Changing tides

Remember when beach trips were incredibly relaxing?

Lying by the ocean for hours, listening to the symphony of the waves, entirely relaxed.  Feeling somehow closer to heaven.  At peace, even with hundreds of people all around.  Kicking the worries of melanoma down the road.

Relaxing is not a word I would use to describe taking your 6-year-old and 8-year-old to the beach.  Because now those peaceful waves that once lulled you to sleep have become danger-ridden death traps.  And those other people?  The ones you once could pretend were a million miles away?  Any one of them could be a child-snatcher.  Or even worse, someone who wants to radicalize kids into being kind and tolerant.  You must be vigilant! 

And lying by the ocean for hours?  Don't make me laugh -- or, cry. (Hang on, I need a moment.)

There's no time for that.  For now, we must build sandcastles -- or, at least, serve as an errand boy and waddle your aging rear down to the water to collect pailfuls for those who do build.  

We must also play football.  Yes, football.  American football.  Not only that, we must make a football field in the sand, with goalposts and yard lines and yard line numbers.  And if it should get washed away by the waves or destroyed by footprints, well we must make it again the very next day.  Thus says the gospel according to Lucas: Year 8, Month 4.

But you find joy in other things.  Not physical joy, but nonetheless.

It comes as you watch them run towards the chilly waves before screaming and turning to run away as the uprush gushes over their feet and ankles.

As you see your son's excitement over seeing a shark.  (Or maybe a dolphin.  There was some debate on the sand.)  And again when he piles up little balls of wet sand so you ask what he's doing, and he answers almost breathlessly, "This is shark bait.  The shark is gonna look up here and see it and think it's food, and he will swim towards shore so we can get a better look at him."

But friends, I feel the tide beginning to change, so to speak.

Last October, we slipped away to Perdido for a four-day weekend while the kids had fall break, staying with my uncle and his partner, whom I shall henceforth refer to as "the uncles."

Our first day on the beach Mrs. B and I found ourselves in the water when a most unexpected event occurred.  Were we approached by a hungry bullshark?  Swarmed by a school of stingrays?  Pulled into peril by a fierce riptide?

No, not this trip.  What happened that day was even more unlikely.  An occurrence so rare that it hadn't happened in over eight years.  Many thought it would never be seen again.

We found ourselves alone.  Together.  In the ocean.

It was so inconceivable that it took ten or fifteen minutes before we even realized it.  Looking coastward we saw both kids playing contentedly with the uncles.  

So this is what freedom feels like.

This March, we returned for spring break.  The emancipation of the dependents continued to progress.  The uncles kept the kids while Mrs. B and I got not one night out to dinner, but two.

The kids have gone from only wanting to play in the sand and not even go near the water, to only going in the water if one of us is holding them, to running into the waves with reckless abandon while giving Dad multiple near heart attacks.

To have a child is to re-experience life, to re-experience the world anew.  It's as if your heart has exited your body and is forever traveling with them wherever they go, always on the verge of breaking, or leaping.

Relaxing, it is not.

Rewarding?  More than I could have ever imagined.

Very different goals

Tuesdays can be tough.  

It was opening night for the local 8U soccer league.  (I'll pause to allow the excitement and anticipation to abate... that should be sufficient.)  For reasons unbeknownst to me, your coach decided to put you in goal.  You had only played goalie for a quarter here and there last season.

You did well enough, not allowing any goals in regulation.  But of course, the fates would not allow that to be it.  Both teams were scoreless.  The game would be decided by penalty kicks, something you had never practiced.

Most of the fifty or so people in attendance wouldn't have noticed a thing.

But a parent knows.  

I immediately noticed your cheeks become flushed.  I imagined the nerves and uncertainty you must be feeling as the referee briefly explained the rules to you.  I was feeling them, too.

There would be five kicks per team.  The other team would go first.  It was a good kick.  You got a hand on it, but it wasn't quite enough as the ball trickled agonizingly across the goal line.  1-0.

While one of your teammates kicked and missed, I yelled to you that you didn't have to worry about catching the ball like you try to do in regulation to prevent a rebound.  Just knock it away from the goal.  You would tell me later if you had known that you think you could have stopped the first one.

