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.

A Day in the Life

I get home just after 7 a.m.  It was a relatively slow night at the 911 Center, not much to speak of other than a few wrecks in the rain.  Idealistic me, I applied for this job because I wanted to help, to make a difference in some small way.  I accepted it because of the incredible insurance.  

Eighteen months later, I rethink that decision almost daily.  Working thirds is hard on the body, a strain on our marriage.  As I walk in, Luke is in his sit-me-up booster seat.  He smiles as soon as he sees my face.  He recognizes me.  And somehow it is all alright.

After getting him dressed and in his car seat, I hug Mrs. Bone goodbye and get ready for bed.  I can't shut off my mind.  I replay calls from the night before, mistakes I might have made, what I could have done better.  It is something after 8:00 the last I remember.

I wake around 1:30.  The five-plus hours is the most sleep I've gotten in four days.  I've been in a rut of waking up between 11:00 and 1:00 and not being able to get back to sleep.  Around 2:30 I give up and decide to get a couple of errands in before I pick up Luke at daycare.

First up is a stop at the grocery store where I pick up some fruit, nuts, and cheese -- snacks for work -- and some Martha White self-rising flour.  I've taught myself to make something close to biscuits over the past few months.

Next is a visit to Walgreens.  Desperate for sleep, I pick up some Melatonin and Calms Forte.  I avoid taking medicine if at all possible, to the point that my doctor will begin sentences, "I know you don't really like to take medicine..."  But at some point I figure the lack of sleep becomes unhealthier than the pills.

Then it's off to get Luke.  I skip the interstate and take the two lane, enjoying the ponds and pastures, trees and sky.  The 15-minute drive has become my "me" time.  I roll down the down the window, turn up the radio, and enjoy the one bit of my day where I'm not sleeping, working, or responsible for another human being.  

The first thing I notice is Luke is not wearing the same outfit he left home with.  This is a not uncommon occurrence.  He has had what we in the parenting business refer to as a blowout.

On the way home, we stop off at the Sonic.  Once a week I treat myself to a small shake and small chili cheese fries.  It's a guilty pleasure.  Besides, I got cheese and nuts and fruit for work so it balances out... ish.

The first order of business once we're home is to let Sunshine outside.  Sunshine is the cat, though we would never refer to her as "the cat" because doing so might imply she is just an animal, that she doesn't have a personality, that we don't consider her our daughter.  And nothing could be further from the truth.

She showed up at the back door a few years ago, starving and bloody-tailed.  After an ever-so-brief attempt to find her a home, we decided to keep her.  Honestly, she never gave us much choice.  Our lives have since become a "Who rescued whom?" bumper sticker.

Next I unload the dishwasher and start some laundry.  Not at the same time, that would be a trick sure to astonish.  The squeaking you will soon hear is the sound of the dryer dying.  The repairman gave it six months to live.  That was over two years ago.  She's a fighter this Whirlpool.

Luke gets fussy after a bit and when I pick him up I feel something wet.  It is blowout number two of the day.  It is the worst one I have experienced to date.  I may as well wear the Spray 'n Wash in a holster.

Mrs. Bone gets home and we begin the nightly routine: feeding Luke, giving him a bath, and putting him to bed.  

Our Hello Fresh delivery didn't arrive on time this week so we order Mexican.  (I'm gonna have to eat a lot of fruit and nuts to make up for this day!)  While I am at the restaurant picking up our food, I get a text: "Guess what just arrived."  Perfect.  I don't mind though as we have mostly found Hello Fresh to be more aptly titled Hello Bland.  

We eat while watching a couple of "General Hospital" episodes.  Luke wakes up during the first so I go and rock him back to sleep.  I doze off during the last, grabbing a much-needed fifteen or twenty minutes before it's time to shower and get ready for work.

It is 9:30.  Sunshine demands five more minutes of outside time before I leave.  I oblige.  Then it's another hug goodbye and I'm out the door.  

As I back out, Sunshine sits in the doorway and watches me leave.  Beyond, Luke sleeps peacefully in his room while the woman I married is going to bed, hoping to catch two or three hours before the little guy wakes up again.

Some decisions you never have to rethink.

"These are some good times / So take a good look around / You may not know it now / But you're gonna miss this..."

From the Heating Pad

Recounting the unfortunate events of last Sunday and Monday, February 12th and 13th...

It is my second day of being forty-four and I am on the couch alternately applying heat and ice to my knee.  This is because on my first day of being forty-four I attempted something crazy.  Something no one my age had any business doing, evidently.

I tried getting out of my chair and standing.

Kapow!  Blam!  Zowie!  

Pain shot through the outside of my left knee.  Holy aging ligaments, Batman!  Why, why, WHY had I tried getting up without a chair lift?

I was unable to stand, probably due to my extremely low threshold for... er, ethereal sensitivity to pain.  (It's basically a superpower.)  You follow?  My leg did not work for a moment.  Then I hobbled around for the rest of the night and pretty much ever since.  I still don't know what I did, except get old.  

The same night as the chair incident I was perusing my phone with my glasses resting atop my head.  An uber-helpful co-worker asked, "Do you need bifocals, Bone?"  No, this is a fashion statement, I saw it on the cover of Geriatrics Quarterly.  Yes, of course I need bifocals! 

Also, we got new reference books at work with print so microscopic that in order to read it you need a frickin' electron microscope.  Or, average eyesight.  So I had to get another, much younger co-worker to read off some numbers to me.

