volt Perpetual Power Saver ~ Dads will be tasked with walking around a three-story house, checking that all lights and appliances are turned off and that all windows and doors are closed and locked, whilst making sure the thermostat is set to no lower than 75 if it's summer, no higher than 66 if it's winter.  Simultaneously, a couple of toddlers will be roaming through the house reopening doors, turning lights back on, and readjusting the thermostat. Constantly. This game actually never ends.  Until you die.

Well, that... took a dark turn.  Let's continue.

Home Scavenger Hunt ~ Each Dad is given a list of ten common household items and tasked with locating them all.  In the likely event all items aren’t found, the contestant who finds the highest number, or even just one, wins.  Here's the catch: You can only text your wife eleven times.

Beach Gear Gauntlet ~ It’s a race against the clock as Dads carry a large cooler, beach umbrella, and beach chairs down two flights of stairs, across a busy street (who can afford to stay ON the beach???), over a long, slightly uphill boardwalk, and across 150 yards of soft, scorching sand.  At the end of the boardwalk, your child will require you to take their shoes, the bottle of water you just paid $3.50 for, and the large body board you told them they could only bring if they carried it; because their "legs are tired" and "it's hot."  The event ends once you have successfully set up the umbrella with your child constantly asking, "What are you doing?", "Can I help?", "Why can't we put it closer to the ocean?", and "Why don't we have a giant tent like those people over there?"

Dad Joke-a-thon ~ This one will be subjective.  Judges will base their scores on a variety of factors including loudest audience groans and most pronounced eye rolls by your wife.

Attentive Listening ~ Kidding!  What's next, Tandem Talking About Our Feelings?

Kid Trivia ~ Contestants will (attempt to) answer a series of questions about their child.  When is their birthday?  What is their social security number?  Etc.  They are also given photos of their child’s five closest friends and have to guess, er, give their names.  In the final round, dads will be asked to name those same friends' parents.  Just kidding.  No one can remember their child’s parents’ names.  It’s unknowable. 

Sprint Napping ~ Simple.  Who can fall asleep fastest in their favorite chair?  This one is bound to come down to thousandths of a second and be over quickly.  So don't blink or you’ll miss it.  Or, you might just win it.  Am I right?

Dad-nastic Dish Stacking ~ Dads will compete to see who can stack the most dishes onto a dish drainer.  Judging will be based both on the total number of dishes as well as the height and width of the stack.  Points will be deducted for each dish your wife is able to remove without making the others fall.

Non-Artistic Assembly ~ No style points here.  This one is about getting the job done.  And probably will involve some cursing.  Each Dad will assemble identical IKEA couches and coffee tables without using instructions.  Quickest to finish a relatively reasonable replica of the picture on the box wins.  Bonus points given for fewest parts left over.  This all must be done while holding a beer in one hand.  No instructions will be provided.  Not that we would ever read them if they were.

There you have it!  Ten what I believe to be tolerable, if not above average, events to kick off the games of the first-ever Olympi-dad.  I figure we'll start by getting YouTube out here to livestream it.

But first, I need a nap.

Hey, not all heroes wear capes.  Or even manage to stay awake all day.

Theo

I don't remember Theo before the accident.  They say he was completely different.  Bright.  Pleasant.  Talented. He had graduated college and played drums in a local band.

Late one night someone had run a stop sign out on 317 and t-boned him.  They weren't sure he would make it.  There were several surgeries, some brain damage, but Theo pulled through.

He was never right after that.  It left him with a significant speech impediment and at least some minor mental issues.  The family tried to get him on disability, but he must have had one ass of a doctor.  He refused to sign off on it, saying, "If he can hold a broom, he can find a job."

Theo had a job.  He was news director and host of the mid-day show on the small AM radio station I began working for my senior year of high school.  Fortunately, Theo's father was the station owner/sales manager, so he was able to keep his job.

When I came to know him, Theo was irritable, a bit of a smart-aleck, and generally unhappy.  We got along well enough, as I worked for an hour in the morning before school and on weekends so I wasn't around him much.

Then there was the speech problem.  About the worst issue you could wish for working in radio.  Sometimes it made him sound like he was mentally challenged.  Other times it was like speaking to a child.

Sometime after the accident -- I don't recall how long -- his wife divorced him.  I'm sure this only made him grow a little more bitter.

The owner of the station applied for and was granted an FM frequency and I wound up transitioning to full-time and worked there for several years.  About a year after I left, he sold the stations.  The new owner eventually changed formats and within a year everyone I had worked with was let go, including Theo.

I saw him twice after that.   

My Dad was in a local band that played mostly country along with some 70's rock.  Theo was filling in on drums for them once and someone requested a gospel song, which they would occasionally do.  Theo refused to play and walked out. He didn't want to have anything to do with a God that had allowed him to wind up in the shape he was in.

I heard Theo got a job reading meters for the utility company.  I thought about the "hold a broom" line.  The last time I saw him was at his father's funeral.  He remembered me, shook my hand, and thanked me for coming.

A couple of years ago Dad called and told me Theo had passed away.  I scanned the obituary and guestbook comments.  They spoke of how talented he was, a killer drummer.  

One person mentioned that Theo auditioned for a band in Florida when he was sixteen.  He got the gig but ultimately left the band to stay in school.  

