Decision 2020

As (alleged) adults, we are faced with difficult choices this time of the year.  The consequences of said choices can have long-lasting effects.  And though we do our best, we may find ourselves guilt-ridden due to the choices we make.

That's where I come in.  Not to help you make your decision, but rather, to help you justify your choices.  

I hereby present Bone's Stealing Halloween Candy from Your Kid Justification Guide.  Today I will provide you with reasons to abscond with your child's (nephew, niece, grandkid, neighbor's kid, etc.) Halloween candy, while also mentioning a couple of treats that should be find for your child to consume.  Using my own child's stash as a prototype, I will proceed to go through this piece by piece.  

Tootsie Roll ~ There is no other chocolate that tastes quite like a Tootsie Roll.  You ever thought about that?  Why has no one duplicated this unique taste?  What's in it?  What aren't they telling us?  So while extremely delicious, this just doesn't seem safe.

Life Savers ~ The ironically named candy can and has contributed to death by choking.  More than three people are thought to have died from this throughout history.  Now, I totally just made up that number because a Google search provided no such statistics.  So while you can't prove that it's true, your child also most likely can't prove that it isn't true.

Mounds ~ Many children may have an undiagnosed coconut allergy.  (Or a diagnosed coconut allergy, in which case giving them a Mounds would likely leave you facing criminal charges.)

Almond Joy ~ Even if you were to risk the coconut allergy, the almond is a big no-no.  Choke city.

Smarties ~ While never having been proven to make anyone smarter, these hard nuggets of deliciousness are terrible for your teeth.  And your child will only ever have one set of teeth.  Well, besides the set they get when their baby teeth fall out, but they don't need to know that, yet.

Reese's ~ Here's the thing: Once your child has a Reese's, there is very little left for them to look forward to in life.  You?  It's too late for you.  You know there's nothing else.  Let them be little, forgodsake!

Milk Duds ~ Known in some remote areas of Kazakhstan as "Delicious Child Chokers."  Need I say more?

Butterfinger ~ If you did give your child a Reese's, then one of the only things left for them to look forward to (besides sex and wine), is a Butterfinger.  Again, don't let them peak too early.

Any sort of homemade treat ~ If you're like me, you have a real problem eating food made by people you don't know.  But kids?  Kids eat anything and everything -- dirt, Play-doh, paper, any number of unidentified foodstuffs from off the floor.  And you know what?  They've survived.  Enough with the helicopter parenting, Gladys!  If Mrs. Taylor down the street isn't necessarily a bastion of cleanliness, chances are your child won't even notice.

Three Musketeers ~ Have you read this novel?  Well, me neither, but according to Wikipedia, it includes violence, seduction, and execution.  I mean, you may as well let your kids play violent video games.  Or watch television.  As d'Artagnan might have said, thou savest this deliciousness for thine own self.

Whoppers ~ Whopper -- another word for "lie."  So unless you want to feed your kid a bunch of lies, steer clear here.

Skittles ~ Skittles is Scandinavian for orthodontic nightmare.  No child likes to go to the dentist, so why make them go any earlier than they have to?  I don't plan on taking mine until they're at least twelve.

Fig Newtons ~ Soft, chewy, somewhat healthy, taste a little like cardboard........  Yeah, these should be fine.

Laffy Taffy ~ No.  Never.  These chewy candies are teeming with made-to-order Dad jokes!  But my child can't read, you say.  Well, perhaps you should have them open a book rather than another piece of candy.

Twix ~ Do you really want to introduce your child to caramel this early in their life?  Early onset diabetes here we come.  However, there are fun games you can play with your child and a Twix.  Have your child point out at least five differences between the Twixes.  Also, ask your child which Twix is the left Twix.  When he/she points to the left one, turn the Twix upside down and yell, "Wrong again, loser!"

Follow me for more life-saving parenting tips.

Er, on second thought, you probably shouldn't

Catfish and COVID

The news came on the first of October:  You had tested positive for COVID-19.  It came via text message from your wife.  She had been keeping us updated as you hadn't felt well all week.  

You didn't want to go to the hospital.  You knew you would be isolated there.  You had underlying conditions, your asthma and your COPD.  I'm sure there was a fear you would never come home.  If I thought it, I'm almost certain you did.