You stopped the next four shots, including diving to your right to smother one on the ground.  Unfortunately, none of your teammates had managed to score and your team trailed 1-0.  The coach picked you to take the last shot.

Oh buddy, you hit it solid.  It was the best shot out of the five your team would take.  You got good air under it, but it caught the goalie's' left shoulder and bounded away harmlessly.

Those damned fates again.

And while I could not have been more proud of you for handling an unfamiliar and unexpected situation so well, you saw it differently.

You felt you had let your team down, both by allowing the goal and by missing the final kick.  It was like making the last out of a baseball game.

"I had one job," you said, crestfallen. "And I failed."

I tried to look on the bright side, or at least take the "it could always be worse" angle, because that's what I do.  Or maybe that's what the Prozac does.  Either way.

I mean, you could have saved zero shots.  This could turn out to be a valuable life lesson for you.  Your mama could have yelled even more often and loudly than she already did.

You didn't seem to have any lingering effects on Wednesday and Thursday, not outwardly anyway.  I'm sure you replayed things in your mind, but you seemed ready to go for game two on Friday night.

You started in goal but after the first quarter the coach switched you to forward.  I figured you were probably happier there.  And I was thankful that at least you weren't feeling the weight of the whole team as you did in goal.

And then it happened.

You took a rebound and neatly angled it past the opposing goalie.  Your team's first goal of the year.  It would be the only goal of the game.  Your team won 1-0 and in a complete reversal you had scored the only goal of the game.

After lining up to tell the other team they played a good game, you ran towards us with the biggest smile and launched yourself into your mama's arms.

And all was well.  The disappointment of three nights before may as well have been ten thousand light years away.  What a perfect night.

I can't help but believe sports have been good for you.  And seeing you interact with your teammates at practice and on the sideline.  Seeing you being such an encourager to them during games.  Seeing you overcome the Tuesdays to enjoy the Fridays.  Those are the things that keep my heart seemingly on perpetual overflow.

Maybe you will read this one day and realize how proud I am of you.  Hopefully you will realize that without having to read this.  Maybe you'll have a kid of your own and know exactly how I feel. I hope they have a mama who is their biggest (and loudest) fan. And when you write about it all, perhaps you will be able to do so in a way that is far less syrupy  than your dad did.

And somewhere along the way you'll probably realize that a lot of times in life, maybe even most times, you learn more from the Tuesdays than you do the Fridays.

Wireless-less

Imagine if you will a middle-aged male, one who has not been in any sort of shape for the better part of a  decade, traipsing through life completely naked.  

Not a pretty sight, is it?

Well, that's exactly how I felt for an entire week.  Naked.  Was it freeing?  Somewhat, yes.  But more so, it was unsettling.  I felt exposed.  Sort of like that dream where you show up to school wearing only underwear.

'Twas a Monday when one of my offspring (who shall remain nameless just in case she reads this some day) inadvertently left my phone outside.  After awhile I noticed a quiet rain had begun to fall.  Then as one is wont to do I began to wonder where my phone was.

Turns out it had crossed over to that big Apple store in the sky.

Stripped of my personal voice assistant, access to every song in the known universe, and the ability to play the wordle any time and any place, I was left to survive with virtually no connection to the outside world.  I mean, I still had internet access on the computer.  And access to my wife's phone, if needed.  As if any of us can remember anyone's phone number at this point in human existence.

Driving to and from work?  What if I was in an accident?  Had car trouble?  Got lost?  Granted, the last one isn't likely, but at my age you can't completely rule it out.

I think I missed my music most of all.  A couple of times I almost broke down when I started to say, "Siri, play..." before realizing she was no longer there.

And don't even get me started on using the bathroom.  I'm just sitting there, like an idiot, twiddling my thumbs!

At long last, after $623 to pay off my old phone, my new little bundle of memes, songs, and vitriolic political social media posts arrived.

Slowly, things have gotten back to normal.  I'm wordling, sharing hilarious memes, and most importantly of all, listening to any song I want to.

To think we used to have to buy individual albums, then flip the cassette over and guess how long you needed to fast forward the tape so that you could re-listen to a song all because your tape deck didn't have a rewind button.