One of his teachers talked about his creativity and acting talent in high school plays.  And then, "He always wore a smile."

I wish I had known that Theo.  It's difficult for me not to feel like the system failed him somehow.  It's impossible for me not to feel sad for him, and I suppose for anyone to not wonder "What if?"

The obituary mentioned Theo's children.  I was able to look them up on Facebook.  Three good-looking young men.  I saw Theo's eyes.

There were also grandkids.  At least four of them.  I hoped Theo had found happiness in them in his later years.  I hoped he had become a little less bitter.  

And who knows, maybe he had even come to sing a couple of gospel songs. 

Olympic me

It is eight minutes after midnight.  Sunday night/Monday morning.  I have to be up for work in roughly five hours.  Yet here I am on the couch, devouring Ruffles like some wild animal, my adult bib most would call a t-shirt covered in potato chip crumbs... and shamelessness.

I should be in bed, but I have to know how the women's table tennis match turns out between Bruna Takahashi of Brazil -- I know!  I thought she'd be Japanese, too -- and Offiong Edem of Nigeria.  Yes, I realize this is a replay, but I have managed to go the entire day without hearing who won all for this singular life moment.

This is how I Olympic.  (Not Ozempic. Hopefully, I would have lost more weight had I been doing that.)

At long last, the vast dearth-ness of the sports world that stretches from the end of hockey and the NBA until the beginning of American football has been assuaged.

There's something for everyone!  (Except easily offended poli-Christians, evidently. Yikes!  Let's hope they never see Michelangelo's David.)

Like running, jumping over hurdles, and stepping in a kiddie pool?  Get your steeplechase shoes on.

Have you always excelled at horse jumping, fencing, swimming, running, and shooting?  Don't fret, oddball.  You and your extremely specific abilities will be properly recognized in the Pentathlon.

Want to enjoy two svelte, glistening bodies moving in tandem without any of the guilt of watching porn?  Welcome to synchronized diving.

Olympic Me stays up late.  Regular Me stays up late, too.  But this is likely healthier for my state of mind than “Air Disasters” and murder shows on Investigation Discovery.

Olympic Me hotspots his phone so that he can watch at work on the plum 26-inch TV someone had discarded in a storeroom.  What's that you say? 1982 called.  It wants its technological magnum opus back?  Sorry, Olympic Me no can do.

Olympic Me sometimes gets irrationally upset when the US fails to medal.  That's especially rich coming from Mister Potato Chip Crumbs over here.

Olympic Me spends hours trying to decide which sport he would have the best chance of medaling in at his current age.  Probably equestrian, except I've never ridden a horse.  So let's go with table tennis  They don't look all that muscular.

Table tennis: For people who like tennis, but dislike exercise.

Olympic Me wonders things like how one decides upon the career path of badminton umpire.  There was never a booth for that at career day when I was in school.

Also, field hockey players?  Did they just really love hockey but never mastered ice skating?  They're like the people who ride those motorcycles with three wheels.  The freedom of the road and the open air for those who don't know how to ride a bike.

Besides, if this whole "global warming" thing turns out to be real, one day there won't even be any ice, and field hockey will be the only kind of hockey left.  

*Thinks about the ice caps melting and much of the world being covered with water.*  

OK, maybe we'll go with underwater hockey.  Dystopian hockey?  Did they have hockey in the Hunger Games?  I have no idea.  But that'll be a perfect icebreaker the next time I run into Jennifer Lawrence.  

To top it all off, Snoop Dogg is providing commentary and highlights.  And Olympic Me is here for it.

Alas, I do need to get back to this tense badminton match between Denmark and China.  (It's Monday night now.)  I've had it paused this whole time.  Let's go Dutch.  Or... Danish...  Danes!

Yet as we cheer those who win medals and perhaps shed a tear for those who come up short, let us not forget the real heroes.  People like this badminton umpire.  He dared to dream, then dedicated his life to making it come true.  

And look at him now, making critical calls that could determine which team wins a gold medal.  His decisions are final.  Except when they're overturned by instant replay.

Kinda makes one think.  What was my dream?  What was yours?  And how in the world is Olympic Me going to stand up without getting crumbs all over the couch?  My own personal Olympics.

Siri, what is the oldest table tennis participant in Olympic history?

Hmm, sixty-one!  

Guess I better get to work on my penholder grip.  Or, you know, buy a paddle.

...to live there

Rooster crowin' from an unmowed lawn
Grandma in the kitchen with biscuits on
Singin' old-time hymns of hope and despair
When the roll is called up yonder
She aimed to be there

Door was never locked one time that I knew
Coffee always on, come in and sit a few
Carson comes on after the news goes off
Her face was hard and weathered
But her eyes were soft

See her sitting in her chair and swattin' flies

Smilin' at the grandkids and the passing time
Bag of chips and a flat RC to snack on
With a freezer full of "Here,
Take you some of this home"

Down the hill if you follow the dirt path

Lead you right to the back of Aunt Dessa's house
It's long gone now, it was nearly gone then
I see her with a pinch of snuff
And a missing-tooth grin

It's a nice place to visit
I'm so blessed I got to live there
All arms and legs and full of years
And unruly sandy blonde hair
Climbing trees, throwing rocks
Drinking water from the hose
With no clue how fast the time goes

