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.

Somewhat glad to still be alive

The Bones have not been flourishing thus far in 2025.  It's been a good year for anxiety; a bad year for sobriety.

Both Mrs. Bone and I have experienced quite a bit of upheaval at work.  I was informed my position was being discontinued.  No worries, though.  I will simply be transferred to another position; same pay, worse hours.

We found out the daycare we send the kids to for the summer is shutting down.  So we've four months to find another place.  Ha!  I'd have a better shot of getting a liver transplant in that time.

I thought of starting a daddy daycare.  But even just typing that creeps me out, what with Epstein and Diddy, et al.

If I may just say one thing to anyone even thinking of becoming a parent: get on as many waitlists as you can.  Now.  Because every place that isn't openly endangering children has a waitlist.  If you wind up not having a kid and they call you with an opening, there's no cancellation fee.

Then last week, the brakes went out on my car.  And one day the window refused to roll up on the Jeep.  Why was I rolling the window down?  It's literally ten degrees outside.  I don't know.

And now, Mrs. B's car won't start and needs a new alternator.

I've tried to cast a positive spin on each pratfall.  For example, at least I wasn't going 85 on the interstate when the brakes failed.  At least it wasn't raining the day the window stopped working.  I mean, it rained that night, but not like a ton.  And my bath towel and duct tape barrier was barely impenetrable.  (Barely?  Hardly?  I always get those two mixed up.)

Besides, things could always be worse.  Haitian immigrants could have eaten our cat.  I could have been forcibly catheterized.  Or I could be an Auburn fan.

I've been trying to decide on a new family slogan.  You know, something we could all rally around, really get behind.  Here are my ideas so far:

"Taking a nose dive in '25."

"Refuse to thrive in '25."

And probably my favorite so far, "Somewhat glad to still be alive in '25."

But, and this is a huge but -- like if I didn't think it would screw up my sidebar or the rest of this post, I'd put it in 1638 font-size, all-caps, underscored and bold -- none of these things mattered last Tuesday night inside the back gym of the local civic center.

Because what happened there was a near-miracle.  The 8-and-under Magic basketball team won a basketball game.  For the first time in their opposite-of-illustrious history.  

Despite losing their best player and leading scorer to a Christmas day skateboarding injury, and another kid who just stopped showing up.

Despite coming into the game with a record of zero wins and eight losses and having been outscored in those eight games by a combined 180 points to 58.

Despite trailing 11 to 8 in the fourth quarter.

And despite the obvious coaching deficiencies of yours truly.

With hustle and a never-give-up attitude the likes of which I have rarely seen (and one I definitely do not possess), a little luck and possibly divine providence -- I may have said several prayers -- this team overcame it all to defeat the Grizzlies 12 to 11.

Little Ralphie may have summed it up best when he looked at me on the bench, pointed towards the other team and said, "They're losing."

We may not win another game.  (As I look at our upcoming schedule we almost assuredly will not.)  But for one night, the kids were happy, the parents were happy, and I thought to myself, "I wonder if the concession stand is still open."

(It was not.)

"Of popcorn I shall be deprived in '25."   Evidently.

I leave you today with a picture of snow in the deep, deep South.

This is from the uncles' place.... near the Gulf... of America.

God help us.

The blessings of a well-worn snow

"The first fall of snow... is a magical event.  You go to bed in one kind of world and wake up to find yourself in another quite different.  And if this is not enchantment, then where is it to be found?" ~ J.B. Priestly

Snow fell on Alabama last Friday.  With predictions ranging from up to eight inches several days before the event down to one or two inches or maybe just some sleet and freezing rain on the eve of this latest snowpocalypse, the professional prognosticators had all their bases covered, as they are wont to do.

We awoke Friday morning to the pristine, white peacefulness of a freshly fallen snow.  Schools had already announced they would be closed the day prior.  Back in the 80's, that decision wasn't made until Dr. Key, the school superintendent, got out at 5 a.m. and drove around the county to check the condition of the roads.  At least that's the story I was told and still believe to this day.