To think people used to take long car trips with no cell phone.  What happened when they had car trouble?  It's impossible to know.  

Most probably walked to a payphone or got help from a kind passerby.  The rest?  They were most likely kidnapped, tortured, and murdered. Or worse, eaten by wolves or bears.  A lucky few simply starved to death.

Funny to think if I had a question about something, I would have to ask someone and just trust whatever they said.  Or go look it up in my father's twenty-year-old set of encyclopedias.  Thank Al Gore for the internet where anyone can post anything at all so you know you are getting the most complete and accurate information available.

So what was it like without a phone?  Sure it was nice to spend more time with the kids and not have to ask my wife three times what she just said.  

But would I want to go back to a time before phones?

Probably.

But only if you could guarantee I'd have a quality tape deck.  With fast forward and rewind.  

And the Bic pen with the blue cap and clear hexagonal barrel, so that I can spend ten minutes reeling the tape back in when it inevitably unwinds.

Another Alabama spring

Bradford pears are out, you can tell
By the sneezes, the beauty, and the smell
Give those D.C. cherry blossoms a fight
Weatherman calling for storms tonight
Seems strange dodging bullets from the sky
But Mama said we never ask God why
Supper simmers over ashen coals
Dusk giving way to blue bug light glow

When springtime comes to Alabama
Hear the song of the yellowhammer
The southland's in bloom, it's seventy-five
Short sleeves in the day, run the heat at night
Winter wasn't cold but it sure seemed long
Wind thru the whipporwills my favorite song
Our six-month summer will soon be in swing
Here's to one more brief Alabama spring

Ball fields are starting to come alive
Recall playing shortstop in eighty-five
Big League Chew and some orange Gatorade
Something awakens old memories made
Birds headed north, mosquitos eating well
Bid early sunsets a welcome farewell
The air cools nice 'neath the Lenten Moon
Gonna be time to start mowing soon

When springtime comes to Alabama
Hear the song of the yellowhammer
The southland's in bloom, it's seventy-five
Short sleeves in the day, run the heat at night
Winter wasn't cold but it sure seemed long
Wind thru the whipporwills my favorite song
Our six-month summer will soon be in swing
Here's to one more sweet Alabama spring

It's dogwood winter and dirty bare feet
Crane flies mating and a screen door creak
Thunderstorm rain softens rust red clay
And I think of springs so far away

When springtime fades from Alabama
Still hear the song of that yellowhammer
Summertime swells in the land of cotton
Younger days there are not forgotten
Winter wasn't cold but it sure was gray
Closed my eyes and the season slipped away
Thank God for allowing me to see
Another stormy Alabama spring

Bradford pears are out, you can tell
By the sneezes, the beauty, and the smell
Give those D.C. cherry blossoms a fight
Weatherman calling for storms tonight

Pages

I've been trying to smile the way I used to
Been trying to feel each moment rushing by
Been trying to savor every sip of whiskey
Not just swallow it down quick to numb my mind

Been spending more time watching the kids play
Been trying to go easier on myself
I don't know why, maybe it's just what happens
When you've read more pages than there are pages left

I don't get upset when I'm stuck in traffic
I'm not in any hurry to reach the end
Here's to my aging Gen X demographic
And childhoods the world will never know again

Been trying my best to carpe some diems
'Cause there are no more books on my bookshelf
Funny, ain't it, how carefully you turn them
When you've read more pages than there are pages left

Been trying to live life outside my phone
And stop thinking about the bad things at all
But it's hard to hear God's eastern bluebird's song
Over gunfire ringing out in third grade halls

Been trying to teach my kids to show kindness
There's already too much hate everywhere else
You think about the world and how they'll find it
When you've read more pages than there are pages left

Been trying to soak up each pink sky sunset
And the magic I've learned that every morning brings
My favorite place is where she and the kids are
Their smiles and hugs and laughter, my favorite things

I've been trying to smile the way I used to
Been trying to go easier on myself
Sometimes you'd like to start the book all over
When you've read more pages than there are pages left

26 times two

"Time slips away and leaves you with nothin', mister, but boring stories of..." ~ Springsteen

I'd lie in that Beacon Street bedroom, probably 8 or 9 years old, and pray night after night for God to please just let me live to see 1999.  

