Olivia, with the purple scooter

Olivia is probably around 5 or 6 years old. Today she is wearing a long white dress, with green, yellow, blue, and purple designs. Quite fitting for a week before Easter. Accented perfectly by her purple boots.

Olivia is quite chatty. She will tell you all about her purple scooter, the one that lights up at night and looks like Christmas lights. 

She will ask, "Do you love this park?" even as her foster mom tells her to go play and that some people might want some peace and quiet. 

And she will most certainly tell you all about her older sister, Ella. 

"My big sister died. She was really sick. So now she watches over me from up in heaven," as if she is telling you she had soup for lunch.

Oh yes, she will tell you all about that, and lots more.

Maybe as you sit at a picnic table with a turkey and Swiss sandwich, sipping on a coconut cappuccino. 

I think about her. Her foster mom. What her life must be like. What happened to her parents. What really happened to Ella.  Just as my own kids run and giggle on the same playground with their so very different reality.

An onrush of chills has overtaken me.

All too soon, it is time for Olivia to leave. As her foster mom gets two other far less chatty kids loaded into their SUV, Olivia streaks down the sidewalk on the purple scooter in her purple boots cheerfully calling out, "Bye, guys!" 

"Bye, Olivia!" I say.  And then a silent "thank you." 

"Daddy, how do you know her name?" Harper calls out from the swing. 

Oh, that's just Olivia, I think to myself. 

Ella's little sister. 

Once you meet her, you don't forget her.

Kinder weather

Weather is turning kinder
October blowing through
A breeze on cooler evenings
Coffee with morning dew
The burdens that we carry
Don't seem as heavy now
The kinder weather lending
A hopeful breath somehow

Been listening to Springsteen
"There's a joke here somewhere"
Been reading Wendell Berry
Bukowski and Voltaire
Been spending time in nature
And putting down my phone
Relishing what remains, while
Still lamenting what's gone

There's greedy politicians
And greedy preachers, too
Keep the masses divided
They won't see what we do
The emperor is naked
Does anybody care
Resistance is forbidden
Will anybody dare

Weather is growing kinder
The days becoming short
Distraction is in vogue now
There's things they won't report
Just fall in step and file now
Soon doth come December
What summer has forgotten
Autumn will remember

Back in the band

 "July, July, July, you never seemed so strange..." ~ The Decemberists

The kids are back in school.  Luke was invited to join the gifted program.  We accepted for him.  July flew by in a blaze of 95+ degree days that left even the most skeptical global warming deniers rethinking their views.

Fourth of July weekend found the Bone family making the familiar, if arduous, trek to Mrs. B's homeland.  The land of cheese and roundabouts.  Unfortunately, over half this drive is spent in the catatonia-inducing state of Illinois, which I believe is derived from a French word meaning "flat and filled with corn, windmills, and state troopers."  Don't quote me on that.

Mrs. B's mom decided that would be a good weekend to be transported to the hospital with a heart rate of 220.  After a four-day, three-night staycation in the cardiac care unit, she was sent home with a shiny new heart monitor.

The whole holiday seemed a bit off this year.  Even though we rode in the 4th of July parade, I didn't get the patriotic warm fuzzies at all.  America right now feels surreal.  Military troops in the streets.  Things I saw on the news growing up that only happened in other countries are now happening here.  

Maybe that was always inevitable.  Or maybe they've always happened and I just ignored them.  This line of thinking is probably best left mired in the eight-lane roundabout of my brain.

We also slipped away last month to Cincinnati for an overnight trip to take in a Reds game.  It's been heart-warming to see Luke inherit the Reds as his favorite team, though I know the many heartaches that rooting for a small-market baseball team will bring him over the next 60-80 years.

Speaking of Luke, he has rediscovered his love of music/Imagine Dragons recently.  He's dug out his mic stand, amplifier, and electric drum set, which means I have had to dust off my self-taught drum skills.  So now we're apparently in the market for a used drum kit.

Harper is seven going on seventeen.  She loves her second grade teacher, has more confidence than twenty supermodels, and I hope she keeps it for always.  Her fashion sense is impeccable and must have skipped several generations before her.

I was asked at my last job interview what I would consider to be my biggest accomplishment.  I replied, being a dad.

Their kindness and innocence gives me hope for the future. God knows I need it.

So what have we learned today?  Avoid roundabouts at all costs -- the real ones and those in your brain.

But especially the real ones.