I was also off work and able to enjoy the day at home.  After years of working in the 911 Center and before that, radio, being expected to show up no matter the weather, nowadays I am considered non-essential.  I know it may sound like a slight at first, but let me tell you, it does not suck.

Snow continued falling throughout the morning, before changing over to sleet and then a gentle rain in the afternoon.  We wound up with around four inches in all.

Snowmen were built, including a "redneck" snowman who we gave lit sparklers for arms and was later shot at with bottle rockets.  Snow creme was made.  Snowball fights were waged.  Heck, Luke and I even recreated the Reliaquest Bowl on the snow-covered field that was our backyard, because... Luke.

On Saturday, I texted Mom to see if she still had snow on the ground.  She texted back with a picture of her untouched lawn.  "Oh yes, still beautiful," was her response.  "What about you?"

"Yep.  Ours has been played in a lot though," I typed as I looked out at the abundance of footprints and barren spots where snow had been scooped up for the aforementioned snowmen, snowballs, and snow creme.

And then she texted one of those lines that stops you for a moment; makes you think.  It causes you to reflect and focus on a singular moment all at the same time.  A statement as simple and as pure as freshly fallen snow.

"That is a blessing to have well-worn snow."

I thought a lot about her statement that day and since.  How glorious the snow looks when it has just fallen and is completely unbothered.  Flawless.  There is a peace, perhaps even a loneliness, that only it can bring.  A silence sometimes so quiet I swear you can hear the flakes gently kiss the frozen ground as they fall.

It starts to look a little messy after people begin to trod through it, and much more so once kids have their go at it.

But there is a different beauty in the imperfection.  Much the same as that of a lived-in house, well-worn jeans, or the weathered hands of an old friend.

Comfort and familiarity filled with memories of life lived, laughter shared, tears shed, people loved.

My kids may never know the joy of waking up at 6:00 a.m to watch the closings and delays scroll across the bottom of the television screen.  Wishing, hoping, praying you'd see your school on the list of cancellations.  And the exuberance when you did.

But may they long know and appreciate the blessings of a well-worn snow.

Redneck Snowman (1/10/25~1/11/25)
"For we all burn as sparklers in the brief hour of life."

For Syrena

On a Sunday afternoon in 1979, she'd likely be sitting on that drab olive couch in that one-bedroom apartment.  The one that overlooked the river and the old two-lane drawbridge.  

And if it were early afternoon, she'd probably be tossing that wadded-up-paper-wound-in-cloth-tape "baseball" toward me.  I'd bat it with my hand and scamper around the makeshift bases with visions of Johnny Bench or Dave Concepcion in my head, while she'd shift around the couch or lean down to retrieve the "ball" from the floor.

Mom and Dad would drop me off after church while they went out to eat, probably at Sambo's, the Sizzler, or Taco Bell.

Grandmother would have been seventy-ish then.  

I don't remember her before the wreck.  They say she was energetic.  She worked full-time up until the accident, something that wasn't as commonplace then.  Once a week, she would cook supper for us and make the hour-long drive to bring it over.  She always wore a dress.  Her hair was always carefully coiffed.

I only remember her like she was now--then--in 1979.  Moving slowly, she shuffled when she walked, taking small steps.  Her hands looked frail, always shaking slightly.  Dependent on others for transportation, Dad would go and get her every Saturday and take her to the laundromat.  

She was kind, always asking and concerned if we needed anything or any money.  And still always in a dress.  I never saw either of my grandmothers wear anything other than a dress.

If we weren't playing baseball, I'd look out the big picture window hoping to see the drawbridge go up.  I was thrilled anytime a barge or other large vessel came through, watching the spans of the double-leafed bascule rise ever so deliberately, halting traffic in both directions.  For some reason, I often imagined a car not stopping in time and ending up teetering on the edge of one of the raised spans.

Other times I would play with the myriad of glass, crystal, and ceramic figurines she had collected on her shelves.  She'd always call them my "play-pretties."  I can't believe she trusted me to handle them.  Heaven knows I must have broken a few.