Mama cried when I moved out on my own

She knew another part of life was gone

There's a time for laughter, and a time to weep

But the apple didn't fall
Very far from its tree

Had a soft-top Jeep wish I'd never let go
"She's in Love with the Boy" on the radio
Driving just to drive and feel the nighttime air
We were Katie and Tommy,
Didn't have a care

Eight hundred square feet, two-eighty for rent

Barely scraping by, counting every cent
Free curbside couch, still had a corded phone
Leave a message at the beep
When I wasn't at home

Basketball in the yard under streetlight glow
After Midnite blaring on the stereo
Pringles from the can and a cold Mountain Dew
"She's in Love with the Boy"
Makes me think of you

It's a nice place to visit
I'm so blessed I got to live there
Life was mostly in the windshield
Still sportin' nearly all my hair

Skipping class, wasting gas
Drinking something cheap and cold

Too young to care how fast time goes

Kids calling "Daddy" running down the hall
Magic marker drawings taped on the wall
Thinking "Who'da thought this would ever be me?"
"Cruel Summer" on the radio
"Bluey" on TV

But I don't have to visit

I'm so blessed I get to live there
They're all arms and legs and full of years
She's got ketchup in her long hair
Playing school and hide-and-seek
Amid a minefield of Legos
Reminding me how fast time goes

Rooster crowin' from an unmowed lawn
Grandma in the kitchen with biscuits on
Singin' old-time hymns of hope and despair

I'm so blessed I got to live there

Profane refrain

We might talk about the weather or the football team
Or how the kids are back looking like James Dean
Might help a stranger, might not feel so confused
If we would all stop watching the goddamned news

Might drink a little less, smile a little more
Not feel like the whole damn country's at war
Pull back the curtains on a Van Gogh view
I won't be persuaded by the goddamned news

My Momma, she's afraid of everything
I said, "Momma, there's a life you're not living
Jesus loves the children, red, purple, and blue
Turn on Andy Griffith, turn off the news

Many spew lies behind a virtual wall
If you can't say it nice don't say it at all
Won't judge my neighbor, haven't walked in his shoes
And I'm so sick of the goddamned news

An ostrich don't bury its head in fear
They do it 'cause they've got babies in there
What kind of world will we leave our babies to
If we keep on listening to the goddamned news

Hard to know what's real, hard to know what's fake
Seems we're low on compassion and high on hate
Whatever happened to the golden rule
They never mention that on the goddamned news 

Won't let 'em determine my right and wrong
Gonna try to live more outside of my phone
Edward R Murrow where have you gone to
Wish we could turn our weary eyes to you

Money talks louder than "we the people" are
As long as they keep us afraid and apart
I'll keep reading the books they tell me not to
Won't pay my attention to the goddamned news

If we all turned it off wonder would we see
It's not all darkness and catastrophe
The enemy never was me or you
But you wouldn't know that from the goddamned news

A night at the Stratford

Two-lane road through
New England countryside
Waybury Inn 
Homes in the Cape Cod style
Golden Pond feel
Muted Mancini theme
Rest easy, Bob
What a hell of a dream

I didn't watch Newhart during its regular run.  Seemed like an old people show.  But at some point in my considerable bachelor years, I discovered it.  One of the local channels aired it in syndication late at night.  They would air two episodes of Cheers at 10, followed by two episodes of Newhart at 11.

Let it be stated for the historical record that these were the days before streaming services, DVR, on-demand, watch-whatever-you-want-whenever-you-want.  We had VCR's, but you had to remember to set them.  Then if your VCR clock wasn't in sync with the television station, you'd catch the last couple of minutes of The Nanny and it would cut off the ending of your show.

By and large you had to be home, awake, and in front of the TV at the exact time your show aired.  Today, my kids would claim child endangerment.

(We'll get into TV Guide during our next historical blogging exhibit.)

Back to our show.  Those opening scenes of Newhart were so peaceful, and the cozy Stratford Inn was always a place I wanted to be.  Like the bar on Cheers, the studio at WKRP, or hanging out at The Max on Saved by the Bell.

Feeling welcome in a fictional setting is very important to me.

As I began to write stories from my life on these virtual pages, I started referring to myself as Larry, and the two friends I hung out with for a large part of my thirties as the Darryls.  This obviously was from the running gag on the show where upon every entrance, Williams Sanderson's character would say, "Hi, I'm Larry.  This is my brother, Darryl.  And this is my other brother, Darryl."  And the brothers, who never spoke (until the series finale), would salute.

Seeing Bob Newhart pop up in later years would always bring a smile, a feeling of comfort.  Letterman.  NCIS.  Elf.  Hearing of his passing takes me back to those late nights in the '90s in my old 2-bedroom apartment.

Losing someone famous who has existed for most or all of my life, someone who entertained and provided so many laughs, it feels as if I have lost a part of my life.  My younger days.  And it's always an unwelcome reminder of the endless march of time.

To quote the aforementioned Mr. Newhart: "Laughter gives us distance.  It allows us to step back from an event, deal with it, and then move on... I guess I laugh to keep from crying."

So sometime late tonight I plan to pour a bit of bourbon, put some Newhart on Prime Video, raise a glass and laugh a little pain away.  

Probably right around 11:00 p.m.