Why?

There could have been a few reasons.  Early-onset anxiety.  The doomsday preachers at church.  AIDS.  My parents let me watch The Day After.  Whatever the cause, I was sure I would die "young" or that the world was going to end soon.  

My mind was unable to imagine growing up and being an adult.  (Some might say they still can't imagine me as an adult.)  Having a job.  Buying or renting a place to live.  Having kids.  These all seemed like impossibilities to me.  So if I could make it to twenty-six, that felt like a good number of years.  No doubt, twenty-six-year-old me would've vehemently disagreed.

Spoiler alert: I made it.  And by 1999 I doubt I was even thinking about the milestone.  We were more worried about Y2K.  Would clocks run backwards?  Would the government declare martial law?  What was the meaning of "Two thousand zero zero, party over, oops out of time?"  Had Prince known something the rest of us had not?

It appears not.  Unless his song was a revelation of the martial law plot causing them to call it off.  Or maybe Marty McFly had gone back in time and fixed the problem.  That could have happened, I was so confused by the third one I had no idea what year they were in.

Years.  Each once represented such a long span of time.  Now they seem but wisps.  A blur of fading mental photographs and "that was the year we" recollections.

As for 26, it was a big year for me.  Lost a fiancé.  Found some new friends.  It was the year I bought a new truck.  Five-speed.  Engine automatically cut off at 100 mph.  Beacon Street me's mind would have been blown.

Back then, I don't think I ever once tried to picture making it past 26.  And now, as of today, I'm at twice that.  Wishing there was a way to let off the accelerator a little.  

(Hmm, maybe there's a deeper, hidden meaning about human existence and the space-time continuum in Sammy Hagar's I Can't Drive 55, as well!)

But hey, from what I've read during hours spent on Wikipedia, Earth's orbit is actually getting infinitesimally slower due to the sun losing mass.  So go ahead, enjoy an extra nanosecond or two on me.

I like to look at it this way: In little Bone's eyes, I have already experienced two whole lifetimes!

No, the years aren't passing any faster.  But they sure become more valuable once you notice your supply starting to dwindle. 

Death of a season

Dearly beloved, we gather this weekend to commemorate Super Bowl Sunday.  But what we are really doing is saying goodbye, marking the sad but not unexpected death of another football season.  Gone too soon, just like all the others before it.

Oh sure, there's the UFL.  Arena league.  But that's like trying to replace the loss of Aunt Rita by sitting and listening to Uncle Randy drone on and on for two hours about the weather, Ronald Reagan, and being at the urinal next to Roy Clark "that time we went to Branson."  ("I looked over at him and said, 'I'm a pickin.'   'Cept he thought I said peekin'.  We didn't get to stay for the rest of the show.")

So as much of America gathers this weekend putting on brave faces feigning joy and laughter, please remember this is a funeral.  The 2024-2025 NFL and college football seasons.  Gone.  At the senseless age of a hundred and sixty-nine.... days.

That's right, in the time it takes to impregnate a woman (not counting courting her, dating, the inevitable break-up-and-get-back-together, etc.) and see that pregnancy reach minimum viability, football as we know it has been taken from us.

Oh, sure we'll eat -- Mrs. B has planned a menu of buffalo wings and multiple dips.  Probably gorge ourselves.  That's how we drown our pain.  It's a cry for help.

And yes, we will cheer when our team scores a touchdown; or any time they show Taylor Swift.  Where do you think the term "celebration of life" came from?  That's right.  Football.  You're welcome.

And if you're not a fan, let me speak to you if I may for a moment.  Because I know it can be hard to know what to say to someone who has suffered a tremendous, grave loss.

First, let's start by going over what not to say:  

"Hey, March Madness will be here soon.  It'll be ok."  This is well-intentioned, but unhelpful.  March Madness is the three-week bender you go on after your wife leaves you.  Sure you feel better for a little while.  But when it's over, she's still gone, you're out of alcohol, and you beat yourself up asking, "What was I thinking picking UC-Irvine to make the Final Four!?!?"

Then there's the always popular, "It was a beautiful season."  Yes, but what will I do next weekend?  And the next?  And the next?