This came on the heels of me having a grievous cold, my first time being sick in two or three years.  (I still blame the Tdap vaccination the pediatrician unceremoniously forced on me.)  It was the kind of cold that would have knocked an average person off their feet for up to a day.  I was off mine for two, proving yet again that I am not average.

To top it off, my reflux has been acting up, waking me a couple of times a week lately.  At least that'll make for a decent conversation starter down at the convalescent center.

If I were a horse, they'd have to shoot me.  Of course, if I were a horse, I'd be like a hundred and thirty in human years, which would probably be some kind of record.  So maybe they wouldn't shoot me.  I'd most likely be in some kind of equine museum, alongside Secretariat, Mister Ed (of course... of course), and a horse with no name.

How did this happen?  To me???  I was always the one getting the "Well you sure don't look that old" comments.  Just a couple of weeks ago, my 9-year-old niece informed me she thought I was twenty-nine, about to turn thirty.  And trust me, she's a great judge of all things.  (Is it any wonder I married into that family?)

I've most certainly always acted younger than my age.  Much, much younger.  I'm sure any of my ex-girlfriends would attest to that.  And have.   

But suddenly, I'm feeling every last one of my forty-four years.  And about thirty more on top of that.

Mrs. Bone has to be wondering what she's gotten herself into.  To her credit, she hasn't said anything.  Of course if she did, my aged ears probably couldn't hear her anyway.

"I wish I still smoked cigarettes / Felt more grown up then / We were talkin' about where we were gonna go / Instead of talkin' 'bout where we'd been..."

The Hearse People

I was chewing the fat with the pest control guy one fair spring day last April when something caught his eye.

"What's going on over there?"  He was standing near the southwest corner of the privacy fence, peering at something in the distance.  I figured I knew where this was going.

"Oh, the hearse.  Yeah.  I have no idea, man."

"No, I mean, it's like pimped out.  It's got rims."

I had noticed the hearse a few weeks earlier parked in the carport of the house behind and to the south of ours.  But until now, I hadn't noticed the aftermarket rims.

In my defense, those same neighbors also have half a pickup truck sitting in the yard missing its bed and rear axle, as well as a pop-up camper which seems to house an unknown number of additional tenants.  Also, the previous resident didn't clean the garage gutters for so long there was foot-high vegetation growing in them.  Volunteer marijuana, possibly.  (Did I mention we do not, in fact, live in a gated community?)

Anyhow, in that context the hearse sort of blended in, though I now somewhat understood the allure, yea necessity, of HOA's.

It was the aftermarket rims that had me intrigued.  Who pimps out a hearse?  Was there some new reality show I didn't know about?  "The Emaciated Race?"  "Extreme Makeover: Mortician Edition?"  "Pimp My Final Ride?"  I mean, everyone I know who drives a hearse as their personal vehicle...

I had considered many possibilities for the hearse.  At first, I thought maybe they worked for a funeral home, and when the bed and rear axle had completely fallen off their truck in an extraordinary occurrence, they decided to drive the Caddy home for personal use.   However, the rims seemed to cast doubt on that theory.

Also, I met them one day in mid-December on my way home and the rear interior -- you know, where they keep the.... dearly departed -- was decorated with Christmas lights.  Maybe it was a festive funeral home?

It initially crossed my mind that maybe they were planning something big for Halloween.  Though procuring a hearse more than six months early seemed a bit odd.  (As opposed to driving a hearse home at all?)

There was also the possibility we were indeed living next door to the real-life Addams Family, though I never recalled hearing the names Gomez, Wednesday, or Fester being mentioned when they were outside.

And then, of course, there is the final and most likely scenario:

The hearse people are in the mafia.

The elongated Cadillac providing a perfect cover for transporting anyone who had recently been whacked to go sleep with the fishes.  In other words, the Addams "Family." *wink wink*

Why not just walk over and ask, you may wonder?  Uh, no thank you.  I walk over to offer some fresh garden vegetables and -- badda-bing! -- suddenly it's "Leave the gun, take the cucumbers."

Plus, I've yet to tell you about the weirdest thing of all.  One afternoon as I walked out onto the back patio I heard creepy organ music coming from the direction of the hearse people.  It sounded like the opening riff of Beethoven's 5th, slowed down.  Four notes.  And then it stopped.  It was beyond eerie, and at that point I was for sure never going anywhere near that house.

I immediately walked back inside and never spoke of it.  Thankfully, I hadn't been able to see anything over our fence.  Not that I would squeal, mind you.  I know how things work, I saw nearly all of "The Godfather."

My most recent encounter occurred a week or so ago when I was in the living room and Mrs. Bone informed me, "There's a strange man with a dog in our yard."

I looked out to see a gentlemen I did not recognize.  Since I know the neighbors on either side of us and across the street, we surmised he must be one of the hearse people, or "the family" as I now reverently address them.  He was older, gray-haired, probably not an enforcer.  At least not anymore.

He appeared to be trying to corral the dog.  Poor pup.  I could only imagine the punishment for leaving the yard without permission.  *shudder*  Or perhaps they were trying to pick up a scent of where something, or someone, had been buried.  *gulp*

I ducked out of view before he could spot me, though I did notice one final detail about the mysterious denizen:  He was wearing a Bama t-shirt.

At once I knew exactly how our initial conversation would someday go.

Me: "Roll Tide?"

Him: "Fuggedaboutit!"


"Don't let this old gold cross and this Crimson Tide t-shirt throw ya / It's cicadas making noise with a Southern voice..."