A priceless nine

Must have been around three months ago he found my old golf clubs in the corner in the garage.  Spider-webbed and dusty.  There were some years I'd be golfing once or twice a week, March through November, but that was another lifetime.

Curious about every single aspect of every single thing that exists or ever has existed, he began to ask questions.  Asked if he could go out in the backyard and try hitting a few balls.  In no time, we had to switch to plastic balls due to him whacking a couple of shots over the fence.  

Almost immediately, he began watching golf tip videos on YouTube.  I purchased him a used set of junior clubs.  Then, just as he was learning about birdies, pars, and bogeys, sand traps and divot tools, someone mysteriously dug two golf holes in the yard.  

We began going to the soccer fields and practicing, using light poles as our "holes."  The 4th of July trip to Wisconsin included his first visit to a driving range.  I suppose there was only one thing left.

So on a 97-degree Sunday afternoon, we packed a cooler with water, Capri-suns, and Goldfish, and I took him to play his first round at an actual golf course.  We rode nine.

He was excited about the scorecard.  He was excited about the pin flags.  But I'm pretty sure he was most excited about driving the golf cart.

Kid started off with a legitimate eight on the first hole, a par four.  He matched me on two holes.  Granted, one was a snowman on my worst hole of the day, but the other was a bogey on a par three.  And sure, he may have five-putted a couple of holes.  But in the all-important balls lost category, he trashed me--losing only one, to Dad's three.

I had been worried a bit about pace of play.  And while it was expectedly slow, we went late enough in the day so that there was only one group behind us.  They played through on the second hole and we enjoyed a casual round the rest of the way.  

A few clouds, along with the sun fading behind trees at times, helped to keep the weather bearable.  It was down to 85 by the time we wrapped up play around 7:30.

"Sorry, Daddy, that it took us so long."

"Oh, buddy, don't apologize for that.  We were having fun, right?  Why would we want to rush through that?  We got to take our time, and hang out together, and have a snack, and just have fun."  

I'd told an old golfing buddy a couple of days ago that I was planning to take Luke for his first round.  He texted Sunday night to ask what I shot.  I realized I hadn't even added it up.

Turns out it was a 48.  Definitely no course record.  This was something immeasurably better.

"Daddy, do they have souvenirs we could buy?"

"Daddy, can we come here a lot more?"
"Daddy, I think I will be on the golf team."
"Daddy, could we buy a range finder."

(Well, at least it's not a Range Rover?)

Going golfing, like virtually every other thing in life, is both a new and remindful experience when you see it through a child's eyes.  There was a lightness.  A fresh appreciation.  And moments that conjured up memories of myself.

Perhaps my favorite part of one of my most favorite days occurred as we were walking off the last hole.  

"Daddy, do you think since I hit it over the water on the last hole, I could hit this old ball into the water to celebrate?"

"Absolutely, buddy."

He promptly took out a short iron and plopped one about twenty yards out in the pond.  Then giggled a giggle of pure life-loving joy.

My only regret is that I didn't join him.  Next time I will.

Because while we didn't get any souvenirs, and the golf team and range finder are likely still a few years away, I have more than a hunch we will be coming here more.

And yes, buddy, probably a lot more.

Apocalyptic muse

I always knew the world would end
Sometime in my lifetime, friend
But secretly I always hoped I was wrong
Now all the movies have been made
We watch our sins being repaid
And we've finally sang up every single song

So if this is the end of everything, my friend
I want you to know what a treasure you have been
And if there is a life beyond this blue sky dream
I want you to know I will find you again
If it takes until one day short of never
I will not give up on us, not ever
I will look for you and I will find you again
If this is the end

Here's to second steps never taken
All the times we were mistaken
And plans waylaid that made the life worth living
Give me one first goodbye kiss
I thought I'd be sadder than this
Giving up and trying
The end of everything

So if this is the end of all we've seen, my friend
I want you to know what a godsend you have been
And if there is a life beyond this blue sky dream
I want you to know I will find you again
If it takes until one day short of never
I will not give up on us, not ever
I will look for you and I will find you again
If this is the end

Give me one more goodbye kiss
I thought I'd be sadder than this
Rest your mind as we watch the dying sun
Of all the roads and all the lifetimes
For you to have crossed mine
Those chances must have been so close to none

Things that recall you

There are things you will remember
For always
Until your time expires
Or some wretched disease
Steals
Those precious fragments
From your mind

The name of your fifth-grade teacher
The phone number of your grandmother who has been gone for thirty years
The street address of the house you lived in when you were three

These things you may recall

And then

There are things that will recall you
Teleport you
Back

In an instant

And you smell the chalk dust as you clean the eraser in first grade

You hear the ocean as you hold hands at night, legs hanging off a gulf balcony
You taste her lips in an eleventh-grade hallway, when kissing was everything
You see your mother when she was younger, and years were longer
You feel the butterflies the first time you saw your wife
The sense of finally being home found in that first embrace

It's a song that brings back the finality of driving away
From something, someone, somewhere
And knowing you would never be there again

The perfume that lingered in the blankets

For weeks after she left

That stretch of 434 where the car flipped onto its side
The coolness of the April night
As you climbed out and walked four miles

Or a movie they play every goddamned December
And you watch it every year
No matter how much it makes you miss them

The number of your tears

Because in the deluge
You find 
A sliver of a smile

You recollect the good, before the bad
The love, before the loss

The blue hot flame, before the cold, empty ashes

You remember the faith, before the doubt
The hope, before the hopelessness
All the life lived... before the death

Yes, there are things your mind may remember

But these

These are the things
Your heart
Cannot forget

The things that recall you

Beckoning you to return
These are the memories that prove

You didn't simply exist
You were alive

Goosebumps

Slow-to-heal scars
Impromptu road trips
Al fresco dinners in new towns
Scared to death
Make it up as you go
Laugh until you cry
And cry until the tears run dry
Alive!