Christmastime is when I think of her the most.  I imagine that's true for a lot of us with regard to those who have passed or are no longer a part of our lives.  

But it's not as if we had these great, idealistic Christmases with her.  

After taking her shopping for us, Dad would bring her over early Christmas Eve afternoon.  Almost without fail, she would have picked out some gift that we were two or three years too old for already.  And it seems I'd get the big six-pack of tube socks with the double stripes of blue, green, yellow, and red every year.

I'm sure we said our polite "thank yous" but in no way did I come close to appreciating her gifts then.  Gifts that were hand-picked by a lady who didn't get around well anymore, was on a fixed income, and had to get a ride just to get to the store.

It all means so much more to me now.

Dad would take Grandmother home, then we'd go to my Mom's mother's Christmas Eve night, and again for dinner on Christmas Day.

After everyone had eaten, Dad would gather a plate of leftovers and take over to Grandmother.  I think I rode with him once or twice, but almost assuredly I chose most often to stay behind and play with my cousins.

I think about it often this time of year.  Her sitting mostly alone on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, undoubtedly looking forward to those few moments she got to see her grandchildren.

All these years later, I still feel sad for her.  Regretful about something now impossible to change.  'Tis a marvelous and tragic thing, this humanness...  

The two-story apartment building still stands.  It appears to have been updated over the years.  I think of her most every time I pass.

The Tennessee River still runs faithfully, from Knoxville to Paducah, but there's no trace of the drawbridge.  They tore it down in the late nineties.

There was talk of preserving it, turning it into a historic site, leaving part of it as a pedestrian bridge with little shops and restaurants.  But that fell through.  The city has never done much to develop the riverfront into anything more than a port and a place for manufacturing companies to dump their waste.

Nowadays, we make sure to see all the kids' grandparents around Christmas.  They don't all get Christmas Eve or Christmas Day -- that would be virtually impossible.  But they all get a couple of hours or more.

It's a lesson a six-year-old with an Adam Rich haircut finally learned from his Grandmother.

It was never about the tube socks.  It was always about the time.

Swing low(er)

Last week would have been a bad week
He might be dreadin' the next few years
I'd say, "Pull up your chariot and have a seat,
Let me buy you a beer"

Maybe he knew all this would happen
Or maybe it was never revealed
Is it time for the seventh seal's unwrapping
Are we too far gone to be healed

I'd take him to meet my cousin Leah
A church-going lady to her core
Show him how clearly she sees the evil
So many others choose to ignore

I'd ask him if he ever misses Tishbe
We might compare idols old and new
Did he see my grandma up in heaven
And was she sittin' on the second pew

When he spoke of the seven thousand faithful
I'd say I think I understand
'Cause despite how it looks there's still millions
Who haven't bowed a knee to the orange man

That's when he told of some Jezebel
Something about Mount Horeb and some death plot
I'd joke that I'd known a couple of those myself
But his face made me think I had not

I knew when I asked that he wouldn't tell me
If I was gonna make it to heaven someday
"Well, I'm no prophet," he'd start and we'd laugh
"But if I were you I'd trust and obey."

I'd ask him about old Methuselah
He'd say, "He looks good for nine-sixty-nine."
And I'd reply, "That's easy for you to say."
When he told me don't be afraid to die

He'd cinch up his robe, say, "It's time to go.
You know the ninth hour is drawing nigh."
I'd ask, "Is there something I should know?"
He'd smile, "You'll understand it all by and by."

Last thing I'd do is beseech him for a ride
"Just be sure, Gentile, before you hop in.
'Cause once this chariot is in the sky
We'll nevermore pass this way again."

Slow as Christmas

Slow as Christmas, as it was
When sleep came slow, and Santa Claus
Was seen through sinless eyes

December days lasted ten
And time seemed a trustworthy friend
When Mamaw was alive

Slow as Christmas, as they pass
The rate of grains through hourglass
Will leave your head a-spin

Wish I might, I wish I may
For just one year, for just one day
Let it be slow

Again