Kinlock

Deep southern boondocks
Out just past nowhere
Road turns to dust
Almost not quite there

Slidin' down falls
Climbin' up ropes
Jumpin' off cliffs
Swimmin' in hope

Pine perfumed breeze
Green-eyed sun glint
Feel of the forest
Floor on your skin

Think of a girl
Think of another
Think of a friend
Last words you uttered

Wherever you're goin' 
That river keeps flowin'
Thru the back of your mind
And the holes in your soul
Refillin', remindin'
Sometimes sends you pinin'
For a life that was lived
A lifetime ago

Some days it's a trickle
Some days it's a flood
Memories preserved
By Alabama mud

There's still a falls
And cliffs you can dive
But back then's a place
You cannot drive

So leap when you're young
Soon you'll be old
You'll stand on that cliff
Afraid to let go

Dimmed-eyed and tired
A sad smile appears
Not for this place
But those headlong years

Wherever you're goin' 
That river keeps flowin'
Thru the back of your mind
And the holes in your soul
Refillin', remindin'
Sometimes sends you pinin'
For a life that was lived
A lifetime ago

Deep southern boondocks
Out just past nowhere
Time turns to dust
You can’t get back there

In a summer swelter

The title seemed familiar, so I searched my blogchives.  Yup.  June 19, 2010, fifteen years ago to the day, I published a post with this exact title.  All that to say, I'm obviously out of ideas.

Either way, it fits.  Though summer hasn't quite officially started, it's been here for weeks.  No part of June should have ever been considered spring anyway.  Besides that, my other title ideas -- "Helter Skelter" and "The birds flew off with a fallout shelter" -- just didn't make much sense.  

One of the best things my wife has implemented this summer (or ever) is having the kids do twenty minutes of reading every day.  She calls it free reading time.  I call it peace, sweet peace. 

This led to the kids going to the library.  Luke wanted to check out a book that his second grade teacher had read to them from this year.  Unbeknownst to us, the book had been banned in Alabama for anyone under 18.

As I began to research, I found that the original complaint about the book was that the main character - a tree -- had both male and female flowers.  (As many trees are wont to have, if you believe the fake news, or you know, science.)

The only thing I could infer from this is that the clear goal of this book is to indoctrinate children.  There is also a little Muslim girl in the book who experiences bullying, but I'm sure that had nothing to do with the restriction.  

Indeed, the book seemed to be fraught with pernicious themes of acceptance, diversity, and kindness.  Think, "Lennon read a book of (Cultural) Marx(ism)."  So Mrs. B promptly bought it online for Luke.  We're all about indoctrination around here.

This all made me really thankful for Luke's teacher, and teachers in general.  We put a lot on them, what with the active shooter drills and fighting fascism and what not.  Sometimes it seems they may be our last, best hope.

For Father's Day, Mrs. Bone booked a room in Muscle Shoals, kids in tow.  She allowed me to come along, as well.  The interior of the hotel had been remodeled since we were last there, highlighting even more the town's prolific music history.

As usual, the pool and poolside bar were a huge hit.  Though the slide was closed a couple of times for no apparent reason.  While closed the second time, I saw Harper and some other little girl sneak under the rope and slide down.  It was one of those I-should-probably-get-on-to-her-but-I-was-kind-of-proud-so-I-didn't moments.  (Sticking with the theme: "I saw the kids laughing with delight, the day... they closed... the slide.")

The evening ended with Mrs. B having an old fashioned delivered to the room for me.  A perfect ending to a perfect Father's Day.

Well, almost.

For "In the sheets, the children screamed.  Their mother sighed as their father dreamed..."

Hope to be here in fifteen more years for another sweltering summer post.  Of course by then, my children will likely be annoyingly kind and accepting young adults.  Perhaps I shall use the coming decade and a half to see how I could work in "Eight miles high and fading fast" as a title.  

Or who knows, maybe even come up with an original idea of my own.  

Yeah, that'll be the day!

What the h***?

Luke said a bad word today.  Mrs. B texted me at work to inform me.

I was shocked.  Disappointed.  Angry.  Crushed.

I spent the next few hours at work trying to figure out how to deal with his transgression.  Where did he even hear something like that?  Probably from one of the boys at school, I figured.  I had to punish him.  Didn't I?

I had stopped by the grocery store on the way home.  Three bags.  Sixty-seven dollars.  He came outside.  Possibly to gauge my mood.

"Do you have anything to tell me?"  I asked.

"Um... I'm sorry?" he offered.

"For what?"

"For saying a bad word."

"Did you know it was bad?"

"No.  A girl in my class said it, and she said it was okay to say."  

Tears were welling in his eyes.  I softened.

"Well, we don't say that, ok?"

"OK."

"And if you're not sure if something is ok to say in the future, just ask me, okay?"

"OK."

Mrs. B informed me that he was worried I was going to be mad at him.  I know from long ago experience that was punishment enough. And I believed him that he didn't know it was something he wasn't supposed to say.  This is a kid that very recently still admonished anyone who said, "Oh my gosh," with a quick, "We don't say that."

He is eight-and-a-half.  Four-foot-six.  His life filled with chicken nuggets, football, basketball, YouTube videos, and questions I rarely know the answers to.

His sister is six.  Three weeks from turning seven.  Going on fourteen.  Her world full of Barbies and Disney princesses and possibilities.