Warning:

These memories
They will steal your breath

And it all happens at lightspeed
(The teleporting, and the life.)

I never knew there was so much I didn't know

"Daddy... hey Daddy."  

He says it often as we walk along as if to get my attention, even though it is just us two.  

"Yes, buddy?"

"Daddy... um, Daddy.  If we ever move can we get a pool with a house?"

He and his sister started swim lessons last month.  And he's probably starting to realize that hopping into some body of water is the only way you can survive outside in these sweltering, six-month-long Alabama summers.

"I think that would be awesome, buddy."

That reminds me of a joke.  How can you tell the difference between a pond and a lake?

If livestock defecates in it, it's a pond.

This is the fourth day in a row he's come along on my evening walk.  My fifteen-minute miles have turned into twenty.  For every two steps I take, he takes three or four, struggling at times to keep up.

"Daddy, hey Daddy.  Why doesn't Mama want to get a third baby?"

"I'm not sure, boog."

"Well, Daddy.  You know how Kristen's mom has three and Sadie's mom has three, right?  All our friends have three."

"I suppose that's true."

"Yeah, so we should, too."

Who can argue with that logic?  (If you're curious, the answer is: Mrs. Bone, that's who.)

He chatters on, pausing only long enough to hear my responses.  He points out a large anthill as we pass, ponders why we don't have sidewalks or a walking trail on our road, and asks at least twenty questions I can't answer.

"Daddy, hey Daddy.  What would happen if a wasp stung a bee?"

What?  I was all prepared for the birds and the bees.  OK, not really, but I figured the stork theory would get me through at least until he was eleven or twelve.  No one mentioned anything about wasps and bees.  Which one is the wasp?  And where do the stingers come in?  The wasps and bees are just wrestling, kinda like Mama and Daddy do sometimes when you're asleep.

"Uh, I'm not sure, buddy."

"Ooo, Daddy, look!  They have a big yard!"

"They sure do."

"Daddy, you should have bought that house.  We could have our football field by the shed, and then our golf course could be right up here."

I may or may not have dug two golf holes in our backyard (but definitely did).  And much like the baby situation, Mrs. B has put the kibosh on number three.

"That would be perfect, boog."

"Ooo, Daddy!  They have another big yard on the other side.  So, Daddy, one side could be mine and the other side could be Harper's.  And there's a pond where we could catch fish."

I move towards the center of the road to create a little space, but wherever I go he's close as skin, causing me to occasionally bump into him.

"Hey Daddy."

"Yes, bud?"

"Daddy, um, what will happen when the sun is swallowed by a black hole?"

I never knew there was so much I didn't know.  Also, when?  Not if???  What are they teaching this kid at school, other than grooming him to be a freedom-hating, non-binary liberal?  (Obviously. ◔̯◔)

At least the black hole question I can Google.  But rather than illuminate his mind with talk of quasars and accretion disks, I respond instead with, "Well, that probably wouldn't be good.  I hope that doesn't happen anytime soon." 

"Well Daddy, you know we wouldn't be alive anymore anyway," he chuckles.

I lean down and kiss him on the head.  Today he is wearing a bandana, a la yours truly.  Mrs. B often asks, "How does it feel to have a miniature version of yourself?"

It feels incredible.  Scary at times.  Amusing and heart-melting at others.  And humbling as all get out.

"Daddy, look."  He says this quietly, as we pass a white-haired gentleman holding what I surmise to be a 7-iron.  "I think that man might be playing golf."

"I think you're right, buddy."

The man looks up and smiles before returning his attention to his golf ball and taking a swing.

"Well, Daddy, at least he has a good yard for it."

We are headed back towards home by this time, and as we crest the hill, sunset pastels are beginning to color the sky in front of us.  I stop to take a couple of pictures and begin to sing "Pink Skies."

After a bit, I catch him quietly singing along to the parts he knows.  "Clean the house, clear the drawers, mop the floors, stand tall..."

Though he'll never admit to it, and probably doesn't even realize he's doing it, I'm so proud.

"Ooo, Daddy, that house has stake sprinklers!"

He's been wanting to get a spike sprinkler system set up in our backyard to make his football field greener.  🤦‍♂️  I find he isn't all that concerned with the cost of things at this point in his life.

As we near the end of our route, I spot the neighborhood ducks near the pond.  There used to be four.  It was common to see both lanes of traffic completely stop so they could patiently amble their way across the road, single-file.  For a while now, there have only been these two.

"Daddy, um, hey Daddy.  I wonder what happened to those other two ducks?"

"I'm not sure, boog.  I hope nothing bad."

"Hey Daddy, you know what I think probably happened?  I think these two are the kids, and the other ducks were their mama and their daddy, and they are probably grandparents now and have flown off."