How could you not?  How could anybody?  My last text to you had been about my best friend being in the hospital with the virus after his dad died of it the week before.  

"You'd better go to the doctor before it turns into pneumonia," I heard numerous times growing up. "Son, don't mess around with this stuff, it's dangerous," you had said to me just a few months earlier when I had been sick (and later tested positive for Influenza A).

Yet here you were, doing just what you had cautioned me against my whole life.

We finally convinced you, and the following Monday you were admitted.

Talking to you that week was all we could do.  You sounded down, on the verge of despondent.  They had you on oxygen.  Your daughter sounded so worried.  Every time we spoke it seemed she was on the verge of tears.  I was worried, too.  But I tried to hide it for her sake.  

Not even six weeks ago you and I had gone to lunch for your birthday -- your seventieth.  We'd eaten at a familiar catfish restaurant.  The food was a long time coming, but it turned out to be a good thing.  We talked.  You mentioned, almost in passing, about your father putting your mother in the hospital.  You had never mentioned this to me.  I had tried not to act surprised so as to not discourage anything else you might be about to share.

You tend to remember specific moments in life, moreso than days or weeks or years.  And that is a moment I will always remember.

It was at this same meal we talked about my anxiety and how I had gone on meds last year for it, at long last, and how much better my quality of life was now.  You told me that you had been on anxiety meds for years.  This was another thing that was previously unbeknownst to me.  Inside I was frustrated that you had not told me before now.  Did you not realize how that knowledge might have helped me?

How had we lived all these years as father and son and it was just now that I was hearing these things for the first time?  Was it my fault?  Maybe you just assumed you had told me at some point?

These were the things I thought about now, as you lay miles away in a hospital bed.  We sent you pictures of the kids.  Videos.  Anything that might keep you from becoming discouraged.

There is a lot I don't understand about you, Dad.  I don't understand your rabid support for Trump.  I couldn't help but think that had caused you to not take the virus seriously.  You and your wife had gone to Tennessee for dinner the very first night they reopened restaurants because Alabama's were still carry-out only.  You were always going somewhere, it seemed.  "I'm not going to stop living my life," you had said.  

Now I prayed only that you would have a lot more life left to live.

On Wednesday, news came that you might get to come home before the weekend.  On Thursday, they took you off the oxygen.  On Friday, you were released.

You still sound weak, wiped out.  There is a still a long road ahead.  But you are home, to watch your Fox News and post your political rants and memes on Facebook.

We don't talk politics much.  People are far more important than politics.  I know that no matter how far apart we may be on the issues, you will still come over to help me patch up the roof, mend the fence, or work on the car.

You overcame a lot, Dad.  A father who committed suicide and was an abusive husband, for starters.  Open-heart surgery.  Hip replacement.  Smoking.  An emergency tracheotomy.  And now, COVID-19.

Surely you can survive a son that is trying to raise his kids to say and do pretty much the exact opposite of everything your beloved Trump says and does.

I hope so.  I want them to have their grandfather around for a lot more years, to have a chance to get to know you better.  It's a chance I never had, as mine had both passed on by the time I was three.

Thanks for still being here, Dad.  Let's have some more catfish soon.

A Year of Harper (Minus Fifteen or So Minutes)

Did you know you have a brother named Lucas

And a sister who's a kitty named Sunshine

They're both gonna love you

Take good care of you

Little Harper, you'll do just fine

Little Harper, you'll do just fine....

I call that Harper's lullaby.  I wrote it for you, and sang it to you, in the hospital when you were born.  We still sing it at almost every nap time and most every night.

You are something else.  Sweet and sassy.  Independent and stubborn.  We may not have been expecting you, but you have perfectly completed our family.

One of my favorite memories of your first year is (and will always be)  lying on the couch before work, you beside me, your head resting on my upper arm.  And virtually every night, we would fall asleep together for a little while before I had to get up and get ready to work the midnight shift.

I guess a parent is supposed to calm their child.  But you would always calm me on those nights.  I cannot wait to see what the next year brings and yet, I know it is all going to go so fast... 