Almost every day, I find moments to simply sit and watch them.  To take in their cuteness and innocence. 

I try to appreciate these moments, these days.  And yet, I can feel them slowly walking from me.

Time was I had a vice grip on them.  Times when they were completely dependent – for food, milk, diaper changes, to simply hold their head up, survival.  

I think what I was most sad about when I received the text from Mrs. B was that inevitable loss of innocence.

But as I spoke calmly to him this afternoon, even as it broke my heart to see him on the verge of tears, it also provided comfort in some strange way.

I saw a scared little boy, so afraid of disappointing his dad.

I saw innocence.  If only for a little while longer.  And I hugged him.  Tightly.  

And maybe a little longer than normal.

johnny

Used to steal my pencils in second grade
Made fun of him for always missing school
Sometimes he'd be out a week at a time
Come back laughing like everything was cool

His old man sold rebel flags and t-shirts
From the back of an old truck, side of the road
We all just thought Johnny was a bully
But he knew a devil that we didn't know

Johnny found his voice when he was thirteen
Cried as he talked about what he'd been thru
The old man would get drunk and beat his mother
When she'd had enough he'd beat Johnny, too

I read somewhere remember everybody
Hasn't had the same advantages as you
I thank God that I never and I pray for
The souls who know the devil Johnny knew

It's easy to lose track after high school
Everyone kinda follows their own road
Years later I heard Johnny had a nice car
And a brand new devil he had come to know

These days he makes his living off the users
And the sheriff always leaves him alone
But he don't hit his wife or his children
So who am I to judge what's right or wrong

Why did no one help him while they still could
When he was still a scared and long-haired kid
How does God decide who has to endure
The awful real-life nightmares Johnny did

I read somewhere remember everybody
Hasn't had the same advantages as you
I thank God that I never and I pray for
The souls who know the devil Johnny knew

Used to steal my pencils in second grade
Made fun of him for always missing school

B HAPY

It was Friday morning.  It was going to be a good day.  And I needed it, after Thursday afternoon's Four O'Clock 400 turned into the 24 hours of Le Mans when the interstate closed due a motorcyclist crashing.  OK, it was only two hours, but work with me here.

As I merged from my first interstate to my second, I found myself following a navy blue Nissan Murano who was happily plodding along, in the fast lane, at approximately 72.5 miles per hour.  (I was going to use kilometers here, but 116 did not seem to convey the tortoise-like pace I was going for.)

Did I mention this was all going on in the fast lane?

As we plodded along, I had plenty of time to notice the Nissan's vanity plates: B HAPY.

Hmm, I thought, and so I will.  Pulling into the middle lane, I gassed it up to 137 --. kilometers, relax!  But my 'hapyness' did not last long.  No sooner had I cleared Mister Life in the Fast Lane (or Miss, I don't like to make eye contact) when lines of brake lights caused me to come to a stand still.

Over the next hour and five miles, I lost track of the navy blue Murano, as I alternated between zero, three and, on the rare occasion, eight miles an hour.

As I looked at the fellow drivers around me and screamed indiscriminately, I thought to myself, this is where we are as a city.  As a society.  Just complete gridlock virtually every morning and afternoon.  And yet we all just accept it.

Watching a handful of extremely sensible and intelligent drivers jet back and forth from lane to lane, risking life and limb, all to gain one or two positions in traffic, I was reminded of one of my better entrepreneurial ideas.

You may want to sit down for this.

Turn signals and brake lights that have the ability to display a scoreboard-like message to fellow drivers.  

Think about it.  For starters, the thank you wave has become virtually indistinguishable from the I'm sorry wave.  So you could pre-program commonly used messages such as these for quick access.

This would help clear up any communication issues that may arise between drivers.  For example, now when someone honks at me I have no idea if it's someone I know, if I cut them off, or if they have seen my "Honk if you love binary numbers -- that makes 10 of us!" bumper sticker.

To be safe, I usually just assume it's the bumper sticker.

Message lights would clear everything up!  No more silly "Sorry I shot you, I mistook your peace sign for a one-finger salute" misunderstandings.

These highway hellos could range from the life-changing ("Will you marry me?") to the life-saving (Help! I'm being kidnapped.). The possibilities are endless.

I could have used a brake light message system on Friday morning.  

As traffic cleared and I began to accelerate, I once again found myself in the fast lane.  Approaching the slower vehicle in front of me, I blinked my eyes to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing.

Could it be?  Surely not.

But it was.

The familiar navy blue color.  Squatty shape of the Murano.  With the tag that now seemed to be taunting me:  B HAPY.

Good one, universe.

I accelerated to eighty-five and smiled the rest of the way to work.  

If only my vehicle was equipped with message lights, I could typed, "Move Over!"  

Or any of a variety of other two-word phrases drivers sometimes like to use as freeway greetings.