Ducks retire and move to Florida.  Makes sense.  And sounds much happier than my theory that some fox probably had them for dinner.

"Hmm.  Maybe so, buddy."

"Daddy, wanna race the rest of the way?"

"Sure."

"Ready....  Go!"

He's off in a flash, a giggling blur of arms and legs.

Gone are the days of letting him win.  Now it is I who is struggling to keep up.

The second girl to ever paint my toes

You are one of only two girls I've ever let paint my toes. The other is your fave cousin, probably when she was about the same age.  Which is no surprise, as you two are so alike, and I always have a hard time telling you no.

You are fierce.  And tender.  And may you always be.  

One moment, you rage, in a fit of anger and frustration.  The next, you curl up in a fetal and pout, or come to me and softly ask if we can snuggle.  The answer to that will forever be yes.

You have my heart.  And my blue eyes.

You are stu-... ("Siri, what is a synonym for stubborn?")  You are headstrong like your mother.  It is a trait that sometimes leads to battles and exasperation, but one I feel will serve you well as you go out into the world.  A world where so many people still treat and think of women as less than.

You're into princesses and Barbies.  I counted six Barbies last night just in the tub alone.  Probably thirty more are in the bin in the living room.... next to your four-story dollhouse.  I've become quite adept at dressing (and undressing) dolls, a quirk that might be considered somewhat disturbing if I didn't have a six-year-old.

You are a Swiftie through and through.  We took you to see a Taylor Swift impersonator (or imposter, as your brother kept calling her) last week for your birthday.  You danced with your mother and brother whilst Daddy -- one of only four men at the show, and one was the photographer -- sat and held your beloved Kitty and zippy, smiling.

You literally dance your way through life.  Moving gracefully, room to room, day to day, as if you are the star in a years-long musical that no one else knows about.  My dear Harper, may it ever be so. 

You love ketchup.  Any kind of dipping sauce, really.  You unashamedly stick your tongue into the McDonald's sweet and sour container to ensure you get your absolute maximum amount of sauce.  We don't even get food from there.  Your mother just orders a Coke and buys however many packets they will give her for twenty bucks.

You are all about some snacks!  Graham crackers, Hershey kisses, potato chips, cheese--in stick form, shredded, sliced, and grated.  Just last week you licked the top of the grated parmesan container.  One of my favorite snack stories is the time I asked what kind of chips you wanted from the pantry, and you said all three.  A minute later, I had invented the chipcuterie board.

You are sweet and thoughtful.  Anytime I get a cut, or a scrape, or a bruise, you come and kiss it.   A few weeks ago, when your friend had lost her helium balloon and was crying, you gave her yours.  And when the two of you aren't cat-and-dog fighting, you're even kind to your brother.  On occasion.

We play school, dolls, and art class.  We color, paint, and create sidewalk chalk masterpieces.  We play dress up.  Well, you do.  None of the princess dresses would fit me, thankfully.  And yes, we snuggle.  Your hugs and kisses are as plenteous as they are precious.

You used to say you wanted to marry me.  Then for a little while it was your brother.  Now it's some kid named Denver.  "I think I'm gonna marry Denver.  But I might have to make him," I believe were your exact words.

You have truly bloomed over the past year.  Your behavior.  Your maturity.  Your reading and vocabulary have come so far.  You lost your first two teeth.  You learned to swim.

You've been planning and talking about your birthday since February.  So excited to turn six, while I'm dreading fifty-two.  But I really shouldn't be.  Because, God willing, it's another year I get to see what amazing, mind-blowing things you and your brother learn and accomplish.  Another year of hugs, smooches, and snuggles, I hope!

Hope.  I have so many for you. 

I hope you know and believe you can be anything you want to be.  I hope you chase dreams, and I hope you catch them.  I hope you are always kind, curious, honest, compassionate, and fearless.  I hope you love, laugh, cry, and think for yourself.  I hope you live, rather than simply exist.

I hope you treat each person you meet as if they are important, until they prove to you otherwise.  I hope you find something you love.  I hope you have travels and adventures.  I hope you spend breezy, contented evenings under fading sunlight.  I hope you have enough.

And when you're twenty-six and I'm pushing seventy-two, I hope you might find a few precious bits of time to call, visit, or drop off the grandkids.  Whoa whoa whoa!  Grandkids?  I think you and Denver need to slow it down a little.  Just tell him you need some space.  About twenty years worth. 

Between now and then, and all along the way, I hope you're still dancing.  And as long as I or your mother have a breath in our lungs, I hope you know you always have a place to come home to.

Your birth story is one I will always tell.  Your mother texting, "You need to get here now."  Tearing through traffic, trying to get to the hospital on time.  Being so stressed I would be late.  Then walking in to complete calm.  No doctor.  No nurses.  Nobody.  Except for you and your mother, with your tiny head on her chest.   

I had missed it.

And yet, I wasn't upset like I had thought I would be.  In fact, I wasn't upset at all.  Every ounce of stress was gone.

It was a girl.  I was in love.  And I fall in love with you a little more each day.

Happy birthday, Harper.  "As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be."

*heart hands*

Just a shard off the aged cobblestone

"Sometimes you just have to do the best you can with what you've got."