You got here in a hurry, Harper.  So fast I missed it.  Your mother texted at 8:31 that morning.  "You need to get here now."  Despite my best efforts and violating numerous traffic laws along the way (my apologies to all the drivers I offended that morning), I didn't make it.

When I walked into the hospital room, there was no doctor, no nurses.  There was only your mother, with your tiny head resting peacefully on her chest.  

I thought I would be upset for missing it.  But in that instant, how could I do anything but smile?  You were here.  You were healthy.   Your mother was healthy.  I am still smiling thinking about it now.

I may have missed those first few moments, Harper Cassandra.  But long as I live, I don't plan on missing anymore. 

Just Beginning to Take Off

"You will travel through a world of marvels..."

The news is almost always bad, almost all the time.  Violence.  Hate.  Racism.  Fires and floods.  Hurricanes and tornadoes.  They say it'll only get worse.

Every night at work, more darkness.  Suffering and struggling.  Crime.  Death.  I've been shaken to the core so much I'm not sure I can be anymore.

Then I come home to the world's most exuberant "Dada!."  You drop what you're doing and come bounding to the door with absolute abandon.  And for a little while the bad goes away.  I just want to protect you from it all, for as long as I can.

What a delight it is to have someone greet you with a smile every single time they see you.  What pure joy it is to watch you grow.

You love your baby sister.  Anytime she cries you say her name as if to alert me or your mother that we need to check on her, or you go find her pacifier and bring to her.

The other day she was crying on the bed.  I told you I needed to go check on her, but you said, "No, Dada."  So I watched as you walked down the hall, into the bedroom on your own, stopped beside the bed and said her name.  ("Har-har.")  Then repeated it.  Softly, sweetly.

You're fiercely independent -- insisting on buckling yourself in your high chair, taking off your own shoes and socks (and attempting at length but in vain to put them on), and "helping" Daddy take out the trash.  Every Tuesday we can be seen ambling down the driveway, you with hands over your head on the handles, me with one hand helping to guide when you inevitably veer off course.  My favorite may be when I open the door as we're about to leave and go somewhere, only to have you protest and proceed to close it, lock it, unlock it, and reopen it yourself.

Yet and still occasionally you can be so bashful, clinging with all your might to your mother or me.

At two years and two weeks you are at the average height and weight -- for a three-year-old.  How lucky am I then that you like to be rocked and sang to sleep.  It is a habit your mother isn't fond of me starting, but one I cherish.

You love music.  Your favorite songs are "Believer" ("Rain"), "Thunder" ("Neenuh"), and "Barbara Ann" ("Baa-Baa").

You also love books.  We read several to you every night.  And morning.  And at every nap time.  Some I have memorized, like "The Paperboy."  The best is when you "read" them to yourself, or to one of your stuffed animals.

And you absolutely love airplanes quite possibly more than anything.  I feel confident in saying your ability to hear or spot one in the sky is unparalleled.  I had never noticed how many planes flew over our house until you came along.  Now?  The sky is seemingly always offering up a vapor trail or three.

I remember not that long ago when you thought anything that flies -- birds, butterflies, helicopters, dragonflies -- was an airplane.

And I want to squeeze you and tell you that time is an airplane, and somehow be able to make you understand.  Oh Lukie, it flies, so breathtakingly fast.  Life is like one big vapor trail.  At first seeming so long and grand, and then...

But you... you're two.  You haven't even reached cruising altitude yet.  The seatbelt sign is still on.  You're looking out the window, filled with wonder, taking it all in.

I love you, buddy.  Cherish each and every mile of your flight. 

2nd and 26

In the latest of hours on the evening of January 8, 2018, a middle-aged male lets out a shrill scream, runs to the bedroom to wake his wife, bursts out the front door and sprints down the soaking wet driveway in his sock feet, pumping his fist in the air like some misplaced member of Arsenio Hall's dog pound dropped here by mistake from 1994.

He stops in the road, looking south and then north, wondering why no one else is outside.  One can almost read his mind: "What is wrong with these people?"

(Yes, because it is they who have the defect.)

What could cause this otherwise mild-mannered doting father and trophy husband to behave in such a way?