Last, and most annoying, "You know, there's more to life than football."

...

...

...

Get out!  Get out of my house!  Now!  Go on!

More to life than football.  What do you think I am, some uber-energetic self-starter with three thriving businesses, my own social media platform, and access to the health and financial records of every citizen of the United States of America???

Instead of these tired, cliched phrases, maybe try something consoling like, "You've got to be the strongest person I know."  Or "Hey, I will completely understand if you go into your annual off-seasonal depression now and will not expect you to be productive or want to be around other people until for at least six weeks."

Or maybe bring up a funny, shared memory of the dearly departed.  "Remember back in week one.  The season was so young.  So naive.  We actually thought the Cowboys had a chance to make the playoffs."

So on Sunday, while you're listening to Uncle Randy complain about his gout and realizing your cheese ball will never measure up to Aunt Rita's, God rest her soul, please take a moment to remember those of us suffering.\]

Yes, we go through this every year.  And no--it never gets any easier.

Because while you see Commissioner Goodell awarding the Lombardi Trophy, I see him administering last rites.

Here lies the 2024-2025 football season.  You will be missed.  

OK, maybe not by Giants fans.

A pizza story

"No one gives a damn about the things I give a damn about.  The liberties that we can't do without seem to disappear..." ~ J. Isbell

It was five after eleven Saturday morning.  Warm for February.  At least, warm compared to the Februaries of my youth.  I had on shorts and a Zach Bryan t-shirt.  We were having a postseason pizza party for Luke's basketball team and I had come to pick up our order.

The couple at the counter placed their order then took a seat to wait.  They were one of those couples who favor each other.  Probably wear matching outfits on occasion.

There was only one guy in front of me now.  I had been a little concerned because originally, it had said my pizza would be ready in 15 to 25 minutes.  However, the exclusive pizza tracker hadn't even made it to "bake."  It was still stuck on "prep."  At this point, "quality check" was a distant dream.

I would soon find out why as one of the two employees began bringing boxes of pizza and stacking them on the counter.  The guy in front of me had ordered 30 pizzas.  

What, are you planning to lead legions of kids away from town with mounds of delicious pepperoni and cheese while donning your colorful jerkin?

Finally, Adam -- a name I made up for the male employee -- came over to ask if I had an order.  I was informed it was just now going in the oven.  Then Jewel, which was the name I assigned to the female employee, apologized and informed the room that she had already made over fifty pizzas since arriving at 10:30.

Yeah, that's right, rat catcher, we're all looking at you!

I watched as they worked in tandem, perpetually.  Jewel would make the pizzas and put them in the oven.  Adam would box and cut them and handle the counter.  He was also having to make any deliveries they might have.

As the pepperoni pied piper was finally exiting with the last of his pizzas, another man walked in.  When Jewel cheerfully informed him there would be a 25 to 30 minute wait, he turned and exited.

I pondered what had brought on this situation.  Had someone called out?  Or were they simply short-staffed like seemingly every other business 'neath the sun?

It struck me as remarkable how these two were holding things together, neither of them uttering a single complaint.  

Whatever they were making, it surely was not nearly what they deserved.  I told them as much.  I wondered if they made a living wage, or if they had a second job, or even a third.

I thought about how I, and so much of our society, just relies on these people to be there.  Whenever we want or need or crave.  A pizza, a burger, a taco.  

We take it for granted.  Or I do, anyway.

But I also thought how this particular pizza place on this particular day seemed to be hanging by a thread.  And how many other restaurants, stores and businesses of all kinds, must be facing similar situations.

Lately it feels like society, democracy, the world as a whole is hanging by a thread.   So much of what I have taken for granted for most of my life seems to be in danger of unraveling or being hijacked, if not completely destroyed.  And the majority of those we elected to represent we the people seem to be okay with it.

I think of those who are scared for their jobs, scared for their families, scared for their very lives.  And my heart aches constantly.

Uncertainty is everywhere.  Good things like humanity, compassion, and kindness; they don't seem to be trading all that high right now.

But I'm not gonna sell.  Just going to continue to try to teach the kids about those good things.  Maybe they'll eventually make a comeback.

After all, there's no tariff on kindness.

Not yet anyway.