I began to cringe before I even finished the sentence .  So clichéd.  So something my father would say.  

"What did you say, Daddy?" asked Luke, he being on the receiving end of my tiresome platitude.  

I am trying to remember the exact situation.  Almost certainly, it had to do with him wanting to construct some sort of sports equipment, apparatus, or field -- football, basketball, baseball, soccer, golf course -- in the yard.  And me not having the materials, knowledge, and/or wherewithal to create something that measured up to his specifications.

But that phrase, ugh!  That trite, hackneyed maxim sent my mind off on two tangents.

The first, and perhaps more obvious one, is how the older I get, the more like my parents I become.  Not referring to physical appearance, though that is also true, as little Harper pointed out Thursday when I tried on my new bifocals.  "Daddy, you look a little like PeePaw."

Perhaps it's not even becoming like my parents as much as it is becoming a stereotypical parent, in general.  If such a thing exists.  Or simply getting older.

Whatever it is, I'm sure it would make for an excellent Progressive turning-into-your-parents commercial.

I walk around the house constantly turning off lights in empty rooms and closing doors to outside, an energy-saving perpetual motion machine.

At the store, I'll put back a pack of chicken that is $6.42 and grab the one that is $6.13.

I'm all about leaving a sporting event a few minutes before the end in order to "beat the traffic."

I've hopped off the social media train.  I boarded in AOLville sometime in the 90's, passed over Mt. Saint MySpace, and continued on to Facebook Falls and Twitter Town.  But it is here that I hop off, on the lovely and humorous meme-mecca, Instagram Island.  It is in these lands where I and my clicks, likes, and pokes shall spend the rest of our days.

Like Moses on Mount Nebo, I can see the wares of Snapchat City, TikTok Trails, and Rio de Discord.  But, alas, I shall not be making the journey over.  Let's be honest, I probably couldn't figure out how most of it works anyway.  

Same thing with clothes.  When the world of fashion said hello to skinny jeans, it said goodbye to me.    I'm at the point of "I know what I like, and as long as there is a store in the world that still sells boot-cut jeans and short-sleeve men's Henleys, I'm riding it out 'til the end."

More examples: 

I enjoy gardening.  Going out to eat after 7 pm seems extreme.  I got excited last week when I got to use my new cordless hedge trimmer.  I actually use the phone app on my cell phone.  Heck, I still leave voicemails.  Yeah.  Let that sink in.

I sometimes shop in stores.  I'm on three prescription medications.  Soon I'll have to buy one of those seven-day pill boxes.  I bet Mom's got an extra one.  A common internal debate is, "Have I injured something or is this just how I walk now?"  Because to paraphrase REM, everything hurts... sometimes.

And we won’t even get into the dad jokes. (Remember the movie E.T.?  What was E.T. short for?  Because he had tiny legs.)

The second tangent my brain followed is how many clichés, while often making for terrible and boring writing, do tend to hold some value.  I know I'm not splitting the atom here.  But how often I use or hear a cliché and never give it another thought, when there is usually a bit of wisdom to consider.  IF you can get past the banality of the thing. 

After all, wasn't it Theodore Roosevelt who coined the phrase my phrase devolved from?  "Do what you can, with what you've got, where you are."  (Although when asked where it came from, the ol’ Trust Buster attributed it to "some guy named Bill, probably.")

But I digre....  er.... I circumlocute.

Still, they are words he believed in and one might very easily extrapolate, strove to live by.  And who among us wouldn't heed advice from he who spoke softly and carried a... well... you know.

Sigh.

Alright, I think I'm gonna call it a day.  

Get out while the gettin's good.

(And don't worry, I won't give up my day job.)

212 Hillside

There's a red Pinto in a gravel drive
And sittin' on the road is Daddy's stepside
Shined up all ready for a ride, a '64 turquoise green
Sold it to my uncle for a few hundred then
Today it'd be worth at least forty grand
That's still the prettiest truck I ever have seen

Grasshopper on the door I'm scared to come in
Go 'cross the street and play with my best friend
Marlon tells crazy stories about when he used to be grown
The two of us explore the neighborhood
Go a little past where Momma said I could
Somehow her love and Jesus always brought me safely home

It was nineteen seventy-seven
But now it feels like a quarter-acre of heaven
Was set down on earth at two-twelve Hillside Road
Mom and Dad were in their twenties
We never had much but we always had plenty
And I'm rooted there no matter where I go

Grandmother keeps me on Friday nights
Daddy goes and gets her 'cause she can't drive
Listen to the high school football game on the radio
The weather was cooler and the days were long
Life was still kind and Momma was still strong
Sometimes I swear I still catch a whiff of supper on the stove

Daddy has a friend who drives a motorbike
But I'm too little to go for a ride
Marlon says when he was big he had a motorcycle, too
Make a blanket fort in the living room
Alpha-Bits and Saturday morning cartoons
Back before you knew all the things you wish you never knew

It was nineteen seventy-seven
But now it feels like a perfect piece of heaven
Was set down on earth at two-twelve Hillside Road
Mom and Dad were in their twenties
We never had much but we always had plenty
I'll be anchored there no matter where I go

Decoration Day

You make it a point to grab your sunglasses.  It's cloudy but there will come a moment when you need to hide your eyes and smile.  Today you make the drive alone, leaving the wife and angels at home.  You know the road well though you've not driven it in a year.  It's Decoration Day.