Following is his exclusive story, in his own words, told in the second person point of view.  (Why, I'm not sure, but the word "disturbed" does come to mind.)

You lie on the couch, intent but oddly calm.  Your mood turns from hopeful to solemn as the gladiatorial contest played out on the living room screen reaches its midway point.

There is no joy in Sabanville.  Mighty Bama has been shutout.  The score?  Thirteen to nothing.  Not zero -- nothing.  No excitement.  No energy.  No real reason to think anything will change.

Your wife goes to bed after the first drive of the 3rd quarter.  You don't blame or begrudge her.  This is your baby, not hers.  You brought it to the marriage.  She accepts it.  You've even caught her yelling at it herself a few times, but she will never love it as you do.

You will have to go the rest of the way on your own.  It won't be easy.  For while hope may not be completely lost, it has wandered far from home without a map, compass, or navigation system, and will have to rely on the stars, prayer, and luck to ever find its way back.

The stars begin to align with the insertion of the young Tua Tagavailoa at quarterback, the freshman warrior from our 50th state.  (You find out later his name in Hawaiian means "at the back" or "behind."  And you wonder what is the Hawaiian word for "apropos.")

First, a tackle-breaking, field-reversing third down conversion.  Then, at long last, a touchdown.  You leave your couch nest and get on your knees in front of the TV, fists clenched in unspeakable tension.  It is there you will remain -- three feet away from the 55-inch screen, alternately sitting and standing, for the remainder, in all likelihood doing irreparable damage to your already aging, failing eyes.

The Red Army of Georgia strikes back, and almost before you can say "Bolshevik Revolution" an 80-yard bomb scorches the Alabama secondary and the Bulldogs restore their thirteen-point margin.  The score is 20-7.  Hope interrupted.

Enter Lady Luck.

With the Bulldogs in Alabama territory and threatening to add to their lead, the Georgia quarterback's attempt deflects off the helmet of a lineman and is snatched out of the air by a hungry Crimson Tide defender.  You are jumping up and down with the excitement of a Price Is Right contestant on a Red Bull drip.  But you can't scream.  You have a son now.  And a cat.  You're basically a mime at this point.

The good guys inch closer.  20-10.  20-13.  Then comes a do-or-die 4th down in the closing minutes.

"Just let us win this one," you pray.  (As if you haven't won four of the past eight.  But it's never enough, is it?)

Also, to whom exactly are you praying?  You're almost positive God does not concern himself all that much with sporting events.  Perhaps you've unwittingly channeled your mom, as you recall the many times during your childhood (and beyond) you heard her implore, "Come on, Bear, look down on us one more time," speaking to the dearly departed former Crimson Tide coach who would probably be watching from up above and could presumably affect the outcome of any game as needed.

To believe otherwise would be to admit sports are played in a spiritual vacuum, with no ghostly or divine intervention having any effect whatsoever on the outcomes.  What then, are we to assume the winning and the losing is decided solely based on the participants' aptitude and athletic prowess, their coaches' direction, the referees' decisions, and what, the weather???  Absurdity, thy name is this!

(There was a timeout before the fourth down play, so you had a little more time to pontificate there, but the game is about to resume.)

Young Tua's near-desperation fling is cradled by Bama's top receiver, the talented Mister Ridley, just before he lands in the end zone for the tying points.

Victory, once about as likely as a mosquito-less Alabama summer, again seems possible.

The ravenous Bama defense, impenetrable as a devout nun lately, gets another stop.  The offense drives into position for a potential game-winning field goal.

Those last four words are enough to make any and every Tide fan triple their dosage of anxiety meds.  For if one thing has been the absolute scourge of this program for the past decade, it has been the dreaded field goal.  Almost every significant loss has been plagued by one, sometimes three, four, even five wayward kicks.

Still on your knees, you put your head down on the floor.  You're pretty sure this is a yoga position though you've no idea what it's called.  Downward Facing (string of expletives) Field Goal maybe.  You can't watch.  Literally.  You don't.

Five seconds feels like a minute.  Then the golden voice of Chris Fowler bears the bad news.

"No!!!  Hooked it!"

Of course.  

But hey, you've not truly lived until you've felt your heart sink like that a few times, am I right?

Then cometh overtime.  

