Wins amid the losses

To say the start of the season for the 8-and-under Magic basketball team has not gone well would be akin to the Tacoma Narrows toll collector informing his boss, "Sir, there's been a slight problem."

26-3.

20-3.

24-6.

These are our scores.  

However, the score simply cannot tell the whole story.  It doesn't show which player cried, which player flat-out refused to go on to the court the entire game, nor which player left the bench and ran halfway across the court while the game was going on.  Those last two were the same kid by the way.

It doesn't tell of the pituitary prodigy we faced in Game 3.  This "8-year-old" Goliath was north of five feet tall and had to weigh in the neighborhood of 140 pounds.  He would simply stand in the lane with his arms raised, a teammate would pass it to him, and then he'd turn and shoot as our guys helplessly flailed away.  

At one point the Philistine stood next to our tallest player, who I estimate goes about 4'4."  I swear there looked to be at least a foot difference.  There is no way that kid is eight!

But the score does tell some of the story.  For example, equipped with a few seconds and a rudimentary understanding of basic arithmetic, one might make the observation that even if we added up our score from all three games, we still would not have more points than any of our opponents managed in just one game.

But much as I implored my mother several times on report card days, we ask that you not judge us by our scores.

Let's instead look at this season through the eyes (and Coke-bottle glasses) of our shortest player, whom I will refer to as Ralphie.

Ralphie is the one who refused to go in the entire first game.  The league rules state every player must play a minimum of ten minutes barring injury, illness, etc.

The first time I tried to put him in, he shook his head and said, "I'm scared.  There's too many people here."  The next time his reason was, "The other team is too big." (They were.)  And lastly, "I don't want to play basketball, I want to play baseball."  At one point he was sitting up in the stands by his parents.

In our postgame huddle, I put my hands on Ralphie's shoulders and said, "You're gonna go in the next game for me, aren't ya?"  He nodded.

I had to reassess.  Apparently, my pregame prayer of, "God, please just let us score," would have to be adjusted to, "Lord, please give Ralphie the courage to go into the game."

In game two, he did just that.  

Then there's Will, the kid who started crying six times in our first practice.  He hasn't cried once during a game.  He instead runs full speed on and off the court usually with a big smile.

We did have one kid cry because he got called for a foul.  I told him fouling just meant he was playing aggressively.  That didn't stop the tears, but I did feel like a good person and, really, isn't that what this is all about?

It's these little moments--the incremental improvement, seeing a kid clear a mental hurdle, seeing them having fun, etc.--I have come to relish.

In a few weeks, I won't remember any of the scores; none of us will.  Except maybe the parents who request their child not be put on Luke's dad's team next year.

But the moments will linger.  

Like RJ sitting on the bench as we trailed 18-3, asking me if we were losing.  Or the kids who cried and were too scared to play constantly asking if they could go back in.  And Ralphie--little blonde-haired, bespectacled Ralphie--sprinting toward me after Game 2, a game we had lost 20-3.  As I leaned down, expecting a high-five, he leaped into my arms and gave me a hug.

Those moments won't soon be forgotten.

And no, RJ.  They may have more points than us.  But I don't think we're losing.

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.