Every road, field, and closed-down business you pass seems to hold a memory.  The old Dairy Queen where you spent so many nights in your twenties -- it was a wild decade.  

There are sheets and shards of rusted tin where the flea market once stood, bustling every Saturday and Sunday forty years ago.  

Most of the backstop is still standing behind the old little league field where you'd watch your cousin play.  The rest of the fence is gone, but the dilapidated dugouts, bleachers, and press box stand as an effigy to a thousand mosquitoed spring and summer evenings under floodlights.

Down a holler and back up the other side is the turn-off for Roller Coaster Road.  Do kids today still fly down it, pushing a hundred?  Or has that gone the way of cassette players, hanging out at the arcade, and twenty-five-cent phone calls?  Either way, you're thankful for those heart-flipping days of twenty-something.

When you pass the old Pit Stop, you look to see if the payphone booth is still there.   It is, though there's been no phone in it for many years.  A thought begins to form.  You've been inside more of the closed-down businesses on this road than the handful of new ones that have popped up.

Next up is the spot where the paved road once ended and came to a T.  Where one night LJ flipped his baby blue Taurus, and you climbed out the passenger window, which was at that time serving as the top of the vehicle.  

There's no longer a T.  And the road is paved all the way through now, which is probably safer, if less conducive t- certain one-day-we'll-look-back-and laugh memories.

Finally, you pass the last two churches you ever stepped foot in.  First is the church your father still attends.  You count six cars in the parking lot.  You feel sad.  And a little guilty.  

Less than two miles past that is what you will only ever refer to as Mamaw's church.  You think about her teaching the little kids in Sunday school before taking her place as a fixture on the second row every week.

Once you leave the blacktop, you shift into a different gear.  About three-quarters of a mile down a well-shaded dirt road, you turn onto another unpaved road that leads up to the cemetery.  

You count the cars.  There are maybe nine or ten -- fewer each year.  Somehow the small smattering of still-breathing souls makes the cemetery seem more lonesome than if there were no one here at all.

A decade ago, there would be cars sitting off in the grass on both sides.  You'd have to park halfway down the road and walk up, but today you park just across from the gate.  One last deep breath to prepare and a straightening of the sunglasses.  

There are maybe twenty people spread sparsely around the property.  You say hello to fave aunt and one first cousin who are sitting just inside the fence under a grove of trees.  The sun has come out now.

You come to Uncle John's grave first.  He is buried by the south fence, away from most of the rest of the family, as they ran out of room in that area.  His widow -- your aunt -- and two of his four children are present today.  

As you will be several times today, you are jarred by the date of death and left in near disbelief at how long someone has been gone.

Just past him, also right along the fence, you see Mister L.A.'s grave next to his beloved Miss Mary.  A faded American flag flies above them -- his dying wish.  The thought elicits a sad smile.

You make the left turn past Baby Boy Campbell's gravesite (birth and death dates unknown).  As always, you catch a chill.  And it has nothing to do with the westerly breeze, which is welcomed by all on this predictably humid, late May morn.  

Many of the graves are poorly marked.  You do your best to not step on any as you make your way northward to where your mother is talking with one of her eldest nephews.

Of your mother's eleven siblings, only two have shown up today.  One is too sick, another lives in Florida, and a third you're not sure about.  Six of the seven who have already passed are buried here.  

You try and count your first cousins.  Out of thirty-one on your mom's side, twenty-nine of whom are still living, you are one of five here.

Your mom and cousin stand, maybe out of habit, where the huge eastern red cedar tree once stood.  It was struck down by lightning some years ago.  In its time, there would always be seven, eight, or ten gathered on the shady side, taking shelter from the unforgiving Alabama sun.  Your bald head feels its absence more than most.

You survey more dates and headstones and realize that your chain-smoking uncle died at fifty, less than four months after his mother.  He and his wife babysat you and your sister a few times.  They'd let you roll cigarettes for them.  Back then, they looked so very old, but would have been younger than you are today.  

One cousin takes his daughters--ages 17 and 20--around, showing them the names on the headstones and explaining who each family member is.  He relays a story about each -- those he has memories of anyway.   The girls vow they will continue to come back here, that the graves won't be forgotten.  You hope it's true.

It's one tradition that hasn't changed, even with so many fewer people.  There are always the stories.  And usually at least one you have never heard.

Today's is about how "Uncle Wiley" accidentally killed his three-year-old son.  There are two very different versions that you hear on the very same day.  Mom says he had gone into a store and thought his son was still in the truck.  When he came out, he backed over him.  Fave aunt says he was loading hay bales onto the back of a truck, one went over the other side and landed on his boy.  

You're unsure which is most likely to be true.  Heck, you still haven't gotten a consistent story on your uncle who served time for second-degree murder.  The woman he was in love with supposedly paid a man to kill someone else, but claimed my uncle was the one who had paid them.  

"She set him up" and "He just loved her so much, he took the fall for it" seem to be the most common explanations you hear.  He was sentenced to twenty years, though I'm fairly certain he served less than that.  

And there again, as you always do on this day, you think to yourself how you need to ask more questions, listen to more stories, and write them down.  But will you?  

You should.  Somebody should.  

The voices of the storytellers are steadily fading.