The Bama defense is once again its nun-like self, not only stopping the Red Army from penetrating, but forcing them to retreat.  They can muster but a measly field goal.  You think to yourself how nice it must be to be successfully complete one of those.

Now for the final act.

Young Tua, who at this point has an entire thirty minutes of hand-to-hand combat under his belt, will be called upon once more.  Needing to advance only twenty-five yards through enemy territory to win the game, yea, the championship, he drops back to pass on first down.

But the receivers all seem to be covered.  He retreats, twisting one way, then another, finally swallowed up in a sea of red, sixteen yards farther from the goal than where he first began.

On the sideline, St. Nick, the Crimson leader, appears slightly perturbed.  He must have just realized his best chance to survive is a potential tying field goal.  You reluctantly agree.  For it is 2nd and 26 from the Bulldogs' 41-yard-line.  Just try and gain back ten or fifteen yards to have a prayer of a tying field goal.

But it's 2nd and 26.  Second and twenty-six.  Those words will outlive the whole of us due to what happens on that next play.

Young Tua lofts a magnificent spiral to the sprinting true freshman and future Heisman Trophy winner Devonta Smith.  He cradles it in his arms as a mother would cradle her precious winning lottery ticket.

Game over.  Another national championship.  

Cue middle-aged man sprinting down wet driveway in sock feet., all the while imagining his mama, in tears, saying, "Oh, thank you, Lord," and "You DO care about us, Bear!" and "Oh, my heart can't take this."

You think to yourself, "Mine neither, Mama.  Mine neither."

Escaping the Real World

There is a way to travel backwards in time that does not involve a flux capacitor, DeLorean DMC-12, or Christopher Lloyd.  And that is to attend a concert by one of your favorite bands from years gone afore.  (Though not too many years, because once the band members possess a certain level of geriatricity you inevitably begin to think about your own impending decrepitness and before you know it find yourself tearing up at the Gordon Lightfoot show, in the middle of "Sundown.")

That is what we did last Saturday night, making the two-hour pilgrimmage to Nashville to see Matchbox Twenty and Counting Crows.  Anticipatory conversation on the drive up included a couple of unexpected gems from Mrs. Bone.

"Do you think Rob Thomas will sing any of his solo songs?"
"I doubt it."
"Well, I really like that one song he does.... something about butterflies?"

I am entirely vexed.  She continues.

"The one about they've tried but can't work things out?"
"Mockingbird?"
"Yeah, that's it!"

A little later, she inquires as to what my favorite Matchbox Twenty song is.  I list "Real World" and "Bright Lights" among them, then ask the same of her.

"What's that song from that Nicholas Cage movie where he dies?"
"City of Angels?"
"Yeah."
"That's the Goo Goo Dolls."
"Oh.  I always get them mixed up."

Well... at least one of us would enjoy the show.

As the crowd began to filter in, I was feeling right in my element.  Most everyone seemed to be around my age.  The concert had a starting time of 6:45, which I thought odd at first, but in hindsight believe was a nod to those of us in our middle ages who, while we enjoy having a good time, also know not much good happens after 10 pm.

After a brief set by opening act Rivers & Rust, Counting Crows took the stage.  Having seen them deliver a phenomenal show at the Ryman in 2009, this performance left a bit to be desired.  It was difficult to understand Duritz's vocals at times, and they chose to skip several favorites like "American Girls," "Accidentally in Love" and Big Yellow Taxi" in favor of some new songs unfamiliar to me, and evidently, most everyone else.  Highlights included "Round Here," "Hard Candy" and of course, "A Long December."

Then Matchbox Twenty took the stage with all the energy of a band that had just hit the big time.  After kicking off with "Real World," they ran through a mostly romping set that included all of their big hits.  They returned for a four-song encore which kicked off with Simple Minds' 80's standard, "Don't You Forget About Me," followed by "3 AM" and "Long Day," before closing the show with "Bright Lights."

It's funny, and I have no idea why this is, but as I get older I sometimes find myself trying to come up with reasons to not go to concerts (traffic, won't be able to get a sitter, etc.).  And yet, I can scarcely recall a single concert I regretted attending.

Music is woven throughout my soul.  I love how a certain song can take you back to a specific time or place or person every single time you hear it.  A little bit of mind travel, if not time travel.

But alas, the time traveler's wife and I had to return back to 2017, where we're a little bit older (and I swear the music is not nearly as good).  Back to jobs.  And bills.  And worry.  And wishing the real world would just stop hassling me. 

The Sweet Sound of Your Baby Crying

We are in a waiting room at the outpatient surgery center.  You are wearing a tiny gown.  It is at once the cutest and saddest sight I can remember.  Outside, it pours, water cascading down the window.  The weather fits the gloominess of the morning.

We are worried, your mother and I, wondering constantly in silence if this is the right choice.  It would be so much easier if it were me having the surgery.  I make the decision, I live with the results, good or bad.  But you never asked for any of this.  We brought you here.  And you've been so happy the past few weeks.  Why do something to risk messing that up?

But before that, there were the five rounds of antibiotics.  A whole lot for anyone, but especially someone your age.  Seven months old.  I finally decided better to have something done that might allow your body to fight for itself, rather than keep pouring that poison down you.  If you ever wonder why we did it, that is why.

Routine.  Minor.  Simple.  These are words people use to describe your surgery.  But when a complete stranger takes your only child from your arms, then disappears down a hall behind double doors, those are not words that come to mind.

That is what happened.  I did not look at your mother, because I knew she was crying.  If I looked at her... well I had to pretend to be the strong one.

The doctor came to talk to us after an eternal fifteen minutes.  Everything had gone fine.  You would be in recovery for ten minutes, then we'd probably hear you before we saw you, in his words.

He was right.  You were screaming I guess as loud as I've ever heard you.  

But at that moment, in that situation, it was the best sound I'd ever heard.

Farewell, My California Friend

"I've never been good with starts and finishes.  That's always been the problem with my writing."

Those are your words.  I found them in one of the many late night (for you, early morning for me) chat transcripts I've gone over this week, the week after you passed away.  The words seem to fit here as I've wanted to write something but I've no idea where and how to start.

November 18th.  That is the date of my last email to you.  It seemed impossible it could have been that long.  My heart sank when I realized it indeed had.

So many times I've seen people get married, have kids, and mostly lose touch.  And though I vowed I'd never be like that, turns out I'm the worst of all.

In the span of a couple of emails, I was telling you about the birth of my son, while you were telling me you were losing your job.  Nonetheless, you could not contain your excitement for me.  I think it's obvious who the better friend was here.

Did you even know I considered you a friend?  Did I ever tell you?

I don't know how you died.  Your next to last Facebook post said your left leg was hurting.  Later that day, you were gone.  Someone speculated it might have been a blood clot from DVT.  I wonder if you tried to get help.  Maybe if we were chatting regularly like we used to, I might have suggested you get to the hospital.

You had been out of work a couple of different times, so I wonder if you put it off due to concerns about insurance or medical bills.  Because this is America and sometimes you have to choose risking your life and hoping for the best over going into debt!  I yell, to no one...

I cannot recall exactly how we came across each other.  I've found blog comments from as far back as 2005.   The memories are random and scattered.

An Eddie Rabbitt song came on the other day and it brought to mind a conversation we had about you recording one of his albums your mom had from vinyl onto a cassette back in the 80's.  Not that I would consider you a country music fan by any stretch.  Perhaps that's what made it stick out.

You bought and sent me a cap after Alabama played and won the national championship in the Rose Bowl several years ago.

You told me about an online literary magazine run by an acquaintance of yours and suggested I submit to it.

You were always watching your cooking competition shows.  Loved Christmas music even though you weren't religious.  I mean, there were very few people in my life with whom I could discuss "Funky, Funky Christmas."  And now there is one less.

My thoughts are choppy.  My writing is worse.  I miss our chats.  I'm sorry if I disappeared on you.  This tribute is not worthy of you, of your life.  I'll just say there are a lot of things that make me think of you.  I hope they always do.

I'm not sure what happens after this, but I know what I hope.  I hope you are somewhere walking Sharky, listening to your favorite Christmas songs, free of all the pain and worry of this realm.

If you can no longer be here, that is the finish I would write for you.